Category: Science fiction

Zombie

I, Juancho, was concerned.

Science may explain many things, but not everything, not everything. Even the scientists will tell you so.

I am concerned when science and technology tells me the person addressing me is dead. My sanity may be abridged, or they may be a zombie. I lack the wherewithal to address my sanity. If I am insane, then I am insane. I inhabit a bubble of impressions and thoughts, do I not? Someone must help me from the outside.

I don’t know how to even think about how I can be insane. If this man is here, from the Beagle, but —

But, you see, but, I, Juancho, know that we on the Coronado know that those on the Beagle passed away. All were gone, killed for reasons we don’t know.

So I believe, if, I, Juancho, am sane. Perhaps I’m insane, and the Beagle never exploded and killed all onboard. Conversely, perhaps, I, Juancho, am as sane as I thought I was before this man appeared, and he is a zombie.

I, Juancho, am just a bureaucrat. I have shot weapons with sufficient accuracy to be awarded points and a carry permit, but that’s no matter, as I’m not armed.

The man across from me doesn’t appeared armed, either. He is wearing a standard Beagle utility uniform, the sort worn by engineering corps on the ship. The consistency of my possible insanity impressed me. “We have arrived at a frightening crossroads,” I said.

He watched me with narrowed eyes. “What crossroads?”

“My systems tell me that you’re deceased. If you were onboard the Beagle, then you must be dead.”

He pursed his lips, eyes narrowing more, a suspicious and irritated expression. “I was onboard the Beagle. I don’t see how that would make me dead.” He sounded petulant and childish.

Tread carefully, I, Juancho, told myself. “Do you know what happened to the Beagle?”

He became as still as a person can. I’ve seen such stillness in other aspects of my position when sharing news that surprises other people. He did not know what had happened to the Beagle. But, of course, if he was onboard it, it may have exploded and killed him without warning.

“What happened to the Beagle?” he asked.

“I, Juancho, can show you. We have records. I’ll show you.” I watched him carefully, and vowed that I would keep wary eyes on him. Whether he died onboard the Beagle or not, that was four years ago, if the Coronado’s records were correct. Where has he been in the interim?

Although he didn’t appear the least decayed, he could still be a zombie, which made him a threat to me. I, Juancho, could still be insane. It’s a conundrum. I feel haggard, and wish for a drink. I still have alcohol. The systems can compile it from collected materials, and has been doing so. If he’d arrived later in the day, I would have already been enjoying my afternoon alcoholic buzz.

“Let us go look,” I said. “This way.” I indicated for him to walk.

He eyed me. “You first.”

“No, I insist. You go first.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Nor can I.”

“Then I guess we can’t go.”

“Then we will remain at a troubling, frightening crossroads.”

His obstinance irritated me. “First you won’t tell me your name. Now, you refuse to go see the records which will show to you what happened to the Beagle.”

“Why don’t you just tell me?”

“I do not believe you would believe me.”

He shrugged. “Why should I?”

“Why should lie to you?”

“Because you’re alone on the Coronado.”

“Clarify what you mean.”

“I mean what I said. You’re alone on an exploration vessel that should have a crew of thirty. You’re being evasive and obstinate.”

“I am not being obstinate. You’re being obstinate.”

He smiled. “I don’t see it that way.” Standing, he stretched, flexing impressive muscles. “I’ve had enough of this. I think you’re a troubled individual. I wish I could stay and help you, but I need to get back to the Beagle. I’m going to go find someone who can help me, because you, obviously, can’t – or won’t.” He shrugged. “The difference is immaterial, because the outcome is the same.”

He walked off, a smug, muscular, broad-shouldered blond man in a tight Beagles engineering corps utility uniform.

I did not like him. I decided that despite the hour, I would get a drink. I decided that I would also get a weapon, because he, the prig, would be back, and I, Juancho, wanted to be ready.

The prig could still be a zombie.

1

Deceased

I, Juancho, stared at the man. “Why are you telling me this?”

He measured me with annoyance, which irritated me. That’s how it always happens. We bureaucrats deliver truth, and others take it personally. The truth here is, I didn’t care about his missing Uncle Vaughn. I knew who Vaughn Parks was, yes, he was a distinguished person, but he was on the Beagle. They’re all dead. I’m surprised this man was alive. That’s who concerned me.

“You asked me how I came here, so I was telling you my story.”

“Your story is gibberish. It’s garbage. Why are you spewing garbage at me? What have I, Juancho, done to you? I asked you a simple question, “How did you get here?” And you give me garbage. Stop giving me garbage.”

“It isn’t garbage, I’m telling you how I came to be here.”

“You haven’t even told me your name.”

He looked insulted. “Why should I tell you my name? Your system should have picked it up.” A frown of deep thought and suspicion creased his forehead and mouth. “Isn’t this the Coronado? Aren’t you from the Beagle? I thought you were. I pinged your systems. They tell me that you’re Juancho Ferrado, and that you’re assigned to the Beagle, and you’re on — we’re on — the Coronado, which was a Beagle research vessel commanded by Commander Alves that was sent down to Feynman.”

He was correct about all of those things. “Very good,” I said. “What’s your name?”

Glancing around, he reared back. “Say, where is everyone else? Where is Commander Alves? She’s a personal friend of mine. I’d like to talk to her, or her second.”

I saw his mind look for Cark’s name. I could have given it, but I let him ask his systems, or think of it for himself. Why should I help him, when he was being such an arrogant asshole? “Lieutenant Commander Cark. Where is he?”

“You haven’t told me your name,” I answered.

I saw the fury grow on his face like black mold. I refused to capitulate. I wanted him to tell me his name so I could watch his face and look for the truth. Our systems will indicate when others are lying, but I believe the systems that nature gave me remain more capable. Those technological systems can be cheated and misled, I assure you.

“Why can’t you ping my name?”

“I want you to tell me. Why can’t you tell me?”

“Why should I tell you when I can ping it?”

“Because I’m asking you, human to human, to speak your name to me. It’s the way we prefer to do it in my culture.”

“What’s your culture?”

“That doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have said that. Forget that I did, please.”

“I can’t. You can’t put your words back in your mouth.”

“Just tell me your name, please.”

“No. I want to speak to Commander Alves.”

“Very well. Ping her.”

“I have pinged her.”

“I’m sure she’ll be here at any moment, then.”

He stared at me.

I smiled back. “See, I know what’s going on,” I said.

He scowled. “Where is everyone? Who are you, Juancho Ferrado?”

“See how easy that was? You said my name. It was very easy. Why won’t you say your name? What are you hiding?”

“I’m not hiding anything, and I’m not going to answer any more of your questions.”

“Fine, don’t. Then I won’t answer your questions.”

He sputtered with indignation. “I’m a Level Ten Engineer. You’re just a bureaucrat. I outrank you. I order you to answer my questions, or better yet, summon Commander Alves for me. My systems seem to be malfunctioning, so if you would just summon her….”

“Summon her?” I showed him my amused derision.

“Yes, or point me in her direction.”

I chuckled. “What will you do if I don’t summon her, or point you in her direction?”

He stood. “Never mind.” He looked around. “I”ll find her myself. I know the Coronado. My systems know it, too. I know the operating deck’s location. I’ll go find her, myself.”

“Very well. Go, go find her. Tell her hello from me, Juancho.” I laughed. “Tell her, I, Juancho, say hello.”

He was snubbing me, walking away like he was a king. I was furious. “Of course, it’ll be difficult to do,” I shouted. “Because she’s dead.”

That drew him up enough to slow his step and prompt him to turn back to me. “Commander Alves is dead?” He appeared shocked.

I gave him the best mocking smile that I could summon. “Didn’t your systems tell you that?”

He came back more slowly. “No. No, it didn’t tell me. She’s deceased? How did it happen? When?”

I stared at him. His response surprised me. I pinged Commander Alves for myself. “Commander Alves is not available,” my system said. “She is deceased.”

“Your system isn’t telling you that?” I asked him.

“No.” He looked genuinely disturbed. Either this was real, or he was an actor worthy of awards.

I pinged his system to confirm his name. It gave it to me. Then I asked my system, “What is his status?”

“Deceased,” my system responded.

 

1

The Starship

Vaughn was killing me. He kept saying, “Where’s my starship?”

Sometimes, I answered him, trying to get him to understand, “This is your starship. The Beagle is the only starship here.” I tried every tone that could be used, and exhausted every level of patience in me. He was enervating me. I pinged the medical systems for an update about his problem. Then I noticed the silence.

Vaughn wasn’t there.

“Vaughn?” Walking around, I scanned for him. “Uncle Vaughn? Where are you?” Then, venting anger, I added more softly, “Answer me, you crazy shit.”

Pangs of guilt swept me. He couldn’t help who he’d become. I owed him a lot, like, being on the Beagle. “Vaughn.” I scanned again. “Where the heck are you?”

Null.

I felt sick.

It was impossible. He had to be on the Beagle, but he wasn’t showing up. I walked my memories for a logical explanation, ran diagnostics on everything, and hunted again for Vaughn.

Null.

It was impossible.

After repeating my actions about seven times, I sucked air and called security.

##

A veep showed up after almost five seconds. I didn’t know him. Hito, his name ping said. “About time,” I said. “I was ready to call you again.”

“Sorry.” Hito didn’t look or sound it. “What’s the problem?”

“My uncle is missing.”

“Missing from where?”

“The Beagle, where else?”

“Your uncle is missing from the Beagle.”

“That’s what I said,” I replied, as my system said, “You’re being scanned.” Yes, of course the cop was scanning me. Looking to see if something’s adulterating my senses.

The cop veep sighed. “Who is your Uncle/”

“Vaughn Parks.” That should get their attention. The cop might not know me, but I think everyone on the ship knew Vaughn Parks.

“Vaughn Parks?”

The hitch in Hito’s voice pleased me. “Yes. Vaughn Parks.”

“He’s your uncle?”

“Yes.”

“Ah.” The veep shifted his stance. “Missing can mean a lot of things, different things to different people. What do you mean when you say, your uncle is missing?”

“I mean that I can’t find him.”

Bored skepticism crept into Hito’s expression. “Have you scanned the ship?”

“Of course, I scanned the ship. That’s the first thing I did. I scanned it several times.”

“Your system’s probably having issues.” Hito almost chortled. I swear, if he had, I was ready to attack him, if he did. “Let me check,” he said.

I waited. I hoped he was right, that my system was fucking up, but I was doubtful. I’d done diagnostics. But I was hopeful. Diagnostics could be flawed, too. I believed, like Hito, that Uncle Vaughn had to be on the ship. Nothing else made sense.

It was taking longer than I expected. “What’s happening?” I asked. “Did you find him?” I admit, I was a little mocking.

The veep cleared his throat. “Not yet. Excuse me.” He went into private mode.

I fumed. While I fumed, I checked for Vaughn on my systems again.

Then alarms went off. As I jumped from the interruption, the ship’s security systems informed me that a lockdown was in progress. Movement was restricted. Sections were being closed. Everyone was to shelter in place.

It had to have something to do with my missing uncle.

“Excuse me, I have to attend this alarm,” the veep said.

I was dubious. “They’re recalling you?” He was answering, “I’m afraid so,” as I was protesting, “But why? You’re a virtual presence. Why the fuck do they need to recall you?”

I guess he didn’t like my tone or question. If his eyes were energy guns, I’d been vaporized. “Yes, sir. We’ve gone to LERTCON Alpha, so we need to consolidate and conserve energy. Someone will get back to you when they can.”

He was gone but I still shouted, “But what about my uncle? What kind of security alert is it? Maybe it has something to do with my missing uncle.”

But he was gone, and there wasn’t any answer.

Assholes.

 

2

Adventure Dream

This dream, one of two remembered from last night, was wild.

I was part of an intergalactic crew. We were a small crew. I don’t know anyone’s names in the dream. My commander was a female and not anyone that I recognized.

I seemed to be in a television show. I was younger than I am, and appeared nothing like I ever had, except being white and male, with brown hair. I had the strange powers of being prescient and a great jumper. Both skills were nascent, and I spent large parts of the dream trying to improve both. At one point, I’d developed my jumping sufficiently that I could jump higher than a pub’s wood counter, and hang in the air several seconds, apparently suspending time and gravity. I was still learning about it.

Meanwhile, the series’ story line seemed to be that our little band was trying to help some small creature escape the powers that would capture and experiment on him, and return him to his home planet, across the galaxy. We were constantly being chased. People were trying to ambush and cheat us. We were in several fights.

In one episode memorable to me because my character played a greater role, I noticed that our vessel’s systems were alerting us to being followed. I notified the Captain. Meanwhile, we went planet-side, to a small bar. There, we met with someone to make a deal. I don’t know those details.

I remember that I knew from my prescience that someone was coming for us. So I announced, “I’ll take care of this.” Leaving the group, I went to a front foyer to await our attackers. Cold, heavy rain fell through the darkness outside. I wasn’t a big person. Other men were standing in the foyer. “Are you waiting for a fight, too?” I asked one. He looked down at me and nodded.

The attackers arrived and I gave them a thorough thumping via my special skills. Then, deal done in the bar, we departed the fix, heading for our space vessel and on to our next adventure.

Strange, but true. Well, in my dreams, hey?

1

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.

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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.

 

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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?

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