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MODOC - Part 7 - On the Run

Posted by Thaddeus on January 13, 2011 at 3:00am
How I let this House talk me into heading into the city with Justin is beyond me. All he could say was our plans had to change, fast.  So now he was telling me we had to make Justin's appointment today. I assumed walking on the streets would be pretty much the same as riding in a car, but, and I hesitate to admit this, I was wrong. For one, it's so -- dirty. And if I could not control my olfactory sensory input, it would just be better to not have a nose at all. They talk about the unwashed masses, they should just go ahead and say New Yorkers. Disgusting. Nothing in the city seemed to be clean, vehicles had a patina of dirty streaked with acid rain from the coal-burning factories being used in New Jersey.

The people had a similar unclean appearance, already dull clothing made worse with stains from untreated water, and people who having to ration water, barely used any on themselves to keep clean. They appeared to have come to some understanding because no one complained no matter how unpleasant the next person smelled. I understood now why That Woman luxuriated in the bath, to wash away the stench of diesel fumes from the transport vehicles on every road.

When we stepped outside the complex with me on, of all things, a leash it was a madhouse. People were rushing all around me and it took quite a bit of skill to navigate the crowds. Fortunately, the leash was equipped with an emitter that would trigger the sensory interfaces of citizens with the proper hardware who were reading their VI newspapers, or calling their friends to discuss business as they moved on their errands. A notation indicating our presence would flash in their interface and they unconsciously made way for us. Uncivilized. No one watched where they were walking, depending completely on technology to tell them where they were going. For those without an interface, it was my novelty and natural beauty that caused them to step aside and stare. However, a few gave me more predatory glances and then I remember what happened to my organic counterparts. We hastened along when I mentioned this to Justin.

The House had given me directions to the office and said once I arrived, I was to conveniently get lost so we could try and get access to Justin's records. All I would need is access to a terminal. Justin did not have to explain anything about me, since my collar indicated my helper machine status to any security terminal and as such I did not have to pay for the train into the center of Manhattan. The train was a terrible experience and I hope to not have to use it as a regular means of transportation. Terribly loud, filled with unkempt people and far too crowded, I was constantly dancing to avoid having my paws stepped on.

Twice, unpleasant, indigent ruffians attempted to accost Justin. Internally, I synthesized a capsasin oil and using the projection system in my mouth cavity, directed 50,000 Scoville heat units of capsasin oil into their eyes. I was quite proud of my targeting; I hit nothing but eyeball. I could have made it more dangerous but I would have to utilize an override on my safety protocols. There was no need for anyone to know I could do that, yet. The rest of our ride was undisturbed except for the retreating yowls of the unpleasant youth who hoped to steal me or Justin for a quick bite to eat.

Getting into the medical facility, I was completely ignored and this was entirely to my liking. Once we reached the doctor, Justin attached my leash to a stand and was taken to another room. On his way out he told me I was to stay here and wait for him. The young man working the reception desk was more concerned with his personal appearance, which I could understand, he was quite unattractive as humans go, than with watching me. So when the next set of people came into the office, I simply slipped out of my collar, danced between their legs and went out the door. The receptionist's eyes never left his pocket mirror.

Once in the corridor, I tried to find any open interface systems but nothing easily presented itself. The elevator and other facility systems were not connected to anything useful. Ah. A laboratory door opened down the hall and I sprinted toward it. Hiding on the side of the door, the portly lab technician came out and did not even attempt to look down. It would seem since he had not seen his toes in years, it was not likely he would be looking down unless I had food on my back. I found it odd, that he was so portly though, in this time of socialized hunger and deprivation.

Scooting into his lab, before the door closed, I was happy to see it was filled with a number of accessible terminals and I made a connection by extending a cable from my tail into a workstation. I penetrated his primitive security code using a dictionary, the simplest code cracker possible. His codeword--LUNCH, took five seconds.

"House, I'm in."

"I am connected to you and am sweeping their data servers. It will take me a minute to find his records."

"No hurry. This poor fellow moves really slow and if he was heading to the restroom down the hall, it will be about a week before he returns."

"Got it."

"Spit it out. What do we need to do?"

"He is experiencing a recombinant DNA sequencing. They claim it's to retard a cancerous growth unable to be treated in the conventional methods. The official records indicate the treatment is going well with only a slight chance of possible organ failure. There are however hand written notes, and those notes say the official cause of death will be liver failure."

"Consistent with his slowly diminishing vitals. What can we do to reverse it?" 

"I don't know. I can read, and I can understand a variety of technical texts, but recombinant DNA therapies are outside of my security training. I was hoping it would be something simple."

"Okay, then it's on to phase two."

"What's that?"

"Torture. I will be in the doctor's office. Call you back."


'Metal Organism Designed only for Cuddling' © Thaddeus Howze 2010. All Rights Reserved
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MODOC - Part 6 - A New Prescription

Posted by Thaddeus on January 13, 2011 at 3:00am
Listening to the cat talk about his selfish needs just makes my flash drives purge. Except he is right. We need to put our personal issues aside and help Master Justin. I need evidence before I can make any accusations. Accessing information and storing it in virtual memory so no trace of my handiwork can be found is the first step. No need for any of those pesky Inquisitions the Church is so fond of these days.

"I am sorry to be the one to tell you this. I would have reported this to your mother and I may still but I am not sure how she will take the information. I told the House because I thought he might be able to help in a way I could not. For now, can we keep it our secret?" Justin nods and wiped at one of his eyes. He tried to look brave.

"And I think you're right, Cat. There is more here than meets the eye. Take a look. I cold-beam him a stream of data regarding Grimaldi that confirmed my suspicion. Grimaldi was a candidate for the Theocrat of New York, but he was considered to be the least likely candidate to be chosen because he is the only Proctor who is unmarried. A Theocrat must be married showing his commitment to business and religion, his wife must be both a religious leader and effective social agent of change in the community."

"So what are we going to do?" Justin sounded quite upset but did not break down, as I thought he might.

"We are going to figure out what they are doing and fix it. What kind of conqueror would I be, if I allowed my first, best and most favorite subject to come to harm?" boasted the cat, puffing out its chest and standing up on its hind legs leaning up against Master Justin.

Blowhard. If I had legs I could do that fawning thing. Anyway, if the information the cat has collected is accurate, Justin's health will continue to deteriorate and likely be dead or dying in another two months. It looks slow enough to appear to be of natural causes, but timely enough that Master Grimaldi would be able to carry out his dastardly plan that we are accusing him of but have not a shred of proof.

"Justin, it's time for your medication, but we are going to arrange for you to be busy, so you will happen to miss this dose. Cat, you move around the complex, and only the complex, do not leave the grounds of this building. Outside this building, you are a potential meal. 

"I will do some research and let you know what I come up with."

"Okay Max, if there is anything I can do to help..." Justin sounds positively heartbroken. 

"Of course, sir. Out, you two, I have work to do." 

I begin my search for information on the NewerNetwork and study the Proctor Grimaldi closer than I have ever wanted to before. It does not take long before I am running up against firewall and security software as strong as I am. Since the destruction of the Russian and Brazilian NewerNet nodes, many of my false aliases were lost, so I was forced to take greater risks by penetrating the Indo-Sino network. False aliases. I know you want me to explain, but while you are sleeping, I need something to do. So I visit foreign computer networks.

My software was tagging anything in the open news services and in the last six months, the Proctor's name appeared significantly more often, particularly related to medicine, pharmacology and new operations in both of those fields. It seems a new medical facility and pharmacology wing were opened in midtown, near what was left of Central Park. A facility that is upstairs from Justin's newest doctor.

The incoming vox line pings and comes online. There is the sound of hysterical crying and I recognize the voice.

"Mistress, are you okay?"

"Max, its Todd, he was arrested today. The Religious Police came in beat him and dragged him away. For heresy."

So that's how he's going to get rid of Master Pennyworth. I think I owe that Cat an apology.


'Metal Organism Designed only for Cuddling' © Thaddeus Howze 2010. All Rights Reserved
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The Aspect War - Chapter 7

Posted by Thaddeus on January 11, 2011 at 2:00am
Sabra brought her cat in from the outside. She was an older woman who had lived in the tenement in the Bronx for as many years as she could remember. She had a number of cats inside the house already. But no one could say it was too many cats, because if you did not see them, you might not know they were there. Each was a shadow or a whisper seen just out of the corner of your eye and would sometimes disappear when you turned to see them. Each was a picture of perfection when they deigned to come over to you, with shining fur, teeth glittering in the candlelight. Sometimes you could pick one up and marvel at its lithe and muscular nature, and the gentle scent of mint each exuded though they were never bathed by the old woman.

Sabra was different than old cat ladies in a number of ways. She did not appear to be as crazy as most. Yes, she wore the typical old lady clothes, stuff seemingly from a century earlier than this one. You never quite recognize any of it, but you know it wasn't fashionable any time recently. It did not stop it from being somehow appropriate for her and she wore it with a type  comfort unseen with today's plastic, polyester, over the top clothing which may be perfect for the time but no one will remember it a year or two from now and no one will ever admit to ever having worn it. 

No, her clothing was timelessly beautiful, just like she was. Her face appeared to be that of an old woman with warm lines whenever she smiled a you, laughing lines around her eyes and while her cheeks had narrowed, they were once full and soft, and had a curve that enticed you to approach her neck and just sit there, near her perfect ears and long, dark hair, now white, but still long and strangely luxurious. And while she appeared to be a woman in her late sixties or early seventies, her stride was only occasionally one of a woman whose body was in its golden years. Most of the time, you might see the shadow of another, more vibrant woman and wonder what she might have been like in her youth.

Sabra was certainly a mystery to everyone who saw her, because you could only seem to see her as a collective. If you focused on any single thing, the way we just did, you might notice more than you were supposed to and that might be bad for you. Sabra's neighbors had learned to ignore the peculiar old woman who might talk to herself as she trundled up the stairs with cans of cat food and vegetables. She would let the young men in the rough neighborhood carry her bags upstairs but none were ever rough or rude to her. There was something about here that let you know she would not tolerate poor manners. Very few people could remember a time when she did not live here, but no one could tell you when she moved into the neighborhood. 

It was a strange thing among a number of strange things that did not make sense, but everyone accepted. Bad men, drug dealers, killers, pedophiles would wander into this part of the Bronx, because it was a nexus of social activity, and peddle their wares, but this was not done often after Sabra became a member of the neighborhood. These men would disappear after they met her a few times returning from her errands. The neighbors noticed this but said nothing. These men were not of the family, or of the people or of our people. They were other and Sabra warned them. She always did. If they did not take the warning and leave, the locals would shake their heads, mutter under their breaths about the diminished quality of the neighborhood and wait for the Song.

At first, people wondered where Sabra collected her cats because there were never any strays on the streets in this part of the city. At night, you would see a few of them, but you always knew they were her cats, clean, quiet, well mannered like her. People tolerated them and in return, there were no mice in shops or apartments, and no rats would are to grace a trashcan for blocks in any direction of Sabra's apartment. Stores she frequented also enjoyed that blessing. After a few years, her cats, became invisible to the locals, a part of the landscape, welcomed and yet ignored. There was never a time this collection of cats was ever a menace to the neighborhood, nor did they stay up late at night singing and disturbing the neighbors. They might be out, and they might be singing, but they song was a different one. One that soothed, one that protected, one that said, don't notice us, there is nothing to see here. If you are hearing us, you are happy, you are one of us, you love our song, and if you are not, you don't want to be here. People who didn't belong here who heard that song and were on the wrong side of it, were never found again. 

Sabra would pick up her new cat in the morning, instinct brought it to her, confused, it would run toward the beacon it could see in the night. Clamber in through the broken window in the basement, climb the three flights of stairs in the old building, and wait at her door. She never recognized these new cats, but could feel its confusion about its new, simpler, life. She would bring it in, give it food, get it adjusted to its new home and its new brethren and she would go out to make sure her neighborhood was the way she left it when she went to bed. The warm sun would always bring a smile to her face and make her think of a place far away, lost both in time and space. Then that memory would fade and she would tuck her scarf into her jacket and mutter incoherently.

From the fire escape, one black cat, with large luminous, golden eyes, would watch her, prowling rooftops keeping her in his sight and safe for another day. He had done that job for decades and took it very seriously. She cannot remember who she is. Not yet. The time is not right.
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MODOC - Part 5 - A not-so gilded cage

Posted by Thaddeus on January 9, 2011 at 8:30pm
 
Metal Organism Designed Only for Cuddling - Part 5
Day 56 of my incarceration: Escaped from the flash-freezer after a two-day downtime. Max's latest gambit was almost successful as my processor entered hibernation mode to survive without an external charge. What he did not count on was Justin's incessant desire for my august company. He has taken to finding me when I go missing, with a passion. His last rescue attempt found me trapped under the bookshelf in the study, pinned there while I slept, absorbing sunshine. When the boy returned home, he dug me from under the bookcase and properly chastened Max. The House feigned apology and our feud continued.

Our escapades have included being locked in the office safe, tricked into the microwave, and attacked by a laser pointer whose beam was altered to a cat slicing density. He has altered the television transmission to emit an embedded fractal image which encoded a virus into my heuristically enhanced processor. That was almost successful but at the last moment, I experienced a surge of my feline independence and his radical code was annihilated. To be honest, I cannot say how I was able to overcome his program, but I have come to enjoy our game of Cat and House and have grown interested in his next attempt to destroy me.

Once I was introduced to Justin, his mother encoded a final protocol; I would be subject to commands from Justin and would never want to be more than 24 hours without his company. I would seek him out, directed to his visor feed. His visor was also configured to show me to him in his virtuality created by Max the computer. The simulation of my appearance was in scale to the environment and he could interact with me as if he could see. This seemed to bring him great comfort and for a while my urge to run away was also subdued. During this time, I have actually come to enjoy my time with the boy. 

He has a peculiar sense of the absurd, and muses about the strangest things, a world without the Church or Mega-corporations, food growing freely in the wild without the use of pharmacological enhancements or genetic patents, and he tells me of a secret that cats once knew, that fish could be found in the oceans and how much they loved fish. He says the oceans are almost dead and fish have not be caught there in years. He even showed me a visual of one. I have to admit, there was a visceral part of my programming that leaped at the thought of eating this strange triangle of flesh. He said they were covered in armor, and could swim underwater indefinitely; food in the oceans, what a quaint and utterly nostalgic idea, the oceans had not been fished commercially for almost a decade.

I had taken to my duties of being a good and loyal companion and massaging the boy, applying pressure to areas of his body in a prescribed manner to relieve pain and ague caused by a condition whose name I was never given. I gathered the information about Justin's condition and stored the data and after two months, I had come to a conclusion: the boy was more than just sick.

Justin Pennyworth woke up early Saturday mornings and shook the sleep out of his head. He was grateful to not have to go to school even though his parents went to work every day. Max had the house heated to sixty-eight degrees even though the Church-regulated temperature for homes was fifty-five degrees. The floor was still cold, though.

"Jewel, come here girl." Where is that cat? Probably doing something it's not supposed to.

"Max, locate Jewel please?"

"She is out on the deck." The House had a slightly petulant sound to its voice.

Justin found his threadbare slippers before going out to the deck. The house's concrete floor was both rough and even colder during the winter. He did not bother to take his cane, since he could move around the house with ease. He slipped his visor on, and the virtuality of the house showed up after a few seconds. The virtual environment was simple and inelegant but better than stumbling around in the dark.

He saw virtual Jewel sitting on the upper ledge of the deck and looked out over the city. Today's air quality was quite good. Justin could breathe outside without coughing even without a filter mask. Unfortunately his virtuality did not extend into the city. He would need to connect to the citynet to see anything outside of his home.

"Close the door, boy" The voice was rough and electronic being directed by a voxcoder in a wall nearby.

"Who said that?"

"I did." The voxcoder's voice was more distinct and less scratchy. "Over here, cat on ledge."

"I didn't know you could talk." Actually he couldn't remember if his mother said she could talk. He was too excited to have a new cat to actually listen when she mentioned that part. Since Jewel never spoke before, he just assumed she couldn't.

"Okay, stop that. I am not a girl. My name is not Jewel. Yes, I am a calico, and calicos are female but I am not. a. cat. Never call me that again. My name is MODOC."

"Excuse me? My mother said you would only respond to Jewel." MODOC, what kind of name was that?

"It means: Metal Organism Designed Only for Conquering. Don't forget it."

 "I thought you were just a helper robot running a cat algorithm with some support apps. Real cats can't talk, they just make meowing noises like the ones you used to make."

"I can still make those noises. But I can also talk, take over other machines, and I-am-not-a-cat. I am a killer-robot. My goal is to rule the world. But I have a few technical handicaps."

Justin looked at MODOC and smiled. Then he sat down on the deck chair and laughed. A good hard laugh. It had been a while since the last time he remembered having a laugh this good. Secret agent cat, Justin thought, like some newmedia vid.

"Stop laughing. I said stop it." MODOC's had switched to his internal vox from the house controlled vox and his voice was tiny and hard to take seriously.

Justin, wiping away tears, said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to laugh. You don't even have an claws. What are you going to do, massage the world into defeat?"

In a cool voice, MODOC said, "No. It would appear the Church has already done that." 

What did he mean by that? thought Justin.

"So, you can talk. I wondered how you reported in, Cat."

"Reported in to whom? I think you are more addled with age than you appear, House."

Justin, trying to understand chimed in. "Reported to whom, Max?"

"I suspected he is here because the proctor your parents work for paid Build-a-Pet for him. I assumed he was a spy and have been trying to remove him. I wondered how he was able to avoid so many of my early traps. He is far more intelligent than a standard robo-pet."

"I do not work for any of your authorities, House. Left to my own devices, I would be out there, ruling the world, but for now, we have a mutual problem."

"And what could we have in common, that would make me work with you, Cat?"

"Stand by for upload." The house accepted my wireless connection and uploaded the data. "Do you see it?" The house was quiet for longer than necessary.

"Did you confirm and check these readings? The House had a strange waver to its digital voice, which was normally quite smooth and soothing.

*Privacy Mode*

"More than once."

"These readings cannot be correct."

"They are. I believe Proctor Grimaldi is involved."

"How can you be sure?"  The House and I did not agree on much, but the boy was important to both of us.

"I have been looking at Justin's schedule and he meets with several doctors assigned to him by the Proctor. His declining health coincides with his visits and the medication he has been taking. It is also one of the only outings that Justin goes on that I am not allowed to attend."

"Hey, stop talking about me behind my back. You both stopped talking but all the lights on the display and your collar are still active and blink when you both talk. Remember, light awareness strip?" Justin tapped his visor and smiled.

*Public Mode*

"We wouldn't do that, Master Justin."

 "Stop lying to me, too. I am not a little kid. I order you to tell me the truth. You have to do what I say."

"Don't you dare, Max." And when I said it, I meant it. There was something - algorithmic - that passed between Max and I in that moment and he was unable to speak until I let him.

"Max can't talk right now." In that moment, I decided it would be better if I told him. "I have never spoken until now, because I had not intended to stay. I thought if I had never gotten into the habit of speaking that no one would ask me to. And no one did. I was preparing to find a way to leave until I noticed your health was deteriorating. I wasn't sure at first, so I double-checked. Big Brain, over there, just confirmed it."

MODOC turned toward the child, jumped up onto the deck chair and looked him in his eyes. His mechanical voice, while soft, still seemed to be booming in the boy's ears when he said, "You're dying, Justin."

'Metal Organism Designed only for Cuddling' © Thaddeus Howze 2010. All Rights Reserved
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New Release of Mocha Memoirs Press's PROGRAM COMPLETED by Miriam Ruff

Posted by Nicole Givens Kurtz on January 9, 2011 at 1:00pm

Mocha Memoirs Press is proud to announce the publication of our first science fiction title, PROGRAM COMPLETED.

Our Espresso Shots line are short, intense genre short stories. Our first Espresso Shot is Miriam Ruff's Program ompleted.

If you like thought-provoking science fiction that lingers with you long after you're done reading, try this title today! 

Title: Program Completed

Author: Miriam Ruff

Publisher: Mocha Memoirs Press, LLC

Genre: Science Fiction

Release Date: January 7, 2011

ISBN: 978-0-9831934-3-2     

Purchase link: http://www.lulu.com/product/ebook/program-completed/14449638

Price: $2.25

 

Blurb: Stationed on the remote Relay 4 asteroid communications station, Devon Fragoza faces a life and death struggle as a collision with a supply ship destroys his life support system. He has only one and a half hours to work with the computer, an artificial intelligence and Fragoza’s closest friend, to find a way to restore the system while at the same time facing the inevitability of his own mortality.

 

Excerpt

“Warning: Collision alert. Impact in 60 seconds. All interior doors will be sealed automatically in 15 seconds.” Another alarm, this one within the station, blared stridently as Fragoza checked the readouts on his board.

“Confirmed,” he acknowledged then spoke into the comm system. “Relay 4 to Endeavor. Relay 4 to Endeavor, do you read?” After a pause he practically yelled, “Endeavor, what the hell’s going on up there? You’re on a collision course with my station; take evasive action!”

The interior doors to the control deck hissed shut, leaving behind a mechanical clang as they latched into place. “Interior doors are now sealed,” the computer’s voice intoned. “Projections show impact area to be within 100 meters of the pressure dome. Station personnel are advised to take precautionary measures. Impact in 35 seconds.”

Fragoza ignored the computer’s report and continued trying to raise the Endeavor. “Waters! Damnit, man, do something!” he shouted, feeling helpless at his inability to change the situation.

                “Endeavor has just launched one escape pod,” the computer informed him. “The ship is still on a collision course. Impact now in 20 seconds . . . 15 seconds . . . 10 seconds . . .”

Fragoza never stopped trying to raise the ship, but he was savvy enough not to ignore the computer’s call for safety. Fingers still flying over his console, he hastily buckled his impact restraints into place. “Bulkheads show secure. Remotes and scanners on automatic.”

“Explosion detected aboard Endeavor in the main engine module,” the computer informed him. “Altitude 120 meters, 70 meters downran—”

Like Waters, the computer never had a chance to complete its sentence. Over the speakers came the roaring thunder of an explosion, and the station rocked as large sections of the dome absorbed the heavy blows of flying shrapnel. The lights flickered, the consoles started shutting down, and most of the nearby machinery came to an abrupt stop.

 

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In Like Flynn tonight 9:30 CST!! AFTER 10 YEARS OF ENGAGEMENT - NOW YOU TELL ME YOU'RE GAY?!

Posted by Penelope on January 8, 2011 at 6:12pm


Listen to In Like Flynn on internet talk radio

Join Penelope & Otto as they discuss the incredible case of Kiri Blakeley, Forbes journalist who after 10 years of engagement was infomed by her fiance' that he was gay. How do you manage to trust anyone for the rest of your life when you find out that the person closest to you has lied to your face everyday for the past ten years? Call in and sound off at 718/508-9683 or join us in the chat room at 9:30pm CST on the 12/11/10 In Like Flynn show!



We look forward to hearing your voice!

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pattern recog

Posted by Arnold L. Johnson on January 8, 2011 at 10:46am
I have said that a city or society is a repository of information, knowledge, technology, it is held corporately. When you are educated you learn the language and nuance to access that knowledge. That education is a kind of pattern recognition training, so that when you look through the knowledge repository you can see how things fit together. In other words you recognize the patterns that make information useful and applicable.Some person's makeup allow them to be very broad and others allow them to be very focused. There is specific training and general training. What ever level your makeup, circumstance, opportunities afford you, that is the level of access you have. There is another dimension. Though you may only find certain info immediately useful, the mind is always looking to recognize patterns in all the information it peruses. This is why an auto mechanic can have an epiphany about cancer research. Is he a doctor no, but read some articles, watched some PBS specials, lived with a cancer patient, heard cancer survivor talk, doctor chat. His mind put the patterns together.Sometimes societies engage in title taking. It is a way to raise ones status by endorsing the patterns and realizations as seen by a focus group. Say doctors or lawyers. We call this accepted knowledge. What is accepted as fact or law becomes the standard for that society. If you are well versed in understanding the standard you receive a paper which says so, thus afforded a rank of professional privilege or authority. This is OK especially when looking for integrity and reputable people to handle your affairs or represent you.Then you also get a stasis in knowledge like when the whole focus community endorses something according to their understanding. That is the truth, the fact, the nature of what it is, there is no more to know!! The problem is the pattern recognition brain merges two patterns previously kept separate by their respective focus communities. Someone recognizes a new pattern, it causes an uproar in the separate focus groups. It changes the considerations of the two previously separate focus communities. Great resistance, outrage, I'll bet my credentials that is not true, my reputation is at stake, I can't endorse what I didn't learn. It's not new knowledge, it's new patterns. And seeing new patterns in old knowledge especially is powerful and life changing.
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MODOC - Part 4 - We don't need no stinking cat!

Posted by Thaddeus on January 6, 2011 at 10:00pm
Metal Organism Designed Only for Cuddling - Part 4

"Good evening, Mistress." I open the door for the lady as she approaches our car park outside the building complex. I am aware of her trike and passenger though the traffic network and estimated her arrival within two point six seconds. The security scanners sweep the doorway before her arrival and the active denial pulses scare away any scavengers that might be hiding out there. The microwaves make them think they are on fire. The doorway is cleared in seconds.

"Good evening, Max. Could you start a bath for me. I have had a long day and I wanted to give Justin his new pet personally, otherwise I would have let you ship her to me."

"Very good, Mistress. I will have your bath ready when you arrive. Your usual temperature?"

"That would be perfect." Her voice seemed a bit worn but she did not have the characteristic fatigue I had come to know as her "rough day at work" sound.
I started the auto-routines that started the lady's bath, made her evening cup of klava with a shot of neo-brandy and prepared for her the standard suite of news service feeds and downloaded her case files from the office service-frame in case she wanted to work on them.

I am sorry, I did not introduce myself earlier. I am Max. I am the major domo, security service, personal servant and technological interface for the Church of the Theocrat of New York City, a subsidiary of Roman Catholic Industries in the Tri-State Area.

I provide my Master and Mistress with any and all technological support for their occupations as service providers to the Theocrat's latest endeavor, Project POOR. Designed to offer succor to the millions of impoverished locals, the Theocrat was surely trying to become the next regional Pontiff. The locals indigents such as those I was forced to actively deny earlier are the primary recipients of Project POOR's financial and social programs.

As a mere heuristically enhanced intelligence, I am not graced with the intellect of a true human mind, but I find many of the problems that our agency is supposed to relieve are the same ones caused by our primary corporations who pay for the services we provide.

I have been directed by Master Pennyworth to never mention this to anyone outside of our household. He indicated it would be considered "heresy" and I would be subsequently erased and replaced with a better-behaved HEI. The Master and I have had many discussions regarding the state of poverty in what remains of New York and we both agree it is likely not to improve as long as the Theocrat and the other religious organizations remain in power. There are also corporate agencies who are in conflict or collusion depending on the service who also work to keep people poor and disenfranchised but it is not my job to help them. My job is to ensure that this family unit is able to serve the community to the best of their abilities.

As the mistress moved through the house she was dropping her briefcase, and removing her clothing at the door. Dropping it into the incinerator, she placed a newly extruded robe on and moved into the kitchen. "Is Justin home yet?" 

"No, Mistress, he had a late assignment and would be delayed at least one hour."

Grabbing her klava, she stopped to sip it, slowly enjoying the phytochemicals as they spread through her body, replenishing her augmented nervous system with vital chemical receptors. Renewed she moved toward the back of the house into the bathroom. "Max, please hold my calls and direct my news feeds to the bathroom. I will take them there and retire for a bath. Let me know when he gets in."

"Yes, Mistress. Should I release the cat yet?"

"Uh, not yet. I want it to be a surprise."

The young Master is my primary concern. He attends a rotating school schedule in this complex headed by other members of the Community Social Circle and must take his leave of the home every day. While I am able to be with him inside of his visored interface, I can never leave this place, which brings me to my bone of contention, as it were, this new cat.

Before you think harshly of me for this truth, I must admit, I did let the previous cat escape the premises. I thought it best for the child if it escaped and died away from the house. Why, you ask? The cat was a foundling Justin brought home a few months ago. The city used to have very many of them in decades past. In the recent years when the newest rust plagues swept through the food plains of the west, food sources were devastated. Cats and dogs went from being pets to being food.

Breeders illegally raised them and sold them on the grey market.

Eventually the Proctors, managers of city services, found out and eliminated this trade. Then starving people resorted to what was considered the ultimate taboo; cannibalism. It was slow at first, but soon when the RPs, the Religious Police, were unable to suppress the rising tide of human consumption, the Corporate Military was dispatched and New York fell under martial law.

Once the CM had done their work, people who rebelled, caused a scene, protested violently disappeared. New food stores were delivered to hotspots all over the city and Humo-x became the food of the poor. It was given away freely to anyone who claimed to be hungry. No one was sure where Humo-X was made and no one asked. Curiously, shipments seemed to coincide with local rebellions within a few days. 

I tell you this so you understand, the cat was a danger to the young Master for two reasons. If someone knew he had a cat, they might be willing to attempt to harm him for it, or attempt to steal it for breeding. The second reason was the animal was diseased and with very limited animal veterinary skill remaining in the city, it was unlikely to be able to be cured. Once I had determined this, I knew the animal would need to be destroyed and I -- arranged -- for it to be able to escape.

I did not account for his emotional attachment to the vile beast which while it got sicker, threw up all over the house with its disgusting fluids, and undesirable solid wastes. It was for the best. I did not know the Mistress or the Master would be able to get a robotic pet. Even as well paid as they are, relatively speaking, they are still far too poor to be able to afford what is considered to be an affectation of the very rich.

When I discovered who paid for the animal, and that I was not authorized to inform them of who that was, the Master became very upset. He suspected but could not prove what I later found out to be true. Proctor Grimaldi purchased the pet and my master could not refuse a gift from the Proctor. His anguish was pronounced and his neo-brandy consumption was considerable.

This cat had much to answer for and no one can convince me that he is worth the suffering the Master experienced when he learned the news. Before the news of the cat was mentioned, this family was happy and reasonably well adjusted for people living after a devastating nuclear world war, with rampant cannibalism, and the machinations of an oppressive government.

Now we have a cat we don't need, we don't want, and since the beast is using a separate data structure, he is completely outside of my control. This makes me believe the Proctor put him here to spy on the Master. For the sake of my family, this cat must be --removed. The only question is how?

The front door opens and Master Justin comes in barely using his cane. "Hello Max, everything in sync?"

"Yes, young Master, syncing nicely." That's an idea, sinking. I remember something from the Oldernet saying cats were poor swimmers. I wonder if metal cats were any better?

We'll find out.


'Metal Organism Designed only for Cuddling' © Thaddeus Howze 2010. All Rights Reserved
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MODOC - Part 3 - Video Visions

Posted by Thaddeus on January 4, 2011 at 10:00pm

Metal Organism Designed Only for Cuddling - Part 3

That Woman came to the store to pick me up. She was dressed in some religious frock that covered her nearly from the top of her head to the tops of her shoes. Unlike a cat, I actually have color vision and found it to be colors I could have happily lived without seeing, a dark tan and brown combination which clung to her narrow frame and only accentuated her lack of a steady diet.

When she picked me up she paid in Energy Credits to the Build-A-Pet and they accepted them happily. Energy was hard to come by today especially during the winter since the bulk of the city's services were powered by solar energy. I was fueled up before I left and my energy management software was upgraded right before I left to maximize my stores. I was also able to be charged using solar energy, electrical energy and even static electricity, I collected the stray ions from carpeted environments, sweaters and any place else electrical energy might linger that I might absorb. Many of my proper feline mannerisms would also have the happy byproduct of conducting electricity down my extruded fiber super-conductive fur.

While I waited for release from my Build-a-Pet pen, I was shown sample images from my new home, so that I might familiarize myself with the environment. They wanted me to maximize my time with my new boy, Justin Pennyworth. I was show a biography of his lifestyle, his health and parameters that I would be expected to monitor, graph and report on weekly. My sensor suite was sufficient to mark his health from as far as ten meters away. Ten years old, above average student, below average athlete due to a variety of minor health ailments, mild asthma, potential for seizures, whose source as yet unknown, and his visual impairment. In many ways he seemed an unremarkable lad, except for his sensor ribbon which approximated in a very primitive way some sense of sight. He suffered some sort of congenital disease as a babe and it caused him to have a neural difficulty in his visual cortex. The technology he is currently using has co-opted other parts of his brain and turned them into a pseudo-visual cortex, with very limited results.

I spent my two days watching videos of the house, the boy and his family. I came to several conclusions regarding them after watching the footage. They were only a little better off than most of the denizens of New York City. Working with the Ecclesiastical Government as social workers allowed them to maintain their modest apartment, the therapy for their son and a minor award from their Patron allowed them to buy me as part of his therapy toolset. The father, Todd Pennyworth, a man of modest physical build, who wore his church sponsored suit of brown and tan over his taunt and skinny frame with its too tight neckline, seemed an honest fellow. His face, sharp and angular had a bit of a nervous tic over one eye that was noticeable only when he was under stress or whenever a representative of the Church was around.. There was something about him that would make me suspicious, but I could not tell you what it was. The wife, Sarah Pennyworth was reputed to have come from good religious stock and as such gave Todd whatever legitimacy he enjoyed as a member of the Church. Humans might have once considered her good looking but the birth of Justin seemed to drain her of any vitality, color or energy from her. Comparing photos of her from before his birth and afterward almost made her appear to be a different woman.

No matter. I was not intending to stay long, at any rate. But I noted there might be a snag with my easy escape. It came in the form of a security system named Max. Max was the family's protection hardware provided by the Church, both as a watchdog and spy to monitor their activities. The Pennyworth's had access to classified Church hardware and would not be allowed to access just anything without proper protocols. That is where Max came in. He provided all information into and out of the household. Even this feed I was watching was encoded, connected and provided by Max and the Church. The Patron who paid for this connection was called Proctor Grimaldi. The Proctor was a distinguished gentleman of the Church, with an exemplary record of service. From what I was able to get from Max, the Proctor had considerable influence, and was responsible for a number of services in the borough of Manhattan with its population of fifteen million souls crowded on the island.

Max was a factor I did not count on and once I realized he existed, I knew I would have to bide my time, so I set about learning as much as I could, so when the moment came where I could escape, everything would be ready and there would be no turning back.

MODOC - Part 4 - We don't need no stinking cat!

'Metal Organism Designed only for Cuddling' © Thaddeus Howze 2010. All Rights Reserved

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My first blog/post ever Titled: LAMENTS OF A SLAVE. I' working on a part 2 Octavia Butler style. Like "Kindred"

Posted by Tselane Mbou on January 3, 2011 at 9:58pm



Laments of a Slave

 

I lays in this bed of straw.

Hoping for the day the ground will thaw.

 

I needs to be getting up to stokes the fire so it don’t goes out.

 

I lays in this bed

Don’t wanna think.

Pulls the torn blanket over my head

Wanting the ground to open so in I sink.

 

Mastah be coming soon.

 

Hates it when he comes in here.

Fills the room with so much gloom

Don’t like it when he comes so near.

 

Done born Mastah six babies.

Done lost three men.

 

“Animals don’t love. He said.

It’s a God forbidden sin.”

 

“Make babies to sell

Tend to the fields

Then die, go to hell

And hand by your heels”.

 

“I own you.

Freedoms not yours”.

 

“I brought you to tend my crops

And mop my floors

And have my damn supper ready by noon.

You stupid coon”.

 

Just biding my time looking for those doors

I hears will be opening soon.

 

Many a night I crys

Tears always in my eyes

Since Mastah sold my man.

 

Eyes that would make you weep

Strong arms that rocked me to sleep,

as he whispered in my ear.

“Sleep woman, knowing that I loves ya…

 even when I’m not here!”

 

His skin was Black and beautiful as the night.

Loved that man first time Mastah brought him into my sight.

 

Mastah be coming soon.

“Gawn away. I want to shout.

You nasty smelling goon.”

But I can’t.

Must wait.

Bottle my hate.

 

Gots to get up and tends the fire befores it goes out.

 

Don’t know my right age.

Ain’t that a shame?

 

Mama Moe says that what they calls me

Tain’t even my right name.

 

She told me the years says, I’m twenty and three

Am I too young to known such misery?

 

I remembers my mama.

Hair in black rings around her head.

 

I think I was nine years

When they shot her dead.

 

“Serves her right.

“Shouldn’t have tried to run.” Was all they said

 

That Mastah saw the hate in my eyes.

 

“Sell the girl

She’s no good to me now.

Sell her off

Don’t want her around.”

 

I had a new meaner Mastah the next day.

Took me straight to the shack,

stole my virginity away.

 

Biding my time waiting for those doors

I hears will be opening soon.

 

I hears him coming

I knows his walk

When he comes through that door

I will not talk

Will not say his name

To make him feel great

Must…bottle my hate

 

Just remove

His boots,

His pants

His shirt

 

All the while his hands be up my skirt.

 

Just biding my time…

 

After he done gone

I ran to Falama

Threw open her door.

Laid myself on her dirt floor.

 

"O, Sista of Beams, Mother of Light.

Help me grow wings so's I'd can take flight."

 

"Do you know what you ask, she said.

Once done cannot take back

Think about the things you’ll lack."

 

I don’t care I need to fly

I want to keep the child I have inside

And Mastah will surly sell it.

 

"Don’t you think I cried enuf?

Don’t you think I’ve stuffed enuf straw in my mouth

Evera time Mastah leaves my cabin to hush my pain?

 

Let me tell you a yumlaga (story) about a young man named Zita

Falama said

As she stroked my crying head          

 

Now he was a spoiled one

Thirteen summers at the time of this yumlaga.

Pride of his motha and woe of his fatha

 

“You coddle him to much.” He say.

“He must become a man.  He’ll be gone someday.”

 

His motha would just shake her head

Click her tongue

And listen to all he said

Zita was her only son.

 

Now Zita was in his own little world.

Fights with the other boys.

And taunted one little girl.

 

As they grew older, he taunted her more

His taunts were of love

But he didn’t know how to open that door

 

Lasata knew of this

Because from birth she was his

But her fatha promised another

No one else shall be her lover.

 

She came to me and she said one day.

“If I can’t be Zita’s

I want to fly away.”

 

Fix it my Sista of Beams, Motha of Light

Gives us wings, let us take flight.

 

She was told to listen close and listen well.

Do as I say or else you fail.

 

She was given instructions as to what she must do.

 

Out of my hut she flew.

 

Down to the forest for the feathers

 

Back to the skinning hut for the leather.

 

Up to the mountain for the flower.

 

"Hurry, hurry", She kept telling herself for nears the hour.

 

She told Zita to meet her under the old weeping tree.

 

From that point they will flee.

 

Just as the sun started to sleep, Zita came

To where Lasata had the fire glowing

Anticipation overflowing.

 

They look at each other

needing love and trust.

 

Hurry! Hurry!  It’s almost dusk.

 

She said what she was told to say

Into the fire went her mystic findings

Packed in red clay

 

She felt a prickling, a tingling in her arms

A look at Zita quieted all her alarms.

 

She felt herself lifted as her body shifted

To fit what she was to become.

 

But, Zita just stood there looking o’ so dumb.

 

Then as she shifted for the last time.

 

She remembered a part of the magical rhyme

She forgot to say…

 

“From morning to night, dusk to dawn, send all bad thought away.

At the light of morning a new beginning

On four wings of love

Never carelessly spinning.”

 

Zita never married

The people in the village always wondered

Why but never questioned

Why he carried

This black bird

which showed the day

Lasata was no longer heard.

 

Now listen to me and listen well, she said

Unless all you do will fail.

 

I took it all into my ignorant head

I took it all in without dread.

 

Now, here I am free,

Not as free as I like to be

 

Waiting for the birth of my baby.

 

I did flee that night

But not on wings

 

Just listened to the

Black bird

Who sings

 

Of freedom

Of choice

And how my son will have a voice


Sometimes I wonders if the world will eva change.

I hopes so, I hope it’s all rearranged.

The doors have somewhat opened,

Those doors will neva be shut again.

I’m a hoping

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Lift Every Voice Campaign: A Million Voices Raised Against Global Racism

Posted by Ivory SImone on January 3, 2011 at 10:00am


Fighting to end racism and discrimination against descendants of the African Diaspora through a year of global activism 


“A Call For The End of Global Apartheid" (http://www.blogher.com/ member/ivory-simone), an article written by me, was my declaration of war against the insidious evil of “anti-black” racism, a poisonous root of the legacy of slavery and a venomous expression of widespread social and cultural biases, that continues to diminish the hopes and limit the potential of descendants of the African Diaspora wherever they live in the world. 

A number of people challenged my use of the word apartheid because it was a form of racial oppression specific to South Africa and its long history of anti-black terror tactics. However, the systemic marginalization of black peoples by international governments through policies and practices that limit their access to housing, employment and education, which stigmatizes dark skinned people making them the object of derision, ridicule and hatred while subjecting them to unequal treatment under the law is a form of apartheid. That these governments marginalize, penalize and demonize black people solely because of their race is irrefutable, so what we’re actually quibbling about with regard to my use of the term “apartheid” is the severity or degree of oppression created by an individual nation’s anti-black policies. In other words, those fixated on the term seem to suggest my use of it is an “overstatement” of the problem unless I can show a foreign government’s racist policies are similar to those of the South African apartheid system. 

Firstly, apartheid in South Africa was used by a white minority to maintain power over a black majority, and, except for the African continent and parts of the Caribbean and Central America, very few foreign nations have black majority populations. Therefore, some of the most inhumane features of that system, the Group Land Act and pass laws, haven’t been duplicated elsewhere—at least not yet, which is my point. 

The reason we must speak out about this problem is to discourage and, hopefully, prevent governments from using more repressive measures against their native and/or immigrant black populations. A situation that could easily happen because, sadly, when a foreign government abuses and mistreats a black minority group living within its borders, the international community tends to adopt the attitude many communities had about domestic violence twenty years ago, “it ain’t none of our business”. 

Finally, if I had titled my article, “ A Call To End Global Jim Crow-ism”, evoking memories of the separate and unequal policies of the United States 70 years ago, would those objecting to the use of the term apartheid have been more comfortable with this historical reference? My concern is that we may become so distracted by such academic arguments, we’ll waste precious time and stray off message, which simply stated is—working together to end global racism. For this reason, I’d be happy if people choose to call this the “OneWorld/OneLove Campaign”, (because at the end of the day that’s the goal I’d like to achieve), so long as we stay on message. 

In speaking to friends and colleagues about my desire to move beyond merely discussing the problem to combating it, I heard time and again, global apartheid or anti-black racism is a complex issue; too complex to lend itself to simple solutions (an assumption this campaign will challenge). 

For instance, even the origin of anti-black beliefs varies among nations. Logically speaking, those nations that engaged in the African slave trade should be at the top of the list of perpetuators of anti-black racism. Yet, surprisingly or not, these nations have made the most progress in redressing the social ills heaped on the backs of descendants of the Diaspora. Whereas many societies/governments that never participated in the African slave trade have the most virulent anti-black belief systems. I’ve stated before and will do so again, “I’m curious about why people from so many world cultures have learned to hate blackness.” 

Doubtlessly, the source(s) of these negative views of black people come from a number of places, including, to name a few, the world media, or as a result of colonization by nations with deeply ingrained anti-black beliefs or as a consequence of native people groups using skin color to reify class/clan/ distinctions. 

Not only must we contend with black/white racism, there’s also the hybrid “dark skin vs. light skin” intra-group racism to combat. For example, in countries like the Dominican Republic, a Caribbean nation with a well documented color divide, anti-black policies are based on degrees of darkness. Light-skinned people of color actively discriminate against and oppress their darker skinned countrymen. 

Although the scope and complexity of this problem boggles the mind, I’m a firm believer in the “power of one”. One person committed to positive change can become a catalyst for “that change” in his/her neighborhood; a transformed neighborhood can become a change agent for a entire city; and, a transformed city can create positive change in an entire state or province, and so on and so forth. In order to get the message out to the world, I’m relying on the incredible power of social networking. It is an amazing vehicle for connecting people to causes and to each other. 

In short, I believe the success of this campaign will depend on its effective use of the social networking apparatus to spread its message of “ending global racism”, and its ability to make a connection with people to inspire them to do two things: 

1. Join the effort 

If you’re on facebook become a member of the “A Million Voices Against Global Racism” Group. Here’s the link http://www.facebook.com/home.php?sk=group_130975403632717 

2. Commit to taking action 

The United Nations has declared 2011 The International Year of People of African Descent. Follow this link to read the resolution: 
http://www.un.org/observances/years.shtml 
In observance of this special year devoted to People of African Descent, I’m asking people of conscience to commit to doing at least one activity during 2011 to raise awareness about the problem of global anti-black racism and/or one activity designed to combat it. 

Another important part of the campaign is sharing our ideas, stories, opinions, comments and thoughts about this difficult and painful subject with each other and the world; as well as documenting our individual and/or group activities designed to raise awareness about the problem or to combat it. To facilitate this community connection, I’ve created a facebook page entitled, “The Lift Every Voice Campaign Against Global Racism”. Here’s the link to the page: 
http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Lift-Every-Voice-Campaign-Against-Global-Racism/186798531332150?ref=sgm 

One of the first “anti-black racism” awareness activities I propose doing is a Kabuki inspired “Flashmob” Protest against the glorification of “whiteness” and the vilification of “blackness” that is pervasive in Asian countries. More details about this event will be posted on “The Life Every Voice Campaign Against Global Racism” page—so visit the site frequently for updates. 

I readily admit I don’t have answers on how to solve this problem but I’m convinced working together as a community of people determined to end this global sickness, we’ll find solutions. 


Ivory Simone is an author and poet based in Bangkok, Thailand. She has published two books through lulu.com: “Havasu Means Blue Water” (a literary fiction) and “The Rainy Season, The Poems, Prose and Writings of Ivory Simone”. For more information about Ms. Simone’s books, visit her author’s page at: http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/ivorysimone . 

You can also hear her bi-monthly podcasts about expat lifestyles on the BlogTalkRadio show “Take A Bite Out The Big Mango” at:  http://www.blogtalkradio.com/ivorysimone 

 

 

 

 

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Aspen Waifs: Part 3

Posted by Ellis Grace Passerine on January 2, 2011 at 8:30pm

If anyone were to ask me "What do you do?" I'd have to hesitate and say some non word interjection. I do a lot of different things. Sometimes I'm training sometimes I'm getting train, all the time I'm doing something like running a diagnostic test or delivering new parts. Sometimes I'm sending messages to some of the fixer uppers. And then there are the times I'm cleaning up someone's mess, be it my superior or someone throwing a little get together.

Today I'm doing diagnostic in one of the crawls. I think I use to be a bit claustrophobic. Not anymore. Crawls are the reason that I'm not as uncomfortable in my room as I should be. They are narrow crawl spaces that run between halls and rooms and between different floors. Most control panels are operated through central hubs in these crawl spaces. It's big enough for two averaged size people to crawl side by side, and high enough that anyone of average height to below average height can sit up straight in one. I'm on the small side so it's no problem for me. Though, there are places you can stand up.

I hear a bang. That must be Flip. I turn around, and there he is rubbing his head making the most idiotic face. "What are you doing in here?" They don't make taller people like Flip work the Crawl. And Flip is very tall.

"I just finished what I was doing and thought I'd stop by before heading back to the master." Flip gives me the thumbs up. "Are you coming to see Langley and Winters later?"

I nod, "You bet." I'm smiling a little because he's so obviously uncomfortable in here. And there is hardly any space for him to turn around.

Flip wasn't exactly like Langley, Winters and myself. He'd been forced to be here, but the circumstances were very different. As far as I could tell, he was a Cushy who liked slumming it (not in a bad way though). He'd been a cadet in military school who found himself in a good deal of trouble that even his father couldn't get him out of. This was his punishment. Some punishment. I never understood why Cushies always messed up their lives. Still I never castigated him, mostly because, I get the feeling that he's here because of something political. And even though if he had some lofty opinions, mostly he was a good person. He didn't look down on us either.

One thing I also like about Flip is his respect for the silence. Most other people would be chatting away right now, but he's sitting over there being quiet. He understands that silent thing about me. I do way better when I don't have to talk with people. Earlier today is a fine example.

When I first met Flip, we were sent together to do luggage delivery and room systems checks. We spent four whole days together working and breaking at the same time; I hadn't said a word to him, just gave him a nod everyday. After that we were split up, but we were still working the same hours. And he continued to eat with me. Then we started to talk, but by then, I kind of already knew him. Actions can speak a whole lot louder than words.

"Done!" I smile at Flip. He looks up from fiddling with his watch. "We can go get another assignment complete it and then go visit Langley and Winters or go visit Langley and Winters then get another assignment."

"I say assignment first." Flip says. "I'd rather end the day with something I want to do. Then we can go eat because I'm hungry."

"Stupid." I say. "You should have eaten breakfast." He never eats breakfast.

"I usually take lunch. But since we've been given the same shift again I can eat with you."

"I know." Flip eats one meal a day. I do two meals a day and sometimes I'm still hungry. I don't know how he does it. I'm pretty sure that, unlike me, he grew up with a surplus of food. I'm use to one meal a day, but I never liked it.

When we exited the Crawl the halls were pretty empty.  It's so weird; for a ship that's pretty full of people, there never seems to be anyone around. And you know what else is really sad? I have no clue what we're doing out here. They didn't care to much to enlighten me when they told me this is where I'd be placed. I get the feeling this might be a one way trip. Not that I really care because I don't have a future on Earth or anything to come back to. Maybe I do have a bit of space crazy; apathy is a symptom.  And normal me would care.  I'm not going to report it since I'm pretty sure I'm not going to snap and hurt anyone.

The operation office is located in the engine hub. In the center are the ships three engines; you can see them through the glass window, but you have to have clearance to get in there. It's a hexagonal room with several different terminals against the walls. Each engine is a glowing violet cluster of spheres, reminding me of balloons. They look like they just float there like the corners of a triangle. The one at the top is never glowing--I think they rotate use, but I could be wrong about that since I know nothing about them.

I stop staring out the window and look around the operations office.  It's actually pretty big; it takes up one half of the engine hub. Most of the space are rooms filled with supplies. They have a duty roster for the shifts of our superiors in the front room along with two clerks who stamp you for duties complete and duties to be completed. Presently there are no clerks so we head to one of the two back offices where our boss is.

Andrew Ullerman is sitting at his desk reading over some stuff. He looks up immediately; his amber colored eyes examine us. He's the more pleasant of our bosses. His second in command, Davis Hardwick is a real bastard. Ullerman is kind of strict, but at least he doesn't make things impossible. Hardwick once wrote me up for not knowing how to do something I was never trained to do. It helps, I think, that Ullerman has an adopted son so he knows where most of us are coming from.  There's also Jordan Decker but he's never around.

I hand him over my tube, it's a little cylindrical devices that synchs to different systems in the ship. You need a specific one to do specific functions. Every task you do that requires any sort of computer access requires a tube. It's synch to your watch so that the computer knows it's you using it.  Then you have to slide it into this little slot like a key on any control panel.  Wordlessly, he hands me another tube. I take it and go.

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the year in my rear view

Posted by Geoff Thorne on January 2, 2011 at 1:30pm

So it's the second day of the reshuffled deck and I need to do this or I won't get to it.

The last eighteen months have been crazy. Awesome but crazy.


Much of my conversation here has been about the roller coaster and what it takes to survive it. I came up with equations, some zippy one-liners and some, I hope,

fun anecdotes about all that, all in aid of saying, "This is doable. It's wicked hard work but it's doable."


That paparazzi-chasing gadabout Marcus Aureliuspopped this one off a little while back and I took it to heart. "Because a thing seems difficult for you, do not think it impossible for anyone to accomplish."


He's a quippy little bugger, old Marcus is, but that one is true.


So. The last eighteen months.

To compress a really long story into something bite-sized, I made it a policy over the last few years to say, "yes" to any paying gig that involved me writing, polishing or

consulting on the writing of fiction of any sort. I met, worked with and for a lot of people in that time and wrote a stack of stuff I'd never have written otherwise.


So one of those former employers came to me with a proposal - "Co-write something with me and I guarantee the right people will see it." So I did. So she did and we

ended up staff writers on this:


It was an interesting experience in the Proverbial Chinese way. I wrote a lot. I learned a lot. I met some great people. My partner (yes, we were partners for the duration) and I were not asked to return. They say this means nothing in the big scheme of professional TV writing but to me it felt like being fired (because that's what it was) and it was the first time in over 20 years of professional employment that I'd been fired.



Well. Wait. No. Right out of college I worked in a sort of cold-calling sweatshop managed by a former classmate who fired me for being ten minutes late. Once. He was a prick but ten minutes is ten minutes, I guess. Live and learn.



Anyway. I was rescued from professional oblivion (the sort of oblivion that exists only after you've been fired from something you've worked years to attain. can you say

"bleak?") by the good folks at this place:


I loved this show and had tried for two seasons to get a seat at that table. They always liked me, they said, but the money was never there. This year, in the proverbial nick of time, not only was the money there but there was an empty chair.

I packed up my kit at Law and Order on a Friday. That Monday I was at Leverage.

The next twenty weeks were, by far, the most fun and the most rewarding of my professional life due ENTIRELY to the awesome crew of people I was lucky enough to work with there. They bust their asses to make that show and they manage to do it with a smile (usually) and without becoming [expletive-deleted]'s. To say I loved this time is to understate the feeling by parsecs.

I helped with all the episodes (everyone does; that's how it works) and I got to write this:

and co-write this:

Fun, baby. I mean If-You-Seek-ing FUN.

And scary. Flying solo is always scary, no matter how many times you do it.

I have to stress, too, that this was, none of it, due to lottery wins or luck. I don't believe in luck. I don't believe in thanking the spirit world or providence or any of that for the wins I get in life or blaming my many losses on the bad will of evil ghosts.

I believe in hard work. I believe in taking the punch and getting off the mat as fast as you can. This blog has, when it has talked about anything serious, stressed that one view over and over.

Another thing that happened this year– and, by "happened," I mean "something else I worked hard to make real."– was this:

My friend, Todd Harris, and I did this comic, all 96 pages, in tiny slivers of our "spare time" over about three and a half months. Just the two of us. Everything. And then we would go to our day jobs and write and draw there. In addition to the extremely positive response from fans and critics (EXTREMELY positive) this comic book was instrumental in getting the attention of the creators/producers of this:


I'm immature. Most people who know me know this. I watch shows like this, not because I'd like to write them ( I would and that's a part of it) but because I LIKE them. I enjoy the adventures and the intrigues and, as this has been the case for over 30 years now, I don't think it's going away. Immature. Me.

So I'm at Geek Mecca (aka the San Diego Comic-Con) last year and I get called out on the floor by one of said producers.

"Hey, Geoff! I read Prodigal! Really nice work, man!" (paraphrase, of course. they don't talk like that. I do.) "Would you like to write an episode of our show?"

I said, "Hell yes," of course. And I got to do it. I got to write two. More on that later.

The other thing, the newest and maybe strangest, is this:

I read this : John August's Blog

I was inspired by that to create this: The Winterman Project

Things are going well. More on that later too.

So that was the year. 18 months. Sounds great, right. And it is. It really is. But please, please, PLEASE, remember the point of all this.

This is, none of it, the result of Luck, or Fate, or Chance or Magic or Prayer. No divine hand reached down and tapped my shoulder. No mystical voice spoke secret words in my ear. And, during times of adversity, there is no curse on my back, no dark mark in the sky, no blot on my forehead.

Life is flux. Life is change. Life is work. And Life is buckets and buckets, stacks and stacks of failures.

Strive. Fail. Fall. Rise. Strive. Fail. Fall. Repeat.

No fate but the one we make.
But, getting back to Marcus Aurellius...

Maybe you think it's pretentious to mention him at all. Fair enough. Another quippy guy, a bit younger, a bit more recently said something similar to the first one. He goes by the name of Mamet:

Yeah. You're God Damn right.

Life is short. Kill that [expletive deleted]ing bear.

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Happy New Year!

Posted by Nicole Givens Kurtz on January 1, 2011 at 2:04pm

Happy New Year from Mocha Memoirs Press and myself, Nicole Givens Kurtz! I'm excited to begin 2011. I've happy to be connected to such fantastic writers, professionals, and great editors.

There's so much talent out there. I'm ready to meet my goals. Mocha Memoirs has some thought-provoking science fiction stories scheduled for release this month. Beginning January 7th, Miriam Ruff's PROGRAM COMPLETED, will be available. This espresso shot of serious science fiction will keep you awake long after the story's over. Then on January 14th, Rie Sheridan Rose's dark dystopian story, DRINK MY SOUL, PLEASE explores war and its after effects.

 

Stop on over and join us at MMP. I invite you to submit also. The best way to know what we're looking for is to buy our stories and see what we like.

 

I wish you much success in this dynamic new year!

 

NGK

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