by Roy C. Booth
I paused, considering.
“Jesus, Rob, it's the ultimate kiddie society,” I said. “Those kids never have to worry about peer pressure, about trying to fit in when they're in the electronic mind, they're one person. The only person there is.”
“You're talking nonsense. Suffering from amphetamine psychosis,” Rob declared decisively.
But he was staring into space. His face was intent, as if he were possessed by all-consuming desire. What did he want?
I considered how the online world Rob hated was enabling something I found frightening, but which Rob would not: the ultimate in conformity.
I remembered Rob's readings in Zen Buddhism. “I seek nothing,” he'd told me.
Now I understood. He'd meant exactly what he'd said.
Practitioners of Zen Buddhism seek the extinction of the self. Nirvana is nothingness.
In conformity, the individual vanishes.
In the kids' electronic mind, the individual vanishes.
I touched Rob's shoulder. “Adults don't have to worry about this happening to them,” I said, as if reassuring him against a thought he found repulsive, when it was anything but.
I didn't know what else to say.
Rob turned away from me, pressing the intercom button. “Lottie, cancel my appointments for the rest of the day.” She squawked a startled inquiry and Rob said, “Do it!”
He turned back to me without looking at me.
“Please leave.”
I closed my hands on his shoulders. Tweed scratched my palms. “Rob, your patient and his friends interact so well 'cas they've lost their individuality. I'm sorry, man. But they're no longer human.”
Rob's eyes flicked to me, but his expression remained odd. “Get out.”
This time, I didn't argue. Rob had to work out his reaction himself, alone as anyone.
Alone as anyone who was still human, anyway.
I pulled on my filter-mask and left.
It wasn't until I was boarding the bus that it occurred to me to wonder.
Why had the electronic mind chosen to reveal itself?
END
CYNTHIA WARD has published stories in Asimov's Science Fiction and Witches: Wicked, Wild & Wonderful (Prime Books), among other anthologies and magazines, and articles in Weird Tales and Locus Online, among other webzines and magazines. Her story “Norms”, published in Triangulation: Last Contact, made the Tangent Online Recommended Reading List for 2011. With Nisi Shawl, she co-authored the diversity fiction-writing handbook Writing the Other: A Practical Approach (Aqueduct Press).
ISLAND
Terry Faust
Full throttle, Pat bounced down the runway until the wings caught and lifted him. Gear up, he headed south and west. It was all a game, a digital flight simulation he played in his brother’s room, but he gripped the computer’s control stick, stared into the monitor and let himself become the Spitfire. In the last twenty-four hours, he’d lost count of the times he’d taken off like this. The thirty-five-inch screen showed his plane pulling away from the ground, the hangers, the bomb craters, and anti-aircraft guns. He pulled away from everything.
Through his brother’s bedroom window, strands of yellow clouds turned crimson and melted into velvet blue. Mars shone on the horizon. Shadows filled the room and he switched on the gooseneck lamp. The desk became an island of light. The day was gone. So was half a carton of Coca Cola.
The Spit’s Merlin engine growled and he throttled back. His brother had wanted to be a photographer and thought the old steel desk should look like official Kodak furniture so he’d painted it yellow with red drawers. Pat thought it looked dumb. He quickly pushed the thought away. He’d been pushing away thoughts for the past two days and concentrated. He and Wes had spent hours battling Messerschmitts and Focke Wulfs—late nights giggling and joking until their parents shut them down. Then Wes joined the army and went away. Pat banked and headed due west.
A landscape of broad textured patterns raced underneath his wings with an occasional blocky white building and a few trees. He was approaching the edge of the game’s arena, away from the action. A player texted him, thinking he was Wes, assumed he was back. Pat had unplugged the radio headset to avoid talking to other players. It circled his neck. He didn’t reply to the screen text either.
The fields gave way to a sudden drop, white cliffs and the English Channel. Pat flew straight out over the water. After two days of dog fighting, he was tired and couldn’t fight anymore. He just wanted to fly, get away from the guns and bombs.
His thin teenage frame slouched in the straight-back chair and long blonde hair fell in his eyes. He was exhausted and his clothes felt sticky. Shaking himself, he swiped back his hair and sat up, straightening his plane’s flight. Through the room’s window, he saw the dark rooftops of neighboring houses. There was a tangled silhouette of power lines and cables, and above those were contrails, two glowing vapor trails. High-altitude winds blended them into one single pink smudge that dissolved to nothing.
It all felt unreal. But unreal was good—much better than real.
His sister Tate knocked. “Open up.”
He ignored her and his plane left the map. The chopped-off terrain of Kent dwindled behind him. There’d be only water now, a repetitious graphic the game designers had created instead of a barrier. He could fly forever, out over the water.
“Pat, you can’t stay in there.”
He knew he couldn’t.
In a softer tone, she said, “We’re all sad. You’re not the only one.”
Everyone was sad. The whole frigging world was sad. “Go away!” he said.
His little sister harrumphed, an odd snorting sound only she could make. Then she let out a piercing whistle, the one she used to call their dog, Dirt Bag.
That did it.
Pat sucked in a quick breath and, before he could blot it out, he pictured himself with Tate and Wes chasing the dog through high weeds beyond their backyard. The smell of sun-baked earth, tangy sweat, and dirty dog fur filled his nose and he remembered the laughter and shouting. He clapped his hands to his ears. He snorted out the smells, crushed his eyes shut.
“Open up, Pat,” Tate pleaded. “Please.”
He blinked back tears and shook off the memories. Lack of sleep was catching up to him and it was getting hard to concentrate.
Ahead and to his right a tiny island appeared, an irregular light brown oval against the dark blue sea. What the hell was an island doing out here? He was off the map where no ground terrain should be. Wiping his eyes, he focused on the screen. The island was there and it shouldn’t be. Why? Was it a game designer’s joke?
“Pat, come out,” his sister demanded.
The floor creaked as she gave up and walked away. He didn’t care. He wished they’d just leave him alone. He didn’t want their sadness. He wanted to fly and get lost in the game. The island was good; it gave him something to focus on. He rubbed his neck and rolled his head to wake up.
Flying closer, he tipped a wing for a better look. There were several peaked structures laid out in formation—tents—and a beach that stretched out before him. Tilting his shoulders in sympathy with his digital wings, Pat guided his plane to a landing and heard the welcome digital squeak of his wheels touching down. It didn’t matter if it was sand, they always squeaked on touch down. The Spit bounced and came to a stop facing the tents.
Pat exhaled, yawned long and deep. It was good to land. He relaxed.
“Pat?” a voice came from his disconnected earphones. It had to be his imagination, but still he sat up. Figures walked between the tents—sand-colored people—desert camouflaged soldiers. He counted two or three. Incredible! Nothing like this had ever happened before. It wasn’t any part of the game. Pat leaned forward and studied the screen closely, blinking to bring it into sharp focus. The figures moved randomly, like they were dazed or lost.
“What the hell?” he whispered and rubbed his swollen eyes.
“Pat?” the voi
ce was definitely in his earphones.
“Yeah?” he cautiously replied. He’d unplugged it.
“Speak up. Your signal’s real low,” the voice said.
Pat put on the headset and adjusted the mike. “Who is this?”
“It’s Wes.”
Pat didn’t think he heard right. The voice sounded like Wes, but it was impossible. He stared at the earphone’s plug hanging loose and unconnected. “Bullshit! What’s going on? Who is this?”
“Listen, Pat,” the voice said. “You have to stop this. You can’t stay locked up.”
Pat tore the earphones off his head and flung them across the room. His heart pounded and his shoulders shook. The sudden exertion nearly knocked him out of his chair. “Bullshit!”
He glared at the phones on the floor, daring them to talk. Two days without sleep. No wonder he was hearing things. He was a wreck and must be hallucinating. To be honest, just keeping his eyes open was taking all his willpower. He shut them, just for a second.
Tap, tap, and tap. It was the sound of someone rapping on a window and Pat’s eyes popped open. He’d fallen asleep sitting up, head slumped forward, drooling.
Tap, tap, and tap. “Pat?” The sound and voice didn’t come from the earphones but from the screen. He swallowed thickly, wiped his chin, and looked up at the monitor. The Spitfire still sat on the beach, he was still in the cockpit. He couldn’t have been asleep more than a few seconds. It was the same voice that had been on the headset before—Wes’s voice.
“Pat, I’m here.”
Outside his cockpit stood a thin, somber-faced soldier in desert camouflage, no helmet. The side of the soldier’s head was a pile of red twists, but what was left showed a long, good-natured face—a face like his brother’s. Most of its right arm was gone. The features were crude, rendered in simple graphic details.
“Hey, Pat,” the soldier said.
To the side of the tents behind the soldier lay the over-turned, exploded remains of a truck, a Humvee like Wes drove. Smoke rose from it. Two other soldiers stood with the disaster. Their uniforms were blotched with red.
“I’m dreaming,” Pat said. “I was asleep. I’m dreaming.”
“I can’t stay,” the soldier said.
Pat knew he should say something even if this were a dream. But in the silence they merely looked at each other until Pat stretched out his fingers to the monitor, to the face. He held back a moment then touched the screen. It felt smooth and warm.
The soldier wasn’t surprised to be touched and smiled slightly. “Open the bedroom door, Pat. They need you.”
Pat jerked his hand back. “No!”
“Tate’s scared,” the soldier explained. “You know she likes to sound tough, but she’s not.”
“No! I’m staying in here. You come home.” It was a childish thing to say and Pat knew it. “You promised to come home!”
The soldier sighed. “Pat. You’re oldest now.”
“No! I’m not!” Pat shouted. He blinked and blinked again.
“I have to go, Pat. I wanted to say good bye.”
“NO! This is bullshit.” But the face was gone and Pat’s plane flickered and then sat back on the airfield runway where he’d taken off—the spawn point. He gulped in panic.
What had he done? He jumped forward and sought all the views around the tower but the island was gone, he was back at his starting point. “Wes! I’m sorry. Come back!”
With joints aching for sleep, Pat sat and worked the game, struggling to take off. Tears clogged his vision and he fought to steady the stick.
The plane roared and skimmed out at treetop level, full speed—but it felt like he was flying through syrup. His leg pumped impatiently. “Come on. Come on!” he pleaded. “Just get me back there. Come on!”
Over the rolling fields of Kent he raced. Across the English Channel he climbed, to the edge of the map, where the water stretched out forever. No island.
A knock at the door and his father’s muffled voice said, “Pat, open up.”
He dipped and turned, scanned the waves, but saw nothing. Rolling the plane he searched the water. No island, just the waves smiled up at him as digital crescents.
At the sound of the door’s lock opening he didn’t look around, didn’t interrupt his search. Dirt Bag’s claws tapped up behind him. A cold nose poked his elbow. For a frantic instant, Pat let himself think the impossible, expected a brotherly whack on the head, but the footsteps that followed were slow and thoughtful; tough leather soles—his father’s shoes.
Unconsciously, out of habit, Pat cupped the old dog’s muzzle without taking his eyes from the screen. His fingers melted into the yielding sandy fur. He felt the dog’s tail slapping the back of his chair, her warm shoulder pressed against his leg.
“Come on!” Pat cried, but the island was no longer there. It was gone, vanished. “Come on,” he whispered.
His father laid his hand on Pat’s shoulder. “Pat. It’s time to quit.”
“I can’t,” he said. “He’s out there.”
His father’s fingers gently squeezed Pat’s shoulder. “Your mom’s worried.”
Dirt Bag squirmed under Pat’s hand and Pat released the control stick. The plane now appeared in external view against a perfect blue sky, blurred propeller twirling, elevator and rudder trimmed and flying on its own.
“Come on, Pat,” his father said.
Holding his breath, Pat’s chest tightened and he stroked the old dog’s head with both hands. The simple effort of keeping his head up was too much. His chin bumped his chest. The sour tongue licked his nose and the boy buried his face in the smelly fur coat. The past two days crumbled. “It’s not fair!”
His father reached down to stroked his son’s hair. “I know, Pat. I know.”
“He’s gone, Dad.”
“I know.” The voice cracked. “I know, Pat. I’m so sorry.”
“I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Come on.”
Pat’s father helped him up and held him. He steered him towards the door but when his father reached out to switch off the computer, Pat stopped him.
“Please don’t. Please leave it.”
They left, closing the door behind, leaving the game screen glowing on the yellow and red desk. The plane flickered and began to climb into the azure sky. Nothing stalked it or stood in its way. It continued to fly higher and higher, off the map and away from the guns, and bombs, and everything.
THE END
TERRY FAUST writes urban fantasy, mainstream young adult novels, and humorous science fiction spoofs. Recent published work includes the short stories “Immaculate Extraterrestrials” and “Guess Who is Coming to Gotterdammerrung,” which were published in Tales of the Unanticipated #29 and #30. “Guess Who is Coming to Gotterdammerung” and “Unpleasantness at 20,000 Feet” also appear in the first two Minnesota Speculative Fiction Writers anthologies: Northern Lights and Sky-Tinted Waters.
Z is for Xenophobe was published by Sam's Dot Publishing in 2011 and is available in Kindle format. And the sequel, Y is for Wiseguy, is complete and seeking a publisher.
Faust maintains an author page on Amazon www.amazon.com/Terry-Faust/e/B00915RQ8E/.
MEERGA
John Shirley
Originally published by Michael Morcock’s New World eZine #2, May 2013.
1. Housewares
“I don’t have time to arrange for a driverless to pick you up, Ryan,” Murray said.
“Dad, hey what: You could send one, on your way, just link in, shit.” The boy was looking at him steadily, with something closer to disgust than defiance. Not such a boy, perhaps, Murray thought. Ryan wanted to go see his girl friend and he had that primeval flatness in his brown eyes, that stony lack of expression that teen boys got when they were strategizing getting laid. But he had his mother’s skin, the color of a latte, and her long slender hands. Murray ached, when he looked at the boy’s hands, and thought of his wife, and
the suicide…
“You can see Tarina tomorrow,” Murray said. “It’s not that easy to get a driverless in here, they’re booked up this time of day. Eventually I’m going to buy a personal driverless. But not right now—and I can’t afford a lifter—”
“Nobody’s asking for a fucking helicopter.”
“Come on, grant me a modicum of respect here, boy, don’t talk to me like that.”
“You won’t let us ConVect—”
“You want to go under tech that far, you do it when you move out. You know what I think of that. And don’t roll your eyes.”
Murray turned to go. “Wynn could drop me off.”
“Don’t have time, it’s the opposite direction.” He felt dishonest saying it. She was only a few blocks the wrong way.
“You just don’t want me to see her.”
That was partly true. And Murray tried to stay honest with the kid.
He paused at the door, turning to Ryan. The door waited to see if he wanted it to open or not. “No, I do want you to see her, I like Tarina. I just don’t want you to go see her when her folks aren’t home. And when I’m not somewhere around. That’s the understanding I have with her old man. He sent me a bunch of facers and made himself clear.”
“They are at home.”
“I mean—they’re almost always under tech. That’s not home. Being in that state…”
Ryan cocked his head, crossed his arms. “You’re going to see a woman. But I can’t.”
Murray was startled. “It’s part of the study, Ryan, it’s not—”
“You told Wynn you were thinking of bringing her home.”
“What?” He stared. He couldn’t deny it. “I told you not to vultch me.”
“I didn’t vultch you, you left your screen on—”
“And you read what was on it. That’s skulky too. It’s just as bad…I have to go.”
