Category: Science fiction

Stasis

“Do you need a break?”

Those were the words Coyote had awaited. “God, fucking yes.” Seizing the remote, he thumbed the volume up over the sirens passing outside and people shouting, and listened to the commercial. Details were confirmed in his head. He wrote down the website and then went to it.

Stasis. That was exactly what he needed – a month away from his life. Thirty days, technically, but still, fucking yes, he needed a month away from his job and his wife and the general malaise and ennui sucking the energy out of him. He’d dreamed about going into stasis since the first time that he’d read about it. But stasis wasn’t for middle-class people like him. The cheapest stasis was two grand a day. Two grand a day. Fucking outrageous. Like the rich needed stasis. Why would the rich need stasis? Just another thing to lord over the other ninety-eight percent, the bastards.

But this was different. This was a lottery. Tickets were ten dollars per. Proceeds were supporting school vouchers and health insurance subsidies, the usual beneficiaries of lotteries. Ten dollars per, ten winners picked per night. Tickets could be bought online, paid for with Bitcoin, debit and credit cards, or Paypal.

After skimming exceptions and warnings, because it wasn’t completely safe – nothing is completely safe – he sweated the math, established an account, and charged five hundred dollars of chances to his Visa, rationalizing it as an early birthday present.

Then he had to wait. The next drawing wasn’t until the next day, six thirty P.M. Pacific Time, twenty hours away. In the meantime, he wondered, how the hell had he missed hearing about this? Still, he didn’t mention it at work, nor to his wife. That was easy, because they weren’t speaking to one another, again. He thought about telling The Third, but he was on another fucking anti-government rant. Coyote decided telling The Third would be like tossing an M-80 on a campfire, so, no.

He didn’t win the first night, and bought fifty more chances. He didn’t win that lottery, either, causing him to scream at the fucking television as fire trucks and police cars roared by outside, sirens going as loud as a rock song. It wasn’t fair that he hadn’t won, but that was his fucking life, wasn’t it? He never won anything, never got any damn breaks while everyone else in the world was blessed. He consumed a case of Miller’s bemoaning his luck.

Fifty more tickets were purchased. He giggled as he did it. He was fully committed, all in. Yeah, he was committed all right. Heather would have a shit-fit when she saw the Visa bill. But if he won, that confrontation wouldn’t occur for a while. Besides, she would eventually thank him. This would be a vacation away from him for her, too, as much as it was a vacation for him away from her.

He didn’t win.

He was down fifteen hundred. He sweated over the number. Fifteen hundred. That had become a relatively large number in their financial world. Five hundred wasn’t bad, a thousand was okay, but fifteen hundred. Going into the Visa account, he checked the balance.

Thirty-six hundred.

Holy shit. Sweat poured over Coyote’s face. That had to be incorrect.

He brought up the statement’s transactions details and almost crapped his pants. They’d overcharged him for the stasis lottery tickets, charging him for tickets the day before he’d bought his tickets, and the day before that. Damn fucking crooks.

He chugged down a beer to consider his options. Truth came up with a burp.

Heather was buying stasis lottery tickets.

That bitch.

His jaw dropped as he went through the Visa statement again. Besides the stasis lottery tickets, she’d purchased airline tickets.

Coyote broke into her email. She hadn’t changed the passwords. She was a fool. He’d changed his passwords about a year ago, when the marital cracks seemed like the precursor to separation and divorce. He really thought the ice princess was going to leave him. Well, in a way, she had, hadn’t she? If – as he thought – she’d won the stasis lottery. When was the last time he’d seen her, anyway? Day before yesterday. No, two days ago, three. It’d been the night before he’d first bought tickets. She’d had a business trip. Yes, but was it really a business trip?

The etickets receipt was in her email. She’d flown to Montana.

Montana was where the stasis center was located.

Her ticket’s return date was thirty-two days later.

Then, he saw the other email.

She had won.

Sitting back, Coyote stared at the email in disbelief. She’d won – she’d bought tickets, and she’d won, and left – without saying a word to him. Not a word.

Unfucking real. It just wasn’t fair. Giggling, he popped another Miller open. Well, there were advantages to be had, here. Heather was gone, into stasis. So, if he bought more tickets —

A buzzing noise sliced through Coyote’s thoughts. A door opened. Blinding light streamed in. As he raised his hands to protect his eyes and squinted, Coyote asked himself, “What the fuck?”

“Hey, Coyote, how was it?” someone asked behind the light.

The room dissolved around him, becoming a tight cylinder. Cringing against pain, Coyote asked, “How was what?” 

But he knew as soon as he asked. He could take a break from his life, but it wasn’t the problem.

0

The Coronado

I, Juancho, a mere bureaucrat, but essential to the mission, I assure you, was worried. Even I knew that the frying pan was gone and we were now facing a danger of being incinerated by growing flames.

Commander Alves is a fine person and a good commander. I have great confidence in her, and was pleased to be selected for the Coronado’s first mission on Feymann. (Her second, the snide Lieutenant Commander Cark, is not viewed with the same joy, and I did not look forward to this situation now with him onboard.) However, I doubted Commander Alves’ optimism and reassurances. “That may not be the Beagle that exploded over Feynmann,” she told us. She was being hopeful, I know, but each consumed tequila and coke that I consumed convinced me that the end was closer than we thought.

Let us review. We’re on the Coronado. It’s a fine vessel, new, as well-built as human robots can conceive and execute. We don’t lack for protection or comfort. Fully armored, each of the thirty of us onboard have private quarters. They’re not as large nor luxurious as those we enjoyed upon the Beagle. Of course not. The Beagle quarters were permanent. These quarters are temporary, for the Coronado is an explorer. (I don’t understand why they named the ship after a luxury resort chain, but that’s another debate.)

That is the difficulty with surviving on the Coronado. It is an explorer vessel. Our mission on Feynmann’s surface was to be for twenty-one day’s duration. We have food for a little longer, and fuel, and the life-support systems should not be troubled, if all works well. But, that is the but in my drink. They always tell us that we must be prepared for failure, and then prepare for our preparations to survive failure to fail as well. This situation was the prime example of that maxim.

Should anything fail on the Coronado, we expected backup and support from the Beagle. If one of us became gravely ill or injured, we would be lifted to the Beagle. In the end, our tunnel on the Coronado was twenty-one days long, and the light on the end was the Beagle.

We would not survive, no, I was thinking. The question was more about how agonizing our deaths would be, and whether suicide or murder were better options.

Do I shock you? Those were the choices for each of us, as I viewed it. Suicide didn’t appeal to me but waiting for rescue against small odds was less appealing. Murdering others would extend my food supply. Maybe that would provide a chance for rescue, but I would then need to explain the others’ deaths.

That might be difficult, given our personal recording devices. However, as we’ve all been taught since childhood, for every system, there is a vulnerability, and the means to exploit it.

If I could learn that vulnerability and exploit, I, Juancho, could develop a plan.

 

 

1

Currents

Lindsey, the smiling tech presenting my findings, had a beautiful round face, gorgeous blueberry eyes, and curly dark black hair that highlighted her dark skin. “Are you ready?” she asked.

“Yes,” I answered, nodding. Ready? Fuck, yes.

“Are you excited?”

“I am so excited. You wouldn’t believe it. I’ve been waiting for this day for almost three years.”

True story. I’d heard about the currents on the same day that Melli broke up with me, June thirtieth. I’d seen that coming but had worked hard to convince myself I was wrong. Then she said all those things that burned down my soul. I didn’t know who the hell I was when she was done. Trashing myself with Miller’s finest and getting arrested for public urination was not very helpful. It was, literally, and I mean this in the truest sense, literally the next day after being fired that I saw the ad for currents and began planning to have my currents charted. It gave me a goal, man. It probably saved my life. I started pricing procedures, got a job and started saving my money.

Lindsey issued a blinding smile. “I can tell.” She turned toward a large screen. On it was my name and photo. My pulse accelerated. Despite the freezing a/c, sweat trickled down my back.

“Well,” Lindsey said, “here’s what everyone wants to know right away, so we’ll tell you right off, that you have sixteen currents affecting you.”

Sixteen. I held my breath, remembering from my reading, most people have nine. “That’s a lot, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. That places you in the top two percentile.”

I was nodding, listening, watching the screen and reading it as the information she shared came up, and thinking. Sixteen currents explained my mood swings. I was lucky to be functional. A schematic of my body emerged. The sixteen currents appeared and were named.

“Four are major currents,” she said.

My respect for myself went up when I heard four. They were highlighted in bright red on my schematic. One was for Odin. Fat and red, his current flowed between my heard and brain. Wow, shot through me, wow. Almost as fat, but longer, Ra connected my heart and my feet, explaining why I loved the sun, and walking. Paired with Ra and flowing in parallel was a thin green line that represented Amun.

The minor currents, in blue, included America, Jesus Christ, and Rock. They circulated as a trio through my solar plexus, clear explanation for my indifference about those three realms. Money and Greed were both small currents in my chest. Neither touched my heart. That made me smile. Not being ambitious was one of the things that Melli speared me with as though it was a terrible attribute. My currents and their placing demonstrated exactly why I didn’t care about getting ahead as she wanted me to do. “With your brains and talents,” she’d shouted, “you can be so fucking rich, if you only cared.” Christ, I hear and see her shouting that at me almost every fucking night.

The screen was changing. Lindsey had been speaking, but stopped. I felt her watching me. “Sorry,” I said. “I stopped listening.”

“That’s all right, that’s okay. Most people do. This is about your soul and existence. It’s natural for you to get distracted by what you see. Take your time.” She brought the last screen back up, with all my currents. “It’s fascinating, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” That’s all I could say.

“When I saw your currents, I was blown away,” Lindsey said. “You have the most currents of anyone I’ve ever done.”

“How many currents do you have?”

“Oh, mine is boring.” She sighed. “Just two major currents, God and Sports, nine currents, total. I am so average, but it explained why I was always so good at every sport I ever tried.”

Nodding, I’d quit listening again. I wanted to start looking more in-depth at all of my currents. These were the key to understanding myself. I had Sports lowing in me as a moderate current. Odin, Odin lowed through me. Ra.

Those were two of the majors. I hunted the information for the other two red currents. My heart almost dropped out of my body when I saw the first.

“Hitler?” I asked, weak and sick. I wanted to throw up “Hitler is one of my major currents?”

Looking sorrowful, Lindsey replied, “I’m afraid so. It’s a current we’re seeing more of, more frequently.” She sounded so apologetic.

Odin, Ra and Hitler. The Hitler current started in my right hand and went up my arm to my heart. “You’re right-handed, aren’t you?” Lindsey asked.

I nodded.

“So, even though it’s not a large major current, Hitler’s current will dominate many of your actions because of where he’s located.”

Yes, I’d been reading about the Hitler current. I’d been startled that Hitler had been able to generate enough energy to create a lasting current through history.

What was the fourth current, then? Fat and red, it was the longest, going from my brain to my solar plexus. It apparently flowed through my heart, as well. “What’s my fourth major current?”

Looking happy, Lindsey said, “That’s the most interesting one. You want to see?” She laughed, already moving the mouse as I said, “Hell, yeah.”

“I thought you would,” she replied. “Your fourth major current is one that includes the nine muses. They’re not all equal, but they’re all apparently there, but flowing together as one major current.”

“What’s that mean?”

Laughing, Lindsey said, “It means you love art, literature, music and knowledge, and you’re probably impressively good at any of them, when you try.”

I’d never read about a current like that. Usually people had a few of the muses running as one current or another.

Lindsey was saying almost the same thing. “I was so jealous when I saw that. I have Terpsichore flowing in me as a strong minor current, so I’m a pretty good dancer, but so do most black women in America.”

“Yes, but I have that Hitler current.” Saying those words sickened me anew. Of all the currents to have….

Lindsey leaned forward in her chair. “You know, though, we’ve noticed that the Hitler current seems localized by regions.”

I grew still with the implications of her words.

“If you move away from its zones, it’ll diminish.”

“Really? That can happen?”

She nodded.

“But how do I know where to move?”

Smiling, Lindsey slipped a piece a brochure toward me. “We have another program that tells where the currents are strongest and weakest, and how where you live can affect your currents.”

I scanned the page, looking for a price. I didn’t see one. “How much is it?”

Lindsey’s apologetic expression re-appeared. “It’s very expensive. Six thousand dollars.”

I gasped. “Wow.” Six grand. I’d already spent nine to learn my currents, living almost like a monk to do it.

“Well,” I said. “Well.”

She wrapped up the session by presenting me with a booklet and DVD of me and my currents. “The DVD is tailored for your findings, and it goes into a lot of detail about how the currents interact and affect you. It’s really worth going through.” Then she told me about the website, and how to log onto it. “Your package includes a year of updates about your currents, so you can see how they change.”

I nodded, but I was already out of there in my mind. I could save money and try to find a place where the Hitler current was weaker. Whatever. I had a new goal, to minimize that damn Hitler current.

I’d worry about the details later. I wasn’t worried; the Muses would help.

That was amazing to know.

***

With thanks to Neil Gaiman.

0

Feynmann and Me

I believed that the big fireball over Feynmann announced my end’s beginning.

It wasn’t supposed to be like that. Never is, is it? No. I didn’t know who Feynmann was, except in a general way. Despite plaques all over the ship, I absorbed that Feynmann was another science guy like Einstein, and had something to do with our mission. Feynmann and Einstein are names like Copernicus and Galileo to me, names shot at me in classes. The only real science name I know is Bill Gates, because he invented Apple. That’s just how I am, right?

This night was supposed to be one to talk about forever. Our excitement was thick as a brownie. Here we were, on another world, not the first, per se, but somewhere high on a special list. Fortune was shining on me just to put me there. I was of the opinion that Ricardo and I were on the edge of becoming a twin star, if I understood that metaphor right. We’d been as immediately absorbed with one another as PB and J. His looks to me had gone from being, “Hi, nice to see you, mate,” to, “Want to fuck?” I was trying to make my looks answer, “When and where?”

Yes, this night was one to talk about, still, but in a shitty way. We were all in Coronado’s break room, looking up at the sky and marveling as expected, when the fireball appeared, stopping all of the chin wagging and truncating lusty suggestions and happy imbibing.

“What was that?” someone asked.

“Looks like an explosion,” someone said.

“Yeah, a big fucking explosion,” said another.

Amazing that these people were supposed to be geniuses. Should that be genii or something? Does it really take doctorates to see a big fireball and guess that something exploded?

These were all voices beside and behind me. Didn’t know those folks well, and didn’t look to see who spoke. I was staring at the huge glazed marble lighting the sky. Gold, white, purple, red and black, it would have been pretty, if it wasn’t scary.

“Was that the Beagle?” someone dared.

Nobody else dared an answer until Ricardo said, “There is another ship up there. There can be other explanations.”

I almost laughed at his foolish hope. I already knew this was the end’s beginning. I mean, we’re all dying from the time we’re born, Da always said, but we’re hopeful that death will let us slip past if we don’t know the ways and means, right?

Like a software program that had done its thing and started us on another loop, everyone was released into action and speaking at once.

There was nothing I could do, I, Juancho, a simple bureaucrat. Cattle, unkinder pissants labeled crew like me, to which I gave a big, hairy,  “Fuck you,” back. They’d warned us, this was dangerous and one-way. Yeah, but, they had to say that, legally, to keep our estates from suing, right? Nobody expected us to be shat on and flushed away this fast. Still, those were the facts. If our mother ship blew and left us stranded, naught for me to do but carry on as per. I finished my drink, and ordered another while greater minds began panicking.

Yep, nothing for me but get drunk and see what Feynmann would do to me. Turned out that it had nasty plans for all of us, like a horrific science fiction version of “Ten Little Indians,” except, we were starting with thirty, right?

That made it last longer.

****

With apologies to Richard Feynman, Steve Jobs, Bill Gates, and the rest of the scientists, inventors and thinkers maligned by Juancho’s world view.

2

Gems

I love it when I find something that surprises me by exceeding expectations.

It doesn’t happen often enough. Most of the time, when watching a television show, going to movies, reading a book, or trying a new restaurant or drink, my expectations have been set up to expect something pretty damn good. Too often, I’m disappointed. That’s why I’m not watching much on television right now.

Last night, while wandering through the TV wasteland’s Amazon region, I came across a movie called “The Girl With All the Gifts.”

“Oh, is this based on the book?” my wife asked.

I didn’t know. If it was, the movie slipped right past my notice. Slipping past my notice isn’t difficult. The cats do it all the time.

It turned out that “The Girl With All the Gifts” was based on the novel. With Glenn Close and Paddy Considine, we had hopes for the movie.

We weren’t disappointed. This isn’t a movie review, but we enjoyed the movie. Dominique Tipper, who we knew from “The Expanse,” was marvelous as Devani, sweetly delivering the courage, innocence, and intelligence demanded of the role. Featuring zombies, the movie had some damn grisly moments, but it was a fascinating twist on the zombie spin. Seeing Paddy reminded me of how much I enjoyed him in “Hot Fuzz,” and Glenn Close played Doctor Caldwell with focused energy. Like most zombie dystopian movies and television shows we encounter, it was fast-paced, and we were second-guessing decisions and tactics. They gave us a lot to second-guess. It was a lot of fun.

I would recommend the movie to you, but I don’t want to get your hopes up. I did enjoy it, though, but that’s just me.

 

0

The Net Results

The phone voice has always fascinated me. It’s like we have a different personality when we’re answering the phone. The ability to switch was impressive.

Are you familiar with this? I first noticed it when I was a child. We shrieking, arguing, playing, fighting children would be running amok around the house, and Mom would lose it. A stream of orders, admonitions and angers would be launched, stopping us dead. In the midst of her tirade, the phone would ring, and she would answer it with such a sweet, polite voice, it was amazing.

That’s back when we didn’t know who was calling. She was also answering a phone hard-wired into a system and affixed to a wall. Cherry red, this wall phone featured a thirty-foot coiled cord. At first, that phone had a rotary dial. Push buttons — they were always gray — eventually replaced the dial, and then the Princess replaced that big, clunky phone, and the Princess succumbed to the smaller, neater Trimline.

But the coiled cords stayed long for many years. That long cord enabled wandering around while on the phone. If you could also master the neck hold, you could practice hands-free calling. The neck hold meant the phone was wedged between a shoulder and ear with the mouthpiece angled toward the mouth. Mom was able to do this so frequently and consistently, I was amazed that her shoulder returned to its normal position after she hung up.

These things have changed. Hands-free means you’re not using your shoulder. Speakers and headsets are available. The phone voice isn’t gone, but tailored specifically to who is calling. Caller identification and ring tones dictates the phone voice tone. One young friend says that when her Mom calls, she always answers with a flat, weary, “What is it, Mom?” This is because Mom is calling with worries, complaints and concerns, and never just to chat. On the flipside, a Mom I know answers the same way with her son, because he’s always calling to ask for money or help.

We did have a caller ID system, and did tailor the phone voice to the situation. When I was younger, we children were excited and honored to enjoy the privilege of answering the phone. Of course, it also meant we didn’t want to give it up, telling our parents, “No, I’m talking,” when we were toddlers just getting the hang of it. As we aged, we became the caller ID system. “Dad,” (or Mom), “it’s work.” Or Aunt Sally or Uncle Doug, or Grandma Barb. “The person taking the call would usually mutter something about, “What do they want?” Accepting the phone, they would turn on the phone voice for that specific caller.

That sweet, ultra polite and professional phone voice still exists at work where customers and clients are calling. In the military, we were required to answer according to which lines were ringing. I was in the Command Post, where phones abounded. Crash lines and hotlines to headquarters were not answered; you just picked them up and listened while scrambling to copy information. For outside calls, we identified the location and function, along with our rank. If it was a non-secure line, that was mentioned, and then we asked them, “May I help you?” For the direct lines to the various directors and commanders and their homes and offices, we only answered with our name and rank.

My, how we’ve trained ourselves. Of course, I use this growth and phone specialization in my writing and try to extrapolate how and what might come about. In the novel of the distant future now in editing, people don’t use phones. They’re on nets, basically a voiceover wireless protocol. Most people have a team net, ship net, corporate net, social net, private net, personal net, system net, family net, and friend net. Many have additional nets. While some of those seem redundant, they’re sliced and diced according to individuals’ preferences.

Various systems of bioware direct the calls, with your personal assistant – who is on their own net – informing you of who’s calling on what net. Virtual presence, virtual intelligence, and virtual personalities provide greater options. Calls can be answered, ignored, or shunted into various automated systems. Virtual personal assistance then often digest the calls’ contents, feeding into memory what needs to be known, remembered, or accomplished.

This is done effortlessly. It’s not unusual for a person to be on multiple nets simultaneously.

All of this thinking about phone voices was triggered by Twitter. The current White House occupant loves his tweets and Twitter. This has inculcated a shadow Twitter nation that responds to his tweets with their tweets. Then the media analyzes the tweets and responses even while reporting their takes and tangles. Even though it’s all in so many characters, there’s a distinct voice to everything written.

Often, though, it really seems like a toddler has gotten hold of the phone, and is yelling at the others, “No, I’m tweeting!” Yet, oddly, my future folks don’t text, or Twitter, because that requires using hands. It makes me wonder, though, what’ll it be like in another twenty-five to fifty years?

Writers, what do you see in the future?

2

The Next Step

The next step arrived as an epiphany during a cataclysmic night of grief. He arose to think it through, but not much time was spent on that. More instinctively than intellectually, he knew what he was going to do.

Some second thoughts came when he checked the nets to see how much the next step would cost, and compare that to his assets. It would almost wipe him out. But the decision felt right.

He closed his heart around that and embraced it with his mind. Stepping into the hygiene, he cleaned his body and compiled fresh clothes while devising his action steps. His home systems weren’t sufficient for something as complete as he contemplated. He’d need to go to a clinic. Cleaned up, he ordered a fresh bulb of sugar coffee and sucked on it as he chased decisions on the webs. Dozens of clinics could do the work. Prices were comparable – of course – on the standard net, used by the vast majority of middle-classers like him. The gold net and platinum net served the wealthier classes. They would be much more expensive but they would probably provide the best service. He could have it done on the stone net that served the poor, but quality suffered.

There was the dark net.

The dark net scared him. However, he liked its optics for covering his actions. The scheme called for continuous duplicity, and living dual existences, really.

But he wanted to do this. Ceran was killed, murdered, damn it. No one knew who did it. It seemed painfully random. But he wanted to find her killers. Not for justice, but vengeance. So, he would become her, having his body and face modeled to look like her. Then he would live as both of them on the nets, to keep everyone off-balance, and find her killer.

Yes, it seemed like the correct and perfect next step.

He should have realized that was apparent to others, as well.

0

The Vision

He permitted his small train of cars to scrub off speed until it was almost stopped, and then gently pressed the brake pedal, encouraging a full stop.

Because he’s cautious, he opened several surveillance systems. Cameras and ground radar went up, scanning the remnants of I-5. Nothing else is untoward in this wasteland, but he picked up the AK-47 and looked around, watching his rear view mirrors and cameras as the engine idled. Selecting neutral, he set the hand brake and observed.

One of the packages moved again. It’s something that was alive or remained close to alive, or a ploy to invite him to stop and investigate. The wreckage was mostly cleared here. Rust, decaying plastic and rubber, and vegetation cracking through the pavement attested that more than a few months have passed since this crash or battle took place. Something alive is out of place. Manipulating a camera, he focused on the two packages. They appeared human, maybe females, adults.

Debating options and running scenarios through his head, he drummed his fingers on the console. He’d felt like Noah, building this vehicle. Sometimes he thinks of it as the vehicle, but other times, he calls it his train, an engine without a track, towing five cars. The instructions and scheme to build it reached him through nocturnal visions. He rejected referring to them as dreams. They were too cogent for dreams. The project, as he called it, trying to keep it abstract, ended up consuming money, energy and relationships. His marriage had already terminated, Mom and Dad were dead, and the children were forging their own paths of mistakes and successes, so it was pretty easy to burn those ties.

The thing was, though, the visions had never explained why this was being built. It seemed incredibly ridiculous and impractical to him, this “land train,” an absurd expression, since trains ran on land. People kept after him about why he was building it. He couldn’t explain it, not wanting to explain those nocturnal visions, falling back to weakly saying, “It’s just a whim.” He knew they thought he was crazy, an opinion he’d shared most of his waking hours. Then the sierra slathered the spinning fan blades onto a new wreck of a world, and here he was, a man alone with two cats and a dog, traveling destroyed America.

That’s what must have been behind the nocturnal visions, right? Why else have him build this thing? He was impressed that something had reached out to him with such guidance, even though it also scared him shitless about his sanity. Okay, but now, here he was, alive and on the road as the rest of humanity, at least in America, as far as he could discern, completed the cycle, dust to dust.

Yet, two people on the road, apparently needing help, were before him. How did that fit? As he watched, one progressed through the jerking motion of standing, confirming, it seemed to be a woman, small and white. He pulled his binocular to his eyes for a better image. Swaying, she straightened her back and squared her shoulders. Stooping, she pushed and pulled the other one, also a woman, until she stirred and rose to her knees.

The nocturnal visions hadn’t included others. Yet, he’d always wondered why his train was five cars. It was overkill for one person. Cursing cowardice and indecisiveness, he checked the time and watched the two. Holding on to one another, they minced across the road with staggered steps. Only two in the afternoon, it would be hours before night. Hours before his nocturnal visions came, unless he could close his eyes and sleep now. But if he did, they could leave. They could die.

The vision had brought him here. Now he needed to decide who he was. None of the others remained. These were the first living people he’d seen since he left his home after the fall.

Maybe their vision had brought them here, to meet him. If so, shouldn’t they be looking for him? They seemed oblivious to his vigil, even though the engine’s rumble probably carried to them.

He didn’t have a choice. The vision had brought him here.

It was up to him to finish the vision.

0

Future Blues

Groaning, shoulders slumping, Heather lowered her head and hit her forehead. She’d forgotten the friggin’ bag. Damn, damn, damn. The day was becoming sub-prime in a slide.

People thronged past. She faced a rack of bags. So, options, text someone to bring a bag. Go back and get it, but time and money, time and money. Five Georges for porting home and back. Steal one. Buy a new one. Get caught stealing a bag was a dime. Who to text to bring one? Everyone else had ported out on holi, but she had to work. Not friggin’ far, not friggin far at all. Welcome to her life.

So buy one. Gawd, two Georges. Were these getting more expensive? Why did she forget the friggin’ bag? Stupid. She slapped her temple. Stupid.

The bag was bought but that just started a whole other chain, syncing it to her head — and another George, gawd — and this bag wasn’t listed, forcing her to walk through the store and compare the items, like, manually, like some factory worker or some girl at a jewelry counter, because there was no list in the bag to tell her to pick something up and put it in. Good thing, sync did bring up her checking and budget so she knew what could be spent. Least the bag was telling her that. Wouldn’t want to exceed the budg and bring on the wrath.

And she had to remember what was on the list. Shit wasn’t easy. Like, did she need milk this week? The frig always told the list what she needed. She didn’t know. So she didn’t know. Probably all kinds of messed up. Who knows if the syncing was right? She hadn’t done one in all kinds of yesterdays. Didn’t even know if the bag was porting it to the right place. She peered into the small purple cloth sack. It was all gone, all right, but where? She could recall it all, go home, she shoulda just gone home and got her bag, suck up the time and Georges, way it was going, she would have only be out one or two Georges that route and a whole lotta less stress and aggravation, which she already was feeling, having won the lottery to work a holi weekend.

Ah, fuck it. Heather lowered her head and succumbed to getting it done, because that’s how the world work, but she couldn’t do it without multiple sighs and a pitying chorus in her head. She hated being eighty. Retirement couldn’t come soon enough.

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Today’s Theme Music

Returning to my roots of being, I’m streaming stuff from the nineteen sixties today.

I was a big motor-racing, science-fiction and baseball fan then. Mario Andretti, Jackie Stewart, Mark Donahue, Dan Gurney, Peter Revson were among the racers I idolized. The Can-Am, Formula One, Indy (called USAC racing back then), sports car racing, with the Ford versus Ferrari battles at LeMans…I watched them all.

My baseball team was the Pittsburgh Pirates, and I followed them faithfully. But my emerging loves were reading and music. Although my reading tastes were — and are — eclectic, I tore through the works of Asimov, Bradbury, Zelazny, Clarke, and Heinlein. Besides my racing magazines, I bought science fiction magazines every month, and devoured the short stories.

The rock explosion was in full strength and the Brit Invasion was underway. Protests, demonstrations, riots, the Altamont Free Concert and Woodstock were part of our news cycles, along with Vietnam, political assassinations, civil rights and the cold war. The threat of nukes was a constant. Bombers and fighters remained on alert.

Consumerism, television and advertising were gaining strength. What a time, what a time, for a teenage boy in America. Into this maelstrom of my existence came Jimi Hendrix. Wow, his playing amazed me. He died young, just twenty-eight years old, but, man, what a legacy he left. What an impact he had.

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