Category: Science fiction

New Boy

The words weren’t what he wanted to hear. “Your son was in a terrible accident,” the doctor said. “Steven has suffered extensive injuries.”

He stared at the woman, Indian and young, attempting to assess her abilities. Beside him, his wife was hiccuping with sobs. New tears ran down her face. He didn’t know where they came from. He was certain she was cried dry, but no, here were more.

“I’m afraid we’re declaring him medically challenged,” the doctor said next.

That drew his attention.

The doctor said, “I have no choice, Mister Ryan. Your insurance dictates it.”

“What’s that mean?” he said, as his wife echoed, “Medically challenged?”

“Well, to be crude, Mister Ryan, Missus Ryan,” the doctor said, “and use a coarse analogy, if your son was a car, he’d be declared totaled, because it’s cheaper to write him off and give you a check to have him remade.”

Words exploded. He was talking. His wife was talking. The doctor was backtracking and attempting to explain and placate.

It didn’t seem like he heard anything, not even himself. He was saying, “My son is not a fucking car, my son is not a fucking car.” He didn’t know what was coming out.

Then he and his wife were holding one another, shaking and crying, a scene in the hospital. He held her warmth and tried pouring strength into her, but his strength was evaporating.

The doctor said, “It’s not as you think.”

He couldn’t believe she said that. He said, “What?”

Reacting with a speed she’d never exhibited before, his wife lunged for the doctor. Catching her, he held onto her. Her body felt like steel. She dragged him forward. She was saying something, but tear-filled and high-pitched, he couldn’t understand her.

“Heather, Heather,” he said. “Calm down, calm down.”

A foot shorter than him and fifty pounds lighter, Heather dragged him forward. He was forced to lift her until her feet were off the ground. That was the only way to stop her.

“Let me go,” Heather said, “let me go.”

Security showed up.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Ryan said.

The doctor waved security away. A young nurse beside the doctor held a folder out. The nurse looked Indian, too. Were there no white people in medicine any more?

The doctor said, “This package explains everything. You can contest your insurance company and keep your son alive, but unfortunately, not in this hospital. He will need to be moved to another facility. In the meantime, if we harvest his organs, you can make more than enough money to pay off the expected costs, and your policy permits you to keep all the profits.”

“You are sick,” he said. He put his wife down, but held onto her. “You’re all sick.”

“And if you start right away, your son can be done here in five days.”

His wife fell still. “Five days?” Heather said.

He let go of her. “What’s that mean, exactly?”

“You will be able to take your son home in five days,” the doctor said.

“That doesn’t explain anything,” he said. “What’s it mean?”

“It’s explained in these package we’ve prepared for you,” the doctor said.

“I’m asking you,” Ryan said. “What’s it mean?”

The doctor sighed. “It means we’ll grow you a fresh boy, Mister Ryan. He will look and act exactly like your son, Steve. He will be a new boy, for all purposes, but he will be Steve’s age.”

“Like a clone?” Heather said.

“Yes, basically,” the doctor said. “He will have Steve’s knowledge and memories, of course, and the skill levels, talents, and abilities that he exhibited before, but he will have a new body.”

“How?” Ryan said.

“He’s been monitored his entire life, and we have his DNA map,” the doctor said. “So we will grow it. Steven’s teachers have faithfully filled out all required quarterly reports, with videos, and all his test results. You’re lucky that your son is in such a good school system. We also have all his social media records. So we can fully analyze all aspects of his personality and life.”

As he was thinking about what the doctor was saying, and what it meant, his wife said, “Can you…change things?”

“Changes are possible,” the doctor said. “They’re extra, of course, and it depends on what you have in mind.”

“Well, he was always a little slow,” Heather said, with a glance at her husband.

“And can we make him taller?” he said. “Steve’s always been one of the shortest kids in his class. It’d be nice if he was a few inches taller.”

“Of course.” The doctor made a gesture. The nurse made a call. A man in a suit appeared. He was white.

“This is Gary,” the doctor said.

“Hi, Mister Ryan,” Gary boomed, putting his hand out. As Ryan and Gary vigorously shook, Gary said, “I’m sorry about your loss,” and the doctor said, “Gary is a medical sales technician. He’ll walk you through your options and costs.”

As Gary shook hands with Heather, Ryan said, “Thank you, doctor.”

Smiling, the doctor said, “You’re welcome.” She walked away as Gary said, “Let’s go to somewhere quiet. There’s a Starbucks in the hospital. Would you like some coffee or tea?”

“I’d love some coffee,” Ryan said. “It’s been a long night.” His eyes were bright.

A new son. A new boy.

Science was fucking amazing.

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Beautiful and Terrifying

In today’s writing metaphor, I’m weaving a trilogy.

I’ve been writing here in the coffee shop for two hours. I still have three-quarters of my drink remaining.

Sitting down to write, I opened a floodgate to the dam of words – sorry, another metaphor – and they gushed out. Again came an unanticipated scene, and a surprising pivot. With it came more tangible substance about the third novel, and what’s to happen in it. And with that, I began writing the third novel of the “Incomplete States” trilogy (previously known as “Long Summer”). Still have some to write with the first novel to complete the initial draft, though. I was reluctant to do it, and that’s when the weaving metaphor arrived.

Novel three didn’t have a working title. Creating the Word doc, I just called it Book Three. I didn’t want to slow down to think of a title. I just wanted to get those words into the computer. Between books one and three, I wrote one chapter in book one, and the kernal of a chapter in book three, about thirty-two hundred words total.

It’s been an excellent day of writing like crazy. It’s fucking exciting, even though it’s also sometimes beautiful but terrifying. I put it like that because I see and know the scenes and the arcs, but I don’t know the words and the details, and I worry that I’ll lose them before the trilogy is finished. It became such an intense experience that sometimes I needed to get up and walk around to vent enough energy to focus and type.

It’s fun and exciting, too, being in these stories with these characters, on vivid other worlds and starships. Sometimes, it feels like I’m there, experiencing it through them, and then returning to this life to record what happened. Crazy, right?

Yes. I guess that’s a side-effect of writing like crazy.

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Arrows of Time

I enjoyed this PBS article regarding the arrows of time. The article points (sorry, couldn’t resist) to conclusions I achieved on my thinking regarding the arrows of time formed when a wave-function collapses, back in March, 2017, when I filled twenty pages in my lab notebook with scribbling, after doing several days of research.

Of course, my writing is predicated on thinking and conclusions physicists developed through decades of thinking. I was just building on the backs of others. This article helps with confirmation that the thinking is sound.

My writing and thinking was part of the development of the Chi-particle. A Chi-particle has imaginary mass and energy, and travels faster-than-light, gaining real mass and energy as it slows. It’s also a necessary device for “Incomplete States,” my current trilogy in progress. Book One (“Kyrios) is nearing completion, while Book Two (“Moment”), featuring space-pirates, is almost finished. That just leaves Book Three!

Lots of fun to think and write about these things.

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Rapport

The dark-haired feral girl’s name was Courtney, a tidbit discovered via computers when she stormed into his office.

“I should have a computer, too,” she said. An edge of angry tears quivered in her tone. “I have friends. I miss people. That’s not just your computer. It belongs to both of us.” She smirked. A tear rolled down her face. She wiped it off. “We’re both pets.”

This was a change. He’d seen her three times since her arrival. Once when he was eating, she stamped in and started going through the cupboards and refrigerator. The second time, he saw her prowling the cage’s perimeter. Guessing she was looking for a way out, he watched her a bit. When boredom crept in, he drifted away.

The third sighting was a little later. Cleaning in the kitchen, he looked out and saw her trying to shimmy up a cage bar. Idiot, he thought.

“Of course, you’re right,” he said, standing, trying to be reasonable, friendly, and diplomatic. “My name is Thomas, by the way.” He put out his hand.

She pushed past him to the laptop – his laptop. “Whatever,” she said.

Je-sus. “Do you need help with anything?”

Stopping everything, she said, “It’s a computer,” as if that answered and explained everything.

She typed in her name. Courtney. 

“Your name is Courtney?” he said.

“No, that’s my alias,” she said. Swinging around, she said, “Do you mind? Can I have some privacy?”

“Yes. Of course.”

This set up the constant battle. She was always on the computer, getting on the computer, or asking him to get on the computer. He liked his computer time . Now he had to share it with her. Courtney.

He knew he was being irrational and selfish. Didn’t matter. He used the network for porn, games, and searching for news. His friends weren’t on Facebook. All those accounts for the relationships built through the years were listed as inactive. Many emails bounced back. None of his friends tweeted back to him.

Must be something the aliens are doing, he figured. The aliens were damn cunning.

Like the language thing. He was pleased his owner (God, he hated to think of that) had learned his name was Thomas. He remembered, though, the aliens were using a device to speak the languages of Earth when they arrived. That included English. Where were those devices now? Apparently people authorized to have human pets were not allowed to openly communicate with them. Bet it’s worries over the Stockholm Syndrome, he figured.

They didn’t want the masters and their pets to develop a rapport.

****

Previous Pet stories

Pet

His House

His Name

Her

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His Name

His grey-green master came to see him in the morning.

The sun was up, and it was eight thirty by his clocks, which seemed accurate. He’d just completed showering, shaving, and his other personal matters when he turned and saw her. His house was at a level where she could comfortably look in on him without bending much.

The intrusion infuriated him. Shouting profanities at her tempted his tongue, but he held back, instead smiling at her. Still smiling, he gave a mock smile and bowed. He wondered how she would take that, and then turned his back on her to go down and make breakfast.

“Tolleaf,” she said.

She’d said that before, he remembered. Stopping, he turned and looked up at her.

“Tolleaf,” she said.

This is probably his name, he realized. What she’d decided to call him. He shook his head. “No. No.” Pointing at himself, he said, “Thomas.”

“Tolleaf,” she said.

“Thomas,” he said. He hit his chest with his fist. “Thomas. Thomas.” He hit his chest again. “Thomas.”

Bending closer to his house, she opened her yellow eyes wide. He watched her irises and pupils change. The capillaries and arteries in her eyes looked like a garden hose.

“Thomas?” she said.

Thomas nodded. “Yes.” He nodded again and pointed at himself. “Thomas.”

“Thomas,” she said.

He felt sick that this made him feel happy.

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My Smart Frig

I was thinking about a smart refrigerator as I walked today, and what my smart refrigerator would do for me. To begin, my smart refrigerator would scan everything in it. It would know what’s in my frig, and its condition. It’d be able to send me a message about the condition and quantity of the romaine lettuce.

It would also get rid of the romaine once it trespassed beyond being usable. The smart refrigerator’s message to me would be, “The romaine lettuce hearts have gone bad. I’m pitching them at midnight, unless I hear from you otherwise.”

Yes, it would give me ultimatums. It would also then pitch the food that’s gone bad, relieving me of the burden.

My smart frig would also suggest dinner options. Its umbrella of operations includes the refrigerator, freezers, and pantry. It’s like the kingdom of food. My smart frig would say, “You have some chicken breasts in the freezer. Shall I take them out and defrost them. There’s some Penna pasta, so I can make you some chicken Penna pasta.”

I wouldn’t even need to ask, “Do I have everything I need?”, because my smart frig would have compared the recipe with what I have on hand, and would have ordered whatever was needed.

Yes, my smart frig has the ability to move food out of its confines to the trash, or take it out, defrost and cook it for me. The smart oven, range, and microwave would work with the smart frig to make it happen.

As I think about it, I’m probably imagining a smart kitchen. Besides the smart frig inventorying my food stuffs and their condition, the kitchen is working with the sink and dishwasher to load dirty dishes, run, and put them away. Over at the smart wine console, another bottle of my favorite red as been ordered, as the bottle I opened last night is half-empty. *ahem*

Meanwhile, over in the smart bathroom, there’s tidying going on. Toilet bowls, sinks, tubs, showers and floors are being cleaned. Dusting and vacuuming is proceeding in the smart bedrooms, closets, and living room. The smart beds made themselves. Out in the smart garage, the smart car has cleaned itself inside and out, including the windows and wheels (because I notice many people don’t seem to clean their wheels). The laundry has been sorted by the smart washer, and the smart dryer is folding clothes and putting them away. The smart kitty litter box has cleaned itself, too.

I guess, what I’m really trying to say in this post, is that I want to live like George Jetson.

Without the traffic, of course. You’d think they would have been smarter about that by then.

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How It Goes

I’m standing down from my writing session.

I was writing an intense scene. I had to build up to it. Kanrin and some of his team are down on Kyrios. He has one hundred team members. They’re divided into five platoons, which is the corporate standard. He doesn’t take them all down at the same time. No, he was taking three platoons, so he can rotate platoons in and out. They’re coping with not having their nanosystems and standard technology, which forces them to live in a primitive manner.

Getting to the point that I was ready to write this scene took a lot of set-up. I had to determine which three platoons were down there. Some members were sick; which? They’ve built a small fort with one main tower, and four perimeter towers. (They were built on the starship, Epitome, and then ferried down in sections and put together.) Each tower is manned with two people; I wanted to know who was in each one. Then came the details of what was happening, what happened to whom, and who said what.

Besides that, their resupply vessel, with the replacement platoon, is overdue. A storm strikes; some are killed. Who? What do they do with the bodies? It’s emotional for them, too. They’re accustomed to people dying and then being resurrected/resuscitated/regenerated, and back among them in less than a day. It’s a black scene that’s the beginning of a dark period. So much of it is visible to me, but I have to endure the tedious business of writing it, word by word, comma by comma, period by — well, you get it. Then, whatever happens to each character must be documented in the bible, so I can easily reference these facts and keep true and logical.

Twenty-five hundred words were written, a decent session, but I’m spent. My typing posture working on the coffee shop’s table was poor; I was hunkered over in concentration, and I feel it in my neck muscles.

Time to stop writing like crazy, at least for now, although the writer knows, I’m going to continue writing in my head. That’s just how it goes.

 

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Imaginary Physics

“What do you have?” he said.

“Chi-particle. Can you break it?”

“Can I break it. We can break anything here. I’ll give you a tachyon and a baryon.”

“That’s not enough.”

“I think that’s fair.”

“It’s not enough. Throw in a meson.”

“No way. A chi-particle isn’t worth a tachyon, baryon, and meson.”

“I disagree.”

“Take it somewhere else, then. Know how hard it is to get rid of a chi-particle?”

“Know how hard it is to capture an extra one?”

“If it’s so hard, and they’re so special, why are you trying to get rid of it?”

“These are special circumstances.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“I need to change a chi-particle.”

“Look, I feel you, buddy, but I’m pretty limited. It’ll be hard as hell for me to get rid of that. People don’t want them. And Chi-particles have imaginary mass. Know what that does to real mass?”

“Yes, but they’re faster than light. They’re faster than tachyons. They have the longest half-life of anything out there. Hell, they’re the fundamental energy-particle of life.”

“That’s why people don’t want them. They already have them. Everyone has one. They worry about what another chi-particle will do to the relativity of simultaneity.”

“Yes, but Blink drives won’t work without them.”

“Blink drives are in the future. I have to deal with the present.”

“There is no future or past, there’s just now.”

“Oh, no, don’t start trying quantum bullshit on me. I’m an eternalist. I’ll not have presentism in my shop. You want to talk presentism, take it somewhere else.”

“Okay, okay, forget about time.”

“Forget about time?”

“Just give me a pentaquark and a tachyon, instead.”

“Where do you think you’re at? Look around you. You think I have anything as exotic as a pentaquark here?” He laughed. “Next, you’ll be asking for a heptaquark.”

“Well, what can you give me, then? Make an offer.”

“What about some leptons? I got every flavor you want.”

“I’m already lousy with leptons. Try again.”

He thought. “What flavor of chi-particle is it?”

“Human, of course.”

“Human huh?”

“I wouldn’t be dealing with you, if it wasn’t a Human chi-particle.”

“Okay. I’ll give you a tachyon, baryon, and boson.”

“A boson?” 

“Yeah, that’s a good deal.”

“You kidding me?”

“You won’t get that anywhere else.”

“A Higgs boson?”

“Now you’re trying to take advantage of me.”

Both accepted the swap after sniping at one another for a few minutes. Neither was satisfied, but then, nobody ever was, dealing with imaginary physics.

 

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