The Scarlet Recluse
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When Carlotta’s key turned in the lock, they both jumped off the couch and hugged her.
“Well, I’m glad to see you too!” Carlotta exclaimed. She was an older version of Glenda: with the same cocoa shaded skin and nappy hair that she’d kept in a short Afro. Let me just rest a moment and I’ll start dinner…”
All at once Carlotta furrowed her brow quizzically. “Is everything alright?” She looked from Glenda to Henry.
Glenda cut her eyes at her brother. “Yes ma'am.”
“You sure?” Carlotta studied her childrens' faces. “Because, you know you can talk to me about anything.”
“Everything’s fine… right Henry?”
“Yeah…” he mumbled.
“I’ll fix dinner Mommy,” Glenda offered, “you rest. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
Carlotta’s face melted in a smile: her teeth flashing against her dark face. “How could I say no to an offer like that?” She hugged them both and went upstairs to take a nap.
* * *
When bedtime came, Henry insisted on sleeping the floor next to Glenda's bed. “Alright now that’s it! First you tackle me when I first come through the door and now this! What’s going on?” Carlotta demanded.
Glenda averted her eyes. “We’ve been having nightmares.”
“Both of you?”
“Naw that ain’t it!” Henry blurted.
“Henry— !”
Ignoring his sister he poured out the story of their otherworldly afternoon. “… And he looked just like one of them trolls in the fairytales you used to read us.” Henry finished.
For a long moment, Carlotta was silent. “Your sister’s right. More than likely it was a drug addict or some other nut dressed up to look like a troll.”
“But what about the other ones Mama?” Glenda interrupted. Now that the truth was out she wanted an answer— one that made sense. “The things that looked like um… fairies?”
Carlotta’s eyes twinkled. The hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I prefer the word faery, when they’re creatures of color.”
Her children stared at her open mouthed. How had their mother come by such knowledge? “It doesn’t seem like they did you any harm.” Carlotta went on. “Seems like they did you a good turn. But since we know faeries don’t exist, they must’ve been dragonflies.”
Henry and Glenda both shook their heads emphatically. “Uh-uh Mama! They definitely weren’t dragonflies!” Henry disagreed.
Carlotta held up one slender hand. “Never mind about them. From now on I’m picking you up after school.”
“What about your job?” cried Glenda.
“Your safety is more important to me than any job,” Carlotta replied firmly. “I should be at home with you more anyway. I’m not letting the streets raise my children.”
“But if you cut your hours won’t that mean less money for us… ?” asked Henry, thinking of how tight money was already. Yeah but if she picks me up, I don’t have to worry about getting beat up after school.
Carlotta rose. “Let me worry about that.”
“Can I still sleep in here with you?” asked Henry.
“Me too mama,” said Glenda. “we could sleep on the floor...”
“Sure baby,” Carlotta waited in until her children had arranged a pallet on her bedroom floor; and then kissed them both on the check. “Love ya’ll… goodnight.” She pulled the door shut.
“Did you see the way Mama looked, when she told us about the fai— I mean faeries? She was actually smiling!” Henry whispered excitedly.
“Yeah, that was really weird… You think something like this happened to her?” Glenda breathed.
“Nah… she’d of told us.” But he didn’t sound convinced.
“You know Henry, maybe it was good that monster showing up like he did. Now you don’t have to worry about those boys bothering you anymore.”
“That takes care of after school, but what about during?
“You should tell Mama about that too; or the principal.”
“I ain’t snitching like some little punk!” Henry said petulantly.
“Protecting yourself doesn’t make you a punk!” Glenda shot back. “Not wanting to fight doesn’t make you one either! You’re smart, and smart people fight with their brains— not their fists!”
Henry adjusted his pallet on the floor, his small face thoughtful...
Copyright 2010, 2012 Valjeanne Jeffers all rights reserved.
This story has been published inLuneWing Anthology and Genesis Science Fiction Magazine.
Preview my other titles here at amazon and barnes and noble :).
Press Release
Astronomy Documentary featuring African American Astrophysicists at Reel Sisters
Dr. Jarita C Holbrook, astrophysicist/anthropologist/filmmaker, is on
her way to Brooklyn to screen her documentary film "Hubble's Diverse
Universe." Holbrook says, "There are embarrasingly few people of color
in astronomy and astrophysics. On the positive side, I know most of
them because there are so few." In 2009 through a NASA Education and
Public Outreach grant, Holbrook and Boags Productions made this film
which features only minority astrophysicists: African American and
Hispanic American. "The film is a tribute to what many people,
especially scientists, consider the greatest telescope ever made: The
Hubble Space Telescope. It is also about the minority astrophysicists,
their science, their struggles, and the role that NASA has played in
their lives." There are no stodgy scientists among this lively bunch!
HDU may be the first science documentary to screen in the history of
Reel Sisters. "My goal is to transform astrophysics by making it more
diverse. I hope that my film encourages diverse students to consider a
career as an astrophysicist."
Hubble's Diverse Universe
www.HDUMovie.com
Reel Sisters Film Festival
www.reelsisters.org
Saturday Oct 13 3:35 pm
Kumble Theatre
Brooklyn
For those who read the preview episode of 'The PAnd0RA Ultimatum', the first full episode of the new sci-fi short story series is complete. There will be an exclusive page put up during the last week of October here at the BSFS so members will have the first opportunity to read new episodes as they come out. If you haven't checked out The Pandora Ultimatum's preview episode, you can do so on my page in the Blog section here at the BSFS. In the meantime, here's a sneak peek at Episode One - Surprise Package:
I am seated in an ancient corporate theater. A fit human wearing a black woolen turtleneck sweater and faded denim pants steps out onto the stage followed by enthusiastic applause from the crowd of beings seated in the large hall. The older dark skinned man wearing ancient wire rimmed glasses looked distinguished despite his informal attire.
His name was Jobs Gates the CI. Gates was the Corporation Owner. He was also the one hundred and first name bearer of the Gates family Progenitor who ended a millenia old rivalry by consolidating several warring corporations to form Zeus Interstellar Industries. ‘ZEUS’ as it is often called formed ten thousand years after mankind left hallowed Earth for life among the stars in crude Ion-Drive Spacecraft. A mere three hundred years after the ‘Out of Earth’ exodus, Humanity discovered a practical method to perform Particle Wave Transmission. With that discovery, interstellar distances were rendered insignificant. Over the last sixty-five thousand years, mankind spread across the galaxy and ZEUS was always present.
After fifteen minutes of self-congratulatory speeches, Gates came to the point. Through the joint efforts of ZEUS and its subsidiary companies, PROMETHEUS GROUP and HEPHESTUS CORP something familiar but quite new had been developed. Onstage next to Gates a life-sized hard light wireframe model formed. He went on to discuss how Manufactured beings had been around for tens of thousands of years and in many places of the inhabited galaxy they were an integral bridge between Humanity and the Mechanical.
As the Company Owner continued, my attention was drawn to the wireframe model. With each slow revolution, the model’s details were filled in as emphasized by Gates. This manufactured being was like no other. Unlike mechanized, biomechanical or biological units, a fusion of all three technologies had been attained. When the final details of the head were rendered, a nude female stood beside the esteemed Gates. She looked to be nothing more than a Grade 1 Modified Human. Physically fit and in possession of characteristics Humans, compatible Alien and some Manufactured Beings found attractive the model seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary.
With a wave of his hand here and there her skin, eye and hair color changed to show the various looks she could possess. He then placed his hands on the hard light display and the model’s physicality changed as well. She was made to look taller or shorter, have larger or smaller breasts or hips and fuller or thinner lips to demonstrate the full capacity for customization. At this point the audience was applauding fiercely with enthusiasm yet I held mine for I wanted to know more. I got my answer.
Gates with rapt seriousness went on to explain that this new model was nearly indistinguishable from a Human. The practical applications were boundless as unlike with traditional Androids, their ‘personalities’ could not develop beyond their programming, this one would. With a pleased look upon his face, Jobs Gates introduced the new model as the prototype Personal Android series Zero Romeo Alpha. He then made an announcement which caused the audience go wild. Apparently, one lucky person would receive the prototype Manufactured Being for field testing. Someone in the audience or watching from out there in the galaxy would in six Earth Standard months receive a ‘companion’ to do with as they wished for one Earth Standard year during the trial period. The sounds of applause died down as the theater setting faded to nothing.
© 2012 H. Wolfgang Porter. All Rights Reserved. Artwork by Ken Bishop
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| Technology Review |
TECHNOLOGY REVIEW: One of modern physics' most cherished ideas is quantum chromodynamics, the theory that describes the strong nuclear force, how it binds quarks and gluons into protons and neutrons, how these form nuclei that themselves interact. This is the universe at its most fundamental.
So an interesting pursuit is to simulate quantum chromodynamics on a computer to see what kind of complexity arises. The promise is that simulating physics on such a fundamental level is more or less equivalent to simulating the universe itself.
There are one or two challenges of course. The physics is mind-bogglingly complex and operates on a vanishingly small scale. So even using the world's most powerful supercomputers, physicists have only managed to simulate tiny corners of the cosmos just a few femtometers across. (A femtometer is 10-15 metres.)
Physics arXiv: Constraints on the Universe as a Numerical Simulation
Greetings and salutations,
This is an open call for any readers who would like to receive a pre-publication of my fantasy book Crowning of the Good King. It is a revised edition of my debut novel. The story follows Edgar Winefellow and his friends as they seek vengeance against the Dark Lord, who attacked their village with his army and killed Edgar's grandmother. As they travel through their world, known as the Six Lands, they become entangled with a group that plots to overthrow the Wizards Elect, the governing body in the Lands, and crown Edgar as king--even against his will.
Copies are available in PDF. All I ask in return is an honest (good, bad, ugly) review of the book after it is published later this month (shooting for October 30th). That's it. If you are interested in reviewing Crowning of the Good King, send me an email with subject "CGK Review" to ajarrellhayes(at)gmail(dot)com.
Thank you!
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| ElComercio.es |
Robert J. Lefkowitz
Howard Hughes Medical Institute and Duke University Medical Center, Durham, NC, USA
and
Brian K. Kobilka
Stanford University School of Medicine, Stanford, CA, USA
"for studies of G-protein–coupled receptors"
Smart receptors on cell surfaces
Your body is a fine-tuned system of interactions between billions of cells. Each cell has tiny receptors that enable it to sense its environment, so it can adapt to new situtations. Robert Lefkowitz and Brian Kobilka are awarded the 2012 Nobel Prize in Chemistry for groundbreaking discoveries that reveal the inner workings of an important family of such receptors: G-protein–coupled receptors.
For a long time, it remained a mystery how cells could sense their environment. Scientists knew that hormones such as adrenalin had powerful effects: increasing blood pressure and making the heart beat faster. They suspected that cell surfaces contained some kind of recipient for hormones. But what these receptors actually consisted of and how they worked remained obscured for most of the 20th Century.
Nobel Prize: Nobel Prize in Chemistry Press Release
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| NSBP - NSHP Logo - from Asymptotia |
My apologies for not accomplishing this sooner (as I'd promised). Work, graduate studies, homework and blogging is kind of distracting. Blame it on my head and not my heart. Reposting "Sputnik Moments" Friday triggered the memory.
15 September - 15 October is National Hispanic Heritage Month:
The Library of Congress, National Archives and Records Administration, National Endowment for the Humanities, National Gallery of Art, National Park Service, Smithsonian Institution and United States Holocaust Memorial Museum join in paying tribute to the generations of Hispanic Americans who have positively influenced and enriched our nation and society.
Each year, Americans observe National Hispanic Heritage Month from September 15 to October 15, by celebrating the histories, cultures and contributions of American citizens whose ancestors came from Spain, Mexico, the Caribbean and Central and South America.
The observation started in 1968 as Hispanic Heritage Week under President Lyndon Johnson and was expanded by President Ronald Reagan in 1988 to cover a 30-day period starting on September 15 and ending on October 15. It was enacted into law on August 17, 1988, on the approval of Public Law 100-402.
The day of September 15 is significant because it is the anniversary of independence for Latin American countries Costa Rica, El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras and Nicaragua. In addition, Mexico and Chile celebrate their independence days on September 16 and September18, respectively. Also, Columbus Day or Día de la Raza, which is October 12, falls within this 30 day period.
* * * * * * * * * *
On the American Physical Society (APS) web site, they are celebrating the 2012 Minority Scholarship Recipients. I think I remember being that young once.
I post the link here. The short bios of 39 stars of science are below. It is refreshing (and comforting) to see the interest in science from the young, who will be our country's future and hope.
E pluribus unum: [still] out of many: one.
I don't often write Young Adult fantasy, but this is one of my favorite stories. So I'll post The Visitor on BSFS
--just for my readers--in installments :)
This story has been published in LuneWing Anthology 2010 and the BSFS publication, Genesis Science Fiction Magazine.
PART I
Lazare peered through the second story window. He was perched on the fire escape and would’ve been visible to any passersby, except for the spell he’d cast to make himself dim. He was invisible to the human eye— that is as long as no one looked in his direction for too long.
If they did, a creature obviously not of their world would seem to appear out of thin air.
The troll shifted his feet uncomfortably on the steel grate. His long toe nails clicked loudly and he flinched.
The troll’s bumpy skin was a deep shade of purple, with orange circles around his wide set violet eyes. His eyes were large— twice as large as any humans’— with long lashes. Lazare’s lips were thick, and when he smiled his mouth opened to reveal 32 ragged teeth. An ordinary number for a human. But his were huge and pointed.
At his full height he was only four feet tall, and had powerful arms, and equally powerful stubby legs. He stared through the window at Glenda. As if she felt his gaze she stirred restlessly in his sleep. The girl was fourteen with chocolate colored skin and full lips. Her thick kinky hair was braided and spread out now against her pillow. In the bedroom next to hers,' Henry Jr. slept.
Today was his 12th birthday and his mother, Carlotta, had scrapped together enough money to make him a yellow cake. Henry had also received a card with $10.00 inside. Henry Jr. had been very disappointed; he’d wanted a video game.
Carlotta worked at a dry-cleaners and the childrens' father, James, in another city as a mechanic. Although their parents no longer lived together, James sent money each month. But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. The tiny, three bedroom apartment was expensive. Then there was the electricity bill, the telephone, food, clothing…
Lazare surveyed the streets below. Except for the cars moving up and down the street it was deserted. Good.
He clamored down the fire escape, surprisingly fast for his girth and scurried up the street, turning into the first alleyway on his right. The alley was filled with homeless men and women who had bedded down for the night, under blankets and makeshift shelters made of cardboard. Some were too mentally ill to notice he was different, but he was still careful to time his excursions after they fell asleep.
The troll climbed inside his own shelter and pulled his dirty blankets around him. Faery but it’s cold! I can’t wait ‘til I’m finished here!
At the clanging of the bell, announcing the end of the school day and the weekend, youngsters poured through the doors of Frederick Douglas Middle School. Children quickly partnered up into groups, while some took solitary routes home, to the playground or other more mysterious — and sometimes forbidden—destinations.
Henry was a foot shorter than his sister but had the same dark brown skin, his kinky hair cut close to his small head. He headed west: Glenda dogging his heels. Both were heavily bundled against the cold in worn coats and gloves.
After a half block, he turned and confronted his sister. “Quit following me!” he snarled.
Glenda’s rosebud mouth thinned into an angry line. “I ain’t following you! I’m going home!”
“Home is that way!” Henry pointed east.
Glenda’s face softened. “Henry, you know Mama told you to stop hanging out with the Scorpions,” there was plea in her voice now.
“So what!” her brother countered. You gonna tell her?”
Glenda hugged her books close to her chest. “Two of those boys already went to juvenile for stealing a car. Why do you want to be friends with them anyway?”
Henry sighed tiredly, for a moment looking much older than his twelve years. “Look I’m small for my age. I’m tired of getting jumped on at school. If I join the Scorpions I ain’t got to worry about that no more Plus which I’ll have some money in my pocket… Maybe I can buy some new clothes for me and you Lynn, and some other stuff besides.”
Glenda twisted her mouth and looked disgusted. “Uh-huh...and where is all this money supposed to come from? Next you’ll be on your way upstate for stealing! And why didn’t you tell me you were getting picked on at school? I can take up for you, just like I used to when we were little!”
Henry shook his head. “Just what I need— my sister helping me fight! Oh yeah, that’ll definitely get me the rep I need!”
At that moment, three boys came abreast of the siblings and quickly surrounded them. All were heavier and taller than Henry.
One, a ginger colored youth of fifteen, who been held back in the 8th grade twice, sneered at the smaller boy. “What’s up?”
Henry looked nervous. “How you doing Leroy?”
Leroy looked Glenda over, as if seeing her for the first time. “Who’s the skezz? She supposed to be your protection?” His friends laughed raucously.
“She’s my sister,” Henry answered with gimleted eyes. “What you want?”
Leroy’s nasty smile vanished. “What you got?”
“Leave us alone!” Glenda shouted. “Come on Henry, let’s go! You ain't got to talk to them!”
“Come on Henry!” the dark boy to Henry’s right mimicked in falsetto. He shoved Henry hard. Henry stumbled into Leroy, dropping his books.
“Get off me man!” Leroy yelled smirking. He pushed Henry into the third boy: a hulking red-brown youngster.
“Man what’s wrong with you?” the reddish-brown youth propelled Henry back to Leroy.
“Stop it!” Glenda dropped her books and balled up her fists … then pulled up short.
No one but she saw the creature fluttering beside Leroy’s ear. It was two inches long, with sepia skin, close-cropped, curly hair and pointed ears. She was clothed in a purple daffodil, with two golden antennas. Diaphanous wings protruded from her back...
Copyright Valjeanne Jeffers 2010, 2012 all rights reserved.
The white stations had so much power, came in so loud. You could listen across the room with a tiny radio. The black stations were so weak, you needed a boom box to pick up the feed. You had to have a powerful system to filter out the scratchy background noise. The DJ hoisted the box on his shoulders just to hear it. White folks as usual thought it was a new style we were promoting. It didn't get loud until we recorded the music on tape, then boom! It was weird, kids boppin down the street, all spread out, blocking traffic, like a moving block party. Then the tape ended and the DJ turned on the radio. Immediately they all huddled together to hear it better. That's how gangs got started. They were just boppin in mass trying to hear the radio. The only way to disperse the crowd was to bust the boom box or shoot the DJ. In the city there was a rash of lawn ornament disfigurements. The jockey statues that all previously held boom boxes were replaced with ones holding lanterns (their noses were broke off too!). A law was passed to where no more than 5 blacks could listen to an open radio at a time. Individual listening with ear buds is now the custom. Stations are required to diverse the music so as to not induce a party in any segment of society.
Don't look at me like I'm nuts! Do you know what your neighbor listens to these days? We are all out of sync.
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| Enrollment Builders |
"MOOC" is the fast-becoming acronym for "massive open online courses." It is an outcrop from the old snail mail study-at-home courses, strangely championed by universities in the early Twentieth Century for the same reason: additional income.
Old school: you only need a mailbox.
21st Century: you only need a high-speed Internet connection.
We've gone from the gold standard to ones and zeros, but the mantra (borrowing from the esteemed "Biggie Smalls") could be "more money, more cred"(credentials).
The problem is like the dot com bust in the 90s: anybody can throw up a web site and become an online learning center, even when your "university" is in a rented office park.
I'm currently in an online class now by a reputable brick-and-mortar university, technically not a "MOOC" and rather pricey. I had to adjust my expectations from my 80s face-to-face experiences with instructors to email.
The initial book and subject matter of my Masters - Microelectronics and Photonics - is essentially what I did as a Device Engineer; my interests and thus far my career has mostly been semiconductors. I find the problems challenging enough but not too difficult to where I've ever panicked solving them (embed of a recent homework example below). Of course, never say never...
I have stored in memory a lot of the practical examples from previous lab experiences: being on an oscilloscope to read integrated circuit parameters either in die or packaged form; room, hot or cold temperature extremes.
I therefore wouldn't recommend MOOC as a stand-alone-only panacea for our current national standing preparing students for STEM occupations.
Opinion: Humans evolved with five senses, and pedagogy rightly targets visual, auditory and kinesthetic stimuli. Education can inform as well as transform, changing the trajectory of lives to more positive ends. It is not merely a commodity or Laissez faire bottom-line as so much in the public sphere has alarmingly become. For a functioning democracy and thinking, rational citizenry, it is this social contract that is an integral part of "the common good."
Education is more social than an Internet connection, and we are by far a social species.
Technology Review: The Crisis in Higher Education
Hey, we are in the home stretch as it relates to this kickstarter campaign.
We really need your help to push this thing to a level where Kickstarter can put it on the front page.
Right now we are 17 percent funded and need to be over 20 perceent for the kickstarter community to really start seriously looking at us.
To give your help go to http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1854358647/the-imaginos-plus-comic-book-sampler
I know they are coming. I can hear them, a sound, something in the background, like the winter wind, blowing outside the window of my mind. Their constant whispers, their incessant scheming, their plans to make me stay with them. They keep telling me how no one will believe in my gift; they never have before. But the ghosts are whispering today about Forest Hills, a sanitarium that claims to understand people like me who suffer from my condition. They assure me, Forest Hills cannot help me, but if I just talk to them, I will feel better. They tell me I need them, and they need me.
The doctor on the phone tells me I need to come down to Forest Hills Sanitarium, one of the oldest and most respected facilities of its kind in Salem, Massachusetts. Founded by Malcolm Forest, he explains, it’s across from the Hillcrest cemetery, a beautiful view the patients found restful. The presence of the cemetary quells those who might wish to mock or otherwise speak ill of the residents. He tells me there is something about Hillcrest that keeps people civil. He says he doesn’t truly understand it but the effect has been a balm to everyone who lives there. I’ve had my own experience with the place already, but his words were…comforting. Something I knew too little of in my exile.
The ghosts flicker in and out of sight as I pack my bags. My room at the hotel has been my home for over eight years, or was it ten, since my wife and child…
I need my laudinum. Where is it? Just a spoonful or two should be enough; I find a seat for a moment and the chatter of spirits fades.
Yes, he assures me they would be able to help. They have a full time staff, some of the best clinicians available. He bragged about a new technique called “electrical therapy” which had been enjoying great success with many of their more severe patients. He lets me know I probably won’t be one of those. I am relieved. Even now electricity strikes me as a bit dangerous. It hasn’t stopped them from lighting the streets or some peoples homes with it. I have at least one ghost, Harold, who claims to have died by its light-giving hand.
There he is now. He is timely and arrives around three o’clock every day, waxing on about how wonderful electricity is and how it will be everywhere one day, mark his words, people will use electricity for everything, light, heat, moving things and machines of complexities imaginable.
He probably died from all of the crazy prognosticating he was did, rather than paying attention to his job. Harold looks up from his ranting about electricity and stares right at me. He seems different today. Then I remember, it’s the anniversary of his death. He looks at me and his eyes pierce my soul. He reaches out and touches my chest. In my haze I just sit there as his icy hand reaches out and I feel the strange tingle starting at my chest and filling my limbs. Surely it’s just the laudinum numbing me.
He floats closer to me and I can see the street behind him as if I was there, then a traffic accident behind him, I see a cable fall and land on his shoulder. His hand is grabs me, reaching into my chest, over my heart and then he screams, a sound which fills me with dread. Then I feel the surge, the electricity in my body, my heart flutters; I scream in unison until I fall to the ground unconscious, smoking.
When I wake it’s quiet. Harold is gone. And so are the others, they probably grew weary of waiting for me to awaken. For a time I knew no sleep, now the periods of sleep have grown longer and deeper, some say it’s the laudinum, but I cannot, no, I will not stop its use, no matter how terrible it may make me feel, for it is only with it, do I, for a time, have peace. This moment feels different, I feel larger than myself, transcendent even, as if I can see something, am aware of something I did not know before. A deep breath, I feel calm and centered. I hurry while the feeling lasts.
I make the most of this silent period it by finishing the packing of my meager belongings. I have a moment of nostalgia about the place as I pack up my writing, paper, quills and ink. I have until a few years ago sold a few penny dreadfuls to supplement my living working at the Salem Register, a daily paper whose readership has grown both in popularity and scope during my time there.
Mr. Arthur Penrose, my employer has been very generous with his help and I am indebted to his kindness. He aided me at my lowest point. I wish I could talk to him now, but I know if I don’t hurry, when they return I shall lose my will to head to Forest Hills and instead slip into madness. Forgive me Arthur, when I am well, I shall return to help you as you have helped me.
My secret passion of writing, and Arthur’s printing at night, of my penny dreadfuls has allowed me to amass the funds I will be using to stay at the sanitarium. The residents of Salem may have a history of hunting witches, but they also seem to have a penchant for reading about them too. My latest work, Flying Potionwas a wildly successful, if hidden pleasure partaken of by many of the locals who outwardly decry my work while secretly buying it.
I close the door behind me, leaving a letter for my landlady; of all the people in my life, she will be missed the least. Surly, short-tempered, ill-mannered but fortunate enough to have her rich husband die and leave her this hotel. Rumors abound regarding his death; only I know the truth and he tells me over and over how she poisoned his absinthe, his secret sin, with the petals of flowers most dire, the flavor was masked by the absinthe and covered her evil deed.
Even he only discovered this after his death, when he refused to leave his home to journey to the great beyond. His hatred of her transcended life and death. Even in death he could not be free of her. Mayhaps there is love in that hate as well. Few emotions stir such contrary feelings.
He haunts her and I, her for his death, me for being able to hear him as he bemoans his fate. He stands just outside her door. I can see him, waiting for her to leave for the evening repast. I shall not miss either of them.
His awareness focused on her, he does not see me leave, placing the last rent I shall ever pay in a tray by the door along with a key worn smooth with my use. I am free; my last obligations made or ignored.
The streets were hard cobbles, and I could hear the sounds of perambulators and horses in equal measure. The evening was brisk, cold, unpleasant. It matched my mood perfectly. I kept a quick pace, reminding me of my days in the military, so long ago when I was young; idealistically believing I could change the world.
I think my cynicism had finally caught up to me, just like getting older did. A little at a time, in a creeping fashion, challenging me, relieving me of my youth, my hopes and in great and terrible moments, my dreams of love, of family, of self. I was a shadow of that boy, so bold, so fearless. I huddled in my long coat, my lanky body made lean by hunger, by fear, by a lack of interest in life. They found me again. Maybe because I was already so close to being dead.
* * *
I saw them mingling with the living. Lovers walking arm in arm. A macabre dance, one dead, one living, both subsisting on the memories of their lives together, whispering about what they planned to do with their futuresr. I brought my sleeve to my mouth as I passed them in the street. I stifiled a gasp as they both looked at me, almost knowing that I intruded into their private moment. I sucked in the cold evening air and rushed past them. They forgot me momentarily, returned to their conversation. The living shook their heads, the dead equally disapproved of the display.
Police chased criminals into traffic, bakers plied their craft, aromatic whispers of delicious confections wafted through the streets, turning heads living and deceased, both hungry for the moments the bread retrieved from their broken hearts and broken lives.
A shadow swept through the streets, overlooking everyone. The living shudder, not sure of what they felt. The dead stopped moving, dropped and cowered until it passed. The Consumption; the spectre of Death in our times. The spectre paused — kissed two passersby on the lips gently, each heading in a different direction. Both stopped to meet a group and the spectre became two shadows that fell upon each group.
When the spectre left, all of their shadows left with him. All save one. A hearty fellow, strong and fit, he was the only one who cast a shadow in the evening light. No one noticed except me. The spectre passed me and put his finger to his lips, shushing me before moving away through the crowd. I would have been speechless in any event.
What would I tell them? You are all doomed? The spectre of Death has stolen your lives whilst you caroused and made merry? I think not. If I weren’t already on my way to a sanitarium they would certainly be trying to carry me there, apace.
Fear of consumption still swept the city after several recent outbreaks. The slightest cough brought hooded looks as eyes turned toward the offender. Everyone lost someone during the last two years. Their agonies, families wailing as loved one died and children were lost haunted my days and their deaths railing against the unfairness of it all, my nights.
As I approached the edge of town, black crows laughed at me as I turned up the road toward Forest Hills. I had always know it to be there, and remembered as a child, sneaking to see it and the people who would be taken here. My friends and I saw these unfortunates, sometimes raving mad, screaming at the top of their lungs, other times quietly drooling in the care of a physician. We noted when we got close, it was hard to tell the caretakers from the cared for, as the glint of madness seemed just as bright in all their eyes.
As we got older, we stopped coming. It was the cemetary. Right next door to the sanitarium, its eerie graves grew to be a much more terrifying place as we learned about the restless dead; tales told to us by our friends and families of children who went missing if they tarried too long there after dark. And as some of our family members found themselves as residents of Hillcrest cemetary, we considered the place less and less a refuge from our parents and guardians. But Forest Hills maintained its mystique as a place of damaged people and the madmen who cared for them.
I would make one more trip there as a young man before vowing to never come back. I took my wife there after the death of our daughter. I watched her die at the age of six, a shadow of herself. Her mother, my dearest Diedra could not, would not leave her side for days at a time. I sat with her when I could take her mother to her bed. Our daughter, Martha was a child we had not expected to be able to have. Diedra had been barren for the first ten years of our marriage. We were deeply in love and our inability to have children sat poorly with us even as we struggled to maintain our relationship during those early years.
And then, a miracle, she was with child; I never saw her more happy, more radiant. The magic of being with child always seemed an exaggeration to me, hyperbole spoken by women to keep them cheerful during the hardships of childbirth, but Diedra truly was alive, more so than she had ever been in all the time I knew her. I cherish those days knowing what was to follow.
Martha was born on time and Diedra was inseparable from the child. She doted on her and for most of Martha’s childhood, no one could have ever said a child was better loved. But one night, that same night, Diedra and Martha returned from the market. They went together and when they came back to the house, they had a stranger with them. They did not see him. I was not even sure I saw him. As he came in with them, he shushed me, his finger to his lips and I was dumbstruck, unable to speak.
They talked about the market, her birdly chirping in syncopation with her mother’s musical voice, he stood in the corner of the house watching with glittering eyes; a stare hungry with anticipation. I closed my eyes for a moment and when I reopened them, he was gone. Only his chill remained. That night Martha developed a cough we at first thought was just a summer cold and that it would be gone as swiftly as it came. But that wasn’t true. That same cough came to many of my neighbors soon after.
After a time, no one left home, many because they couldn’t, the rest didn’t dare. We huddled in the dark waiting and hoping to not hear another wail in the distance. Sometimes a day or even two would pass. No matter their distance I could hear the dying passing into that final night. I woke from dreams, dripping sweat and going to my daughter’s room to see my wife sitting with her.
He came for her nearly six months later. She appeared to get better briefly and could talk but never maintained any strength. We could see it was only a matter of time. Every second was precious. During those final days, the two of them were bound together and for a moment I could see them in a way I had never before. They were truly one single being stretched between two lives. Martha lived because Diedra had willed her into existence.
When Martha died He was at my door. The same strange man, in a black suit this time and a long overcoat and hat. He knocked politely. I knew who it was before he knocked. His footfalls echoed along the street and he made several stops before he came to our house. I heard the cries of fathers mourning their sons and mothers their daughters. Children collectively screamed for parents who would never answer their calls. He was dutiful and spared no one. Nor listened to any impassioned pleas. I lived on the last house on the street. I counted his steps. They resounded like thunder in my head. I answered the door.
Diedra came to my daughter’s door. Martha had slipped back into a fever and was hot and sweating. Her coughing released blood and the gurgling in her chest returned this time worst than ever. Her agony was apparent. Diedra looked as if she would bar his way.
He took off his hat and coat and helped Diedra to a chair. The look in her face spoke of her resignation. He touched her head and went into Martha’s room. I followed.
A terrible cough racked her, she sat up in bed, heaving and blood flew everywhere. He never appeared to rush and as he came to her side at the bed he eased his hand behind her back and propped her up. As soon as he touched her, her coughing stopped and her breathing eased. Her eyes opened and they were clear and bright for the first time in days. She reached out to me. I took her hand, covered in her dark blood in the candle-lit room and held her for those last seconds. He let her go and she fell back to the bed.
We walked out the door, I was covered in blood, he impeccably clean and his face composed, no emotion could be seen. Diedra released a sound, I had heard far to often in these last days. A gut wrenching sound, which brought tears unbidden to my eyes and then she slumped over from her chair. He reached out to her and I interposed myself between he and she, catching her in my arms. Her sobs were quiet things, as if all the sound she could make had already been made.
He turned to look at me and his look spoke to me. Give her to me.
Never, I replied my eyes burning with hatred of what He was and what he had done.
She will still come to me. She is broken now, his outstreched hand said.
Then I will mend her. Get out. I put my back to him
He slowly, ruefully, put his hat and coat on. As he walked out he looked back once more. A glint of emotion, for only a second shone there. He turned his collar up and strode off into the night, leaving the door open, allowing a cold, ill wind to sweep away what was left of both Martha and Diedra, that night.
Diedra neither ate, nor slept in the days after Martha’s passing. She lay in bed, barely mobile, barely conscious. She would even soil herself and I cleaned her as best I could. I made food for her, she did not eat. I talked to her. She did not speak, nor even acknowledge my presence. I would leave to work, finding her right where I left her upon my return. I would do this for nearly a year before the murmurings of the town became a hideous roar of disapproval. Living in her filth they would say, barely sane they would say, a madwoman to come murder them in their sleep they would say.
I did not dignify their rantings but I knew if she did not eat beyond the tiny morsels she took to sustain her, she would soon perish. The last night she was with me, I prepared everything she had ever loved, packed it and cleaned and dressed her. She was little more than a marionette, standing there in our house, following my voice, barely any life in her at all. I explained I would be taking her to Forest Hills. I told her it was best for her. They would be able to care for her, feed her, keep her clean all day long. This was what I had been told and I believed them. That morning we shuffled our way up the hill, surrounding by a spring morning after a long and harsh winter. I hoped this would soothe her somehow but she could not see it.
They took her in, the place was drab, but clean. The other clients were well cared for and while there was the occasional shout, no one seemed ill treated, as I had heard in gossip from many of the townsfolk. I would come to see her on occasion but she seemed not to know me any more than the staff who tended her and after two years, I vowed never to see her or this place again. As I walked from the sanitarium, I looked into the cemetary and for the first time noticed the sounds coming from it. I had always heard them but only recently realized where they were coming from.
That day and every day after it for fifteen years has been a living hell.
The dead spoke to me now all the time, telling me of their troubles, of the inlaws, of their displeasure with how they were buried, or what they would have done better if they had lived, or about the spectre and his black suit, and what they would do if they every had the chance to confront him. This constant chatter drove me slowly mad. I tried ignoring it, I tried talking with them, I bargained with them, I pleaded with them. I became an addict to drown them out, using laudinum at night between leaving my job and dawn before I returned to my work.
I made my peace with them until now. Once I got to Forest Hills and their electroshock therapy, I would be free of their incessant nattering and would again know blessed silence, the silence of the grave. Yes, graves before I knew of the restless dead.
Imagine my shock when I reached the top of the incline to find Forest Hills in ruins. From the looks of it, a fire had taken place. But why hadn’t I heard of it? The remains of the building looked as if it were nearly a decade ago. But it simply couldn’t be the case. The cemetary next door also seem to have suffered from the ravages of time, overgrown, with both weeds and ivy growing over the tombstones. The evening sun was nearly setting and I could see the town from the hilltop, the blood red light colored the otherwise drab buildings of Salem.
I suddenly realized I did not hear anything. No cries, no tales of woe, nothing. I looked back at the sanitarium and it was restored to its former glory. He stood in the doorway. She was with him.
Welcome to Forest Hills. You will have plenty of work to do here, Deadspeaker. He held out his hand and his welcome was clear to me. Diedra taking both his hand and mine ushered me into the door. I saw Martha running down the corridor to me and she leapt into my arms. He closed the door behind us and I could swear I heard the sounds of a great fire somewhere in the distance. The light from the fire filled the frame of the door as he ushered us away into the darkness.
Deadspeaker © Thaddeus Howze 2012, All Rights Reserved
Howdy, crumpets, power to the people and all that jazz......it's finally Grindhouse Sundays, folks! Welcome to our double feature shows with The Comic Shoppe batting first at 6pm and Afronerd Radiobatting second at 7pm eastern standard. Pull up a cozy seat and listen to Daryll B., Captain Kirk and Dburt the Afronerd as the unpack the following comic book, fantasy, sci fi and video gaming related topics: although Daryll discussed the new Looper film last show, the Captain and Dburt finally got around to viewing it and an extended review is needed; the Prometheus DVD will be released in a few days and the Easter eggs just provide further speculation (was the Charlize Theron character transgendered?....and is there a hint of a Blade Runner connection?); more DC52 retconning (or is it "pro-conning") implications with the latest Flash regarding his origin and whether Wally West makes an appearance; and speaking of "pro-conning," the Joker returns and lastly, if time permits, the crew's thoughts about new Fall animation (Green Lantern, Ben 10 and Young Justice). Call in live at 646-915-9620.
And for the listener that prefers his "nerdic" radio to have a bit more "edge," check out Afronerd Radioairing at 7pm. Join Dburt and Captain Kirk as they shed light on the following issues: author/journalist and now Afronerd contributor, Norman Kelley stops by to assist with our impression of last week's presidential debates; is the Black community abandoning President Obama? and Dburt has some anecdotal musings on the origins of the Pan-African flag. Check us out and Don't be scared!
Yesterday, Sputnik launced the "space race," and President Eisenhower invested in education as part of national defense and "the common good." We're still benefitting from the spinoffs of technological innovation, and the audacity to choose to go to the moon, "not because it is easy, but because it is hard." (President Kennedy).
The USA Science & Engineering Festival is this country's first national science festival and will be held in Washington, D.C. starting October 10, 2010.
This is a good thing!
I went to the web site for the National Society of Hispanic Physicists to get something for Hispanic Heritage Month, and this gem was on their web site.
I talk to a lot of kids, naturally since I teach High School. Many of them of course think I'm weird that I blog about physics or that I actually LIKE math. I get the usual questions that give one pause at their audacity:
"What am I ever going to use this for?"
Actually, you do really.
I usually say they haven't had their "Sputnik moment," when the United States was caught completely off-guard. Americans are uncomfortable with being seen as "second."
We were well into the "Cold War" with the former Soviet Union, so a satellite on October 4, 1957 translated to the Russians ability to deliver thermonuclear warheads to our shores. We caught up January 31, 1958 with our first satellite Explorer I. In July of 1958, NASA was born (I blogged about it) with the National Space Act. Popular Culture followed with series like Star Trek, Lost in Space, The Invaders and The Jetsons.
So often, the fear of war was the motivation for progress and creativity.
A "Sputnik moment":
I blog this on 10 September 2010, a day before the 9th year anniversary of the 9/11 attacks. That was almost a moment, when out of fear we were willing to trade civil liberties for security. A day before a Florida Pastor may or may not put veterans at risk overseas with a controversial burning of the Koran.
The fourth estate - the news media - is forced to print immediately without much review and then print retractions sheepishly where they cannot be found. The Internet has made print media almost obsolete in that whatever newspaper or magazine you can purchase you can see online for free. Without an estate responsible for sifting through falsities and truths, without fact checking, we're in a cyberspace free-for-all, informing like minds with sometimes monolithic monologues and being in full agreement. Our concept of an informed citizenry in a democracy is threatened.
We are surrounded by information and starving for wisdom: we're entertained by performance and not enthralled by the results of investigation using the Scientific Method. As far as STEM, science, math and engineering are in the words of my students "boring," but the technology that allows them to text, tweet, Facebook and blog they're all over, with no appreciation for the other facets that brought the possibilities of their casual amusement into existence.
In the US, we've created a culture of entertainment, probably at the moment a television program or DVD became the defacto "baby sitter," and then we say to our kids "I can't stand reading/writing/math" and wonder why they're not doing so well in the same subjects at school. In education, it's called "modeling," and not the kind you'd see on the fashion runway.
For my students, this is your "Sputnik moment": the world you will inherit will be far more complicated than the one I grew up in. You have the ever present fear of war around the globe, global warming, natural disasters, technological preeminence or inferiority, economic harmony or disparity; political efficiency or fecklessness. How well you lead and manage it will depend on how well you prepared for it.
Dear Mr. President,
I was at work Wednesday night, but I have heard the coverage regarding the debates. They said Governor Romney won. It was like getting punched in the gut.
No mention of the 47%. Or the fact that he was 47th in job creation while governor. Someone with your rhetorical skills should have made poetry with those two items; mincemeat out of Mr. Romney.
Wednesday was you and First Lady Michelle's anniversary. Do me a favor: FIRE the lawyers that deliberated and put the first debate on what should have been YOUR and the First Lady's private day.
Also sir: Mr. Romney obviously suffers from Pseudologia Fantasticia, AKA pathological lying. His running mate is a "chip-off-the-old-block" with admiring Ayn Rand in one video-taped breath, then repudiating her as if he never knew the author of "Atlas Shrugged" was a militant atheist (her words: I know some atheists, and they're quite pleasant).
What's at stake: we're in the "Twilight Zone" with a dominionist-dominated Republican Party hijacking privately-practiced religion for one public end: power. Former GOP operative Mike Lofgren says it's become "an apocalyptic cult." You won only on facts, not style, and the crowd that's adamant about voting for Willard ain't thinking about the "facts": they once labeled his faith as a cult until left with no other alternative. In the words of a political operative to Run Suskind, they "create their own realities."
It's a shame we're discussing the "controversy" about evolution, question whether the earth is over four billion years old or six thousand years old. Meanwhile, "back at the ranch" of global competition, countries we helped build up with the Marshall Plan post WWII have no such delusional machinations. They march forward in STEM careers, creating more scientists and engineers than our own universities as we put our heads in ostrich sands; our minds in reverse back to God-knows-where, but I bet where we land won't have a middle class or America as fabled "shining city on a hill." I'm a year younger than you, and I can recall getting more on evolution and sex education during the late seventies than my twenty and thirty year old sons. Science is no threat to religious faith, and any reality created, virtual or imagined, cannot govern.
Let me end with Kevin Costner and Sean Connery in The Untouchables: "Don't bring a knife to a gun fight," and by the way: you're FROM Chicago!
Related link: William Rivers Pitt - A Nationally-Televised Presidential Fail
The Viscera battle seemed endless in San Francisco. I hear it’s just as bad or worse in other parts of the country, the world for that matter. The Pack even had to blow the Golden Gate Bridge to help control the Viscera infestation, keep them across the bay. But they have boats and air vehicles. Between the military and guerrilla groups like ours “The Pack of Wolves”, commonly referred to as “The Pack”, we keep them under control, so far.
We are down to Ham Radio communication. There are no broadcasts anymore, no television or radio. But people still tried to maintain and hold on to as much of whatever normal is as possible. Even though one dead Viscera brought two more it seems. The dead walkers would bite someone or scratch someone and they’d become Viscera. The good thing is we are clearing out the dead walkers in the city or as Sarang calls them, Spliftan Nanites. We just call them all V Heads. We just have the Viscera for the most part now. There is a big difference between the Dead Walkers and what we now classify as V Heads. We figured out that the Dead Walkers were basically designed to breed by bitting humans or the scratch. The nanites get in the blood stream and you become one, if you aren’t eaten. And from my experience are as dumb as dirt. But they are the catalyst for something worse. The second generation V heads were born to kill. They’re smart. They’re like fighting vampires or zombies with intellect. They feed on the warm flesh of humans. Their thing is the appetite for human intestines. I don’t know why that is, that particular part of the body. But they seem to wash that down with spinal fluid and treat our blood like it’s gravy.
They have their clans. The biggest clan in the city was lead by a man named Mokatari, Doctor Jiles Mokatari Ph.d. He was a college professor from Africa, Ghana I think. He taught at the University of San Francisco. Mokatari is a very smart and industrious V head. He has them organized. That’s why he has the biggest clan. Mokatari is King. (From the diary of Dr. Roi Sungari,MD)
Here's a video based on the 'Mortal Kombat' videogame featuring today's national politicians vying for the Presidency. Too funny to describe, see for yourself...'COUNT IT!'
http://bcove.me/o4h3y3y9
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| Credit: Physics World - Gold Nanoantennas |
Physicists in Germany have used evolutionary algorithms to help them pinpoint the best geometry for a nanoantenna. As well as zeroing in on the optimal design out of more than 10132alternatives, the technique has provided unexpected new insights into the complex optical properties of nanostructures.
Nanoantennas convert light to electrical power and vice-versa, and are essential in the design of tiny electro-optical devices. They have diverse potential applications in just about anything based on light–matter interaction, including optical sensing and signalling, microscopy, solar-power conversion and quantum cryptography.
Inspired by natural selection, evolutionary optimization algorithms work towards an ideal design rather than evaluating the performance of all possible designs. For the problem tackled by Feichtner's team, the latter would be impossible because more than 10132 antenna designs would need to be evaluated using a process that takes 20 minutes per structure. The team's goal was to find a geometry that would enhance the near-field intensity of an illuminating beam of light as much as possible, so they chose this as the "fitness parameter" that they would judge each design against. Just as in nature, the fittest patterns got the chance to pass on their characteristics to the next generation, while the weaker specimens were discarded. The highest-performing five from each batch were used to build a new generation of 20 structures via crossing techniques and mutations. The new structures were in turn pitted against one another, so the overall fitness of the designs improved generation by generation – over 100 generations – until the near-field intensity enhancement registered almost twice that of the reference antenna.
Physics World: Survival of the fittest nanoantenna
Abdul Walid found himself somewhere in Afghanistan not knowing how he got there, when he arrived or how long he’d been in the country. From the backpack he wore and the AK 47 strapped over his right shoulder, he had obviously been on a journey. Aches and pains from the rigors of that journey wrapped his body in a throbbing shawl of fatigue. He needed to rest. By the will of Allah, he desperately needed rest.
The landscape was a bleak sprawl of rugged hills as far as his eye could travel. Hills coated in every conceivable shade of gray, like everything else in this jagged, devilish corner of existence…including the people.
This backward nation was not exactly Walid’s choice of venue for doing Allah’s work. Nonetheless, his superiors assigned him here for that very purpose.
Walid plopped down on a patch of hard ground close to the summit of a hill he was negotiating. He had already walked himself ragged and for the life of him he could not remember anything recent beyond the past two minutes. It was if he had been asleep on his feet and just woke up. Of course he knew who he was and why he was in Afghanistan to begin with. He remembered every other aspect of his life. He knew his family, his friends…
Abdul awoke to darkness. A bitterly chill wind accosted him like a slap to the face. He realized he was walking and stopped. How could this be? He turned in place, squinting his eyes to adjust them to pitch-blackness. Bright stars speckled a clear night sky. On any other occasion he would have been dazzled by their radiance. Instead, he stood motionless, dumbfounded by the surrounding night, when his last cogent memory was of him resting on a hilltop during midday. I don’t understand. Abdul lowered to his knees, more tired than he was hours earlier…however many hours had passed. His lungs felt seared from his exertion, his legs heavy as blocks of concrete. He would rest just long enough to rejuvenate…drink water from the plastic bottle in his pack…snack on rations…prayer…he didn’t remember doing his evening prayer. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t.
When in doubt.
Walid set his food aside, looking every which way to get his bearings. He needed to face East. Had he been any good at reading the stars.
Daytime. Wahid averted his eyes from a sun that suddenly appeared out of nowhere…or seemed to. He staggered sideways before balancing himself, his head swimming in disorientation. He must have blacked out again. From his labored breathing and aching feet, he concluded he had been sleepwalking, just like the previous occasions. How else could he explain the distance he covered?
He was walking on flatter terrain. A mountain range loomed before him. Abdul spotted a familiar sight, and his apprehension regarding these mysterious memory lapses gave way to calm. A small village nestled at the foot of one of those rocky peaks. He quickened his pace.
A group of children ran to greet Wahid. He recognized their eager faces and laughed and played with them as he neared the village. He walked past mud brick structures. Men in keffiyeh head wraps loitered about. Some greeted him with silent nods; others simply stared, not bothering to hide their disdain of the foreigner in their midst, even if that foreigner was Muslim.
He noticed a pair of Burkha-clad women drawing water from a well. His entourage of youngsters melted away now that the excitement of his presence had dwindled. Wahid grinned endearingly. Who could blame the little ones?
“Abdul!”
Wahid turned to the sound of that familiar voice to see an equally familiar face emerging from the nearest brick hut. A heavily bearded man in dark sunglasses, dressed in olive green military fatigues. Malik.
Happy and relieved to see a comrade, Wahid beamed a broad smile.
Malik did not reciprocate. He approached Wahid hesitantly, looking for all the world as if he was seeing a ghost. “Wahid…what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in America. You’re supposed to be in Chicago!”
Wahid formed his mouth to speak, but could think of nothing to say. He was supposed to be in America? Well, that was certainly another major detail left out of his memory.
Malik glanced up at the sky before gripping Wahid’s elbow. “Come, let’s get to a secure location. I don’t want an American drone to spot us.”
The cave entrance was less than a forth of a mile from the village.
Wahid had been to this tucked away redoubt so many times, he almost considered it a second home. Two Afghan sentries were posted at the mouth of the cave. Two more stood guard twenty yards further in.
Wahid and Malik passed the guards in silence, following a curving halogen-illumined pathway. The cave’s natural features starkly gave way to man-made renovation.
The pair entered a large, brightly lit room replete with computers, printers, fax machines, internet routers, and a large flat screen TV suspended from the ceiling. Smaller TVs rested on desks lined along the wall. Two of the TVs showed an Al-Jazeera news station, the remaining three, BBC, Fox News, and CNN.
A map of Chicago’s downtown area covered one wall. Next to it, a photograph of the city’s tallest skyscraper, the Willis Tower. Next to the picture, were posted interior and exterior schematics of the building.
Eleven men occupied this busy space. All eleven paused with comically gape-mouthed expressions at the sight of Wahid.
Like Malik, none of these men were Afghan. Most were from the Gulf States. There were a couple of Egyptians a Pakistani, even an Indonesian. Different nationalities, all united in their commitment to Allah. All united under the banner of Jihad.
Walid’s heart stirred with pride.
Sheikh Mahmud, the leader, a PhD engineer in his mid fifties, stepped forward. “What is this?” His puzzled gray eyes darted between Malik and Walid, before settling with finality upon the latter. “Why are you here?”
“The operation was compromised,” Walid said. “Khalid and Fodio were picked up by the authorities. I barely managed to get away. I made my way to the Mexican border and slipped out of the country.” Walid’s lips seemed to move of their own accord as he recounted events he had absolutely no memory of.
“Khalid and Fodio…arrested?” Hamza, the youngest Jihadi in the group, shook his head, his face creasing with skepticism. “We heard nothing about this! It would have been on the news!”
“Unless, the Americans are keeping a lid on this, as they say,” Malik speculated.
Khalid was a white European from Germany, Fodio a northern Nigerian.
The two were specially trained to talk, walk and dress like Americans. And because they resembled typical Americans, they were less likely to fall under the type of scrutiny Middle Eastern looking men tended to encounter. The planners in this room had counted on the would-be martyrs’ ability to blend in for this operation. The group’s disappointment was palpable.
“Why would they keep this secret?” Abdullah, a master bomb maker, ridiculed. “They never hesitate to trumpet the arrests of so-called terror suspects across their media outlets!”
As the planners debated, discussed and lamented, a curious sense of detachment fell over Walid. He panned the room with a blank face, taking in every detail. Then he studied his fellow Jihadis…
On the other side of the world in a DARPA (Defense Advance Research Projects Agency) facility somewhere in Northwest Nevada, another group of men gathered in a different room, observing live feed of terrorists through the eyes of a terrorist.
Four of the men were military officers, the remaining three, civilians.
One of the civilians, Dr. Jerome Williams, sat, focused on a 32 inch monitor in front of him. Williams was a Howard University robotics professor, currently consulting for DARPA.
Facial recognition indicators buzzed each time a terrorist was featured on the screen. Every one of the men in that distant cave ranked high on more than one government most-wanted list. .
General Allen Murphy blew out an amazed whistle. “I never thought he would’ve made it that far.”
Deputy Secretary of Defense, Jeremy Skelton, turned to the general. He was new to this affair and his bewilderment showed. “Alright, how did you manage to get this man inside so easily? Infiltrating terror cells is no walk in the park. You can’t just make someone like an Abdul Walid cooperate.” He leaned closer to the monitor. “What kind of hidden camera is he wearing?”
“In this case, inducing cooperation from our subject was no problem at all,” Dr. Williams answered cheerfully. “And he’s not wearing a cam.”
Skelton grinned dubiously and looked to CIA Station Chief Thomas Perkins for elaboration. “Ok, I’m all ears.”
“Abdul Walid was arrested several weeks ago, along with two other terrorists,” Perkins explained. “Walid’s companions, a German and a Nigerian were going to blow themselves up in the Willis Tower observation deck, while Walid detonated a truck bomb at a downtown park festival. Two devastating, simultaneous attacks, typical of an al Qaeda operation.”
“Walid wasn’t going to suicide himself,” said General Murphy. His weathered features twisted in a sarcastic sneer. “Apparently he’s too valuable a planner to enter Paradise so soon.”
“Anyway,” Perkins continued. “Walid’s task was to coordinate the attack, make sure everything went according to plan. That’s why we chose him for our special project.”
Skelton’s brow crinkled. “Special project?”
“I’ll let Dr. Williams take over from here.”
Dr. Williams swiveled toward the deputy secretary. “Shortly after his arrest and subsequent interrogation, Walid was turned over to my lab. There, doctors, under my supervision, replaced a portion of his brain with a memory restrictive cybernetic implant. The implant makes Walid deeply susceptible to suggestion.”
“In other words,” Perkins cut in, “Walid is a living breathing puppet, and the good professor here pulls the strings.”
“The implant is connected to his visual cortex, allowing us to see what he sees,” Williams pointed out. “Thus eliminating the need to hide a camera on his person.”
“Skelton paled. “You mean to tell me that…you…turned a human being into some sort of zombie cyborg?”
Williams chuckled lightly. “No Mr. Deputy Secretary. I wouldn’t go that far. He does have awareness, but it’s limited to what I allot him. He knows he suffers from memory loss but can’t attribute its cause. He knows his actions are not his own but can’t pinpoint the reason. Other than those lapses, he behaves no differently from the average human.”
“And with this thing in his head…”
“Mental Interdictive Neural Determinant,” Williams interrupted with a hint of pride. “M.I.N.D. for short.”
The deputy secretary raised a brow. “Clever. With this…M.I.N.D. in his head, you’ve gotten our subject back to his cave. Now what? What’s the end game?”
Williams held up a finger and spun back to his console. He began typing on his keyboard.
“This is a disaster.” Sheikh Mahmud paced across the room, wringing his hands. A vision he cherished of the Willis Tower crowned in a blazing wreath, infidels flailing to their deaths, would yet remain unconsummated by reality.
“There are other targets,” Malik assured the cell leader. “There are always other targets. We will simply lick our wounds and God willing, move on to plan our next action.”
Walid paid no attention to the discussion around him. A compulsion he could not override moved his hand into his pocket. He pulled out an object resembling a bicycle handle grip with a red button on top.
Inwardly, Walid panicked at his action, knowing he could not arrest it no matter how hard he tried.
Hamza noticed first the detonator in Walid’s hand, then the backpack, which the latter never removed.
The bomb maker’s jaw unhinged. “Brother…what are you doing?”
A tear gleamed in the corner of Walid’s right eye, the only sign of distress on an otherwise emotionless face.
One by one the cell members spotted the detonator and their eyes widened in alarm.
Walid raise the device to chest level.
Forgive me, Brothers…his thumb unwillingly pressed the button.
Static instantly filled Dr. Williams’ screen.
Another monitor displayed real-time satellite footage of smoke boiling out of a cave in Eastern Afghanistan.
An over watch drone recorded the same event at a much lower altitude.
A blanket of grim silence settled over the room.
Dr. Williams stretched his neck and turned to the deputy secretary. “Thirteen terrorists down.”
Skelton could barely keep his eyes off the snowy screen. Unsettled, he cleared his throat. “I’m at a loss for words. A part of me is not particularly comfortable with mind control.”
“This might make you feel a little better, Mr. Deputy Secretary,” Perkins stated. “Drones have done an admirable job of killing terrorists. The downside is, too many civilians have perished in drone strikes. A M.I.N.D.-implanted subject can pinpoint targets with much greater precision and eliminate those targets with minimal to zero risk of civilian casualties. As you’ve just seen.”
Perkins’ argument seemed to have sunk in. Skelton nodded in realization. “Do you have more of these M.I.N.D. devices, Dr. Williams?”
“I have an improved version on the drawing board,” Williams gestured toward the static-filled screen “Walid just ‘tested’ the prototype. Once I iron out the kinks, I expect M.I.N.D.s to be in full production within a month. That should give you some time to line up more candidates for future operations.” The professor flicked a switch shutting down the screen.
Skelton regarded the CIA operative. “I think the president will be interested in this new technology.” A smile slowly parted his lips. “Very interested.”
