BLOGS

The Internet spawned many an unusual technology but none as strange as the Death-Web; a way to allow users to communicate after death with notations, salutations, benedictions and predictions pre-programmed before a person died; a message-in-a-bottle through Time.

Its early adopters were people who knew their impeding time drew near and wanted to leave data-rich missives to loved ones. The terminally ill found it to be of great comfort knowing they could leave messages on anniversaries, birthdays and other important milestones.

But like all things internet others soon found unexpected uses for the idea and began leaving predictions of the future, sometimes of technology, others of faith, some of war and occasionally a well-connected master gardener or farmer might leave a local almanac of planting seasons.

Eventually, it found followers among the technorati who wanted to have an opinion about everything even if they had already died. The technorati and futurists predicted technologies decades into the future and configured the Death-Web to release them upon their death. Keyword algorithms would release their predictions either on the date they were programmed for or in concert with news from active data streams indicating their prediction had come true sooner than expected. To be fair, most tech pundits weren't good at prognostication, but as more of them passed on, that changed.

Living wills were composed on the Death-Web with pre-programmed videos of people mooning hated relatives and leaving vast fortunes to a favored cat or dog. Cuckolded husbands were told off by browbeaten wives, dark secrets revealed to angry children who could no longer take revenge on loathsome parents. As terrible as these things seem, beautiful things were left as well. Graduation videos, songs for anniversaries, still-living eulogies delivered by the Dead at their own funerals.

The Death-Web grew along side the internet, a morbid shadow mimicking life so well, after a while, it began to have an existence all to itself, with predictions for everything from weather, to the stock exchange, world politics and even celebrity gossip. Ten years of Oscar predictions and the Death-Web was always better at picking movies than the living were.

At some point the Live-Web and the Death-Web began to share information, at first tangentially, communication with the Dead were marked as such. Then invisibly, without fanfare, without people being made aware, the Dead were again, among the living. Software algorithms were written which could take an existing stream of social media and extrapolate from the Dead's living stream of choices what choices they might make of new things and ideas. These Amalgams of the social media of a now Dead person, could continue if they chose, to share, curate, and even hold limited conversations with the Living.

Then people began to realize something strange. Not that this wasn't already strange; something really strange. The Dead were right more often than the Living about almost everything.

No one was sure why this was true. Was it a side effect of people only willing to be honest when they had no stake in the game? Were people who knew they were going to die, revealing secrets they would never tell anyone while they were alive? This was a talk show subject of statistical debate for nearly ten years, while the Death-Web grew larger and more accepted worldwide. As families continued to support and pay for services for the Dead, programmers began creating software for the Death-Web at the same rate as any other environment. Companies started developing and harnessing infrastructure for this aberration-turned-engine of prediction.

And then, in a series of events, a group of stockbrokers joined the Death-Web unexpectedly. No one would have noticed them except for their social media streams right after their deaths, predicted an epic crash of the stock markets. All of them. They were dead when their predictions were seen but they had been written while they were alive. At least at first. After their buffered accounts had emptied, their accounts continued to predict the market with alarming accuracy. The source of these predictions could not be ascertained, the only thing known for certain was their accuracy. Soon their calls of collapse were being re-shared, repeated, even cast as news among the Living. And as the market reacted, confidence teetered. Something needed to be done.

Tech-seers, who managed the accounts of the Dead, sought out tampering because before this trinity, predictions were accurate but sporadic. The stopped clock metaphor was liberally applied. The Stockbroker Trinity's predictions were not a single event but a stream of events which predicted the slow transformation of the economy and the eventual failure of commerce from a single series of purchases of stock. They told who would make the stocks buys, why they would, and what the result would be. The Tech-seers found no explanation and repeated the mantra "The Living guess, the Dead know" and continued in their work. Their research revealed no tampering and yet these three brokers would consistently predict the stock market for the next two years. After their deaths. Accurately. In a way no living person had or could. They became more successful in death than they ever were in life.

The government monitored the Death-Web much like they did any other social media network. Initially, no one considered anything said there to be of any import, but as time progressed, the Death-stream was a better predictor of human behavior than anything seen before it. Local skirmishes, the next meme, the next great celebrity, the Death-Web was a form of social consciousness, un-tethered from the meat which once created it, unconstrained, un-repentant and alarmingly accurate. No one was ever able to take credit for its capabilities, and once the Deathstream software was ubiquitous, freely given away on the Internet, it was unable to be stopped. It has become a network unto itself.

When the three brokers and their attendant social media streams predicted the market more accurately than living economists, this was not lost on national security agencies, which made every effort to find the companies involved in their predictions and quietly derail their corporate structures in a effort to prevent the impending economic collapse. Their efforts were successful and the predictions of the three brokers, for a time were broken. The Trinity was dead. Again.

The CEO and the board of directors of the corporation upon whom the blame was being placed for this barely averted collapse were killed in a plane crash in the Swiss Alps. Though the outcome was considered tragic, the problem was resolved to the satisfaction of the three-letter agencies worldwide.

The stock market did not collapse and the Death-Web, now behind closed doors called the Seer-web, had proven its value as a potential tool of social management. For another decade, Humanity and its data shadow moved in step, one arrogant in life, the other truthful in death. And three-letter agencies everywhere trembled in fear; for what can you hold over the Dead to keep any secret?

The Last Divide © Thaddeus Howze 2011. All Rights Reserved

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Figure 1: See link for descriptions

American Physical Society: Viewpoint: Observing Matter-Antimatter Oscillations

“Zuri, the flesh must be divided evenly.” instructed Leena, pointing to her too generous cuts of the meat given to them by the recently returned warriors. 

“You mean less the largest portion which goes to the Queen.” The young woman stopped cutting the flesh in front of her, took a deep breath and started dividing the portions already cut into smaller pieces.

“I hear she doesn't even eat it.” said another.

“She doesn't. She says the meat from wild beasts smells bad. I tell her that it's all of the meat we have now. She just drinks the muthi and makes me take the stew away most days– I give it to the those in need of it.” said Olufemi. 

“You give it to Wasswa.” teased Nia as she walked by Olufemi carrying a basket full of fruit that somehow she had to divide between so many. 

“We give the best to the King's family while the people are starving. It isn't enough and it never is.” said Olufemi. 

“You can ignore me all you want Olufemi but I see the way he looks at you...and you he.”

“He is a warrior and I am a servant, bound to the king and his family. These eyes wander no further than the Queen's izindlu.” said Olufemi without looking up from her task.

“We do as we are told and we are lucky to have this much meat. The days of hunger will end and we will have rain again. King Nkosana has shared this from the ancestors, that we will suffer for a short time and the Kishnu will kneel at our feet. It is prophesy!”

"Yes, Leena of course." said Olufemi, nodding her head in agreement.

“Leena, you are old and sound just like the King. Do you have any thoughts that are your own? I'm tired of the prophesy and I want to eat everyday. I'm tired of hearing about the ancestors, what about the living? Why can't we till the soil or go fishing in the sea for ourselves? Why must only Nkosana provide?!” asked Nia for the third time since the last rain.

Without a warning, the elder cook rushed to the girl, raised her right hand up above her, landing it across her left cheek with so much force the girl staggered backwards. All of the others stood where they were, speechless. The young cook's pride alone was enough of a dam to keep tears from her face. She raised her hands to the left side of her face for a moment, then dropped them and faced Leena as if she was ready to strike her back. 

“Nkosana comes from a line of kings too great in number for you to count, child. He has always provided us with food even when the land refuses. We don't have to sweat in the hot sun or suffer the dangers at sea like Kishnu women – faces painted black, climbing trees,weapons in hand like men, with not a trace of themselves left recognizable, except for bosoms. Your tongue is a young child running ahead, beyond the reach of your father's spear, into the jaws of a lion. Our duty is to prepare the food given to us by our king. Never again let Nkosana's name pass your lips unless followed by praise or gratitude.”

Copyright 2012 All Rights Reserved.

The saga of the Osguards continues in Malcolm Dylan Petteway's third book in the series, Osguards: Armageddon. And what a thrill it is! The author truly turns it up a notch. Book One chronicled Laurona and Nausona Osguard's Earthbound experiences prior to the founding of the Universal Science, Security and Trade Association of Planets. In Book Two, war continues to rage between USSTAP and its implacable enemy, the Kulusks. Armageddon rips away the curtain to reveal the shadowy, driving force behind the Kulusk's war on USSTAP: the Tuits, a warlike Amazonian race that rules over a domain far larger than USSTAP. When these two mighty polities clash, the universe itself is ripped asunder in a horrific welter of bloody conflict that will see entire star systems washed away in a broiling tide of destruction. And that's just the tip of the iceberg. Tentacles of intrigue weaves fluidly through this tale, extending from the top levels of USSTAP authority to a White House administration thirsting for the benefits of USSTAP technology.

There are heroes and villains in this book, but the heroes are flawed and the villains' motivations bear traces of nobility. The excitement the author delivers in this third installment is threefold. Osguards: Armageddon is a delectable read that will leave you, as it left me, wondering what the author will have in store for us in Book Four. I can't wait to find out!

Ars Technica

Ars Technica: Giant NASA spider robots could 3D print lunar base

I repost this poem from time to time to remind myself of why I write... and because I love it :). Namaste Fam!

(for my man Quinton Veal, my children and my beautiful, beautiful writing famiy)

With blood beating at my temples

and horizons beckoning for discovery

land, magical strange taboo

waited for my pen

Miles and Coltrane's nightingales

awoke to trill of moonbeams

and desire

Zora,Langston and Octavia whispered: "We waiting

on you, you better create worlds..."

That's I when I knew it was time to speak

rivers-- funky motifs

rip a piece of soulful sinew

Sweeten it

Season it

cry loud my passion

And shards of gold flecked violet

split the air with sound and fury!

With laughter, love and tears

I touched my lips to them

breathed life into these spirits

freed them to walk across

the page

In that hour liberation found me

In that hour I embraced her

And gave voice to my writing hand

Copyright 2009 Valjeanne Jeffers

Published in Liberated Muse: How I Freed My Soul Vol I

Available at http://www.OutskirtsPress.com/LiberatedMuse

All you have to do is go to www.razorlinepress.com, click on any post and respond with, "Yes, I'd like a free copy of The Prophet."  Make sure your email address is included because that's what I'll be using to send it to you as a gift through Amazon's website.

Description

Greg is a reporter who is about to get the story of his life. The Prophet, an elusive figure who makes predictions about disasters has just tapped him to do an exclusive interview. Except Greg's not really a reporter. Two minutes before entering his apartment, he didn't exist and when he meets the Prophet he finds out his true purpose- to kill the Prophet. But killing someone who is near omnipotent isn't easy, in fact, it takes more than one try even if you get it right.

The Prophet is a half horror, half weird, half comedy that will leave your jaw fully dropped by story's end.

Excerpt

No,” the Prophet materialized out of the flashes- shoeless, in jeans with ragged cuffs and his hands stuffed in the pockets of a grey hoodie.  His beard hung to his knees, but it was edged at his cheeks and jawline.  Locks of hair spilled out of his hood, trailing down to mid-chest.  If it weren’t for the eyes, he’d look like a hippie-ish twenty-something.  But those eyes held the ancient stare of the bug-fucking nuts.  Greg realized this person had the same face, but this wasn’t the man he’d seen earlier in the shower. 

“Where?” the Prophet said.

“The guy… y’know, the one standing right there.”

“I don’t see anyone.”

Blue walked over and grabbed Greg by the shirt sleeve, giving it a good tug. “He’s right here.”

“No.  Sorry, I see nothing but you making the international sign for jerking off.”

“Wha—oh.”  Blue sounded embarrassed and let go of Greg’s shirt.

“I knew Anthony was up to something.”  The Prophet scratched under the corner of his lip.  He looked in the general area where Greg was.  Greg was glad those eyes couldn’t find him.  “Did he send you here to kill me?  He should have told you I can’t die.  I am not a man.”  Somebody giggled.  “Shut up!  You know what I mean.”

The Prophet reached up with both hands and made tight fists around his eyes.  He grimaced, a single, strangled cry coming from his throat as trickles of blood ran down his cheeks.  He yanked his hands back and Greg saw empty holes where his eyes used to be, blood flowing freely from the empty spaces.

“Gather closer, children,” he said.  They all pulled in tight around him and he began reaching out, feeling their faces one at a time.

“Too big… too squishy…” he mumbled as he passed each one by.  “I really should have done this part first.”  Finally, he settled on a face that seemed to be to his preference.  A short, fox-headed man looked nervously right and left, but his body went rigid.  He seemed to be struggling, but didn’t move.

“Now open your eyes… wide.”  Fox-head reared his head back, but it was a far cry from the distance he needed to get away from the Prophet.  He made small, grunting noises as the Prophet raised his hands, turning them so his thumbs were poised directly over his face.

He plunged them beneath Fox-head’s eyes, working his hands like he was trying to work twin combination locks with only his palms.  Fox-head’s mouth was pulled back like he wanted to scream, but no sound came out.  Everyone was silent.  The only sound was the dual squelching as Fox-head’s eyes were being plucked out.

It probably only took seconds, but they stretched on forever as Greg watched Fox-head’s bulging eyes being extracted from the sockets.

They finally came free and he collapsed, his limbs curling up to his torso like a newborn baby.  His mouth hung open in agony, but still he didn’t scream.

Greg didn’t know how long he stared at the manimal on the ground, but at some point the Prophet had put the new eyes in his own head.

“There you are,” he said, looking at Greg and wiping the trails of blood off his cheeks with the backs of his hands.  He pointed a gun finger at him and fired.  “You’re dead.”

Greg felt a flash of white, pain more intense than anything he’d felt in his life and then it was gone.  He looked down and saw a perfectly circular hole in his chest and stomach that he guessed went all the way through.  Something warm and red squished around in his socks.  He looked up at the Prophet, wanting to ask a question, but the words were suddenly a million miles away.

He collapsed.

“Now that that problem’s taken care of, let’s get Neil out of my forge.”

“It’s Harry, master.”

“Whatever.  Just get him out.  I’ve got a schedule to keep.”

Greg lay on the ground, listening to them talk and mill about.  It surprised him that he could listen to anything at all, unless this was supposed to be the afterlife.  But then he opened his eyes and looked at his hand and then he began drumming his fingers on the dirt.

“Would somebody scoop that thing up and feed it to something?”

Feet moved closer to him and then two pairs of arms lifted him half to his feet.

Greg raised his head and saw the Prophet surveying the pit.

“You have everything you need,” Anthony had said.  Greg wondered at that, but quickly realized he had the solution to his current problem.

He opened his mouth, moving his lips and waggling his tongue.  Despite having no lungs, he was trying to speak.

The words came out, but they were thick and unintelligible.  But loud enough that the two people-things holding him heard and most importantly, so did the Prophet.  He turned and let his hands slide from the small of his back.

“What?” the Prophet said.  He had a look of dumb shock, so Greg repeated.

“I said,” Greg began and cleared his throat, “you’re a pizza.”

This image shows a computer simulation of the polarized electron-spin density on a plane that contains the Earth's rotational axis and Amherst, Massachusetts. (Courtesy: Daniel Ang and Larry Hunter of Amherst College, more info @ link)

Evidence of a minuscule force that could exist between two particle spins over long distances could be lurking in magnetized iron under the Earth's surface. That is the conclusion of a new study by physicists in the US, who have used our planet's vast stores of polarized spin to place exacting limits on the existence of interactions mediated by unusual entities such as "unparticles".

Physics World: Search for 'unparticles' focuses on Earth's crust

A fun, loosely-related embed from "minute physics":

Hey, folks!  

After talking for awhile with some of you guys in the chat area, I've learned that some of you are aspiring video game makers.  In case you didn't know, there is a LOT that goes into making a successful video game, so much that you could fill chapters of books with all you need to know.  And we're not talking about knowledge of coding or game writing software.  This is where the web show, "Extra Credits" comes in.  Hosted by game designer James Portnow, animator Daniel Floyd, and artists Allison Theus and Elisa Scaldaferri, this show tackles the deeper issues of video games and video game design, like understanding your audience to tailor your game for them, content, dialogue, etc.  It has been around for about 3 or 4 years now, and has amassed quite a library of shows on a wide range of subjects in the interest of gaming and game design.  Here is the link to the current library, found on PATV, an offshoot of the popular webcomic, "Penny Arcade."

 http://penny-arcade.com/patv/show/extra-credits

If you have any aspirations towards video game design, then you owe it to yourself to watch this show.  It's presented in a rapid-fire, funny, and insightful manner, and these guys are very knowledgeable about the subject.  Hope you enjoy, and you're welcome!  Happy gaming!

-Brandon

For some reason I cant get the video to appear, but heres the link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WThSnniic2s

To generate a buzz for my upcoming novel COLONY I'm offering my erotic space opera shorts COLONY and PROBE free on smashwords.

The full length novel Colony will be released near the end of the year :)!

PROBE

COLONY

Site: Black Inventor Museum Online

Discovery: The Case for Building a Death Star

It is a special calibre of nerd that knows what a tribble is (a hint: Trekkies). A group of Afrogeeks calling themselves "Black Tribbles" have come together to create a unique radio show every Thursday night 9 pm EST. You can tune in at gtownradio.com. Here is the Black Tribbles page: http://www.gtownradio.com/content/blogsection/59/134/. This week I'm a guest on a special episode dedicated to African American women in STEM (science, technology, engineering, and mathematics). I will be sharing the virtual spotlight with two amazing sisters: Leslie Chapman and Amaliris Gonzales. Our host, Kennedy, has made beautiful images with bios overlaid.I can't wait to be on air with such interesting sisters! Listening to past Black Tribble shows they seem to be lively and full of humor...of the nerdy kind! I will be answering questions and hope to get a plug in for my documentary Black Sun. There is usually a dial in number 215-609-4301 so join in the discussion. Also, you have to appreciate the poster for this special show. Fierce!

It is a great way to end Black History Month.
Here are the details:
Thursday February 28, 2013
9 pm - 11 pm EST
Listen Live at gtownradio.com (Germantown).

Pandora returns in the last week of February! The weeks spent in 'Bubble Time' aboard the DROMEDARY have come to an end and the Transport's crew is looking forward to some leave planetside on the world of AIPOTU. The Android Pandora is also looking to her first experience off the transport and some time alone to bond with her companion Captain Gital. But with the Retrieval Team aboard the Attack Transport WHIPLASH entering the HESTIA SYSTEM, will our ever-popular manufactured girl achieve her goal in peace? And what of the mysterious Transport BOX still aboard DROMEDARY? Is there a link between it and the strange malfunctions aboard the corporate transport? Answers to these questions and more questions will be revealed in 'The PAnd0RA Ultimatum, EPISODE 4: Planetside!