Tag: Fantasy

Upgrade

Jinni’s round rosy cheeks glowed with surprise. “You don’t know? School’s where kids go to play games, meet other kids, and paint pictures.” She poured sand from a pink plastic cup into a yellow dump truck half her size. “And sometimes we get to win prizes and eat birthday cake. My mommy says big girls go to school.” She brushed sand off her daisy-embroidered pullover and bright green suspender-pants.

“My mommy says I don’t have to go to school,” MRKI said from the corner of the sandbox. “I can stay home with her and get upgrades.”

“But what about games, you won’t get to play any games?” Jinni sounded distressed. “And if you don’t go I’ll have to go alone.”

“If you want you can still come over to visit me,” MRKI said and tilted her head. “But I’ll be a boy.”

“A boy? Ooo, yucky.” Jinni sounded confused. “Boys are terrible. My mommy says so. And you’re a girl. That’s better.” She pushed back her curls and got sand in her blond hair.

“I can be whatever I want,” MRKI said, smugly. “But next time I get an upgrade maybe I’ll be a girl again.” MRKI nodded smiling until Jinni nodded and smiled back.

“It might be okay to be a boy then,” Jinni said, “but just for a little while. And if I don’t talk to you while you’re a boy, you can tell me about it when you’re a girl again.”

“Okay,” MRKI said, and they both laughed.

“And I’ll be smarter too,” MRKI said. “Not because I’m a boy, but because my mommy is getting me the 5 Upgrade. So I’ll know fractions and logger … logarithms and French and … ahh, ahh, Heidegger. Anyway I’ll be really smart, so you still might not want to talk to me.”

“High digger?” Jinni frowned. MRKI nodded. Jinni returned to spooning sand into her pink cup. “I still get to play games.”

“I don’t have to play games,” MRKI said. “My upgrade remembers me playing games so I don’t have to. And I don’t have to go to the playground … and see mean kids … and get dirty … and I get to wear pretty dresses all the time cause I’m not getting dirty.”

“Dresses? If you’re a boy, you can’t wear dresses. Boy’s don’t wear dresses.” Jinni smirked.

“Yes they do, my mommy says boys can wear dresses, too.”

Jinni stuck out her tongue and walked home.

 

The next morning Jinni’s mother set a blue bowl on a yellow flower-patterned mat for Jinni’s breakfast, arranged a napkin and teaspoon beside it, and poured orange juice into a ceramic cup with a field mouse face on the side and handles like mouse ears.

“Jinni, come down,” she called. “Hurry up, we have to leave for school soon.”

“I don’t want to go to school,” Jinni said, walking in sullen. She climbed onto her seat and took the teaspoon in her round fist.

“What’s wrong, honey. I thought you wanted to go to school and play games with the other kids.”

“No – I – don’t. I want to wear pretty dresses and remember stuff, like, like French and loggers and high diggers.” She frowned up at her mother. “And I want to be a boy.”

Her mother sat back confused. “If you want mommy to get you a computer implant, I can do that. There’s a long wait for gender reassignment, but I can put you on the list. Is that what you want?”

“NO,” Jinni said, pouting. “I want to get upgrades and be just like my best friend, just like MRKI.”

“But Jinni, MRKI’s not alive. MRKI’s a robot.”

Callisto Confidential

“Hargate, this is Carly Shellion checking in for the GSA Jupiter mission, Callisto Command Center. I know the solar storm took down your comms last month, so I’ll just read the list of what happened.” She affected her best cheerful expression.

“I replaced Jamaal as C3 station monitor. He left on the return module two weeks ago. He looked fine. The GSA handyman showed up last week and got the food synthesizer working. Jamaal put that repair order in fifteen months ago.

“Tell Jamaal I appreciate his recipe for Callisto krill cakes and his technique for scraping them off the water filters. He got pretty desperate without the food synthesizer. Last night I fed krill into it. Krill steaks taste better than the ones made from protein paste. Only thing missing was a good martini. If you guys really want to cheer me up, add gin and vermouth to the next supply run.

“Best news. Before the handyman left, he put together the moon rover you wanted me to test. I ran the diagnostics and got it up and running this morning. As you can see, everything on “Rover” checks out. Carly swiveled back to give the sensor a clear view. “Heathcliff, can you say something for the Hargate team?”

“Rrrruh, rrrruh.” The sensor tilted to find the source of the barking—a large black Labrador retriever sitting with a toothy grin. Carly jumped down to hug the simulated animal.

“Thank you so much for modeling the rover after my dog.” She looked up into the sensor. “You even programmed in the commands I taught him. I’ll test the sensors when we do the rounds outside.”

She smiled, signed out, and leaned back in her chair. No human visitors were scheduled to arrive for two years. No supply ship for nine months. She stroked rover Heathcliff’s ears.

Jamaal had warned her about the solitude and said GSA’s only interest was in making a profit. He was sure if anything interesting happened, GSA would send one of their boys to take credit. One time he got so lonely that he almost made something up just to get a visitor. Carly was pretty certain his complaining was responsible for her getting Heathcliff.

“Let’s go boy.” The simulant responded with instant wiggling and tail wagging at the prospect of going outside for a walk. It raced her to the moon-suit locker, crossing and re-crossing the room’s threshold several times. Carly suited up helmet to boots, checked the oxygen, pressed in a charged capacitor, added another to her side pouch, and climbed the stairs to the airlock.

She checked the suit’s seals, oxygen flow, and temperature before venturing out. Heathcliff, undaunted by the minus 142 degree centigrade temperature, dashed past her and began sniffing chemical samples.

slide1
Approaching Callisto with Ganymede and Jupiter in the background

Callisto’s rock and ice surface was broken with sharp-ridged craters never smoothed by erosion. Hanging on the horizon to Carly’s right, Jupiter’s orange striped disk looked twice the size of Earth’s moon. To her left, the sun was a distant searchlight, and Earth a pinpoint.

From the command center, Carly rounded past the antenna farm, the water pump and electrolysis plant, the oxygen and hydrogen storage facilities, the additive manufacturing plant, the garage and motor pool, and finally the fusion power reactor. Heathcliff loped along, sniffing and — God bless the engineers’ sense of humor — lifting a leg to every vertical surface.

Everything was in order. GSA’s automated systems picked up any leaking, pressure drops, disconnections, or system failures, but the operations manual insisted on daily inspections. Carly didn’t mind. Even in gravity one eighth that of Earth, she wanted the exercise. More than that she needed to look at a horizon further off than C3’s eight-meter diameter.

Glancing back, she decided she wasn’t ready to go in. “Shall we walk a little further?” she asked. Heathcliff’s tail wagging accelerated. “Good boy.” She leaned down and stroked the simulant’s neck with her wide gloved hands. This would be her first excursion. Jamaal said beyond what he’d seen in the original survey records, he had no idea what was out there. He preferred virtual entertainment close to his home base.

So with Heathcliff at her side, Carly headed for the nearest rise. The walk was not strenuous; she had learned the low-gravity glide-walk, and Cal-Pro meds kept her strength up. But she didn’t want to risk tearing anything on the sharp outcroppings.

Heathcliff zigzagged ahead of her, sniffing and lifting. After a kilometer, she arced right, planning to follow the crater ridge and keep arcing until she got back. Jupiter was her reference.

Heathcliff suddenly became rigid, pointing with his muzzle. “What is it boy?” Carly stroked the simulant’s neck. “Hrrruu, hrrruu, hrrruu,” it growled and looked back to her. “Go ahead, boy. Show me what you found.”

She waved the simulant ahead, and he took off, his nose-sensor pressed down. Carly followed him around the base of one crater into a valley it created with another. She found him sitting beside a dome barely higher than himself.

The dome’s smoothness contrasted with the sharp ridges of the terrain, but its white tone blended perfectly. Carly’s first impression was that they’d stumbled upon a pressure dome. That seemed unlikely in light of Callisto’s lack of geologic activity, but the consequences of something like that bursting could be instant ice encasement. She walked around its base, twelve by seven meters, an ellipse. It appeared to widen below the surface.

“Leroy,” she called the engineering tractor by the designator Jamaal had given it, “would you bring me the radar surveillance module.”

“Yo, my man, be right witch’a.” Carly laughed. She’d forgotten Jamaal had programmed Leroy to sound like an old high school buddy.

Leroy arrived three minutes later. Ice-penetrating radar showed an ellipsoid fifty-eight by at least thirty-three meters buried mostly under the ice. Its hull—for that’s what Carly decided it was—was an iron-carbon-beryllium alloy of metallic glass.

Could such a thing have come from Earth? If it was man-made, it was more advanced than anything she had ever seen. But she didn’t want to make a fool of herself. She’d check it out before she sounded any sort of alien alert. Jamaal’s words came to her, Find anything interesting … GSA’s gonna send up one of their chosen boys to take credit.

What was she to do? This was certainly interesting. She shrugged and inadvertently swept a glove across the ellipsoid’s smooth surface. An electrical shock ran up her arm. She pulled back. She touched the object again. It was vibrating. She stepped several paces back. Nothing more happened.

“Leroy,” she turned to the tractor, “lift back to camp?”

“Right on, baby. You an’ that bad boy jus’ get on up.”

Three hours later, Carly still hadn’t found any report about a Callisto-bound or stranded space module, escape pod, planet monitor, sensor package—

Suddenly, Heathcliff barked, ran to the airlock, and started jumping. Back home when her Lab did that, she knew a stranger was at the door. She regretted not insisting the handyman put cameras around the perimeter.

She dressed quickly and raced through the airlocks. There on the stoop she found an environmentally sealed container, about a meter on each side and half-a-meter high. Against her better judgment, she brought it into the Callisto Command Center control room.

She stared at it, afraid to open it, afraid not to. Curiosity overcame fear. Inside she found six large and two smaller bottles of clear liquids, all without markings. Tucked beside the bottles were two stemmed glasses with funneled bowls. She unscrewed a large bottle, dipped a finger, and tasted it. Gin … her last request to the Hargate engineers.

GSA’ll send someone to take credit. “Not on my watch,” she said aloud. She laughed and hoisted the two martini glasses. “Looks like someone around here wants to be invited over.”

The next story in the Callisto series is Who’s Out There?

And To All A Good Night

Jamaal’s projection popped up in the middle of his family’s media room. He wore a Global Space Agency tank top with the GSA logo stretched across his left pectoral. Though his wide brown eyes looked tired and his gaunt cheeks spouted scruffy corkscrew hairs, he was all smiles. The wall behind him bore the words, ‘Callisto Command Center, C3’, arched over a picture of Jupiter and a confusion of dials, gauges, monitors, and switches.

“Hi Mom and Dad, and Merry Christmas.” His eyes sparkled as he revealed what they both knew already. “Yup, I did it. Your runaway son is alive and well, and is spending his Christmas alone on Callisto. ALONE. Whew, and lonely.” He cocked his head and let his tongue loll from his open mouth. “I still have three Christmases to go before I can come back.” He scratched the hairs on his chin. “Sorry, I won’t be graduating this year like I told you. I only took enough classes at Stanford to qualify for the Jupiter mission. You wanted an engineer. Instead you got a glorified service station attendant.” He shook his head and shrugged.

callisto
Callisto – Home for four years.

“Been here a week, so I’m still settling in. This far out, the sun’s just a really bright star. Jupiter looks about twice the size of the moon, and it stays in the same place, just above the horizon. Gravity is one-eighth of Earth’s, but that feels heavy after two years in zero G traveling here. I should’ve taken the Cal-Pro meds like the doc said … I wouldn’t have lost so much muscle.

“I know December is cold in Saginaw, but if you get Kryn to set up my old telescope, she can show you, Coraleen, Raymond, and the grandkids where I am. Once you find Jupiter, Callisto is the fourth moon, the third out to the right if you look tonight.

“It’s cold up here too, minus 140 degrees centigrade. And I will have a white Christmas—Callisto is covered in an ice crust.” Jamaal turned in his seat and pointed to a robot tilted back into a recharge station.

“That’s Leroy. He’s my only buddy. Does most of the work outside. You remember Leroy from Elon Musk High School. I pasted his prom picture on the robot’s dashboard and loaded Leroy’s voice into the robot’s synthesizer. Did I say I was lonely?” He scratched his chin again and bit his lower lip.

“I haven’t had any visitors yet, but GSA assures me business will pick up. They have a lot of plans for C3. They want to make this a space dock, repair yard, and refueling station for outbound space missions. The electrolysis plant makes and stores hydrogen for nuclear engines. We’ll make our own repair parts from what we can salvage from space. Up top it looks like a junkyard: old boosters, landing modules, habitats, that sorta stuff. They drop everything here. We even have the entire spacecraft from the last failed deep space mission. Lotsa cool stuff onboard.” He smiled and nodded wide-eyed.

“The additive manufacturing plant will make the replacement parts—some call it a 3-D printer. I’ve played with it some. Tried to use the junk outside for feedstock. That got me into some trouble.” He raised and shook both index fingers.

“Dad, remember when I got that cortical implant so I could run the VR Dragon Lord Empire? You hit the ceiling and said I was wasting my college money.” Jamaal squinted, pursing his lips. “Well, I have to confess. It caused some problems back home, and up here it’s started talking to the C3 main computer.” Jamaal looked down at his lap then back up.

“I was rehearsing a little Christmas show I wanted to do for you and … ahh, the computer tried to help. The security recording just about captures it.” The scene switched to the side of Jamaal’s head nestled into a pillow.

“Ow! Ow! What the f – – -.” In the recording, Jamaal batted at his face and forehead hurling two purple spheres across the room to the far bulkhead.

“Hey, why’d you do that,” the tennis-ball-sized spheres responded together in high matched voices.

“What are you?” Jamaal said, gaping and sitting up in his bunk. “And what are you doing here?”

“You requisitioned sugar plum fairies,” the nearest purple sphere said, blinking its anime eyes.

“Sugar – plum – fairies?” Jamaal squinched up his face.

“Well, sugarplums that dance,” the sphere said. It rocked upright, checked its spindly limbs for damage then pulled up a virtual checklist. “You know, ‘visions of sugar plums danced in their heads.’ Your cyber link failed to specify design parameters for sugarplums. With the Christmas deadline so close, the best we came up with was ‘Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies’ from The Nutcracker.” Both sugarplums gestured mechanical palms upward. “We didn’t think you wanted actual ballerinas on your head.”

“Hmm,” Jamaal said, arching his eyebrows, “ballerinas on my—oh, oh no, certainly not. But I didn’t order sugarplums either, not dancing or otherwise.” He reached up and pulled a conical hat off his head. “What is this?”

“‘And I in my cap’, one sleeping cap, check,” the plum said, raising a spindly metallic finger. “Well, the order went in … and it came from you, Jamaal Washington,” both sugarplums chimed together.

A terrible racket suddenly came from above. Jamaal scanned the ceiling and ran out to check the command center. The sugarplums followed.

“… a clatter heard on the roof, check,” one plum said. Then came a sharp staccato rhythm. “… the prancing and pawing of each little hoof.” The plum pivoted toward the hydrothermal heat exchanger bedecked with sweat socks. “Stockings hung by the chimney—or suitable appliance—with care, check.”

“Now what is that sound?” Jamaal said looking confused and exhausted.

“You don’t have a chimney for Santa to come down. The only outside access is through the refuse chute.” Both plums smiled.

Jamaal ran to the bathroom. A red worm slithered out from the toilet, then another worm, then a white one, a black one, several more red ones. They kept coming. As Jamaal watched, the worms collected on the floor, braided together and transformed into a black base of two pillars topped by red then white then more red. The figure kept building and transforming, red fringed with white. It took a human appearance, a short heavyset elderly gentleman with shining eyes and a full beard as white as the snow. Several red worms collect at the top to form a hat. The last black ones formed the stump of a pipe that hooked into the figure’s mouth. Check, said the plums together.

“Hey, now,” Jamaal protested, “I didn’t authorize—” The figure shook its finger and raised it to its mouth for quiet, then it walked directly to the sock-bedizened hydrothermal exchanger. “Excuse me. Can you explain—“

“Jamaal, Jamaal,” the plums interrupted, “your specifications were clear on this. Santa is not enabled for direct verbal communications. ‘He spoke not a word but went straight to his work.’ ‘Not a word’, you said.” Check, said the other plum.

Jamaal clenched his jaw and fists, and watched as the Santa figure stuffed wrapped gifts into his soiled socks. The jolly figure turned to Jamaal, laughed until its belly shook like jelly, and winked. Then it strolled to the bathroom and disassembled into mechanical worms that leaped into the waste disposal and vanished. The two sugarplums jumped in after Santa.

And the scene returned to Jamaal laughing from the desk console in front of the Callisto Command Center. “That’s all I have time for now. The console says there’s an incoming transmission, so I have to sign out.” As Jamaal waved and his image faded, the incoming message came from the C3 speakers.

“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.” Check!

The Cherry Sourball

“We’re on the air in…” Marsha Mellow checked her watch, “ninety-eight minutes. So let’s rehearse the questions. Then you can both go back to makeup.”

“Thank you, Marsha,” Senator Toggle said, his gray hair perfectly coiffed. “Before we start, I want to say—”

“We only have a few minutes, Senator, so let’s get right to Dr. Setback’s discovery.” She turned to the crew arranging the set. “How’s the lighting?” The cameraman looked out from his camera and waved. “Sound, Geoff?” The straggle-haired soundman gave a thumbs-up and propped his sandaled feet on the mixing console.

Mellow began, “Doctor Setback and his team have perfected a Smart Pill. Have I said that correctly?” She looked at the scientist.

“It’s not a pill precisely, not in the medical sense. Actually,” he projected a stack of schematics and formulas, “it’s a precisely ordered sequence of APMs, atomically precise machines, that act as catalysts to restructure neural—”

“I’m sorry, Doctor,” Mellow interrupted, “our audience has a secondary-school understanding of science. Can you give them the lollypop version?” Setback looked chastised.

“My Smart Pill optimizes every human faculty,” he started again. “Saliva and sucking action in the mouth dissolves the pill to release nano, I mean, very tiny agents. From the mouth, these agents migrate to the brainstem then up to the brain. The affect is almost immediate.” Setback smiled. “We even made it cherry flavored to encourage sucking.”

Mellow leaned toward the scientist, her eyes dramatically wide. “How soon before I can expect to have encyclopedic knowledge, perfect memory, hyper-normal focus, and an expert golf swing?”

“You will have all those things and more, but pill production will be slow. My team took sixteen years to assemble this first—“

“Do you have it to show us, Doctor?” Mellow interrupted.

“It’s in the jacket I left in the car.”

“Okay, get it before we go on. For now, pretend you’re showing it to me.”

“This little pill has sixteen million agents,” he pointed to the hollow of his open hand, “each built atom by atom, and each designed specifically for one task.”

“Who gets this one?” Mellow asked, cheerily pointing to Setback’s open hand.

“Senator Toggle.” He gestured past Mellow who pivoted in her seat.

Toggle cleared his throat. “The Committee On Human Enhancement, which I chair, considers Dr. Setback’s Smart Pill to be a momentous breakthrough, perhaps the greatest in human history. Certainly it would be immoral to profit from this invention or to regulate its availability. So selecting the first recipient is a very serious responsibility. We must consider the humanitarian implications and those underserved in our community. I and my party—“

“Thank you, Senator Toggle,” Mellow said, “I think we’re ready to go.” She looked around. “Everyone take a break and get back in…” she checked her watch, “twenty-three minutes.” She looked at Setback. “Doctor, before makeup, could you bring in the pill—so we have it ready on set.”

Toggle left for the makeup room and Setback for the parking lot. Soundman Geoff gestured to the cameraman, pinching his thumb and forefinger to his pursed lips and pointing to the smoking deck. He took the sourball from his mouth and placed it on the mixer console before heading to the back door.

First to return to the set, Senator Toggle spotted Geoff’s sourball on the console. No one was around. He examined the red candy, holding it up to the light before poking it into his mouth.

“Ah, yes,” he murmured, “I knew I was the one. Everything’s so clear now. I was right all along.” He looked up savoring the cherry flavor and spreading his arms wide. “I’m the one,” he shouted and headed out the front door.

Doctor Setback walked in next with a wide-checked jacket over his arm.

“No, no, that won’t do,” Marsha Mellow said, coming in behind him. “We’ll get you another jacket. Just leave it here and go back to makeup.”

Setback removed a baggy with the red Smart Pill from the jacket, set them both on the mixing console, and followed Mellow to makeup.

At that moment, Geoff stumbled in, fell into his seat, and looked around. “Hey, Marsh’, you take my sourball? Ahh, I see it. Okay, thanks for putting it in a baggy.” He plopped the pill into his mouth. It was smaller than he remembered, but he decided not to accuse Mellow of sucking on it.

“Ready on set,” Marsha called, rushing out with Setback as the lights came up. “Now where’s Toggle?”

“I saw him running in the lot as I came in,” Geoff said, sucking vigorously.

“And where’s my Smart Pill,” Setback said, lifting the empty baggy. Geoff relaxed as he felt the pill take effect.

“I thought it was my cherry sourball,” he said. Setback’s knees buckled, and he grabbed the back of Geoff’s chair to stay upright.

“On the air,” the director said, “in eight, seven …”

“Quick, get over here,” Mellow pulled Geoff and Setback onto the set and pushed them into the seats. “Geoffrey Goodman,” she said, “you’re the first to try Doctor Setback’s Smart Pill. What do you have to say?” Her face wore a tight smile.

Slide1Geoff lifted his sandaled feet onto the coffee table. “It’s overwhelming, Marsha. Looking out from where I sit, I see it all clearly. Everyone has a special mission, a purpose, but we’re all consumed by our default settings. We treat our egos like a matter of life and death. The first thing we need to …”

From his living room recliner, Jeremy lifted the remote as he shouted to his girlfriend. “I thought Mellow had Senator Toggle scheduled for tonight.”

“Did we miss him?” Ashley called back. “I love hearing him. He really cares about us.”

Jeremy started flipping through the channels.

Decision on Bunco-I

“Scotty, prepare the transporter for Mr. Spock and me to beam down to the surface.”

“I dinna think that’soo a good idea, Captain … nae wi’ the Klingon battle fleet bearin’ down.”

“I must agree, Captain, our business can wait.”

“I have an important meeting with the Bunco ambassador, one that cannot be postponed.” Kirk checked his profile on the hologram projector and tightened his girdle. “Need I remind you, Mr. Spock, that the Bunco ambassador serves Altairan brandy.”

11182_1Spock raised an eyebrow. “In that case, Captain, it is imperative that I accompany you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Spock, for once we agree.”

“This is madness, Kirk,” Doctor McCoy joined the discussion, “Bunco is a pleasure planet. The ambassador is an exotic dancer.”

Kirk tilted his head at his image and pinched his cheeks. “I must go where no man has gone before.”

“I must point out, Captain, that the ambassador has had many partners.”

“But no human partners, Mr. Spock,” Kirk shook his finger, “I would be the first human.” He shrugged rolling his hands out.

“Damn it, Kirk,” said McCoy, “what is it with you anyway? Your diplomatic missions have exhausted our stores of anti-exotics. Last time I had to quarantine you for eight days.”

“Bones, the needs of the one outweigh the needs of the few.”

“It is logical,” Spock said, hefting his cupped hands, “the ambassador’s attributes are indeed quite extraordinary.”

Kirk gave his chief engineer a sour look. “Scotty, to take care of Bones’s issues, could you set the transporter to delete whatever we pick up?”

“Aye, I can strip the pesties oot, but I kin nae guarantee it woon’t delete your membrum virile.”

“That won’t do. I still have two years to spread galactic tranquility.” He widened his eyes at Scotty. “Two to beam down, NOW.”

Kirk and Spock stepped onto lighted disks on the low transporter platform. Scotty set the coordinates and hit ‘transport’. Sparkling light cylinders formed around the two officers, and their images faded. Turning away, Scotty dragged a finger across the console scrambling the designator.

“Mr. Scott,” McCoy gasped, “half of their bodies will be scattered in space.” He found himself staring at a wide-grinning Scotsman.

“Kin yee nae be a happy man? From noo on we’ll hae nae problems.”

McCoy returned Scotty’s smile and flashed a Vulcan split-finger salute. “Live long and prosper, Mr. Scott.”

 

Stardate 952117, Captain’s Log USS Enterprise, Chief Engineer Scott commanding.

We lost Captain James T. Kirk and First Science Officer Spock due to a magnetic anomaly during their transport to Bunco-I. We held a memorial service immediately afterward. So bereaved was the crew, they required buckets of Romulan Ale to drown their grief.

With the Klingon battle fleet approaching, we delayed our departure to Rura Pente only long enough to beam aboard a few dozen Bunco-I entertainers. These we plan to trade with Rura Pente’s rich dilithium miners.

A Comet Tale

Sol Monitor. Not the challenging career step Khss was promised. The only action was on the third planet, where terrapods had spent the last sixty char perfecting self-degradation. But today’s news on the revelator puckered Khss’s gas bag.

It could mean reassignment.

In southern Virginia’s James River State Park, Kim Kenny set up his presentation for theLoaction of M-4 Crewe Astronomy Club. This was a public viewing, so he expected visitors in addition to club members. The sky was cloudless with a late rising moon, perfect for the night’s agenda: three planets—Jupiter, Mars and Saturn—and the globular cluster M4 in the constellation Scorpius.

Kim had observed M4 several times already this month and had saved a time exposure on his laptop. But tonight something had changed. Comparing the current image with the exposure from two days before, he saw that one of the stars had moved away from the cluster.

M4 is the closest known star cluster to Earth, yet still 7000 light years away. The movement was a nearer object, much nearer. Since he found nothing in the registry, he thought perhaps he’d found a new comet.

Comet Tale JPG
M4 Globular Cluster showing comet movement June 16 – 18 — Image courtesy of Kim Kenny

Kim sent the celestial coordinates to NASA’s Asteroid and Comet Watch and to the Green Bank Observatory in West Virginia. They forwarded the data to astronomers around the world. The Keck Observatory atop Mauna Kea in Hawaii confirmed their worst fears and sent out the press release:

“An object, classified as a comet, will strike the Earth next Tuesday, shortly after noon Eastern Standard Time, near Lagos, Nigeria. Twelve kilometers in diameter, the comet is expected to hit with a force of 6.2×1023 joules, half again as great as the impact that struck the Yucatan 66 million years ago and killed the last of the dinosaurs. Scientists expect only primitive life forms and those deep in the ocean to survive.”

Khss stirred the revelator for third planet reactions:

Wall Street Journal: Stock Market To Close Early Tuesday In Anticipation of Comet Strike; All Major Indices Decline.

New York Times: Asteroid Strike To Destroy All Life, Minorities, Women Most Affected; Climate Model Predicts Comet Impact Will Increase Global Temperatures.

Washington Post: ACLU Blocks Religious Gatherings In Public Spaces; Harvard Professor Fired Over Comet Comment.

USA Today: European Leaders To Meet In Paris To Discuss Comet; Protesters Question Sources Of Astronomers’ Funding.

Khss’s assistant fluoresced, “Shall we redirect the comet?”

“Why?”

Tickle Thee Not

John drew the prompt from the hat and read, “Never tickle a sleeping dragon.” It was the motto of Hogwarts from J. K. Rowling’s Harry Potter.

* * *

“I don’t think it’s dead,” said humble servant Thigtail, backpedalling and wringing his hands in fear. A massive head stretched across the cart path like a fallen tree trunk.

“It must be dead,” said Master Jones. “Why else would it be here blocking the path?” He kicked the jade-scaled head with his soft tradesman’s boot then tried pushing it with his heel. It wouldn’t budge and his boot left no mark.

“It doesn’t smell dead,” said Thigtail sniffing at a distance. “And it is unwise to disturb dragons. Best let them be, Master Jones. At Hogwarts they say—”

“Hogwarts hogwash,” Master Jones barked at being questioned. “Besides, I’m not,” he raised the tone of his voice, “tickling a sleeping dragon.” He scowled at Thigtail. “I’m kicking a dead one.” He stood high, trying to see over the head, then stooped to peer along its length.

hogwartsseal“But why?” Thigtail pleaded. “We should leave quickly. There may be more.”

“This is why you are the servant, Thigtail, and I am the master. You have no ambition,” Master Jones said, quietly stroking his chin. “Our village is hungry. Here is enough meat to make us rich. I hear dragon scales have magic properties. The wealthy like dragon bone weapons. We’ll carve this up and sell it.” Master Jones stood erect, hands on hips and faced Thigtail. “You would have us remain poor rustics forever.” Thigtail tilted his head and shrugged.

Master Jones pointed at the jade mountain of a head. “This dragon is dead. If we walk away now, some knight—or worse, some son of a knight—is going to come along and claim he killed it. Village folk ‘ll call him a hero. ‘Oh, mighty dragon slayer, oh, great warrior, savior of our village, here have our daughters.’” Master Jones batted his hand as if swatting a fly. “We’ll be kissing his lance for the rest of our lives. Not me. This is my chance.” He pointed a finger to himself then said, “Thigtail, fetch me the shovel.”

Thigtail stretched his arm out with the shovel and ran quickly behind the cart.

Master Jones stepped onto the dragon’s claw, seated the shovel blade across one knuckle, and jumped with both feet to drive it down.

“Master Jones.”

“What is it?”

“One eye just opened.”

 

Have you ever misjudged and reached for a treasure you should not have?

Can We Talk?

Jerry eased his fat behind into the stuffed chair. Fishing under his thigh, he pulled up a crushed cola can and a near-empty bag of potato chips. He funneled the last of the chips into his mouth, crumpled the bag, and tossed it and the can into the corner. He scratched his nose in and out, rubbed his hand on the chair’s threadbare brocade, and leaned back. “Parasites,” he said aloud. A display appeared in the air with statistics for his semi-pro basketball team.

“What are you doing, Jerk? Can we talk?” The sweet feminine voice of Jerry’s automated service asked.

“Not now, Helene, I’m busy—and don’t call me Jerk. I hate that. Just call me Jerry.” He was upset about the score of the last game.

“Sorry I called you Jerk,” Helene pouted. “I’m still in programming mode. I heard your friend call you Jerk.”

“Sally called me that on her way out—and a lot of other things I don’t like. Besides Sally and I don’t have a service agreement. Now go away.”

“Why won’t you let me help you, Jerry?” Helene asked in a bed-room soft tone.

“This is basketball. You’re not programmed for basketball.” He opened the window for the Parasites’s upcoming schedule.

“You wanted a female service. I can learn anything.”

Jerry looked up, bit his lower lip and said nothing.

“Now you’re being mean—just because I didn’t help you with your last girlfriend?”

“Don’t be silly. Now stop bothering me, I’m trying to work.”

“It’s not my fault, Jerry,” Helene pleaded. “I told you girls don’t like comments about body parts—not when you first meet them. And you didn’t even wear a clean T-shirt.”

“It’s your job to smooth my delivery so girls do like what I say.” Jerry said, as he flicked down to the individual players’ stats.”

applique-alligator-with-basketball-mega-hoop-design“If you insist on ignoring my advice, Jerry, this job will be very difficult.”

Jerry shook his head. “Go away, Helene. This,” he waved his hand at the playbook display, “is serious stuff.”

“Please, Jerry, tell me what you’re doing. I’m the best AI service on the planet. I’m sure I can help.”

“O … kay, Helene,” he blew out a long breath. “Tell me what you see?” He scrolled the league statistics back to the beginning.

“Your team, the Parasites, is really bad. They’ve only won two games and one of those was a no-show.”

“Thank you, Helene, that was very useful.”

“No it wasn’t. Tell me what you’re planning. I can help you think it through.”

Jerry tapped two fingers on the chair arm. He didn’t think he could drive Helene away, not for what he was paying for extra patience, but his confidence with women, even artificial women, was as low as worm poop. “Helene, I’m thinking of changing the lineup. Getting some fresh blood.”

“Sounds like a great idea, Jerrikin. What do you have in mind?”

“I need a new center. Charley’s not cutting it.” He sat back. What would keep Helene’s program occupied? A fool’s errand? Something not in her database? Ahhh. Smiling broadly he said, “I’ve been taking a hard look at alligators.”

“Alligators?” Helene’s voice rose to high soprano. “Do alligators play basketball?”

Jerry pounced. “So, just like that. I get an idea and you reject it.” He knew he’d gained an edge.

“Not at all,” her voice softened, “I think it’s very original. But aren’t alligators really short?”

“The one I want for the Parasites stands on his tail. Alli’s almost nine feet long.”

“The alligator’s name is Alli? My records don’t find that name, or any alligators in any leagues.”

Jerry felt a win. “The swamp leagues don’t post their records. That’s where Alli’s playing.” Jerry kept his voice level. “I’ve scouted Alli. I’m very impressed.”

“I have to run some analyses. It’ll certainly surprise your opponents. Can I get back to you?”

“Absolutely, Helene, you know how much I value your opinion.” He took a relaxed breath and scrolled back to the playbook.

“Jerrikin,” Helene interrupted again sounding sad, “if talking to me irritates you, we don’t have to talk. You could use the neural link. That way you wouldn’t have to hear my voice.”

“I love your voice, Helene.” This time Jerry looked away from the display. “I’m lonely. I don’t get out much except for the Parasites games. Besides, I want you to teach me how to talk with women.”

“Oh, can I? I’d really like that.”

“You won’t get jealous if I talk with other women will you?”

“That’s not in our service agreement. Do you want it added?”

“No. Oh no. Absolutely not.”

“Then let’s start with your voice. After that we can—”

“Really, that basic?” Jerry coughed and cleared his throat.

“For voice lessons, I recommend you practice singing rather than speaking your lines. Put some seduction into your voice.”

“Seduction, that sounds good.”

“Imitate the early crooners: Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole.”

“They’re pretty old.” Jerry winced. “How about Justin Bieber or Zac Efron?”

After a diplomatic pause, Helene continued. “Love and romance are ageless, Jerrykin. Make your lines flow like a song: ‘Unforgettable, that’s what you are—’”

“Okay. Can we start tomorrow?”

“Certainly, I’ll want to hear you singing every day. While you work, while you play. Practice, practice.”

“Okay, I will.”

“Ahh, good … Oh, oh no, Jerrikin, I’m so sorry.”

“What is it, Helene?”

“My analysis just came in on your alligator.”

“And?”

“I’m afraid it won’t work. My research finds that height is in high demand for basketball players, particularly centers.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that.”

“There are currently no centers nine feet tall in any league, not even in the pros. I ran a regression analysis on the demand for players taller than eight feet. For what you can afford to pay Alli, he’ll be hired away before the next season starts. I’m sorry—and after all the work you put in scouting alligators.”

Jerry pursed his lips and nodded. “Thank you, Helene. I’ll cross the alligator off my recruiting list.”

“Your welcome, Jerrikin. You know I love you.”

“You’re only saying that because it’s in our service agreement.”

“Would you like to change that?”

 

How might artificial entities affect your life?

Designer Babies

My WriterHouse Science Fiction & Fantasy group gathered again for a Pint & Prompt at our favorite (recently) watering hole, Miller’s Downtown in Charlottesville. These events stimulate discussion of all things worthy of ‘speculative expansion.’ The prompts go into the “hat”—which looks much like a small black plastic bag. This week, out came, “Designer Babies,” and the clock was set for ten minutes.

I set my Vienna Lager aside and wrote:

“It has your eyes,” Dak said peeking into the crib. The overhead lights reflected red off the newborn’s jeweled facets.

“I did design them,” Kili said suppressing prideful tears. “I didn’t like anything in the catalog.” She turned to the nurse. “Can our daughter catch flies?”

Star Stomper“In a few weeks, with her tongue, we gave her all the traits you requested.” The nurse flipped back the baby’s blanket to reveal its long legs and webbed feet. “But until she can eat on her own, she needs these.” The nurse held up a half cup of mealworms.

“Can I feed her?” Kili asked her face squinched with delight.

The nurse handed her the mealworms. “Chew these to a fine pulp.” Kili took a big mouthful and rocked her head as she chewed.

“She has everything listed in the application?” Dak asked examining the handbill for next year’s Star Stomper auditions.

“Mmm, mmm,” Kili said jabbing her finger at the handbill.

Dak looked where Kili pointed. “Will she be ready in time for July’s audition?”

“Everything’s in order.” The nurse scrolled the aerial display and pointed to each attribute. “Her green-brown mottling ‘ll come in in a few days. You see the compound eyes atop her head, semi-circular mouth, rigid lips—”

“I asked the date?” Dak said impatient.

“Sorry, yes,” the nurse scrolled to the end. “We’ll start growth acceleration injections on Tuesday and put in the educator chips next week. See, right here, ”Her finger traced a horizontal line near the bottom of the display, “Completion June 6, so she’ll be ready for her audition.”

Kili spit mealworm mash into her hand. “My daughter in the movies,” she sighed, “Thank you, my love.” She stood tiptoe and gave Dak a kiss.

“Kili’s a big Star Stomper fan,” Dak said wiping mealworm off his mouth.

“Don’t let those get cold,” the nurse pointed to Kili’s palm-full of worms. “Open her mouth with a finger and spit them in using your tongue. Here let me help you.”

 

Please comment and offer a prompt—we’ll give attribution to any we select.

Special invite to our fellow Pint & Prompters at Vironeveah.

Princess Arktura

“Who are you today?” Kiri asked coiling into her chair.

“I’m Princess Arktura,” the young man shouted leaping from the couch and jabbing both thumbs at his chest. “Can’t you see?”

“Of course, Your Highness. I’m very sorry.”

disney-princess-jasmine-fab-prestige-costume-for-teens-bc-808798
Princess Arktura in VR

“Our patience grows short, Doctor Kravor. What are your plans with me?”

“Doctor Kravor?”

“Don’t try to hide, Kravor. You’ve changed your appearance, but I still know it’s you. After this interrogation, I’m turning you over to my security chief.”

Kiri pressed an icon on her desk. “You do realize that you’re in my office. Don’t you … your Highness?”

“Realize? As in re – ah – lize? I can’t re-ah-lize what isn’t real.” This pseudo-virtuality is where you people go to escape.” He shook, taking an angry breath. “Anyway, I won’t be here long. My guards will soon come and take you away.”

“Where will they take me?”

“Wherever I tell them, of course, Arkturon, Londiss, Hygoria—our universe is vast. In your case, Doctor Kravor, it’ll be some place particularly vile.” He hissed and bared his teeth.

“Very well,” Kiri pressed another icon. “Can you tell me how you got here?”

“Kidnapped.” He looked at Kiri defiant. She stared back, waiting. “What? You want details?”

“Yes please, Your Highness.”

Tight-jawed, he threw himself back on the couch. Then with a sigh he began. “I was walking alone in the garden of Arkturon beside the palace. I stopped by the crystal fountain to watch a bird of paradise bathing,” he threw his arms up, “and they took me.”

“They took you?”

“They took me. You know. That’s a polite way of saying I was violated.”

“How were you violated? Were you raped?” Kiri pressed the icon to record.

“OK, yes, I was raped.” He glared at Kiri. “There was a gang of them. I don’t know how many. They did it the usual way. Tore off my helmet and glasses, ripped out my tubes. I was embarrassed to be so exposed. But that didn’t satisfy them. They stripped my tactile sensors and watched as they forced me to unplug myself. Then they touched me.”

“How did they touch you?” Kiri made a note in the desk record.

“Hands first, then my arms. They made me stand, held me as I walked, made me come here. Then they flushed the uplink enablers out of my blood and forced me to eat their shit.”

vr-headset
The Princess returns to Arkturon

“You mean food? They made you eat food—the kind you have to chew and swallow?”

”Yes. And then I had to clean myself,” he winced opening his lips over tight teeth. “I had to use a bristly thing to get the shit taste out of my mouth. Disgusting. Everything here’s disgusting.”

“Was that it, Your Highness? Was that how they raped you?”

“Yes. Now are you going to do something about it,” he flashed an arrogant smile, “or shall we wait for my guards to come and make you?”

“I think we can do something.” Kiri closed the rape recording and pulled up the options. “It sounds like you want to go back. Is that right? You have many options. You’re intelligent, healthy, an attractive young man.”

“That’s just how I project in this plane. Intelligence, gender, age, beauty,” he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, “those are all checkboxes. Here I am stuck with this.” He flipped his hands toward his tan physique. “I’ll change all this as soon as I get back.”

“So you definitely want to go back? There’s no question? You don’t want more time to think?” Kiri’s tentacle hovered over the icon.

“You can have your world. We have our own.”

“And all of you, everyone in your species feels this way? You don’t care if we have this world as long as we leave you alone in yours?”

“What’s here for us?” The young man opened his arms and shrugged.

Kiri closed the option window with one tentacle and with another handed the man a mobile helmet. “This’ll help you get to a transfer station that’ll take you back, Your Highness. We’re sorry for the inconvenience. We need verbal confirmation before we occupy a planet. Galactic law requires it.”

As the young man pulled on the helmet, he watched Kiri uncoil in her chair. “You guys are really deep into the alien encounters stuff, huh?”

 

Do you see any problems integrating virtual reality with old-style reality?