The Game

The Game – Chapter 13 [Work in Progress.]

November 8, 2009 at 4:31 am | In Uncategorized | Leave a Comment
Tags: bar, Friday, girl band, music, narcotic template renaturing, punter, retro, smoking

By the time Fabian returned from the toilet, bearing evidence of a vigorous wash, the ice bucket had arrived. He took his seat uncertainly.

‘My shout,’ announced Jessica, handing him a glass of bubbles. ‘To your beautiful gesture: the highlight, for me anyway, of Phase Three of the MTD project.’

They clinked glasses. Fabian’s face registered surprise then pleasure at the quality of the wine. He regarded his flute in mild amazement. ‘This is good stuff, boss.’

‘Damn right it is. And to earn a second glass, all you need do is roll me another real cigarette… if you’re up to it, I mean.’

Fabian grinned. ‘I have calmed down considerably, boss. I think I can manage it.’

The two young people, acclimatising to the rare atmosphere of their new level of interaction, proceeded to enjoy themselves immensely. Soon the bottle sat upended in the ice bucket. The intuitive bartender offered a second. Jessica happily ordered it opened. They smoked and talked about work, hobbies, travel, dreams. The venue rang to their animated conversation. Neighbouring tables filled.

Halfway through the second bottle, the lights dimmed. Jessica broke off in mid-sentence to look around the room. ‘Hell! Look at all these people!’

The venue was indeed full of customers. The booths were taken and the bar was lined with people keen to attract the attention of the bartender or his assistants who had just come on duty. Clusters of spectators congregated near the stage.

The couch prevented a clear view while seated, so Jessica stood and leaned toward the lights being tested from the mixing desk. The extension of her torso flattened her blouse against her breasts and stomach. Fabian was magnetised by their outline. He glanced up to see whether he had been caught looking; Jessica was still intent on her observation. He let his gaze drop over her slim waist and beautifully tailored skirt. Her hips were generous, unlike the ‘boy’ look currently so popular. Jessica sank one knee into the couch. The other extended straight out behind her. It was wonderfully proportioned. With a start, Fabian detected the faint outline of a suspender strap.

‘Have they got a band here?’ asked Jessica loudly, looking straight down at him.

Fabian leapt like a startled deer and clumsily converted the movement into a sort of scramble onto the couch next to her. Kneeling, he pressed his erection into the worn leather, his face crimson. ‘I.. I.. Yes, they do, they… do have.. a… band here.’

‘What are they called?’

Fabian salvaged a shred of composure and stared intently ahead. ‘Tribal. They’re called Tribal. They’re an all-girl band.’

‘Really?’ Jessica turned to him, eyes shining. ‘I’ve never seen an all-girl band. Come to think of it, I’ve barely seen any bands at all. What are they like?’

Fabian retrieved their drinks from the table. He handed Jessica her glass. ‘I think they’re fantastic. They have so much power. Not violent, macho, bullshit power, though. It’s different. It’s like they tap into their hearts and wombs and unleash a torrent of female energy. They become the source and the conduit. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

‘Like Kali?’ suggested Jessica.

‘Who?’

‘Kali, you know, Goddess of destruction. She’s very powerful.’

‘I guess so. Where did you hear about her?’

‘I had to do humanities subjects during my degree, to stop me becoming a robot.’

‘It did the trick.’

‘You reckon? You don’t think I’ve been dried out by academia? It’s all I’ve known, really. I never got out much when I was younger.’

‘Boss.. ‘

‘Don’t call me that,’ said Jessica suddenly.

Fabian’s eyes widened with surprise. He started again. ‘Jessica, you are as far from being dried out as a bottle of champagne. You are as lively, exciting and intoxicating as that which we are drinking now. You…’

‘That’s enough,’ Jessica interrupted, ‘I’ve got the idea.’ Then she laid her hand lightly on his arm. ‘Oh Fabian, I’m sorry. You must understand I’m not at all used to personal praise. I’ve always been judged on my performance, never my personality.’

‘OK,’ said Fabian quietly, staring at the growing crowd in front of the stage. It looked like the show was about to begin.

Jessica scolded herself for her outburst. It was no use apologising again. She had to distract him. ‘Fabian?’ He looked at her with uncertainty. ‘Can we go down the front? To watch the band?’

‘Sure,’ said Fabian quietly. He waited outside the booth for her to exit. She emptied the bottle into his flute. Taking her own glass in one hand, she offered the other to him. He took it in wonderment. The connection made, she gave his hand a brief squeeze and took off with him in tow. Fabian drained his glass and smiled stupidly at the faces sweeping past him like scenery outside a country train.

Before they reached the stage, the band came on to whoops and whistles from the crowd. Pushing through a forest of bodies, Jessica could see only the wild hairstyles of the four performers. She heard instruments being taken up and tested before a sultry, amplified voice filled the smoky space.

‘HOW ARE YA?!’ One of the hairstyles shook in sympathy with the delivery. The audience cheered loudly. It was Friday night, they were pissed – how did she think they were?

‘NICE TA SEE YA!!’ commented the voice, full of confidence and pleasure. The crowd indicated vociferously that it shared her sentiment. Jessica moved closer the stage, anxious to witness the opening song. Fabian trailed happily in her wake. The audience fell silent, waiting for the next pearl of speech.

‘TODAY,’ continued the voice, in a childlike manner. A feeling of intense excitement broke out immediately. This seemed to be the start of a ceremony between band and audience.

‘IS,’ Jessica made it to the stage and looked around. Fiercely expectant tension was everywhere. She pulled Fabian up next to her. He trod on the foot of a groupie, who hissed and made a sign of aversion.

‘FRIDAAAAAAY!!!!!’ screamed the singer, along with almost everyone in the Retro Bar. Immediately, the band launched itself into deafening orbit, the members fusing into a glowing wall of sound.

The drums and bass set up a frenzied, driving rhythm, in keeping with the band’s name. The crowd pulsed and throbbed in response, worshipping the foundation of the song as it tapped into race memories. The beat was irresistible and intoxicating; even the bartender and suited businesspeople were caught up in the powerful cacophony. They tapped their glasses and swayed involuntarily, sweetly trapped in the seamless groove.

The rhythm section flailed the room until all were mesmerised. At the perfect moment, the lead guitarist leapt into the fray and sliced the song open with a screaming razor of a note. As the steaming guts of the music spilled onto the stage, she tore up a crystal staircase of scales, piercing the walls with flying shards from her guitar centrifuge. The three musicians, lashed together by months of practice, hurtled their creation to a crescendo.

The lead singer gathered up her ancient ball dress and readied herself. On cue, she leapt onto the bullet train of sound and with a gesture transformed herself into a banshee. Staring wildly above the heads of her worshippers, she fed her lines into the mad stream of music.

‘Just last night I had a bust up with my girl

She threw down my ring with the diamond and the pearl

And on her way out she let the screen door slam

And it broke three fingers on my God-damn left hand!’

The crowd joyously, raucously joined her on the chorus,

‘I… can’t go to work tomorrow!

I… can’t go to work no more!

I… just wanna cling to my pillow!

I… just wanna curl up on the floor!

It was an anthem. One of the few things which had not changed across the generations was the feeling of release people enjoyed on making it to the end of a hard week’s work. Jessica and Fabian were swept up and included. As the blond goddess hammered verse after verse, the couple pounded out the chorus with everyone else. Fabian balanced his glass precariously on the stage. Jessica followed suit. Thus unencumbered, they moved in harmony with the crowd, progressively less self conscious of their actions.

Jessica was transported with happiness. Half stoned on the tobacco, alcohol and atmosphere, she felt a sense of freedom she had never experienced before. Suspended in the close, comforting environment, she floated out of her familiar, career-driven body and became a free spirit, feeding on the music. Amid the noise and lights, she entered a peaceful space and gazed around beatifically.

The band fascinated her. No four women could have been dressed more differently than her in her sensible suit. Nor could they have chosen a profession further removed from hers. Jessica was knocked out. Compared to these beings, she knew not what it meant to be a woman. She felt like a temple girl, innocent and without guile. Part of her longed to leap into the fire pit and revel with them. The rest of her recoiled in fear at their raw, naked power. As their first song reached its climax, Jessica clenched her fingers and found Fabian’s hand inside them.

Here, among the women, was a man. Around her neck was his love token. She glanced at his face. He too was immersed in the performance. She looked him over, the way he had examined her without permission in the booth. She had caught his gaze as it rested on her thigh. God, she had felt it searing into her flesh. She had simply not known how to react.

The ice beneath her feet suddenly seemed dangerously thin and she felt a dizzy rush of panic. What was she doing here, in this strange place with its bizarre decor and riotous band? Why was she not home with her mother? Jesus, she hadn’t even called her; Lee would be worried sick. Abruptly, she dropped Fabian’s hand, like a piece of corrupted food.

He turned to her, smiling. In her confusion, Jessica thought she saw him snarl. Her eyes widened in fear and she backed away from him, straight into the spectator behind her. She whirled around in fright. The crowd moved forward malevolently, suffocating her. With a whimper she took off, fighting her way through flesh and clothing, desperate to escape the dark room and its strange denizens.

Fabian pushed after her anxiously. She snatched a glance over her shoulder and broke through the last layer of strangers. Her handbag bounced wildly off her back as she reached the entrance door. It opened precipitously to admit a loud, laughing group of customers and caught her cleanly in the temple. She slid to the floor, unconscious. Fabian skidded to a halt beside her and dropped to his knees in bewilderment. He clutched her hand to his chest and repeated her name, begging her to open her eyes. The bartender abandoned his post and approached with a stern look. He leant over Fabian and asked what the trouble was.

‘I don’t know!’ cried Fabian desperately. ‘She just freaked out on me!’

‘What’s she on?’

‘Nothing! You saw us, just champagne and a smoke.’

‘Does she suffer from epilepsy or diabetes?’ said a woman behind him. Fabian pivoted on one knee. The band had finished its song and a group of onlookers had assembled at the scene.

‘I don’t know!’ he exclaimed. ‘It… it’s our first date.’

The door opened again. Gerald Bouvier, with a bouncer’s sixth sense for trouble, appeared and took command. He examined the bruise on Jessica’s temple and felt her pulse. ‘Call an ambulance! Come on, help me get her out of here.’ The band began its second song; the noise was deafening. Gerald and Fabian carried Jessica’s limp body carefully onto the landing. Gerald fetched two blankets from his cubby hole and covered her against the cool of the stair well.

Minutes later, Jessica rode in an ambulance to the nearest hospital. Fabian, prevented from joining her and unable to drive, thanked Gerald and set off miserably for the station. He kept a lonely vigil in the hospital’s waiting room.

Jessica was discharged the following day. She had suffered no permanent damage. She was told to rest over the weekend to be fit for work on Monday. Nervously, Fabian visited her home that evening. Lee Khuzain met him at the door and thanked him for his concern, advising him that Jessica was asleep. He spent the rest of the weekend in abject despair, retiring early and suffering recurring nightmares involving the death by brain haemorrhage of his beloved Jessica.

**********

Jessica had experienced an emotional knockout far more severe than that delivered by the door of the Retro Bar. Most of her contemporaries had been sexually active by age fourteen. Jessica had managed to bypass a decade and a half of experimentation and learning. Fabian’s advance, and her immediate positive reaction to it, had given her psychological whiplash. An unfamiliar roller coaster had rocketed away from its platform with her barely seated. She was frightened and a little sick; she wanted to get off.

She kept Fabian at arm’s length for three weeks. Refusing to cave in to his obvious agony, she ensured their interactions at work were as few and as brief as possible. She needed space and time. She discussed the matter at length with her mother. Lee was a gifted listener with a compassionate and holistic approach to problem solving. Now sixty-eight, she had long considered it unhealthy for Jessica to have focused so completely on the MTD project and its precursor technology. Both Jessica and her father had been too headstrong and passionate to heed her warnings. Now she spoke words that should have been uttered years before and gave the advice Jessica’s heart longed to hear.

Over the next few months, Jessica allowed Fabian to return. They went on low key dates – walks, picnics, plays. Gradually, she opened up to him. The passion she had initially felt had been brought under control by fear. As time passed, a modest flow was permitted to escape. It built gradually, in harmony with her growing self confidence and familiarity with Fabian’s background and personality. After eight months, the two were firm friends. After ten, they were confidantes. On the anniversary of their abortive date at the Retro Bar, they became lovers. They both felt that they had mated for life.

**********

Neville Major received his reports with satisfaction and amusement. He had wanted Jessica to stick with the MTD pilot production line for as long as possible, but realised it would only be a matter of time before she recognised the backwater into which he had piloted her. He was amazed that her former colleagues had kept quiet about the improvements being made elsewhere on the second generation unit. A little money certainly shut a lot of mouths.

He had searched long and hard for Jessica’s perfect match. It was no accident that she had selected the guileless Fabian Varste after the interviews. They were as compatible as two people could be. Now they were fucking, and it would be some time before either began to wonder why full-scale production of the MTD was so long in coming. Unbeknown to them, Major had commissioned nine plants on four continents. MTDs were already rolling off the lines in millions.

The Game – Chapter 12

September 15, 2009 at 5:40 am | In Uncategorized | Leave a Comment
Tags: advertising, bamboo, banner in space, battered wife, climate change, CMF, combined military force, dictatorship, ETAT, genetic, global warming, grass, haiku, housing, Mylar, mysogyny, nanotechnology, ozonosphere, park, personal risk, poetry, Prozone, psychology, recycling trigger, remuneration, risk, sister, speculative fiction, spouse abuse

The next twelve months were the happiest of Otomo Komatsu’s life. His work in the public park was simple, apolitical and vigorous. He enjoyed spontaneous insights into the human condition and looked forward to holding court over his shattered family each evening.

He had removed all the flat’s interior doors. From his new chair in the lounge, he could monitor every corner of the dwelling.

Sei Komatsu had lost weight; her Poor Class clothing hung straight down, like washing on a chair. She’d found it impossible to make a home of the hovel. Forced to take her first job, she spent her days reconciling meaningless figures.

Each evening she silently prepared dinner, then took position in the lounge. For up to six hours she stared at a chip in the concrete floor while Otomo basted her with rhetoric.

Higuchi knew she’d found hell on earth. Her missing tooth and occasional bruises were constant reminders to keep her mouth shut at home. The effort for one so opinionated was enormous. Her grades had plummeted and she spent countless library hours catching up to classmates who considered her a freak for having accepted her demotion.

As if she’d had a choice. Now in society’s lowest echelon, her only chance of a bearable job was to improve her mind. Money and contacts didn’t count any more; selection was on merit alone. As the months ground past, she became tougher and more cunning, her hatred of Otomo growing ever more intense.

Mika’s bête noire was loss of privacy. When Higuchi wasn’t home, her father was. Otomo targeted rooms silently and at random. Even with her back to him, Mika could feel when he was watching — any attempt at composition ruined.

She graduated with marks substantially lower than previous years. This didn’t overly concern her, as many of her favourite poets had never finished school.

It was six weeks to her birthday. She yearned to be published and sought her father’s permission to research her future. Otomo saw no point in hindering her further; legally she was almost her own woman.

**********

Mika’s shoes clicked across the marble atrium of the ETAT information centre. The receptionist received a rare smile for his directions. As Mika entered an elevator, a blurred figure pushed past her. She glanced crossly at the intruder and gasped.

‘Higuchi! What are you doing here? You should be at school. Papa will kill you if he finds out!’

Higuchi grinned grimly past her chewing gum. ‘Got it in one, sis. He is a violent bastard isn’t he?’

‘Well, I would never say such a thing.’

‘Of course not; it’s not your style. He hasn’t touched you for ages anyway. Wanna see his latest handiwork?’ She turned and carefully lifted her top.

Mika’s hand flew to her mouth as her eyes scanned back and forth in horror. ‘Oh! Oh! Oh, Higuchi!’

‘You should’ve been there; he put on quite a show.’

‘Last night?’

‘Yeah.’

‘But… why?’

‘I told him about Ihara and me. Boy, did that get him going.’ Higuchi gingerly readjusted her top. ‘Don’t worry; everything’s about to change.’

Mika stared at the concealing garment, feeling nauseous. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘You don’t have to.’ Higuchi tapped a thick folder. ‘I just need you to agree with what’s in here. Thirty-six!’ The carriage flew skyward. Higuchi kept chewing. ‘You’ll see.’

‘But my appointment is on twenty-three.’

‘Not any more, sis. Just bear with me for a few minutes, OK?’

The thirty-sixth floor was eerily quiet. Higuchi guided Mika into a room and disappeared. A panel of strangers sat her down and questioned her closely about her home life. They already knew so much; she found herself confirming everything, apart from a few exaggerations.

All Mika could think of were her sister’s awful injuries. At length a document appeared. It seemed she could do nothing but place her hand on the screen, whereupon a radiant Higuchi reappeared, thanked her and sped back to school.

Mika stumbled home and collapsed onto her bed as the implications of what she’d agreed to sank in. Higuchi was moving out with her. In six weeks. Her dream of solitude destroyed, Mika wept steadily into her pillow until she fell asleep, missing her work shift for the first time.

Higuchi came home late and, from the safety of the threshold, broke the news to her father. True to form, Otomo shifted seamlessly from bewilderment to apoplexy and made to grab for his stick. Higuchi nimbly evaded him and fled yelling down the corridor. Otomo gave chase, bellowing like a madman.

Mika crept from her room and saw Sei, focused on the floor as if her husband were still there.

‘Mama, we mustn’t be here when Papa gets back!’ She tugged at Sei’s arm. ‘Come on! We’ll go down the back way!’

Sei seemed rooted to the couch. She stared woodenly at her wrist, as if an invisible force were clawing at it. From the stairwell came harsh male voices, a furious struggle and two distinct clicks. Higuchi’s trap snapped shut with the handcuffs of the Combined Military Force personnel she had earlier telephoned.

Otomo’s antics cemented Higuchi’s case against him and led to Mika qualifying for self-determination in advance of her birthday. The sisters moved out soon after with priority ETAT assistance.

Despite Mika’s passionate entreaties, Sei refused to leave. Upon his release, Otomo found her standing in the lounge room, clutching his stick, with an unearthly light in her eyes.

**********

As the months passed and Sei gradually responded to her court-ordered treatment, Mika’s concern yielded to the intense pleasure of living in her own space. Though smaller, everything else about their new flat was better. The walls were sunflower yellow.

Contrary to what Mika had feared, Higuchi appeared genuinely grateful for sharing her freedom. Her impatience and antagonism vanished, supplanted by behaviours Mika had never thought she’d see in her fractious sibling.

Higuchi did more than her share of the cleaning, repaired all their clothes and even bought incense for the flat with her meagre student’s allowance.

Each night they ate together before Mika’s shift. Except for The Game, which Mika refused point-blank to watch, they enjoyed many of the same programs. On the eve of Mika’s monthly weekend, they drank cheap wine and talked late.

Higuchi seemed never to tire of hearing her sister speak about herself. Mika was reticent at first, but years of paternal neglect made the attention deeply flattering. The desire to voice her ambition proved irresistible. Higuchi’s interest surprised her. Yet it was borne out by the poetry books she borrowed and the content of their subsequent dinner discussions.

Eventually, Mika gained sufficient confidence to reveal some of her writing. Putting the pages into another’s hand, she felt she knew the pride and pain of relinquishing a child to its first school.

It was Thursday. Mika stood in her bedroom, gazing through clean air at a majestic city panorama. To the left stood the restaurant in which she now worked. Beyond it, Higuchi’s school. The ETAT consultant had indeed been kind in their relocation. At Mika’s command, the window slid open and a breeze toyed with her fringe.

She dropped to her futon and took up her pad, trying once again to produce her first haiku since moving in. For once the words flowed quickly and to her satisfaction.

I lie among clouds

So close to my golden dream

God’s breath stirs my hair.

Re-reading the lines, Mika forgave Higuchi for all her scheming. It was true; everything would be alright. In any case, Higuchi would be free to follow her own path in just over a year. It would be a shame not to make the best of their remaining time together. Feeling her familiar desire to be outside, Mika changed into running gear and headed to the park.

She loved the flowers, the spongy, uneven ground and the wind-stirred eucalypt leaves. She ran hard, picturing her blood coursing cleanly through young vessels and knew she could look forward to ninety more years of life.

In orbit above her, a square kilometre of Mylar glittered with a Game logo. Mika’s striding became automatic and she frowned. Why would anyone risk death for material gain, when life in the sunlight was so precious? A bigger home, more money, a loftier career? Since none of these held any value for her, she could not answer her question.

A butterfly swept over her shoulder and Mika switched to planning a special dinner for Higuchi. Beneath her pounding feet, engineered grass clove at a uniform height — blades decomposing rapidly in the afternoon sunshine. The wind would complete the mowing once it exceeded twelve knots. After only a few gusts, the entire park would be immaculate.

**********

Higuchi clattered the plates away. ‘That was great, sis. How long’d it take?’

Mika zipped her work tunic. ‘Not long. I’ll show you how next time.’

‘No you won’t; you know I’m hopeless in the kitchen.’

Comb between her teeth, Mika pulled her hair into a ponytail.

Higuchi crossed the room. ‘Let me fix that for you.’

‘Oww!’

‘What?’

‘Bit rough, aren’t you?’

‘Didn’t think so; you’re such a waif. Hey, check it out! I’m taller than you!’

‘Nooo, that can’t be true; not already. Let me see.’

Higuchi seized Mika’s shoulder. ‘Hang on, I’m almost finished. There.’

Mika turned. Her eyes seemed level with her sister’s smaller, closer-set pair. ‘You’ve certainly grown, but you’re not taller yet. Your spiky hair gives the illusion of height.’

‘Bullshit! Come to the wall. Here, stand up straight.’

‘Higuchi, I don’t have time for this; I’ve got to go.’

‘It won’t take a second.’ Higuchi’s voice became muffled. Jars and tins crashed together. ‘Hah! This’ll do the trick.’

Mika fidgeted. ‘Look at the time! I’ll be late!’

‘Let ‘em wait.’ Higuchi put a box of breadcrumbs against the wall, then slid it down to Mika’s head. ‘Are you up straight? Come on girl, stand up!’

‘OK, OK, I’m up.’

Higuchi’s tongue moved like a slug as she tried to mark the wall with her thumbnail. The plastic would not yield and her nail abruptly flipped back on itself.

‘Jesus Christ!’

The box hit the ceiling and Higuchi hopped swearing across the room. Mika snatched her bag and made for the door.

‘Come back here, little sister; I’ll prove I’m taller.’

Mika winked from the corridor. ‘Seeing it’s so important to you, I’m happy to admit, without any proof whatsoever, that you’re taller. Anyway, if you’re not now, you soon will be, right?’

The throbbing in Higuchi’s thumb dissipated and she surveyed the crumbs. ‘Yeah, OK sis. See you tomorrow.’

‘Bye!’

‘Bye.’

For a long time Higuchi glared at the smear her thumb had made. Then she wrenched her hair into a stunted ponytail of her own. Screwing her face into grotesque parody of Mika’s, she minced around the room winking furiously and murdering her sister’s voice.

’If you’re not now, you soon will be, right?

‘Right?

‘Right?’

Suddenly she stooped down, whipped the knife from her boot and slammed it into the wall hissing, ‘I’m stronger, smarter and taller than you, you bloody goody-two-shoes!’

Higuchi bashed the breadcrumb box back into shape and stood under it, noting with satisfaction that it rested three millimetres above the slit she had made. Then she began sweeping up the breadcrumbs, humming tunelessly.

**********

Though Mika preferred to walk, she was grateful this night for the swift, clean train that deposited her metres from her workplace. Before she reached the surface, three more trains passed through the station.

Her dish racks filled rapidly. The restaurant offered value and quality and had become popular with Comfortable Class citizens. Two years remained before The New Deal’s cut-off date. Yet most patrons were firmly, if not officially, entrenched in their strata.

Classification deferments had been fairly easy to obtain, though recipients had found it hard to increase their net worth significantly in the space of a few years. Most gave up after several months of saving, studying or trying for better jobs.

On abandoning their attempt, they next became anxious to preserve what they did have. Changing tack completely, they applied for classification ahead of deadline, relaxing in the guarantee they would never go backwards. Eating out was proof that caste entrenchment didn’t preclude a happy and varied life.

A few diners were ‘fence sitters’. Reluctant to improve their lot but afraid to be stuck with it, they secured deferments and waited for a better offer, despite categorical ETAT declarations that The New Deal was non-negotiable.

The consultants humoured them. Better to claim dissenters later than to aggrieve them during the delicate introduction of a new order. As deferments expired, sitters were processed along with the rest, all effort spent seeking a better deal wasted. Classified, they derived comfort from the fact that for once, all society was in the same boat.

Classified or not, Poor patrons were obvious by their demeanour — their motivations for dining out being the most original thing about them.

A young couple bitterly consumed the last of their disposable income on the eve of their classification. A middle-aged businessman, trapped at the lowest ebb of his fortune, mourned the demise of his biggest deal. Bereft of family, an old woman gazed at every face, fortifying herself against weeks without entertainment.

None could afford to be there. Soon they would be limited to venues reserved for their stratum.

Harder to spot were Rich Class diners, since many had prospered through hard work and thrift. Even with income assured, their frugal habits hadn’t changed and many wore lower class clothing.

The strongest class distinctions had always existed in the minds of the system’s participants. The New Deal was simply a codification of ‘the way things were’.

Mika worked hard, washing, cleaning and preparing for the morning shift. At dawn she had fourteen hours to do as she pleased within the confines of her echelon. This was her wealth.

She strolled homeward into the mist from the park’s ornamental lake, where curious ducks received restaurant scraps. Mika delighted in this event, which was becoming a ritual. The park was unfolding for her. Each day revealed a new experience, depending which way she walked.

She crossed a wisteria-entwined footbridge and followed a path to a dense bamboo grove. The thick stems towered above her. Mika twisted and slithered through the bars of the natural prison. Perspiring, she eventually broke through to a clearing in the heart of the grove. The accuracy of her instincts astounded her.

The silence was complete, save for the sighing of topmost leaves. Mika watched them flutter, like syllables eager for words. Her mind reached up to dandle and dance and her pirouette spun everything till she was giddy with delight. Here was a sanctuary of the highest order; a sacred chamber. A place to be alone.

Pale light filtered from the morning sun. Dropping to her haunches, Mika studied the soil. The clearing appeared natural, perhaps the result of lightning, and bore a fine mantle of grass. She reasoned that at noon it would become a marvellous suntrap.

Shivering, she hugged herself and resolved to return with her writing. She picked her way out and trotted home, buoyant with the wonder of nature.

The table was set for breakfast. Mika took an orange and stood at the bathroom door.

‘I’m home! Sorry I’m late.’

Teeth gritted, Higuchi steadied herself in the shower. ‘That’s OK. Have your breakfast and leave the dishes. I’ll clean ‘em tonight.’

‘Thanks.’

‘And Mika,’ Higuchi craned her head out of the shower.

‘Yes?’

‘Sorry about last night; I got a bit carried away.’

‘It was nothing; you were just being silly again.’

Higuchi laughed shallowly. ‘Yeah, I know. Crazy wasn’t it?’

‘Uh-huh.’

Higuchi winced, then towelled her stocky body and dressed for school. Without looking at Mika she called, ‘See you tonight, sis; have a good sleep.’

Mika smiled. ‘Thanks. Good luck at school.’

The door slammed. Mika entered the steamy bathroom, took a dental capsule and washed her face. Soon she lay snug in bed. Her PC countered all noise entering the flat with inverted waves and she fell asleep to the sound of wind through pine trees.

**********

When Mika returned at noon, the clearing had been transformed. Sunlight drove into the space, forming a crust of powder on the dark earth. The wind had dropped and the beams seemed to sound quiet tones of their own.

Delighted, Mika stripped to singlet and briefs, spread a towel and lay on her back. Her chromatic lenses darkened as she looked up at the brilliant circle of sky. Images of her evening slid and tumbled in her head, gradually yielding to calm. At length her thoughts became leisurely and quiet, like eels in a weir.

She remembered her mother’s stories about Prozone; how it had healed the ozonosphere of its industrial scars, then modified it for the better. People had rejoiced as the ice caps began their recovery and weather patterns became more familiar. The filtered rays hitting the earth were now harmless to tissue but devastating to anything with its recycling trigger tripped.

Yes, occasionally humanity did get it right.

Mika revelled in her discovery of the grove and relaxed utterly. Eventually she rolled onto her stomach and worked on a poem, finishing as shadows crept onto her paper. The clearing felt like an empty theatre. Mika gathered her belongings reverently and left the space in peace.

The Game – Chapter 11

September 11, 2009 at 5:28 am | In Uncategorized | Leave a Comment
Tags: alcohol, bar, bouncer, CBD, cigarette, de facto cigarette, miniaturisation, MTD, relationship, research, Retro Bar, romance, science fiction, speculative fiction, technology, tobacco

Jessica Diep killed the lights and locked the research centre. Filled with petty reconfigurations and endless testing for questionable gains, her week had been as uninspiring as the month preceding it. Developing the Molecular Tracking Device had been the proud realisation of her father’s dream. Miniaturisation had generated a fresh array of challenges.

Optimising the pilot production line simply wasn’t in the same league. Her team had been reduced to six and they were all on the cusp of boredom, painting by complex numbers. Tired and deflated, Jessica pocketed her locking card and entered the car park.

Phase Three did have advantages. She no longer had to live in the centre, working up to twenty hours a day. The project had taken its toll and she was beginning to look her years. She was happy to spend evenings at home with her mother and had begun to reflect that her whole life had revolved around molecular tracking technology. What had happened to her adolescence? Her twenties?

Such thoughts occupied her as she paced to her car. She didn’t hear her name hailed from the exit. Nor did she notice the young man running lightly towards her. Only when Fabien Varste overtook her and performed a low, theatrical bow did she react.

‘Hey! What the… Fabien! You scared the daylights out of me!’

Fabien flashed even teeth. ‘Ah! Got you that time, Boss. Man, were you away with the fairies or what?’

Jessica smiled, despite herself. ‘Yes, yes, “salaam” to you too, Brother. But stay your shenanigans. What brings you back here on a Friday night? Surely you have places to go?’

‘Ah but of course — and so do you, if I may so presume.’

She looked at him. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘O Fates! She has forgotten! What did I ever do to deserve such a heartless team leader?’

‘Lord, the drama!’ Jessica leaned against her car. ‘What did I forget, your birthday?’

‘Oh no, my mentor; worse! Do our water cooler conferences mean nothing to you? A year ago today, you saw fit to hire me onto your team. You took a stupid child from the scrap heap and taught me everything I know. And now, I can only celebrate this momentous anniversary with you, tonight!’

Jessica folded her long arms. ‘You certainly are one for dramatics. How come you never became an actor?’

‘It was your eyes, Boss. They led me from my calling to a place where I would forever be the dolt who ruined tests and lost files.’ Fabien cringed inwardly at his clumsy departure from rehearsal.

Jessica’s tone was one of thinning tolerance. ‘I’m sorry, but what’s this all about really?’ Then she recalled his previous week’s invitation. He’d mentioned it so casually, so passively that she’d discarded it without a thought.

Fabien noted her flicker of comprehension. He composed himself and in his deep, true voice said, ‘Jessica, a year ago you gave me a job I didn’t fully deserve. You’ve been very good to me and I am grateful. I’ve enjoyed working and learning with you. I was hoping you might let me buy you a drink on your way home.’

Jessica blinked. She’d never heard such a serious sentence from him. The five years separating them had always felt more like fifteen. For once she saw him as something other than the workplace clown. ‘That’s sweet of you, Fabien, but I’m very tired and I have to get home. My mother’s expecting me.’

‘Jessica,’ again the resonant tone, ‘this will not take long. You’ll be home in little more than an hour.’ Fabien proffered his mobile with more bravado than he knew he had. ‘Could I suggest that you ring your mother for me?’

No one told Jessica what to do, let alone her assistant. She formed a biting retort, but Fabien shrank away, arms in mock surrender.

‘Sorry, Boss. I can see you’re tired and have more important things to do. It was just really important to me that you came tonight. Forget it.’

Jessica watched him go and felt a pang of guilt. She dined with her mother every night; what was the big deal there? Fabien had asked for an hour. Though not as intelligent as he’d appeared on paper, his contribution to the team had been significant.

‘Fabien!’ The name echoed eerily and he turned, lifted with hope. ‘Wait there!’ Jessica climbed into her car. The batteries bled and she drew up beside him. ‘Alright; one drink. I have to admit you’ve earned it. Where to?’

Fabien grinned and gripped the door, rocking the vehicle slightly. ‘Ah, that’s part of the surprise!’

The streets were busy. All the technology in the world couldn’t replace a Friday night with friends. Light rain swirled between the buildings. The streets were mirrors on which silent vehicles laid silver ribbons.

Fabien motioned Jessica into in a side street. Springing from the car, he offered to help her from the low seat. ‘I’m so pleased you decided to come. Thank you.’

Jessica declined his hand. ‘No worries. I’m happy to be here, wherever this is.’

‘All will be revealed; just walk this way.’

He guided her down an alley. She could tell it was part of the old city from the cobblestones visible beneath their high-tech veneer. The space was so narrow and the buildings so tall that little rain made it to the ground. Two ragged kittens played under a string of recycling bins. Their stiff-tailed posturing and comic pounces made Jessica smile.

‘We’re here; this is the place.’

Jessica saw a massive iron door, centuries old. Huge bolts studded the surface. Paint clung to dints and tears in a crude palimpsest of eras and episodes. Accustomed to grey furniture and pastel partitions, Jessica marvelled at the door’s texture, tracing her fingertips along an ancient scar.

‘Umm, Boss?’

She jumped.

‘I have to knock. Could I get past you please?’

‘Yes. Yes, of course.’

‘You like the door too, eh? It blew me away when I first saw it. They don’t build them like that any more, do they?’

‘No, they certainly don’t.’

Gripping a knocker the size of a porthole, Fabien sounded four loud clangs. There came the sound of bolts withdrawing and the great door swung. A bald, ageing bouncer appeared. His professional scowl twisted into a gap-toothed grimace and his gravel voice grated. ‘Fabien, lad! How are you my boy? Come in, come in and bring your companion with you.’

Fabien stepped into the foyer, relieved to be on familiar ground. ‘Hello Gerald, it’s good to see you again. May I present my team leader, Dr Jessica Diep? Jessica, meet Gerald Bouvier, crowd control technician for the Retro Bar.’

Gerald bowed and took Jessica’s hand with incongruous grace. ‘Enchanted.’

‘Pleased to meet you.’ She glanced about. ‘Have… have you worked here long?’

Gerald drew himself up. ‘For as long as there has been a past, I have been here in the present. My vocation will forever be to guard this establishment from the vicissitudes of the future.’

‘Then how about guarding us from our thirst, Sir Gerald?’ Fabien whispered to Jessica, ‘all he does is read history all day; he’s out of his mind with bullshit!’

‘I hear you, heathen!’ Gerald growled. ‘Begone! Ascend your godless mountain and consume your evil liquors.’ He grabbed Fabien in a headlock and made to dash his head against the banister. Fabien dug sharply into Gerald’s ribs and broke free. Laughing, he fled up the stairs and beckoned to Jessica. Gerald hurled a final curse and retired chuckling to his cubby-hole.

Jessica studied the surroundings as they ascended. On the right was a sheer drop to bituminous black carpet. The rough walls, also black, were dimly lit. Posters touted seminal acts from the controversial ‘bleen’ era, so long gone that even its tribute bands were extinct. The place reeked of nostalgia and had a snug, worn feel about it. Jessica felt a flicker of enthusiasm for her outing. She peered past Fabien as he opened the landing door.

He turned smiling, eyebrow cocked. Stunned that he had progressed so far into his vision. ‘Ready?’

‘Yes, Fabien, lead on.’

The first thing to strike Jessica was the haze of blue smoke. It transported her back to the courtyard below her father’s old office, where she’d often seen his colleagues smoking tobacco.

’You’ll never catch me using that substitute crap, Missy,’ one had proclaimed through his stained moustache. ‘Don’t you know it’s the carcinogens that make a smoke worthwhile?’

She touched Fabien’s sleeve, innervating his arm. ‘Is that real tobacco?’

‘Y…Yes. How can you tell?’

‘I saw it when I was a kid. I can’t believe it’s still around!’

‘The regulars here are purists; they literally live in the past. Look, there’s a table.’

They settled into a circular booth. Jessica stared at the décor, some of which looked as old as the front door. Everything obviously predated recycling triggers. Television receivers hung from stout rods, their role integrated into PCs at the time of her birth. Books made of paper and mobiles the size of house bricks flanked an oil heater. Other items she had seen in museums. More were unfamiliar, the detritus of consumerism.

Fabien was watching her closely. ‘What do you think?’

Jessica twisted in her seat. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. How’d you find this place?’

‘A friend at gym told me. Working at the centre all day, I got sick of filtered air and plastic. See this table? It’s wood. Feel the seat; it’s leather — bright red. How long since you saw a primary colour? You picked up on the smell; just wait till you hear some sounds.’

‘But Fabien, where did they get all this stuff? I recognise some of it, but it all looks sort of… alien.’

”’There is nothing so unfamiliar as the recent past.” There’s one for you to look up. Now, let me get you a drink.’

‘I’ll just have a mineral water, thanks.’

‘No way! You can’t. You promised you’d have a drink with me.’

‘Yes, but I’m driving…’

‘Home to your mother’s in one hour, remember?’

‘Alright, alright; I’ll have a drink. What do you recommend?’

‘I will surprise you, just leave it to me.’

Jessica watched him at the bar. It fitted that he went to a gym. Her eyes flicked over his body and she realised she’d never considered what he did outside work. She ran her hands across the dimpled couch. The cracked leather indeed felt different to the clinical surfaces of her world. She leaned back and let herself relax a little, finding with a start that she was getting a mild head rush from the smoke. What would it be like to inhale the fragrant vapour from its source?

Fabien returned with four drinks and two packets. Placing them carefully on the table, he slid opposite her and began a ceremony. ‘Jessica Diep; welcome. Before you I put a single malt Irish whiskey with ice. Beside that, a frosty glass of dark ale. In front I place delicious cashew nuts. Behind, the finest rolling tobacco known to man. And so,’ he performed an elaborate flourish, ‘ta-da!’

To his delight, Jessica actually clapped her hands and laughed. ‘You are one strange man, Fabien Varste. Where do I start?’

‘With the whiskey, Boss! The whiskey!’

Condensation coursed down the tumbler as Jessica brought it close to her face. Through dimpled cubes and bronze fluid she saw Fabien raising a toast. ‘Cheers,’ she murmured and closed her eyes. Barley, oak and spring water burned and cooled in one swift motion. In her empty stomach she felt a soft, far away collision. Then an even gentler impact occurred in her brain.

‘Shit, woman, you don’t muck around!’

Jessica stared at the empty glass. ‘I haven’t drunk for ages. Was that, er, good whiskey?’

‘The best; cost me three days’ pay!’

Jessica smiled and reached for her beer. ‘I feel like some cashews. You’re saying this is the only way I can get to them?’

‘Yes. Beer first, then nuts.’

‘Alright, then.’

They clinked and drank deeply, the ale a perfect chaser. More customers arrived. A couple dressed in the fashion of four decades past sauntered to a booth. A business suit joined others at the bar and ordered vodka shots.

‘Ready for the next phase?’

Jessica looked at the packet of tobacco and waved her hand. ‘Not for me, thanks. You go ahead.’

‘Ah, but I bought it specially for you. You want to try it, do you not?’

‘I seem to be getting plenty from the environment.’

‘It’s not the same. I saw it in your face; you want to sample real tobacco. Come on, die a little!’

Fabien turned the packet over and over, caressing it. His performance made her laugh again.

‘Alright, give me a damn cigarette. Lord! What I have to do for my assistant!’

Fabien smiled at his victory. Things were going better than he could have dreamed. He rolled a pinch of tobacco between his palms, draped it along a cleft of paper and deftly entombed it with a lick. Taking a match, he poked in a few shreds and twisted the cylinder shut. Jessica hesitated, then took it from him and examined it like an artefact.

When the link to cancer was proven beyond dispute, the tobacco companies changed strategy. Funds earmarked for advertising and litigation were ploughed into research until a harmless substitute, accepted by most smokers, was eventually developed. Jessica had smoked a few de facto cigarettes but had never touched one of their disgraced predecessors.

Her common sense said ‘no’. Piqued by alcohol, the uninspiring week and her recent introspection, her curiosity countered with ‘yes’. She lit up and drew back. Though the physical effects were the same as a de facto, her mental reaction was as complex as the smoke leaving her lips. She felt disobedient, then guilty, then heavy with a vague yearning. To belong to a gym. To have friends. To perhaps even fit into an alternative scene like the Retro Bar.

Fabien stayed quiet while she smoked pensively. Her ride ran its course and returned to its platform, but not to the exact point of departure. Calm again, but slightly unsettled, she sank further into the leather.

‘Not bad, Fabien. Not bad at all.’

Fabien fought to conceal his excitement. ‘You pull like a pro, Boss; I’m impressed.’ He fumbled in his jacket.

Jessica took a long last drag and blew it at the ceiling. ‘Do you reckon we could dispense with the ‘‘Boss’’ routine?’ She looked at Fabien and received a shock. In his palm was a small package. She frowned. ‘What is that, and why?’

Fabien’s grin was awkward and motile. ‘I told you I was grateful for my job, B… Jessica. This is the token with which I say “thank you”.’ The package landed in Jessica’s hand and scrunched as he folded her fingers onto it.

To her annoyance, Jessica blushed. The only men ever to give her presents had been her father and a couple of preferred suppliers. She stared at her lap, reflecting that Fabien’s fingers had been clammy, almost wet.

‘Open it,’ he prompted.

‘Thank you,’ she replied woodenly. ‘This is most unexpected.’ She tried to save the pretty paper, but Fabien had mummified it with tape. She filled the ashtray with fragments until a small box appeared. ‘Jewellery,’ she thought, her involuntary interest pierced with concern. Fabien leaned forward eagerly.

She snapped the lid open. On a satin bed lay a pendant with a gold chain. Fixed in crystal was an MTD, fresh from their pilot production line. The piece was obviously hand crafted at considerable expense and the combination worked.

Jessica was flabbergasted. She turned the pendant over and over, trying to determine how the MTD, effectively her totem, had been incorporated without creating a flaw.

Fabien studied her reaction. ‘You like it… don’t you?’

‘…Yes. But it’s far too much; I can’t possibly accept it.’

‘You can and you must. I had it made for you; it cannot be returned.’

‘But it’s…,’ Jessica’s voice rose with exasperation. ‘Why on earth do you want to give it to me?’

‘I already told you. You turned my life around when you chose me for your team. I love my job, I admire you and I am grateful. Please keep it.’

Jessica regarded the pendant, realising she wanted to put it on, just to see how it looked.

Fabien swallowed hard; fortune had favoured him this far. Reaching forward, he fastened the chain around Jessica’s neck. Then he gathered her hair and drew it through the glinting circle. It cascaded, soft as mink, through his hands and fell around her shoulders.

Jessica bristled and went rigid. She watched Fabien resume his seat, hands shaking, then slowly picked up the pendant and stroked it again. Fabien looked back, sweating on the gamble of his life.

A full minute passed, during which Jessica detected the same sense of power she had begun to derive from public speaking. Suddenly, she felt like another drink.

Fabien fidgeted and went red. Then crimson. Then beet.

‘Thank you, Fabien. I accept your generous gift.’

He shook his head in smiling disbelief and grabbed some tobacco, only to scatter it over the table. He looked up embarrassed. ‘Would you, um… would you excuse me for a moment?’

As Jessica inclined her head, Fabien propelled himself towards to the bathroom. Jessica examined her gift as she replayed the last scene. Then she tossed her head and strode to the bar. The bartender listened studiously to her order, debited her account and waved her back to her seat.

The Game – Chapter 10

September 9, 2009 at 6:44 am | In Uncategorized | Leave a Comment
Tags: contestant, daytime television, daytime tv, gaol, guard, jail, reality television, reality tv, television, TV

Penny Travis spent her twenty-fourth birthday in the Contestant Holding Wing. The stark cell walls reflected her despair until her moans attracted the attention of her guard.

John Jefferson considered Penny a gutless nuisance and had baited her since her arrival. She’d fed some bleeding-heart line to his partner, Adrian Storey, who’d then disgraced himself by actually trying to get her contract reviewed. The Warden had been unimpressed, the Number Two livid.

Jefferson tapped his truncheon against Penny’s door and growled a warning. She shuddered into silence, tears peppering the blanket to which she clung.

‘That’s better. Now stay nice and quiet and I’ll be back soon with your bad news.’

Jefferson stomped down the gleaming corridor. Penny buried her face, scarlet with rage and regret. Why had she bothered to protest? Nils Muller had been right: once you signed, there was no escape. If only she’d spotted his error. Or had he put the wrong day on purpose? She’d never know. Protected by the omens of Xania Starwoman, someone else would take her place in the Tank and ascend the social scale to paradise. She would play tomorrow and die — punished for ignoring her grandma’s lessons in humility.

The minutes dragged, punctuated by coughs, muttering and what seemed like impossibly protracted masturbation from other cells. At last Jefferson’s heavy tread returned. Penny bit her knuckles.

‘Hellooo Travis!’ He braced himself against the smooth lintel. ‘Travis, Travis, Travis. Jesus, did you ever pick a winner! You a betting woman? Ha! Good one — course you fucking are! Bet your life! Har, har, har! Well, it’s a crying shame you weren’t in the old Tank just now. But that’s what you’ve been whining about, isn’t it? Today was your lucky day.’

‘You know it was.’

‘Oh ho, the lady speaks! Nice to know you’re paying attention. Well, in summary, your Xania Starbitch predicted a 1,024 to one long shot. All ten punters escaped a watery death and have made it to the dizzy heights of Comfortable Status.’

‘That’s not true.’ Not since the odds had shortened had The Game spared ten consecutive contestants. Penny had expected a disproportionate number of survivors but Jefferson’s exaggeration was simply unbelievable.

‘Ah, healthy scepticism; I thought as much.’ Jefferson spat on a results printout and mashed it onto the Perspex. ‘Can’t blame you, since it’s pretty fucking freaky. I’d stay and chat but it all seems a bit of an anticlimax. I’m sure Mr Storey will soon be along to comfort you. I’d rather check my account. You see, Travis, though I never believed a word of your story, I bet on it. Now that your ship has come, and gone, I should receive a nice little ETAT windfall right about… now.’

The printout fluttered in his wake as he wandered whistling towards the console room. Penny stared raw-eyed after him. Before she could manage another blink, Adrian Storey burst from a connecting corridor and snatched down the paper.

‘I, Penny… I’m sorry. I was ordered to E Block. I couldn’t get back in time…’

‘Forget it,’ said Penny listlessly, ‘you did what you could. I’ve killed myself.’

‘Don’t say that! Your odds of winning tomorrow are still fifty percent, despite this. Every device has to obey the laws of probability.’ She stared through him. ‘Penny, listen to me! Penny!’

The wall fogged. Wiping it with his sleeve, Adrian saw she had closed her eyes. Entering her cell required co-operation from the remote team. What reason would he give? He’d already shot himself in the foot attempting to have her contract pulled. He looked at her again; she was stone. Slowly, he turned and walked away.

Penny sat at her grandmother’s feet in a small garden far away. Her mother, poleaxed by another bender, wouldn’t bother them for hours. They were playing ‘Ask Me Something’.

‘Ask me something, Grandma.’ Penny plucked at the grass while the old woman made show of composing a worthy question.

‘Very well, how about this one: where does rain come from?’ She stroked the child’s hair.

Penny eagerly touch-typed ‘rain’ and began a search. Waves shot between her laptop and the house and she received a cascade of topics. Scrolling and poring, she clicked a promising title and stumbled over large, unfamiliar words. She summoned a helpreader and proudly added two years to the age field. The article reappeared in language understandable to an average eight-year-old, or a well-coached child of six.

Penny summarised: ‘rain is caused by… moisture in clouds coming together in drops and falling to the ground. Clouds are made when the sun shines on water…’ Her voice mingled with the murmur of birds and insects as her grandmother listened smiling.

Back in her cell, Penny slipped into merciful sleep, while rain drenched the factory where the garden had been.

**********

She woke suddenly. The light emanating uniformly from every surface had been reduced by two thirds. Once accustomed to the gloom, Penny found it as maddeningly bland as the full-strength version. A bench, blanket, commode, tap and drain were the cell’s only features. She craved distraction and snickered at the irony of wishing away her last night. Even her terror had lost its bite. It seemed nothing could remain vivid in the debilitating environment.

She repeatedly refolded her blanket. She sought rhythm to snores. She blew saliva bubbles and counted how many distinct gestures her hand could make. It was exhausting. Around dawn she managed to doze, until footsteps had her wide awake again. Her cell lit up as Adrian clipped a tray to her door and threaded tubes through holes in the Perspex.

Starved for sensation, Penny approached them after Adrian nodded and left. She pressed her palms to the wall and put her lips around the first tube. Pureed cereal splashed over her tongue. She winced at the thick taste of cream and switched to peaches, again pureed. Despite the sugary syrup, she continued until the container showed nearly empty. The third course was orange juice; its unsweetened tang pleasing her most.

Penny passed her hand over a sensor and water dribbled from the wall. She rinsed and spat on the tightly meshed drain hole. Folding her blanket into one of the more exotic shapes she had practised, she composed herself to wait. Eventually the guards reappeared.

‘Ready, Penny?’

Jefferson snorted.

‘Yes Adrian, let’s get on with it.’

‘I um, I have to give you an injection Penny, to calm you.’

‘I don’t need one, Adrian. As you can see, I’m quite calm.’

‘Actually, we don’t have a choice; it’s been ordered.’

‘I don’t care. I don’t need an injection.’

‘You bloody prima donna…’

‘John! Just cool it, OK? I’m on cells today. You’re to assist.’

Jefferson pushed in front of him. ‘I’ll assist alright. Come here Travis, give us your fucking arm!’

‘John!’ Adrian put a finger to his ear. ‘Remote are screaming for me to control you on pain of suspension. Will you please cool it!’

Hunched over their monitors, the remote team members grinned at each other. They’d bet that Jefferson would be disciplined before completing his rotation. His conduct with the troublesome Travis had been diverting, though unprofessional.

Jefferson backed off reluctantly and Adrian begged Penny to put her arm through the chute. She refused. Force was authorised and the cell unlocked. Jefferson pinned her roughly while Adrian administered the injection. The fire died in her eyes and she became limp and compliant. The guards buckled her into a straitjacket and wheeled her to the despatch airlock on a trolley. She stared blankly as roadies slid her into a waiting van. Jefferson sneered and drew a finger across his throat. Adrian raised his hand and mouthed ‘good luck’.

Penny was deposited in a studio ready room. Though she could neither move nor speak, her senses were unaffected. Footsteps passed with scrapes and squeaks. A voice gave directions with growing impatience. Every now and then came faint crowd laughter, echoed seven seconds later on the monitor outside the door.

A new realisation crept over Penny, like the chill from opened veins. The machinery of society was grinding inexorably towards one objective. People were setting the stage for her death. The trolley belts hugged her like a jilted lover. She felt buried alive and her terror returned in force.

‘Good Morning Everyone’ was in full swing. Plump, balding and moon-faced, Bernard Plimpton ground execrably through a familiar format.

‘Today we’re very fortunate to have with us one of the rising stars of the film industry. Would you please welcome…

‘You know I used to have a weight problem myself. That is, until I discovered…

‘Now Miriam, let’s just go over this fabulous offer: viewers receive the entire boxed set, plus the recipe book, the oven mitts and the tongs for only…

Penny listened. For the first time she wondered why she’d been addicted to the program. Perhaps its sheer inanity had made her miserable life seem tolerable. However she cut it, she hadn’t chosen a classy time slot. She might have tried for an evening program, even prime time, but competition was fierce.

Low-odds Game events rated far below high-end long shots. Penny’s meagre hop was small potatoes to a hungry crowd. This was why ‘Good Morning Everyone’ ran ten Poor-to-Comfortable bids sequentially.

Two grunting roadies wheeled Penny backstage and reconfigured her trolley to hang vertically. From her new vantage she saw the deadly glass cylinders. As if on cue, the nearest swung slowly open. Penny stared at the yawning chamber until she felt the belts being loosened. The first roadie held her while the second fitted a harness over her straitjacket. Broad straps tightened around her thighs, waist and shoulders.

With more grunts, the roadies carried Penny to the tank marked ‘10′. One fussed inside it with thin beryllium chains. He beckoned his partner to lift Penny over the lip of the device and snapped clips to the rings sewn into her harness. He checked each fitting then stepped past her. Released, Penny dangled from four points.

Two more tethers snaked around her feet. Penny knew they were to prevent her breaking the water’s surface once it peaked. Head slumped forward, she saw they’d been adjusted for her small build. The image of ten struggling, bug-eyed punters flashed through her mind and she fainted.

**********

When Penny regained consciousness, much had changed. The stage had been rotated and rolled to the foot of an enormous curtain. Lights blazed and technicians moved about with equipment. Roadies swarmed over three of the tanks, all of which now contained contestants. Though an air of urgency pervaded, no one spoke above a whisper.

Penny discovered that with great effort, she could just turn her head. She tried to clench her fingers, but could move them only a fraction. A smartly-dressed woman with a clipboard stepped up to her tank, studied a readout and clicked her fingers in front of Penny’s face. She swivelled her eyes, whereupon the woman made notes and strode away.

Penny felt very weak and had trouble focussing. Groggily she surveyed the other tanks. Each held a cocoon of orange surmounted by a pale face. Only the contestants’ hair bespoke their individuality. Penny couldn’t be certain, but they all seemed female.

The stage emptied. Beyond the curtain, Bernard Plimpton’s voice rose and fell. Penny divined that the cooking segment was nearly over. This usually preceded a commercial break.

Suddenly a tremor ran through the stage and it lurched forward. Ten contestants swung on their chains, glancing around apprehensively. The heavy curtain soared to the lighting gantry. A torrent of music and clapping struck the platform as it slid before roaming cameras. Penny was stunned; the segment was running early! Panic clawed at her entrails.

Bernard Plimpton stood microphone in hand. Though no Lester Rodrigues, an army of fans called him a ‘lovely person’. Young men couldn’t stand him and uninitiated channel surfers had to be convinced he wasn’t virtual. Yet increasing viewer longevity suggested that ‘Bernie’ would enjoy his niche for some time.

He basked in the applause. The Game segment was far and away the highlight of his show. As the audience wearied, flashing signs and warm-up crew set them off again. Then Plimpton mellifluously introduced the segment, outlined the sequence of events and described the show’s bonus prizes. At last the bandleader sounded a corny bugle fanfare. Background lights went out and each tank bathed in its own spotlight.

Penny now had enough motor control to squint against the glare. From each tank rose an array of lights that pulsed green, red and yellow. At once the chambers looked like so many fairground ticket booths. Again the crowd was whipped into applause. The arrays ceased strobing and displayed forty green, thirty-nine red and a single flashing yellow light.

Green indicated a contestant’s chosen numbers; red stood for losing numbers. Alternating with whatever number it shared, the yellow light represented The Game’s random result generator. The audience peered at the arrays, murmurs of approval and dissension trickling down the tiers.

Penny saw her numbers projected on her Tank’s head-up display. ‘At least the bastard got something right,’ she thought bitterly. Looking away in disgust, her gaze fell on none other than Xania Starwoman, preparing for her segment.

Devoid of post-production magic, the astrologer looked hard, bored and haggard. Penny noticed the unpainted chipboard behind Xania’s glittering console and was shocked to see her olde-worlde lace and velvet terminate at a pair of slacks. Xania donned costume jewels from a battered box, with none of the solemnity Penny had always imagined. The truth she had ignored all her life rose and bit her in the face.

How could she have staked her fate on the word of this tawdry faux gypsy? Again her tears spilled, shame compounding sorrow. ‘When the water comes,’ she told them, ‘I’ll taste you again.’

Plimpton stood relaxed, his foot on the base of the temporarily unsealed Tank Two, quizzing its occupant. There was little risk of a damaging outburst from this woman. Her consultant assessment described her as calm, rational and confident of success. Her standard contract also authorised an ETAT representative to override the random generator if she said anything untoward, though this had never happened.

‘Tell us about your numbers, Soula.’ Plimpton swung the microphone.

‘Well, I’ve gone for all the odd ones today, Bernie. My friends say I’m a very odd person, you know — quirky? The only odd number I haven’t chosen is thirteen because he’s unlucky, you know? So I’ve skipped him and gone for fourteen instead; he’s my only even number.’

‘And how d’you think you’ll go today, dear?’

‘Ohh, I’m very confident, Bernie. I watch your show every day, you know, and I’ve kept a list of all the outcomes with the different numbers for five months now.’

‘And I believe you’ve even done some research on individual tank performance?’

‘Yes Bernie. I spoke to my consultant and she said my list was very accurate. She agreed that Tank Two has killed fewer people than any other tank over the last five months and that most of those who have lost their lives have done so on even numbers.’

Plimpton tried to conceal his confusion. ‘So you’re going… with the odds.’

‘Yes, that’s right Bernie! All the way!’

Soula’s supporters cheered. The crowd followed suit, though not because Soula had won them with her home-grown probability theory.

Plimpton took centre stage. ‘Let’s hear it for Soula! How about a round of applause for all our contestants! Three cheers for…’ he caught a furious wind up from the floor manager, ‘…for everyone!’

The audience lapsed into embarrassed silence, whereupon the comic relief bandleader justified his existence.

The Game had theme music consistent across its myriad program formats. For each device there was a variation on the theme. The Wheel had a brash, big band sound evoking images of secret agents in exotic sectors. The Tank’s refrain had a calm, swaying, bottom-of-the-ocean feel, replete with harp, glockenspiel and tubular bells. The band gave an excellent rendering of the main theme, negotiated a tight segue into the Tank’s special refrain and wowed the crowd with a big finish.

By this time Soula’s chamber had been resealed and The Game was ready to run. Plimpton didn’t hesitate. In the voice of a snooker presenter, he said quietly into his microphone, ‘Gentlemen and ladies, I give you, The Game.’

Above Tank One, the indicator began moving among the eighty numbers. Gaining speed, it hopped in an erratic series of red and green. Contestant One had chosen the top block of forty numbers. Her selection was popular, since it was easy to tell whether the indicator spelt life or death as it landed. The yellow light blurred and grew a tail as it reached maximum speed. Then it slowed. The audience held its breath, savouring the suspense.

The whites of two eyes shone wet as Punter One tracked her fate.

Slower and slower; the indicator flopped like a landed fish.

…Seventy-eight (death).

……Forty-nine (death).

…………Ninety (death).

Tank One rocked as its occupant wrenched at her chains, willing the light to make one more exhausted jump.

……………………Four (life).

The crowd froze. Had it stopped? A chime sounded; four was indeed the last number.

The studio exploded into noise and movement. Roadies swiftly opened the tank and unbuckled the beaming winner, whose name was Jeanette. She shrugged off her harness and extended her arms while the sleeves of her straightjacket were rolled to her elbows. She flung herself on an expectant Bernie Plimpton and kissed him. Two of the show’s henchwomen arrived with a spray of flowers. They gently prised her from the reluctant host and walked her to the winners’ couch. The show had to stay on track, to avoid truncation by the news.

Red-faced and aroused, Plimpton signalled for the event to continue. A roar from the crowd heralded Soula’s turn and she smiled back confidently. Plimpton sauntered to the winners’ couch to reap a little more gratitude but was disappointed. Jeanette sat straight-backed, directing her energy to the next contestant.

‘Are they related?’ he murmured to one of the henchwomen.

‘Not in the biblical sense,’ she replied through thick foundation. ‘Apparently Jeanette is very in touch with her inner goddess. She wants to use her good fortune to save her spiritual sisters.’

Plimpton resumed his post beside Tank Two. At least he and Soula had some history.

Soula’s indicator was on its home run, darting among friend and foe. Her checkerboard of green numbers seemed to cover more of the screen than had Jeanette’s block approach. Looking at her unswerving countenance, many believed Soula did have the right combination. Even a few crew paused under monitors to witness the success which seemed naturally hers.

When thirteen came up, all expected a pause before the indicator finally came to rest. The last number was arguably due to be odd, since the previous four had been even. The pause ate into another second; then another. The indicator light continued to alternate red and yellow. Then a siren sounded.

The audience jumped; Soula the Likeable went white as milk.

Her supporters leaped in vocal protest. Technicians killed feeds from the offending area as the roadies fell into pairs and removed the struggling women with minimal fuss. Penny felt a tremor as beneath the stage, a powerful pump thrummed into action. Soula looked past her feet at the water inlets in the floor of her chamber. Between them was a camera, whose sole purpose was to record this moment of realisation.

The shot was perfect and went straight to the main screen. The inlets pointed anticlockwise around the cylinder, in a characteristic design touch from instrument manufacturers Bloch and Spiegel. As the Tank’s manual stated:

‘Under correct pressure, liquids will whirlpool upon entering the chamber, affording a view of the death sequence unobstructed by bubbles, misting or splashes’.

The inlets coughed stale air and condensation. Soula jerked up her head in mute appeal. The studio was silent save for the music which, though unchanged, had taken on a sinister feel.

The Game – Chapter 09A

September 7, 2009 at 3:38 am | In Uncategorized | Leave a Comment
Tags: data, internet, internet nodes, molecular tracking device, MTD, nanotechnology, politics, storage

In designing the second MTD demonstration, Jessica Diep left nothing to chance. Now she was personally lacing the auditorium with dozens of the tiny units. It was a year to the day since the debacle in which Neville Major had threatened and humiliated her. By the time the ETAT delegates were seated, she’d logged all the data she needed to blow them away.

This time she was operating without support, so improved was the MTD’s reliability. Major had moved her forward into the lights, where her jet hair shimmered and flashed. She caught her reflection in the speech projector and was well pleased. Her tailored investment was paying dividends. A thrill of elation swept through her body and flushed her cheeks as diplomatic applause followed Major’s introduction.

Just before starting, Jessica thought she glimpsed her father in the sea of faces. A cry formed in her throat until reason quashed it. Then he was gone, lost in the spotlight that swung to engulf her. She toyed with sorrow, then chose to treat the apparition as an endorsement. Drawing a deep breath, she squared her frame and let Hilton’s spirit empower her.

She differentiated between real and fake jewellery, triggering an argument between two secret lovers. She had fifty wristwatches collected in identical pouches. Running a match of skin cell signatures, she returned them, sight unseen, to their amazed owners. In response to a haughty challenge, she nominated those people who had cut their face or legs shaving that morning. To her surprise and the gallery’s amusement, it transpired that the sceptic (now thoroughly abashed) had done both.

Jessica fanned the mirth by identifying Members with red underwear, the MTDs accessing all known dye formulae from the Internet. Riding waves of applause she felt sharp and clever. When the questions began, confidence gilded her tongue as she delivered parry and riposte with mounting élan.

Time grew viscous beneath the lights. The swift handling of every challenge gave her languid seconds for reflection. She became acutely alive to her heartbeat, her breathing, the gradual dewing of her forehead and the slither of silk on her skin.

Though the MTD could have sold itself, its charismatic champion clinched the deal. Only the most ardent detractors held out as the session ran its course. Soon the sheer power of the technology would bludgeon even them into line.

Major gaped at Jessica like a gargoyle, ill at ease from conflicting emotions. Each frisson he felt from her dispatch of a hated critic fuelled his long-held fear of her popularity — a concern now sharpened by the pleasure she was taking in her performance. He scanned the audience and noted heads bent in conference. Given a little mentoring, Jessica could easily be considered a star recruit.

The MTD was now almost certain to form the cornerstone of ETAT security strategy. If she had a shred of ambition, there was a growing risk she could usurp him.

In Phase Two she’d taken to treating him with cool disdain. Major had borne it for the sake of the project, comforted by his contingency plan. The three men being trained to succeed her were progressing well, their secret work on the second-generation MTD outstanding.

Having once again anticipated ETAT thinking, Major’s project plan for Phase Three was endorsed. The wording was perfect. By prioritising a production line, he could isolate Jessica from second-generation activity. By the time she realised she was in a backwater, the project would have been swept from her.

**********

With mass production underway, ETAT used its connections to make MTDs mandatory in all powered devices. Virtually all manufactured goods contained some manifestation of electronics. Short product cycles, recycling triggers and consumer desire for the latest models ensured rapid saturation. Toasters, PCs, shavers, cars, doorbells, toys, lights. Each machine became, on replacement, an ETAT-run intelligence gathering outpost.

Titanic Internet nodes were assigned to store transmitted signatures. For each node filled, two more spawned automatically. New signatures were cross-linked to those recorded, while superseded transmissions were archived. The scale of processing defied comprehension and challenged the limits of computer power for the first time in decades.

The Game – Chapter 09

September 4, 2009 at 12:46 am | In Uncategorized | Leave a Comment
Tags: information technology, IT, left wing, military, PC, personal computer, political science, politics, recycling code, recycling trigger, right wing, sociology

Eager for a relaxed evening of socialising, Myron Price ascended the spiral staircase to Franz Heilmayr’s apartment. Below him, deteriorating componentry lined a maintenance pit from the defunct elevator.

Franz attributed this debris to the increasing complexity of computer hardware. Not only was it becoming more difficult to work on, it was practically built to fall apart on leaving the factory.

Franz appeared at his door. ‘Hello Squadron Leader; fancy a beer?’

Myron reached into his bag. ‘I’ve got some thanks, but a stubby holder would be handy.’

‘Done.’

Myron took a deep draught. It was Friday night; life was good. He stacked his remaining bottles in the magnet-ridden refrigerator and turned smiling. ‘Lead on.’

Though he’d spent countless evenings at the warehouse, Myron never failed to marvel at Franz’s parts collection. It towered in columns, spewed from cartons and draggled from groaning shelves. His friends shared his fascination and often fossicked contentedly when there was a lull in conversation. Around the squat pine coffee table lounged three men in their mid-twenties.

Myron had met them all through Franz. Though good drinking partners, they were a little too fond of invective for his liking. There followed the usual pleasantries. Myron pulled two marijuana cones to catch up, then addressed Julian Arison, sole child of rich parents.

Julian’s round face split at the mention of his new apartment. ‘It’s fabulous, Myron. As big as this, but the mezzanines give it much more floor space. I’ve also put a platform below this enormous circular bay window in the west wall. I’ve got all my equipment up there, including my new Panrax…’

‘What model?’ Myron interrupted.

‘4000K.’

‘Really?’

‘Absolutely. Flies like shit off a shovel; you should check it out.’

‘But the 4000 series isn’t due out till next year.’

‘I know. Dad got me a test rig from the factory; he knows a director. Strictly confidential, you realise.’

‘Of course,’ the others chorused.

‘Anyway, I’ve set it up in front of this window. Once it’s dark and I log on to StarGazer, you can’t see where the screen ends and the night begins. It’s wild.’

‘And you’re sure about the model?’

Julian flung out his arms. ‘Yes! Christ, what do I have to do to convince you?’

‘We believe you Julian,’ said Franz. ‘It’s just unusual for a company to let a test rig walk out like that. Can you imagine how ropeable the development engineers would be?’

‘They’ve got dozens of the things,’ said Julian. ‘One less isn’t going to bring down the government.’

‘What does your father do again?’ said Antony Jarvish.

‘Property development.’

‘Isn’t that what you did your final year project on?’

‘Yes. Dad connected me with some people.’

‘How fortuitous.’

Julian coloured. ‘And what does your father do — clean toilets? Is that what you did your project on?’

‘Not quite,’ Antony returned smoothly, delighted with Julian’s reaction. ‘Mine was the creation of antimatter from the onanistic contents of your bedside rubbish bin. As I recall, our first sample yielded the very thing we were looking for. Unfortunately, there wasn’t nearly enough of it to attract a grant.’

Julian weathered the others’ laughter.

‘I’m just amazed,’ said Myron. ‘I thought I was hot shit with my 3700J.’

Franz repacked the bong pipe as its emanations wafted to the ceiling beams. ‘Don’t judge yourself by what you possess, man. Even if all your friends do.’

‘Look who’s talking,’ said Derek. ‘See what you’ve amassed over the years.’

Franz eyed the systems analyst and gestured to his jungle of computer gear. ‘If you reckon this is worth something, you know less about information technology than I dare consider.’

‘We all have our specialities,’ said Antony. ‘Franz is our hardware man, Myron’s into programming, Derek loves his systems, I teach rude little buggers how to use them and Julian is the quintessential consumer.’

‘I’ll drink to that.’ Franz rose. ‘Anyone for another? Who’s been following the election?’

Derek Eckersley gestured for a drink. ‘Why bother? The coverage is crap, as usual.’

‘You can’t blame them,’ said Antony. ‘Nobody cares who wins anyway. The pollies lost most people when they invented “non-core” promises. In any case, Net voting has made the whole campaign thing redundant. Why listen to the bastards when you can read their lies online and register your protest from the comfort of own your toilet?’

Julian peered over his glass. ‘That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?’

‘What?’

‘No one cares who wins.’

‘By “no one” I mean mainstream society — say the middle eighty-five percent.’

‘So fifteen percent do give a damn. That’s a significant demographic.’

‘True, but the groups comprising it are so splintered they’ll have no influence on the outcome. It doesn’t matter whether they care or not.’

Derek took his beer from Franz. ‘You just contradicted yourself, Tony. Last week you said society would ultimately succumb to extremists, since only they could be bothered to participate in politics. “The apathetic majority will forfeit its right to democracy”.’

Antony crossed his long legs. ‘True, but I didn’t give a timeframe. The number of mainstream citizens who currently participate is still sufficient to block any single fringe group.’

‘You’ve wormed your way out of that part; now explain why eighty-five percent of the population is uninterested in choosing a new government.’

‘That’s a lot harder for a young mind to grasp, Julian.’

‘Sounds like a cop-out to me.’

Antony stared at the ceiling, his palms touching as if in prayer. ‘Let me see if I can break it into smaller pieces for you.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Alright: I want you to picture a long beach, terminated at each end by rocks.’

‘Got it,’ said Myron.

‘Near each set of rocks is a mobile ice-cream stand. Myron, you’re the proprietor of one stand and Julian, you operate the other.’

‘Leasehold or freehold?’

‘It’s public land Julian; not for sale even to your father. Now, it’s a hot summer and the beach is full of bathers. They thrash through the surf — young, salty thighs quivering in the sunshine…’

Franz cleared his throat. ‘I think we get the idea.’

‘OK; these women come out of the sea wanting an ice cream. To which stand do they walk?’

‘Mine, of course,’ said Julian.

‘Why?’

‘Because of my superior marketing plan and loyalty scheme.’

‘Come off it,’ Derek cried. ‘You’re flogging ice cream.’

‘Alright, because I’m cheaper.’

‘No,’ said Antony, ‘the price is fixed, the product homogenous and customers have perfect information and access. They only come to your stand if they’re closer to it than Myron’s at the moment they want something.’

‘Ha!’ said Myron, ’so I’ll get half the customers.’

‘Exactly! Julian, do you agree that under these conditions the market would be evenly split?’

‘Yes, but only under those circumstances. In a free market, Myron would be out of business in a day.’

Myron clapped him on the back. ‘Well, I’m here for the whole summer, boyo. So let’s hear the theory.’

Antony smiled. ‘As he has indicated, Julian is keen to capture Myron’s market share.’

‘Damn right.’

‘How do you do it? All you may change is your location.’

‘Easy,’ said Julian. ‘I move away from the rocks and get sand both sides of me.’

‘Thus exposing yourself to a greater number of sylph-like maidens with huge…’

‘Tony!’ said Franz.

‘You’d get more customers,’ Antony completed hurriedly. ‘Myron, what would be your response to Julian’s Machiavellian posturing?’

‘I’d move too!’

‘Where?’

‘Another beach,’ Julian muttered.

‘No,’ said Myron, ‘I’d move closer to the middle. In fact, I’d move to the exact centre of the beach and double my market share.’

‘Not quite. You’d double your market coverage, but be next to your arch rival.’

Julian leaned forward. ‘Of course! I’d already be in the middle; it’s the only way to cover the whole beach.’

‘So in theory,’ said Derek, ‘they’d each have half the market, but be sitting alongside their only competitor.’

Antony mimed applause.

‘Wonderful,’ said Julian, ‘So why do eighty-five percent of people not give a damn about politics?’

Antony’s silhouette rose tall against the city lights. One hand in his jacket, he parodied himself as professor and ponderously circled the mismatched assembly of chairs.

‘The ice-cream stands represent our two main political parties. Ice cream, a constant, represents the machinery of government. Party ideologies are represented by Julian and Myron initially occupying opposite ends of the beach. When founded, the parties represented two social extremes. They were as far from each other as the ends of our beach, get it?’

‘Go on,’ said Julian.

‘This ideological differentiation has decreased over time. Policies have softened. The Left has acquired business acumen while the Right has learned compassion. Each shift has earned a temporary increase in market share. When the Left forged links with big business, it bewitched the middle class. When the Right addressed conservation issues, the greenies leapt the fence faster than those furless rabbits they’ve been trying to kill off.’

‘I see.’ Myron put down his beer. ‘Each move towards the centre has produced more customers for their brand of ice cream.’

‘Precisely! As a result, both parties are now in the middle of the beach. On most issues there’s no light between them; their products taste the same. Only the fanatics bother to differentiate, and their support is based merely on memories of what the parties once represented. The rest of the population couldn’t give a flying fuck.’

Antony turned and retraced his steps. ‘Now, imagine the local council resolves to close one ice cream stand and beach-goers are asked to choose which one. I say eighty-five percent don’t care who wins, yet enough will participate to prevent the extremists from saving their preferred vendor. Unable to differentiate between the candidates, the mainstream will base their selection on apolitical criteria like the rumoured size of Mr Price’s penis, the arson allegedly perpetrated by the rotund Mr Arison and the Great Maggot Sundae Mystery. So long as ice cream remains available, the vendor is immaterial. Ergo no one cares and TV coverage of the beach vote is abysmal.’

Everyone clapped and Antony bowed with a modest smile, his shadow wobbling high on the wall.

‘Julian,’ asked Franz, ‘would you mind if I came over one day soon and pulled apart your new Panrax?’

‘Why?’

‘Oh, you know me, always eager to keep track of the Joneses.’

Julian frowned, bereft of an excuse.

‘It’s painless,’ said Myron. ‘Franz did mine on Monday and put it back together good as new. We even defeated the tractor factory girls at Stalingrad.’

‘What tractor factory girls?’ asked Derek.

‘I’ll tell you later,’ said Franz. ‘How about it, Julian?’

‘Sure,’ said Julian reluctantly. ‘But why? It’ll be at the trade shows soon.’

‘Can’t stand them,’ said Franz. ‘Soulless suits haunting a stuffy exhibition space. Leering over bikini-clad hostesses and rushing home to wank over the brochures.’

‘Sounds alright to me,’ said Derek.

‘No way, that scene can scorch your heart to cinders. I can’t handle it.’

Myron sauntered towards the toilet. ‘Are you gonna look for that superfluous resistor, Franz? The one that wasn’t in the schematic?’

‘Shit yeah; that’s been bugging me. I nearly rang Panrax this week. It’s bound to have been corrected in Julian’s unit.’

Antony put the finishing touches to a long joint. ‘What’s the problem?’

Julian sat up. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my machine; it goes like a dream.’

‘So does mine,’ said Myron. ‘Franz is referring to an omission in the schematic of an apparently unnecessary resistor.’

‘That’d have to be rare,’ said Derek.

‘Impossible,’ Julian asserted. ‘The consequences to Panrax of that getting out would be horrendous.’

‘That’s what I told Myron when we found it,’ said Franz. ‘Yet, there it wasn’t. For no one to see.’

‘I’d be stunned if it’s true; that’s unheard of. Are you positive?’

‘Julian, old fruit, I may be a bit behind the times, but I know more than most. Give me the benefit of the doubt, will you?’

‘And you haven’t called Panrax yet.’

‘No.’

Julian pursed his thick lips and gazed at a candle.

Antony lit up from it. ‘I know what you’re thinking, you mercenary bastard. I can hear those opportunist gears grinding away.’

Julian ignored him. ‘Franz, could you key up my machine and access its schematic?’

‘Nothing simpler.’ Franz disappeared behind a junk pile and returned with an old camouflaged field PC. He clunked it on the table, along with two power packs.

The toilet flushed and Myron exclaimed from across the room. ‘Shit, man! Where’d you get that?’

‘Garage sale. This guy souvenired it during a military exercise near his property.’

‘How old is it?’

‘Five years, at least.’

‘And still in one piece?’

‘Yeah. The techs would’ve transmitted the recycling code as soon as they gave up looking for it, but my guy beat ‘em to the punch by pulling the packs. I’ll be interested to see how long it lasts once it’s powered up. I don’t know how long they keep transmitting codes.’

‘I’ve heard they don’t quit till the unit responds,’ said Antony, ‘and that there’s loads of strings hunting for lost gear to trigger.’

‘Well they can’t really use date triggers can they?’ said Derek. ‘God, imagine that; you’re on a ridge running artillery co-ordinates. Suddenly you hear “ping” and your PC turns to polymers beneath your fingers.’

Franz clicked the power packs into place. ‘Well, we’ll soon see if this critter’s number is still being called.’

Julian was anxious. ‘Don’t we risk being discovered with stolen goods?’

‘Not a chance. Without an uplink it won’t even know what planet it’s on.’

‘Wow,’ said Derek, ‘a hostage.’

‘But what if it secures a Net link?’

Franz rolled his eyes. ‘Julian, this drone’s been down so long no provider’s even gonna look at it. Relax; we’re not going to be carted away and shot.’

Julian emptied his glass, filled it and drained it again. Sullenly he watched Franz coax the PC to life. ‘What’re you going to do with it?’

Franz scanned the lines of text streaming up the screen. ‘Have a yarn with your machine.’

‘What?’

‘For God’s sake,’ said Antony, ‘keep your hair on. I’m sure Franz has the matter in hand.’

‘He’s only going to check one of your files,’ said Myron. ‘It’ll take five seconds, won’t it Franz?’

The engineer didn’t answer. An old universal operating system logo filled the screen. Then he was inside a transfer utility.

Julian’s face grew taut. ‘Franz! I don’t want you jeopardising my…’

Franz calmly hit “return”. ‘It’s over; I’ve copied the schematic. There’ll be no trace this machine ever talked to yours.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘It’s my job and you’re my friend. I’d never do anything to endanger either, alright?’

Derek preferred the joint. ‘Do us all a favour Jules; have this, instead of kittens.’

Julian inhaled and relaxed visibly. ‘Alright Franz; you took me by surprise, that’s all.’

‘Sorry about that, chieftain. It’ll never happen again.’ Franz entered the 4000K’s schematic and navigated to the power module.

‘Groovy.’ Myron’s head moved in sympathy with the flight.

‘Beats the crap out of the old handbooks,’ Antony agreed.

‘Oh, I don’t know. At least you knew where you were with those. This thing’s harder to fly than it is to read. Ah, here it is.’ Franz panned around the sub-assembly corresponding to the one in Myron’s machine, then checked the schematic against its illustrations. He sat back abruptly and the others crowded around.

‘What is it?’

‘Yeah, tell us for Christ’s sake.’

‘I can’t believe it!’ Franz exclaimed. ‘It’s not listed!’

‘Such a large company, too,’ said Antony. ‘This could void their accreditation overnight.’

Julian tapped his lip. ‘True.’

‘I’m floored,’ said Franz. ‘Why leave it out? Could they really make the same mistake twice?’

Myron binned his bottle. ‘Well, think about it. How many people ever use their manuals? And of those, who bothers with the schematic? I bet it’s riddled with errors. Why would Panrax bother to make it perfect when no one’ll ever notice?’

‘Legally they have to detail everything in the box,’ said Julian. They wouldn’t dare release a document containing known errors.’

‘Still,’ said Franz, ‘Myron has a point. From a return-on-investment aspect, the effort spent on manuals is wasted. Maybe Panrax diverted money from support to R&D.’

‘Their help desk’s certainly second to none,’ said Antony. ‘That could be part of the plan. By serving customers online for free, they render the manual obsolete.’

Julian gazed outside at a winking communications tower. ‘I don’t buy it; they’ve got too much to lose. Quality accreditation is Criterion One for business. They wouldn’t risk it for anything.’

Franz stared at the PC, whose screen saver featured a colourful night bombardment. ‘Myron, could you knock up a program to analyse this schematic?’

‘In what way?’

‘Highlight any elements conflicting with electronic theory.’

‘If you give me all the parameters; but not tonight.’

‘No, we’ve had enough excitement for one evening. Let’s move to something lighter.’

Antony glanced at Julian. ‘How about the election?’

Franz grabbed the remote. ‘Let’s see what’s on.’

‘Franz,’ said Derek uncertainly, ‘I think your military drone has received a message.’

Franz turned to the PC as a string of numbers sped across the screen.

‘Shit!’

He tilted the unit, then yelped and snatched his hand from the burning power packs. The PC tumbled to the floor. With a wisp of acrid smoke, the packs triggered molecular melt down and expired. It would be hours before the unit showed signs of deterioration and days before recycling was complete. Franz nudged the wreck away with his foot.

‘Nice show,’ said Antony.

Franz sighed. ‘Not much for twenty bucks though. I thought they would’ve given up by now.’

‘I wonder if that’s what happens to prisoners of war,’ said Derek. ‘God, you’d be keen to get word out you were still alive!’

‘Bloody oath. Oh, well; easy come, easy go. At least I’ve seen something new tonight.’

‘Two new things,’ said Julian. ‘Can you please let me know how you go with Myron’s program?’

‘Sure. Now I suggest we get drunk, watch TV and chill the fuck out.’

The Game – Chapter 08

September 3, 2009 at 6:05 am | In Uncategorized | Leave a Comment
Tags: career, cartel, IT, miniaturisation, molecular tracking device, nanotechnology, Net interface module, remuneration, research, speculative fiction

[I'VE BEEN TOLD ON GOOD AUTHORITY THAT THIS CHAPTER IS TOO EXPOSITORY. I WILL FIX THIS PROBLEM. 'SHOW, DON'T TELL', AND ALL THAT! ANYWAY, SEE WHAT YOU RECKON. PH]

Neville Major glanced at his watch, flicked a mote from his sleeve and reviewed his notes one more time. Compared to the complexity of miniaturisation, MTD production and distribution would be a walk in the park. He picked up his briefcase and locked his office door.

Time was against him. As Hilton Diep had predicted, ETAT Members were assuming key global roles with growing frequency. Each addition increased the possibility of public challenge. While most citizens didn’t give a damn, there were some who reviled democratic apathy.

ETAT had to consolidate power the moment it exceeded the forces arrayed against it. Modelling put this at less than five years away, by which time MTDs had to be on the ground and among the people.

The conference room buzzed with holiday stories. Mobiles circulated with footage of fun times in sunny sectors. The Diep Centre team was in high spirits and keen to begin the next phase. Jessica was tired, having received a larger bonus but less leave. Disgusted at Major’s reckless betrayal, she’d refused his calls during her time off.

Major arrived and circulated, contriving to run out of time before reaching her. At 09:00 he moved to the head of the table and bade everyone to be seated.

‘Welcome back! I see you enjoyed your holidays. You certainly deserved them, as I’m sure you saw from my email.’ Beams of pride crisscrossed the table. ‘You all did a marvellous job. What a shame I came within a hair’s breadth of ruining our entire project.’

Smiles froze. Jessica stared at Major, ignoring puzzled looks.

Major sighed heavily. ‘Yes, you heard correctly. During the demonstration I committed Jessica to a test which was doomed to failure. I ignored her legitimate protests and almost sank the MTD with my arrogance.’ He regarded Jessica for the first time. ‘Would you be kind enough to tell the team what happened? I want them to hear it from you.’

Jessica blushed; this was the last thing she’d expected. ‘I… er… I think I’d rather… pass on that one, actually.’

Major nodded. ‘Very well. But be sure to keep me accurate, won’t you?’

‘Don’t you worry about that.’

Major confessed his fear of failure before his peers, his panic during Jason Hillyer’s challenge and his disrespectful treatment of Jessica. The team was patently angry, which made Jessica feel less isolated. When Major opened himself to questions, many were fired. A few people really let fly.

Their anger vented, Major pleaded for forgiveness, maintaining that he’d never respected a team so much as to admit a mistake of this magnitude. He begged them to consider his prior performance and to look into their hearts for compassion.

Most of the team had been in awe of their austere commander since Day One. Seeing him so contrite was unsettling, like a tearful parent. Some respected his candour; others reasoned that everyone was fallible. Most were simply anxious that he resume his former status, caring far more about his patronage than any public gaffe.

Even Jessica found herself reluctantly swaying. On describing the altercation to her mother the previous week, she’d been stung by Lee’s response, which had included several annoyingly accurate observations.

‘I can’t believe such an intelligent woman as you could be so childish. Neville’s got an incredible responsibility. Yet it seems he’s pretty much let you have everything your way till now. So what if he forced your hand at a difficult moment? All his colleagues were watching; you can’t imagine the pressure he must have been under.’

‘But Mum…’

‘It’s not even your money, Jessie. You’re an employee, and a phenomenally well-paid one at that. It sounds to me like you might have been miffed at being upstaged. You’ve always been a bit of a show off. All things considered, don’t you think your behaviour was just a little unreasonable?’

The clarity of the memory was testament to its validity and Jessica squirmed under Major’s entreating gaze. Yes, yes; of course she could forgive. But she’d be damned if she would ever forget. A break helped dissipate the mood of embarrassment following the mea culpa.

When the session resumed, Major reclaimed some of his authority, but was careful to retain a chastened air. He took up a pointer.

‘Our new priority is miniaturisation, on which most of you will focus. We need to get from this,’ he indicated a blueprint of the prototype, ‘to this.’ The conference screen illustrated a greatly streamlined unit.

‘Is that drawing to scale?’

‘No.’ Major tapped a command. ‘Here are the relative sizes.’

The team drew a sharp, collective breath. The new unit was a mere shadow of the prototype. Two colleagues at the back of the room exchanged whispers.

‘Three years, at least.’

’And the mother of all flings if we ever manage it.’

Major heard them. ‘I agree this is a difficult task, but my peers have been impressed by your work. They believe you can achieve the size reduction in twelve months.’

There came a louder gasp, followed by mutters of incredulity.

‘By what means did your peers acquire their confidence?’ Jessica inquired tartly.

Major chuckled. ‘Not from me; I wasn’t game to make any more rash predictions that day. Suffice to say some of them are au fait with the technology. They proposed the time frame.’

‘And they actually believe in it?’ a technician ventured.

Major’s tone hardened slightly. ‘Yes, as do I. You’re the best team I’ve worked with. Your results have been outstanding; now the crossbar has been raised. We have been granted formidable resources. Some attention has also been given to incentives.’

Ears pricked and one of the men at the back spoke for many. ‘Could you perhaps expand a little on that, Mr Major? Just so we have all the facts.’

‘Certainly, Mr Vogels. ETAT is grateful for your efforts thus far and recognises that this next phase will demand even more of your energies. Your target is a one tenth miniaturisation of the prototype. If you achieve it on time, your bonus will be ten times what it was for completing Phase One — more, if warranted.’ Jaws dropped; this was over five years’ pay. ‘Furthermore, if you should decide to leave the project after Phase Two, ETAT will help you secure your role of choice, regardless of industry or location.

‘Jesus!’ said Kit Vogels, more loudly than he’d intended.

‘How do the rest of you feel?’ Major turned to Jessica. ‘It’s crucial we embrace this challenge together.’

‘Who’ll run the show?’

‘You, of course. It couldn’t work any other way.’

‘And will I design and run the next demonstration?’

‘Definitely. I’ll introduce it and you’ll do the rest. Those events were never really my cup of tea anyway.’

‘And what about the other team members? You said most of us would be on this.’

‘They’ll do preliminary work on a second-generation unit. We’ll ask for volunteers.’

Jessica faced the team. ‘What do you guys think? Can we do it?’

‘Only if you lead us,’ replied one. The others agreed vociferously.

‘Alright then,’ said Jessica. ‘Let’s go. Neville, would you recall that blueprint?’

Major obeyed and she took the pointer.

‘We’ll start with the Net interface module. It’ll be easiest and we’ll learn a truckload. Then we’ll move onto power. Malcolm, you’re our best in that area. We’ll need to…’ and so on.

That Jessica had no respect for Major didn’t matter. Her father’s dream was on track and she was at the controls. Major had revealed that he did need her after all. She watched him dutifully working the PC and found it very satisfying. ‘Alright,’ she said to herself. ‘Alright.’

The Game – Chapter 07

September 2, 2009 at 2:21 am | In Uncategorized | Leave a Comment
Tags: ceramic, contestant, correction, gaol, guard, jail, molecular tracking device, motivation, MTD, nanotechnology, prison, psychology, punter, science fiction, social stratification, speculative fiction

Adrian Storey arrived late at Prison 67. He was nervous, for on this day he was rostered in the Contestant Holding Wing — the facility purpose-built to accommodate Game participants. Shrugging into his jacket, he negotiated unfamiliar corridors to the site of his assignment.

Officially, duty in the ‘Sound Proof Booth’ promoted the ‘maturation and multiskilling of correction officers’. Rumour told a different story, that many punters, after surrendering to confinement, caused more trouble than death row inmates. Attacks, escape bids and suicide attempts all exceeded the statistics for the prison’s criminal population.

Adrian couldn’t figure it. Why would a contestant, having made an informed decision, lose the plot on signing? The most popular theories were religious guilt and ETAT coercion. Guards who had actually worked the wing held it was only disturbed people who signed in the first place. Adrian dreaded this opportunity to develop a theory of his own.

A set of Molecular Tracking Devices on the catwalk verified that he was alone, unarmed and Adrian. A second group in the portal recorded his tardiness while a thick window gave his first glimpse of the wing. A third set of MTDs confirmed that nothing unauthorised had entered the airlock with him and the inner door slid upwards.

The corridor was made of a seamless, white ceramic — the latest in human confinement and many times stronger than the toilet bowls Adrian searched for contraband in his regular role. The lighting was bizarre, with molecules aligned to let it pass through the solid material in thin, even sheets.

There were no shadows. Adrian felt flashes of vertigo and twice stopped to determine where the wall began. Each time his finger hit before he expected. ‘Jesus,’ he thought, ‘no wonder they freak out.’ To his relief, the unsettling corridor fed into a foyer whose colour scheme matched the rest of the prison complex.

Four people turned. Adrian nodded to his shift mate, John Jefferson, and was startled to see the Warden’s Number Two. The other men were unfamiliar, but their dress and bearing placed them in the correction industry.

‘Good of you to join us, Storey.’ The Number Two slitted terrier eyes. ‘We thought you’d declined your invitation.’

Adrian’s face burned. ‘Sorry Sir, I had a pretty late Game night. I mean I watched…’

‘Some of our internal customers?’

‘Yes Sir.’

‘I did the same when we commissioned this wing, but I didn’t let it make me late. Don’t do it again.’

‘Yes Sir.’

The Number Two glanced at his clipboard and gestured to the strangers. ‘Our friends from North Central have completed their rotation with flying colours. It now falls to you and Jefferson to carry on. I note your surprise, Storey, on seeing me here. Warden wants me to supervise hand-overs until the bullshit ceases. Certain people have been hearing rumours and we wish this to cease, understand?’

‘Yes Sir,’ said Adrian and Jefferson.

‘Good. Messrs. Jensen and Lowenthal, your debriefing is complete. Thanks for your efforts this month; you may return to your sector.’

Adrian noticed that Lowenthal’s tunic had a small tear, near the heart. His speculations were cut short as he and Jefferson were ushered into the control room.

‘This hand-over will be brief, since decisions in this wing are made by the remote team,’ said the Number Two. ‘Your contribution will be more hands-on. In a nutshell, you’ll provide concrete data for our virtual equation, ensuring our solutions are as practical as they are appropriate.’

‘I’m sorry Sir,’ said Jefferson, ‘I don’t understand what you mean.’

The Number Two sighed. ‘Let me put it simply. We push the buttons and watch everything, alright?’ Jefferson nodded. ‘You fill us in on the bits we can’t pick up, like: “Are they unconscious or faking?” You tell us what it’s like at the coal face; we factor that in and tell you what to do about it, OK?’

Jefferson looked happier, but now Storey was confused.

‘Sir?’

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t see why this wing isn’t run completely by Remote. There are sensors to handle every possible datum. If the facility is state of the art, why doesn’t it have the lot?’

The smaller man fidgeted. ‘Because, Storey, total remote simply doesn’t work. Remember your history: we trialled it thirty years ago and it turned H-Wing into a madhouse. Eleven certifiable fruitcakes, and that was according to our psychiatrists. The payouts were outrageous and the beat up nearly closed us. Our share options were ruined for years. And though your average citizen’s opinion doesn’t count for much these days, ETAT prefers to play it safe and employ people like us to provide… the human touch.’

‘People like us, you mean,’ said Adrian.

‘Correct.’ The Number Two activated a wall screen. ‘Since you two have such inquiring minds, I’ll reveal a piece of the big picture. As you can see from this elevation, this facility lies beneath the criminal wings. It is thus subject to more security than any other part of the prison. Reason one is that contestants are volatile. Warden knows you discuss this round the campfire. The cause of this volatility is not for speculation. That is both advice and a warning.

‘Reason two is the value of our guests. We can only imagine Game telecast revenue. Your tardiness, Storey, is testament to its popularity. Its attraction as entertainment, however, belies its pull on punters. The latest shortening of odds has led to a serious dearth of volunteers. If one of our internal customers escapes or dies and there’s no stand-in, the system is compromised.’

The Number Two rocked on his elevated heels. ‘Reason Three is ETAT’s reluctance to let contestants back into the community before they’ve met their instrument. Risking one’s life for a happier one has been found to create… tension. It is our task to ameliorate this tension. Unfortunately, this amelioration can at times be unpleasant. Once a punter’s on the set, he either dies or succeeds.

If he makes it, he invariably forgets his past trials in anticipation of a glorious future. Should he retain unpleasant memories, his contract dissuades him from sharing. Before competing, however, a punter with cold feet may think salvation lies in escaping and spilling his guts to the known universe. Such behaviour would threaten supply by giving potential contestants fresh fears to factor into their decision.’

Adrian’s mind reeled at the speech, unable to counter its brutal logic. Society revolved around The Game. But if ETAT were so paranoid about rumour and escape, why have such a high rotation of guards?

‘I’ll leave you to look around. Everything you need to know is on the computer. Remote is watching anyway, so there shouldn’t be a problem. Jefferson, you start on the console. Storey, you’re on cells. Enjoy your stay.’

The door sliced the Number Two from view. The guards stood in silence, then looked at each other.

‘What a wanker,’ Jefferson growled. ‘He must’ve been classified Rich up front. He’d never have the balls to take a shot himself.’

‘Damn right he was a shoe-in. I bet he’s never even been inside a Game device.’

‘Well Ade, one day I’m gonna piss this Comfortable life right off and scramble up there with him. I’d love to see his face across the bar of that kiss-arse club he goes to.’

‘That’d be nice. I think I’d even go tandem with you to be there on the night.’

‘Seriously?’

‘No, John. I’d love to, but to be honest, I don’t have the balls either. I’ll keep my crap beer and lousy apartment. It’s not much, but it’s better than a bloody great butter knife up my arse.’

‘Yeah, fair enough.’ Jefferson’s face grew animated. ‘Hey, how was that zero guy last night? Copped it on the very last click.’

‘That’s exactly what I’m saying. He was Rich, right? He had heaps more than us, yet it still wasn’t enough. He gambled the lot and became a rotisserie. We’re hardly pigs in shit, but we’re much better off than those Poor bastards. If it weren’t for the money Mum left me, I’d be cleaning bins too. I was just nineteen hundred bucks over the threshold by the end of my classification deferment. Two grand away from being Poor — can you believe it? Scared the bejesus out of me.’

Jefferson crossed the room. ‘Yeah, we’ve all heard your skin-of-the-teeth story. You just wait till I front with a Rich bitch. You’ll be greasing up that butter knife before we make it to the bedroom.’

Adrian laughed. ‘We’ll see. Shall we look around?’

‘You go. I’ll suss out this console like a good little correction officer and check with you later. We’ve got plenty of time.’

The Game – Chapter 06

September 1, 2009 at 7:09 am | In Uncategorized | 8 Comments
Tags: advertising, advertitle, CBD, chapter, fabric violation zone, IT, Moore's Law, narcotic template renaturing, novel, PC, personal computer, recycling trigger, science fiction, speculative fiction, Stalingrad, technology, tractor

Myron Price sprinted up his stone stairs and fished a locking card from his runner. Entering the relative warmth of his cottage, he felt satisfaction at having risen early on another winter morning. Fourteen kilometres was pretty good for one who sat on his backside all day.

At twenty-five he was determined to maintain his physique, unable to fathom why so many men took thirty as their cue to obesity. Each run set him further from average and he was glad of the distance.

Myron towelled his face and relished the excitement of his day off. It had been a good month and his home-based software consultancy could tick over without him. His second reward was to be the latest performance PC. The Panrax 3700J boasted far more power than his business required and quite enough to make the most of the latest games.

Brochures littered the lounge. Though computing was his passion, Myron didn’t like online catalogues. In anticipating a major purchase, it was more satisfying to possess the desired object on glossy paper than to see it on a monitor. Faced with this reality, advertisers had met strict environmental standards with recycling triggers. Of the many available, single-use literature employed fabric violation zones.

Tearing a zone initiated an accelerated weakening of molecular bonds which, under time lapse, looked like an eerie invisible fire. Showered and shaved, Myron ripped and binned the brochures he no longer wanted. By collection day, the paper discarded during the month would be reduced to fibres tailor-made for reconstitution.

Myron saved the well-thumbed Panrax brochure and felt a tug of pleasure. Soon he would own the finest PC yet built. Too distracted for breakfast, he left home with a light step and a sense of anticipation remembered from childhood.

**********

Soon Myron was slicing through bubble wrap and tape. His face glowed as cardboard petals revealed the black device swathed in cellophane. His superseded PC called Franz Heilmayr, who looked up from his soldering iron.

‘Hello, Mr Price. What’ve you got there then?’

‘The new toy, just out of the box.’

‘I see,’ said Franz with feigned disapproval. ‘And what possessed you to purchase this…,’ he peered through his sandy fringe.

Myron grinned. ‘3700J. I told you I was due for a reward.’

‘You must have done some very special work.’

‘Yeah, well, my company values me extremely highly. It follows that I should be compensated accordingly.’

‘I’m very happy for you.’

Myron knew his friend was envious, but not enough to begrudge him pleasure. ‘Thanks. Now, what say you come over and road test it with me?’

‘I can’t, I’ve got jobs on.’

‘Oh, bullshit! How can you think of work?’ Myron’s eyes narrowed conspiratorially. ‘I’ll let you take it to bits.’

Franz contemplated his bench. He enjoyed his work, but it didn’t compare to pulling apart the latest box. ‘You won’t have kittens every time I use my pliers?’

‘Absolutely not. Once we’ve seen what it can do, you may disembowel it — so long as you get us back online for tonight’s campaign.’

Franz’s pale blue eyes stared. ‘Shit! Is it two weeks already? Kiev seems like yesterday.’

‘Ja,’ said Myron, ‘und tonight is Stalingrad. We’re going to combine your paratroop strategy with this new beast. We’ll run their moves and send ours back so damn fast it’ll take their heads clean off!’

‘I still think they’re women,’ said Franz, referring to the team which challenged them fortnightly on PanzerNet. ‘Why else would they want to stay anonymous?’

Myron laughed. ‘Just because your dream girl has to be able to change a fan belt on a Tiger II.’

‘That’s not true! It’s their tactics; they’re diabolical and quite… merciless.’

‘Franz, I don’t care if we’re fighting gifted ferrets. If we don’t take Stalingrad tonight, our whole campaign’s at risk. So the sooner you satisfy your curiosity, the better we can ready for the fray.’

‘Alright; how does this sound? I’ll meet you half way. You play with your bells and whistles; I’ll come after lunch, look inside and get us up by 18:00. Then we can have a spot of pre-battle sustenance and I can enjoy the evening without freaking out about work. OK?’

‘You’ll miss the fireworks.’

‘I’m sure you’ll deign to run them again for me.’

‘Yeah, righto, but I want you here no later than 13:00. You know how carried away you get.’

‘Alright,’ said Franz, ‘See you then.’

‘OK.’

Myron slid the 3700J into his workstation, then fetched a beer. It was mid-morning, but he felt like celebrating. He settled back to watch the PC self test and the beverage went warm in his hand. The industry managed to produce a unit totally superior to its predecessor every two years. Myron never witnessed the change without a feeling of awe. Would the technology never reach a limit? After wrestling with the improbability of his machine’s existence, he surrendered to the fact and simply enjoyed the invention whose complexity was approaching that of the human brain.

**********

Franz Heilmayr shared Myron’s interest, but was less demonstrative. Dressed as usual in his rough, many-pocketed blouse and trousers, he removed the casing while Myron made a late lunch, then systematically disassembled the Panrax. Inside he discovered components which all but defied recognition. Paying homage to those responsible, he realised he’d have to study up to offer a customisation service.

Towards the end of his voyage, Franz grunted.

Myron looked up from a magazine. ‘What is it?’

‘Something strange.’ Franz slipped the Panrax’s manual into Myron’s old PC and a detailed schematic filled the screen. His tweezers held a blue, egg-shaped gob of plastic, three millimetres high and two wide. A fibre protruded from the narrow end. On the table lay a power module.

Myron felt a stab of anxiety. ‘You haven’t busted it, have you?’ He received the Look of Death. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that. What is it?’

‘Good question, infidel,’ said Franz. ‘It’s a resistor, but as to its purpose, I know not. Even more amazing than my admission of ignorance, your manual doesn’t seem to know either.’

Myron pointed. ‘Did it come from there?’

Franz peered through his magnifying glass. ‘Yes, where a resistor has no place to be. Thinking I was onto another ingenious piece of redesign, I called up the schematic. The component isn’t named at all. See?’

Myron followed the tweezers but saw only a sea of angular tagliatelli. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

‘Well, my word says it doesn’t match the product.’

‘Typo?’

Franz shook his head. ‘Not likely; the legal ramifications would be horrendous. Quality Control would never allow it.’

‘But it could be an error,’ said Myron, with no other idea to offer.

‘Possible, but extremely unlikely. I’d lay sixty to one against it.’

‘Well… what, then?’

‘I don’t know. There, I’ve said it again — that’s twice in one month!’ Franz rummaged in his tool bag and withdrew a slim rectangular card.

‘What’re you doing now?’

‘Keep your pants on; just a once over with the multimeter.’

‘Ah, to see if the resistor really is a resistor?’

‘Yeah.’

Myron was pleased with his glimmer of understanding. Franz performed the standard tests, then pushed away from the desk and rubbed his eyes.

‘I’ll be damned; it is a resistor. But what’s it doing there? I’ve gotta get up to speed with this stuff if I’m to stay in business.’

‘Well it’s nice to see that hardware can be as fickle as software,’ said Myron. ‘I’ve always envied you working with things you could smash against the wall. I’ve never had that luxury with coding.’

Franz stared at the schematic. ‘Looks like you might be right about the typo. You should’ve taken my odds.’ He began to reassemble the PC. ‘Why don’t you call Panrax? They might send you a token of thanks.’

‘What would I tell them? “The thingo left of the jigger is light on for tendrils”? They’d think I was mad. You’re the boffin; you call ‘em. Just put me down for twenty percent of the reward, whatever it is.’

‘If it’s booze, you’ll not get a drop. Ignorant bastard.’

‘Oh-ho! Bastard am I? Gunner Heilmayr wishes to forfeit his chance to duel with the gorgeous tractor factory amazons using Colonel Price’s superior technology. The Eastern Front Dating Agency is no more!’

‘Steady on, you black mongrel. Drummer Price forgets that Field Marshall Heilmayr has his precious technology in a thousand pieces and that without a full retraction of his insulting outburst, such pieces shall be reunited nevermore.’

Myron leapt to attention. ‘Sir, I hereby request permission to withdraw my insinuation that you participate in our campaign merely to nurture twisted fantasies about women who are into turn-based battle simulations. Forgive me.’

Franz returned the salute. ‘You are forgiven. Your penance shall be to command auxiliary units for the first hour. Also, I want a beer.’

‘Yes Sir! Now, please put my baby back together.’

**********

After three days, Myron had a good idea of what his machine could do. As he watched it handle his most complicated applications with ease, he felt humbled and even sad that he had nothing with which to challenge it. He imagined himself devising software of a complexity that demanded a new class of platform. His accounting and investment programs seemed drab and trivial by comparison.

On Friday he prepared for a drinking and bullshit session with Franz. Though alcohol, like all drugs, had been replaced by templates kind to bodies, it retained its disinhibiting effects. Narcotic Template Renaturing was akin to DNA engineering. Feeding off each other, the two research streams had developed in parallel. Just as it were possible to switch off codes for hereditary traits, adjustments in the molecular composition of intoxicants had swept away the undesirable consequences of a big night out.

Myron filled his freezer bag and wondered why many people had to be pissed to reveal their feelings. The situation had a flip side: if you wanted the truth from someone, you need only get him drunk. Myron resolved to raise the topic after a few beers.

‘It’s a funny old world,’ he said sagely to the mirror.

‘Mustn’t grumble,’ his reflection agreed brightly.

He lived in a doughnut-shaped zone that had once serviced the CBD. Now sourcing decisions were based on performance indicators and customers had abandoned their quest for human service. Materials and products sped cheaply and cleanly beneath the city, making it no longer necessary to locate close to clients. Zones became blurred as manufacturers moved out. Developers renovated most of the shells; councils demolished others for parks. A few niche businesses lived on among nascent residential communities.

Myron power-walked along reclaimed nature strips and bicycle tracks, past converted warehouses, concept domiciles and a growing number of svelte, well-designed public housing projects. Bricks and cancered concrete fought carbon fibre and Electroglass for his attention — two centuries of urban history framed in competing elevations.

The one constant among the farrago was advertising. Whoever owned a surface could rent it and few had resisted the temptation. Some builders even specialised in windowless homes, since unbroken surfaces commanded higher returns. Cued by their own flashing facades, owner-occupiers used the rent for gambling, intoxicants or take-away food. The fiscal advantage of prostituting the suburb thus returned via domestic budgets to corporate coffers.

A phalanx of these ‘advertitles’ pulsed a visual metronome at the end of Myron’s street — garish characters streaming over walls and roofs. As Myron approached, they quizzed his mobile and switched to products in keeping with his purchasing history.

Except for his PC, Myron was one of the few consumers who bought only when he needed to. He was in tune with his needs and no advertising, however intuitive, could move him. Like his friends, Myron deplored the mainstream and was proudly immune to calls for conformity, unless disinhibited by narcotics. Stoned, he was as vulnerable as any to sugar and sex. In his defence, he’d once held that society had been psychologically drugged and was experiencing an era he termed ‘The Global Munchies’. As a Rational Man, he could connect with the majority only by submitting to a drug-induced transformation of identity.

Myron’s friends, themselves considerably disinhibited at the time, had replied candidly that he was full of shit.

The Game – Chapter 05

August 31, 2009 at 2:48 am | In Uncategorized | Leave a Comment
Tags: AIDS, chapter, HIV, industry, molecular tracking device, novel, research, safe sex, science fiction, speculative fiction, technology

Breakthroughs occurred in Year Four of the Molecular Tracking Device project and the scent of success galvanised the Diep Research Centre team. Casting aside the remaining shreds of their social lives, the scientists toiled around the clock.

At last, Jessica Diep and her colleagues produced a prototype. Like children putting on a show, they whispered excitedly until Neville Major arrived for his briefing. A radiant Jessica delivered the speech she’d been rehearsing since adolescence.

‘In conclusion, gang, it’s been an honour to work with you. We’ve slogged our bums off and achieved something to be immensely proud of. For the times I lost my temper, I’m sorry. Though it’s no excuse, this project has pretty much ruled my life. I’m very happy and very grateful. My one regret is that Dad isn’t here to see what we’ve done. Most of you will remember how excited he used to get. Well, wherever he is now, I can guarantee he’s doing his absolute nut.’

The group cheered and applauded.

‘Now, Neville, since you were the only one with the faith (and the funding) to get this technology off the ground, I think it’s fitting that you flick the switch on our demonstration.’ She glanced around smiling. ‘I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.’

Jessica was more accurate than she realised. After the successful demonstration, Major acknowledged contributions, promised bonuses and reiterated the project’s social value. He then predicted greater challenges, adding that they could wait until after the victory party, which he undertook to organise for that evening.

The night began with a banquet served in a lavishly redecorated conference room. The space had the feel of a familiar place used for a strange purpose, like a kindergarten voting centre. Afterwards, the team relaxed around the fireplace installed for the occasion. Ambient music from an industrial-strength entertainment system flowed around them.

A tray circulated with cocaine, MDMA and LSD templates — all guaranteed harmless and non-addictive by their manufacturers. Only the underworld had opposed their introduction; the drop in crime had been staggering. As the team began its ascent, Major said a few words then excused himself. A redheaded engineer thanked him for all he’d done and the group warmly echoed his sentiments.

With their executive controller gone, a feeling of release paired with the drugs to remove inhibitions. Laughter rang out as the group began to entertain itself. Music and conversation swirled faster and louder, till all were on their feet pounding the expensive rugs to fluff. Much later, the romantics ceded the room to diehard dancers. The rest saw sunrise from the roof of the facility as the most significant chapter of their lives closed behind them.

Neville Major was too excited to notice the morning spilling into his study. Not for thirty years had he felt so alive. He’d achieved the most significant adaptation of computer power to date. A modern Domesday Book, able to log all discrete manifestations of matter.

Compounding this triumph was his political victory. In four years he’d achieved what even supportive Members had claimed would take twelve. He now had the jump over rivals working on other methods of societal control. As the world embraced the logic of employing ETAT Members to run its systems, he’d delivered the means by which such power, once secured, could be retained.

He’d hardly been able to contain himself during the briefing, so eager was he to confront his critics. Fortunately sense had prevailed. The prototype had significant scope for improvement, especially in terms of reliability. It wasn’t ready for the dramatic unveiling he’d envisioned since encountering Jessica’s thesis.

A gifted orator, Major was one of the few PC users who employed voice recognition. To the despair of its proponents, most eschewed the utility in favour of typing, for fear of voicing mistakes. Now his report was taking shape. ETAT was an unofficial conglomerate of minds. Yet every organisation, however nebulous, needed a leader.

**********

As soon as the improved prototype was ready, Major authorised leave for all but Jessica and three of her team. Though he had loaded his report with lures, he was stunned at the number of Members who attended his briefing.

He acknowledged the most powerful people on earth and introduced Jessica, treading a fine line between crediting her and keeping the focus on himself. With patent pride, Jessica nodded to the assembly, retired behind the prototype and swapped smiles with her off stage support team.

Major’s rich baritone swept the auditorium, channelled by a forest of acoustic reflectors.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, today you shall witness the most remarkable of inventions. The Molecular Tracking Device, or MTD, collects and transmits detailed information about discrete objects — enabling them to be identified and tracked. The technology relies on the unique molecular signature of everything around us, its speed and accuracy varying according to conditions. If an object’s molecular signature is known, stable and close to an MTD, accuracy can be as high as 99.97 percent.

‘Take, for example, this “Spoonbak” construction brick.’ Major held the shiny prism aloft. ‘This is a simple product made by the Alesis group of companies from known elements. Information about its every dimension is held on the Internet, including its specifications and method of manufacture. We can easily list the world’s structures incorporating bricks of this type. In other words, we know all about Spoonbak bricks.

Now, the MTD interfaces with the Internet. If it comes within range of a brick like this, a spontaneous Net search for a generic match will reveal instantly that the MTD is dealing with an Alesis Spoonbak brick. That certainly narrows the field and in most cases we’d have learned all we wanted to know. But the MTD can go much further; it can identify a specific brick from countless visually identical units.’

Major paused to gauge his effect. The audience was interested, but neither convinced nor impressed. He moved to the edge of the stage.

‘The power of molecular tracking is better demonstrated than described. May I have a volunteer? …Alright, how about a sceptic?’ A thickset, bullet-headed man clambered from the darkness. Major recognised his arch critic and felt a flutter of anxiety.

‘Good morning, Mr Hillyer. Would it be fair to say you’re unconvinced as to the power and potential of the Molecular Tracking Device?’

Jason Hillyer took the stage. ‘That would be putting my view very mildly.’

‘Share with us, then, your frank views on this technology.’

Hillyer folded his arms. ‘Having read everything you’ve sent us, I’ve formed the opinion that it’s a complete waste of resources. Nor have I witnessed anything today beyond rhetoric.’

Major blanched and forced a smile. ‘Thanks for your appraisal. Now a question: were you earlier approached to assist in today’s demonstration?’

‘Certainly not!’

‘Have you ever received any incentive to regard this invention favourably?’

‘Absolutely not! I came today to see this ridiculous project crash and burn.’ Hillyer’s gaze narrowed. ‘I suggest you get on with it.’

‘Certainly; I sought merely to establish your authenticity as a volunteer.’

The bullet head rotated. ‘My colleagues are well aware of my views.’ Guffaws rose from the gloom.

‘Very well. Jessica, scan Mr Hillyer and tell us something about him we could not reasonably know.’

Jessica studied her monitor. ‘His shoes are hand made.’

‘What else?’

‘He had sausages, eggs, bacon, toast and pineapple juice for breakfast.’

‘And?’

‘The emerald in his ring is real; the diamond isn’t.’

Major chuckled. ‘How many carats is the gold?’

‘Twenty.’

‘How many dental fillings does he have?’

‘One… SureFix amalgam.’

‘How old is he?’

Jessica paused. ‘43.9 years.’

‘This is bullshit!’ said Hillyer. ‘All this information could’ve been gathered in advance.’ Murmurs of agreement sounded. ‘Is this the best you can do?’

‘May I remind you, Jason, that you volunteered?’

‘So what? For all I know, you’ve spent your obscene budget having all of us followed, just to assemble material for this sham of a demonstration. Well you don’t convince me; I’ve seen enough.’

Terrified of a walkout, Major played his last, desperate card.

‘Wait!’

Hillyer turned. ‘What?’

‘I shall prove this invention to your satisfaction or resign from this organisation.’

Gasps swept the auditorium; this was unbelievable. Hard-nosed entrepreneurs and bemused technocrats leaned forward to catch Hillyer’s reply.

‘How?’

Major wet his lips. ‘Ask Jessica three questions about yourself. Things to which only you know the answer and for which correct responses will constitute proof that my claims are genuine.’

Hillyer thought it over, suspecting a trick but unable to resist. ‘Alright, but one wrong call and you’re finished.’

‘Agreed,’ said Major, his heart beating wildly. He looked at Jessica. Her eyes berated him for the unfair trial. She’d only scanned Hillyer and the clothes he stood in. If he had any idea of the MTD’s limitations, they were history.

Hillyer strolled to the table. ‘Ready?’

‘Knock yourself out,’ Jessica retorted.

‘Right. Question One: what sort of fish do I keep?’

Jessica’s heart fell and her eyes pricked. Her dream had been reduced to a cheap gag. In an angry voice directed squarely at Major she said, ‘I don’t know; what sort of fish do you keep?’

‘Ha! I thought as much.’

Hillyer stomped over to Major, his words lost in the audience’s cacophony. On saying his piece with patent relish, he left the stage. Colleagues gave the thumbs up and welcomed him back to his seat. Pandemonium reigned. Then a circle of calm radiated from the centre of the auditorium. ETAT’s most senior Member held his withered hand aloft. One by one, neighbouring peers fell silent, as much out of curiosity as respect.

Victor Chow was the closest thing ETAT had to a leader. Notorious for influencing without overt action, his acumen had achieved mythic proportions. To draw attention like this was unprecedented. Only after silence returned did Chow’s words waft over the assembly — in the voice of a stern but kindly grandparent.

‘I suggest this demonstration has failed to reveal the potential of the Molecular Tracking Device.’

‘No shit,’ Jessica muttered, wondering what the hell was going on.

‘I suggest we take a second look at the technology before dismissing it,’ continued Chow.

No one dared object.

‘Ms Diep.’

Startled, Jessica peered into the lights for a face. ‘Yes?’

‘You have scanned Mr Hillyer.’

‘Yeah.’ Jessica felt rising anger at the voice’s anonymity.

‘You can tell much about Jason from his physiology and from what he is wearing and carrying.’

‘It’s a bit late for this, don’t you think?’ Jessica’s eyes tracked irritably over the sea of suits. ‘Who am I talking to anyway?’

Crimson at this impertinence, Major strode over and hissed a blunt description of Chow’s importance. Jessica recoiled with a loud ‘So what?’ Major moved in front of her, his gestures suddenly suppliant in the spotlight’s shadow, but she shook her head emphatically. He then flung out his arms as if to conduct her. She side-stepped and opened her mouth defiantly, but before she could speak, Major ducked forward with a whisper sharp enough to wound.

Jessica stilled and stared at him, through him. He was serious about throwing her off the project. Like hair caught in a lathe, all trust and respect for him was instantly stripped away. Blood searing, the taste of iron in her mouth, she turned jerkily back to the voice.

‘Yes, Mister Chow, I can tell you a great deal about Mr Hillyer.’

Chow continued as if nothing had happened. ‘But you have had no access to Mr Hillyer’s home.’

‘No. Ten seconds in there and I’d have known more about his fu…, his jolly fish than he ever will.’

A titter rippled through the assembly. Hillyer shifted uneasily.

‘Tell me,’ asked Chow, ‘can you reveal something truly confidential about Mr Hillyer himself? Something… significant?’

‘Of course.’

Hillyer rose and roundly denounced Jessica, Major, the MTD and everything associated with it. Chow let him wind down, until Hillyer realised he was raving to silence. He spluttered to a halt and looked at the ring of expectant faces.

Chow’s eyes glittered in the darkness. ‘Your attitude towards new ideas is regrettable, Jason. What have you found, Jessica?’

‘Pure wool suit with silk lining. Platinum AMEX card in factory-stitched, pigskin wallet. Broken left tibia at age six. Cancer polyps removed from large intestine five months ago. Blood group A-positive…’ Jessica hesitated; Hillyer looked up sharply.

‘What have you found?’ Chow prompted.

‘Er. Something significant. But I don’t think it’s what you’re after.’

‘This has gone far enough!’ Hillyer exploded.

‘What is it, Jessica?’

‘I’m really not sure you want to know.’

‘Tell us!’ The voice was irresistible.

‘OK; you asked for it. Mr Hillyer has been HIV-22C positive for one month. Lesions indicate vigorous rectal penetration at this time. Causal link: 97.4 percent. Mr Hillyer appears to have become infected by means of unsafe intercourse. Tissue traces inside his foreskin further indicate he has performed unprotected penetration of an adult male less than six hours ago. Satisfied?’

Every eye fixed on Hillyer. That he had the virus was irrelevant; ten percent of the population carried one or more strains. That he slept with men was even less an issue; one in four experimented with homosexuality. What stunned the auditorium was Hillyer’s disregard for the only moral standard ever embraced by the world community: that of safe sex. He had failed to monitor his health and endangered that of another. Though no longer a death sentence, AIDS demanded lifetime medication.

‘Jason,’ asked Chow, ‘is this true?’

‘You don’t understand,’ Hillyer croaked.

‘I understand that the MTD works. Would you say you now hold a similar view?’

‘Go fuck yourself!’ Hillyer tottered through the nearest door and tried to slam it behind him. It stubbornly whispered shut of its own accord.

After again waiting for calm, Chow summed up. ‘I consider the MTD a remarkable invention worthy of further study. I see significant potential for it to address our requirements. I commend Neville on his work and suggest we support him fully.’

Jessica and her assistants were ushered from the auditorium. Major took the dais again and predicted that if correctly introduced, the MTD could identify and track every person, object and transaction in the world. Combined with the unlimited storage capacity of the Internet, ETAT would have at its disposal the most effective intelligence, administrative and enforcement network ever known.

The meeting ran late into the night. Word spread rapidly and Members who hadn’t attended broke commitments to link up with proceedings. It was ETAT’s largest ever gathering. Under Chow’s patronage, arguments were productive and business proceeded briskly.

**********

Major’s suite overlooked the river. Needing time to collect himself, he enjoyed a scalding spa, then switched off the lights and opened the curtains. A moonlit panorama swept into view, the water a play of mercurial reflections. A net of fairy lights stretched to the mountains.

Major reflected drowsily on the most significant day of his life. Victor Chow’s personal endorsement was his mandate to shape the future.

His face hardened. Jessica now knew she was expendable. Though serious, the issue didn’t impair his sleep. He was a great believer in the power of problem incubation and his smile returned as the low moon bathed him into effigy.

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The Game

The Game – Chapter 13 [Work in Progress.]

The Game – Chapter 12

The Game – Chapter 11

The Game – Chapter 10

The Game – Chapter 09A

The Game – Chapter 09

The Game – Chapter 08

The Game – Chapter 06

The Game – Chapter 05

Paul Hassing

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