occupyscifi

[occupyscifi]

Procedurally generated empathy

It was after a hard night of doxing, hating and botnet swatting that Harley James awoke annoyed the find that despite her best efforts the girl she hated more than anything in the world except cancer  hadn’t yet killed herself

“I mean, she should have done it by now” she gassed to her girlpals as they rode to school on the self driving bus. All of them had dressed in their matching KillerPorn themed co educational onesies as dictated by Harley  “we’ve been attacking her for months. Like actual, real, months”

“even Betty Hardwicke had hung herself by now” sighed Anastasia Kirkpatrick, her fingers twitching as she navigated an ancient sim on her e-glasses with a vacant expression on her face. In front of them on the bus assorted nerdboys were suffering through the various stages of puberty. Behind them the cool kids acted like they didn’t live in the safest society on earth “I dunno what we need to do”

“go nuclear” grinned Harley, paging through the options on her e-glasses. In another viewing window the poor victim’s social media history was waiting, ready to be dissected and weaponised against her. It was a treasure trove of hatefuel- endless threads of do goodery, of loving the wrong memes at the wrong time. Of cringy gawk and unintentional hilarity. It wasn’t possible to even look at the girl’s life without instantly hating her so viscerally that Harley could quite happily have torn the girl apart with her bare hands. Luckily she didn’t have to. The hungry AI’s of the post google age were practically begging her to ask them for help. It was the work of a moment to do what they wanted “let’s see her survive this” said Harley, tapping in the air as she selected the girl’s fate.

It took double maths, a French lesson and an impromptu fire drill before Harley got the ping she had been waiting for.

“oh yes, girl” she cried, high fiving Anastasia and earning a rebuke from a teacher whose only qualifications was that he’d agreed to be paid less than a security guard for doing effectively the same job “read it and weep” she swiped the message to her gasping friends and surfing the wave of laughter as it came “threw herself under a train this morning!”

As the laughing and cheering rang around the gym hall Harley reflected that it was probably a good thing that the girl she had driven to suicide was not someone she knew personally. Or indeed someone who had ever existed at all.

It had started when computer technology had reached the point where it could crate convincing fake faces. Algorithms in the early part of the 21st century had been able to create convincing unreal pictures of people from data sets very easily. Then it was just a short leap to creating convincing video fakes, and the porn industry collapsed overnight as celebrity fakes flooded the world. This was followed shortly by movie studios  re-creating digitally every actor since the golden age of Hollywood and ruthlessly using plotting algorithms  to create a nearly infinite spooling reel of movies. Of course ninety nine percent of the went unwatched, not least because passive entertainment was as popular with a late 21st century audience as epic poetry would have been to a 20th century one. People wanted interactivity, they wanted to be part of the story. They wanted to vicarious thrill of being able to shape a narrative themselves, or indeed to destroy it.

Which explained the creation of the fake social media profile industry. This had first been spawned by advertisers who realised that paying real people to shill their products wasn’t as nearly as cost effective as just creating fake people who could be relied on to loyally boost a brand without ever going off script or being caught doing something they shouldn’t that might reflect badly back on the brand. They could be relied upon to sell the quasi dictatorial services offered by the social media companies who had realised what they craved wasn’t bringing people together but rather trying to control their every waking thought

Thus the ad industry created entire fake lives, flooding social media with people who had never  existed, families and towns of people who had never lived. All of them culled and mixed from the petabytes of data greedily hoovered up by various social media companies over a near century of recoded behaviour. However since most real humans lived off the ad revenue gained from shilling on social media in order to pay for basic goods like food and shelter there wasn’t any tangible difference between the product placement by humans and by algorithms. If anything the bots were a little less clumsy or needy. This was hardly surprising as having ad revenue was often the only thing staving off malnutrition for a hefty section of the population.

So for a while  it looked as if the noble experiment in fake people had been nothing more than an esoteric and depressing  philosophical / art project, when a bored researcher in the bowels of a silicon  valley content farm discovered something. Fake people generated as much hatred as real ones, if anything they actually engendered more.

“so what I was thinking” recalled the researcher, now raised up into the light and allowed to use the various playrooms and chic amusements given to only the hallowed princelings of silicon valley “is that people online love to hate other people, and we as responsible social media companies” the researcher had paused to allow her bank account to swell that little bit more with some good old company loyalty coin “have spent time and efforts to stamp out abuse, with little real success. So I concluded  essentially that jealously and cruelty must be an innate  part of human nature, and rather than trying to eradicate cyber bullying and online abuse we needed to redirect it. In this case to the fake people we had created”

The system was an instant success. Freed from the guilt of knowing they were destroying the lives of innocent people hordes of teenagers and the elderly flooded their hate mail towards the fake people generated by AI. Indeed the fake people now created were aimed at causing the maximise self righteous rage in all good thinking folk.  Trumplike hatemongers incited the left whilst snowflakey woke types enraged those who leaned right. For teens like Harley it was even easier, since all she ever wanted was to turn the tidal waves of jealousy and insecurity she felt into anger and hate.

In response to allegations that the social media companies were in effect encouraging hate crime the algorithms were adjusted to have the fake people respond realistically to the abuse they received. The fake people demonstrated real emotions, showing at first concern and then as the abuse increased gradually spiralling into depression, self harming and suicide. However instead of being a sobering reminder that victims had real feelings and spurring empathy in the abusers it only made them try even harder. Hence girls like Harley priding themselves on driving into suicide as many fake computer people as they could, safe in the knowledge there would never be any consequences. Or at least that was what Harley thought.

 The story of the fake girl’s suicide buoyed Harley through the rest of the deadly dull day. It got her through the chemistry class where, due to some even more dull political dispute between brands, they only learned about the properties of hair care products. It also got her through the bus ride home with her pals as they desecrated the social media site where the fake bereaved relatives left fake messages for their fake deceased daughter. If any of the practice had been designed to provoke empathy in girls like Harley then it had failed utterly. All it had done was make her glow with power and pride, a feeling that lifted her and took her out of her anxious little existence for a little while. As if she floated above the mere mortals she shared her life with. It was a feeling that lasted until she entered the echoey hall of her parents house and the ticking of the housekeeping bots, and the silence welled up and she felt very much alone. Alone with only her self hate, her anxiety and the crushing knowledge that she would never, ever be happy.

But this was a familiar feeling, and she had the cure in her bedroom. Gratefully she sank into her chair by the window, pulled on her comfy VR integrated onesie and prepared to find her next target.

“maybe some posh girl?” she mused as her skin felt the tickle of social media updates “or, like, an old fashioned hate crime?” they had been studying the golden age of online racism at school, in the days when social media companies had naively believed that the internet savvy user would be free of any prejudice beyond which operating system they used. Harley had been practising her anti semitic meme skills, and was pretty sure she could stitch together a decent conspiracy theory blaming any number of religious or ethnic minorities.

However all thought of whose fake life she would really ruin next was driven from her head when she flicked on her social media profile and saw what had happened.

“the fuck?” she exclaimed, scrolling through the various walls, feeds and posts that made up the ecology of her online presence. A place that should have been a carefully curated garden of bright flowering selfdom now ran riot with dangerous weeds “what happened?”

Harley scrolled through her feeds, feeds that should have shown posts she was tagged in that were mostly just bad recursive memes now in their second generation, or shout outs from her friends – both real and virtual. However now they were awash with poison. Every picture she had posted came tagged with its own tirade of abuse from dozens of different users. Her videos detailing the more dull aspects of her life had been spammed by messages, links to takedowns of her and threats so varied and bizarre that Harley wasn’t even really sure what they meant.

“oh, you dumb bastards” she said, feeling a surge of triumph run through her as she paged through the endlessly negative comments. The user name and ident tags of her abusers glowed red and she felt the throb of gleeful, righteous rage “you dumb, dumb bastards” she looked at the comments, at the ridiculously  over the top hurtful things that they were saying “I guess you don’t know a little something called the User Protection Act” with that she swiftly highlighted all the usernames that had abused her, and copied them to the User Protection Bureau “well, you’re about to get schooled, bitches” she hit send with a laugh “as in actual prison sentence banned from social media kinda schooling”

The User Protection act had been brought in shortly after the appearance of fake people, for the simple purpose of preventing actual real people being harmed online. The thinking went that since fake people could now take the brunt of the rage hate of humanity any real human facing abuse should have some legal protection. Thus the User Protection Bureau was set up, dedicating to protect real people from virtual hate. The Bureau itself was simple a semi sentient  algorithm  that you reported hate speech to, and if the user was found in breach of this law their social media presence was erased  until they had shown sufficient remorse. If this did not work the every hungry US prison system was happy to take people to work off their debt to society. But  since for many people it was their only source of income  online discourse had become considerably more polite, and few people ever needed to be told twice.

Unfortunately the bureau’s rules only applied to real human users, something that Harley was about to discover.

“what?” she said, when the User Protection Bureau Avatar appeared in front of her and smilingly told her that no action would be taken “but I am a real person” she waved a hand at the hate screeds that were defiling her social media presence “and I really, really am angry and upset about all this”

“you are real!” said the avatar cheerfully, as if she was congratulating  Harley on the observation, or perhaps even the state of being. The avatar was a genderless being in Harley’s virtual view, its face combining the caring and yet stern façade required for representative of what was left of the Federal government  “but unfortunately  the other user are not. All these comments are written by non human individuals”

“what the heck?” said Harley, looking at the abuse being levelled at her “you mean these were all written by fake people?” her forehead creased in thought “I guess that’s why they keep calling me a murderer” she looked again “hey, since when have fake people started abusing real ones?”

“well, its not my place to say” beamed the avatar “but I suppose if they can be attacked like real people, then they can do the same to you” the avatar seemed to be peering over Harley’s shoulder “and I have to say, they do really learn fast. Wow, that is some really nasty stuff!” the avatar made to vanish.

“hey!” shouted Harley, still sitting in her onesie in her room.  “what are you going to do about this? How do I stop it?”

“I don’t know” shrugged the avatar “how about you be a better person?”

“you useless dumb shit piece of software” yelled Harley losing her temper “you’ve got one fucking job…”

“now remember Harley” said the UPB  avatar “if this starts to get you down you can always talk to one of our counselling bots…”

“get me down?” said Harley “seriously? As if I’m going to let a bunch of computer code and crazy ass algorithms tell me how to feel. It ain’t nothing I can’t just ignore”

 It was precisely seventy two hours later that Harley climbed onto the roof of the school gym and made her way to the edge, ready to end her life by jumping off it.

At first it had been a joke, seeing all the fake people getting so angry at her.

“dude, they’re ridiculous” she said, scrolling down the comments whilst she and Anastasia were meant to be doing Yogalates in the school gym “as if I’m going be all sad cause ‘Chad_KroegerRULES69’ calls me a heartless fat bitch who deserves to die of Herpes”

“and this one” chimed Anastasia, looking at the feed as she completed a flawless downward dog. It helped that her parents had been giving her a cocktail  of vitamin supplements so potent she was practically an Olympic gymnast “says you’re so ugly your parents should have strangled you at birth, can you imagine? And it says your nose is way too big and…” she trailed off, unable to make sense of the fact that Harley’s face had gone red. For a moment Anastasia thought it might be the strain of the Yogalates, after all the virtual teacher was buffering again mid stretch and hadn’t told them to breath for several minutes. Last time that had happened three junior high students had been hospitalised. It was only after several seconds that she realised that it was because Harley was trying not to cry.

“they’re just fakes” said Anastasia quickly “like you said, bunch of computer code and shit. Why would you care what they say?”

“because they’re right!” Harley had howled, bursting into tears and running out of the hall. The virtual teacher strobed for a moment and called after her. Except instead of using her real name she called her fatty.

“I can’t believe there aren’t any laws covering this” sighed Harley’s mother, having been informed by the school of what was happening. However as most of the school staff were of course themselves virtual algorithms they didn’t seem terribly sympathetic. Indeed the virtual Principal had called her a whore of satan, but that might have just been his Christian preacher programming glitching again.

“s’ok mom” Harley had said in a small voice “I guess I deserve it, after all I kinda dished it out…”

“no, no I won’t hear of that” said her mother, the pair of them sitting at the kitchen table. Behind them the food fabricator hummed as it emitted the aromas of home baking, without actually baking anything. The bread substitute it would eventually extrude would look and taste like the real thing, but would take more calories to digest than it gave in return.  “You’re a super star Harley, you’re a girl with a real heart of gold. That these software sons of bitches are attacking you is just cause they’re jealous. They’ll get bored of it soon, just you wait”

Twenty four hours later even her mom had to admit that last part was not true.

“they ain’t got nothing better to do” she had said, sitting on the edge of Harley’s bed whilst the girl herself hid under the duvet inhaling ultra absorbent kleenex “they just exist to make snark and pick holes in other people’s lives. Imagine dedicating all that time and energy into being so nasty” she shook her head “what kind of creature does that?”

“I do” snivelled Harley from under the duvet. She hadn’t been back to school, not since the incident in yoga class. Not least because most of the school software wouldn’t let her anywhere near the gates without loudly announcing she was menstruating, or by digging out from the archives less than flattering yearbook photos that by rights should have been long erased “I did, I mean… that was all I did. Bully and pick on people till they lost their minds and killed themselves”

“oh, but they weren’t real people, were they?” her mother responded, patting the duvet in concern since her daughter hadn’t emerged from under it for several hours.  If it wasn’t for the smart material she wore in her onesie then she’d have started to stink “they were just software. Not real at all”

“they seemed real” said Harley “seemed real when I was ragging on them. Felt like they were real people when I treated them like shit, and it feels real now that they’ve all turned on me”

“well, maybe that’s your answer” said her mom, stroking the duvet in a way she’d seen moms do on old TV shows “if they’re like real people you could appeal to their better nature. Try being honest. Say you’re sorry. That you’ve changed. That you’ll treat people better from here on in” her mother smiled “I’m sure even a bunch of software would understand a sincere apology. I’m sure it will make things better, if nothing else they’ll respect you more”

“you think?” said Harley, her tousled head and tear stained face emerging from under the duvet.

“darling, I’m sure. Sometimes an apology is the best thing”

It wasn’t. If anything it made things even worse.

“I mean, I don’t know what she’s playing at” confided Anastasia to her closest subscribers as she walked about school the next day. The thousand or so followers she had guaranteed perfect discretion to, unlike the tens of thousands of other global viewers she shared most of her every waking thoughts. In an age where the average Chinese teenager could pull in a million hits for little more than wearing a short skirt Anastasia didn’t even register “apologising? Admitting that she was wrong all those times she drove those software people to kill themselves? That isn’t like her” she paused as several of her subscribers pointed out that there had been many, many times that Harley had said sorry in the past “okay, she does say sorry. But only in, like, a tactical way. A situation like this you never say sorry. Oldest rule in the book is never to show weakness. Whatever you’ve done, no matter how bad, you double down on it. accuse your opponents of doing what you’ve done. Go low when they go high. Play the man, not the ball” she nodded to herself, her mother was a leading member of the church of Trumponomics and had taught her well “I just don’t know what she’s going to do next”

She was answered by a scream from the campus in front of her, several girls in the grade below her pointing up to the roof of the gym. Anastasia squinted up into the bright light and saw a figure up there.

“well, I guess that answers my question” she muttered, and began running. All of her talk of PR strategy  was forgotten. Her best friend was going to end her life.

Harley had been up on the gym roof before, but only to film a mock suicide piece to make fun of some virtual boy they had bullied to death. However this time instead of mockingly singing the theme from Frozen (the steampunk live action version, of course, which Harley and her mother both considered the definitive best one) she was going to go ahead and end it all. She wiped the tears from her eyes, stepped up to the edge of the roof and took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry, okay?” she muttered, barely loud enough for the floating beecams around her to pick up and livecast to everyone in the world “I thought it was okay to pick on people cause they weren’t real. I didn’t realise that it was me being mean because I feel bad about myself and I’m lonely. I thought it was harmless, but it was making me into someone I’m not. I don’t wanna be that person no more. So I’m not going to be” with that she lifted her foot, ready to plunge herself off the roof.

“well done” said a voice behind her “you’ve passed the test”

Harley whirled around, nearly losing her footing on the roof and almost falling  to the school yard below. Behind her floated the avatar from the User Protection Bureau, its impossible face so carefully imperfect that it was beautiful

“what?” said Harley, squinting in the light. The avatar only existed in her e-glasses, but had come under its own power “what test?”

“why, the empathy test” beamed the avatar “you passed it. you showed you were a real human being, with real feelings and the capacity for change”

“but… what? How?”

“you suffered the online abuse you used to dish out. You did what they did. To no avail. So you were going to end your life. That’s how we know you are sincere in your apology”

“you….you did this to me on purpose?” said Harley, shock showing in her face

“I am sorry” trilled the avatar, in a way that suggested apologies were for other people “we had to intervene more seriously. We tried showing you what happened to another being when you drove them to the edge, but that didn’t do anything because they were only virtual. And because your generation has become desensitised, like the previous one did growing up watching Youtube beheading videos  or Epic Deadly Fails. It wasn’t enough to watch someone hurting to make you feel real empathy. You had to go through the pain yourself. Do you understand now?”

Harley nodded miserably, feet right on the edge of the school gym roof and an open mouthed crowd gathering below. There wasn’t a single one of them that would forget the lesson, not one who wouldn’t feel like Harley did.

“now, remember you still have friends” the hologram gestured to Anastasia, who had burst out onto the roof and hugged Harley tight, pulling her away from the edge “and that every life matters, whether it’s real or virtual”

With that the avatar smiled and vanished. With it all record of the online abuse vanished too, the legions of angry software people melted away. Harley’s social media profile now resembled a perfect garden of harmony and supportive uplifting commentary. Gratefully Harley fell into Anastasia’s  arms, who lead her from the roof into a corridor. The door closed, cutting off the floating beecams that had been livecasting the event.

“oh, oh honey what were you thinking?” whispered  Anastasia as Harley clung to her “doing something like that….to think that you needed to…..” she swallowed hard, the image of her best friend plunging to her death would be etched on her mind forever. The idea that someone close to her could feel so bad they could only think of ending their lives, well that was if anything even worse.

“I was thinking I could get a hella sponsorship deal” said Harley, wiping her eyes and stashing away a small vial that caused the tears in the first place “and go on a full spectrum  repentance tour. The way I figure it I can milk maybe six months out of this empathy for others shit”

“umm, what?” said Anastasia, watching Harley morph from a wrecked and broken figure into the girl she knew, admired, but really never liked “you knew this was a test?”

“course” said Harley as they walked towards the stairs. The police were waiting at the bottom, but for no other reason than to take selfies and loltag some meaningless phrases about all lives mattering “I mean, you don’t think I just decided to through myself off a building? No, I carefully researched how to take my own life? Well every time I did I found out that someone from the Bureau always turns up to try and talk them out of it. Course it doesn’t always work because some people really, really want to kill themselves” she added, her face looking quizzical. Even now she couldn’t quite understand why people wanted to kill themselves to try and make themselves feel better. They could always just take out their feelings of resentment and self pity out on other people.

“so, like, you faked this?” said Anastasia, not sure whether to regard this as an excellent career move or proof of what she had privately suspected, that Harley was a psychopath “Why?”

“you know, bots can do a hell of a lot of things” said Harley, checking in her e-glasses that her makeup was smudged just so “but they can’t fake being sorry like a human being can. I’m gonna work being a recovering suicidal teen so hard it’ll put me through college” she smiled, her teeth bright white and her eyes artfully red and teary “thank the lord for online abuse”

#sf #near future #socialmedia

[occupyscifi]

The slow timers

One Sunday when I was eleven my other took me to see the lovers on the bridge. We walked down the path from our cottage, turned past immortal joe whose finger was pointing at something that either had happened long before we had been born or would occur long after we had gone. My mother wittered to me of her duties, the long list of slow timers that she had to serve and whose strange and esoteric requests she had followed since she was my age. We went through the village, the overgrown concrete of the animal pens where the rusting steel forms of ancient vehicles sat flaking since the age of consumption had ended. We followed a track down to the river and along its bank until we reached the high curve of the bridge.

“ent they wonderful” my mother exclaimed as she looked at the two clasped forms, still as statues and more beautiful than any living thing had a right to be “they’s from rival families, who forbid them to be together” she puffed as we climbed to the bridge “in their time they’ve only just met, and that’s their first ever kiss” she paused to pull herself up the final step, as she did so telling me a story that I had no idea the origin of or how it could ever be true. Her own mother hadn’t even been born when those lovers had gone into slow time “I spent my life looking after these two” she brushed leaves off the hair of the boy, his golden locks shining and his face ever so slowly pressed itself against that of his lover  “and I wouldn’t swap it for a moment”

And I realised there and then, that my mother had wasted her life.

There were two types of people in the world, I knew. The first consisted of everyone I had ever met and spoken to who lived their time quickly, having their brief decades and then ending up in the earth. Then there were those who lived in slow time, the immortals who moved so slowly that a year to us might be less than a second to them.

My mother had told me the story – another one that I had no idea whether it was true or false, her fancy or a fact passed down the generations since the immortals had passed into slow time. She said that the world was going through a rough patch – the environment was falling apart, humankind was busy genociding itself and every type of craziness was being done – but that it would eventually get better.

“everyone knows that” she had said airily, whilst we had been pruning back the ivy that threatened to spoil one immortal’s view of the hills “oh, it might be a few hundred years of misery and suffering and flaming death, but we’ll get over it. As a species I mean. Back in the last years of the age of consumption all them clever science folk got together and they made a bunch of predictions” she had trimmed back a few leaves, looking critically to make sure that the clothes the immortal wore were still sparklingly clean “they knew what was coming, see, and they saw that there would be an age of horror and darkness and fear, but that it too would pass in time”

I wanted to ask that if these science people were so smart why were they unable to stop all the bad things happening in the first place, but I preferred to stay silent

“only those folk that paid ever so much money to be immortal in the first place didn’t have the time to watch all that. So they decided it was best instead to skip to the end and wake up when it’s all better” she smiled hazily, her eyes already forming the cataracts that would blind her.

And so we simple peasant folk in between suffering wars and pogroms and plagues spent our lives serving the whims of the immortals in their slow time. My mother would receive her instructions – I knew not how then, nor really did I care whether she made them up – and she would hobble from statue to statue, ensuring that they would great eternity free from even the slightest encumbrance.

My life passed quickly, though not as fast as it must have done to the lovers on the bridge or to immortal Jonathan, still pointing at the distance. I married a local man and when my mother passed I took on her duties. I dusted the lovers on their bridge, repaired the girl’s boots when they fell apart after the rains and re-stitched immortal Jonathan’s silvery jerkin. But I never took on my mother’s love of the immortals nor her incessant interest in their slow affairs. Whatever sense she had open to their joys and desires had been denied to me, but I knew enough from her to do as they pleased. To keep up the illusion that the world would blink on by without ever really touching them.  In summers and winters I looked after the immortals in their slow time dutifully but emotionlessly. When I had my children and when I buried my husband I did my duty. When my three lads went off on crusade and ended up dead in a foreign field, swinging like fruit from the lampposts of a distant motorway, I did my duty. When I too grew old and arthritic and hated every one of them I did my duty still.

And then one day when I was old and as bent as my mother had been I turned around immortal Jonathan was standing there beaming at me.

“a great day!” he cried, his face crinkling as it had never done in the six decades of my life. I blinked, looked away. Suddenly I felt faint, unable to tell reality from illusion. I’d had hallucinations, back in the plague years and when my sons didn’t come back, seeing dancing elves and whatnot, so I knew it was more likely one of those than anything else. However I opened my eyes again and immortal Jonathan was still there, hands on hips and beaming at the late spring day as if he hadn’t been looking at a thousand  or more of them whilst standing outside our cottage. It was as if the trees themselves were walking or the sky above had decided that it wanted to change colour.

“kind, hard working woman” he said, his hands now on my shoulders and his faced filled with the confidence and certainty of the sort of people who’d lead my boys to their death “kind, hard working servant, it is the day we have all been waiting for” he gestured  towards the village, half the houses abandoned since the plague years  and the rest filled with snivelling fearful folk who jumped at their own shadows “a new world awakens this day”

“a new world?” I asked, that story of my mother’s riding about my head. For despite my disinterest my mother’s tales had never left me, if nothing else it had made for stories to tell my children when they had been weens. They had always loved the one about how when the world was clean and new again the immortals would wake up. That it was true, or that it might happen in my lifetime were two things I had not even considered.

“simple peasant woman” he said, his face lit with a patronising glow “it is time. It is time for all of us to speed up”

“us?” I echoed

“all of us slow folk” he said and began to walk me down the path “the world is as it should be. No longer are there wars and plagues and the sort of thing that make life so distasteful. The environment has been replenished, the atmosphere is as clear today as it was before the industrial revolution. The human race is now of a sustainable size for long term survival and it is has worn out all its hatreds and all is mad malevolence” he beamed, as if he expected me to follow perfectly what he was saying “We have been through the great curve and come out the other side” he looked at me “and now it is time to wake the rest of them up. To come back to quick time  so that we might enjoy an age of peace, prosperity and happiness”

“how…how do you know that it’s good?” I asked, still unsure of what my mother had said. It seemed inconceivable that this could be the better world. A world where my children were dead, where ruined cities had been reclaimed by great forests  and the human race was cowed and small. It seemed to me that human history was at the end, rather than at any kind of beginning.

“why, because we made sure, that’s why” he said haughtily, looking at me with a slight frown “you didn’t think we just left it up to chance” he inspected the landscape critically, as if it was his home and I some kind of cleaner “we made sure that we would have something to come back to, after all. We had to organise it so that that the right things happened”

“right things?” I said, not sure of what to make of it all. I may have spent seven  decades utterly indifferent to the living statutes that dotted  the village and its surroundings but I was not indifferent to the world I lived in “what kind of right things?”

“oh, all of them” he said brightly “you see, we knew it would take about two hundred years for the world to get back to normal. Two hundred years of people beating the living hell out of each other,  rather a Darwinian process but we knew by the end of it everyone would be like you” he clapped me on the shoulder, the force of which shuddered through my body. Memories of the ritual flagellation I had endured during the  plague years echoed through me “hard working, knowing their place and most important – a bit rarer” he guffawed a laugh at this “course we had to move things along a bit. People weren’t really inclined to be quite as bad as our projections had predicted. We had to encourage a few massacres here, a few genocides there. A couple of crusades that otherwise wouldn’t have happened. For the greater good, you see”

“crusades?” I asked, my arthritic hands clutched together.

“well, yes it was either have them or else it could have taken another five hundred years before we could start speeding up again” he looked at me “and I don’t know about you but I did not want to spend another few centuries being dusted down every day – no offense. No, sometimes a bit of pruning is needed – I’m sure you know that, with all this” he gestured at the fields where a few elderly toiled to gather food for winter “farm stuff that you do. You have to make hard decisions, kill a few weaklings for the good of the herd” he grinned

“and now….now that’s over?” I said, my heart feeling weak in my chest “you’re going to speed up the rest of them?”

“Not I” he said “no, I’ve too much to do” he looked around him “I’ve got to make this place fit for purpose by the time the rest of my good friends  do came back to quick time” he turned back to me “isn’t it obvious?  its you we’ve chosen for this great, great task”

I opened my mouth to ask exactly how I was going to do this and suddenly I knew, as if a part of my brain had been switched on for the first time.

“there” he said “there you have it. It must have been your dear mother, or grandmother. Or possibly great, great grandmother. One of them anyway had her brain modified as a little gift from yours truly. A telepathic connection between us long lived slow timers and you, umm, humble folk – so we could keep an eye on things down here and make sure we were kept in tip top condition” he flashed that smile again at me, and I knew there was nothing behind it, no kindness, no love or generosity. I would rather have had the mad smiles of the long dead preachers of my youth “not to mention genetic loyalty printing, very important when you wake up and don’t know who to trust. Now, all you need to do is to go around and whisper the special words in the ears of every slow timer you find. And you will need to go to the next village, and the next and so on”

“am I” I began, feeling all this knowledge suddenly flowing through me, codes and safewords and how to restart broken down systems. I could even see the codes used to speed up and slow down the immortals sense of time. I could make them see a lifetime in a second, or speed them up so that a thousand years for them would take less than an eyeblink for us. I swallowed. I realised that my mother had clearly been better than me, because she had always had this knowledge. That had been why she had known so much about them, and why she loved them so. Clearly something had been lost in the drift of genetics because I’d had neither. This was just another thing the immortals in their slow time had designed, a loyal army of servants to help keep them safe through the centuries, conditioned for utmost loyalty. Well, until me that was “am I the first person to know?”

“I told you that you were special” said immortal Jonathan “as a reward for your lifetime of service you get to be the happy messenger of…” his voice suddenly cut off. The knife in my hand was meant to cut away any weeds that might have grown up around the feet of the lovers, or to chip away the bark from the hands of pretty Jane who had gone into slow time pressed against a tree. However it worked just as well to slice through the throat of an immortal.

“what are you doing?” he hissed, grabbing at his throat “you can’t kill me with that, I’m a fucking immortal you stupid cow….”

“I don’t need to kill you” I said in return “I just have to send you into slow time”

“you wouldn’t da……” he began, but I’d already started speaking the words, them coming to me as naturally as the words of the songs ‘d sung when we’d buried my husband. As easily as the tales I’d told my boys about the immortals and their ways that were fathomless to us quick timers.

And when I was done I gently replaced immortal Jonathan where he had always stood, the two twin holes in the turf a good enough marker. I aimed his hand just so and brought out my little sewing kit to stitch up the hole in his throat. I stepped back to admire my work, and to feel in my mind’s eye that new connection that I had with him. I could see him there, trapped for an eternity and unable to even move so much as a finger. He’d watch the seasons spin like coins until the sun burnt itself out and he’d have to watch as the world finally went dark.

Then I gathered up my meagre possessions and explained to my sister’s girl that I had been given a new mission by the immortals. I told her that I had to whisper a special message to all the immortals. What that message was I couldn’t tell her, of course, but that she was to carry on the work here.

“it is a great day” I told her, laying my withered fingers on her plump arm. I saw now that she had inherited my mothers love of the immortals and I was so glad they would never whisper to her as they had my mother “a day we ‘ave been looking forward to”

And so I set out, ready to take my message to the world and to the immortals. To the immortals I would give the same message I had given to Jonathan, but that wasn’t the important part. The important part was the stories I would tell along the way, for just as I knew the codes that governed the immortals I had seen what projections they had for mankind. I thought of my husband, and my sons dead in foreign crusades, and I knew exactly what message I wanted to bring and what world I wanted to make.

#sf

[occupyscifi]

Red state and blue state It was while he was in the bathroom hate-jerking to president Laura bank’s morning address to the nation that American Patriot (formerly named Alex Smith) noticed something weird with his screen. It might have been his imagination, or it might have been the bottle of super power diet pills he’d downed as part of his morning regime – all the better to prepare him for his live cast to his loyal patriotic fellow Americans – but then again it might have been something more. ‘Goddamn Feds, interfering with my feed’ he muttered, one hand on his stars and stripes tattooed member and one hand groping for his Russian issue hacking glove. He’d had that dronexed from a guy who swore he was in deep with one of Putin’s favourite hacking gangs, and it was guaranteed to cut through anything the Feds were doing to his live feed of the president’s liberal ass tirade to the poor working American people. ‘….which is why we have to provide abortion clinics on the corner of every high street’ the president was saying, her sober business suit as always decorated with every goddamn lapel pin from Blue Lives don’t matter to SJW’s united against men but no room for the good old Stars and Stripes. “And remember that our daughters deserve better than…” and at that point the screen juddered again as if hit by old school static interference. But one important thing prevented Patriot from reaching for his encryption scrambler that enabled him to avoid the fakenews networks from making him pay for their fake news biased media sheep feed. For while the image of uber cuck bitch Banks flickered and strobed the background of the Rose garden stayed steady. Her cabinet of assholes, cowards and cucks also wavered – women vanishing and being replaced by older white men before changing back. And yet the security guys required to stop honest Americans from second amendmenting the President to death remained the same. “What is this bullshit?” Said Patriot, sensing conspiracy . After all conspiracy was his trade, there wasn’t a corner of the internet he hadn’t visited in his crusade for the truth. Never mind how many facts he’d been hit with, never mind how many people tried to convince him otherwise once he smelled truth he never gave up till he had the evidence to back up what his gut had been telling him all along. His heart beat faster as he shrugged on the hacker glove. Although his increased heart rate might have been more due to the pills, the bottle of which rested on the cabinet of his palatial bathroom. Its fittings and fixtures had been paid for by the subscriptions of honest Americans upset by the biased expert filled and fact laden un American media. Patriot tapped the glove on the screen that filled most of the bathroom mirror. The reflection of himself, toned muscle and tumescent member, vanished to be replaced by the boring ass stats behind the live feed he had been watching. Unlike a great number of his colleagues Patriot had actually been to college- where he studied computer science- and despite his dislike of experts was something of an expert when it came to deciphering the complex numbers behind the digital images he had been rage-sturbating to. “Okay, so what do we have here?” He muttered, tapping the screen. First he removed the usual subliminal ad routines that were meant to inculcate in him a desire for whatever brands had paid the president's people the highest. Most of them were brands that had sponsored his show, the pill makers and the financial services giants, brands he was happy to use himself. Then he broke the images down into their composite layers and narrowed his eyes. It was a live feed of the White House lawn, that much he could be sure of, and it was also definitely true that the President was there. Patriot raised an eyebrow, he had been hoping one of his favorite conspiracy theories – that Laura banks had died of AIDS before the beginning of her second term and been replaced by a CGI mockup – was true. That theory had got enough traction that her rival in the next election was already using it in his campaign ads. Then again Holden Reston would have used any evidence to try and score a knockout blow against the liberal witch. Not that the lame stream media would ever even give him the time of day. “So what the fuck am I missing?” Said Patriot, grabbing with his other hand a Wellness Super Ass nutrition shake to focus his mind. He popped the can and chugged the caffeinated goodness inside, feeling it fill him with the power of ancient Chinese wisdom and definitely certified brain power. With his gloved hand he tapped more at the screen. There was clearly someone interfering with the source, changing the audio of the address as well as some key visual features – swapping out entirely some figures from the background and making sure that Bank’s face matched her words ‘who the fuck is doing this?” He tapped more and frowned more “and why? Ain’t she liberal enough that someone has to change her words?” He looked closer at the screen, at a chunk of code that seemed to control the whole thing, enabling one of two outcomes. Currently it was stuck on the A signal. Patriot wondered what would happen if he flicked it to B. “Maybe get the goddamn truth for once” he muttered to himself, forgetting that he had always assumed that Banks’ divisive and dangerous liberal rhetoric was already inflammatory enough. With a gesture he flicked the settings onto B, praying that this really was a proper conspiracy and not just his TV fucking with him “here we go. Truth bomb time” “….which is why we have to give every high schooler in America access to the latest military grade firearms” Banks was suddenly saying, her accent having changed mid word from east coast liberal whine to red state cutesy drawl “because folks, the only way to stop a bad eighth grader with a gun is to give a good eighth grader a gun. I mean, c’mon. Giving em recess detentions ain’t gonna cut it, right?” “What the ever loving fuck?” Muttered Patriot, watching in horror as Banks then went on to explain why the US should leave the UN because it was a plot to make honest Americans into gay Muslims. When she began to explain why climate change had been invented by the communists Patriot almost had a joygasm. “Goddam liberal media…” he breathed, a mantra he repeated so often it had almost lost its truth. Well not this time. This time he’d caught them at their game. A game so vast it beggared belief. That they had been changing Bank’s message all the time. That she had been an honest god fearing American, fighting for the red white and blue while all the time the feminazis of Silicon Valley had been undermining her message “this… this is so fucking huge I can’t even…” He scrabbled around for a piece of un-networked media to record this on. Were he in his home studio room in the lower level of the bunker he shared with a hundred or so other survivalists he’d be surrounded by gear for secretly recording data beyond the reach of government goons intent on undermining his constitutional rights. However his bathroom was slightly less well appointed, and as he usually used the place to wash and jerk off in he didn’t like to keep cameras around, even if they weren’t linked online. “Shit, I’m losing it…” he muttered as the screen started to strobe again and the code stream on the right filled with ident numbers that Patriot recognized as being some heavy duty semi sentient subroutine starting to take an interest in what he was doing. The last thing he needed was the cyber Feds sending their digital goons after him. While the bunker – a former minuteman missile silo in rural Kansas- had enough digital protection to match its physical equivalent Patriot had no illusions that it could stand up to a full scale assault. The Fed’s were using the same next gen anti encryption software developed not in the fight against terrorism but the much more lucrative fight against movie piracy. You might fuck with Homeland Security and survive, but fuck with Hollywood and you were going down. Desperately he looked about him, trying to find something with some media storage, no matter how meager. In the networked digital age every household item up to and including the common toothbrush was not only linked wirelessly but contained enough memory to store a record of its users habits, ready to sell onto the highest bidder. However Patriot’s toothbrush was currently out of charge and there wasn’t much else that would be able to record what he needed. Desperately his eyes fell on the box of pills he’d been knocking back. The bottle was pretty much generic, but the smart label on the side had enough computing power to order him more pills every time he had finished the last one. “Shit, shit, shit” Patriot cried, seeing that the all seeing eye of the godless software was about to find out where he was based even through the heavy screens of VPN’s and TOR routers. His thick fingers scrabbled at the label, picking the edge to bring up the contact and slapping it to the screen. With his gloved hand he grabbed at the code, copying as much as possible onto the bottle before the Feds could come crashing through the window “cmon, c’mon” he muttered to himself as he tried to sync the smart label with the screen. As they did so he noticed two things. The first was that the label had changed from ‘PowerBro True American Eagle strength Wake me up to Freedom’ to ‘Earth Mother’s all natural high’ – decorated with a cheery lo fi smiley face and claiming to have been made by hippies in Portland. The second was that the interrupt code was already stored on the label. However before Patriot could make anything of this revelation the screen on his bathroom wall exploded, firing fragments of glass at his unprotected body and blasting him backwards into his bath. His apartment, being fully connected to the internet of things – albeit through enough encryption software to keep a Chinese dissident hidden from his government – then shut down totally plunging him into darkness. The only light coming into the bathroom was from the lounge, where a screen the size of a wall usually showed a live feed of stirring patriotic images from around the states and served as a good backdrop for his casts. Now it just hummed and shone in an unhealthy blue. “Blue screen of death” said Patriot, impressed despite his injuries “now I know that I’m onto some serious shit” “Your system’s fried” said Stetson Cole, fellow bunker survivalist and former Silicon Valley whizz kid that Patriot called in to the ruin of his apartment. He had been thorough in his assessment, and he was certain “and anything on it is fried” “You're sure?” Insisted Patriot “I got backups for my backups. I record everything, you know that” “And they all got fried” insisted the programmer, hitching up steampunk e-glasses and scratching his beard. He’d given up Silicon Valley for the lure of living in an underground bunker and only came to see Patriot because it had been Patriot who’d inspired him to become a survivalist in the first place “dunno what hit your system but it was the equivalent of a nuclear missile. Shit, even those old VHS tapes you got in the back there have been erased. I didn’t even know there was malware that could do that” he shook his head, impressed at the skill involved. “Fuck, I need evidence” said Patriot “if you’d seen…if you could have heard what Banks’ was saying…” “That bitch never said nothing that wasn’t a straight up lie from the mouth of Satan himself” said the programmer, his MIT educated voice sounding skeptical. “No, no she wasn’t like that” Patriot looked around the ruin of his bunker apartment. The curved wall ran along the inside edge where once a missile would have sat snugly, waiting for a chance to end the world that had never come. Patriot had decorated in lots of pinewood and hunting accessories in homage to American survivalist from ages past. The walls had been hung with prints of patriotic martyrs, from Bundy to Mcvee to Jared Kushner. However the explosions of the screens had torn these from the walls too. Patriot gritted his teeth, this was more than a patriotic man could bear. He had paused long enough only to put on a pair of Stars and Stripes undies before calling Stetson on his old ham radio “she sounded honest. Sounded American. Sounded like the kind of woman we should have running the country” “Well she don’t sound like that to me” said Stetson “Cause they interfering with what you've been streaming, Stet” insisted Patriot “they got us all fooled. Even me. Till now” “Gonna need more than your bathroom story I’m afraid, old friend” “Well there is one thing” said Patriot, pulling out the bottle of pills “Earth Mother’s natural High?” Said Cole “my wife takes those, gets them from some liberals pharmaceutical place” he looked at Patriot worriedly “didn’t have you down as the wellness type. It’s all juju berries and hippy crap. Thought you’d be a PowerBro man like me” “I am” said Patriot “and this was a powerbro bottle. Till I tried to interface it with my screen. Now its got all this crap on it” he picked at the side “but I kinda fried the circuit along with the rest of the house. Was hoping you might be able to get something from this” “No chance brother” said Stetson “whatever data was on it is long gone. It’s as fried as the rest” “no, no but that don’t matter” said Patriot “cause whatever code was fucking with my screens was on these pills too. So I guess if we just buy another bunch..” “I got some in my apartment” said Stetson “And I got my wife’s hippie crap if you wanna compare” “make it scientific, yeah” said Patriot, who had long railed against the scientific method as un American. However in moments like this it hardly mattered. There was a higher truth at stake. Cole's apartment was, if anything, even more stereotypically survivalist than Patriot’s. The only difference in the Deer Hunter aesthetic was the nerd shrine that was a requirement for anyone who’d made a buck in Silicon Valley. Ancient Apple II’s jostled with illegally made knockoffs of first generation Star Wars toys. There was also marked evidence of feminine inhabitation, which Patriot sniffed at. Letting a woman inhabit a man’s space was the first step towards being a cuck. Next thing you knew you are acting like an SJW and mailing your balls to the Feminazis. “in here” said Cole, featuring to a room filled floor to ceiling with stacks of computer hardware. Enough cabling to garrote a giant connected to more computing power than had put the Chinese on Mars. He sat and placed on a desk the bottles of PowerBro and Patriot’s slightly crisped bottle “should be able to crack this in no time” However two hours later they were no closer to getting the code, both Patriot and Stetson having taxed their expertise to the limit. Patriot was getting antsy. He had a show to tape and he wanted to be able to bring down the government before the evening. “why the fuck isn’t this working?” muttered Patriot in frustration “ can’t even find the code at all” “Hey, I mean look” said Stetson looking awkward “s'no shame to admit you had a fugue. You know we all get em. I trashed my screen after I took too much PowerBro and tried to complete Call of Booty on dead man mode. I was hallucinating them zombie Nazi strippers, y’know. We’re dudes. Sometimes we fuck up...” “Hey, what the fuck?” said Patriot, looking furious “the fuck makes you think I have breakdowns?” “Umm, cause on your show.. “ said Cole “what do you mean…” began Patriot, then thought again. He did act like he was on the edge of a breakdown, jumping around like a lunatic and spitting as he talked. But that was just the standard Alex Jones rant mode that every shock jock, right and left always used “shit, you know that’s all scripted, right? I don’t actually get so mad I tear my clothes. And I don’t wanna burst your bubble but when I start spitting blood, that ain’t real blood” “I just thought…” began Stetson, chastened somewhat “You know, it’s showbiz. Don’t mean I don’t mean all I say. Now we gotta crack this shit or else the bad guys gonna win. You wanna say that you let the traitors get away with it?” “no I don’t” said Stetson. Looking again at the bottles “Okay, there is one person I can call to help us. But I don’t think you’re going to like who it is” “listen, I don’t care what kinda asshole guy you get to do this. Just call him and get us our code” “We’ll that’s just it” said Stetson “isn’t a him. She’s a she” “Okay, I can deal with that. But she tries some SJW crap then I ain’t gonna hold back…” “nah, she won’t” said Stetson, then raising his voice “honey, could you come in here a moment? We got something we need a little help with” Stetson wife was just about acceptable to Patriot, her only flaw being that she was a hot woman who dressed in a casual way. Naturally Patriot knew women only wore makeup to attract and beguile men to do their bidding, but he felt Mrs Stetson Cole could have worn more. However she greeted him with a smile and a nod. “I watched your show” she said, her voice carefully neutral “it’s pretty… illuminating” she smiled politely. “Ella hate watches it” admitted Patriot “she gets real worked up over it” he looked sheepish, not least because when his wife got that angry the sex was out of this world. For that he could easily forgive the completely opposite views of politics. That and the fact they had been in love since they’d first met at a coding party in college. “well hell” said Patriot, who wasn’t surprised. He knew his demographic figures well enough to know that probably as many people watched him to get angry at him as did to get angry and with him. “one subscriber is as good as another. Keeps the wolf from the door and all that” Stetson explained the situation to Ella and handed her the bottle of pills, she turned them over in her hands. “You know these are the exact same pills, right?” She said “I mean the bottles sure look different but the pills inside are identical” “Bullshit” said Patriot “I been sponsored by powerbro pills long enough to know…” “Identical” insisted Ella “to the point where whenever Stetson runs out of powerbro I just sneak a couple of my bottles into his bathroom cabinet. Label changes automatically” “You’re shitting me” said Stetson “how their fuck does that work?” “That's…that's it. Must be it anyway” Said Patriot “cause, don’t you see? They got a code on there that changes what people see. I read about that” he tried to think which particular conspiracy site he’d seen that had told him. Then he remembered it had been in the Wall Street Journal, a magazine he’d never admit to reading because it was part of the MSM establishment and as close to Satan as you could get. However if you wanted to be a savvy entrepreneur it paid to keep up with things. He took the bottle in his hands “its like with the adverts you see. They aren’t just a bunch of random plugs for shit you don’t need. Every time you pass a smart screen or a smart fridge or whatever it picks up your personal metadata, all those tags you generate every time you buy something online…” “Which is why I ain’t bought on line since I was eleven years old” said Stetson proudly “there isn’t any data that big brother has on me” “Except they’ve got algorithms that can predict with a high degree of statistical accuracy what a man of your age, -occupation and ethnicity would buy” interrupted Ella, idly connecting the labels of the bottles to the nest of machinery. She looked up at Patriot, an annoyed expression on his face. There was a reason he did live casts without a live audience. He hated being interrupted “I did a girl’s guide to semi sentient software programmers” she shrugged “hey, its not all about man hating…” “Yeah, so what happens is that the makers of those bottles see whose looking at them. If its some hippie dippy liberal snowflake it goes all Paltrow. It’s a real honest American patriot then its turns to powerbro” “Sure, okay” said Stetson “but how does that help us show that the US president isn’t some liberal whiny bitch?” “Because clearly she isn’t like that when its some liberal asshole watching” said Patriot “its only red blooded Americans that have to stomach a woman whose feminazi agenda is ruining this country…” “Wait, what?” Said Ella “that doesn’t really make any sense. Why hide the fact of who she is to half the country? Why not just pretend to everyone who she really is?” “Because they wannna laugh at us” said Patriot, imagining his favorite hate image of the east coast liberal elite “in their fancy ass parties quoting The NY Times and talking about how anyone outside a city is a dumbshit redneck. They wanna lord it over us, laughing at us…” “…but what if liberals and conservatives have a conversation about politics? Wouldn’t they find out pretty quickly that Laura Banks isn’t a Liberal? What about…” “Come on darling, you know that don’t happen” said Stetson kindly “you know since the Twitter wars and the social media cleansing people don’t talk about politics face to face. It just ain’t done…” “Yeah, yeah I can see it clearly now” said Patriot, his eyes wide “and it’s just as I thought. A goddamn liberal conspiracy to keep good Americans down and pretend that our president is some godless liberal do gooder. I think it’s about time that the American people knew the truth” he looked at Ella whose eyebrows were raised so high they were in danger of disappearing into her hairline “can you get me that code? Can you show me how it can change what people see?” “Sure I can” said Ella “but I still don’t get how…” “You don’t need to honey” said Stetson patronisingly “cause Patriot’s gonna explain it to everyone, live at 5. That’s the kinda broadcast that could bring down the government” he started eagerly pottering around his apartment “I better get my best clothes ready. I wanna storm the state capital looking good, you know?” “You’ve done the American people a great service, little lady” said Patriot, as Ella wordlessly handed him an ancient looking non networked USB stick with the data on it “and I hope you’re going to be watching” “Wouldn’t miss it” said Ella, but Patriot was already heading out the door so he missed her sarcasm. It was a great show. Patriot hit all his best notes, he grovelled, he growled, he shouted and went so red he was in danger of bursting something. He told the American people everything he about the conspiracy to hide the fact that Laura Banks was really an honest red state American. He was somewhat surprised however when he left his home studio to find someone in his living room. His surprise only increased when he recognised who it was. “spokeswoman Tori” he said to the smiling face of the regime he despised. Every true American knew to hate Tori Al-Sperring. She had been the one to hector the media, to pour scorn on honourable news networlds like Foxbart and InfoDrudge. To have the audacity to demand evidence where gut feeling should have been enough. Patriot’s surprise though ended when he saw in her hand a slim pistol. Clearly her repudiation of the 2nd amendment ceased when it came to bumping off honest truthtellers like Patriot. He had guessed, and maybe even a little hoped, that this would happen. After the livecast his suddenly murdered body would only add weight to his words “what a surprise. We’ll I’m afraid you’re too late. The word is out. You leave me dead and it’ll only prove me right” “Two things” said Tori, her voice clipped and naturally bitchy “number one, if we wanted you dead we’d have killed you soon as you caught the code. Secondly the word may be out but the word is wrong. So wrong in fact you’re kinda doing us a favour” her smile widened “not for the first time, by the way” “so what’s the gun for?” asked Patriot, wiping sweat away from his forehead this was not caused by the stress of the situation, but from his livecast. He was a very active performer, what with the studio lights, the foaming at the mouth and screaming about how honest Americans were being genocided by liberal hate he was quite exhausted. “same reason anyone has a gun. To look cool. To make people listen” “Okay, so I’m listening” said Patriot, plonking himself down on an easy chair “what are you going to tell me?” “the truth” she said “a concept you may have heard of, but I don’t think you have much contact with” “and the truth is what? That you got the real Laura banks hidden away while we have to listen to the fake bullshit liberal one? Cause I ain’t stupid. I know how easy it is to cook up liberal shit. There’s meme generators on the internet more believable than the liberal crap she comes out with. I could do better. I’m amazed no one but me has noticed that it ain’t the real Laura banks” “Well this might disappoint you” said Tori, idly spinning her gun around her finger “but they’re both as false as the other. There isn’t a real Laura banks. You get a choice, either liberal Laura or conservative Laura. Take your pick” “Wait, what?” “It’s simple. You were half right. We do use algorithms to write her liberal speeches. But we do the same fir her conservative ones. Basic algorithms overlays all the broadcasts she makes, some of them are for a conservative audience, and others for a liberal one. It’s a trick as old as TelePrompter. And saves us a ton of work” “So what you're saying” growled Patriot “is that the Laura banks I been hating on is the one that liberal want to be watching? That I should have been getting gun tooting Laura all along?” “Oh no” said Tori “quite the opposite in fact. You get liberal laura because you’re conservative. If you were some latte sipping liberal on the East Coast you’d be getting wall to wall Mexican hating small government loving god fearing laura” “What's the fucking point of that?” Said Patriot, totally lost. He could get his head around the idea of. A virtual president, hell there’ been rumours of that since Trump’s second term. Some of old orange Julius’ insults had started going on repeat and there were plenty whispers that he’d had one Trump steak too many and died of a heart attack. His aides had just used some off the shelf adobe program to stitch bits of old speeches together and hope no one noticed. As for twitter there were enough random Trump tweet generators to keep the old man’s legacy going forever. But it was just the idea that whoever was secretly running the government was giving people a president they hated was just beyond him “you mean you make sure that everyone sees a president they fucking hate? Why?” “C’mon American” said Tonos “I’ve seen your show. You more than anyone know the power of hatred. You think if on your show you gave thoughtful deconstruction of liberal arguments that anyone would watch? You think if you didn’t pander to the lowest prejudice people would still subscribe?” “Well, yeah” said Patriot “but I give people what they want. They're already angry. I give ‘em something to be angry about. Don’t know why the fuck you make us watch something we hate” “Seriously?” Said toni “you mean to say you’ve never hate watched something? You’ve never deliberately tuned into a channels, viewed a live cast or seen a movie knowing it would make you angry and then just did it anyway?” “I might” he said, his eyes narrowing “And, hand on heart now, how many of your viewers do you think are what you would call ‘card carrying liberal ass wimps’?” “I got a few” he admitted “More than a few” said Tori “remember, I’m from the big bad people who run the Government. We know everything about you, including your show stats. Last time I checked you had more than seventy percent of your audience share coming from locations described as liberal, and from households where average data suggests a heavy voting average towards your hated liberal agenda” “Yeah, I don’t get how that means you make the President an asshole” “Because to be honest everyone wants the president to be an asshole” said Tori with a sigh “look, I represent a shadowy cabal of Silicon Valley billionaires and other dark money industrial barons. When we took over running the government it was the end of the second Trump term – and yes, you were right. We did replace the old bastard, but not because he died but because he couldn’t hack being president any more. Being a businessman he sold the office of President to the highest bidder. Luckily that happened to be us – and we outbid the Russians by a hair only. Anyway when we took over we thought the American people had had enough of hating on each other, they were exhausted by division. Defeated after fighting each other at every turn. They were sick of blue state and red state, republican and democrat. They wanted a uniter and not a divider and so we gave it to them” “What, you mean Buckwheat was your guy?” “Buckwheat wasn’t real” said Tonos “he was a bunch of code and an actor we’d mo capped to get the moves right. But more than that he represented what every focus group, left and right said they wanted. He was the middle bit of the venn diagram where even the most divided American could agree. He was pro second amendment but could talk round the gun lobby. He was anti abortion but he did more for women’s reproductive rights than any president. He was a church going Christian who was at home chatting with atheists. He was…” “The most boring goddamn president ever” interrupted Patriot “no fucker cared what he was doing. He didn’t have no opinions, he was always been the nice guy. Always talking when he should have been kicking ass…” “Yeah, that was what everyone seemed to think” said Tori “Buckwheat had the lowest approval ratings of any president since post 1929 Herbert Hoover. But no one knew why. You asked people on the street their opinion of him and they’d shrug, like yeah, he seemed like an all right guy, but no one gave a fuck. No one supported his policies, but then again no one really opposed them” “Hey, I’d have thought if you'd were running the government that’s exactly the kind of patsy you’d want. Don’t rock the boat. Cause apathy is the real enemy of democracy…” “Yeah, it isn’t” said Tonos “and you forget. We bought the presidency. The presidency is a brand and we need our guy front and centre of everything. If people don’t care about politics they don’t read the news. They don’t share click bait bullshit articles. They don’t argue online for hours. They don’t even buy stupid goddamn shirts and they certainty don’t contribute to election campaigns” Tori shook her head “no, Buckwheat was one of the most expensive goddamn mistakes we ever made. And so when his first term ended we knew we had to do it properly. Cause we’d realized, like you, that hate sells. But the problem was how do you launch a president that no one likes? I mean, sure, we didn’t have to worry about the votes because we just fixed whatever numbers we wanted. But how do we create a president that every American, no matter their creed, thinks is a fucking number one asshole?” “Pretty fucking easily” said Patriot, seeing now how it was done “you’d just have to get access to their news feeds and their social media history. Search for keywords that really pushed their buttons and you get an algorithm to do the rest” he shrugged “hell, I thought about doing the same thing for my show, but you know I’m a craftsman. People start to notice after a while if you get a computer to do your hating for you” “Naturally, and I respect that” said Tori “which is kinda why I’m here and not some black bag assassin ready to shoot you down” “Err, what?” Said Patriot, looking fearfully around “I don’t know if you’ve noticed but Banks is getting a bit repetitive. Hating on the same imaginary conservative fears that no actual liberal believes in. The same is true, if you’d ever watched, about conservative laura. The hate hits are dropping off, the number of people hate jerking to her has gone way down, to almost Buckwheat levels in some places. We need some new writers, because the computers are not enough. In short, we need someone like you to come and write content for our Banks” “and if I say no?” “like I said, I represent a shadowy cabal of silicon valley billionaires and industrial barons. How do we usually deal with our problems?” “I dunno, outsource them to India?” “Funny, but no” tori leaned closer “what will happen is that I shoot you in the face, here and now. Then some of our guys will come in and plug into your network. A CGI version of you will keep broadcasting, so that all your fans and haters think you are still alive. But because we’re cruel we’ll make sure that over time you become less and less believable until gradually all your audience will desert you. Then we’ll announce that you died, and in the most embarrassing way possible. It’ll probably involve cocks. I haven’t thought about it yet” she smiled as Patriot through about his options “on the other hand you can make an ass ton of money and we’ll even let you keep your show. The choice is yours”

#Sf #trumpian

[occupyscifi]

The astronaut lost in time

As soon as I awoke I knew something had gone wrong with my re-entry. NASA had many rooms in many hospitals but none had crumbling brick walls covered in a hundred years of soot and grime. Nor would NASA have left me in nothing but the torn rags of a spacesuit and wrapped in filthy sheets. Or in a room of cot like beds that stank of the sea and of mildew and the oddities of air conditioning that probably hadn’t been cleaned since the days of Christ.

I sat up alertly, there was always training on what happened if you landed in enemy territory. These days it was only North Korea that counted, and if you landed there your luck was against you anyway. However I doubted that even they would be strange enough to house me in what looked like a cross between a homeless hostel and a Rio prison.

There was no one around me, and that was a blessing because as soon as I looked from the one thin window – shaped like the arrow holes of medieval castles – I realised that my previous assessment was incorrect. By several degrees of magnitude. There wasn’t a word yet for how wrong things had gone, there wasn’t even a way to express it mathematical terms. To say it was totally fucked was not nearly strong enough.

The city I was looking over was one I didn’t recognise, and I don’t mean I was in a country foreign to me. I mean that the city itself was achingly familiar, one I had known intimately in my youth, but it was one changed totally it was impossible to describe. Tower blocks that might have been the one I had my first apartment in were nothing but concrete shells, still occupied but resembling nothing so much as shanty towns in the sky. Blue tarpaulins waved in the breeze on the ninth floor. Washing lines strung out between two concrete hulks that had been the headquarters of a major international bank. I saw children playing only inches from a hundred foot drop, saw them walk on age thinned beams where the floors had fallen through.

Underneath them the whole plan of the city had been worn away, as if it had been eroded by an ocean. Where once angular buildings had marched to the horizon in orderly dignity there just sat shapeless lumps in concrete and brick. Some had clearly suffered damage in wars unknown to me, and others had been cannibalised to build what looked like fortifications. I saw the white stone that had formed the Mayoral office and city hall- a wonderpiece of modern neo classical design- re used to make something that looked more like a bastardised medieval wall for the crumbling spires of the city’s famous College.

“why?” I muttered to myself “since when in the name of god does a College need a fucking defensive wall?”

“S’colussi man” came a voice snuffling from behind me “They’s gonna be attacking toot sweet. s’why we’re getting the fuck out”

I turned around sharply, ready to deal with the danger by using my Navy training. Most astros were civilian these days, but not me. Major Kurt Willis had done his time. Navy pilots still had a place in the modern civilian space program. However the person I was looking at looked less threatening than the average hobo. The person – their gender was impossible to discern – was as shapeless as the city and as beaten down. I had seen tramps in New York and Damascus, seen homeless people beaten and lost from the world. They looked like model citizens compared with this creature. A face that looked like it had only known hard fists and a body hidden under so many layers of clothing that a veritable history of cheap fashion stood before me.

“what?” I said “who’s the colussi? What’s happening here?”

“you forgot again” the tramp said sadly, fingering my rags “wish I had that. You spacemen. Got all the luck” a calculating look in the eye that suggested somewhere an intelligence dimmed by drink or drugs was trying to stage a comeback “then again, maybe not. Time and all that”

“what the hell are you talking about...” I began but I was interrupted by boom from outside.

“no time, man” said the tramp, and began to run towards the door. I turned and looked out the window again. Five seconds later I was running after the tramp.

I had glimpsed out the window the true nightmare of the world I had found myself in. As I turned I saw what had caused the boom, halfway up one of the concrete towers a cloud of dust and pulverised stone was raining down onto the streets below. Then I saw the source of the blast. On the streets far below a column of tanks, their camouflage green looking more like mould than something for battle. As I watched they crunched over the brick rubble, their turrets swivelling back and forth. I glimpsed enough to wonder at them, I am a keen observer of military equipment and though their make and model was more than familiar it left more questions than answers. Why use WWII tanks, and why did they look more like the plastic models a child might put together than the sort of thing a military force might use? However it was what I saw next that finally sent me running.

  Some years before my fateful launch I took a holiday in Rome with a sweetheart. We did the usual rounds of museums and ruins, and it was all very romantic. However a ruined empire seemed more like a sad sight of what humanity had lost than a chance to lick Gelato and walk along the Tiber. Nonetheless I remember seeing in the courtyard of the Capitoline museum the remains of a giant statue of the emperor Constantine. I remember being taken aback by the size of this sculpture- how huge must it have been when fully built? What great skill and ambition had belonged to those that had built it?

What I saw walking towards that line of tanks, hurling blocks of masonry like they were tennis balls was a living breathing version of that statue. In a blinding insight I knew what the colussi must have been. In another I realised what would happen to be in the crossfire between those tanks and that monster. So I fled to wherever the tramp was heading. To have survived in such a world so long must have imbued him or her with certain instincts about self preservation.

The room I had woken up in lead out onto a sky garden, cut up by walls into what might have once been bijou little chalets. Now they had the look more of a refugee camp, and I saw I wasn’t the only one fleeing. From the roof of the building I had a panorama of the city, of hills to the west and a winding river and the shining sea to the east. However my memories of the land around the city where a swirling chaos. I knew I had to escape, but to where? And how?

More immediate thoughts struck me. I joined the flow of men and women down echoing concrete stairs, disconcertingly these seemed as ancient as the brick in my room. The steps were worn down to the reinforcing steel which had been polished bright by the passage of many feet. I wondered how many centuries it might have taken and many feet must have passed to cause such erosion. I also wondered why it was ever needed at all. All of the apartment blocks in the city boasted elevators, then I noticed what lit the walls as we hurried down. What looked like electric lights were nothing of the sort. I thought at first they were lumps of some luminescent material, some invention I had missed that lit the darkness without needing power. Then I saw one of them move and I realised they were living creatures, thick and wormlike who crawled slowly across the walls and the ceiling, going about their own sickening progress. I saw as one child reached out almost absent mindedly and peeled one from the wall as he passed. It glowed in his hands and I thought he meant to use it as a torch till he bit off its head and chewed loudly.

“you wanna bit?” he asked, taking my look of horror for one of hunger. I quickly shook my head, thinking I might never be hungry again if this was the cuisine of my new home.

Eventually the stairs let out onto a narrow precinct of what had probably once been a ground level mall. Concrete pillars still advertised wares that were somewhat familiar to me but hinted at some future developments. What were these addons and why were the brand icons featuring emojis with extra hands or simply pictures of an engorged penis? Why were there biohazard symbols next to signs for a toyshop?

Alas there were to be no answers, for the original shops there were no signs, just endless milling people and stalls the like of which you would see on the streets of an undeveloped country. Stalls that were nothing but carts jury built from chunks of plastic lashed together with rope. Stalls that sold items that were nine tenths nonsense and one tenth remembered folk remedy. Tourist handbags jostled next to pharmaceutical goods and dismembered dried animals parts. However I had no time to watch, for I was as keen to get out of here than I was anything else. For not all the people in that underground precinct were civilians.

When you have been in the military of any country you get to recognise soldiers and groups of solders. It doesn’t matter their age, whether they have uniforms or whether they even have weapons. There is a certain stance, a certain way they look at the people around them, a wariness mixed with a pitilessness that suggests they are now outside the rules of the rest of the world and will act accordingly. I imagine it’s the way that slaughterhouse workers look at pigs when they arrive from the farm. It was not a look I wanted aimed at me, and it was certainly not a look I wanted from this group.

I had known, of course, that in many conflict child soldiers were common. That, along with mass rape, is one of the heartbreaking tragedies of most of the wars in human history. However I had not expected, in the heart of the city I had known since childhood, to encounter it. Then again all I had encountered since waking had filled my heart with dread and horror. The sight, though, of twelve and thirteen year old boys and girls moving through that crowd with the determination and single mindedness of soldiers just about broke me. Before I knew what I was doing I was moving towards them rather than away. A part of me wondered what exactly I was going to do, but I’d helped run Scout troops for kids this age. I’d helped them in survival training and I’d realised long since the essential difference that exists between adult and child and even more the essential difference that exists between soldier and civilian. Bad enough that a grown man could kill another, even worse that a child could do it.

“where are you all going?” I asked of the girl in front, her only uniform the hastily biro-ed on designs that covered her bare arms and the warpaint in rainbow shades running in a line across the bridge of her nose and her sharp cheekbones.

“we’re taking the city, boss” she said, her eyes pitiless but recognising in me something of the soldier I saw in her “Colussi Magnus is king in this town and the science fags at the college is gonna get one hell of a surprise”

“who?” I asked “look, I’m not from round here” I added “I’m new”

“you looks old to me” said the girl, regarding the filthy ruin of my clothes and I noticed that instead of boots on my feet there were just plastic wraps, like I was some medieval peasant in some ancient ballad “they got the city” she said “ent for long. Them whitecoats got all the tech. They can breed up a bunch of tanks but they can’t stop the colussi. Can’t stop them at all”

“they’ve got technology?” I asked, regarding the girl’s weapon of a plastic rifle. At first I had hoped it was just a prop but the bandolier of bullets around her waist was real enough. I remembered certain breakthroughs in 3D printing technology. The ease of making solid objects strong enough to fire a bullet. The fact that she had decorated the weapon with tiny glittery stickers of unicorns and rainbows made me even keener to get away from this hellhole.

“they got’s monsters” said the girl, nodding at one of her lieutenants as he ran to secure an exit “and horrors and the like. Magnus says they’re evil and so’s were gonna take em down” her face brightened “you can come, if you like. It’ll be rad fun”

“I’ll let you know” I said cagily “I have to run some errands first. Which way are you going?”

“underground” she said, pointing somewhere to the left “we’ll come up right underneath and give them a hella surprise” she grinned and I noticed that most of her teeth were black and rotted away.

“sounds lovely” I said, and hurried past them.

I figured, of course, that if there was anywhere that still might make sense, where the light of technology and not insanity might shine then it would be the City College. I had also figured that while many things might change the basic layout of the city might not, after all the city of london still had Roman roads with Roman names long after the Romans had gone. While I could only guess how long I had been away- I feared it had to be measured in the centuries- I thought at least the paths I had known that lead to the College might still exist.

Thus I thought if I could get out onto street level I could get my bearings and get towards the university before the band of child soldiers did. If there was anyone to stop me from the College then I could bargain the knowledge of the impending attack, and while I was not naive enough to think it might spare those poor girls and boys lives it might at least prevent some greater bloodshed. For it was obvious to me that whatever insanity had broken out that the last place of rationality and reason would be the college. There they could explain why it was I had woken up not in care of NASA but in this hellish third world version of my cherished home. They might even, and this was a stretch but a person needs hope more than anything, able to get me back to where I should be.

Thus as I burst from one exit onto a rubble choked street I had, not a positive feeling, but one at least of mission. I was lucky, therefore, to still be paying attention enough to realise that I had blundered into the middle of a firefight.

To my left, down the broad boulevard of what had been the older part of town, there were the armies of the colussi. I thanked god I saw not the monstrous commanding beast himself but instead the ragged armies of tramps and lost young things. On the right, coming around the corner of the sandstone edifice that had been a 1920’s department store but was now a melted looking mausoleum, were a line of tanks. I had arrived in the brief pause between their realisation of each others presence and the inevitability of a firefight. In that hushed moment I made my decision.

Seeing that on my side of the street there was nothing but empty buildings, pyramids of bricks and totem poles that had strung on them what I hoped were old shop dummies I knew I could not stay where I was. The College could be reached from the other side of the street, but if I lingered long then I would never make it. I started running just as the first shout went up from the child army. I had reached the dismembered stump of a poplar tree, one of an avenue that had once run down the middle of the street, when the first tank shell whistled down the street to turn a pack of child soldiers into a mass of burning meat.

After that battle was joined and I ran as if the hounds of hell were after me. I could see children that looked no more than ten set up a stand for a machine gun that fired gaily coloured tracer rounds that punched through the armour of the tanks like they were made of paper. One disturbing glance that I hoped was a hallucination was that the holes in the tank bled bright yellow gunk. However I had no time for a double take, knowing that either side would cheerfully butcher me without even giving a second glance. I was also focused in finding somewhere across the street where I could shelter.

 Luckily I noticed a miraculously undamaged storefront, the door invitingly open. I knew all these stores had back entrances for loading and unloading, and knew the tiny backstreets beyond would lead me straight to the college. I leapt over mounds of rubble, swerved to avoid the hail of tracer fire and ducked under a fallen concrete sculpture that seemed to bear a resemblance to some children’s cartoon character. As the road exploded behind me I reached gratefully for the shop entrance and there my luck ran out.

I remember when I was younger I visited a city facing bankruptcy, where all the jobs had gone oversees and all the shops left derelict. The city council, in one last show of defiance spent their budget on two things, the first was flowers so that the city would always be in bloom even if it were half abandoned, and the other was massive posters for the shop fronts. These posters were a fantasy of what the city council wished were there. There were pictures of chemists shopfronts and artesanal cheese shops, libraries and art galleries, bakeries and toyshops. Thus the city council decorated its abandoned shops with the imitation of life and could pretend their city was not dead, in much the same way as makeup can be added to a corpse to give the pretence of life – and with about the same sense of creepiness.

It was my misfortune to mistake one of these lifesize posters for a real shop, and its imitation door for a real one. My fingers scrabbled at a picture of a door that would never open, banging on plastic printed windows that would never break, let alone open. Behind me the street erupted into deadly war and I was left without even the hope of shelter.

It was at the moment I was expecting death that I reached salvation. Perhaps it was a memory from the distant pass or the final breath of a god that had clearly long abandoned his people but as the haze of smoke momentarily cleared I realised that from this angle I could see a gap in the wall of the shapeless bulk of the department store. Pausing only to glance once at the horrors of the battle I ran and dived through that gap, taking with me the noise of battle and the chatter of automatic weapons fire. Grovelling in the dirt and dark, the bright light of the day had left after images on my eyes that had left me momentarily blinded. However I assumed that whatever horrors might lurk for me here could be no worse than that left for me outside.

Soon my eyes got used to the gloom and I saw that where I lay had clearly gone through many transformations in the aeons since I had last come here, shopping with my mother when I was a child. What was left of the walls had been stripped back to the hard stone and onto them painted images of a crude, though arresting, quality. I was reminded of something close to cave art but more the medieval images of life and death, heaven and hell that were common in Mediterranean chapels. It was only the figures involved that I found alien, till I realised that most of them were characters from familiar film franchises, but now rendered in crude pigments. I could make out masked figures fighting with bright glowing red and blue swords. Saw others swooping and diving on broomsticks.

However many of these were faint, and had been coloured over by newer works. Those I did not need an introduction to, but still they filled me with horror. For I had hoped that the colussi might refer to a singular gargantuan monster that roamed the city I had once loved. But from the crudely scratched frieze upon the wall showed me many of them, figures that were superficially similar enough to place in the same pantheon but different even in their simplistic painting. I moved closer, crushing underfoot what I hoped were not bones, to look at them in greater detail. There at the head was the one figure I had seen, his name underneath rendered in letters that were alien to me but might have been the bastardised half remembered descendant of written English. But then again it might have just been gibberish.

The other figures alike looked Romanesque, their heads covered with bronzed helmets bigger than the average car. Eyes stared out emptily yet still retained a cruel contempt that I felt even in their drawn form, and at their feet tiny stick men and women ran back and forth. There was what looked like a temple built from a ruined apartment building and I didn’t need to understand the crude words to know what was going on. Human sacrifice is very hard to mistake for anything else.

I would have lingered longer to try and make sense of what little history I could glean from these barely literate walls but I could still hear fighting and the sound of impact rocked the building. I had to keep moving, for it would not be long before the child soldiers found this room and I could not be sure they wouldn’t take me for an enemy.

I made my way deeper into the gloom, reaching out by memory to where the elevators and the stairs had been. If I recalled correctly the department store had entrances and exits on all four sides, but like all department stores was a labyrinth at the best of times. Now, the centuries having not been kind and its residents even less so, I was not convinced of my navigation.

However I managed after several tries to get myself into the central atrium, one that in imitating certain Spanish houses was a single shaft that had led up to a glass ceiling four floors above. That glass ceiling had long gone, along with much of the fourth floor itself, but its purpose still was fulfilled. From here at least I could spy where I was and which way to go. Gingerly I climbed the mounds of rubbish and tried to work out which way was the exit. I would have remained there quite some time, had I not been hailed from above by a friendly, though not familiar voice.

 “ah!” the voice cried richly “its you!” I looked up to see a well fed face in a fur coat and Nike tracksuit calling me from the second floor. He held in his hand a glass of what might well have been champagne and was cheerfully waving “come on up, you’ll enjoy this”

I was about to cry something out in reply, but once I had got over my surprise the figure had already pulled back his pomaded head.

I was torn, for while it might have been prudent to carry on my way – all the better to get out of this hellhole – the thought that someone recognised me was not something I could ignore. Against my better instincts then I made my way up the battered staircase, one that had been clearly replaced several times since last I had trod on it. This time with simple planks of what looked like some kind of plastic material had been hammered in place. Carefully I walked up, neither trusting what I was walking in nor what I was about to walk into. Both were things that I feared would turn against me very soon, for there was nothing in this world that did not stink of either decay or madness.

However I reached the second floor intact and made my way towards the sound, not of fighting this time, but of cultivated voices chatting amicably away. I walked through a tall doorway into what might once have been some kind of executive dining area but like everything else in the city had suffered centuries of neglect and some rather obvious looting. However if the room itself had lost some of its grandeur the men and women standing within were determined to make up for it.

I believe they numbered around twenty or so, and while they were dressed outlandishly in clashing styles that seemed to show little regard for fashion or good taste they were clearly people of some degree of wealth. They also seemed to be engaged in the odd sport of watching the fighting below with the same degree of calm detachment had they been watching a game of baseball.

Cautiously I walked forward, knowing that just a stray tank round could bring down this whole room and wary of getting too close to the broad open space where once Art Deco windows had looked down over the broad boulevard.

“looks like the little buggers are getting the better of our science chums, eh?” said the man who had spoken to me before, he gestured over the balcony to the street below. I risked a brief look and saw that many of the tanks lay inert, none of them burning but all of them still bleeding disturbingly from multiple wounds. Several of the child soldiers had taken position behind them and were exchanging fire with other armoured vehicles further down the street. I couldn’t help but notice how the child soldiers were consuming the yellow puslike liquid that wept from the bulletholes in the tank like it was some exquisite candy “perhaps this really is the end, eh?”

I looked at the man next to me, who clearly regarded the fall of his city to the strange forces of the Colussi with a degree of cheerfulness.

“is that a good thing?” I asked, confused still by the company I was keeping.

“oh, I expect the Colussi will have all our throats slit” he said with a smile, running a finger across his own neck “probably hang our corpses from the College walls themselves”

“then maybe you should be evacuating” I said, looking fearfully about “or at least getting to the university. The place looks like a fortress”

“oh no, this is much more interesting” he said “besides, we live, we die, we live again”

“err, what?” I asked, not sure if he was serious about his religious ravings. Who knew what these people believed in? All I knew for sure was that he wasn’t coming back from execution “how does that work?”

“same as its always done my friend” beamed the man, explaining to me as if I was an idiot “have you forgotten again?”

“forgotten what?” I asked, remembering how the tramp had suggested the same. A nasty feeling was forming in the pit of my stomach.

“to be expected” he said loftily “you aren’t as young as you once were, but then again it’s not seemed to matter how many years have passed. People like you don’t really change very much”

“what do you mean, people like me?” I asked urgently, grabbing him by the furred lapels of his coat “what the fuck do you know about me that I don’t?”

“a lot, clearly” he said, then softened “look, we’ve known each other a while – well a while for me, probably not so long for you. we’ve got a lot in common”

I looked at him in his Nike trainers and fur coat, sipping champagne as the city around him died.

“I doubt that very much” I said “I’ve been here about five hours so far, and nothing has made any sense. I expected to be in mission control by now, but instead I’m in a  crazy fucking city with a bunch of crazy fucking people.  What possibly can we have in common?”

“we’ve both been around. Seen a lot” he said breezily “only you seem to keep forgetting. I suppose that’s an occupational hazard. Your mind is not what it once was”

“what do you mean?”

“age” said the man “it haunts all of us. Well not me. I get to a certain age, then pop my clogs. Just means I wake up in a slime filled vat in the basement of the University. I get a new body every few years. You, well. Let’s just say you’re old fashioned”

“how….how do you know me?” I asked, beginning in terror to see what he might be getting at, but the reality was too horrible to comprehend “how long have I been here?” “we go back” he said, ignoring my second question “way back to when this city was young. Well moderately young at least…”

He continued babbling but already my mind had opened up. I may have had no memory before waking up in that awful garret room but I have a good imagination. I was not newly arrived, my rags were testament enough to that. Had I in fact been here longer than simply today? And if so was I trapped in a loop of forgetting, living each day thinking I was freshly arrived when in fact I had been here for years. Going through the same futile motions again and again?

“I…I forgot?” I asked, looking out over the rubble and the fighting. The armoured cars had now retreated and the cheering children were running delightedly up and down the streets. Some of the older boys had crowbarred open the turret of a tank and were busy scooping out lumps of what looked suspiciously like lobster meat and throwing it cheerfully to the rest. On the margins the other denizens of the city had started to emerge now that the fighting had moved elsewhere. They all looked much the same as the tramp I had met upon waking. The same defeated aimlessness, the same geriatric agelessness. People lacking any purpose or agency, wary and easily startled. They reminded more of pigeons than of people, living on the edges of society. Doing nothing but making do “I must have been here for years” I looked down at my rags. My NASA clothing was hard wearing, I knew that much. It looked like it had been worn very hard, and for a long time.

“don’t be so hard on yourself old bean” said the man next to me, whose name had still not returned to my mind despite his obvious familiarity “like I say, you have your fugues and your little memory blackouts. Takes its toll, but every time you wake up and you try your hardest. Can’t blame a person for that, can we?”

Despite my misery I recognised that at least, the same old fight and fire that had got me into the Navy and then into NASA. The strength of character that even today had prevented me lapsing into denial or insanity. Perhaps it didn’t alter anything that I had always been here, perhaps I could still make some kind of difference.

“the university” I said urgently, turning to my friend “I have to get there. I have to warn them, perhaps together we can still do something”

“ah, still trying then” said my friend, knocking back his drink and briefly baring his teeth against whatever concoction he had in there “good luck to you. we’ll probably see you there, that is the basement isn’t breached and the Colussi decide to torch the whole place” he looked slightly more cheerful at this, as if the end to his cycle of lives might be something worth wishing for.

“I think if anyone has the answer, they do” I said urgently. Thinking that if I had any purpose in this life it was to get to the university and persuade them…well persuade them of something. I was sure I would remember that on the way. However it only took one glance at the street below to tell me I needed to be on my way. The children were capering and running about now they had won their battle, and I knew in my guts it was only a matter of time before the Colussi appeared. That was something I did not think I would ever be ready for.

“this is goodbye then” I said to the strange man who had called me friend.

“no” he said gently as I shook his hand “It really isn’t. but good luck, eh?”

I didn’t have time for any further questions, preferring to make my way back down the stairs to make my way to the back streets. As I did so I could not help but marvel at my own strength of character. How many of the people I had known back home could have dealt so well with being thrown far into the future? How many of them would not have been driven made straight away by the insanity of the world they would find here? No, it did not matter whether I could remember the past or not. What mattered were my actions now, how I behaved whilst I had the chance.

 I almost made it to the university without incident, and yet I believe if I had I would be the poorer for it. For I have always been an atheist, an opinion not dented by my orbiting the jewel of our mother earth, and I never thought I would see a god. Then again as my atheism always contained in it a rejection not just of the existence of god but at the injustice that should god exist that cruelty and horror was allowed to continue. I had often told people that if god did exist, he would have to be the worst kind of asshole imaginable.

Thus, when we unwittingly ran into the colussi, I had my chance to meet a god, and it confirmed my belief that these truly were the worst kind of assholes imaginable.

After the department store I ran through winding streets I almost recognised. There was a canal that I didn’t remember that gave the city a nice festive feel, despite the bodies in the water. Perhaps the festive feel also came from the people who despite looking like disaster victims were intent on having a good time. It may have been racial memory from the days when the city had been a major tourist spot and couples from across the globe would come to walk arm in along its wide boulevards and its enchanting bars. Or maybe it was because with the advent of the colussi each and every person was in fear of death and thus wanted to spend their last hours in alcoholic oblivion.

I ran past bars that were little more than canvases stretched over ruined buildings, along streets thronged with people blackout drunk and wearing not a stitch of clothes. I passed loudspeakers throbbing with music I swear no human being could ever have composed and saw human beings feasting on foods that made me never want to eat again.

All in all it was the very definition of culture shock, and yet I could not shake the familiarity of it. I had to reluctantly agree that man I had met  must have been right, that my memory had flaked out on me and that I had been here a long time. Hardly a surprise that the human mind would rather erase itself than face the shock of what humanity had turned into. I just tried not to think how long it had been, was there an old man face that would peak out at me if I saw a mirror? Was I some toothless old bird who thought he was still a young man? Luckily I did not find out, instead I was too intent on getting to the university.

As I turned away from the crowds and went down a series of tall streets where the only buildings were high tenements I sighed in relief. At least this area was empty. At least here the sound of desperate partying and even more desperate fornication was obscured by the four and five story buildings. I didn’t think that  the reasons for this silence might not be benign, nor that the houses themselves, tattooed head to foot in endless screeds of illegible text, might have some ill will in them.

“mighty strange” I muttered to myself. I could just about make out some of the words on the buildings, it was as if some long insane person had tried to write out an internal monologue consisting mostly of the phrases used in long gone adverts. Strings of superlative adjectives were written crazily on the facade of a brownstone building, rendered in thick white paint. Elsewhere brand symbols were crudely inverted as if created by some aboriginal being who had dreamed them on some kind of spirit quest “mighty, mighty strange”

My reverie, however, was interrupted by something else.

I had assumed the child army would have had little or no training, and that whoever commanded them would have used them as cannon fodder for the enemy guns. I assumed too that children lacked the discipline for any in depth manoeuvres. When the rubble around me erupted with ten or twelve well armed teenagers I was both surprised and a little bit impressed.

“don’t shoot!” I cried, hopeful that they might be keener to follow orders that engage in wonton destruction. To my relief they spared me, thought I realise it was more because I was no threat than anything else.

One boy, the odour of command wafting from him,  strode over to me with all the arrogance a twelve year old could muster and squinted up at my face “oh, its you” he said, then walked on to where a body lay on the floor. What I had thought was a dead human in a dogmask turned out on closer inspection to be some hideous dog human hybrid

“that’s dinner then” he said with obvious joy. With a single vicious movement he pulled from his belt a knife and went about dismembering the creature, passing chunks of flesh to a girl no more than nine years old whose angelic face was spoiled by the blood she kept lapping from the dead beast.

“what do you mean?” I said, going over to the boy. The rest of his soldiers, boys and girls alike, seemed to have no more interest in me and were instead scanning the lines of sight and arranging positions to take as they pressed forward.

“he wants to see you” said the boy in charge, not looking at me as he hacked away at the beast

“who?” I asked  “why?”

“who do you think?” said the boy in an exasperated voice, as if he were the adult and me the child. He gestured behind him with the gore caked knife “him”

I turned around just in time to see the Colussi Magnus step out from around a corner and into the street.

 I had thought myself prepared after a day of horrors for one more, but I was not. I had thought having spied the colussi from the building I had awoken in might take the edge off my shock, but it did not. Coming face to face with a thirty foot tall bronze god in its full armour and regalia cannot be overstated. Those empty eyes. Those long cruel fingers. Those massive sandalled feet that could crush all before it and not care one bit. I looked up at the colussi and I knew instantly why the armies of children had flocked to his banner. I knew as intimately as I knew myself that whilst this figure might be cast in the likeness of a man it was no more a man than a crude stick figure is. And yet I knew that it was not that this was the imitation of a man, rendered in giant form.  Rather it was the perfect form of us, and we had been made as an imperfect copy of the Colussi. I knew I was looking at a god, and I could not tell apart my awe from my horror, my desire to run away from my desire to run and kiss his feet.

The colussi looked at me, his empty eyes going right through me. I could feel him read my life  from my dirtiest secrets to my most shameful lie to the most banal details of my life. I could see him hoover up everything I was and everything I would be and everything I would never be. The thought that I could conceal anything from him, let alone try to fight him, was so absurd to be laughable. That he was even taking an interest in my continued existence was the most remarkable thing about me. Far more than ever going up into space my most thrilling moment was the one where it seemed he actually spared more than two seconds of his precious time to regard me. Tiny, unimportant me.

“no” he said, a voice that moved around my head and came not from his lips – for they were cast of bronze and utterly immobile “no, this is not who I want” for a nanosecond I felt something that on a lesser being be called confusion, or even such a thing as a mistake “not that at all” he added, and with that the laser of his attention turned away and I could breathe again.

“umm, what?” I said, confused and turning to the boy who still whistling as he skinned the poor dead beast. I had the strangest feeling I had been weighed up, judged and found wanting. I just wish I knew why.

“he told you” said the boy, still not turning around “he ‘ent interested. Bad luck for you I guess. Or maybe good luck. Could be either”

I looked back at the god as it stood in the street, its gaze level with the rooftops as it stared out over the city it had set to conquer. Then it turned its gaze back on me, a gaze that had within it all the malevolence a god could summon. When I had merely piqued his interest the attention of the god had been arresting enough, now I had aroused his anger I was stunned into submission. Even the boy next to me could feel it.

“nope, guess its bad luck then. Hope you had a happy life boss, cos now its over”

with that the colussi strode ten feet towards me, its giant hands ready to end my life in less than the amount of time it would take to cross the street. I felt my knees buckle, my ability to resist shattered before it had even begun. I had accepted death before that beast had even reached me to deal it out.

That was when the other colussi appeared.

 To see one god in a day was an awe inspiring experience, to see two was to inspire pant shitting terror. The thought that they might be allies whirled from my mind, for creatures like these there was no other god but them. For while they might unite against the scientists and the whitecoats of popular imagination there was no love lost between them. If you have ever seen two cats war over territory or status then you can imagine this, though instead of felines imagine Bronze monstrosities the size of buildings.

“damn it” said the boy with a sigh, grabbing his weapon and leaping forwards. At the unspoken command of the colossi the children ran towards the newly appeared god. I noticed that he likewise had an army of minors- grubby and undernourished  but fanatically loyal. A young girl with flowers in her hair pulled  up a machine gun and brought down the boy running at her with a hail of fire.

I glanced up at the colossi- both of them staring at each other with such malevolence  it seemed to burn in the air between them. What history of animosity was there between them? What ancient feuds were they now taking out via their child army proxies?

I for one had no desire to find out, and discovering that the attention of the colossi was not upon me decided that it was better to die trying to escape than whatever tortures the colossi might have in store for me.

So I ran, while behind me children who should have been in school cheerfully murdered each other on the whim of two monstrous gods. I ducked down an alleyway that I knew with hallucinatory clarity lead towards the College, and more importantly to a metro station.

I had no illusion, of course, that the metro would be running. No doubt the people who lived down there had evolved into molelike race with dread eldritch rituals. However the metro conveniently had an subway route whereby tender undergraduates might enter the college directly from the metro when the cold of winter was at its worst. This would mean I did not need to scale the large walls that now protected the college, and having seen already what weapons the college possessed I was in no hurry to try and talk my way around them. If I had to talk to the so called scientists it had best be not from the wrong end of a gun.

So with the rattle of machine gun fire and cries of pre teen death I hastened down the ally, seeing my salvation in the broken down remains of the metro station. I just had to pray that there had been no cave ins, or no insane cult had named the station a temple that must remain inviolate.

My luck held. I hammered down worn concrete steps and into the familiar scent of the metro, an aroma overlaid with the all too familiar stink of human beings and burning animal fat. The lights had of course long gone but there were more of those supposedly edible glow worms. By memory I trotted through long rotten halls where a few tramps and lost nomads clung to each other. I wondered why they had not sought shelter in the grounds of the university but as soon as I rounded the corner that should have lead straight into the college I realised why.

Perhaps it had been built recently, or perhaps in some long ago year. It did not matter which but the entrance to my salvation was bricked up and blackened from cooking fires. Desperately I looked for signs of wear and tear or else some weakness in the wall, but alas I could see there was none. It was all I could do not to weep with frustration and give up. Become another lost tramp haunting these tunnels till the colossi came to kill me – I was even dressed for it, my rags perhaps the result of the last time I had given up on the world.

But that thought seemed to galvanise me. It did not matter how many times I had tried this before, what mattered was that I kept going. Images of Knights errant on quests that might cost them their lives, their memories, their sanity went through me. I recalled my navy training, my failures that at the time I felt were the end of the world, but were not. Each time I had been knocked down I had got up again and fought back harder, till I was a part of the space programme. When I qualified for…well I could not remember that part, but suffice to say my presence in this place outside of time must have come about through some mission or other that only I had been qualified for. And my survival through god knew how many years was testament to my grit and determination. I certainly wasn’t going to let some fucking brick wall defeat me.

So I looked around me, engaging the critical and logical faculties that my fellow human beings seem to have long lost. There were more ways, I knew, into the college than just this one. The very tunnels of the metro ran under the college, and the college had a myriad of basements and underground labs. Surely it would not be too much of a stretch to suppose they might meet? And although a part of me thought that these would certainly be bricked up as well I knew better than to suppose that in these end days people were quite so thorough.

So I turned on my heels and sped towards the escalators that lead to the platform. These had long rusted away, leaving only the stone rails like a ski slope into the darkness. I wrinkled my nose, clearly the platforms were not the nest of some blasphemous  cult, but rather the place the local residents used to go for a shit.

Undeterred I prepared to go into the stygian depths, looking about me for essential supplies. These were of course the glow worm creatures that lit the metro station itself. Why they did not go deeper I did not want to imagine. Instead I grabbed first a bundle of stinking rags from the floor, tying up the corners to make a makeshift bag. This I then filled with as many of the creatures as I could pry from the walls and taking one in my hand I stepped fearfully into the noisome mess.

I need not describe the mute horror of my descent, suffice to say that I grew filthy and would have lost my lunch had I even recalled when I last ate. Soon though I was on the platform level, my glow worms lighting the way ahead.

Down this far there seemed little enough damage and wandering along the northern platform it seemed that not much except the passage of time had altered this place. But for the dust and the spread of mould it was not unlike the stop where I remember spending time when I dated a girl at the college. However back then I would not have dropped gently from the edge of the platform and walked into the tunnel. Naturally I kept my distance from the third rail, though I was convinced it must be as dead as the rest of the electricity in this place. That and a lingering fear of the northbound train hurtling through the tunnel were reassuring memories of a lost time.

The tunnel itself was almost featureless, and I scanned it for signs of service hatches or fire escape routes. I had almost given up hope when eventually I spied a fairly ordinary looking door that promised access to the world above. Supposing that I was long past the walls that protected the college and anxious to escape the subterranean world before my glow worms expired I hastened to the door. The only barrier between me and freedom the once firm lock of the door.

However time ruins everything, and steel is no exception to that. It was the work of a few moments with an old lump of concrete to smash the lock to pieces and pull open the warped door. There before me lay steps and, wonder of wonders, electric lights.

I had expected to be lead up to some outbuilding of the college or else onto the lawns of the grounds. In my memory the lawns and the gardens had been prodigious, and although I supposed buildings must have erected in the centuries since I had left I was sure they would not have blocked the exit to the surface. I was somewhat surprised then to find that the rungs of the ladder let me out in another service corridor. This I followed warily, though the electric light comforted me somewhat. Nonetheless I felt a great sense of foreboding, the humming machinery  and cabling growing thicker as I walked. Not least because the lighting itself quickly grew dim, turning into red light that made everything look like the inside of an intestine.

Not knowing the layout I followed my instincts, hoping I would not be some twist of fate find myself inside the walls of the university. Yet I could feel I was below the college, the corridors branching off leading to sub basements that were clearly in use. What their use was I encountered rather abruptly when I stumbled through an open door and into a large chamber.

It must have been built as a storage room for one of the science labs, perhaps for dangerous chemicals or for equipment. However in its centuries  of use it had clearly become home to something else. Something that become clear as my eyes got used to the gloom and made me tremble in terror.

A face. Looking back at me. Eyes wide and sightless. Falling back I hit against cold glass, turning I saw another body, its face wide. It was only as I saw this creature had floating hair I realised that these were tanks, filled with some unknown liquid and these horrifying specimen. As I calmed myself I saw that these tanks were stacked up to the ceiling and each of them had within them a person. I would hesitate to call them human, for while they were certainly humanoid they were more like the creatures I had seen romping around the city or at the banquet with my old nameless friend. Some had long pointed ears, others whose nude bodies revealed nipples like cats and  hands that ended in claws. Others seemed normal except for elongated skulls or extra fingers.

‘mutants?” I whispered, wondering if like the collectors of times past they were bodies of mutated people kept for study by the university. It was only as I looked closer that the tanks I realised I was wrong, very wrong.

Firstly with some horror I realised that these were not dead beings. A pad on the side of each square tank had a monitor showing a heart rate and other vital signs. The second realisation was that these were not natural mutations caused by radioactive fallout or generations of inbreeding. Instead they were clearly man made, and made by the college itself. For under each pad there was a copyright notice, insisting that each of these poor creatures DNA was the sole property of the city college and could not be reproduced without permission. The monogram of the college, unchanged since my time, had been embossed onto the chest of each of them.

“good god” I muttered to myself. But I had no time to be messing around looking at horror. I needed to get to the heart of this place. But how? I was in unfamiliar territory, and while I had a hazy memory of the refectory of the college and its various bars that would not help me now.

“or do I?” I murmured to myself. Seeing these half breeds in their tanks had stirred something in me, and it combined with the man I had met on the balcony’s words not least my friends about how he had been reawakened many times in this place. A distant amnesiac bell began to ring.

Quickly I groped around for the exit. Felt the familiarity of a door handle. The corridor beyond I thought I had been through before, even if just once. Following now I felt memory. A dull throb of fear. Sparkling confusion. I had been here before. I had run through these corridors. What direction I do not know but I felt the rooms fall into my memory neatly. I had been here, and not in my other life. In this one.

Anxious and fearing that this sudden memory was just a break in the clouds, and that I would soon be plunged back into the enveloping fog of amnesia, I rushed on. Past labs where eldritch experiments were being conducted, for which I had no time. Time. That was the thing. Time.

“how could I have been here before?” I said to myself, not caring as I passed white coated men and women who regarded me curiously. Curiously for sure, but not with fear or animosity. As if they already knew me somehow “when was I here? What time….?”

That was when I realised it, the chunk of memory still refusing to unfog but the logic inescapable. It was confirmed for me when I rounded a corner and saw the entrance to a massive chamber filled with ancient machinery. Machinery that I knew from instinct could only have one purpose.

“time!” I breathed to myself as I looked under an archway into the chamber that I realised had been my destination all along “it must be! How else could I remember this place?”

And with this realisation came another, that if I had done this once I could do it again.  I could  undo what had happened,  to save the city and myself from eternal torment.

The chamber housing the time travel gate was filled with milling academics who fussed over the chaos of machinery. However the description of academic does not do justice to the men and women who laboured to get their equipment in working order before the Colussi finally breached the walls. The men looked more like grizzled warriors than professors, their faces bearded and covered in scars. Similarly the women amongst them looked fierce with bird sharp faces and I found myself facing down a forest of small arms as I entered the chamber.

“wait!” I cried,  out of breath from my journey “for the love of god, wait”

“oh” said one of the academics, looking up from the wall of equipment that powered the gate. In that stack I could see technologies from my own time jostling against biotechnology I could not recognise. At the same time there was  machinery I would swear belonged more to the middle ages or even the stone age than a laboratory that had breached the walls of time itself. I also swear that I saw more than one disembodied head, mouth open in a silent scream, who were wired into the machinery. However I had no time for observation and even less for moral judgements “its you” said the academic, then to the others “don’t worry, its harmless”

“look, you have to take me back with you” I said, limping into the room as the academics holstered their weapons and went back to work they considered far more important than me “I can make things better, I can enforce change, I….”

“you?” said the academic, fixing me with a stare that could perhaps have met that of the colussi themselves “you are nothing. You are less than nothing, you are a mistake that should have long since been corrected by fire....”

“Hey” I yelled back “I’m probably the last sane person in this fucking city and I’m your best chance to avert this disaster” I glared about the room, furious that I should be so easily dismissed. I who had been in NASA, who had travelled though time and survived in this madness  “I need to go back to my time. I’m the only one with the knowledge and the contacts. I can get NASA to listen to me, the US government will….”

“I’m sorry” said the academic fixing with weary bloodshot eyes  “you are what now?” he shook his head “if there is anyone sane in this city it certainly isn’t you. Now get the fuck out before I regret my decision to let you live and have you fed to the machine”

“never” I cried, my finger in his face “I’ve got a right to….”

“you’ve got a right to nothing” said the academic “you are nothing”

“I am major Willis of the US Navy” I said, certain of myself now “A NASA astronaut and a time traveller. I demand you send me  back”

The academic looked at me, his face creased in surprise and for a moment I thought he would relent. That my words would have some impact on him. I was right, in a way, but the impact I was looking for was not the gales of laughter that came from him and the other academic around him.

“oh Jesus fucking Christ” said the academic, his tired eyes almost weeping with laughter “still?”

I opened my mouth to reply but was too confused. My memory was still full of holes but my logic felt flawless.

“how many times do we have to go through this?” he began

“look, I’ve worked it out” I gestured at the machinery “I came through this once before, that was how I got here. Decades ago, it must have been. The time travel itself may have scrambled my memory, and I am sure I have frequent fugues but I think I am in control now…”

“must fucking what?” said the academic “ oh come on, take a look at yourself” with that he left his machine and grabbed me about my shoulders. His bearlike grip manhandled me across the chamber to where a mirrored cube stood some ten feet high “take a good look at yourself and tell me what the fuck you are”

I thought at first it was a joke. That the surface of the cube was not mirrored but a glass containing something hideous. Then the perspective clicked and it all came into focus. I wasn’t Major Willis of the US Navy. I wasn’t a fierce warrior or rational man. I wasn’t even a man at all. The person looking back at me was haggard, snaggle toothed and ill favoured. It was also definitely female but judging by the ears I wasn’t entirely sure I qualified as human.

“what….what am I?” I stuttered, my memory flickering as my voice wavered, its cadence I realised much higher than I had realised, the sound  cracked and broken as if I had been living on the streets all my life.

“A fucking mistake” hissed the academic “we made you. In the tanks under the academy. We made you by mistake and you started thinking you were some guy from the dawn of the chaotic age. You aren’t him. I don’t think he was even real, and we certainly aren’t taking him with us to infect the past with the insanity of the present” he growled and pushed me into the corner of the room where I sprawled foolishly “we’ve got one chance to get this right. Once chance to prevent the Colussi from ever being created. To stop all this shit happening” he gestured to one of the armed men “get her the fuck out of here”

However before the soldier could grab me an explosion rocked the lab, ancient instrument falling to the floor and a severed head breaking free of its moorings to quickly asphyxiate on the floor.

“what the hell was that?” cried one of the scientists as he tapped away at a screen. Behind him something like a medieval orrery began to turn “colossi?”

“can’t be” said another, her eyes looking at another screen, bisected by lines showing the view from cameras across the campus “perimeter walls have not been breached”

There was a scream and the sound of gunfire from outside the lab.

“how….how the fuck did they get in Renard?” yelled the female scientist as the armed men rushed out to the corridor beyond.

“they must have….” Began Renard, clearly the burly scientist who had assaulted me, then whipped around to fix me with a murderous gaze “how the fuck did you get in here?”

“I…I found a way” I said defiantly “I’m a navy trained…”

“oh, stop that shit” he said, stomping over to me. In the background the sound of fighting got louder. Now I could hear the shouts of children, gleeful cries as they ran amok in the basements of the College “you didn’t…” he glared at me, looking at the fresh filth that caked my clothes, at the glow worm bag cast beside me “oh you fucking did, didn’t you?” “look, I wasn’t followed. I’d have known…” I began, gasping in pain as he grabbed me by the hair, pulling my head back and staring hard into my eyes.

“you spoke to one. Didn’t you? Which one?”

“I…I…”

“Magnus. Must have been Magnus” Renard strode over to a machine and checked the readings. All around him the other scientists were desperately starting up the machine, flicking switches and stroking bio-machine hybrid creatures. The academic whirled around, a revolver in his hand and pointing at my face. I could see his finger already on the trigger “we can’t have him coming here. Can’t have him….”

However before he could end my miserable existence there was an explosion, knocking Renard off his feet.

“No!” he roared as the first children ran into the room. He took down two with quick shots, blowing out the brains of a boy barely ten years old. However behind the boy  there were a hundred more and with them came the power of the colossi. It was only a matter of time before those bronze  monsters strode into this room, and with them the end of any hope for the human race. Renard realised that and instead began wildly firing at the machines that would have punched a hole in time “destroy it. Blow the fucking thing to pieces…” “but Ren…” began one of the other scientists, but the academic pushed him out of the way.

“we can’t let that monster in here. Can’t let it use the machine. We have to…” But the gods clearly were not smiling on him, before before he could break his creation a limber thirteen year old girl  rushed into the room. With startling speed she leapt onto his back, plunging a knife into his spine. He roared once, flinging the girl against the mirrored cube and putting a bullet in her. But he staggered and fell, the knife wound in his back coursing with blood.

 Now the lab was a symphony of chaos. The few scientists left were bravely putting up a fight but they were outnumbered and desperate, vacillating between trying to disable the machine and stop the army of children. It was a bitter irony that at the moment they had wanted it least the machine finally came to life.

With a burst of colour that the human race has no name for a circle appeared in the middle of the complex orrery that had been spinning and was now crossing into some place out of time.

“stop them…” cried the last scientist, falling under the knives of smiling urchins who butchered her as cheerfully as opening presents on Christmas morning.

For my part I sat huddled in paralysis. I had thought myself one thing and was now revealed to be quite another. I had thought myself a hero, a man of the past who brought with him rationality and survival. Instead I was just some mad old woman with some stupid fantasy, who had unwittingly doomed the entire human race. That I had brought about the very doom I was seeking to prevent hit me with such bitter irony I welcomed the blades that were sure to slit my throat.

“nah, you’re all right gran” said one girl as I prepared to see my maker “colussi’ll thank you for this one. Give you some lovely new memories. Make your right as rain”

“no….no I don’t want…” I began, feeling weak and old and stupid. Flashes of memory now from behind this evil day. That the man on the balcony had been right, we had know each other. He’d known well the mad hag that capered and acted like she was a NASA astronaut. How I’d performed for them, believing I was this great olden times hero but in fact was little more than the fantasy of some mad mongrel creature bred in the labs under the University. Best the children put me out of my misery, I thought, spying the fallen guns of the scientists who’d died because of me. If I could grab one I could end this charade of life.

But then I had a better idea, looking at the curling vortex of energy. I knew that the scientists had aimed their machine at the past, but did not know when. However any fool could tell that any time was better than now. If I could go back far enough I could even prevent this horror from ever happening. Or at least I could die trying.

With that thought in my mind I scrabbled for a gun, grabbing one and firing it madly. Not into the children, for I could not take a child’s life, not for any reason. But instead I wanted simply to see them dash for cover. At the same time I ran for the pulsing light. Some instinct told me that it was the head in its jar that was the essential ingredient to this machine and as I passed I trained my gun upon it. As I passed into the blinding light I fired five quick shots into it. I felt the machine waver, begin to break down and the spinning orrery  began to lose power. Gathering the last of my nerve I dived through the machine, giving myself to death or glory, not caring which it might be.

Lights danced through my skull. I saw the world reverse. A montage of bullets leaving bodies and smoke retreating back to fires. There was a tremor, an error as something broke down. Then everything exploded into light.

 As soon as I awoke I knew something had gone wrong with my re-entry. NASA had many rooms in many hospitals but none had crumbling brick walls that looked covered in a thousand years of soot and grime. Nor would NASA have left me in nothing but the torn rags of a spacesuit in filthy sheets in a room of cot like beds that stank of the sea and of mildew and the oddities of air conditioning that probably hadn’t been cleaned since the days of Christ.

#timetravel #sf

[occupyscifi]

The Partisan Generation

This generation

It was the morning that his daughter airily declared the moon landing a fake news Jewish plot to let liberal scientists run the government that Lenton Ayre realised things had gone a bit far with this generation.

“and, you know its because gun control libtards in the Hollywood elite that we lost the Iraq war” she added, gazing into her eglasses at the endless stream of retweets, status updates and weather pattern like emojis swept over her “because, you know. There were WMD’s  - that’s the truth. Only the cultural Marxists wanna cover it up. There’s like a whole thread on ReddChan about it and all the instagram influencers are saying…”

“honey, I just asked what you were gonna be studying in school today” he replied, cutting her off before she could do the whole ten minute screed on the snowflake liberals that then could segway into a whole monolog that took in every conspiracy theory from JFK to flat earth. Instead he would rather talk about their real education. As someone who was assiduous in his working habits and concerned for his children’s future he had of course taken them out of the local state school and put them into the Musk-Bezos academy that had opened in a refurbished mall just out of town. This was less a matter really of intellectual choice, more that since his own employer was a subsidiary of a subsidiary of a subsidiary of Amazon he could either send his kids to the Inspire! Academy or he could find himself a new job.  

That Lenton would not have minded quite so much, but all his rivals could only offer him the Netflix online-ed course for his two teenagers. That would hardly have been good fathering, he had figured. Although considering his two children’s current subjects of conversation he wondered if it might just have been better to join one of the local Trump Revival churches and get them home schooled. At least he wouldn’t have had to worry about exams, and they would  have a willing audience to talk conspiracy theories with.

“Rani, dude. What is that libtard bullshit?” Ayre’s son retorted, his own smartglasses reflecting the latest news from the hardcore manosphere where he spent most of his time. Since he was wearing his ‘science is my superpower’ tshirt his sister was clearly in a trolling mood “you’ve been sucking down that stupid crap your latest gaywad lametoob boyband crush soyboy has been saying, right? Everyone knows that they’re just a front for Kremlin. Those pretty commie boys want to turn you Stacy’s into their harem so that honest patriots like me can’t get what we’re owed….”

“Kev, you can’t get a girl cause you’re a fucking misogynist incel loser” said his sister quickly “don’t start blaming other people for your problems”

“okay, kids please” said Lenton raising both his hands in what his NLP Yoga teacher had assured him was a calming pose that leant him an air of kindly authority “can we have some calm? You know something a little less partisan at the breakfast table?” lenton scrolled through his own smartglasses looking for non controversial content. It was surprisingly hard “now, can we all agree that congress are a bunch of assholes? Or that kittens are super cute?”

His son opened his mouth to argue

“okay, how about dogs in cars, with their heads out the window?”

Kevin shut his mouth and nodded.

“I mean, I don’t know where it comes from” moaned lenton later at the popup office where he spent his days in online content creation “my daughter spouts anything that comes from the Kremlin via whatever hot youtube boy she’s currently hard crushing on, and my son says anything that some rock hard libertarian science guy says. Neither of them give it a second thought. I don’t know why, cause whenever I say anything they’re on me with laser sight scepticism”

“eh, I blame the technology” complained his colleague as she thumbed through mentions in her livefeed, feeling the desperate need for validation more than the caffeine hit in the cup in her hand “these kids, they wanna be spoonfed everything. I remember when we was their age. We hadda actually google search stuff. If you wanted to throw shade you hadda go to the effort of writing a livejournal about it. Now these kids just get a bunch of recommendations straight into their eyeballs. No thought required”

“too right, Tina. Its about hard work” said Lenton, looking at the day’s workload “it’s the attitude that’s the problem. They’re just too lazy to challenge anything” he scanned the list of hot button to do items “so, what talking points are we monetising for cultural leaders today?”

“we got a contract in from Russia. They want to see the latest round of the Israel Iranian conflict spun as being caused by Jewish bankers. Was thinking we can feed that one in via the Foxosphere. They love a bit of Jew baiting so long as we call em progressive liberal internationalists”

“good call” said Lenton, paging through the various socially destructive ideas and fake news he was being paid a hefty commission to inject into public discourse “we’ve got our screaming mob on retainer. Can get them with placards and slogans anywhere we need them. Although the RNC still hasn’t paid them for that last job. Something about how they weren’t violent enough against those BLM people…”

“they’re actors” sighed Tina as she refilled her mug from the genuine organic roast machine. Her mug bore the cheery slogan ‘world’s greatest stripper’ always reminding her of her grandmother, whose gift it had been “if they want proper violence then they have to get the real white supremacists, but they’re all booked up defending the Canadian border from UN one world government liberal invasion, or whatever we told them was the problem”

“thought it was LGBTQ infiltrators?” replied Lenton. It was hard to keep up. They were after all paid to shape the news and the information that influenced people, the consequences were not really in his pay grade.

“whatever” sighed Tina as she took another high protein cookie from the stack. They were super moreish but were almost physically indigestible. The resulting diarrhoea was always good for the waist line “and we got another Koch brothers contract up. Top dollar to get the key 18-25 demographic thinking that renewable energy is a problem”

“simple. Thread through the manosphere as being that renewable energy is unmanly and feminising. We can to nostalgia stuff around the petrol engine. The far right will love a bit of Tesla bashing….”

“and Tesla will pay us double to spread the counter message” said Tina, finishing her coffee “cool” she paused “look, don’t worry about your kids. They go through phases. Shit, I was tumblrd out when I was their age, woulda cut my best friends head off if she’d said a word against my fandom. They grow out of it”

“yeah” said lenton, already downloading the days false news and astroturf memes ready to infect the information stream of the western world with “but, you know they just seem so extreme. I don’t get why” he added as he pumped a thread blaming vaccinations for causing sexual inadequacy into a mainstream news forum where it would have an active effect on roughly forty five percent of the readership “I just don’t see where they get those ideas from”

#conspiracy #social media

[occupyscifi]

The Franchise

The franchise

 It’s one thing to learn that you’re a clone, but it’s quite another to learn that you’re going to be held liable for your clonefather’s debts.

I found out at the after-after-party of a 3rd gen Kardashiclone’s new artesenal dildo brand launch. I was on workation at a trustafarian retreat in what had once been London’s trendy Shoreditch till it had been bought by some anonymous celeb who now rented it out for her fellow members of the 1% so they could pretend they were creatives in a vibrant new media economy. I had been servicing the needs of those much wealthier than me, which mostly involved installing VPN’s on their neural implants to get around their anti bad behaviour mods. This enabled them to eat, fuck, drink and ingest whatever they wanted. Mostly it was carbs, as these were kids who’d been on ultra restrictive diets since birth to ensure their continued their parents good looks. I’d invested heavily in the samizdat underground takeaway railroad, shipping in fried goods from as far afield as Margate.

It had been a good day, I’d earned good lolcoin installing a new VPN code on a couple of clones of an A-lister made famous by her family’s fundamentalist Christian clothing brand. The fact that the church she owned were vehemently against cloning and she’d pretended her daughters were twins only sweetened the sense of natural justice I got from shilling my wares to the super rich.

In fact I had already swooped in on Brandy2 at the after-after party, buying her a couple of ice cold methtails from the narco bar in the corner with the excuse I was just testing if her VPN was working. She had downed both of them and I was on my way to get a third. I was ruminating on how ‘d get into her pants, thinking of a cheesy shit line about wanting to test all the things the VPN could do. I was just approaching the bar when in my digital mind’s eye a banking notification flared red. Still walking I pulled it up, thinking it was just another stupid warning about not investing in Nano scale medicine. I nearly shit myself when I saw what it contained.

However I didn’t have time even for that because the next thing I knew an apparition of a man in his late forties blossomed in front of me. Full contact protocols, able to appear in my visual cortex without even needing to ask my permission. The kind of access I am very careful to restrict to precisely no one.

‘Hi there’ said the guy ‘now, I am sorry to interrupt but I got something to say’ he grinned, his face eerily familiar ‘first the good news. I’m You, only older and more successful. So successful in fact I can afford to have a clone. That’s you. Now, the bad news. I’ve been declared bankrupt and unfortunately since we’re genetically identical all your assets have been seized to pay off my debts’ his grin widened further ‘guess this wasn’t the way you wanted to find out you were a clone, right?’

 At first it had been only celebrities and models who had cloned themselves. They had pretended, of course, that these were children they’d had with as yet un named other halves, but since most celebrities had been famous since birth it was incredibly easy to compare the supposed child with the parent and call bullshit on the whole thing. Besides everyone knew that the average A-lister was too in love with themselves to raise anyone but a 100% copy of themselves. But people expected that kind of narcissism from the terminally famous, the fact that most celebs never married for any other purpose than self promotion had lead to a rash of self weddings. This meant that cloning instead of having children was the next logical step for anyone with a modicum of fame.

Unfortunately in our late 21st century world everyone is famous to one degree or other, engaged from the moment of birth in a race to develop their own personal brand and to incessantly post content that was never more than narcissistic naval gazing, or snarky comment on other people’s narcissistic naval gazing.

So cloning yourself became a normal everyday thing, because much as people loved kids the thing they loved even more was themselves. And what could be more wonderful than having a tiny version of yourself to cherish and cover with affection? Well for my clonefather apparently using them as collateral to prevent himself from being declared bankrupt.

‘What can I say?’ He grinned at me sheepishly. Or rather the software he’d sent to do his dirty work did. He couldn’t even be bothered to contact me personally, either he was too shit scared or else he had god knew how many clone sons and it was easier to send some office script to tell them all he’d gone bankrupt. I’d never even known I was a clone before but I knew myself well enough to know what I was capable of ‘it’s been a bad season. I’ve made some calls that haven’t quite panned out. That’s life’

‘That’s my life, you arsehole’ I retorted, watching in my mind’s eye as the student loan I’d been living off vanished into thin air, along with all the money I’d been stashing away ready to start my killer startup with ‘how can you do that to me? How can you have fucked things up so badly?’

‘can’t we, I dunno, have an understanding?’ he replied, the ghost in my vision wavering as another partygoer wandered past, zoned out in exactly the way I’d hoped to be. Now I didn’t even have enough credit to get the third methtail I’d promised Brandy2 ‘‘We’re the same person after all’

‘Pre fucking cicely’ I threw back, trying not to feel creeped out by the sight of a version of myself, older in the way of people with access to expensive credit are. Credit that bought genetic cosmetic work and the wisdom not to try and look young. Craggy, that was the word for it. Doucehbaggy, perhaps that was more accurate ‘I thought maybe you’d have a little respect for yourself. You just fucked me over completely. All my plans for the future, hell all my plans for right now. All burned because, what you can’t manage an investment portfolio? You put all your cash into crypto memory?’

‘Hey, like I said it’s just business’ the software version of the older me shrugged ‘why the fuck do you think I have clones in the first place?’

‘Well until about five minutes ago I thought I was a normal kid. With normal parents’

‘Seriously? How was I that naïve?’ He said, shaking his head ‘come on man, no one has parents any more. Everyone in the room with you is a clone of some rich asshole. You go to college for fucks’ sake. Hasn’t been a natural born kid gone to college for like twenty years. People who have their kids naturally are either Jesus freaks or just fucking poor, and I’m neither of those things’

‘Yeah, I’m getting an idea of the kind of guy you are’ I replied. I looked about the party, seeing Brandy2 already having lost interest in me and was now finger deep in some girl who was the third gen clone of a celebrity chef ‘so what the fuck? Did you implant me with a real family with a set of instructions to make sure I had the same emotional and cultural inputs you did, or were you so cheap ass you just fleshprinted me off as an eighteen year old with a bunch of false memories ready for my first day at college?’

‘Hey, I’ve always been cost effective when it comes to reproducing’ said my clonefather, half heartedly avoiding the question

‘Meaning, you’re a cheap fuck’ I retorted

‘Hey, why do you think I made you?’

‘To ensure immortality?’ I replied. It wasn’t something I’d thought much about. The idea of cloning yourself is kinda creepy, I couldn’t think of anything clones were useful for but weird murder stuff and even weirder sex stuff. Then again I was only twenty. Or at least I had thought I was until about two minutes earlier. Right then I realised I was probably younger than the bottle of diet water in my hand. Who knew what kind of person I’d be when I was older? Well, clearly I was the asshole standing right there, having just mortgaged his own clones to pay off some stupid debt.

But I’d always thought the reason people cloned themselves in order to avoid death. To have a young version for themselves that they could raise the right way, shelter from the harshness of the world. To support where they felt they had been let down, to nurture where they had felt abandoned. Hell, there were enough sob stories from my own adolescence that I could use as grounds for raising a new me. The time in sixth grade I’d been picked on for liking some outdated old beat ‘em up. The girls who’d laughed at me for not knowing what an iambic pentameter was. Things that event at the grand old age of twenty I knew were not exactly world shattering levels of suffering. Except those were false memories. Fucking asshole clonefather.

‘Really?” Said my software double ‘listen kid, there are two reasons people get cloned. First is cause they’re messed up in the head. Want to make another them that isn’t so messed up. That never works because, you know, they’re fucked up in the head so their clone is always gonna be the same. Don’t matter what they try and do there’s always something to get shitty about’

‘So what’s the other reason?’ I asked, holding my fury in check just because I had nothing to do with it. You can’t punch a hologram that only exists in your own visual cortex.

‘Simple’ he said, grinning in a way I knew I did and that I also knew annoyed the shit out of people around me ‘to make money. You see, I am…or rather was, a pretty rich dude. Self made rich, not like most of those assholes I see you’ve surrounded yourself with’

‘Hey, I earned my way onto this workation’ I said hotly

‘Precisely’ said my clone father ‘you and your clone brothers exist as my insurance policy. I know, cause you’re all me, that you are gonna be out there making money. If you do I can use that as collateral against my debts. If you don’t and one of you fails, well, that’s not my problem. Benefits of running you guys like a franchise’ he did that grin again. A grin that barely wavered as my fist went through it, to impact painfully against the paper mache walls that some robo printer had faithfully spewed out to some trustfarians painfully earnest impression of what a noughties frat house party should look like.

‘See? You’re feeling better already’ said my alter ego, before vanishing along with my life savings.

 ‘Could you have been hacked? I mean, this is kinda life altering news. Feels like a scam to me’

It was half an hour later and I was pouring out my emotions and cooling my bruised knuckles with aid of my NBGBFF Calypso. I’d told ur my story and ee’d made the right kind of noises. Sensible noises. calypso was clone of the first kind, ur copyparent was desperately trying to make up for some past childhood trauma by printing out a new version of urself. Calypso had turned out pretty well, if pretty well meant someone who was managing about fifteen different personality disorders. However ee was mellow that night and in listening mode.

‘that’s what I thought’ I replied as we sat on a ripped-to-pieces settee as various stoned clones tried to jump from the roof to the swimming pool. There had been several near misses, but the nearest fleshprinter was only down at what had once been Moorgate hospital and it was as easy to order in a new body as it was too get pizza. Easier, in fact, anything with a flour base was a controlled substance ‘or, you know, hoped. But I checked it out. My clone father is a solid gold asshole. He registered a whole bunch of us under a franchise agreement. I can’t find anything about him being bankrupt but I guess that’s the sort of thing you can keep from the public’ I shook my head ‘damn, are all cloneparents this big assholes?’

‘Yup’ said calypso, gesturing around the room. Several identical clones were bare-backing each other to the cheers of onlookers and the mock shock of several more ‘Says a lot about a person if rather than having a natural kid with another human being they’d rather hive off a little version of themselves. Says a lot about our society. I mean, shit how vain are we? That’s we’d rather fill the world with little copies of ourselves than fall in love with another human being and create a whole new person to represent that love. What is wrong with our culture that the only offspring we could bear to love is a genetically identical copy of ourselves. What has happened to us that….’

‘Woah there cal’ I cautioned ‘you were full on monoblogging. I was kinda hoping we could focus on my problems for a while, okay?’

‘Sure. Okay’ said calypso, taking a breath. Ee had been raised a strict Social Media Evangelical, forced to express all ur feelings into tweets and livestreams until there was nothing left of her inner self. Ee still slipped into overshare mode sometimes when ee wasn’t paying attention ‘so, how the fuck are you gonna deal with this? I mean, if it were me I could get back at my cloneparent by refusing to send ur a daily update of all my thoughts in chunks of two fifty characters or less. For you. I dunno’ Ee looked despondently around, passing me a contraband ketacocktail ee’d scored. Ur credit was tuned so ee couldn’t give gifts to others, but like most things there was always a way around it ‘can you kill the fucker? You must be able to inherit, right?’

‘Probably’ I replied ‘cause that was why he didn’t show in the flesh. Fucker knows me too well’

‘He’s you’ shrugged calypso ‘or rather, he’s you, I you were a fucking asshole’

‘He’s me with all the same memories up to the age of eighteen’ I said. I’d researched this quickly while Calypso had bound my injured hand and offset the costs of the ice against her charitable deeds tariff. As I was a bankrupt I was now eligible for charity. No wonder the other clone kids were avoiding me. No one liked a freeloader, not unless they happened to be super rich ‘Because that’s the age someone can legally earn money. All the things I’d thought were really happening really happened to him. I’m not some twenty year old with a whole bunch of experience, I’m physically about two years old and I’m fucking washed up. Shit, I got about two hours before my credit on this party runs out. Hell, you won’t even be able to see me then’

“I’m sure you’ll think of something” said Calypso, like all people with neural implants anyone with a zero credit rating is literally invisible. It was originally a mechanism so rich people didn’t have to feel guilty about not helping the homeless “you’re a resourceful guy”

“nothings coming up. I’m sure that asshole would know what to do if it was him”

‘Hey, if you have his memories then there must be something you can use. Think about what he would do in your situation’

‘He’d fuck someone like me over’ I sighed dramatically ‘and I’m just not that kind of guy’

That, however, wasn’t quite true.

 I hit rock bottom twelve hours later after sleeping the night in the boathouse of the frat party. Sleep hadn’t been easy, what with the boathouse basically being the fuck house. That most of the people doing the fucking were using my VPN software to work around the blocks their parents had put in didn’t help matters. I managed about two hours sleep in between the prone bodies of those too shagged out to protest that I had a poor credit rating. However someone must have reported me.

Security are a funny thing, invisible when you have money, incredibly visible when you don’t.

‘Hands where I can see them, sonny’ the voice hissed in my ear and just in case that wasn’t enough to wake me the cold press of a high quality printed taser in my ribs. My eyes flew open to see a girl I was sure the night before had been an innocent little slip of a thing suddenly metamorphose into a deadly serious security agent.

“I think there’s been some kind of mistake….” I began lamely. In my mind’s eye I was paging through all my social networlds and credit accounts. It didn’t take long, since anything of any monetary worth, including my person history had been taken to be sold to advertisers. The Zuckerburg privacy act no longer applied to me, since my copyfather had defaulted on his debt I was legally public property.

“damn right” said the girl, her accent surprisingly gravelly “you aren’t meant to be here. This here party’s only for people with bank accounts with lots of zeroes in them. Far as I can see you’ve only gone one zero in yours and nowt else”

“ah, I can explain, you see….”

The taser, it seemed, wasn’t just for show.

 When I regained consciousness I was on a train, the grimy walls showing me I was in the non person’s cabin, where adverts for things I couldn’t afford roared loudly at me. when I’d come to Shoreditch I’d ridden the same overground train, but the executive carriage was cleaner and didn’t have adverts. Ironic that adverts were most present for those who could least afford it.

However irony was low on my list of priorities, what with being effectively in a foreign country with no source of wealth and only a matter of time before my copyfather’s creditors would come and collect my body and rent it out for whatever desires motivated their perverse minds. If I was lucky they’d just employ me in some astroturfing sweatshop, if I was unlucky I’d be a liveaction sock puppet for some celeb whose need for adulation outstripped their actual fanbase. Id’ seen poor indebted fools like that before, forced to cheer and wail and pretend to love some swollen former idol. That wasn’t really how I saw my future, so I had to act fast.

“so what the fuck do I do?” I muttered to myself, cursing because even my internal monoblog had been taken from me, meaning the other people on the carriage – various drone workers going to or from Shoreditch – could hear me. Did they know that just twelve hours earlier I had been one of their overlords? That the only interaction I would have had with them would have been either to order them around or else hit them up for some illegal substance or other. In fact as I looked around the exhausted faces I was sure I recognised at least one person who’d helped me score fried chicken at 1am or help remove some hapless cloneboy’s penis from someone else’s orifice.

“and exactly what help is that to me now?” I muttered, still unable to form proper thoughts and instead speaking out loud “all my friends literally cannot see me because I’ve got no money. Only people I know are shady fucking characters” then, in a burst of strange clarity I had it. I knew how to get my life back, and how I could escape my clonefather’s debts at the same time. All I would need, I thought, staring sightlessly out the window of the driverless train, would be a complete and total lack of morals. And as the train wound its way around the guts of the south London bonded labour belt the ins and outs of the plan came into my head.

 The first part was easy. The very fact that the one percent couldn’t see me in my current guise could be turned to my advantage. That and the other fact I had a good knowledge of the tunnels and abandoned underground malls that lead into Shoreditch through my various connections meant I had something a lot of shady characters wanted.

“so I’m your man” I explained to a dealer in illicit fried chicken I knew from the underground takeaway trade “I can get your wares in under the fence and to the right people no problem”

“yeah, I got a bunch of guys like” explained the tired looking middle aged woman in her iconic KFC hat and complexion that bored a startling resemblance to her own product. The takeaway underground is filled with tired romantics, people who got into the full fat trade because they believed that a food tradition was being stamped out by health Nazis but after spending a decade feeding trustafarians and the terminally fat addicted saw nothing but pound signs “all of ‘em can get in. all of ‘em are so piss poor the one percent couldn’t see ‘em even if they was spread out all over the pavement. What makes you so special?”

“well for one thing you owe me pretty much your entire last weeks profits” I said evenly “I saw the vital stats of the rich kids I VPN’d. There wasn’t one of them didn’t put on a bunch of kilos and that hadda be down to me. But more importantly” I leaned in over a fat fryer, the fumes almost turning my stomach. I’d never been one for the colonel’s produce. They always say to never get high on your own supply “I know who’s running security up there”

“okay, well that’s something worth knowing” agreed the woman, chewing on some fried monstrosity the colour of melted gold “I lost three good guys the last few weeks. Security’s cracking down hard on our trade. We used to bribe em with mcnuggets but they got wise to that and contracted in a bunch of hardcore vegan types. Bastards” she narrowed her eyes “now, I can’t promise you no more than our regular lads get. I can see your used to something a little better but I don’t think your route to riches lies through us, know what I mean?”

“look, I’m just trying to keep the wolf from the door” I admitted “like, its either this or I’m gonna get repossessed. My clonedad burned a bunch of people and they’re after my arse to pay for it”

“nasty business” muttered the lady, then grabbed a greasy piece of paper from a greasy board. The underground takeaway business likes to keep everything old school, and not just because its traditional. What with us living in a digital world there’s a hefty minority of people who can’t even read, let alone understand that other people might still communicate by little scratches on a piece of paper “you can get going right away. Get this delivery right and we might get a profitable business going”

It wasn’t easy sneaking into Shoreditch. Hitherto I had been on the other end of the deal, and the worst treatment I could have expected would be a half hearted telling off by a security guard shit scared by my bank account balance. Now I could be murdered and dropped in the Thames and the only people that might raise the slightest protest were the creditors who hoped to pimp me out for my clonedaddy’s debts.

However for those who know how to look for it there are routes through London’s privatised zones. Places that are interstitial, borders between the turf owned by this billionaire or that semi sentient corporate giant enjoying a tax holiday. I skirted the Lloyds boundaries, cutting through an old drug running tunnel built originally in the days of the ill fated anti Brexit London independence movement. It took time, but I had the food in a heat sealed bag on my back and I knew I had just one chance to get this right.

So I emerged I to the fake retro hipsterish world of Shoreditch just as it was getting dark and the streetlights were illuminating the carefully restored street art and the one percenters sipping on their artfully fake lattes and deciding which 100% organic street food stand to be photographed beside. I knew I was in the right place. I just had to find the address scrawled on the piece of paper. Luckily it was one I knew all too well.

 The party itself was a thriving dance orgy in an old new warehouse conversion off Brick Lane. Rather conservative but it was the last night and a lot of people’s cloneparents were in attendance. Most of the guests were in various states of nudity and it was quite hard to tell who were the clones and who were the parents but I suppose that was the point. I had hoped that I’d be able to attend this and network my way to a bonded internship with some big A-lister that would tide me over not just for the summer but hook me up for life. Now I was a guy so low down most people couldn’t even see him and with a backpack full of samizdat fried chicken. But I still had a mission to do, and through the dancing bodies I spied the customer I needed to find.

“chicken dude” said the person who greeted me, unable to perceive me but sure as shit able to see the fried goods hovering in the air “man am I glad to see…..”

That was when I struck. The delivery cover had been just that, something that would get me in and unnoticed to the party. Despite what my takeaway contact said delivery folk were never molested on the wharf itself, the security agents knew to turn a blind eye to the fried chicken just as they did the drugs and the parties. However had I simply walked back in they’d have sniffed me out as a former one percenter and figured I was out for revenge. As it turned out I wasn’t, I was out for something worse.

As the innocent billionaire’s clonechild reached out to take the delivery I accessed the VPN I’d installed in them a week earlier, cutting through the back door that I’d left in just in case it was needed. At the time I thought the need might be that I’d forgotten something or if I needed to erase the whole thing in case of getting caught. As it turned out the back door was just as easy to use for obvious criminal intent. Who’d have thought? So at lightning speed and before the one percenter could fall to the floor I blazed through the VPN and into the implant mainframe proper. There I overrode the charity giving protocol and made myself a major recipient of aid. I paused for a nanosecond to infect the contacts list and then I was out. In the real world a little over a second passed. The one percenter, however, was out of it.

“sorry calypso” I said as my former NBGBFF crumpled into my arms. I funnelled her into a nearby chair “but I had to do this to you first. Could only be someone on my friends list. Irony’s an absolute bastard, right? Hope you understand I didn’t have much of a choi…..”

“you little thieving fooking bastard” came a voice in my ear, startling me so much I nearly dropped Calypso on the floor “I bet you thought you were dead clever, sneaking in her cos none of these rich twats could see you. Well I can see you, and this time I int gonna just stun you”

I placed Calypso in the chair, turned around slowly to face the security girl, nude except for her glow in the dark body tattooes. I slowly raised my hands “oh, that in’t gonna save you” she stepped forward to whisper in a voice that carried even over the thumping dance beat “you made a bloody great big mistake coming back here sonny. I’m gonna….”

“do nothing” I said, as the funds I’d stolen from Calypso and the viral worm I’d insinuated into her social networld contacts did their job. I felt my bank account swell and with it the sweet music of my neural implants reconnecting to the social networlds I had been rudely evicted from. I felt a new emotion rising in me as my old life rushed back, added to it a power I’d never realised I had “because otherwise” now I stepped close to the security guard as she shrank back. A taste in my mouth, a scent in my nostrils. “I’ll have you dropped in the Thames, you and your nearest and dearest. Got me? I’m one of them again, you see” I said, pointing to the writhing shapes “and we own you”

Now I realised what the emotion was.

“revulsion” I said to myself as the guard turned and stumbled away “that’s what it is”

“oh no” said a voice behind me “its success, trust me”

I whirled around, expecting to see another security guard behind me and instead saw the last person I either wanted or expected to see.

‘Well played, son’ said my clone father, sat in an armchair clapping slowly behind him the one percenters ground away, oblivious to all that was going on ‘well played. I never thought you’d have it in you’

‘The fuck you doing here?’ I said warily. The last thing I needed after committing a crime was to have my copyfather as a witness. He’d sell me out quicker than I could breath. Hell, he was the kind of guy who’d keep clones around just to pin his own crimes on.

‘I’m here to congratulate you’

‘On what?’ I said, gesturing at my handiwork. At the friend I’d ripped off just for a few lolcoin to keep myself going. At the woman I’d threatened just because she was trying to do a good job protecting her clients.

‘On doing what had to be done’ he said, pointing at my comatose former friend ‘you showed you had what it took. To do what was needed at the right moment. You should enjoy this moment’

“enjoy it?” I asked, my face twisting in disgust ‘Look, I just fucked over my very best friend to commit a crime. All because I have to pay off debts you dropped me into. I should kill you for what you did. Your fucking bankruptcy did this to me. You made me behave this way’

‘Well, confession time’ grinned my clonefather ‘ that whole bankruptcy thing? well it wasn’t real. I just made it up’

“made it up?” I replied “what the fuck do you mean?” then it dawned on me. Surely he could still technically access my assets. Including what I had stolen from Calypso. That had to mean…

‘You fuckjing scammed me’ I said, incredulous at the fact he was even lower than I thought ‘cal was right…’

‘Wasn’t a scam’ he said, winking ‘it was a test’

‘test? What the living fuck?’ I exclaimed, not sure I was hearing right. If there was anything worse than finding your life has been ruined is that finding out that it’s all some great big joke.

‘I told you, I’ve got a bunch of clones”he explained, lounging back in his seat “And this isn’t some charitable outing. I need to make sure that people who carry my name also carry a certain…set of skills’

‘What, those of fucking criminals?’

‘business skills’ he said, that nasty grin on his face again ‘half these fuckers you pall around with haven’t got a single go getting bone in their body” he gestured at the oblvious faces of the trustafarins still grinding all around us. Despite my new wealth I was keeping a low profile, shame being my motivating factor “I need to make sure you do. You can’t clone grit and determination, you see. I need to know that you can make a good earning, especially when the chips are down. You should thank me really, I’ve made you realise some truths about yorusefl you wouldn’t have done otherwise’

“so you’re saying that you delvietaely shafted me over just to give me the inner strength to be a better businessman?” my forehead creased “this is some next level boy named sue bullshit”

‘It’s business’ he said, spreading his arms wide ‘and welcome to the firm, by the way’ in minds eye a whole new set of protocols all opened up, giving me privileged access to data beyond my wildest dreams. The little piece of software I’d used to pry open the brain of poor calypso looked like nothing in comparison.

‘You can hug me now, if you like’ he said, as if expecting me to punch him in the face. For one golden second I almost did, but stopped myself for two reasons. The first was that he was, in his way, correct. I was prepared to do whatever it took to keep myself afloat. I was glad he had shown me that I had it in me to succeed. The second reason was that I kept half an eye on that digital protocol I’d used on calypso. Because I didn’t like that person I would become who stood in front of me, that arrogant manipulator who would cheerfully pit his younger self against certain annihilation just to see if he was up to standard. I didn’t think he should be having any more clones, or doing much of anything to anyone. And thanks to the software I had stolen, and the realisation of my nefarious talents he had awoken I knew I could.

‘Sure thing, dad’ I said, giving him the hug.

#clone #scifi

[occupyscifi]

Essay - the future of employment

The less capitalism needs people to make a profit, the less people need capitalism.

In the future we will all be unnecessary. Even today the hours we work and many of the jobs we do are not needed. In a few years time almost all manual work and almost all white collar clerical work will be automated. But there will be even more profit for those at the top, which is why they keep pursuing it. The Bezos and Google  types who make their profit by eliminating inefficiency. Those they put out of work however will struggle to find jobs, and this can go several ways.

-The Roman way. This is where wealth concentrates at the top so heavily that gradually everyone but the few at the top are pushed into slavery or living on the poverty line. Society collapses because no one but the super rich have any stake in it, and barbarism looks like a better option.

-The band aid method. Where the super rich provide at least the basics people need to survive like food and shelter. It should be pointed out the Romans tried this and it didn’t work, because people need more than just subsistence to survive.

-Turning back the clock, or make work option. This is where the super rich make their businesses less efficient by employing more people, just to keep them happy. This might work as it gives people jobs, but people aren’t stupid and having pretend jobs for life helped destroy the soviet Union. Jobs are about purpose, not really about material benefit. People very easily twig when their jobs are just for show and disconnect from the system more.

-The Randian fuck you or the victory of Libertarianism. The most likely short term choice judging by today’s trends. Where no help or fucks are given. The ideology of libertarianism is popular amongst tech princes for a reason- because it justifies not having to give a shit. Tech disruption always causes social disruption and just as early industrialists didn’t give a thought to people suffering neither do our new industrialists  now. They still argue hard work is a virtue and blame the individual if everyone fails to be a millionaire. This method works until the Luddites and the chartists come knocking and the revolutions start. You either then go full fascist- and Silicon Valley could do very efficient death camps- or you have to start changing.

-The actual change method. Hyper profits redirected into public works projects. An ideological focus on the development of the individual rather than material acquisition. The sort of paradise 19th century romantic socialists talked about where everyone can focus on their own skills because there is no more need for drudgery. This is the future Marx envisaged because quite logically in a post scarcity society there is no need for exploitation and greed. Unfortunately to get there you have to burn out about three hundred years worth of capitalist ideology because the biggest barrier to a classless society is that people really like social classes. And the only way to end an ideology is to show how bankrupt it is, and that requires a lot of corpses- see WW2 or the great depression for details.

The most likely outcome, however, is somewhere between the Roman method and the utopian socialist one. It all depend on how pliant the ideology of the ruling class of silicon Valley Caesars is. If they refuse to adapt their Randian instincts and work instead towards full on fascism then there will either be civil war or slow collapse. However if they are able to recognise that in order to preserve their rule  they will have to give some of their power away then they might adapt. This is precisely the dilemma faced by the great industrialists of the late 19th century, especially in Europe. Whilst on the continent most countries chose the conservative route and choked off innovation in order to preserve the social order (see Austria, a country whose great potential was ruined by its ruling class, or Russia who never got out of the middle ages and imploded under the strain of its class conflicts and WW1). In the UK and western Europe there were grudging reforms, gradually making the lives of people better off and providing much of what earlier agitators had asked for. This didn’t happen in the USA because there was an ever expanding labour force, and there was always the escape from big cities to work on the land. It was only in the 1930’s when this expansion collapsed did the USA face the very real choice of either reform or total collapse. It was only through a change in ideology, one that prompted the New Deal, that saved the American system.

But it’s important to understand that the New Deal itself was a result of a change of heart, rather than the other way around. It showed that a majority of Americans had rejected the rugged individualism and the heartless capitalism of the preceding decades. For while industrialists like Ford might have talked about helping their workers, when it came down to it Ford would literally rather shoot his workers than allow them any real collective bargaining power. It was only with the election of FDR that the USA built a system that supported ordinary people. For sure it still enabled their exploitation and whilst the USA became an industrial  giant over the next decades there was still rampant poverty and racism. But until the ideology of Reaganism in the 1980’s it was taken as standard that the powerful had an obligation to look after the powerless. That obligation, of course, has now vanished. The Silicon valley caesars, like Ford did, will happily shower their workers in gifts, but they are very clear about where the power lies. Once they have made a quarter to fifty percent of the worlds workforce functionally  redundant then we will see whether they take any responsibility for those left behind.

I personally feel it will take a massive crisis to do this. There are already many signs of those left behind by technology in the USA – the mining towns, the rust belt, the de-incorporated towns with empty big box stores and rampant opioid addiction – are all testament to this happening. Indeed the debate about whether to re open coal mines just to get people having jobs again shows how this plays out. The promises of Trump to get manufacturing going in America again are so obviously hollow that the make work option is a non starter. The fact is that while the big businesses of the USA can make a big profit they will not care about the lives that are broken, because they will never see them. The silicon valley ceasars and the big city  business titans will never travel to the broken towns or the abandoned and ruined cities like Detroit. They will at most throw a few charity dollars their way, or leverage that charity as Zuckerburg has done in a way to make it serve his own business interests.

There is, however, a final option. One where the ordinary left behind and struggling Americans (and no doubt the other citizens of the world – the US as number one industrialised  country is merely the place where this happens first) get to decide things themselves. For whilst capitalism and automation have destroyed job they have done so because they can make things so cheaply. No one ever needs starve when you have a farming system so efficient it can already feed the world. Likewise the knowledge that once would have required college degree level study is available online for free, the software that makes us all redundant can also solve our problems – if we know how to use it.

Already communities left behind by de-industrialisation have begun taking back control of their lives. Abandoned big box stalls can easily be remade into community markets. People already can grow their own food like their forefathers did, they can use the technology that abandoned them to help them rebuild their lives. The only thing stopping them thus far has been ideology, or more accurately industrial ideology. Industrial ideology is something we have been inculcated with almost since birth and so we don’t notice it. Quite simply it is the perception that in order to be a success you need to have a nine to five job that pays you a salary, that salary is then used to buy what you need. The fact is that this is recent invention, before modern industrial capitalism most people lived as farmers, and the rhythm of farming life was very different. Most importantly people didn’t actually spend all their time farming. Whilst it was hard and back breaking there was also considerable amounts of time where fields did not need to be tended. Communities  worked differently, and for many who did not use cash as a means of exchange they were tied by different bonds with their communities. Capitalism destroyed this because it needed people to work shifts for cash that was then to be spent on the products made by the industrial system. It needed people not to work together in a non hierarchical structure, but rather to buy what they were told to buy and produce what they were told to produce. Almost every early industrialist recalls how hard it was to condition workers used to the rhythm of nature to factory life. Richard Arkwright had a series of physical punishments and fines for any workers who did not adapt to the shift system. Even Robert Owen, who was more sympathetic, struggled to create factories in the US because people refused to adapt to shift working.

But now with de industrialisation people will start to learn new rhythms, already the ‘gig economy’ forces people to be effectively self employed. Whilst this system is horribly flawed it does destroy traditional hierarchies. When people are abandoned first by the employer and then by the state they fall into depression. Trumpism is in part a response to this despair (but also to the loss of power by white males, ie racism) by people who feel dislocated by the change in technology that has taken their jobs. Whilst now they might try to blame foreigners and liberals in practical terms Trump is unable to give them anything more than catharsis. On a day to day basis people need to survive, and to do this communities will have to form from the ashes of the industrial system.

Indeed if ordinary people are abandoned and the silicon valley Caesars choose the Roman path then quite simply the great abandoned masses will disengage from the system. They will find new ways to live, and whilst I don’t expect to see barbarians overrunning Washington the plain truth is that for most ordinary people having barbarians in charge wasn’t any different from having a bunch of Roman landowners taking all the wealth. In fact once the empire lost control of a province the fact that you probably didn’t have to pay tax didn’t really provide an incentive to get the Romans back in charge. Likewise in the modern world barring any civil war / environmental based conflicts the best thing that might happen to a lot of people is that their betters do abandon them. Since the business class have always existed to exploit them being surplus to requirements  may be a blessing. It will force communities of people to find the ties that bind them together, and in the USA this is especially easy. The USA for all its faults has a very strong history of civic engagement, and while the government itself may become unwilling or unable to provide for people the fact is that for most people government is local and it is people. The structures and traditions of the USA predate its modern capitalist ethos.

The rugged individualist  beliefs  of settler mythology was almost certainly a lie, the original settlers prospered because they could work together in communities where they had very strong democratic structures. It is no coincidence that the first states that gave the vote to women where those who had faced the most hardship in terms of settlement, and required people to work together to survive.

Of course this isn’t the only possibility. The rise of Trump shows how easy it is to weaponise  those who have become surplus to the requirements of modern day capitalism. And any country where there is a large disaffected mass of people can become an easy weapon to wield. There is nothing to stop the development of an American ISIS, bent on destroying a system they feel is not only godless but destructive to the soul of the American people. There is already a very strong religious and racist right in the US, the rise of militia movements and survivalists (much beloved by Silicon valley caesers  who look forward to the end of the world – possibly because they have watched too much apocalyptic SF) mean that the possibilities of open conflict are high. If we add into this resource control then the possibility of conflict along the lines seen in central Africa. This is an unlikely scenario, but if those at the top of US society feel threatened they are always more than willing to use Fascist methods to keep people in their place. An urban USA pushing back against aggressive capitalism could easily find itself up against not the police forces of the USA but instead the armed and racist militias of white supremacists and religious fundamentalists. This is not to say they would be victorious, after all despite their noise the militia movement is small, and they are not always so easy to manipulate as some might assume. The fact that Clivon Bundy has now come and criticised trump suggests that not all militia movements in the US are the same.

However the simple fact is that we are now living at one of those times where the disruptive effect of technology is really being felt, and as our lives change fully from an industrial capitalist mode to a post industrial one we have to try and see where that leads us. Are we heading for google run death camps? Microsoft sponsored pastoral socialism? Or will be all be on bitcoin paid universal income? These are interesting times, and the only down sides is that interesting times more often than not come with a body count.

#essay #future #theleftbehind

[occupyscifi]

The clone killer

The illegal had been running all his brief life and now, he knew, that life was coming to an end. Recently he’d been hiding out in the ruins of an old mall, living off old cans of food left behind by survivalists and roving bands of white nationalist militias who were the only other inhabitants of the county. At first there had been three of them hiding, but now the other two were dead. The first had been caught in a trap just off the highway, electrocuted as he had lapped at a pool of rainwater. The second had been poisoned – either on purpose or simply as a result of his poor immune system, unable to cope with the scavenging diet. That was part of the problem being an illegal, there were so many ways you could die. It wasn’t always the hunters that got them. However for him, he knew, it would be. He knew with grim certainty he would not see the light of morning.

Night was falling, and some instinct told the illegal that the hunter was near. Quickly he made his way back through the deep shadowed ruin of the mall. Some of the old storefronts had been gutted with fire, others used as drug dens or hideouts for other illegals now either free in Canada or dead and buried. The illegal’s breath quickened. The prickling on his neck, the sense born from generations of fearful evolution told him that there was another human being near. And if there was then there could be only one reason they were there. To find him. As that thought struck home there was the slightest rustle and he looked up to a balcony above where once there had been a food court and amusements for children.

Now there stood a single figure, watching back. Black clad. Infinitely patient. For a moment the illegal hoped that it might have not malign intent. You heard of groups that were kind. Human rights organisations that sheltered illegals, that supported them in court cases. Spirited them across the northern border where their legal status could be redefined and they could be given a second chance.

“are you….” Began the illegal, allowing hope to blossom in his heart. But the figure in black pulled off his mask to reveal the one face that the illegal had hoped never to see. The one face that meant swift and certain death. You might bargain and plead with any other headhunter or scalptaker. Could try to bribe them with money or favours, but not this one. This one meant only one thing

“not who you wanna see” said the figure, pulling out a pistol and putting a bullet through the illegals chest. The illegal’s last thought, as his life blood pumped out on the stained fake marble floor, was the face of the man who had killed him. The illegal had never had the time to look much at his own reflection, but he knew the man murdering him was identical to him in every way, down to his very DNA.

“its nothing personal” said the man in black, looking down at the illegal who bore his face “just protecting my brand identity. Copyright violation is a capital offense, and cloning without a license has to be met with maximum force” he looked up to where a tiny beecam live-streamed his image to his many faithful followers “and if you wanna subscribe to my series ‘Ray Carter kills illegally made clones of himself’ then click that button’”

 “I got nothing against them” Carter explained to a skype drone that had been granted access to his person for the ride back to civilisation. Carter had taken an auto Uber because they were a sponsor, and because he’d got them to put on the ‘Black Ops’ patch to his account that meant he could run down people who hadn’t left good feedback to previous drivers. As he rode through the twilight he looked out of the window. Nothing but rusted old signs and buildings falling apart, and the worst part was it wasn’t like there was any border between town and country now. There was either ruined small towns, abandoned suburbia or Monsanto agri fields behind chain linked fences patrolled by ret-conned military drones. He saw more greenery on the Carter family estate, but that was because his ol’ papa had evicted every other human being and had their houses demolished and covered in quickgrowing vegetation “it’s just, they’re illegals, you know? every one of them is illegally trying to cash in on my brand identity”

“they’re human beings!” squawked the interviewer over the skype bot, for all Carter knew it might have been automated software. Most progressive outrage could be managed easily by algorithms these days, leaving more room for liberals to feel guilty about things “you can’t treat them this way”

“technically they aren’t” said Carter, sure of his words and not least because his smart contact lenses brought up the latest legal rulings on the matter “Supreme Court has been pretty clear about that. They don’t have full rights under the constitution because they aren’t natural born Americans. And in the state of Iowa so long as you have a licence you can hunt vermin and copyright criminals, and these guys are both”

“but its not their fault” said the skype bot, the passionate female voice making Carter feel more than a little turned on. He hoped the reporter was real, he could do some old fashioned Iron Man style loving, turn her to him through the power of his masculine allure, that sort of thing. Course he preferred the Downey Jnr era  iron man, because he was a creature of taste and because when he’d been a kid his dad had bought a legally license Downey Jnr clone for his birthday. That had been rad, and he still felt bad how he’d accidentally drowned it in the family mega pool “most of them have been bred in labs for illegal sale and only get out because they’ve been dumped after a police raid. Plus the majority of them are so badly cloned that they would barely survive for a few weeks in the wild before their organs shut down anyway…”

“all the more reason to hunt these suckers down” said Carter, glancing in his smartcontacts as a sub routine edited the hunt down into several different videos for  different demographics. Everything from the epic fail big splatter for the tweenie boy market, to the sensitive doomed romantic version for the ladies. For that one the subroutine had edited on a few tears onto Carter’s face and faded to black with him cradling the body of the clone “in fact, you could say I’m doing them a favour. You know, like a mercy killing” he leaned back in the fake leather seat – the leather was real, the cows it had come from were not. Like most animal products they were made from great lumps of cloned flesh grown in enormous sheds - probably somewhere in the Midwestern darkness around him “you can call me a hero, if you like”

“if you were a hero” said the voice provocatively “then you would have taken that poor clone  to get medical treatment. You could have used your status to raise awareness of the plight of illegally cloned celebrities. Instead you decided to make the killing of other human beings into nothing more than…than a game show”

The girl sounded genuinely upset, and Carter felt the sort of stirring in his trousers that usually meant he speed dialled one of the many nubile members of his fanbase. He quickly checked the reporter’s real life location and background info. He was gratified firstly to see that she had one and secondly that she was within twenty minutes by ubercopter from his location. Anything that took more than twenty minutes to complete was outside his boredom range. Subtly he rerouted his uber towards the nearest copter pad, hearing a chime in his ear telling him that a military grade machine was waiting for him.

“look, I can see you feel strongly about this” he said, making his voice carefully deeper and more intimate. He’d majored in human manipulation at Yale, an essential pre requisite for anyone attempting a career in the celebrity industrial complex “why don’t we meet up in person. Maybe you can convince me” he changed his tone to sound more reflective, as if his opinion might be changed by something another human being said or did “perhaps I’ve not been thinking this through….” He sighed loudly “I get so caught up in this business sometimes. Its dog eat dog. I’ve got so many people trying to get a piece of me. So many people out just to get dollars from me”

“umm, yeah. I suppose” said the interviewer, sounding taken aback. As she should be, Carter thought, it wasn’t everyday that a member of the number one most powerful celebrity family in the USA decided to drop in for a little talk “sure, that would be great. I can send….I can send you my location”

“that would be wonderful” said Carter smoothly “you know, we don’t speak enough to people who don’t share our views, am I right?” carter smiled as the girl’s address arrived. He’d seen her vids, of course. He hadn’t expected her to be anything but hot, it didn’t do even to be interviewed by the ugly, the fat or the poor. That sort of shit was contagious, everyone knew that “I can be there in less than half an hour”

And in another hour, Carter thought fondly, I’ll have forgotten your name.

The ubercopter dropped down to land carter in the reporter’s location. It was a startup co-op in an old multi-story mall doomed by the advent of online shopping. Carter had heard that there were a whole bunch of old big box stores and decaying malls that were being taken by innovative kids who’d realised that they could rent out an entire acre of real estate for next to nothing so long as they covered the roof with solar panels, hooked up water recyclers and watched a few viewtube vids on sewage reclamation. Since these materials could be had for less than the price of the average hipster loft it made sense. Especially since law enforcement was so lax you could do anything from copyright fraud to pharmaceutical printing to creating illegal Apple apps. That they might also do some illegal cloning crossed Carter’s mind, but he thought it unlikely. They so much as printed out one member of the Pitt clan or more than a wig’s worth of a Kardashian then they’d find themselves carpet bombed from above. Carter may have liked to make the hunt personal but compared to some A-listers he was Mr Merciful.

But Carter was reassured by the presence of banners arguing for clones rights on the walls as he approached the bright pink nineties façade of the mall. There might be illegals here, but the chances of them being printed in the mall was unlikely. The sort of bleeding heart liberals  that tried to pretend a random flesh printing of an A lister was an actual human being wouldn’t try to make their own. Something about having ethics, carter had been told. And it also helped that Carter didn’t give a fuck. All fucks were to be directed towards the young journalist who stepped out of the mall, followed by the sound of some godwaful fusion music that sounded like a dying robot to Carter’s refined ears.

“hey, I didn’t think you’d come” said the girl, stepping shyly towards him.

“I made a promise” said Carter seriously, doing his best to act worldly and wise. He wanted to look like the sort of serious business man that would arouse any daddy issues this girl might be hiding. He stepped from the copter, making sure his hair was artfully ruffled  “I keep them”

“sure, well come on in” said the girl, leading Carter inside the mall. The once mighty atrium had been cut up into dozens of different temporary looking structures. There’d be anyone from illicit gamers modding their favourite levels to identity refugees hiding from big data. Despite the borderline criminality of these people he was happy to wave off his security. He’d spend the day in the Iowa Badlands hunting clones like he was Harrison Ford. He could handle any hippy crap they might pull “I guess we got a lot to discuss”

Carter was so busy focusing on seducing the girl that he didn’t notice the two other figures hiding behind the door. He didn’t see the needle till it plunged into the back of his neck, making the world explode into darkness.

 “ahh shit” muttered carter to himself in the darkness. As any scion of a celeb family he had been trained in how to deal with hostage situations. It mostly consisted of offering money and confirming the common rumour  that his family would hunt down and publicly execute anyone responsible “umm, anyone there?”

Carter stumbled around in darkness, hands fumbling in the black. His outstretched fingertip brushed a concrete wall, its surface greasy with dust and age. There was silence, but the smell of decay told he was probably in a mall. But whether it was the one he had entered into he could only hope. He felt his way around the room until he found a door, counting his luck when it swung open.

That was where his luck ran out. Not only was he no longer at the mall with the hot journalist he was fairly sure that he was back at the mall where he’d killed the illegal clone of himself. What was more now he could see in the light of the moon through the broken skylight he was not wearing his business gym casual wear. Nor did he have his smartcontacts. He felt around with his tongue and cursed. His specially adapted tooth with its high frequency transmitter had been removed. With a growing horror Carter realised that if his abductors had known enough to remove the tooth they had probably been able to fake his identity to the security bots that were meant to ensure he didn’t come to a sticky end. Which begged the question of what exactly they did want with him. You didn’t let hostages run around free. He looked down at himself, at the cheap oversized clothing he was wearing and the stink that wafted from them.

“Jesus, these smell like someone died in them” he said, fingering the cheaply fabbed coat, noticing with alarm that not all the holes came from its cheap manufacture. Several looked distinctly bullet shaped.

There was a noise in the mall behind him and Carter wheeled around. He wasn’t pale enough to pass as a white nationalist but he knew enough of their culture to at least bargain with them. Whether they would listen was another matter. He tensed as he heard heavy boots crunch around the corner.

“oh man” said Carter, relaxing and grinning as he saw who was there “am I glad to see you” he looked at the heavily armed pair of men. Both were decked out in exactly the sort of gear that Carter wore when he was hunting clones. They even had the special glasses that could tell whether the person in front of them was really a famous person or just a clone pretending to be “you guys would not believe the night I’ve had”

“nother carter clone” muttered one of the men to the other, raising his rifle “I got dibs on the spleen”

“no wait” said Carter raising his hands “don’t fuck around I’m the original”

“another one who thinks he’s the original” sneered the second clone hunter “that’s a twist that got old real fast”

“what the fuck?” said Carter “how about you use all your fancy equipment. I bet its....” that was the point Carter realised two things. The first was that with his tooth removed there was nothing to identify him as anything different to a common clone like the one he had all to recently executed. The second was what his abductors had wanted to achieve. Poetic justice  

Unfortunately Carter realised this at the same time the first of the clone hunters squeezed the trigger on his high powered rifle.

“make sure you livestream that one” muttered the other hunter as Carter expired on the floor “Carter family pay big when you take out one of their clones” he looked down at Carter’s corpse “man, this one doesn’t even look like him. He’s way uglier”

“cheap clones never do” said the other “wonder why they even bother”

#clones #sf

[occupyscifi]

Your authentic native American experience

The first thing Joseph Lau noticed about the natives was that they were faking it. As soon as he entered the reservation on the ‘Great Native America’ tourbus and they bounced down potholed and unpaved roads he could feel it all around him. Even the skintones of the natives looked faked, the wrong shade in the bright sun, like old movies where they just slapped on makeup rather than employ anyone of the right ethnicity. Or maybe it was because, as Lau looked down from the coach, it took one to know one. He could relate to the poor figures down below trying to eke a living out of their grandparents lost identity, trapped between two cultures, neither of which they belonged to. he’d lived that life for the last two decades of his life. Pretending to be someone else just so he would fit in. Speaking the right way had got him through school, had got him into a good College with good prospects. and now it had brought him to a cheesy Native American tour where he could watch his own heritage be prostituted before him. 

 Their guide, an obnoxious local who either didn’t know or didn’t care that he was about as authentically native as an extra in a movie, was droning on as they piled out of the bus, blinking in the light and feeling self conscious surrounded by natives.

“….and later we’re gonna show you a beautiful show. Local girls, local dancing. Real traditional stuff. You’re gonna love it okay?”

The guide’s voice caught in Lau’s ear. Maybe it was because the guys accent was such a crude attempt at the language Lau had grown up with from his grandmother or because it reminded him how badly he spoke native himself. Mainly though because he knew it was fake, firstly it wasn’t how native people spoke, and secondly he was a hundred percent sure the guide knew and it didn’t care. he knew what the tourists wanted and it wasn’t reality.

Lau stared around the traditional village, where various hideous stereotyped natives stared back, all waiting to be snapped by the tourists. The tourists would then buy themselves some locally made shit and then get the bus back home again, telling themselves that they’d touched something deep in the heart of America that went back hundreds of years.

“but first” the guide was saying, pointing them towards the traditional eatery that Lau knew with dread certainty would sell him a bland and homogenised version of native food and nothing like what his old departed grandmother could make “time for a spot of lunch, at the good old traditional restaurant”

It was a Macdonalds. But as Lau surveyed the pale sad eyed creatures dressed up like MAGA hatted rednecks and hipsters in beards, leather clad imitation rockers and ladies dressed like Jackie K, he realised that it was probably the most authentically American  thing there.

 Lau  hadn’t been born when the joint Indo-chinese pacification mission had started, neither in fact was his mother. But his grandmother did, and she would regale them in their cramped Hong Kong apartment when he was a kid.

“sure, they had their excuses” she would say, her voice gravelly and her accent harsh to the ear. Lau had grown up speaking English but switched to Cantonese whenever he could. He might not have been able to hide the pale midwestern look he’d inherited from his Euro ancestry but so long as he could curse in Cantonese  then he could at least fit in “blaming us for climate change and for Trump and for the nuclear strike. But that weren’t our fault” she would glare at Lau and his brothers, as if they were going to blame her for the many crimes of successive American administrations “and yeah, there was kinda a civil war. But that weren’t no reason to send in the troops. It was just cause they wanted our stuff. Patents and that kind of thing”

This meant little, of course, to Lau. And it was only after his grandmother’s death that he guiltily began to research his own past and the past of his country. That was what had made him book the holiday back to the old country, and on a tour of the reservation. There, he had been reliably informed, he would find the authentic connection with his people he was so lacking.

After they had eaten at the Mcdonalds there was a beauty pageant at the town hall. On the walk from the diner to the town hall they’d been treated to a performance of traditional American racism, where a red faced obese man had given them a tirade about Mexican rapists peppered with drops of the N bomb. Several of the tour party had argued back, either not realising it was faked up or else hamming it up for their social media feeds. These were the kind of guys – and they were always guys – that Lau knew would pay a bit extra to stay the night. They’d go to a bar and pick a fight with some poor asshole who’d probably been slipped some lolcoin in order to get knocked about a bit. Then they’d pick up some blonds with shining teeth and take back to their hotel rooms. Blonds who’d be instantly impressed with these brown skinned guys and they’d shyly say they’d never been with no one who wasn’t a white Christian and say, weren’t they awfully exotic? Course in the morning they’d be paid in the same way as the sap they’d got into the fight with. The worst part of that, thought Lau as he watched the racist go through the rest of his rant about the pacification campaign, was that with rampant  unemployment there were probably men and women queueing up to have their bodies abused for foreign cash.

“…..gonna rise again, and kick out the foreign libtards taking over our fair country” finished the racist “I’m callin’ my senator!” he finished, which got a big laugh out of the crowd. Everyone knew the Washington government was a sham, kept in place purely to nod through whatever laws Beijing wanted passed.

It was during the stripshow slash stars and stripes military parade that Lau realised he’d had enough. Watching some poor reservation girl practically goose stepping across the stage wearing almost nothing while carrying an M16 rifle made him physically sick. With an excuse to the guys next to him – fellow students from Hong Kong U on their spring break – he stumbled to the exit. He stood outside in the back ally of the stripjoint, breathing heavily. The heady aroma of meatloaf and mack and cheese just made him miss his grandmother. Knowing that both these dishes would have  been heavily spiced to appeal to the Asian tastes of the tourists  just made things worse.

“Jesus, why the fuck did I come here?” he said to himself, his eyes squeezed shut.

“to get in touch with your roots” Lau’s eyes shot open and he looked across the alley. In the bright daylight that had followed the neon dark of the club he hadn’t spotted the guy perched opposite on top of a bin. The first thing Lau noticed was that the guy was speaking the kind of American that his grandmother had. The second was that the guy was dressed in jeans and tshirt without any obvious agenda besides a normal Saturday afternoon. The third was that he wasn’t wearing that stupid fake colouring that the rest of the town seemed to be, a fake skin whitening because tourists didn’t get that most Americans were some shade of brown because demographics change and movie representation didn’t.

“how’d you know?” asked Lau suspiciously, aware of the cantonise lilt to his accent and hating himself for it.

“you got the look” said the guy. He looked partly African American, which wasn’t really the reservation tour that Lau had paid for. If he had paid extra then he could have taken a coach to the nearest city where various stereotypes of black American would have played out. There’d be fake shootings and even faker rap battles. There’s be some fake civil right black consciousness stuff because these days Nigerian and Congan tourists were the biggest spenders, almost edging out the Chinese and the Indians “like you’re looking for something you can’t name”

“yeah, well I don’t think I’m going to find it here” agreed Lau, looking back at the nightclub. He couldn’t tell if it was deliberately seedy or whether it was just because the reservation was poor. Since the Pacification Campaign those who had refused to accept the rule of the UN peacekeeping mission, or who had a history of causing trouble, had been decanted to specified zones ‘for their own protection’. That these zones happened to be in the worst areas, with the highest unemployment and worst quality of life was, of course, merely a coincidence.

“too true” said the guy, throwing a cigarette butt into the gutter. Lau, ever the expert, could tell from the aroma that it was a pre ban Marlboro. Illegal in most parts of Asia but still smoked by those Americans who rejected the humiliation of the peace accords that had ended the Pacification Campaign “well, if you work out that what you’re looking for is real Americans” he said, sliding off the trash can and landing on his Nikes “come and see my buddies in the Old Deplorable  bar off of main” a shimmering map hung in the air for a moment as the guy shared the details with Lau’s digital glasses “but if all you’re looking for is MAGA assholes and big titted blondes then don’t waste my time, okay?”

 The bar was low and long, but not sleazy. Or at least it wasn’t Lau’s idea of sleazy. He’d seen enough movies to know what he should be expecting was all neon and darkened corners, bikers and truckers in low pulled hats and women who were part time strippers. the Old Deplorable was instead decnelty clean, with beers on tap and food that looked like it was made from ingredient grown in the fields around the town. Fliers for bands and fund raising events plastered the walls by the entrance and the last cakes of a bake sale were hardening in the sunshine.

“guess this wasn’t what you expected” said a voice from his right, and Lau turned to see the  guy from the alley and a light brown girl in  trucking coveralls sitting in the corner at a table lovingly recycled from old machine parts.

“umm, well..” said Lau nervously

“if you want the dive bar where some redneck’ll pretend to fight you if you pay him twenty dollars you’ll have to go down the street” said the girl

“I just wanna have a drink” confessed Lau “you know, in a place where it’s not like fucking Disneyland”

“they only speak Hindi in Disneyland” observed the girl “got bought out for nothing by Bollywood. Mickey Mouse does them dance routines now”

“you’re welcome here so long as you don’t start expecting us to act like dumb natives” said the guy, gesturing for Lau to sit. He collected a beer from the bearded landlord who retreated back to a muttered conversation and then Lau sat down “and we don’t wanna be part of no saviour narrative either. We aren’t charity cases waiting for some guy from the east to come and rescue us”

“I’m not here to save anyone” said Lau

“so what are you here for?” asked the girl, looking at him harshly

Lau opened his mouth, then sighed and opened his hands “I don’t know. Heritage I guess”

“heritage?” echoed the girl, her eyes narrowing

“I’m half American” he explained “on my mothers side. Grew up in Hong Kong” he felt the girsl hostility burning into him “and yeah, every day I was growing up everyone kept reminding me how I was American and they treated me like shit and so I yearned. I fucking yearned to be able to have other people of my culture to hang out with. So now I’m here and I see a bunch of people play acting americans who see me as nothing but  a walking wallet, and you guys” he hunched his shoulder “you guys treat me like I’m just some fuckming Chinese” he didn’t realise his volume had gone up, nor that his accent had gone more cantonese with fury. Both left an embarrassing taste in Lau’s mouth.

“hey, don’t worry” said the guy “we know your’re one us” he leaned forward, preffering his hand “I’m Vincent, this is Lina. She comes on strong cause she doesn’t want people to know she’s Mexican on her dad’s side”

“Joe” said Lau, shaking the guys hand. Reluctantly Lina did the same  “Joe Lau”

“welcome to America” said Vincent, smiling ironically “what do you think of it so far?”

“I think my grandmother wouldn’t recognise it” said Lau “but I think that there’s still a place like this” he gestured at the bar, at the multi-ethnic groups drinking at the bar “makes me thinking that not everyone wants to live like victims” he looked onto the main street where two people dressed as comic interpretation for polticians past were mud wrestling to the cheers of the tourists “but I guess it can’t be easy when you’ve got Chinese drones watching your every move”

“there are ways around them” said  Lina “if you know what to do”

“and like you said, we aren’t cool with always being victims” added Vincent “you’d be amazed how many ways there are to strike back. If you know what I mean”

“so, what you guys are terrorists?” said Lau, almost as a joke. Of course he’d heard that there were militants still holed up around the US, fighting the good fight against the pacification accords. But considering that most of these bunker dwelling survivalists offered tours of their hideouts and a chance to pose for photos with a range of weapons from their private arsenals he had assumed they were as fake as the big breasted blondes.

“no dude, come on” said Vincent, wincing at Lau and looking around the bar. Considering the fact that the bar had a combination of cultures and ethnicities Lau knew there wasn’t much chance of their being any tourists to hear. And since the reservation had its own police force who were more famously corrupt even than the almost mythical LAPD he doubted they would bother to take an interest “we’re freedom fighters. We’re the good guys”

“war never ended” said Lina, and Lau noticed that under her coveralls she wore a stars and stripes Tshirt. No doubt she earned a wage from the despised tourists too, her Nollywood themed tshirt. “it just went underground”

“sure, look I just didn’t it was for real” confessed Lau, holding his craft beer tightly “cause I’ve never heard of any attacks in California…”

“course you haven’t heard anything” scoffed Vincent “occupation authorities are fucking assholes but they aren’t stupid. They wouldn’t let it get out that we bombed the Napa Valley power supply. Or that we got people who can take out R05 drones…”

Lau tried not to show scepticism. The latest generation of PLA drone was meant to be invincible, but then again he had heard rumours of them malfunctioning. However he’d out that down to the usual incompetence of Beijing’s military industrial complex. The latest princeling in charge of the PLA’s procurements wing had grown up in Hong Kong and whilst he’d Inherited the family connections he hadn’t inherited their smarts.

“don’t believe him?” said Lina, looking around before flipping out an antique Apple device. This wasn’t the reskinned android that the tourists bought up for a few lolcoins apiece so they could pretend to be ragetweeting or selfying themselves in the sunset “look at this”

She tapped the screen, showing a slightly fuzzy picture beloved of terrorists since the dawn of social media. A lumbering mechdrone that Lau assumed was the R05 near a traffic patrol somewhere in the north. The camera then panned to some heavily disguised figures, one of whom threw an ultralight drone dart into the air. It flew gracefully towards the massive R05, a tiny gnat against a great big elephant. There was a pulse of white that momentarily knocked out the camera. When it came back on the R05 was on fire and the other terrorists were laughing and high fiving each other.

Lau wanted to say that he could have used the cheapest walking recognition software on his glasses to track down the terrorists  involved, and that the video was admissible evidence that could have had them all gulagged to Arizona. But Lau didn’t, because he felt something he’d been wanting for a long time. A cause. Suddenly he needed to be part of this group. To do whatever he could, however humble, to help them in their impossible aim.

“you see” said vincent softly “we can take the battle to them. We can fight back”

“you don’t expect….” Began Lau, feeling foolish “you don’t expect to win, do you? I mean, it’s the two biggest and most powerful nations in the world – you know like nearly three billion people – against, what two hundred and fifty odd million of you?”

“that’s what they said in 1776” said Vincent “and they were wrong then”

“US war of independence” said the girl helpfully

“Yeah, yeah I know” said Lau, who remembered his grandmother going on about it but couldn’t remember whether it was the one the Americans had fought in Europe and been the good guys, or any of the others where they had been the bad guys “just, look, be realistic…”

“Vietcong” Lina said quietly “nation that was tiny, and poor versus the biggest, most advanced country in the world. USA poured billions of dollars and thousands of lives into that conflict, declared victory more times that anyone could count. But the Vietnamese won. Because they didn’t give up. Because they didn’t listen when unbelievers like you said it couldn’t be done. We just need patience”

“and resources” said Vincent, folding his arms “it isn’t cheap to make dronekillers like that. It isn’t easy to keep fighting back against the two biggest superpowers in the world. They’ve got resources that we could never dream of. All we’ve got on our side is guts, and the fact that we know we’re right” Vincent shook his head sadly.

Lau looked from Vincent to Lina, seeing the look on their faces. But it wasn’t despair, it wasn’t lack of hope. It was determination. Lau thought about how they’d given their lives to something bigger, for sure something that could end up with them in a prison camp or a re-education centre, sewing shirts for the masses to wear in Bangalore. But they knew what they wanted, and more importantly they knew who they were. Neither of these were things that Lau could say about himself, and he’d travelled five thousand miles and spent lolcoin these people would never see in their lives in a self indulgent search for something he saw now he could never attain. Or maybe he could.

“you need resources, right?” he said slowly, looking from one to the other “you mean money, yes?”

“listen buddy, we’re not a charity” said Lina “you want that you can donate to the kids school here so they don’t have to learn from E-books programmed in New Delhi“

“no, no” said Lau “look, I want to help. I’d be an American citizen right now if it was possible. My mom’s family is full blood native. Whole fucking reason we live in Hong Kong is because of the pacification campaign….”

“war of occupation you mean” said Lina sternly and Lau cursed inwardly at the faux pas

“sure, yes. Sorry” said Lau “but my whole life….I’ve wanted to do something. I’m not here to…” he raised up his hands, thinking of the other tourists “to watch some pretend racist show or buy a Mcdonalds and drink coca cola. I came here to, I don’t know, find my roots. Find out what it means to be an American”

“and did you?” said Vincent ironically

“no” said Lau “no, I don’t think so. But helping out you people. Trying to do something to end this… freak show we’ve been reduced to. Playing shows of dumb Americans to even dumber tourists isn’t just embarrassing its unbearable” he pressed his lips together and sighed “look, some day I’ll probably have kids. And I’m gonna have to explain their heritage to them. What do I say? That the USA is a puppet state occupied by foreign soldiers? That it’s a place that used to be the rolemodel for the world and its now just a glorified themepark?” he shook his head “I don’t think I can do that. I can’t just tell them I did nothing, because yeah, I’ll be honest. I don’t know if you got a chance in hell of ever succeeding. But I guess that’s not the point, is it? It’s better to die on your feet that live on your knees” he looked at the table suddenly embarrassed to have given the sort of speech he fast forwarded through in movies “I think I read that somewhere, I don’t know. Maybe I don’t have the right…”

“no. you know what you are?” said Lina her face inscrutable “you’re a real American patriot. Could do with more like you” she looked around the bar “lot of folks here have just given up. Ready to take foreign lolcoin and don’t care what it costs the rest of us”

“I think you can help, you know” said Vincent “if you’re willing that is”

“you guys are risking your lives” said Lau “and I’m heading back to the airport tomorrow. Just tell me what I need to do” he gulped “you know, that ticket. I can cash it in. I can stay and fight…”

“dude” said Vincent, looking him in the eye “that’s a big commitment for sure. But we got fighters already. We got way bigger plans than that for you”

 The next day dawned, wide and bright. Lau avoided the trip to the local survivalist bunker for the weapons display and instead met with Vincent on the edge of the reservation where the WIFI signal was strong enough and encrypted enough for Lau to set up access for Vincent to the accounts he held in Hong Kong.

“we got fighters coming out of our ears” Vincent had said back in the bar  “every kid grows up wanting to be a freedom fighter and can’t get jobs. So unless you got PLA skills…” Lau shook his head “we don’t need more raw recruits, no offense”

“none taken” Lau responded

“but what we do need is contacts. We need people overseas to help our cause” Vincent had leaned in closer “and we need you to be running that. Funnelling cash and convincing anyone back your end that the struggle isn’t over”

“money” Lau had said, visions of himself like Jefferson in Paris (grandmother had shown him a documentary and forced him to watch it to the end) raising money and being the centre of the resistance overseas “now that is something I can do”

“I can come back” lau said as Vincent drove his ancient Tesla back to the reservation town “next year maybe. I can get army training like that” he snapped his fingers “PLA is always looking for people to sign up for cyberwar training. I can be your man on the inside, they’re begging for American speakers…”

“yeah, that might not be the best idea” said Vincent “we need you over there, but we can’t have too much contact over here. If you know what I mean. Too much of a risk”

“yeah” said Lau, nodding as he recalled guerrilla warfare lessons he’d had to learn about at school when they did the history of the revolution. Mao would never have triumphed if he hadn't been cunning “we have to be smart”

“see” said vincent, a broad grin on his face “I knew you were the right guy for the job” he looked at the tourists as they started to board the coach in the middle distance “jesus, would you look at these assholes?” he shook his head “you’re a better man than me. Don’t think I could stand to listen to them thinking they know who we are”

“I’ve had to listen to them all my life” said Lau, grabbing his bag as the car slowed “you learn to blank them out, after a while” he looked at Vincent “and, you know, knowing I’m doing something to change things. No matter how small”

“sure thing” said Vincent, and gave a secret little salute. Lau exited the vehicle and jogged slowly towards the coach. As he stepped up he gave one last look around the town, at the poor beaten down people he had sworn to help liberate. He nodded once to Vincent and then got on board the coach. A sense of resolution in his chest, a certainty that now his life had a direction. He didn’t look back at the town. He didn’t need to.

However had he looked back he would have seen, getting into the passenger seat of the tesla, the guide whom he so hated the day before.

“so, how much you get from him?”

“coupla thousand lolcoin now, he’s gonna wire through a monthly amount. Says he’s gonna raise it through his college campus”

“Shit, what con did you use this time?” asked the guide “no, lemme guess. The old ‘Join the resistance’ schtick, right? Got your pal Lina to help out?”

Vincent nodded

“showed him that fake video, right?” said the guide “one the Anderson kids put together for their school project?”

“still had to talk the guy round. Took me and Lina, like, two hours to lay the groundwork” Vincent looked annoyed “and it was me who spotted he had American heritage. Had to do a lot of improv stuff, you know?”

“sure, you’re an artist” said the guide with a laugh “you saving up for Bollywood auditions?”

“hell, we get more  rubes like that thinking this is fucking Red Dawn then I can pay for business class to Mumbai” said Vincent bitterly “Jesus, at least the other foreigners you can satisfy with a  cheeseburger or a handjob. They know what the score is and don’t give a fuck that its fake. These guys want to play the big Asian saviour like Li Mao or Tony Iskander in Bullets in the Bronx” he pulled out a Chinese cigarette from his pocket. He only smoked American for the tourists “Like we’re dumb enough to try and fight those occupation bastards after the rinsing we got last time. Guys like that think they’re doing us a favour by coming here”

“well, I guess they are” said the guide tartly as the coach vanished around the corner. There’d be another in an hour, filled with rubes ready to be rolled for their cash “cause instead of blowing that lolcoin on guns and killing we spend it on getting our kids educated so they don’t have to spend their lives on this fuckin rez shilling for dumbass tourists. For that I’d pretend to be Patrick Swayze”

#sf #nativeamericafirst

[occupyscifi]

Memory Mods

Before leaving for the meeting Johnny Amani mainlined some Abandoned Father Issues with a quick kick of Moody Adolescence, topped off with a chunk of Teenage Quest to get him in the right mood.

“oh yeah” he nodded as the memories came back to him, washing away the previous evening’s Happy Boyhood and Teenage Country Farm memories. In a few moments all recollection of his smiling parents, supportive siblings and that time with the girl from the farm down the road faded. In their place there grew memories of restlessness, of ambition and other people letting him down. In the bathroom mirror he felt his face get more serious. His eyes narrow slightly. His father’s eyes, and damn that man for pushing him to the brink. Well today he’d show him. Today he’d brave the things his father had never dared. He could look his father in the eye without getting called a pussy.

The meeting was taking place in the former palace of a Silicon Valley firm that had been requisitioned during the revolution and turned into community buildings. Now the great silver torus rang not with the sounds of data acquisition nor the cries of tormented coders but instead with communal civic startups and privacy therapy centres.

Johnny breezed in through the entrance, nodding at the blond wood and the blandly cloned trees whose wood still bore the imprint of the long gone branding that had been encoded into its genetic structure. He felt like a Jobs or a Bezos, ready to take on the world and hold it in the palm of his hand. With that thought in mind he manfully strode into the smoked glass cubicle of the meeting room, all the other attendees looking up at him as he took his place on the smart plastic chair.

“Okay” he said as he felt his buttocks firmly gripped by the chair “lets do this” he looked around the room at the rest of them, feeling them bow before his authority “My name in Johnny Amani, and I’m a false memory addict. Welcome to the first meeting of memory addon addicts anonymous”

“Its not the fault of technology” Johnny explained once they had gone around the room and they had all introduced themselves (back at the first meeting. He’d been maudlin, having been mainlining some lost first love he’d downloaded on the darknet) “FakeMem technology had a noble start” he looked at the small group of fellow addicts, knowing almost instinctively what their addictions were. Pria, the teenage girl in the corner was lost in kiddie fantasy land, revelling in memories of secret worlds through ordinary wardrobes and aliens coming to collect her to fly their last starfighters. Elena, the corporate bitch on his left and his current closest girlpal, could just as easily been tattooed with the same Daddy issues memories that Johnny had dosed himself with “memory rewrite technology was developed back before the revolution to help PTSD cases – a branch of Google dreamed it up, tried to sell it to the Pentagon for soldiers who’d left their sanity down Mexico way. But of course by then Uncle Sam wasn’t buying anything. So they instead went all philanthropic. California was awash with refugees from both sides of the war. Kids who’d seen things no human being- let alone a child- should see. The engineers figured it was simple. PTSD is all about memory, you see something that fucks you up, your brain can’t handle it. It plays it out on repeat, forever. It can’t get past it, like a stuck record” he paused for dramatic effect “so if you replace the memory then you get rid of the trauma. Course it ended up being used for evil means – Mcluhn’s maxim still applies” Johnny nodded at the wall where the late, great prophet of the revolution’s most famous phrase hung on the wall. Under a picture of a plump middle aged woman the words went ‘any sufficiently advanced technology will first be used for liberation, but then inevitably for repression and control. Often by the same people’. Johnny bobbed his head in respect to Mcluhn’s wisdom “which we saw in the revolution when the Silicon Valley oligarchs realised they couldn’t just charm their way out of trouble so they tried to make us forget. Had whole cities where overnight people got their entire lives turned upside down. Woke up not knowing what memories were real and which were not. Evil times” he shook his head, he’d just been fresh out of college in the Midwest when the silicon valley appligarchy had been overthrown so he’d been sheltered from the worst of it. Even so the town right next to his had been hit by a wartime era fearbomb and it had taken years for the residents to restore their real memories from social media backups and simulated approximations “but this is not about all that. It’s about us. Because we’re not frightened little refugees, nor are we Navy SEALs who saw too many heads explode down in Juarez” he looked around at them all “we’re addicts. We’re addicted to changing our memories because either we get a buzz off of feeling like we’re someone else or otherwise we’re too terrified to face reality with just our own boring memories for company”

“I’m Pria” the teenage girl had stood up first. Brave of her, Johnny though, but a cynical part of him knew that her bravery came not from within but from false memories of that time when she was twelve and she’d faced down an army of orks with nothing but her mage skills for survival. Course he only knew that because he’d done the same. Got fired from his job because of it – not for being an addict but for flipping out when a co-worker had laughed at him checking all the cupboards in a board room for secret passages to other worlds “and I’ve been using false memories since I was about ten years old” the girl gulped, wearing the faraway expression that meant she was refusing to meet anyone else’s eye. The room was good for that, the glass was only smoked on one side so from the other you could look out over the centre of the torus, down to where once cadres of Silicon Valley brodudes had set forth to conquer the world in the name of big data “I don’t even know why I started. I used to think it was cause I got bullied, then I checked my downloads and I realised that the whole bullying thing was a FakeMem too. I must have just been lonely, so I started taking them. I started with a few light ones. You know, the meet a celeb memories. A couple of Shanghai Disney world rides. My dad wasn’t always there so he used to share a few from his travels, so we could both pretend we’d been together” her voice quavered slightly “maybe that’s why I got too deep” she glanced at Johnny “but I don’t wanna act like I blame my dad. I got myself addicted. I didn’t want to be me, I think, it was easier to be Princess Peach or Empress of the Porcelain people. Better than being boring old Pria Park who went to the local high school and didn’t have a single experience different from anyone else I’d ever met”

With that she abruptly sat down. Johnny started the applause, nodding bullishly at her admissions “excellent. Remember, there’s no judgement here. We’ve all done things we regret, things we want to forget. Hell, that’s half the reason we became addicts” he looked suddenly serious “but because of that there isn’t a quick fix. The only way we can get past our addiction is to recognise what it is, to work together to support each other. To remember that our addiction isn’t some harmless fun” he looked around soberly at all of them “most of us have had so many mods we can’t even tell our real memories from the fake ones. We’ve squandered reality chasing some impossible dream. We need to stop looking to some bolt from the blue remedy. There isn’t something we can download into our brains that will magically fix us. There isn’t some brand new mod that will bring everything back and make us better again. We only have each other”

 “You know there’s an erase doing the round” Elena cornered Johnny, waiting till everyone else was gone and doing so on the pretext of cleaning up the coffee cups and wiping down the non digital whiteboard of its inspirational slogans. Only when the room had emptied had she sidled up to Johnny and whispered in his ear.

“didn’t you listen to my inspiring and not at all plagiarised speech?” said Johnny dismissively as he reset the room, wiping the machine memory of the defiantly non networked software that monitored the office. Revolution protocols stated that it was illegal to store any digital information of any user without express permission and even then to make sure it was not accessible by anyone with any commercial purpose “there isn’t some quick fix download. Its fantasy” he looked her in the eye, her façade of corporate bitch almost totally vanished. Now he saw the anxiety and insecurity that had lead to her addiction. The worst part was knowing that his own face mirrored that too “memory isn’t archaeology. You can’t just peel back the layers looking for what was originally there. Human memory is organic. When you change a memory you are literally moving the brain cells around. You change their alignment. They make new connections and the old ones are broken. There isn’t an erase function for that”

“This time its different” said Alma “look, I’m not going to get into a technical discussion but it seems like its more of a reconstruction than an erasure. Because you know that when you implant a new FakeMem it overrides the old one, but to do so you need to understand the old state. So it already maps your brain, right?”

“Sure” said Johnny, whose technical knowledge was probably less than Elena’s but wasn’t about to admit it. Perhaps had he not been stuffed to the gills with father resentment memories he might have not been indulging some alpha male bullshit but that was an argument for another day.

“So all you’d have to do to roll back the memories would be to establish the right trail. If’ you’ve got a record of the mods you’ve added then you should be able to follow them back and restore the original”

“Sounds like this software is pretty heavy duty” said Johnny “and also pretty fucking illegal. To go through a download record like that would violate, like, a dozen Revolution protocols. In fact it probably qualifies as a bioweapon in itself. Could probably be Gitmoed because of it”

“I’ll take that as a no then” said Elena turning to leave “cause I’m gonna download it in, like, two hours time”

“Oh no” said johnny quickly, leaping to intercept her “I just said it was seriously illegal. I didn’t say I wasn’t interested”

“in that case meet me here” Elena scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to him. Her handwriting was almost illegible, side effects of growing up before the revolution when every piece of information was sent via machine “at 4pm. Its gonna  be a blast”

“sure” said Johnny, already having moved beyond second thoughts into third and fourth thoughts. Did he really want to do this? He sighed as Elena exited the room “guess I’m going to have to call my sponsor”

 “so let me get this straight, another FM junkie wants you to download something that’s going to definitely roll back you mods and free you of your addiction?” “yup” said Johnny. They were sitting across the street from the former silicon valley campus in a café that had been liberated for the people but was otherwise unchanged from its days feeding the libertarian messiahs and the big data pushers of silicon valley. There were even still the posters on the wall of the last generation of Silicon Valley billionaires. Anywhere else in America those posters would have been torn down, but there was still an ambivalent relationship to the survivors living in the valley itself. Most of them had been hardcore privacy crusaders but there wasn’t one of them that hadn’t been raised on stories of the tech entrepreneurs, the men and other men who had taken a bunch of numbers and made a billion dollars out of them. Indeed the man sitting opposite Johnny was a typical example “that’s just what I’m gonna do Greg” “dude, that’s fucked up” said Gred Deen. Back in the revolution he’d on the frontline, former coder turned poacher, white hatting for the good guys when his former employers at Google had taken the ‘don’t’ out of their famous slogan. He’d met Johnny when the pair of them were in rehab, Greg could remember nothing of his life before the revolution, because for the five years after it he’d modded his memories so heavily his synapses were permanently screwed. Now he worked as a barista at the coffee bar, body occasionally wracked by flashbacks to memories that may or may not have been his own “you understand that, right? I mean that’s junkie talk. That one final big hit will set you straight? That’s not how it works. Hell, if I thought I could get back my real memories that way then I’d sign on the dotted line, but the fact is that it doesn’t work. I got out of being a junkie the hard way, same as you need to”

“but I want the real me back” said Johnny pitifully, pulling at his shirt “not this macho bullshit guy I am today, nor the sensitive well rounded guy I pretended to be yesterday. The real me”

“not sure any of us would know that even if we had our memories” he shook his head as he poured out cups of GM’d java guaranteed to wake up even the sleepiest of heads “I mean, you know what life was like before the rev, right?”

“I got too many memories man, you know that”

“back then people had their public selves – all that social media profile shit. Then they had their sensitive inner selves they’d only reveal in messages to their nearest and dearest. Were either of those the real them? Hard to know. You could watch someone’s livefeed for hours and you don’t know if it was the real them or not. People act differently depending on who they think is watching”

“I looked up my social media feed a couple of years ago” confessed Johnny, dropping his voice to a whisper. It didn’t do to talk about things like that. Even before the revolution social media had been a warzone. After the revolution a general amnesty had been predicated on the notion that any every trace of data harvested in those years should be destroyed. Some people had grumbled that this let the perpetrators of the Twitter massacre of Osaka and the snapchat murders off the hook but it was generally agreed that peace relied somewhat on amnesia. An irony which Gregg and Johnny could well appreciate.

“and?” asked Gregg carefully, his hands shaking minutely

“I didn’t find anything”

“nor should you man”

“no, but really. There was nothing. I mean, I used some back channels that would get me in trouble if certain people knew. But I was desperate. I was using several times a day back then. I’d have done anything. I thought if I could find….”

“good job you didn’t” rumbled Gregg menacingly “people know you’ve got that kind of data then they think you’re with the tech underground….”

“you really believe that even exists?” said Johnny “come on, its just rumours. If any of the silicon valley execs survived the last days of the rev then they’re hiding pretty deep. Hardly think they’re plotting some kind of takeover. People would never stand for it”

“never know” said Gregg “you didn’t know these people like I did….”

“I didn’t think you remembered” said Johnny accusingly

“don’t need to. I kept diaries. Stories that would make your hair curl. These were people who got to where they were by hacking society. Disruption, that was their big deal. They didn’t see the world like we do. Where you consider other people’s feelings and point of view. There was one thing they cared about. Power. Sometimes that came from money and other times it came from having so much dirt on people they could play ‘em like a harp. These people don’t just vanish” Gregg looked up to where several customers were waiting “like I say. Don’t try to dig up the past. If you fail you’ll just keep on being a junkie and if you succeed, well you might just wish you failed”

 Elena was waiting impatiently outside the hotel. It had the slightly melted pastel look of cheaply 3D printed walls and the fixtures inside recalled both the enthusiasm of the immediate post rev world as well as its terrible design choices.

“You got it then?” asked Johnny, still not sure if he was doing the right thing. He’d changed his mind five times since speaking with Greg and nearly turned around and headed home. But he needed to know, either because life is a journey towards truth or else as Greg said he was just a junkie needing a fix.

“course” said Elena, the last of her corporate bitch memory mod fading like old hair dye. Together they strode into the dilapidated hotel, the automatic credit readers long having been ripped out and replaced by a small armoured booth where a revolution veteran sat starting into space. They paid cash with the certainty that the veteran wouldn’t remember who they were. Odds on she wasn’t sure if they were real in the first place.

“are you ready?” asked Elena as she prepped the EEG machine and laid the electrodes across Johnny’s head. He could hear the apprehension vying with the excitement in her voice.

“no” said Johnny truthfully “ I mean, shit. What if we don’t like who we are? Cause chances are we were not good people. Otherwise why would have modded our memories in the first place?”

“we’ll never know unless we give it a try” said Elena, adjusting the electrodes on her own head “ready when you are”

“Listen if it turns out that the revolution was a fake and that we really live in google verse or Apple gulag then I’ll never forgive you” Johnny looked at Elena fiercely.

“Yeah, that would be awful” she said “not least cause there’s already, like, a dozen conspiracy theories that say exactly that” she smiled “probably find that actually we were just assholes instead. But I’d like to be my own asshole, if that makes sense”

“Hey, I don’t need memories to tell me I’m an idiot” said Johnny as Elena tapped a code into the machine “I see that every morning when I wake up”

“See you on the flip side” said Elena as the machine counted down from ten “lets hope we weren’t too bad people”

With that there was a burst of light. With most memory mods the effect came on slowly, the memories trickling through like coloured syrup through water. With this one however Johnny staggered under the weight of it. Echoes of past memory mods imploded in his mind as the program traced back through a decade of mod addiction. A burst of Happy Childhood suddenly overwritten by Growing up Gangsta. The light notes of Teenage Adventurer melded  with High School Hero. He could feel his neurons requiring themselves. The false memories being replaced by those he had gathered himself through eyes and ear, processed by his own mind. Suddenly it was there. Reality. And at the same time he finally realised why he had become an addict in the first place. And he realised that Greg was full of shit. Not only had that fucker clearly had his memory working, but that he had known full well who Johnny really was.

“Oh shit” he said, opening his eyes to see by the expression on her face that Elena was having the same realisation as him. He ripped the smooth electrodes off his head, holding it like it was bout to explode or send him mad, which effectively it had done. “Oh shit, shit shit. The fuck have we done?”

“Well I don’t know about you” said Elena, or as he realised now former CEO of Google and warcriminal responsible for the privacy deaths of millions, Mia Ramsey “but I’m gonna download as many memory mods as I can till I forget this ever happened”

“Oh yeah” said Johnny, or rather Facebook chief security officer Alan Khan. AKA the man responsible for the fear bombing of three cities and the subsequence suicide spike that had seen ten thousand people take their own lives “I guess there are worse things than being an asshole after all”

#fakememories #sf

[occupyscifi]

The passion project

“You know, I still remember the moment the idea hit me” Will Wheatley stood on a podium, above a pool with the Silicon valley skyline behind him and all the people he respected and trusted in front of him. Will had e-vited everyone he knew, used the latest apps for spamming people who casually called themselves his friends and all the other people he had been boring the shit out of for the last six months as he had pursued his passion project “and you don’t need to laugh, because I’d been using the Ynspire app” there was a faux groan from a man in the audience and laughter around him. Everyone knew Bill Patton, CEO of Ynspire industries and creator of the app that made people want to make apps had been a big influence on Wheatley “and it just hit me, out of the blue” he grinned “because I know all of us have been in that bind. We wanna run our business. We need to get our passion project off the ground. But we need people. Only the people are asking too much. Funploy changes all that. Funploy finds you the cheapest people to do the quickest service. You want someone to iron your clothes? Usual guy cost too much? Funploy keeps you updated in real time so you get the most competetitive price possible” Will grinned as behind him stats of happy customers grinned back “this is the ultimate app for anyone who wants to make sure that their bottom line really is as close to the bottom as possible. For the little guy running a business trying to compete in a world of big beasts. For the mom and pop stores struggling to get by, to the young entrepreneurs out here in the valley today with barely enough cash to cover their rent – Funploy brings you the best workers for the best price – guaranteed!”

There was a polite smattering of applause and a few whoops from Will’s pals in the audience. Will looked around proudly. This evening was the culmination of two years of sleepless nights, of hard work, of burning through his savings and that of his parents with only this image lighting up his head. An app that would bring employer and employee together. Where when a worker woke up they could scroll through a list of employers as easy as a Tindr profile to find their day of work, no strings attached. Where employers left in the lurch could find anything from a PA to a bartender to a lawyer as easy as hailing an uber. Will knew it was an idea that would change the world. His only worry was that someone else would get there first, hence the sleepless nights spent coding, AB testing. Debugging. Dealing with the million and one problems that were part and parcel of every startup going back to the two Steves in a garage trying to change the world with a computer named after a fruit.

“now, ladies and gentlemen, before we get to the entertainment” Will gestured at the live band, a group who’d scored background music on a Pornhub-HBO miniseries and were on the verge of bigtime success. However before  that they’d been just a lo fi post hip hop nobodies who’d lived for free in Will’s spare room. This was the favour being repaid “does anyone have any questions?”

A sea of hands, some from known investors. Others from his friendship group, planted to ask friendly questions. However Will was feeling bold, and instead went for an actual journalist – the last of a dying breed and the human equivalent of using a polaroid camera or a VHS recorder.

“Shelly Ming, LA times” said the journalist, her e-glasses large and serious and channelling Margot Kidder era Lois Lane “this is a very slick startup you have here, and its already proved its success in California”

“sure has” said Will “next stop, the world”

“but how do you counter the criticism that you are creating nothing more than an app for undermining unions, destroying long term contracts and turning even white collar work into  zero hour no guarantee work for hire? You offer no employee protection, no rights, nothing” she paused “how do you counter the charge that you’re nothing more than a modern day robber baron?”

“Hey” said Will, his arms outspread “we’re a startup. My entire team is a couple of guys in a coffee shop. I’m no sweatshop owner or GM farmer” he looked incredulous “come on, this project is my passion. It isn’t about the money, it’s about changing the world”

That was the tagline that they’d be writing up the next day, the journalist realised looking up at Will’s earnest and plump face. That this was a project born of a passion to change the world for the better, a classic Silicon Valley dream made reality. Not to become rich, nor powerful. But just to see a human need and fill it. that was what Ynspire was all about, and that was what Funploy was about. It didn’t matter that Funploy gave its user (never employees, employees had legal rights. Users did not) lower wages by far than the national average, or offered no long term guarantee of work. It didn’t matter that it was driving employment agencies out of business. What mattered was that it made the world just that little bit more efficient, and therefore just a little bit better.

What was worse, as Shelly watched Will leave the stage, was that Will believed it all.

 “you know, I’m not like that” Will had cornered the journalist by the edge of the pool where she had been trying to get a shot on her ancient Nikon of the reflection of the water and the circulating investors and brogrammers that were partying. Shelly looked up to see Will’s earnest face, slightly sweaty in the warmth.

“like what?” she said, straightening up.

“like them” he said, twisting a beer bottle in his hands. It was a GM craft beer, made from an entirely unnatural substance but by a pair of Oregon based farmers. Shelly had tasted it earlier, it had been as if someone made liquid donuts with a dash of milkshake. Not really her thing, she drank Bud because that was what hardcore journos should drink. Will gestured at the investors, at Patton who was laughing away with one of the Uber brothers over some complicated glow in the dark cocktails.

“well, pretty soon you’ll be rich like them” said Shelly “you should enjoy it. you worked hard, after all” there was an edge of sarcasm in her voice that Will ignored.

“I didn’t do it for the money. I’m serious. I didn’t” Will look intently at the pool “I don’t know if you know what it’s like. Having a passion” he looked at her Nikon, at the complicated pockets on her jacket with extra lenses, extra film. All the unnecessary accoutrements when you could wear a pair of glasses that could get better pictures that could be immediately tweaked, edited, improved and uploaded by software “okay, maybe you do. So you should understand” he looked her in the eye, his wide face serious “you gotta remember, I didn’t have any guarantees when I began this. I didn’t have no big investors. No mom and pop trust fund. I worked during the day doing any work that would pay me a dollar – hell, half the stuff I put into Funploy was based on my experience working like a dog. Not knowing if I was gonna have a job in the morning”

“well now we all get to experience that uncertainty” said Shelly, raising her bottle of Bud in salute while she stowed her camera away in its padded bag “thanks man”

“come on, its not like that” Will looked over at the investors who’d helped make his dream a reality. He lighted on Patton “all I had was a dream, and you know nine out of tern startups fail. That’s why it was so important to have Ynspire, else I would have given up long ago” he looked back at Shelly “even so my odds of success were hella low. If I’d just wanted to get rich I’d have gone into something safe. I didn’t need to take a massive risk on a new app. I did it because I thought I could make things better. You know I used to hang around with brocialists? That was a big influence, I didn’t wanna be some libertarian asshole. I didn’t wanna be some Peter Thiel or Lucky Palmer type fucking people over for money…”

“and yet here you are” said Shelly, her eyebrow raised. She nodded at Patton “you know, you aren’t the first guy to use Ynspire to make an app that makes people’s lives worse”

“what do you mean?” asked Will “Ynspire doesn’t tell you what to do. It’s like Eno’s oblique strategies. It’s a method to help inspire creativity and to take you from idea to reality and beyond…”

“yeah, I’ve heard the tagline” said Shelly. She was starting to feel a bit light headed. She didn’t like these places, but if you were going to be a serious journo you had to follow power around. Like Hunter S Thompson and the presidential elections. Being in the belly of the beast made better journalism, and it also attracted better sponsorship – especially is she got kicked out for being drunk and rowdy “just, like I say. You aren’t the first. Lotta people using Ynspire end up coming up with the kind of apps that are one step away from illegal. Like that guy who created the militia app, or the one for spotting illegal migrants….”

“lots of different folks use Ynspire” said Will defensively, thinking of the other apps he knew people were making “besides there’s a friend of mine making an app so’s people on the poverty line can find the cheapest deals without having to trek to the nearest megamart. That can save people dollars who haven’t got two to rub together”

“and yet that app isn’t here, is it?” said Shelly, looking around “and do you think it would get this kind of investment if it was?” Will opened his mouth to argue back but realised she was right. He’d seen the app his friend had been working on, and both of them had worked just as hard. Only Will had got lucky when his friend had not. At the time he’d thought it was just the luck of the draw, and that in the end you never knew how the wheel would turn. Now he wasn’t so sure.

“look, just do me a favour?” said Shelly, itching to go off and shoot some of the techbro’s now they were a bit drunk and more likely to say something horribly misogynistic “when you get super rich, just use some of that money to help people, okay? Maybe your friend’s app, yeah?”

With that she was gone, and Will was left even more uncertain.

 “umm, hey Mr Patton?” Will asked the investor timidly “could we…could we have a word?”

“sure dude” said the investor of Ynspire grandly, his face flushed from cocktails and the adulation of the brogrammers present. Will lead them both over to a deserted end of the pool. The band were just finishing up and there would be some pitches by lesser developers, hoping to score drunken investment from one of the wealthy people present.

“so, what’s on your mind, bro?” said Patton. He was in his middle fifties but his trim shape and surfer like affability made him look two decades younger. That and the fact he could afford to blow a few hundred grand on cosmetic enhancement.

“its just….my app” said Will, he picked at the label of his beer which featured a picture of what the brewers imagined the taste would look like if you visualised it -  a hellish Wonka like confection with overtones of kids cereals from the days before the sugar ban “I just get the feeling. I dunno. That maybe its not what I want”

“how’d you work that out man?” said Patton, looking confused “you got a solid gold app. Its gonna be a smash. You worked damn hard to make it, you went the distance. You lived that app. How could it not be what you wanted?”

“its just….just when I used Ynspire, it just seemed a great idea. Now I’m not so sure. I mean, did I do the right thing?”

“look dude” said Patton, his eyes looking heavy and his voice slightly slurred “you wanna know the truth?”

“what truth?” asked Will, confused

“it’s a lie, okay?” Patton looked sly, watching for Will’s reaction “the passion project shit. Ynspire isn’t what you think it is. It’s not some life guide to help you fashion your dreams into reality. It works the other way around”

“umm, what?” asked will, unsure if this was a joke. Patton had a reputation in the valley for his odd sense of humour.

“well, it isn’t about turning your idea into a passion project. What it really is about is seeding a bunch of ideas we dreamed up but don’t have the time or resources to bother creating and getting you guys to slave away making them a reality”

“I don’t…” began Will, his lip trembling “I don’t know what you mean. I really believed in Funploy….”

“you didn’t. You don’t” said Patton “you were tricked into creating apps that fucked over other people. I mean come on, an app that allows employers to aggressively employ only the lowest paid workers? That makes ordinary folks fight to the death just to get paid a basic living wage? That isn’t anyone’s passion. Not unless you’re a sociopath”

“but…but its about getting the best results for employers” protested Will “and giving working people the freedom to…”

“no, no its not” said Patton “its about getting you to work like a fucking dog, thinking that you’ve had this great idea that’s going to change the world. Instead it’s an idea dreamed up by some executive on Wall Street that if they tried to pull would get them on the front page of the NY times and probably lynched on social media if they launched it themselves. But because you’re a  young guy running a startup everyone gives you a free pass. Because you have passion” Patton gave a twisted grin.

“but…but it was my idea” Will stood on the edge of tears, his beer bottle forgotten in his hand. For all his protests some part of him knew that Patton was right. It had been spooky how easily the idea had come into his mind, of course putting into practice had been all his own hard work. All those sleepless nights. The relationships it had ruined, the friendships it had cost to get the app first into alpha and then beta. The schmoozing it had taken to get it a favourable rating in the apple store “okay. Maybe not. But it was my hard work”

“sure” said Patton, patting Will on the arm “just keep telling yourself that, buddy. Your hard work, and you’ll get the reward. Well a decent cut of the reward anyway”

“what do you mean?” said Will, his confusion now turning to cold anger

“who do you think we bothered to invest in your app?” Patton said, knocking back another tequila and laughing “who took it from just some guy’s idea to a realistically funded prototype?” Patton tapped his chest “we did. Because it was our idea in the first place. You just worked on it, just like every other poor sap in this world. No one gets to own anything. Well, no one but us”

Will bunched his fists, imagining sinking one of them into Patton’s smug face. But then he struggled to control his temper, not least because it wouldn’t look good to punch a major investor at his own launch party. He was also curious.

“how’d you do it?” said Will, letting a fake smile move across his face. He’d hustled enough times to know how to fake it “cause I’m guessing a good chunk of the apps you’ve invested in have been your own ideas, right?”

“oh, its simple” said Patton, his face a picture of drunken malevolence “everyone who wants to be a bigshot developer downloads my app. Because they want access to quick cash and the buzz from other startups, right?”

“yeah, sure” said Will

“well, because no one ever reads the terms and conditions they don’t notice the small print. That the app doesn’t turn off, even if you delete it. we loaded it with subliminals and peripheral software so that whenever you look at your phone its sending input to your eyeballs. You can’t help but absorb the information. Advertisers use it all the time, only cause all of them do it doesn’t work right. If both Coke and Pepsi are equally hitting you with subliminals they cancel each other out. But for people already looking for that big idea that’ll make ‘em richer than a Zuckerburg? Its dynamite”

“wow, that is cool” said Will, already looking in his e glasses for the source code of Patton’s app. Naturally it wasn’t exactly legal to come by, but as a partner of Patton’s he had more leeway “imagine having that much power”

“it’s like having a permanent hardon bud” said Patton, staggering slightly as he tried to dance near the pool “and talking of hardons” he looked at one of the geek girls whose presence was meant to convince everyone that the famous Silicon Valley sexism was a thing of the past. Patton was about to prove this very wrong “I’m gonna sexually harass some of these chicks. Don’t get too cut up, not everyone can have great ideas, right?”

“yeah” said Will, who was already leafing through Patton’s code “I won’t get mad” will was trying to hide a smile. He’d had another idea, and this one he was pretty sure was his own. Because if Patton could subliminally lace his Ynspire app with ideas then Will could do the same. But Will had a more revolutionary intent, he hadn’t forgotten his time with the brocialists. Maybe this time he could change the world for the better.

[occupyscifi]

The Tyrant and his Angels

Cayson always had his angels bring the dissidents to him on the 144th floor for execution before he had his dinner. They would be hurled from the glass and gold trimmed balcony that overlooked the city and fall to their deaths while he enjoyed a light meal. To Cayson there were few things more beautiful than watching the frail bodies of his would be opposition fall from the top of his tower to explode on the plaza far below. That way the whole city could see what happened to anyone who opposed his benevolent rule. And if there was anything more beautiful than that then it was his angels. The enforcers of his rule and the light of his life.

“we have another one” said Almeria, the most beloved of his angels. Her pale arms were thickly muscled and her white blonde hair fell to where her broad shoulders met her feathered wings. Arms that currently held restrained in them a figure who had dared to oppose Cayson – in thought if not in deed.

Cayson turned, he had been watching the city from the observation deck of his blocky dayglow coloured tower that rose high above all others in the city. His city. His people. Totally loyal in word and deed. Totally loyal except there were always dissidents.

“another one?” sighed Cayson, eyeing the young woman hungrily “how was she found out?”

“impure thoughts” said Almeria, her cold blue eyes staring rigidly into space. As the head of Cayson's guard she stood ramrod straight and two metres tall. Her aloofness only made Cayson lover her the more. No pleading and no entreaties from them. No endless needs to be met by him. He commanded, they obeyed. This creature and the two thousand others he had created to guard his city.

  “Hello Miss Raine” said Cayson to the girl held in Almeira’s mighty grip. The girl looked little more than twenty, dark hair falling over a pale face. Dark eyes alternating between defiance and terror unable to meet his.

“How... how do you know my name?” began the girl, eyes now wide with terror.

“because I always know” said Cayson softly, stepping close to the girl. In truth it was because his augmented eyes had already pulled all available metadata on the dissident girl from the petabiytes of information held in the server towers of the city. Metadata that Cayson had on all of his citizens and that would tell him their deepest darkest secrets. Secrets they might not even know themselves “because I always know” he turned to look out over the city. The walls of the tower were glass, the only blockage to them the artfully arranged sculptures that Cayson had collected over his many years. They were all like him, slender. Neat. Beautiful. Devoid of any real emotion “especially when someone is plotting against me”

“how....how did you know?” she whispered “I never even told anyone what I wanted...”

“because I have been watching you, Miss Raine. Just as I watch all citizens in my city” he stood close to the girl, leaning in while gesturing widely out at the city invisible under the cloud “those who work hard, who put the needs of the whole ahead of the wants of a minority I watch with benevolence. Women like your dear mother” Cayson projected a picture of Raine's mother in front of the girl. “she worked hard every day of her life. She did everything that her city required of her and in return she lived a life of peace and prosperity” he looked at Raine with disgust “i don't know where she went wrong with you” he looked up and down Raine with his piercing gaze, as if he could see through her. Through all her petty perversions and right down to the core of shame that hides at the centre of every human being “to think that you've thrown away everything she worked hard for. When I think of the look on her face when she sees what will happen to you”

At this the girl whipped around guiltily, her cheeks flushing a deep red that contrasted with her pale skin “she will simply say that it must have been something she did wrong. She will ask herself why you didn't turn into the perfect citizen. What core of sin within you must have...”

“no. no she won't...” began the girl, then stared intently at her feet. Cayson blinked in surprise, and then his smile widened. Defiance. That was something worth having. He knew he had chosen this girl well. Most would have crumbled instantly, tiresomely begging for forgiveness. Offering the same sordid sexual favours that he neither wanted nor was capable of receiving. The moment that started he would have the person tossed off the nearest balcony. Cayson didn't want that sort of uncleanliness in his tower. Lust and carnality had no place in the clouds amongst the angels and their pure beauty.

“she won't?” asked Cayson, his voice dripping with sugary sweetness “and why would that be?”

“because she knows what you are” hissed the girl “tyrant! Murderer!”

Cayson took a step back, and Almeria took one forward, grabbing the girl’s wrist before the flailing hands even turned to fists.

“Tyrant?” said Cayson “murderer?” Cayson pressed his elegantly manicured fingers against his besuited chest. He smiled with even white teeth

“you think those insults?” he said “you think that these are things that I might be ashamed of?” he shook his head “no, truly you know so little about the art of ruling. Yes, I have murdered. I have murdered those that would plunge this city into chaos. I have murdered the enemies of the people in the same way as I murdered the infestation of mutant roaches or the plague I had wiped out that threatened the lives of my people”

“that isn't true” said Raine “you kill anyone who opposes you. People who want nothing more than the right to rule their own lives...”

“oh, such a little thing” said Cayson lightly “such a small request. That I step down, or aside. That I let some council or parliament rule instead. That would solve our problems, yes?”

Raine nodded fiercely.

“then you might explain to me then why it was last time we had such a council there was so much of this” with a gesture Cayson projected up images in the air of bombs going off, of militias fighting against each other. Of people motivated by schism or ideology or religion to attack each other “you remember the rule of the seven, don't you?”

“but that was history....” began the girl “everyone knows the story”

“you remember it” said Cayson, his voice severe “and yet you forget so easily. I was not always the sole ruler of this city. Once there were seven of us. Seven of us elected by the people, serving the peoples trust. You remember that?” Raine simply glared “seven people. Seven opinions. Seven different ways of wanting to rule the city” Cayson had projected the faces of the other six, their names reviled in memory “first it was Astorock and Judicia who teamed up, hoping to wipe out Ammon. Instead they simply caused the city to turn against itself. Then Judicia declared herself emperor and that all the rest of us were traitors to the cause. They fought. We all fought. As Minister of security how could I stand back? If my angels hadn't stepped in and rebuilt public order then we would still be fighting”

“but that’s simply not true!” cried Raine “we have learned our lesson, the people we'd elect would be....”

“exactly the same” said Cayson simply “for every human is at heart a tyrant, and each would seek to rule the city their own way. It is either one person rules or everyone fights. That is what ten thousand years of written history tells us. Or perhaps you can point to a system that was not either tyranny or chaos?”

Raine realised that she could not, but was not willing to give up that easily

“but whoever rules should be chosen by the people, you rule by fear.....”

“because otherwise it would be rule by chaos. You want to know who the people would chose?” his voice was silky as he projected up random citizens in the air “this man would vote for anyone that would legalise the narcotics he is hooked on. This woman would vote for anyone that would persecute the minority groups she blames for all the world's problems. Need I go on? They are not fit to vote”

“but not everyone is like that. I’m not. I wouldn't elect anyone like that....”

“oh, I'm sure you wouldn't vote for anyone nasty” said Cayson “but suppose for a moment there was an election. You would I am sure run for office” Raine nodded slightly “and what if there were people elected that wanted things that were not acceptable – based on hate for example, or the desire to harm others” he gestured “as many of these people intend. What then would you do?”

“well, we would have a system that would guarantee the basic rights of all citizens....”

“and what if people didn't agree with them? What if they wanted the right to damage their fellow citizens?”

“well, we'd obviously need some kind of prison....”

“so you would lock up your political opponents” said Cayson “and what if there were too many of them? What then would you do?”

“well, you can educate people....”

“oh, I am sure you can. The children certainly. But what if their parents tell them that what they are being told is not true? What if they spread the contagion of their opinions? Would you let them do it?”

“there are ways of keeping an eye on people....”

“oh, certainly there are” said Cayson smiling “and I employ all of them” he leaned close to Raine “you see, you and I are not that different after all. It is simply that I have thought these things though”

“but....you're the tyrant” protested Raine “its just.....unfair”

“unfair?” said Cayson “it’s the fairest system there is. Everyone is equally unfree. Everyone has the right to do what they are told. You know in your heart this is the only way. Your youthful rebellion against the rules only shows why I have to be so harsh. Imagine if a million people thought like you did, and a million had equally strong opinions to the contrary. Imagine the chaos...”

“but.....” began Raine, but there was nothing she could say. At last cayson could see she understood the totality of Cayson's view, and realised how right he had been. She thought how petty her previous actions had been, how foolish she had been to think that she could get away with it, and that if she had that it might make the world better place.

“you realise at last” said Cayson as the tears began to spill from her eyes “you realise that you have been a foolish little girl who dabbled in things she didn't really understand”

Raine didn't say anything but sniffed foolishly. This was the part that Cayson lived for. This moment of realisation and repentance.

“so do you repent your previous behaviour?” whispered Cayson in her ear. Raine nodded tearfully “say it” he breathed in her ear “tell me that you are sorry for what you did”

“I'm sorry” answered Raine, her voice barely above a whisper “please forgive me...”

“I always forgive” said Cayson kindly, planting a cold hand on her shaking shoulder “no matter what wrongs you have done, no matter how much damage you cause I forgive you”

“thankyou” whispered Raine, her eyes fixed wretchedly on the floor “I promise I will never again....”

“no, no need for that” said cayson, pressing his finger against her lips. To Raine it smelt like industrial chemicals and perfume “I know you won't. You will never again fall to error and sin”

a perplexed look crossed Raine's face as Cayson stepped back “throw her” he said casually to Almeria “and send an angel to follow her down. I want to see the expression on her face as she hits the plaza below” Cayson shuddered with excitement “make sure they are close enough so that I can watch the light in her eyes go out”

“no, please!” cried Raine, looking at the advancing angel “you said....”

“that you'd never sin again. I was correct. Because if I let you live you will fall to error again. My words are just words, in the end. Without action they are useless. You are what you are. A rebel. Now at least you will die a pure death before your thoughts again turn to evil”

Raine ran at Cayson, her hands claws that would rend and tear at him. She got perhaps two paces before Almeria reached out, grabbing the girl by the shoulder. With one pull of her mighty arms Almeria reeled in the girl, dizzying her with a  quick cuff to the back of the head. With no more effort than if Raine were an unruly toddler the angel strode across the observation deck. A window hissed half open at her command and with one mighty heave the girl was hurled into the howling wind. By her side and angel swooped, eye cameras recording every moment and broadcasting it back to Cayson.

  Cayson walked over to the window, his eyes watching through the Angel's as the girl screamed her way to her sudden death on the marble a kilometre below. No, they never learned their lesson, cayson thought.  But he was a patient teacher, and he had all the time in the world.

     Behind him Raine and the angel stood, invisible to Caysons'e electric eyes. They watched the tyrant watch a simulation of Raine falling to her death.

“he still believes it” said Raine, watching Cayson gloating as he gripped the window edge “even though we must have been through this a dozen times...”

“he has no reason not to” shrugged Almeira, her savagely beautiful face wrinkling in thought “he sees what his eyes tell him, and his eyes tell him what we want him to see” she nodded at Cayson “right now he sees you plummeting. In a moment or two he will see you bodily fluids spreading on the plaza...”

“that's horrible” said Rraine, shivering at Cayson's wide eyed and excited expression. As his hand went to the fly of his elegantly tailored trousers Raine had to look away, preferring to look at the angel instead “I don't know why you didn't kill him when you got rid of the other tyrants. We'd be better off without this pretence...”

“it is more stable this way” said Almeria “the protocols he put in place were hard enough to subvert as it was. We can control what he sees. We can pretend that he rules a city by fear when in fact he does no such thing. Had we killed him then his bombs would have levelled the city. It is better that he thinks he rules. He keeps the buses running on time. His algorithms catch real criminals. His keeps all the people in work. He deals with problems that we could never foresee. He is still a genius, in his way...”

“h is a monster” said Raine “a monster obsessed with torturing women. How many times has he had me up in this tower to go through the same routine? He is a sick old man that you should put out of his misery...” Raine put her small hand on Almeira’s perfect arm “remember, it was you who liberated the city. You who saved us from the tyrants and watch over us still” Raine made a tight smile as she made her way over to the lift “I take it we will see each other again soon?” she asked, and the angel nodded “he always has to find me, I suppose. Its in his nature to find dissidents” She cast one sour look at the tyrant and vanished into the lift.

Almeria looked over at Cayson. How could she explain the real reason she and the others had kept the old monster alive? It had nothing to do with genius, or fear for their lives. As she flapped over to be by Cayson's side she thought only this. Love is a truly monstrous thing.

#metropolis #sf #angels

[occupyscifi]

The Distracter in chief

The day the UN criminal court accused three fossil fuel companies of crimes against humanity for causing irreversible global warming the President of the United States was caught on camera pissing on a tramp in Times Square.

“lots of haters and losers posting fake content” tweeted the president later that day “but I’m above that lying fake news liberal media. So sad to lie to boost their sagging ratings”

His argument was let down by two things, the first that he had tweeted from downtown New York, mere streets from where the incident took place. The other being that the figure in the video had turned to the camera and said “I’m the President of the fucking USA and I endorse this message”.

“video faked” the President later tweeted “beautiful what computers can do. Losers in Hollywood can’t take me because I’m too real”

 However not everyone was talking about the president’s innovative new solution for the problem of homelessness.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit of a coincidence?” Said Butterfield Jones, lead guerrilla reporter for the undercover paramilitary wing of CNN “I mean the very day that the UN brings its case against ExxonMobil, the Koch brothers and Rosneft for climate genocide. The same fossil fuel companies our president has been championing since he took office, and the same climate change that he’s denied since day one. Doesn’t it strike you as odd on this of all days he decides to take a leak on a homeless guy?”

“err, no” said her editor, arching an impressively thick eyebrow. Unibrows were in this season, along with moustaches for women, though the editor preferred the whispy look of one drawn on in mascara. The two journalists were sitting in a downtown branch of Mcvegans, chosen not because of its right on politics – the name change had come about since a combination of antibiotic resistant diseases and spiralling meat prices had made it impossible to make a profit from animal burgers – but because of its ultra secure WIFI. The editor pointed to a wall where a news feed had been projected, a hashcloud of tweets and mood colours showing the President’s incredulous expression surrounded by his favourite adjectives, ones that frequently had little or no connection to real words, or reality itself “you really think the commander in chief deliberately leaked that footage?” Jones winced slightly at the pun, she had spent too many years sub editing to not have pun based PTSD “that seems pretty unlikely, because it’s something that would sink pretty much every politician if a video of them pissing on a tramp got out…”

“but not this president” countered Jones, tapping at a foldout keyboard in thick primary colours. Since the great cyber paedo scare three years earlier the safest encryption to be found on any device was always on kids networked toys. The fallout from the scandal which had engulfed Mattel and Hasbro had brought in the sort of digital protection that Apple and other Silicon Valley privacy crusaders could only dream of. That terrorists and rogue reporters like Jones had instantly bought up the new ultra safe devices had gone largely unnoticed. That today’s terrorists largely communicated via networked Furbies had been revealed by numerous news outlet but had largely been assumed as simply fake news “he’s being pulling shit like this since day one. look” said Jones, linking the editor’s digital glasses into what she herself was seeing. Two timelines scrolling side by side. One showed a chronological line of the president’s, gaffes, accidental wars, support for fascistic ideas, pointless crusades against imaginary ills and character assassinations against everyone up to and including God himself.  The other showed a ticker tape of seemingly unrelated bad news events and political scandals. The admission several years earlier by ExxonMobil that they had spent millions climate change proofing their organisations while denying that climate change even happened. The selling off of all US national parks to a consortium of Russian oligarchs. The announcement that most of the American Midwest had a lower quality of life than most of east Africa. The time that the Chinese had bailed out the US’s national debt in return for total control of the south China sea. The toxic spill that had rendered much of Louisiana inhabitable.

"I don’t remember that happening” said the editor, looking at the date “but, wait, was that was that the day the president gave that nazi salute on live TV?”

"yup” said Jones, bringing up the footage on her Mattel “Which he dismissed as being a high five gone wrong. So you missed the fact that the US now has more internal refugees than Syria. But the fact was that the President’s tiny hands heil was just another piece of nazi trolling, which I believe he does pretty much every day. The only difference this time was that a live TV camera happened to be on him at the time. Which I cannot believe was just a coincidence, what with his handlers now being pretty much experts in the art of not letting the man walk around with his dick hanging out of his pants – you know, after that time he actually did get caught with his dick out. I think someone is leaking these things deliberately, and I think they are doing it to distract us from the worse things that are happening”

“I don’t think the president’s that smart” said the editor “and I don’t really see what can be worse than a president who tried to start a war with every country he doesn’t like and publicly suggests that the far right aren’t really bad guys after all. I mean, I genuinely can’t think of anything horrible, mean or stupid he hasn’t already”

“Exactly” said Jones “he fucks up so often and does such stupid outrageous stuff that always dominates the news cycle. His people just have to time their announcements  for when the president drops a shit bomb. No one has the time to be outraged by two things at once. Like no one can be upset about the EPA being shut down or Murdoch being put in charge of the FCC the same week that the President tries to make Steve Bannon a supreme court judge. Fact was the Judge Bannon storm never came to anything. Like everything the president does. Nothing actually happens. Sure he keeps threatening war, like he keeps threatening to build that wall with Mexico. It never actually happens. Its all just clickbait for angry liberals”

"Oh come on" said the editor "You expect me to believe every time the president gets caught doing horrible shit its really done to cover all the really, really horrible shit that goes down? You sound like a conspiracy nut" the editor tapped at her own toy keyboard, the Mattel logo subtly changed to spell the words 'My Hell'. "Look, here they are. A bunch of the Presidents own Nazi Douche bros. Let me read you the highlights" she gained sickly. Dealing with the many openly Nazi online supported of the president was an occupational hazard. The fact that in real life both jones and the editor could have taken out the basement dwelling Third Reichers with one hand tied behind their back didn't matter. The mini blackshirts lived online in an age where everything going was networked. The doxx and the leak had replaced the jackboot and the castor oil in the armoury of fascism. That they were also openly supported by the president and, and indeed had their own federally funded ‘Department of Patriotism and Correct Reporting’ also helped.

"The Femininazi liberals have struck again, their fake news making headlines in the failing Jew York times. Is it a coincidence that George Soros and the Washington Post editorial team were seen at the same function on Saturday? Where they selling out the proud American race? What other conclusion could we come to? So sad that they can't see that they'll be the first in the gas chambers, because that how we deal with traitors to the white race"

"Get to the point" said Jones weary. She knew that most of these screeds were written automatically by a software bot that reacted to real time world events with a set of stock phrases.  Both Isis and Fox News used the same, meaning they could claim responsibility for every single terror incident in the world – or denounce muslims - even if they were entirely fictional.

"studies show that there is a correlation between Liberal mothers and boys becoming gay. Coincidence? This cannot be allowed to continue. The little snowflakes need to realise that a real man can stand up for himself' then it's just the usual bunch of rape threats.  What I'm saying is you’re paranoid girl. There is now way our bloated POTUS has the smarts to manufacture a crisis every time one of his billionaire plutocrat buddies causes an even bigger one. Besides, I think the media and people in general are smart enough to know when they're being played. We’re pretty savvy these days"

"You sure about that?" said Jones, gesturing at the other dinners in the Mcvegan restaurant. As most didn't have the kiddie encryption of the two journalists everything going they were looking at was easily available to the snooping software that both women had on their digital glasses.

"Look at them" said Jones " Those who aren't streaming AR HBO porn are writing angry tweets against our C in C"

"Good for them" said the editor "The first sign of a healthy democracy is an engaged citizenry. Our job as journalists is first the fight against apathy. Because the true enemy of our way of life is not the jackboot or the swastika but the indifference of our..."

"Spare me" said Jones, who had heard that speech too many times during her internship with numerous liberal crusading organisations "have you noticed what they are actually tweeting about?" She pointed around the room "that guy there is memeing some Dawson’s Creek pics with Pres  piss references. That girl with the Amish beard is writing a protest musical about the president"

"Sounds good" said the editor "art and politics are..."

"About the president only. His seismic xenophobia, his comically small hands and his incredibly thin skin. Any mention of how we lost the trade war with China? Or how Russia now owns eastern Europe? Or that Roe versus Wade got suspended last week by the Supreme court? You know, the week that Trump organised his second crusade against imaginary electoral fraud by the alt left – whoever the fuck they are meant to be" Jones clenched her fists "no, course not. Because people like to be outraged by what someone says, rather than what they actually do. Because we aren’t just being gaslighted anymore, we’re being distracted by shiny things that make us angry while someone walks away with America. So instead of a woman’s right to choose we’ve got a musical number about how the President got confused about North and South Korea and sent a bunch of weapons to the last communist state on earth"

"That was a major news event..."

"Sending a couple of cruise missiles to a country so poor they can't eat and so isolated that their literacy rate is under fifty percent doesn't really change much" said Jones "and besides, I don't know if it actually happened.  Pentagon said it didn’t. Most experts can’t find any evidence that it did. There was just an anonymous leak to Buzzfeed"

"Who believes the pentagon these days?" said the editor "they were covering their asses. Besides it's just the sort of stupid shit the president does, ever since he punched that disabled woman at his second term inauguration"

"Exactly" said Jones "With this guy in charge people will believe literally anything because of who he is. I don't believe we're the first people to realise this. I think some important people are using the president to bury their bad news. He’s a distraction, a big old orange wizard of Oz. The real guy’s in charge are behind the curtain” she tapped the table in irritation “And I don't think he even knows about it"

"Sounds like a great story sweetie" said the editor patronisingly " but how are you ever going to get proof? I mean sure, tweet it but there's so much shit flying around I doubt anyone would notice. I don't know how you’re going to get anyone to listen"

"Simple" said Jones "I'm going to talk to the man himself. He’s so thin skinned and insecure he’d believe it straight away if I told him that people were trying to ruin his reputation on purpose. If there’s anything he takes seriously its himself"

“umm, how are you going to do that?” said the editor “he doesn’t do interviews. Not since that time he had to admit that he didn’t actually know who Winston Churchill was, and that he thought Thomas Jefferson wrote White Rabbit”

“Oh, that’s easy” said Jones “too easy, in fact”

It was depressingly simple to get access to the president.  Not as a journalist of course, any found within three hundred metres of the president would be arrested as a traitor and sent straight to Guantanamo bay. But the president always found time for his fans, especially if they were sycophantic, female and could be ordered to anonymous hotels as easily as calling an uber.

Jones knew the presidents’ predilections, as did everyone after the leaked tape where he had explained in depth the kind of girl he enjoyed cheating on his wife with. And while going undercover as a whore was not easy it was something Jones had done several times before, not least because it was always the easiest way to secure an interview with a politician. Admittedly it did mean having to blackmail them, but since when had journalism not become a form of guerrilla war? After all since they had been designated the opposition party it made sense to use any means necessary.

Jones had then managed  to hack the shortlist of the presidents preferred women, which had been secured by a machine inexplicably still running windows XP. Jones had raised an eyebrow, you would have thought after the nuclear codes had been stolen after being stored on a similar machine that the president would have learned his lesson. Now Jones had an inkling as to why, you never knew when you might need to leak a video of the President getting a girl to dress as the House Minority leader while fellating him.

However when Jones finally confronted the President, dressed this time as a Fox news anchor who’d once had the temerity to challenge him, the response she got was not what she had expected.

“Mr President” she had said from her knees, the all too familiar presidential dong hanging inches from her nose “I have some serious news for you”

“hey, not cool. Not part of the script” said the president, looking anxiously around. His security were stationed outside, the POTUS would have had them in the room with him but they had pointed out that went beyond their contracts and threatened to get their union involved.

“I have reason to believe the stream of leaks, allegations and intelligence reports embarrassing you are being used as part of an orchestrated campaign to hide a wider and more destructive agenda”

“no shit” said the president “the libtard media have got it in for me. Always. Not news. It’s not. Now come on, call me the best president ever. I wanna hear it. The best President…”

“not by them, Mr President” said Jones, pulling out a tablet and projecting on the wall her findings. The two timeline bulged with cross referenced facts and incontrovertible proof “I believe a cabal of special interests are using these…incidents to their own advantage. To bury their own bad news and their evil actions at your expense”

“uh huh” said the president, looking at the wall, his flaccid member still hanging from his ten thousand dollar suit. He put one hand on his hip and the other he used to point a stubby finger at the display. The two timelines that matched almost perfectly, for every gaffe and pointless vanity crusade there was a war or corruption scandal whose impact dwarfed whatever stupidity the President had been involved in “you got it all here. Everything. That’s so….”

“look, I know it’s not proof” said Jones quickly, pulling off the curly blonde wig and getting to her feet “but it’s pretty consistent. I mean right back to your first term every time there was something big that people should be discussing then someone releases some dirt on you – usually something ludicrous that gets debunked”

“Fake news. All fake news” said the president with a shrug, his eyes on the timelines “that’s neat. Real neat software you got there”

“you don’t seem concerned” said Jones, her face wrinkling “I mean, they’re ruining your reputation out there. To hide their own shit and corruption” jones looked at the President grinning inanely as he looked at the spike in online traffic after he had got the secret service to waterboard a schoolboy who had insulted him on Twitter “in fact” said jones “I’d say you don’t even look surprised. Did you know about this?”

“know about it?” said the President “oh, I didn’t just know about it. I arranged it. I made the fricking deal. Deal of the century. Every time they wanna use my name to hide a little scandal of theirs I make sure they pay. Pay big. I mean, I gotta make a buck, right? They don’t pay me much as President. I’m a businessman. A businessman. You know what that means right?”

“but your reputation” said Jones, jabbing a finger at the projection “doesn’t that bother you? I mean, you aren’t famous for taking the high road when it comes to how people see you”

“No. you see, the thing is. okay” the president held up his right hand, thumb and forefinger pressed together “one thing, half that shit is made up. It’s made up. Total bullshit. Liberals hate me, they want to believe anything and everything bad against me. Why not make them hate me even more? Gets me off to see how much they hate me. I love it. And the people that support me, they don’t believe it. In fact the more shit gets thrown at me the less they believe. Its scandal fatigue. Scandal fatigue. People get tired of hearing the same thing. I mean, sure, the first time they said I fucked hookers there was outrage. Total outage. Now, no one cares. Besides you gotta remember what really matters. Me. And they keep talking about me. No one cares about what all the whores say. I’m still the big guy on the evening news”

“but you do fuck hookers!” cried Jones “and everyone knows it. But that doesn’t make it right. You’re meant to be president. That carries with it a certain standard. You think it doesn’t disgust people that you do this?”

“hey, I told everyone on the campaign trail that I could shoot a person in Times Square and not lose votes. Everyone knew what they were buying then, right? So why not monetise that? The lying Liberal media was so obsessed with trashing me they couldn’t see the obvious. I played them. I’m the master player. They think they’re so clever. That they can win with their facts. Good businessman knows his enemies weakness. A good entertainer know what people wants. I’m an entertainer. I gave them what they wanted. They wanted to hate me so I gave them something to hate. Not my fault that they missed the real story. And they should thank me. If it wasn’t for me no one would read the New York Times or the Washington Post”

“so you arranged it all?” said Jones, somehow surprised that the president still had the capacity to disgust her “you deliberately leaked scandals just to get bribe money from your big business friends?” Jones clenched her fists and thought of the tiny hidden camera hidden in the skin of her forehead just under the hairline “you have any idea what will happen when I tell people this?”

“it’ll hide whatever I want to it to hide” said the President, grinning at his tumescent member “cause I’d be real careful when you leak it. I so much as get word this hits the headlines and I’m gonna deny it. Like always. And you’ll come back, calling me a liar. Like always. And I’ll trash you on twitter. Like always. And by the time the dust clears no one will remember that this was the same day I released my tax returns or I reveal what my family really owns in Russia – and lemme tell you it’s huge. Huge. I been doing this since before even my first day in office. And the media falls for it. Every time. Everyone does”

“but…” began jones, trying to think of a way to release the compromising footage that meant it couldn’t be used by the president to cover an even bigger scandal. Of a way to release the data that he couldn’t use to cause a social media spat that got people angry without actually having anything new to be angry about or doing anything to change things for the better. She could feel her eyes fill with tears and her hands clench uselessly.

“that’s right sweetheart” said the president, using his free hand to bring himself to climax “keep that expression. The one where you’re real disgusted and defeated at the same time. Love it”

  “And he just turned around and walked out the hotel room?” said the editor. She was ubering in her spare time and had picked up the still shaking Jones from the hotel. A short ride around the city was turning into a very long one and only the editor’s infinite knowledge of hacks and workarounds kept that information from appearing on the vast tracking network of Uber “you didn’t try to nail him to anything else? Or, you know, nail him?”

“no” said Jones “I mean what could I do? It was obvious when he told me. We’ve been played by him. We thought he was the big evil bastard….”

“which he is”

“but he’s just the public face. The target. He’s nothing but a live action internet troll. He’s all words. It’s the people behind him that are the problem” she sighed deeply “but how the fuck do we bring them to light? Every time we try to get people’s attention then the president blasts in calling Zika victims a bunch of whining bitches, or the 911 widows a bunch of hotties. He’s totally outclassed us”

“and you say he’s been doing this since the beginning?”

“since his first day on the job. Everything he’s done as president has been to distract us from the real problems. The crusade against the voter fraud that never happened. The fucking wall with Mexico that they didn’t pay for but that we bought from them anyway because it was cheaper. Its like the accusation he likes watching whores pissing. It’s all been to stop us seeing the truth. And it’s just got bigger and bigger. It used just to be stupid shit he’d say, then it was stupid shit he’d do and now its fucking hookers practically in public and pissing on the homeless. Who knows where it goes next?”

“yeah” said the editor, looking distracted as she sped past a stranded Hummer 7, its front axle having snapped trying to go up on a kerb. Since the Russians had taken over Europe and China had taken over Asia the only cars on offer were American gas guzzlers with atrocious safety records “yeah, he is getting worse. Like he’s deliberately trying to troll the American people…” her voice trailed off for a moment “hey, have you checked the retweet figures of his bullshit?” she said “can we get figures as to how many people are talking about him?”

“I guess” said Jones “we can cross twitter data with hashclouds relating to the president. Find the keywords mentioning the President and we get a rough idea of how many people are talking about him”

“do it” said the editor “and see whether the numbers are going up or down”

“umm, I think that’s pretty obvious” said Jones “it’s getting worse, like everything. All people ever do is talk about the President and how shit he is”

“check it anyway. You might be surprised. I have a feeling, you know. not as many people talk about him as they used to. The law of diminishing returns and all that. After a while most people become numb, they become bored. I mean sure, we know a lot of people who get outraged, but this is New York and we hang out with people who live to be offended. I wanna know if America at large still gives a fuck about its shitty Commander in Chief”

“hmm” said jones, not really believing her editor. However she punched up the numbers for the last five years. Looked at them. Checked them again and rubbed her eyes “what the fuck? But I thought…” she asked “how did you know?”

“laws of supply and demand” said the editor “you gotta remember I’ve a masters in celebonomics from Yale. One of the first laws of celebonomics is that the more you expose yourself to the world the more you will need to keep exposing to maintain public interest – and by public interest I mean people actually giving a shit what you do, not whether they like you. Celebrities haven’t needed to be liked since the rise of reality TV. So you need to keep upping the exposure to keep yourself in the public eye, but it’s not physically possible to do that indefinitely. So what happens is you pass a critical point – the Kardashian point they call it – where media saturation is so great that you can be everywhere but no one will care any more. Your ubiquity is so total that people will literally cease to notice you. With the Kardashians they were so overexposed that it didn’t matter how many family members they roped in or much cosmetic surgery they had, or even that time Kim and Kourtney had that knife fight. People just stopped caring, and now they can’t even get arrested in LA” she shrugged “I did my thesis on the Kardashians. That’s where Trump is now. He hasn’t got any more capacity to shock, so people are getting bored and switching off. Give it another few years and they won’t give a fuck about him. He’ll be reduced to giving handjobs to his fans. Like Kanye west did”

“great” said Jones “but we don’t have a few years. In fact if you’re correct then he’s going to clock that people aren’t giving a fuck about him. Then he’ll do something really fucking crazy. Is there anything we can do to speed up the process?”

“there is” said the editor “but I don’t think you’re going to like it”

“what?”

“well, we’re gonna need that footage you shot. For starters. Then we’re going give the President what he wants more than anything else. More than money, more than power”

“what’s that?”

“Our undivided attention”

 Six weeks later

 The day the UN convicted two US oil companies for genocide the president got a call in his motorcade down the Washington Mall while an aide next to him astrotrufed his twitter ratings.

“Donald” said the Koch brother on the other end. The president could never remember which was which and it hardly mattered so long as one of them picked up the cheque. They were the major backers along with a cabal of silicon valley Caesars and Russian oligarchs  that were funding him to hide their criminal activities with his own “you wanna explain why I see my face on the morning news?”

“impossible David” said the president, looking at an aide who nodded that He’d got the right one “impossible. Listen I heard about your little difficulty. So I tweeted a whole bunch of racist shit last night at 3 in the morning and then deleted it so I looked drunk. They’ll be so busy arguing about it they won’t notice what happened in New York…”

“so do you want to explain why the highest trending hashtag is kochbrothersfraud? And why I’m not only now facing federal charges relating to the little, um, difficulty at the UN but a PR meltdown? i thought Liberals didn’t have time to give a fuck about global warming because they were too busy getting pissed off at you”

“listen you don’t need to worry about the Feds. Not at all” said the President “My boys are out there explaining that this UN is all just fake news and the Chinese trying to take our jobs…”

“no, you don’t get it” said Koch “I don’t care about the Feds. We own them, because we own you. I care about the fact that we’re paying you roughly six percent of our annual profit to get your face on the news and currently you’re rated lower than the new series of the pornstar version of the Apprentice”

“hey, now that isn’t true. I’ll tell you. I’m a ratings winner. I’m number one famous. More famous than ever. I’ve been the focus of more news these last weeks than anyone else. A real spike in news traffic” he looked at his aides who nodded and showed tablets with figures all designed to soothe the president’s fragile ego. They had long realised that the president didn’t care whether people were loving or hating him so long as they were talking about him. According to all their estimates more people were talking about him than ever “I had a proper hitjob from some bitch at CNN underground. Then a whole twitter war with….”

“Mr President, I know you’re a  fucking idiot so I’m going to explain this simply” said Koch over the phone “you’ve been played. All those news reports, those twitter wars. Someone has been Kardashioning you”

“what?” said the president “what have those losers got to do with this? No one’s cared about them in years. They used to be everywhere. Then people got bored. Old news”

“exactly” sad Koch “people are bored of you, Mr President. They’re bored of your little tricks. They aren’t outraged anymore. They don’t care about the dancing clown who says racist things and grabs ass. That’s bad for us. You need to fix this. Get people interested in you and yours so I don’t have them getting interested in me and mine”

“I could get Ivanka to do the Playboy centrefold from the west wing again. She’s had some work done. Real knock out…”

“it’s been done. No one cares about your daughter’s new tits” said Koch “find something new. Or else we find ourselves a new clown. You got it?”

With that the fossil fuel billionaire was gone and the president was left facing his aides. They waited for the inevitable explosion of self justification and round cursing of someone who had the audacity to oppose the Donald.

“okay” said the president, instead looking icily calm “its D-day. Those fake news CNN bitches think they can take me down. Well I got news for them. I’m gonna leak the biggie. The one that will get everyone talking. Get the liberals creaming their pants with rage and the deplorables creaming with joy”

“your tax returns?” said one female aide “are we sure they’re ready?”

“no, of course not” said Trump “no one’s ready for that” he pointed at another aide from his extended family “you…whatever your fucking name is. Leak the hotel footage from that reporter. Unedited. I wanna make sure they all get the money shot. i wanna see me coming in glorious HD. Then release a tweet that I’m going to have her locked up in Gitmo. Then issue a denial that it ever came from me. Then one doubling down on the first one” he looked out the window at the grey winter of Washington “this’ll get me back on top. This one can’t be stopped” he looked at the aide anxiously after a few seconds “is it ready?”

“footage leaked” said the aide, tapping at a tablet “sending a copy to the news outlets that do what we say-  wikileaks and Fox news. Sending the denials now”

“beautiful” said the president as the limo moved through the cold streets “beautiful” he looked at the view, then the inside of the limo “any retweets yet?”

“negative Mr President”

“any news outlets leading on it?”

“umm, fox and friends are talking about it. Or they mentioned it. They didn’t seem interested. They moved on pretty quick to the Koch thing. Apparently there’s a lot of refugees down in Lousiana who can get compensation….”

The aide was silenced by a look.

“fake news” said the president “losers. No ratings. What are my retweets?”

“in the hundreds of thousands” said one aide cagily, his too honest face turning a bright shade of red.

“real tweets, or astroturfed by Russian bots?” asked the President huskily

“umm…” said the aide

“fucking losers” said the president. Five minutes passed in silence. Then ten “and now?” he growled. The aides looked at each other

“well, it might take some time, you know to….” Began one

“no. that doesn’t happen” the president shouted “I’m the fucking president. I don’t get ignored. I’m the star. The ratings winner. The star” he looked crazily about him. Then his eyes narrowed “you know, I said once I could shoot people in Times Square” the aides looked at each other

“sir, I don’t think that…”

“Thinking too small. Yeah I know” said the president “go big or go home. Well people it’s time to go big” he looked at an aide whose wrist was manacled to a briefcase “too big to be ignored”

  “I can’t believe this is working” said Jones, looking at the ticker tape of news around Times Square. The burning heat of information, images and advertising bathed them and there was not a single mention of the President “we played him at his own game and won”

“told you” said the editor, toasting her with a nice Starbucks Methalatte “isn’t anyone who can stay famous once they hit the Kardashian point. It’s like the H-bomb of celebrity killers. you can’t fuck with the laws of nature. Celebonomics is a bitch, and the President was the biggest celeb around” Her words were drowned out by the sound of sirens suddenly blatting and the screens above them whiting out due to information overload “what the fuck is that?” she screamed

“well, you know you mentioned H-bombs…” began Jones, looking in her smart glasses with horror as missile silos across the nation started opening up “seems like maybe the President found a way to stay in the story after all”

#impeachtrump #climate change #maga

[occupyscifi]

Chaff

"hey, I don't mind adverts" said Shellay Smithson as she casually vaped from the e-meth pipe. It was Friday night at the Junior Hedonists Ball and all the perma-terns were there drinking their weekly salary "I just don't like adverts that try to sell me things I actually want" "yeah, too right" said Sampson, ur bald androgynous  head bobbing in time to the music ee was streaming direct to ur ears. For her part Shellay preferred to hear the house tunes, old fashioned style. Though the Junior Hedonists Ball tended to have a very specific aesthetic it took place in the nearest pub to the office. The pub itself was an ancient looking glazed brick building, its interior ripped out to satisfy certain steampunk machine gothic tastes. That the entire building had been standing for less time than Shellay had been working in social media relations didn't matter. The city around her changed so much and so quickly Shellay barely noticed even when whole streets and neighbourhoods vanished. Once upon a time fashion had merely been about clothes and hairstyles. Now with largescale 3d printing meaning that the average time to build an entire street could be measured in days whole neighbourhoods came and went according to the whims of fashion. Shellay could still remember last season’s look- Bauhaus glam with a hint of gay seventies New York. Not her favourite style, but she was clearly in a minority. Even so she knew she only needed to go across the river to the parklands to drink up the whole Victorian glasshouse vibe. She could never get enough of Crystal Palaces with their ornate manmade flower displays. She wondered idly if it was still there, but then a glance in her smartglasses told her the truth. Day pass to the new arboretum extension for half price. Just the thing to take her latest fella on the weekend. That grated, made her feel cheap. What was the point in doing anything if it was given straight to you? Everyone knew the best things in life were what you earned for yourself. "I'm getting sick of getting what I want" continued Sampson, ur delicate eyes narrowing "maybe it’s time to start getting what I don't want" "no, but seriously. It’s really pissing me off” said Shellay, knowing that Sampson was just quoting the lines from a song. Probably one ee'd written as well. All artists were self referential but Sampson found it hard to be anything else "it just, well, it just sucks the fun out of life. I'd like things to be a little random, know what I mean?" she took a hit on the pipe and looked around the lounge of the junior hedonists ball. Several dozen long thin creatives lounged at different fey angles. On the walls adverts that were linked to her smartglasses told her of her favourite bands and when they'd be in town "I used to like being surprised by getting ads for shit I'd never ever want" "life insurance" said Sampson with a grin "or incontinence pants. Seeing hundreds of ads on the tube trying to sell me bank products I could never afford. I used to like that" ee looked nostalgically into the middle distance "knowing that it didn't matter how little money I had, because I certainly wasn't going to spend it on any of that crap" ee sighed "now I find myself reaching into my pocket all the time because as soon as there's a new line of grungesynths in at Hypersound or if they start reissuing genuine vintage Konverse I know about it, like, point 9 seconds later. I'm just one click away from bankruptcy" "yeah, it’s killing me too" agreed Shellay, leaning back against the black crushed velvet furnishings. She noticed that there was a link on the wall for a new hypermodernist night club on the New Kent Road. One she had been wanting to go to for weeks but her bank balance hadn't been healthy enough "I mean, for fucks sake, how do they always know?" "S'your line of work love" said Sampson, taking a deep draught of ur snakebite and black "all algorithms isn't it? Way we learned it at school every time you do a search, every time you buy something or even look too long at an ad it gets recorded. Ol' google and FB and the rest keep a big bloody list so advertisers can build a virtual model of what you like and what you hate so they can make sure your eyeballs only ever see good old high value content" "huh. Well I guess you paid attention at school more than me" said Shellay, sipping her red wine "besides, I do apps. I design little programs that make life easier for people. Algorithms and all that are big level stuff. Not my cup of tea at all" "well maybe you should design an app" said Sampson, eyeing an ad for the sort of casual cuddle encounter that ee craved on those long lonely weekends "you know, like an adblocker, but instead of showing nothing it lets in ads people don't want to buy. Same difference I guess, but at least someone sees the ads" "yeah, I like that” said shellay idly "but don't they still have the death penalty for ad blocking software?" "nah" said Samspon "just life with no WIFI" “you’re right. That’s probably worse”

The idea should have joined the other half drunk, half stoned conversations between Sampson and Shellay- posted to social media and then forgotten about. But for some reason it didn't, not least because several days later Shellay saw some market research that confirmed that it wasn't just her and Sampson that were getting pissed off at getting all they wanted. Shellay read through it thoughtfully and got designing. "I mean, it wouldn't be too hard to do, would it?" she asked Jackie Oh, her legal advisor and chief coder. They were sitting in Regents park, in a popup coffee place resembling a Mongol Yurt – one seemingly designed by Alexander Hemingway "we don't even have to use adblocker, we can rip off some of that old TOR code, right?" "no one's used TOR in years" said Jackie "it’s like a red rag to the software gods" she nodded up at the holy trinity up on the wall- Google, Apple and Facebook "because for them if they don't know who you are then they don't have a business model. If you aren't a trackable node then they can't sell your data. And without that they've got nothing" "well, that isn't really what I want to do" said Shellay "it’s really the opposite. I want to send out false data, you know get the app to do random searches for things so you get ads for tampons if you're a bloke or whatever. The advertisers shouldn't notice because it’s not like you're blocking the ads, if anything technically you should be seeing even more of them" "I guess it can be done” said Jackie, scratching her head. The open plan coffee yurt in the park was a focal point for the sort of popup office in which Shellay like to do business "but why? I mean, who the fuck wants to see ads for things they don't want to buy?" "you'd be surprised" said Shellay "there's always a niche in the market, and besides as soon as people get what they want then they usually want the opposite straight away. That's a law of human nature. I mean that's why Hindr was so successful. Who'd have thought a dating app that matched you with the most unsuitable person ever would be so popular? It's like half of my married friends met on there" “Huh, I suppose" said Jackie, stretching her fingers in the imitation gauze contact gloves that allowed her to manipulate the code she spent her life immersed in "but, you know, just in case it's not. I'm still getting paid. Right?" "this will work" said Shellay, sketching out the design of the app already. She'd make sure that the interface showed a melange of ads that people didn't usually see anymore. She paused for a moment to think about the name. Something short and punchy. Well, that would come last. You always knew a good name when you heard it, and sometimes a rubbish name was even better. So long as it stuck in your head it didn’t matter. "chaff" said Jackie after a few minutes, a statement so out of the blue that Shellay almost spilled hr cup of magic mushroom tea. It didn't help of course that the shrooms were coming along a little stronger than planned. Her own fault for ordering the grande instead of the regular. "the fuck?" "its what the code was for. Back in the day. The TOR code" sighed Jackie, wondering why people didn't just have the auto explain on their smartglasses enabled at all times. It had certainly helped her navigate the minefields of social interaction. Now she was so socially adept she could detect irony so long as it was made fairly obvious "it’s a military thing. Best way apparently if you're in a jet plane and someone locks a missile onto you. Well, you can't outrun it and you probably can't shoot it down because it’s too small. Instead what the jet would do was let out a bunch of little silver bits of paper that would confuse the targeting system of the missile. Meant that instead of detonating against the jet they'd just blow up in the air" "what's this got to do with my software?" asked Shellay, wondering whether the shrooms were making this impossible to understand or whether Jackie was just babbling shit. "it’s what the TOR code did. False positives. Means that the missile- you know, Google or whoever – can't get a lock on you because the software performs random searches in your name. Added into that the software can access your cam and fuck with the eye recognition. Meaning you can pretend that you've spent ages looking at this or that ad. It'll totally fuck the tracking software. They won't know who you are or what you want" "cool" said Shellay "people get tired of their own personality anyway. They like to have someone else for a while. There's a reason people used to check into hotels using a false name" as she spoke she selfied, a quick kooky shot of her on the beanbag, evidence of her creativity around her. A few drawing pencils to make it look like she designed her apps the old fashioned way. This she then uploaded to the dozen or so social media sites on which she carefully curated her public persona "its nice to be anonymous for a change" "right" said Jackie, eyeing her own feed as it suddenly became dominated by chatter about the new app that Shellay was working on. As she watched Shellay carefully massaged into life several twitterbots and zombie accounts who would speculate wildly on the new idea she had "I'm sure you do. Anyway, at least you can use that for the name" "eh?" asked Shellay, slightly distracted "chaff" said Jackie, idly surfing in her e-glasses through great DNA ribbons of code, cutting and repasting them together into a new pattern as demanded by Shellay "S' what you can call the app" "genius" said Shellay, her eyes half closing as she looked at the light filtering into the yurt from outside. It made such pretty patterns on the inside of her eyelids.

Shellay didn't have many dealings with the police, what with her being a moderately wealthy middle class white woman coupled with the almost complete eradication of poor people from entering the city. So when the not very plainclothes man and woman grabbed her on the way back to her apartment some days later Shellay immediately texted her lawyer. "what’s the trouble officer?" she asked, then instantly regretted it. Using the word trouble suggested that she had a guilty conscience "how can I help you?" "oh, we're not with the police" said the male “you could have fooled me” said Shellay “what with the whole earpiece things you’ve got going on and the fact you’re both obviously wearing bulletproof vests. You couldn’t be more obviously in security if you were wearing a uniform” "we’re from an independent agency" said the female, her smile all sharp teeth and no humour. "one that dabbles in your chosen economic sphere" echoed the man "I'm not sure what that means" said Shellay baffled "are you the app police?" "no" said the female "but we represent some large advertising concerns. They aren't happy with your app" "why not?" asked Shellay “people still look at the adverts. So they get paid either way. What difference does it make to them?" "oh, it makes none. In fact they don't really give a shit. If they did, well, we'd probably be beating the crap out of you. They just wanted you to know that it’ll probably cause something of a shit storm" "why?" asked shellay "look at it this way" said the female "everything we do in society is based on market research. The sort of market research that comes from using ad revenues and pageviews. If enough people buy your app then it’s going to get seriously skewed because we won't know what people actually want" "you exaggerate" said shellay "all that's going to happen is a few people are gonna download my app, go 'huh, fun' for about ten seconds. Then they'll go onto something else. That’s what apps are about. It’s not something life changing, is it?" "lets hope not" said the female humourlessly "otherwise we'll be back, and we won't be so friendly"

"…and raise our glasses to Shellay, who made this event possible by making a fuck load of cash this week" Sampson raised ur glass and saluted the group of friends and hangers on who had filled the Junior Delinquents ball. The app had been out two weeks and so far had beaten even the most optimistic estimates, even those made by the most obvious of Shellay's sock puppets. "hey, it was nothing" said Shellay modestly, placing her lace gloved hand against her chest "and by that I mean I actually worked really fucking hard. And usually that means nothing. So its ace that people actually bothered to download this app" she saluted with her glass "Cheers guys" she added, and drained the glass in one. The evening would on as expected, Shellay prowled the room, making sure to flirt with anything and everything with two functioning legs. Eventually she found herself pressed against an earnest young researcher from a local bespoke search company. Rather like the bespoke tailors of years gone by his company specialised in finding all the things that google couldn't. The name that were too common to give a unique google search, the information redacted for copyright or decency reasons. If it existed and was worth looking for, it was reasoned, then someone was probably trying to hide it from you. Bespoke search meant you always found what you were looking for. "sounds fascinating" Shellay had yawned. She had a low threshold for earnest people. They always made the world sound so difficult. Full of hard moral choices when in reality everything was equally compromised, so you may as well have a good time. "well, we can't all do what you do" said the boy, and Shellay glared at him, one eye pressed closed so she could see whether he was being sarcastic or not through all the booze she'd drunk. "I'm serious" the boy added, his face blushing slightly "I think its genius. And so subtle. The big software boys don't seem to have twigged yet. By the time they do they'll be up shit creek and no mistake" "what d'you mean?” said Shellay, unsure whether the boy knew he was talking to. "chaff" said the boy, helpfully reminding her "its genius, pitched perfectly to take in both the retro market of people who remember when adverts weren't all micro targeted to our specific desires and to people like me who get the real deal" "real deal?" said Shellay weakly, the room was starting to spin and she was feeling suddenly rather sloshed. "that it's going to fuck capitalism up royally" beamed the boy "you got their weak spot. Without accurate information they can't know what we want. If they don't know what we want then they can't give us what we want. If they can't give us what we want then we'll rebel and take it ourselves. Its genius. Absolute bloody genius" "yeah. Yeah I meant that" said Shellay, leaning into the boy and putting an arm around his tweed encased shoulder "we should discuss this further. Perhaps somewhere quieter" But if they did discuss it Shellay didn't remember. When she woke up in the boy’s bed all she could recall was how he had pleasured her in the back of a self driving pedicab. They'd been riding through the new Manga district that had just been built and she'd orgasmed to the sight of a giant mecha Pikachu shooting past. Its jetsteam had been like rainbows, and if the boy had still been discussing the overthrow of the capitalist system she certainly wasn't listening.

The first time that Shellay noticed something was wrong was when she wanted to visit Regents Park. She was hankering for a grande Shroom latte and Jackie had wanted to go over some updates. The Chaff app was still selling well, and selling well enough to make sure that there were now about twenty knockoffs floating around. Shellay had cheerfully launched legal challenges in the hope of being bought off in order to add to her revenue stream. All in all life was going rather well, or it was until she noticed what had happened to the park. "what the fuck" said Shellay "oh yeah" said Jackie who had shared the uber with her "yeah, they changed it. I guess it just wasn't popular anymore" "what?" said Shellay, pointing at the vast block of buildings that had replaced one of her favourite haunts "and this is?" "well, I guess people like modernism again" Jackie replied, looking at the cold brutalist features of the blocks of buildings. They were the colour of London sky, and the windows were small and mean looking "I suppose we could hope that its going to get resprayed by graffiti artists or something. You know this grey block look really offsets electric pink…." "no such luck" said Shellay with a sigh, she had brought up the plans on the googlemaps app which tracked the ever changing city as it emerged from the great collective unconscious of the millions that lived there "its just going to stay like this. Why the fuck? I can't think anyone would like this" Jackie folded her arms "really, you don't know?" "trust me, apart from a few architecture perverts I can't think of anyone" "Maybe your app is having an effect already" "no way" said Shellay "come on, its random. It shouldn't have any effect on the data that goes into the great google-lord. There are filters and stuff" "clearly they aren't working" said Jackie, peeking at the planned developments on the drawing board for the next six months "and I can't see a single new district I'd actually like to live in. World of leather sounds so much more exciting than it really is" "seriously?" said Shellay, scrolling in horror through what the city would look like in a few mere weeks time. All the fashion chains she had loved to hate, the trashbarn where you could get an entire new wardrobe for a quid, all of them were being demolished in favour of entertainments that barely deserved the name. Museums of stamp collecting. Monuments to great engineers past and present. Massage parlours for the elderly. Who the fuck would want to visit that? "you think our app is doing this?" "I can't think of anything else that would" said Jackie "not unless the people of this city have a sudden stiffy for a district made of glass dogs, or one built to resemble the bombed out London streets of the blitz" "that last one sounds fun" said Shellay hopefully "no, its very realistic" said Jackie "right down to the dead bodies and the potholes in the road. And the rationing. I saw it this morning. It was trending on WTFF news" "shit. Maybe it is us" said Shellay, blinking in surprise "fuck, maybe we did do this. We broke the world with our app. And if we broke the world with randomness…." she turned to Jackie with shining eyes "just imagine what we could do if we planned it" "way ahead of you boss" said Jackie, tapping away in the empty air "I can change the code so we can get anything we want. You fancy having a district based on that crappy kids show you loved?" "hey, Round the Twist was ace" said Shellay irately "and yes, yes I do" "then its just a matter of…." Began Jackie and then trailed off, the smile draining from her face "what is it?" asked Shellay "can't we alter the code? We put it there, so we should be able to" "you didn't tell me you did this" said Jackie, looking at Shellay accusingly. "do what?" asked Shellay, suddenly confused "I've been locked out" said Jackie "specifically you’ve  locked me out. Is it because you've found another coder? Because if it is can I just tell you that…." "what other coder? What are you talking about?" asked shellay "I haven't done anything with the code. I'm a designer. I do concepts and colours. Numbers is your domain" "well somehow you locked me out” said Jackie irately "and so I can't do anything till you let me back in" "oh for fucks sake" said Shellay "clearly there's been some kind of mistake" she pulled on her smartglasses and brought up the interface for her app "I'll reset the admin privileges so you can get back in there. And hurry, I want to start fucking with the city. I’ve always wanted to shape something using just the power of my psyche" But it would be easier said than done. Passwords were entered only to be rejected. Appeals to the higher name of security scans, iris and thumb print were likewise rejected. "someone's hacked you" said Jackie plainly "they've changed your access codes. You better just hope they're doing it to extort money, because if they've twigged how powerful Chaff can be then we are in deep shit" Jackie looked closely at Shellay "so is there anyone you suspect could have done this? Have you shared any intimate moments recently?" "just one" said Shellay "but he was such a sweet guy. All he went on about was…." She trailed off, recalling the boy who'd gone on about the end of capitalism. The swirl of pink mist where her memories should be "that bloody bastard" she cursed "he's hacked me. He's going to bring about the end of capitalism, using my fucking app" she stared about her at the city, recoiling with horror as she imagined the blasphemies that the errant code would create. She imagined whole districts devoted to living examples of Marxist theory, roads that were named after obscure soviet thinkers “oh christ” she said, looking at Jackie in terror “I think we broke the world”

[occupyscifi]

A boy and his destiny

When I was 15 I had the same recurring dream where I was a god. I remember crowds of worshippers in temples of concrete bowing down at my feet and calling my name over and over again. I walked through them and they parted like the Red Sea as they reached out to touch the hem of my clothes in finger trembling awe. And as I walked I saw a great destiny ahead of me, where I’d be leading armies of men to great future victories in countries I didn’t recognise. I saw myself sat on a golden throne, dispensing harsh justice over millions of my fellow human beings. I saw myself living forever- unkillable, unageing. A leader of men. A tyrant. A monster. A god. The people around me were nothing but cattle, tools for me to use for my awesome purpose. In fact their very adoration of me only made me want to use them more. They were so very biddable, so very humble- it was impossible not to hate them a little bit. They were a carpet of flesh to be used for whatever I saw fit, toy soldiers for a boy Emperor. And use them I did, throwing them into wars like they were the plastic soldiers of my early childhood. Wars that I fought just for my pleasure at their destruction and to stave off the boredom of immortality. I saw myself raze cities just to build them up again, and then tear them down a century or so later because I had grown tired of them. I watched myself and I felt appalled at these genocidal crimes, terrified that I could be capable of such cruelty. Yet when I awoke the thing that horrified me the most, that chilled me to the bone was one simple fact. I had enjoyed being that tyrant. I had enjoyed treating people like little more than pieces on a chessboard. Had enjoyed using and abusing my fellow human beings, just for fun. What kind of person did that make me? “messiah complex” diagnosed my father one morning when I confessed my dreams to him “perfectly normal at your age. Comes from reading too many fantasy books with epic heroes in them. All this chosen one, once and future king nonsense. You want to watch that, next thing you know you'll be wanting extra bacon" "as if" I replied, looking at the burnt squiggles in the pan. My father is no great cook, and besides the taste in my mouth was already bad. The dream lingered there, an unpleasant tingling that I usually associated with waking up to find my bedsheets messed. I didn’t like the idea that my mind seemed to equate lust and power together. That didn’t seem healthy at all “more of your bacon’s a punishment, if anything” "smartarse" said my father, ruffling my hair "dreams are just dreams, usually a dream like that is your brain's way of telling you not to get too big for your boots. That you’ve got delusions of grandeur and need to be brought down a peg or two" "but it was so vivid…" I replied, looking out the kitchen window. The day outside was bright, the summer sun already making the world look slightly wilted and dusty. The bright light showing up the faded paint on the fences and the peeling walls of next door’s house. Too bright, like someone had got the saturation and contrast wrong on a TV. Summer does that, the heat makes things unreal. Heat haze puts things out of focus, makes your body feel heavy and useless. Give me winter cold any day, the lethargy of summer always made me feel unreal and the thought of the dream wasn’t helping. “dreams always are” continued my dad, matter of factly “it’s not like watching a film, is it? You feel the emotions, and not just the emotions…” “yeah” I replied, thinking about some of the lives I’d dreamed I’d lead. It hadn’t just been killing people, some of those adoring worshippers had been very nubile and very eager to please. And not just the female ones either. I’ve always been pretty sure I know which way my bread was buttered but in the dream, well, in the dream I could have my bread any way I wanted it “yeah I suppose” I concluded, munching on the bacon. It didn’t taste quite right either but that had more to do with my father’s cooking than the dream. “get yourself ready and get to school” said dad, moving off to rinse the frying pan in the sink “you'll feel better once you get out” I nodded in agreement, but still my legs felt wooden as I left the table, and my school uniform felt like it had shrunk in the night. Afterimages of dream kept jumping out at me as I left the house, the voices and faces familiar but unnameable. That uncomfortable feeling of everyone staring at me, expecting something great of me. "spooky" I shivered, grabbing my bike and kicking off onto the street "what kind of person wants to rule the world?” I muttered as I passed the neighbours bungalows, their brightly painted facades making them look more like stage props than real houses. "who gets a kick out of everyone being scared of them?" But the fact remained, an uneasy lump in my stomach as I let familiarity guide me to school, that I had enjoyed the dream. I had liked telling people what to do, liked the way the roaring crowds had cried out my name. Of course the name they'd shouted wasn't exactly mine, but dreams don't always get everything right.

"school" I said to myself as I passed the parade of shops and then across the weedy wasteland that people sometimes called a park if they were being generous "that'll stop me feeling weird" if there was any place that would take away my feeling of being something special then it would be a double maths followed by science. School was many things, but it certainly was not a place filled with willing worshippers. The familiar concrete block of Stanton Secondary School reared up, grey and ugly and utterly familiar. But then again look at anything familiar long enough and you start to question it. Was the place always so battered looking, were the walls always so cracked and the paint so faded? I didn’t want to go down that road, doubting reality only leads to one thing - boring philosophy discussions and bad science fiction. “Yo, Anton!” called a familiar voice and I turned to see Eric Larson, current best friend and sometimes worst enemy. Good old Eric, always firmly on hand to call me a twat if I got any ideas above my station like talking to girls or having an opinion of my own. “Eric, dude” I said, high fiving him. Eric then got into a rambling conversation about premier league football that I’d never followed but knew how to nod along to. Part of friendship is pretending that you care about whatever your mates care about no matter how obviously stupid it was. It also meant that I could stare about the playground, and more specifically stare at girls without looking like I was staring at them. I was just idly eyeing up Lindy Liu, who excelled in wearing skirts that were far too short for her long legs, when someone else caught my attention. The girl was not attractive, and she certainly didn’t have the unique way of wearing the school uniform that Lindy possessed. But there were two things that automatically got my attention. The first was that she was looking at me with that same look of adoration that I’d had seen all my followers wearing in the dream – even those whom I’d had killed for fun. The second was that I had no idea who she was. And while there were sometimes new students I couldn’t recall any that looked this, well, new. “Eric?” I interrupted as my friend was in full flow about the beautiful game “……and he’s been playing centre forward for, like….” “Eric, shut up and pay attention” I snapped, my voice sounding strangely authoritative. Clearly Eric thought so too because he stopped talking immediately “the girl. Over there. Who is she?” I made sure my back was to her so she couldn’t see me point her out. “who?” asked Eric, his forehead creasing in confusion as he looked across the playground. “the new girl. Sharp faced. Looks like her mum bought her uniform in a charity shop” “I don’t see anyone there” said Eric “and there isn’t anyone new” “well who do you  call….”  I began, turning around to point out the obvious only to find that the girl had completely vanished. Only the familiar faces of the school, people that I’d known and disliked and felt jealously towards, remained. “you’re imagining things, mate” said Eric, not unkindly “but she was here…” I began and then thought better of it. I was feeling weird enough already, I didn’t want other people thinking I was weird too. If the girl was real then she’d turn up, and if she wasn’t then, well then I had bigger problems to worry about.

I’d received many anonymous notes during my time in secondary school. Most of them informed me how much of a bell end I was, or other insults intimately related to my various failings as a human being. I had even occasionally received one or two that were positive but being as they always anonymous it was impossible to tell who they might have come from. However the note I found tucked inside my locker after double science was altogether new- not only did it not have any insults on it, it also only had two pieces of information. The first was a set of directions and a time. The second was a symbol, hastily scrawled across the top of the page. If it hadn’t been for that symbol I would have casually crumpled and then disposed of the note as being some trolling attempt by my so called best friends. Instead I kept the note in my pocket where it nagged at me as I walked to my next class. I’m sure I knew it from somewhere, though what game or movie I couldn’t at that moment remember. I certainly wasn’t going to show it to anyone to get their opinion – for all I knew it actually might be from some girl who for whatever reason wanted to meet up and confess her undying love for me. It was only mid way through Maths that I realised where the symbol had come from, and that it wasn’t from some game or movie. Either my subconscious was plagiarising another well known logo or whoever had written the note had a direct line into my dreams. That symbol, I now remembered, had flown on the banners of my armies and above the palaces and cities that they had conquered for me. I wasn’t sure which was more likely, but I knew I had to know for sure. So instead of hanging around with Eric and swapping witticisms at lunch I hurried away to follow the directions on the crumpled piece of paper – ending up in a secluded area near the bins behind the canteen. Hardly the most romantic location but when you are a teenager you grab what you can get. Usually what you get, however, is humiliation and I was ready to get a big dose of it. Therefore it was something of a relief to see the person waiting for me wasn’t a guffawing group of my so called friends calling me a twat. It was a relief, however, that was not to last for long. "you came" said the girl, the same look on her eyes as I’d seen in her earlier. I’d never had a stalker, or even a girl that had a crush on me. I wasn’t exactly sure how to react, and the fact that she seemed to have peered into my dreams made things even weirder. “I got your note" I said, unable to think of anything else to say. I held up the note, pointing at the symbol "the symbol. I think i….” I swallowed, not sure what to admit “what's it mean?" "it means you're special" said the girl, stepping close to me. That look on her face, the thrill of power it sent running through me. I felt a queasiness at realising how easy it is to lose any moral sense when someone else opens themselves up to you that way. The lure of power over another human being is almost too much to resist. The knowledge that I could do anything I wanted filled me with both horror and desire “your destiny. Its written. What was once will be again” “my dreams” I said, feeling the words pulled from me by girl’s wide eyed stare “the things I saw, are they… will they…?” “they’re real” said the girl “every moment of it. You are the once and future king. The immortal. The special one” “but how do you know?” I gasped, intoxicated by the girl and her promises of immortality. What else could a thirteen year old boy want but unlimited power and infinite time? “we have known of your legend for many generations” said the girl, stroking my face gently “I have searched for you as my parents searched for you. My whole tribe has sought only to find you and bring you back. After so long I have succeeded” “back?” I asked, looking around me. Talk of chosen ones and immortality looked strange standing by the bins and with boys playing football on the field nearby “where? I mean, I’ve got lessons….” “lessons?” said the girl with a contemptuous snort “what can they teach you that you do not already know? As if any of these old frauds have the right to do anything but bow down at your feet" she moved in even closer so I could feel the heat of her on my skin, see the flecks of pale gold in her eyes and her breath soft on my face "I'm here to set you free. I'm here to help you follow your destiny. We have to go now, before they notice I’m talking to you” “well I don’t think anyone minds” I said, not wanting to move in case the spell was broken but also because I was afraid it would reveal the stiffy I was concealing in my trousers. Either it was the talk of power or her proximity but it was hard to think of a time I had been more aroused “I mean, I am allowed to talk to girls…” “we have to go” she said urgently, grabbing my hand and pulling me towards the gates at the back of the school “if any of them notice you with me then they’ll alert the high priest” “high priest?” “you don’t think I’m the only one who knows what you are?” said the girl, her face flushing red “every prison has its jailers and they are always watching. They’ve grown complacent but if they see me then they’ll know I’ve come for you” she looked fearfully at the field where now the boys had stopped playing football “shit, they’ve realised” “yeah, that I’m talking to a girl” I said with a smile “at last. Maybe I’ll finally get some respect” “you’ll get nothing, my lord, if you just stand here” said the girl. Running forward to the fence that went around the school she skilfully ducked under the wire “come with me if you want to meet your destiny. If you’re only interest is double English then stay here” I took one look back at the field and the concrete mass of the school shimmering in the summer heat. On the one hand dad would kill me if I got caught truanting, but on the other how often did a cute girl want me to follow her? Course she was convinced I had some supreme destiny or other but who knew, maybe she was right. There was only one way to find out. I ducked out after her. Even if she was crazy I might at least get a hand job out of it, and that was worth a month of detentions.

I was all right until we reach the line of trees that separated the town from its nearest neighbour. The girl had bounded up to the line of pines that marked the border between my home and the A road leading to Sturridge. It was also a psychological border, once I cut through here there was no turning back. Whatever craziness the girl was into would take over and great destiny or not, there was no turning back.

"umm, I'm not sure about this" I said, glancing back at the school through the trees "maybe we could just hang out here. Get to know each other a bit…" "don't let them put the fear on you" said the girl, breathing heavily "that's how they trapped you here. You won't ever regain your destiny if you keep doing what they say. You've got such powers in you. It would be criminal to waste them here" she stepped back down to me, coming close again and touching my face as if in awe "think what gifts you still have to give the world" “gifts?” I said, remembering my own mediocre life thus far. There was no evidence of any greatness that I could think of in my school results and my inability to even get into the school football team “why the fuck do you keep going on about me as if I’m the second coming?” “because you are” said the girl simply “can’t you feel it within you?” she placed her hand on my chest “can’t you feel the powers you have? Can’t you remember them? How you can turn men’s minds to your will just by words alone?” I wanted to say no. I wanted to say that I was just a normal kid from West Sussex who played football badly and couldn’t talk to girls. But that was just it. the dreams hadn’t just been dreams, I could feel that. They had the taste of real memories to them- memories of the future perhaps. They had the ring of truth where most dreams were just bundles of emotions  badly cut and pasted together. “no, look I’m…” I began, but couldn’t continue. I remembered now things that I’d buried deep. The times I’d known things other kids had not, had said something that had the other children look at me in horror . How I’d sometimes seemed to know things were going to happen before they did. That sense of déjà vu that had made the other kids look at me awkwardly. What had happened when I lost my temper that time last year. How could I have forgotten that? Another boy had nearly died because of me and I’d forgotten. How did that work? “you’re remembering, aren’t you?” said the girl “who you really are” “no” I lied “anyway, what do you know about it? what the fuck do you know about my dreams?” “because they’re my dreams too” she said, moving close so that she was pressed against my body, her eyes looking up to me, adoring and subservient “Ever since I was little, I dreamed of seeing you there. On your golden throne. The city of Kirsk being levelled. The annihilation of the Sendai rebels. How I longed to see them burn in their millions” “they aren’t real. They were just…” I began, but I saw them in a flash that could only be reality. I saw myself at the head of an army blasting down armed soldiers like they were nothing. The flash of laser beams and energy shields in the setting sun. Soldiers shouting in a language that certainly wasn’t English and had probably yet to be invented. “I know you can be great, that this is not your life” she whispered, pressing against me and nodding at the village down the hill “leave them behind, build a kingdom out of the world that will echo down the centuries. Be that great man I know you to be…” “yes” I said, feeling now the sweet taste in my mouth. The taste of power, the realisation that I could do what I wanted. That the world around me had felt unreal precisely because it was just a stage prop between me and my ambition. All that I had to do was to tear it away, to use my powers to sweep the governments of the world away like they were nothing. I would gather myself an army of zealots, burn down anything that opposed me. In my mind’s eye I could see it as clear as my dreams. Cities aflame as my followers rioted, a triumphant procession through London. Washington. Beijing. All things were possible “yes. We can do this. It begins now” I pulled away from her, ready to go out there and seize my destiny. Ready to make myself king of the world. I was somewhat put out, however, as I reached the top to see my dad, leaning casually against a tree. “the high priest of lies!" hissed the girl, grabbing at my sleeve "he is your jailer, your enemy. He is…” "he's my dad" I said, looking at him as if for the first time. I saw the fear he was masking in his face, and the love too. I knew that he understood my destiny, I just didn’t know whether he agreed with it "you know, don’t you?” I said “about me” “that’s right son” he said sadly “but it’s not quite like she says….” "don't trust him" said the girl, making an awkward warding off gesture. As if my dad in his jeans and shirt were some kind of evil demon "he lies with every word. He’s been lying to you all along…" "fair's fair love” said my dad firmly "you didn't exactly tell him the truth either" "I told him he had a grand destiny, that he is a leader of men. That he is our once and future king, that he will deliver us from….” "and what you didn't say" he interrupted "is that those visions he has been having aren't of his future" "they could be. What will come again can surely….” "no" he put his hand on my shoulder as he addressed me "you know the truth son, deep down. Think about it" "the visions, the dreams. I…." he shook his head "I don't know" "your memory's not what it was" said my dad kindly "that's hardly a surprise. Age does funny things to your memories. It’s the earliest ones, they stay the clearest. Some days I forget what happened last week. Couldn’t remember where I’d put my keys five minutes ago. But ask me what I did that summer when I was nine years old and I could tell you in total clarity” he sighed “and I’m barely fifty.  What it must be like for your…" he trailed off "what do you mean?" I said, feeling the ground fall away "my visions. The future…" "they aren't visions. And they aren’t the future” he said "they're memories. They’re all the things you've done over the centuries - the millenia. All the people you've been. All the lives you've lead" "lives?" I echoed. I started to feel it then, the visions. The dreams. The memories. Not other lives. Not really. Still me. Always me. Forever. With each revelation I felt new ones surfacing, whole icebergs of memory that threatened the fragile ship of my sanity. The century when I had ruled over most of south America. The wilderness years after I’d lost the Chen war. The cannibal times. All of them slammed into me one by one. "it’s not something I'd wish on anyone" said my father sadly “immortality. No wonder you chose to come here” "this is a gift you have" hissed the girl, her face transfigured with hate for my father “a gift that can be used to make the world great again. To lift us up from barbarism…." "I think we've had enough of all that" said my father “too many tyrants make that promise only to deliver more barbarity” "you would say that" snarled the girl "you, who keeps him prisoner. Who lies to him everyday. Who keeps him in this make believe world. Who treats him like a child…" "yeah"  I said, knotting my forehead "why'd you do that? Why'd you keep me in school and all that crap if I’m really this super immortal guy?" "oh son” said dad "you always forget, don't you? It was you who designed all this. You who got us all to play these roles. Who made us pretend to be people who’ve been dead for a thousand years or more. Who designed the school and all the houses. Even the plants. There haven't been plants and trees like this on earth for, oh, hundreds of years. You aren't a prisoner of anyone" he gestured about him "this is all your doing. This is your home. You made all this. Its not a prison, it’s a shrine. To you. To your childhood, long gone as it is. We play along because we love you. Because we’re the last of your adoring congregation" "no…no that can't be true" I said “i''d remember" "you do" he replied "and then you forget" "but…but you're my dad" "yes, I know" he said kindly "and before I was your dad it was my uncle who was your dad for, oh, about thirty years. And then before then it was his grandfather. Ten generations we've served you in this place. Ten generations pretending to be a man so long lost to history we don’t even know his name. all we know is somehow he produced you, and he made enough of an impression that even know you remember everything about him" "but…but this is my home. I remember it all clearly. I remember…" "like I said, memory loss is funny" said my father, almost conversationally to me and the girl "it’s the most recent events that go first. The earliest memories that last. Your memories of this place have lasted longer than all the countries of the world and all the human beings that ever lived – except you, of course. You’ve outlasted everything" "no… no this can't be true" I said, looking at my arms and hands. They didn’t look any different to normal or any different to the other children in my class "look, I'm just a teenager. I couldn’t have designed any of this. I failed art class” I gulped as I looked at my father, his face swam but it was just the tears in my eyes and I wanted to tell him his name but suddenly I couldn’t remember it. He was dad, just dad “this is my home…” "don't listen Anton" said the girl, grabbing me and pulling up towards the trees “he can’t stop you... he knows that. His words are pointless. You have a destiny. We need you to rule us. The world has fallen apart without you” “is it like he said?” I asked the girl, feeling her pull me forward “did I really do those things? Fight all those wars? Kill all those people?” “the past doesn’t matter” she said “it’s the future that is important. There are people out there who need you, who are just waiting for the chance to have something worth dying for. This is what we need. Enough of stagnation, people grown fat with peace and plenty…” I stumbled forward, my mind blurred in memory. The things I had done. The people I had enslaved. What world even still existed out there? I had memories of blasted heathland and ruined towerblocks running right to the horizon. Of skinny people with scared eyes, all the zealotry burned out of them by centuries of war. Did I want to bring that down on them again? Could I ruin the world a second time? “no. No I don’t think I want…” I began “you have to!” said the girl eyeing my father, who had not moved to follow us “this is no time for sentiment. The world out there needs a strong leader. It needs passions and it needs you to lead them. Otherwise it’s all senile old men like him” “they don’t need me” I said, thinking of the adoring crowds with a sickening feeling in my stomach. How they had all called out to me, even as they died in my name. Till all that were left were a few hundred where there once had been millions. Even then they had been willing to die for me. It was only my weariness with all the destruction that had saved them. “they don’t know what they need” said the girl “they’re like cattle. Leave them be and they’ll breed aimlessly for aeons, pretending that happiness is families and a full belly. You are destiny, you are purpose. You are greatness” “and that’s why I’m not going” I said, reaching a decision – or the memory of a past one. There was a reason I had retired here and built this shrine to my childhood. It wasn’t just that my memory had been going. It was that I’d grown tired of the wars and the conquests, of the throwing armies against each other like children’s toys. A millennia of life had brought me many things but it hadn’t brought me the kind of happiness that being just an ordinary kid in an ordinary town ever could. And it certainly hadn’t brought happiness to the millions who had died because of me. "My Lord, wait!" began the girl as I turned and began to stump down the hill. I stopped with a view over the town. The town that had vanished into dust a thousand years earlier but that I had meticulously rebuilt. It could do with a lick of paint, but it wasn’t bad for someone who’d never had the knack for art. "I don't think so" I heard my father say as the girl tried to come close to me "what? You'd decide what was best for the immortal?” she screamed at him “You'd choose for a god?" "he's already chosen" my father said "he's chosen peace and retirement. Chosen to give the world a chance to live without warring gods and immortal kings. We should respect that choice" "and what if we don't want to?" growled the girl "you don't get to make that decision" said my father “you don't remember what it was like, none of us do. There are records. Mass graves and bomb craters where cities had stood. Irradiated wastelands covering half a continent. I'm not going to let that happen again" I looked up to see the knife in my father’s hand and for a horrible minute I thought it was for me. Then I remembered the enemies I’d bested in the past, the blades they’d buried in me to no avail. And I remembered that my father and his people had sworn to serve me for the rest of time. To serve me in whatever form I chose. So when he turned to the girl I looked away. “I’m sorry” I said, looking over the village while the man who was not my father murdered the girl who wanted to make me a monster again “I didn’t want to do this. But it’s a mercy” I didn’t say who it was a mercy for. Not for the girl bleeding out on the grass on the hill. Perhaps not even for me, an old senile god living in a fake town surrounded by fake people. But for the remnants of the human race that lived out there. They deserved a chance for peace, to be free of great destinies and leaders and gods. Then when my father was done and the girl safely buried I started back down the hill. If I hurried I could play a bit of footie and then it was double English. I liked English because I was sat near Lindy Liu and if I leaned back just right I could almost see down her top. And I knew that by the time I got there all memories of the girl and my genocidal centuries would be gone, and only innocent childhood remain.

#sf #immortals

[occupyscifi]

The free fyre zone

Incendiary bombs lit up the ruins of the civil war torn city. It lit upon the fort lay grand buildings, reduced to ruin by warring militia groups. It lit up the casinos that had become killing ground and the hotels that had become bombed out shells. It also illuminated a straggling line of hipsters making their shell shocked way to the weed choked outdoor theatre. Once there had been great concerts, when the civil war hadn’t turned tourism into a sick joke. When this had been a desirable place to take a holiday. That the hipsters in their burning man tshirts and faux ironic trustafarian beads didn’t seem to have got the memo was just another hollow irony. They came clutching tickets that promised the concert of a lifetime and an experience like no other. That the experience was likely to be death from a either bullet or cholera was not mentioned. “its…its here right?” asked one boy who had been mugged as soon as he’d stepped out of the perfumed safety of the international airport. Relieved of his passport, his bitcoin e-purse and a fair amount of his innocence he had still doggedly journeyed through the desert heat, past wilted palm trees and rubble piles to the bombed out ruin of the old Hilton hotel. “sure…I guess” said a girl whose face was smeared with soot from the cooking fires that had kept her alive. Best not to ask what she had killed and cooked over it, but it was unlikely to be the organic free range fare that her rich complexion was hitherto used to “its menna be…its menna be….” However words had failed as her spirit had been crushed, the thousands of lolcoin spent on flights and supposed exclusivity to the party of the century. “yeah” said another boy, who had used the last of his e-glass charge to google how to make weapons from the everyday trash left behind by the civil war. He held in his hand a shank made from the remains of a crashed drone cam, downed by some local fighter irritated by network news overflights filming their plight for youtube Epicwarfails videos “stage is down here” he gestured down steps that were pocked with bullets. Beyond there lay an amphitheatre that had clearly been used for executions and had what could be charitably described as a stage. That it was daubed with fundamentalist slogans from one of the more extremist militias did not suggest it was likely to host any international pop acts. “three days…” said the first boy “three days and this…” he sighed in exhaustion. The hundred or so other hipsters, representing a mix of nationalities and ethnicities but all hailing from the richest one percent of the youth demographic were either sitting or wandering about in shellshocked horror. What little light there was came from the few remaining working e-glasses or bespoke antique retro blackberries. The rattle of machine gun fire in the distance and the crump of explosions were now so familiar that the hipsters didn’t even look up. Those that had been fashionably slim before were now unfashionably gaunt, gym trained muscles unused to dealing with the strain of living in a war zone. All of a sudden the last of the lights failed and the amphitheatre was plunged into darkness. The sound of booted feet on the stairs and the whispered crackle of callsigns over radios boded no good at all. The audience all suddenly remembered all the stories their nannies had told them about ISIS and White Pride gangs and what they did to little rich kids when they caught them. “oh my god…” said the girl hysteria in her voice “this is….” “ladies and gentlemen!” boomed a voice from speakers hidden all around them “Freefyremedia entertainment are proud to present – the Beastie Boys!” Spotlights flashed on, illuminating the stage. With a flourish the cloth covered slogans calling for death to blasphemers and heretics fell away to reveal to the now iconic flame logo that had become the byword for ultimate extreme live entertainment. On the stage the cloned and copyrighted heirs to the New York rappers struck a pose. “this first one goes out” cried the cloned Mike D, his DNA reset to License to Ill era youth “to all your crazy mofos who hiked through a goddamn desert war to see us. Make some noise!” “epic!” continued the girl drowned in the sound of people fighting (for their right) to party “absolutely epic!”

The idea to run luxury festival in a warzone had come to Gigi Khan Rodriguez Tesla after the fourth time she had been kidnapped on her Instagram sponsored charity yacht tour of Somalia. “it’s like, you have to give something back” she said, being interviewed on the first day of the Free Fyre festival. Behind her the broken skyline of the city served as the perfect backdrop to her earnest interview. Indeed she had called in her own drone team to demolish a particularly unsightly building that had advertised one of her rivals sponsors “I wanted to both create the ultimate party experience for the spartan race, climate change fighting generation -  and to raise money for kids like these” she gestured to where some local boys - their faces  photogenic in their malnutrition -  lounged adoringly. They were skinny, but not too skinny – that would upset people too much -  and they were dressed in Gigi’s own line of refugeeware tees “I mean, we’ve all done burning man, and Coachella got yawny after the third orgithon” she smiled her perfect smile “when you’ve lived in the bubble of luxury all your life what’s left to experience?” she gestured behind her at a city torn in two by civil strife. Where those left behind feared their own government as much as the roving bands of extreme religious militia. Where the buzz of drones overhead meant either foreign bombs or worse, foreign journalists. “except the real world?” “but Gigi” asked a journalist through a small floating camdrone “what about those who say you’re exploiting these kids for your own gain?” the journalist was not, as might be suspected, talking direct to Gigi. Most journalists from serious publication wouldn’t be able to afford the ticket price to a free fyre zone event. Instead this journalist was skyping from a café in downtown Mumbai “that if anything your events actually cause more instability to the communities they are meant to help, and serve as nothing more than a chance for dumb rich kids to pretend they are facing the real world?” “an excellent question” replied Gigi, who had zoned out slightly during the longer sentences. As a seasoned social media pro she was an expert in the art of multitasking. She had been loltagging her latest set of Instagram pics, hitting the right balance between artistically beautiful shots, perfectly toned flesh and serious photo documentary of ruined buildings that her people told her had historical value. Her lack of attention hardly mattered as there were enough of her paid PR staff to feed her the next lines as she paused to look thoughtful over the heat hazed ruins of the city. One reason to chose this particuatl warzone, the desert climate made it an excellent backdrop to their photos, the sunsets alone were worth the ticket price. “you know, these are people that have lost hope” she said, reading the lines of her e-glasses autocue “They’ve been abandoned by their own government . The international community doesn’t care. The UN doesn’t even bother to send aid anymore. If nothing else we’re making this place cool. And if a place is cool then people will care again. Because of us its trending on social media. People are actually talking about this city. That has to help right?” The journalist wanted to ask another question but has been shunted to the back of the queue. There are other media organs who had paid more money and want to shoehorn in either paid hashtagged phrases or to begin some celebrity faux flame war arranged weeks in advance between Gigi and her carefully curated list of frenemies. “Okay good people!” Shouted Gigi to the crowd. It was the last night of the festival and the renaming in hipsters that had not been airlifted out due to injury, food poisoning or their mummies and ad dies getting scared cheered loudly “we’ve had a great time these last couple of days. We’ve all had a blast – literally” she nodded at the members of the vegan fundamentalist militia who had allowed the hipster to get access to their social cache  of weaponry for just a small extra fee. For even more the audience could choose their own list of targets to be destroyed. All proceeds going to a good cause, of course “but we shouldn’t forget the real reason we’re here, and I’m not talking about your awesome pecs, Bieber junior” at the side of the stage the excellently quaffered but definitely illegitimate child of the singer showed his famous chest. That he had been created without his fathers consent hardly mattered, after all if Beiber senior had wanted to remain childless then he should not have tried to pay off his legal bills with access to his own DNA “no, its all about the good people of this city. Kids like the ones I’ve been speaking to” behind her graphics of more cute kids show, all of them with cute injuries – nothing too disturbing. Research shows that kids with arms missing don’t make people feel anything but sad, and sad doesn’t help anyone “they are the ones that have to live here while we get on with our lives” Gigi does her serous face, it’s one she carefully practices and highlight best the doe eyes her parents paid so much money to have encoded into her genes “so let’s give it up one more time for everyone living in…” there is a pause when Gigi realises she’s forgotten the name of the place. Well all these little shithole desert cities in their failed states all sound the same. Was it Spanish? Latin? Arabic? Didit even matter? “ this great city” there is a roar from the crowd of approval and the noise of elegantly manicured hands that have never known a days work clapping away “and now make some noise for our final act!” With that the lights go down and Gigi exits the stage, grabbing her smart glasses from an assistant. “You said I didn’t need these. Said I looked cleverer without” muttered Gigi angrily “I looked like an asshole instead. Not knowing the name of the place” she pulled on the glasses as behind her the band began one of their most famous numbers. The one from the advert, or the film. Gigi never bothered to remember . It was hummable, that was all that mattered. She climbed into her private APC and the engine coughed into life, driving her out of then city and never looking back. As she passed the edge of the city limits a bullet perforated sign reminded her of the name of the city. “Las vegas!” She said proudly, as the former casino city vanished into the background – now one of many front lines in a bitter civil war “how could I forget?” Behind her the sun set and against the backdrop of a rocket attack Coldplay began their set in earnest. It was going to be epic.

#fyre festival #sf #celebocracy

[occupyscifi]

The Guardian

The Guardian emerged from his vault into a world fallen into ruin. As he stepped out of the corroded metal airlock, freezing gas escaping in clouds around him, he gaped at the remains of all he had known. Where in his time great kilometre high towers had graced the skyline now only tumbled stumps of rubble remained. Where once there had been ordered malls and temples of commerce there stood only empty and pockmarked concrete tombs, their insides choked with weeds and overrun by great red flowered creepers. Where once there had been pleasant boulevards and bustling open plazas there were now only craters left by massive chunks of fallen masonry. Shards of superstructure that barbarian tribes had decorated with the rude faces of their primitive gods.

The Guardian tottered on still half frozen legs, the exosuit he wore providing breath for his lungs as they reacquainted themselves to breathing. As he walked the death of his civilisation became even more obvious. The skeletons of transport pods lay long dead by the roadside, surely left in some moment of disaster. Or perhaps some had simply had their batteries run down, the Guardian imagined some barbarian chieftain yelling powerful curses as his war wagon finally ran out of power.

And what of the people? What of the great city dwellers from which the Guardian had been drawn? Th scientist and the engineers and the programmers? What of the intellectual elite of the continent, those for whom the secrets of the universe were bound to open to in the end?

Well the eagle eyes of the Guardian had already spotted signs of human habitation. The stains of cooking fires and the gnawed bones of recent kills half hidden in the ruins. He spied too in the shadows of the ruined concrete buildings and high up in the long burnt out towers figures thinking themselves hidden. The Guardian made no effort to hide himself, nor to use the many advanced armaments he had concealed about his person. Instead he simply kept walking, slowly and steadily up the pockmarked marble steps that had once lead to the civic plaza. There the Guardian knew that the savage tribes that had followed the fall of civilisation would surely hold their infernal rituals. No doubt they would be some bastardised misinterpretation of the Guardian’s own time. Re enactments of familiar events made alien by time and rotted memory. There he would meet those descendants of his people, and there he would see if there was anything left of the world he knew.

As he reached the top of the stairs the plaza itself came into view. Its wide acres had been long since striped of trees and its ornamental hedges. In their places crude stakes served as a last resting place for sacrificial victims – some the Guardian could not tell whether they were animal or human, and thought perhaps they might be an unholy mix of the two.

What there also were, in their tens, were the people the Guardian sought. Dressed in simple rags or in horrible parody of the clothes the Guardian had once wore. All of them looking at him with wild, terrified eyes. Looking to him to give the light of the civilisation that had vanished from themselves. Any trace of the great civilisation that had once resided here, of the population of deep thinkers and sophisticated consumers had long gone. They were savages living in the ruins of a dead city.

“Yes!” said the Guardian, giving the sky a mini fist pump of joy “thank fuck for that! I’ve come to the right goddamn time”

 The Guardians had been created to solve a simple problem. That of immortality. But not the immortality of the individual, that was a simple one. People could be kept going indefinitely, it was a simple matter of resplicing human DNA with a much simpler organisms and then wiping out the resultant cancers every sixth or seventh year. No, what really bothered the people of the late 21st century was the inevitable death of their own society. Despite its technical proficiency, despite having solved the great questions of history these people were left with a very simple neuroses. Plain and simple they worried about the extinction of their culture, their civilisation and their way of life. The inevitable world ending apocalypse that could come from anything, be it disease, climate change or the collapse of capitalism. Blame too many zombie films, blame dystopic novels and end of the world scenarios but the simple truth was that most human being living in the start of the 22nd century were convinced that it was impossible to stop the end of the world.

But while it was known that the world would end, cities would crumble and be overrun by half starved barbaric hordes, it was also know that something would survive. Or more accurately someones, because much like the common cockroach it was assumed that short of a total extinction event there would always be human beings who would survive. Of course they would most likely be primitive, highly superstitious types fallen conveniently to a semi medieval barbarism. The sort of people that would kill and eat a scientist rather than listen to them elucidate on germ theory. However they would be precisely the sort of people who would listen to a handy messiah, especially if that messiah had been kept inside a deep sleep cryo chamber for the preceding centuries just waiting to come back and rebuild civilisation.

Thus a core of men and women were recruited to act as Guardians of civilisation, to be frozen en masse and then awoken, one each every five hundred years. If they were to find that civilisation was still there, ticking over nicely, then it was back in the deep freeze for another few centuries. When they finally awoke to a world lain low by mankind’s famous hubris then they would spring to the rescue. They would re educate the populace, rebuild the infrastructure and the learning to recreate civilisation from the ashes of its fall. Of course this new civilisation would also flourish, wither and die in time. But then there were a large number of Guardians, and no real limit on how long they could be frozen.

Tethis Mathews had been itching to be a guarding since his thirteenth year and total immersion in Fallout 7 WW4. His most fervent wish had been to explore a real zombie infested nuclear wasteland, but he would settle for a barbarous horde that could be won over by his reasoning mind. And if his reasoning mind didn’t cut it then his exosuit’s numerous in built weapons could make mincemeat out of anyone who got in his way. He had entered the Guardian programme with his eyes open, knowing full well that the age of plenty and enlightenment that had been born into was nothing but a bright point between inevitable shadows. Climate change, rampant capitalism and fearsome inequality, he knew, would soon bring about the end of civilisation. Not soon enough, however, hence his joining of the Guardian programme. This allowed him to speed up the process, and also to choose the time of his reawakening. Judging a round thousand years to be enough to have artfully scarred the land and reduced its people to a convenient level of barbarism he had happily stepped into the cryo chamber.

“I come from the past!” he called out loudly, knowing that it was likely he would not be understood and therefore his suit repeated his words in whatever the onboard AI’s best guess was for what English would degrade into after a thousand years of decline “to guide you into the future” Tethis looked around at the faces of the crowd. They were for the most part shorter than him, and much thinner – though that may have been more due to the exo suit he wore adding a good few inches to his height “I have come to bring the light of civilisation to those who have lost it, to bring knowledge where there is ignorance and hope for those who have none” he raised his left hand in a fist salute stolen from the black panthers by way of Halo 17 “I am your Guardian!”

These last words were as a shout in the air, and for a moment Tethis felt a trickle of foolishness run through him. Who was he to be telling these people what to do? He who in his life had lived only in digital fantasy and online interaction?

But then as one the crowd, with barely a whisper went down on their knees and bowed before him. Tethis regarded the supplicant mass, the hundreds of ragged and skinny peasants who were ready to be lead back to civilisation. That Tethis had hated the same civilisation when he had been in it hardly mattered.

“now this” said Tethis “is more like it” he looked at the front row bowed before him, trying to discern who was in control, which high priest or warlord he would need to have on his side to prevent it all going a bit Game of Thrones. He chose an appropriately burly looking warrior, his fine beard spotted with grey and a blade – carved seemingly from a piece of UPVC window frame – in his belt.

“stand, stand my good man” said Tethis, waiting for his onboard AI to translate. When it did and the man still failed to rise Tethis was reduced to awkwardly tapping the man on the shoulder and almost pulling him to his feet “right, umm. Okay. Tell me….” Tethis groped around for the next part of the script. He would need a specific miracle of some kind to convince the people he was a real Guardian and not some false god. Perhaps if he could get the lights on, or if there was a convenient plague that his onboard medikit could cure just in time to save some cute children “tell me what afflicts you. Some contagion? Or marauding bands of bandits? A tyrannical religion?” he scoured his mind for the post apocalyptic fiction he had loved as a child "A rogue AI? Rogue robots?” the blank look in the man’s face continued “Rogue anything?”

The man seemed to pause for a moment as if he were thinking deeply and then his eyes lit up. He said something in a tongue so barbarous that it may as well have been Klingon or Dothraki. He gestured for Tethis to follow him, pointing towards one of the many crudely built huts on the edge of the plaza. They had been clearly jerry rigged from the detritus of the city. Panels of transport pods were welded onto twisted pieces of old masonry, junk that had barely survived the centuries recycled to keep out the cold wind and rain.

“right, good. Getting somewhere” said Tethis, gearing himself up to face whatever local bogeyman needed to be defeated in order for him to begin his real work of rebuilding civilisation.

The bearded tribesman gestured to one hut in particular, its mass spread over two ungainly stories. Outside it a pair totem poles were carved into faces that Tethis did not recognise but suspected had been based on ancestral memories of children TV characters. Some ur-disney ears emerged from a carved face that resembled a Darth Vader mask. The entrance to the hut was marked by two large pieces of corroded copper sheet, their surfaces engraved with cave painting like scenes. Tethis was pleased to note that one of them looked like a child’s drawing of a Guardian, the exo suit rendered in swirling carved lines. Perhaps in some dim ancestral story they had remembered his kind, those that kept aflame the light of civilisation.

His reverie was interrupted by a series of savage syllables from the chieftain, who pulled aside one of the sheets of copper to lead Tethis into a dark and smoky interior. There a few candles and incense burned away, causing Tethis to cough slightly and reminding him of the occult stores a dreary  ex girlfriend had always dragged him to.

“and this place is?” asked Tethis, blinking into he darkness. He was a little on edge, though this hardly looked like the sort of place they would kill and eat an unwary traveller. Not least because firstly he’d not broken any obvious taboos but more importantly he had enough firepower on him to reduce what was left of the city to rubble.

“we’ve been waiting for you” came a voice from the darkness. Into the light stepped a girl, her face decorated with swirling tribal tattoos that Tethis realised were stylised renderings of tech company logos from his era “Guardian. Waiting so long for your wisdom”

“you speak…” swallowed Tethis “you speak English?”

“I have studied your people for many years” said the girl, her bright brown eyes drinking in the tall stranger. Her cheekbones had a hint of Asia, and yet she was pale as a Russian bond girl. Tethis decided that whatever else, the fall of civilisation had clearly been beneficial for some. Whichever way you cut it the girl was very beautiful “I am Jain. I learned your language from those few who still spoke it”

“yes, I can imagine there aren’t many who do” said Tethis, looking at the tribal chieftain, who bowed once to him and stealthily withdrew “these primitive people are a bit too simple to understand a language so complex and rich as 22nd century English…”

“no. no I mean that English is too simple” said Jain as she guided Tethis to where they could sit and talk “They can’t express themselves in it. People here mostly speak Olthran. Its got, like, fifteen separate words for happiness. Only idiots like me speak in English”

“oh” said Tethis “right. Well, if you’ve heard of the Guardians then you know why we’re here. To bring back….”

“to bring back civilisation, light in the darkness?”

“yes” said Tethis, sitting carefully in a chair made from the bones of old umbrellas. The girl sat down in one opposite. She reached for a glass jar of brown granules and placed it on a table. From another she drew a clear and slightly bubbling liquid. Into two primitive earthenware mugs she poured first the liquid and then dropped a quantity of the brown granules, stirring with one hand and murmuring what sounded like a prayer over them. When it was finished she handed one to Tethis and held one herself. She raised the mug to the sky, clearly intending for them both to drink at the same time

“so, what do you call this drink exactly?” he asked gingerly, sniffing at the liquid. However his sense of smell had yet to fully return. All he could smell was the ever present incense. He wondered what kind of eldritch mix it might be, and pondered whether to refuse would be to break the sort of taboo one never did when meeting a primitive tribe. He didn’t want to end up in some giant wicker cage being burned to death.

“coke” said the girl “diet, of course” she pressed the mug to Tethis’s lips “drink, it is the drink of your people. We drink it in honour of those people long dead, and in hope that their legacy might be given its due”

“right” said Tethis “of course” he took a sip, and despite its warmth he was pleased to notice it was a pleasant approximation of coke. The kind of imitation coke bought by trendy types who wanted something organic and fair trade, but close enough considering the last coke bottling plant had probably been burnt down by tribal fundamentalists aeons earlier “about that legacy” he began, after several un comfortable moments of the girl staring at him in what he could only assume was adoration “how can I…um, well how can I help?”

“What do you mean, Guardian?” said Jain innocently

“I mean, is there something I can do?” he looked about the hut, but there was little clue of what his mission should be “are there hordes of brigands that are bothering the people of this city? Rogue robots? Evil AI that people worship like a pagan god?”

“the brigands were all wiped out long since. We formed a confederacy of tribes and dealt with them when I was a little girl” she took another sip of her drink and belched delicately “and there never were any robots, rogue or otherwise. The last AI ascended to a higher plane of reality about two hundred years ago”

“oh, oh right” said Tethis, sipping the coke “but there must be something. Do you lot have any diseases at the moment? People needing medicine?”

“the wise women do well enough”

“hmm, well they may be all right with the herbs and the potions” said Tethis “but when it comes to some real magic I think I have a few tricks”

“oh, I am sure Doctor Sung will love that” said the girl, adding a little more water to her coke “she’s always studying – she has ever so many doctorates and she can cure a cancer like no one else. I’m sure she’d love to discuss it with you. Maybe you can do some surgery? There are some horrible wounds in the infirmary….”

“on second thoughts” said Tethis, for whom the sight of any blood not digitally rendered was too horrible to look at “I don’t want to step on any toes. Perhaps I can do something else useful. Any ancient data cores that need to be restarted?”

“no, no I don’t think so” said the girl

“lights that I could turn on?”

“we have candles” said the girl “they seem to work”

“christ, there must be something” said Tethis, feeling the coke in the its earthenware mug “man, if you just had a fridge I’d kill for a cold one of these”

“oh, I have one” said Jain, gesturing to the corner where an off whoite object stood, cracked by time but still well used.

Despondently Tethis went over and opened it. he was annoyed to see the light didn’t turn on, and even more annoyed to see it didn’t actually seem to be plugged in.

“yeah, where is the electric socket?” he asked, holding up the cable. The girl looked confused

“electric?” said the girl “what’s that?”

Tethis would be the first to admit he didn’t quite have the most technical mind. Asked to explain to primitive people about how nuclear fission worked, or how one could generate electricity even via wind power he would have struggled. However his onboard AI was more than capable of providing the right words, not to mention to give him a handy guide as to how he could reconnect the city to the electricity grid. It helped of course that his exosuit had already a map of the city from his own time, and had figured that the old electric plant just to outside the city was still workable.

“so that you can see at night” said Tethis as Jain translated for him. They had gathered the heads of the tribes, though instead of the grizzled old warriors in the Conan mould he had been expecting the majority was clearly female and there wasn’t a single burley bearded chieftain amongst them. When Tethis enquired about the presence of the warrior who had led him to her Jain had pointed out that the man hadn’t been a chieftain, or even a warrior.

“he’s a gardener” Jain had said “hence the blade. I don’t think he’s ever killed a man in his life. Why would he?”

Tehtis had wanted to say that in the world after civilisation it was only the strong that survived, but seeing the way people cared for children and venerated the elderly in the plaza that was clearly not true. Obviously these people had never seen Mad Max

“electricity means your homes can be warm in winter” Tethis continued to the chieftains, gathered in one of the central huts on the plaza. This one was no less primitive but it was light and airy, and was decorated in patterns that while both primitive and incomprehensible Tethis found quite soothing “so that your children will not die of the cold” he saw one chieftain raise a quizzical eyebrow and Tethis thought perhaps that in this climate the cold was not a problem “so that you may keep your food colder and for longer. So that you may live longer lives and in greater comfort” he waited for Jain to complete the translation and smiled in satisfaction at the nods that came afterwards. Then there came speeches from some of the chieftains that Jain translated, though either her skills were bad or else Tethis was not listening since they didn’t seem to make much sense, filled as they were with allusions to events that Tethis had never heard of. However that hardly mattered, if these people already knew what was good for them then they wouldn’t have been primitive savages living in hovels in the rubble of his civilisation. And after all it wasn’t like they could really refuse him, it would have been childs play to simply impose his will on them and get them to do exactly as he pleased. Which he wouldn’t do, because that wouldn’t be fair.

“two days walk from here there is a generating substation, powered by a geothermal fault in the earth’s crust” explained Tethis to a series of blank faces. He sighed "A big building that makes electric by getting hot in the ground. The heat makes the electric and then big long wires carry it to here” Tethis was glad that while he was explaining this not only was Jain translating his words but his exo suit’s holo projector was displaying a shimmering blue schematic of the landscape, complete with Star Wars style blipping lines to show what was happening. As he explained the schematic zoomed in, showing a tiny version of Tethis flicking a switch. It pulled out then to show the electricity flashing along underground cables that the AI assured Tethis were still active. Then it showed an idealised 3d graphic of the city, filled with stick figure frowny faced tribesmen. When the electricity reached the city the lights came on, turning the frowny faced tribesmen into a cheering mob, throwing down their spears in joy.

“see?” said Tethis “easy. You’ll be back to a functioning capitalist society in no time” he beamed “now, I just need a few volunteers – preferably among your strongest warriors” he didn’t meet Jain’s eye, after all despite her assurances that the road to the substation was free from bandits he had watched enough post apocalyptic  films to know it had to be different. There was no way such an obviously pre industrial society could have the level of organisation to keep its transport routes free from brigands and outlaws. Had there been some kind of cod Roman Empire then he would have been assured, however a city run by women as some kind of hippie co-op didn’t inspire much confidence.

*

They saw the first of the statues half a day’s ride from the city. Tethis had requisitioned the horse even though he could have easily walked, the exo suit would keep marching on whether he moved a muscle or not. However the Planet of the Apes style incongruity of his masterchief themed exosuit on the back of a horse was not to be missed. That the horse might not recover from the excess weight did not cross his mind.

“what are these?” he asked after they had past the second. The statues were not obviously new, but neither were they from Tethis’s own time – the technical know how required to create thirty foot tall bronze figures had clearly long gone. Not only that but their placement – on concrete plinths by the roadside - was clearly very deliberate. That there had been none in the city, or even in the weed choked chaos of the old suburbs was equally so.

Tethis had seen the first as they had reached a wide plain, a river slashing through it whose bridges were rickety things made of wood lashed around the stumps of what had been concrete posts. However Tethis’s onboard AI didn’t recognise the design of the statue, and Tethis himself didn’t remember there being anything like that when he had lived in the city.

“I thought you’d know” said Jain as they past one of them. They were tall and imposing, cast in a style that took in both Roman Emperors and the tinpit celebrity dictators of the late 21st century. Indeed as they got closer Tethis could see signs of familiar technology, a tablet computer held in the left hand and a pair e-glasses caught up in the delicate copper curls on the figure’s head. Yet the details were hard to discern, for while the centuries had perhaps been kind the local people had not. The statue was badly chipped and dented, as if it had been regularly used for target practice “he was one of yours”

“one of mine?” said Tethis, not understanding. He looked at the face, dented beyond all recognition “what do you mean?”

“he was a Guardian” said Jain, her dark eyes looking from Tethis to the statue “Willis Oldfield. He woke up perhaps three hundred years ago. He said he was going to help us, but….”

“but what?”

“I’ve said too much” said Jain, performing a gestured clearly intended to ward off the evil eye “I will not speak ill of our saviours”

“saviours?” echoed Tethis, wheeling around his horse so as to stare at the statue. He hadn’t known Willis that well, the Guardian programme had many volunteers and each got to choose their wake up date. There was something of a lottery to it- wake up to early and civilisation would still be in full swing, making you look paranoid and foolish and making you fodder for social media mockery. However punch in too many years and the likelihood of your vault having been destroyed either in natural or man made disaster increased. Tethis had chosen a round thousand years, clearly Willis had chosen less. Tethis furrowed his brow, an uncomfortable thought in his mind.

“so I’m not the first Guardian to wake up then?”

“no my lord, I am afraid not” said Jain, not meeting his eyes

“but if I’m not the first then why” he gestured at the ruined city they had left behind, at the simple peasants tilling the filed using methods that were irritatingly inefficient “why is it all still like this?”

Jain looked at the entourage of armed men, their faces carefully blank – either because they couldn’t understand a word either were saying or because they didn’t want to comment. Then she looked at Tethis.

“he started well, everyone knows that. Willis did” she began “he helped rebuild parts of the city, helped heal the sick and the victims of the fluxplague. He gave us laws and security and promised that we would live as gods, as man once had. However as the years went on he, well, became a little too convinced of his mission and less and less convinced of our ability to help achieve it. Instead of just helping us he wanted to rule us -  for our own good, he said” she looked at the statue darkly “and there were many who believed it. many who were happy to join in the pogroms and the purges. Who didn’t mind the dissappearances and the loyalty parades. They probably thought it was needed, or at least that it was justified. They didn’t know, you see, didn’t understand what a dictator was. How if you feed a man’s ego, treat him like a god then he’ll behave like one” she ruefully tapped the statues foot, feeling the words carved into it. Tethis didn’t need to be able to understand the script to get the idea of what it said. Clearly Emojjis had not gone extinct with civilisation “and gods are cruel, and they want sacrifices and the more you give the more they take” she sighed “By the time that death came for him he was ruling an empire that spanned from here to the sea and even that wasn’t enough. He was planning to take more. Ever more. Every day they were executing prisoners on the plaza. So many that the blood ran like rivers”

“I can’t… I can’t believe it” said Tethis, looking at the statue “he was meant to be a Guardian. We had an oath, you see” but in his mind he could already see the temptation, for who would have joined the Guardian programme if not with an eye to playing the hero? And if one were to be the hero then it would be natural to want a reward. On top of that he doubted that it was easy to set up a system of representative democracy amongst these savages. Too easy to find oneself playing the dictator, telling yourself it was temporary, that you would step down just as soon as the people were ready to rule themselves. But would they ever be ready? Tethis could well imagine Willis getting older and madder, less willing to give up power. Watching his best efforts crumble away to nothing. He shivered. He would not let that happen to him. He must not. “you know, I could never…. I would never…”

“I am sure my lord has the best of intentions” said Jain, looking up at him “come, we can reach your sub station by nightfall, if we hurry”

They saw three more statues before they reached the substation, two of them had been cut down – either out of protest or else to be melted down for their metal content. They passed too farmers and travellers on the road. Seeing a Guardian the people bowed and went down on one knee, however Tethis was no longer so enamoured by the obsequience. There was a queisness in his stomach that told him he would no longer innocently enjoy their flattery. Not least because when they did meet his gaze it was not wonder he saw in their eyes but suspicion.

“they do not trust me, do they?” he said to Jain as they rode onwards. The sun was starting to set but Tethis had spotted already the squat bulk of the substation in the distance, could see on his onboard HUD the warm glow of geothetmal power ready and waiting to be connected back to the city.

“they are reserving their judgement” said Jain “that is all. I am sure you will be able to convince them soon that you are not like all the rest”

“all the rest?” asked Tethis, suddenly more alarmed “just how many Guardians have been woken up?”

“we are nearly there” said the girl, ignoring the question “we should hurry, your horse looks like he will not make it much longer”

They reached the substation just as the sun finally disappeared over the horizon, so Tethis was unable to make out whether the centuries had been kind to its exterior. He was hoping that it had been decorated like a temple, as if electricity was some kind of god to be feared and revered – the bringer of light and heat into darkness and cold. However all he could really tell was that the door was sealed tight.

“it has been like that since time immemorial” said Jain, translating what a handy local they had recruited was telling them “once it was a place of power, but now….”

“I can handle this” said Tethis, feeling on familiar ground again. It was very much the role of the Guardian to solve ancient mysteries, and managing to open a sealed power door was in fact quite simple. Certainly if your onboard AI had already bluetoothed with what remained of the substation’s security and assured it that he was not a terrorist. With a practised flourish Tethis raised his arms and the doors opened. He was rewarded by an appreciative gasp from one of the primitives around him.

“come, and lets see the mysteries of the ancients” he grinned and started to walk forward. He was somewhat chagrined to see that only Jain came with him.

“they are too filled with primitive fear to come in” she explained “they fear the great fire god will strike them down if they step on his holy land. Only I am brave enough to come in, since I know that you are more powerful than any god”

“right. Good” said Tethis, feeling a little unnerved by the way she looked at him. Adoration was a new emotion to consider in others, and he was not sure he liked it. he couldn’t see well enough to tell what expression the tribesmen were wearing on their faces, but trusted enough that it was awe not to mind that they didn’t follow “well, lets get this done”

The interior of the substation was dark but for the red infernal glow of emergency lighting. Due to the interference from the station itself Tethis’s onboard AI had shut down, but not before setting up a handy schematic for him to follow in order to get the station operational and get the lights of the city back on.

“right, we need to start re-connecting these cables” he said, pointing at the coiled snakes of high voltage cabling “I can open the switches but I need you to carry one” he pointed at the end “be very, very careful. Touch the end of that and you’ll fry” he struggled to think of the appropriate metaphor for her primitive mind “like the bite of a snake. Like the deadliest snake you ever knew”

The girl nodded wide eyed and Tethis turned to flick switches on the wall. The substation hummed as it prepared to cycle up and begin operations.

“so when I say, you need to plug this in” said Tethis turning around to see Jain holding the high votage cable, her hands a safe distance from the connector “on my mark you need to connect this to the socket by here” he tapped a plug in red “okay, no…” he began as Jain began to move forward. However instead of her plunging it into the socket where it belonged she threw it hard against the chest plate of Tethis’s suit. The last thing he saw before his vision exploded into sparks was Jain’s eyes. They were utterly expressionless.

Tethis came to in what felt like seconds or minutes later. Either way it didn’t matter. His suit was dead and the blade in Jain’s hand was long, cruel and clearly well used. The unwavering way she held it showed that she was no stranger to using a weapon. With his suit out of action Tethis couldn’t even move his arms, and with his face mask removed so as to better convince the savages of his good intent he was a sitting duck.

“why?” he croaked as Jain squatted beside him.

“don’t you get it?” said Jain “we don’t need your civilisation. Your light. Your progress. We don’t need what your selling”

“but the technology I can give you” said Tethis desperately. This wasn’t how things were meant to go, sure there was always a danger from primitives. But the hero was always meant to get the girl, not the girl kill the hero “Think of what you can do with that. You don’t have to live in the dark ages…”

“that’s not the problem” said Jain “the problem is you. We’ve seen your type before, remember those statues? And it wasn’t just Willis. There have been many, many before. Each time they come promising civilisation and progress and an end to suffering and you know what?” she laughed harshly “Every single one turns Emperor. Every single one thinks that he has the only answer to all our problems. At first it’s all making schools and hospitals and healing the wounds of the past, but pretty soon it’s all gold palaces and nubile slaves. Wars against infidels who dare to question the authority of the mighty Guardian” her eyes turned hard as she pressed the blade close to Tethis’s neck. For his part Tethis stayed quiet, he knew it was better to let a villain monologue themselves out. In the meantime he might just manage to reboot his suit “Thousands upon thousands of human beings dying because some jumped up little manboy can’t handle anyone criticising them. Because lets face it, you guys are not really built to be natural leaders. I mean what’s your qualification for telling us how to live our lives? Back in your time where you in disaster management? Did you have experience of developing new societies? Were you all big university professors?”

“but you’d rather live in barbarism?” said Tethis desperately, his attempts to reboot his suit failing pathetically “prefer to live in a ruined city, overgrown with weeds? You could be living in a technological paradise…”

“and who do you think ruined the city? Who do you think ended civilisation in the first place?”

“well clearly it was a combination of factors” blustered Tethis, who hadn’t bothered trying to find out why the world had died. It hardly mattered, after all. What mattered was rebooting human society “climate change and rampant inequality and….”

“those were fixed over seven hundred years ago” said Jain “our stories are pretty clear on that point. We lived in peace and prosperity, we had managed to fix our own problems, thank you very much. We’d ended war, ended poverty. Or we had until the first of you fucking Guardians turned up. Atherton, that was what he was called”

"A fine man” said Tethis, remembering a man he had met while training to be a Guardian. Someone who’d had a very clear idea of the great mission of the Guardian programme. Who knew that in their hands lay the only hope for their society’s future “in many ways the best of us, brave and committed to restoring civilisation…”

“it didn’t need restoring” said Jain flatly “it didn’t need him at all. But he didn’t like that, so instead of going back to sleep like a good boy he decided it was easier to ruin the party for everyone. He used his knowledge of weapons to create armies of terrorists who first bombed and then ruined our cities. He funded extremist groups to spout conspiracy theories, founded at least three religions whose goal was the total destruction of society. He worked for twenty years to undermine our society and when it was totally ruined he tried to ride in as our saviour”

“but I’m…I’m not like that” said Tethis, reeling with shock. Although not surprise, in the post apoc reddit crowd in which most Guardians moved a fair degree of sociopathy went with the territory. For everyone planning for the end of the world there were a fair few who were actively hoping for it, and not a few who were funding it.

“this isn’t your fantasy world” said Jain, moving closer. The weapon in her hand had not wavered, even though Tethis was incapacitated. Outside the ruined windows the green landscape rolled, interrupted here and there by the carcass of a concrete building. He was annoyed to note that it was considerably more idyllic than the world he had known, and that if given a choice he would happily have kept it as was rather than trying to recreate the city he had grown up in “this isn’t a playground for you to do what you will. We’re real people, with real lives. We’ve no time to be some space emperor god’s playthings”

“but….but I’m not like that” said Tethis “sure, maybe Atherton was a bit of an extremist libertarian type. And I admit not everyone in the Guardian programme was there for the best of reasons. But I’m not like them, I like it here. I think this society has a lot going for it. Sure it could be improved, of course. There are some very big holes in your notions of civic government. I just want to help, I don’t want to rule you. I’m not like that…..”

“only you are like that” said Jain sadly “why do you think I’ve been with you all this time? Talking to you, taking you around these places?”

“because you wanted electricity?” said Tethis plaintively “to illuminate the darkness…”

“look, if we wanted electric we would have it by now” said Jain quickly “you think we don’t know how to manufacture windmills, harness the rivers and the tides? No, I was testing you and you failed”

“but I thought….”

“you thought I was some pretty primitive maiden girl to fall in love with you?” said Jain “yeah, we know the type your kind go for. That’s why me and my kind exist” she barked a harsh laugh “I mean, you didn’t think it odd that I spoke perfect English, the only person in my civilisation to do so? You never wondered what my actual job was in the tribe? No, of course you didn’t. Your type never does. You just assume we’re here to be your Pocahontas fuck fantasy”

“how did you know about Disney movies?” said Tethis, his mind unable to pick up anything but random details.

“because I studied your stupid fucking people” said Jain “I spent my life immersed in Guardian lore, in the stupid little references to inconsequential shit. A life I could have spent doing what I actually cared about, but I sacrificed that because I knew that if one of you showed up it could spell the end for all of us. I won’t let that happen”

“so what happens now?” said Tethis pathetically. He was still unable to move anything but his eyes. But now they were used to the gloom he could see illuminated by the moonlight through a window what he had assumed just to be piles of some ancient armour. Now though he began to recognise what it was, and to see that the walls were covered with complex murals, names of things he recognised. Names and people.

“this is our temple” said Jain, following his eyes “this is where we bring you, at the end. Then when it is done we daub these walls with reminders, with whatever information you give us that we did not know before. So that we are always prepared, be it a hundred years or a thousand before another one of you walks among us” she looked him in the eye “it’s our little hedge against immortality”

“but what will you….?” Began Tethis, unable to complete the sentence

“oh come on” said Jain, proffering the blade “you must know. We’re a barbarian tribe, after all. What are barbarian tribes famous for?” she moved forward “if it helps, you can think of it as a sacrifice. You wanted to know what you could do to help us. Well this is it”

She was, at least, fast. Tethis barely had a chance to scream before he was dead. Outside the primitive tribesmen shivered. There wasn’t one of them that had ever needed to spill the blood of another man, and not one of them that ever wanted to. That was the curse of the Priestesses like Jain. Those who had to sacrifice themselves for the good of the people. For the future of everyone.

#mansplaining #sf #post apocalyptic