Altered States: A Cyberpunk Sci-Fi Anthology

by Roy C. Booth

  He decided to turn right. The road stretched before him, darkened and deserted. A few street lights broke through the night, their iridescent glow competing with the moon. They cast small, comforting pools of light on the shadowy road before tapering off into a pitch black void. With a sharp pang of panic, Martin realized he’d forgotten to bring a flashlight. He thought about turning back, but it was getting late, so he decided to press on. The night was still and the cold air frosted his lungs as he walked, ejecting itself in dragon-like tendrils of mist with each breath. He reached the borderline of light and dark and stopped. He had no wish to plunge ahead into the black, unlit night, which left him with no choice but to turn back or turn right and walk around the block.

  He turned right. As his feet padded along against the soft tar of the road, a sharp breeze rose from nowhere, prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. It was the same feeling he’d had when that weird guy had followed him home from school a few years ago. He hadn’t like the feeling then and he didn’t like it now. He stopped and cocked his head as he listened for footsteps, but there were none; only that uneasy feeling of another presence. Once again, Martin wished he’d brought a flashlight. He turned slowly, half expecting to see the shadowy figure of a serial killer, but there was nothing but the empty street behind him. Feeling just a little creeped out, he turned back and kept walking, coming to a stop at a narrow laneway that ran up beside his house. He peered into the darkness, trying to discern any movement, and again mourned the absence of a flashlight. He was about to continue walking towards a safely lit street when a thought struck him.

  What if his grandfather had felt unwell? Maybe he’d tried to take a shortcut down the laneway and collapsed…

  The thought nagged at him. He took a firm grip on his fear and, with a deep, dragony breath, turned down the laneway, straining his eyes and his ears in the inky blackness as he walked. Recent rains had turned the dirt track into mud. He walked blindly and carefully, his feet skidding on the puddles that littered his path like land mines. Slowly, his eyes adjusted. He scanned the grassy edges of the lane with a sense of dread as he shuffled precariously along, but there was nothing. No movement. No body.

  No Grandpa.

  By the time he reached the end of the laneway, his shoes were caked with mud and his feet were wet and cold. Thankfully, the back light was burning, casting its welcoming warmth into the gloom. He continued past the side fence to the front of the house and stood, gazing up and down the street as he tried to gather his thoughts. Another short gust of wind sent a whisper of leaves scurrying behind him. He turned, startled, as the hairs of his neck prickled again. The wind gusted one more time before dropping as quickly as it had risen, but the whisper continued, rustling along the ground with the fallen leaves that trailed in its wake.

  Martin knew he had to keep looking for his grandfather, but every fiber of his being screamed at him to run inside the house and bolt the door. The moon gleamed down on him, spotlighting him like a deer in the hunter’s sight. He felt it behind him now…whatever it was. It shuffled and whispered in a thousand, ageless voices. It was part of the road, part of the trees, part of the fields. The road shimmered as the presence moved along it. The trees wove and danced around him as though animated by an inner presence. Everything felt sharp, like a knife. Martin’s heart beat hard against his chest. He willed his feet to move but remained glued to the spot as the strange presence swirled around him. He felt something prick at his face, stinging his skin in the cold air. He winced and slapped at his cheek, as though slapping a mosquito, but the skin pricks continued, now attacking his ears, his hands. The presence pricked at his arms, pulling him toward the street. He tried to resist, to pull back, but his feet skimmed helplessly forward along the road, compelled by the invisible force.

  A sense of impending doom overwhelmed him as he was steered toward the wheat fields, Strengthened by sheer panic, he dug his heels into the road with such force that he toppled backwards, grazing his elbows on the harsh bitumen. The pain stung him, but the impact seemed to have freed him from the grip of the unseen presence. Without thinking, he leaped to his feet and ran. He was sure he could hear footsteps in the wind that rustled along the road behind him. A cold mist enveloped him, chilling his bones as he ran through its ghostly fingers. His breath was bursting in his chest, but he ran until he reached the front door. Heart hammering, he fumbled for his key as the presence whispered up the driveway. The lock clicked and he fell into the house just as the rustling wind reached his back. He slammed the door shut and leaned against it, chest heaving.

  His relief was short-lived. The hard surface of the door suddenly turned to jelly under his weight. It shimmered and wavered like the sea, its grainy surface a symphony of impossible movement. It was as though every cell in the wood had come alive.

  Like the trees.

  Martin’s heart sank. He sprang away from the door as though burned and turned to look. The wood bulged outward and for a moment Martin thought the door would burst open like a ripe peach. The wood wove and pulsed as it took the form of a man. The figure looked familiar. It stretched out a hand and whispered.

  “Martin, come with me. Walk with me in the wheat fields.”

  He knew that voice, even though it rustled like the leaves. Eyes wide, Martin backed away from the specter as it heaved against its wooden bonds. He tried to scream but managed only a frightened croak. Shaking, he groped around beside him for a weapon; an umbrella, a tennis racket.

  Anything.

  He came up empty handed and could only watch, cowering, as the door continued to shift and heave. The wood dissolved, spewing the transparent figure into the room. It immediately became formless, insinuating itself into the atmosphere as though it had always been there. It filled the corners and climbed the walls, it whispered and rustled along the floor boards and danced on the tapestry rug. It stroked his arm and touched his cheek like a deathly breeze. A terrified scream tore from his throat.

  “Mom, I think I’ve found Grandpa!”

  END

  DRUSCILLA MORGAN is a Sydney, Australia born writer and artist who loves cats, horses, and vampires. She writes short stories and novels in the horror, fantasy, and science fiction genres. Her short stories have been published in Arcanium Axiom magazine, Absent Cause magazine, and Far Horizons e-magazine. Morgan describes herself as a creative shape shifter who loves weaving a narrative that both entertains and challenges her readers. She is currently collaborating on a series of vampire novels with Roy C Booth. You can follow Morgan on her Facebook Author’s Page: www.facebook.com/pages/Druscilla-MorganAuthor/720568464695969.

  THE ELECTRIFIED ANTS

  Jetse de Vries

  *I: Brother England*

  singular sky

  spineless talk

  blathered by

  frightened flock

  over-crowded lands

  perfect program'd ants

  despotic enterprise

  no chance to defy

  down down

  deep underground

  (veiled) site

  pound pound

  ten terabytes

  viral stock

  [Fragment of From Orchestrated Sequences to Nothingface: scattered poetic viruses on the Panopticon network.]

  At 4.15 am, GMT, Nero Pogolas is jolted out of a deep, hypnotically induced sleep by a sudden, static shock. The pain is most intense in his right hand, and as he clutches it with his left, he notices the small piece of paper in his palm. Blinking his eyes, wondering why his panoptical house link hasn't switched on the bedside light, he realizes he can actually read the text on the white square. The black letters stand out against their phosphorescent background:

  The enforcement of the Panopticon Singularity ultimately requires the genesis of a counter movement.

  The words enter his brains, but their meaning remains unclear. In his hand, the piece of paper—if it is that—begins to dissolve, and before Pogolas can make any sense of this strange e
vent, all evidence of it has disappeared into thin air. Even more baffling, the node to the corporate state's ubiquitous law enforcement system doesn't seem to work.

  Normally, it would have given him “preemptive advice”, switch on his bed lamp the moment it noticed he was awake and help him back to sleep. In the three years since panoptical links were lawfully enforced nationwide, he has never seen his node fail. Their inbuilt redundancy and hidden security features make them virtually fail-safe and tamper-proof. Apart from this time, it seems.

  While still only wondering that he is allowed to wonder, a slight vibration under his mattress and a faint buzz in his ears announce the return of the corporate state's ubik-link—time to go to sleep again. We don't want to arrive at work fatigued, do we?—the soft and persistent voice of the local panoptic node is the last thing he hears before he returns to dreamland.

  The next morning, awoken by velvety yet effective tickling, Pogolas rises in a pre-heated room. At breakfast, while studiously trying to ignore his LCD tabletop beaming infotainment and carefully targeted ads at him (ever since tampering with RFID tags had become a criminal offense, personal tastes are charted to near perfection, making the ads all but irresistible. Every promotion or salary raise he gets never seems to catch up with his buying spree. If anything, his debts mount, he recalls the night's singular event. Luckily, the ubik-link has become quite accustomed to his early morning silences and lets him eat in relative quiet. The more he thinks about it, the less sense it makes.

  For one thing: He remembers. Of course, he's not supposed to know that his house node edits out certain unwanted episodes during his sleep cycles. But he knows: While he cannot remember what he has forgotten, deep inside he feels that he has forgotten. The missing sequences leave subtle interstices in the fabric of his memory, hollow echoes in the story of his life. So the fact that he remembered was an event in itself.

  This must mean that the ubik-link has not only had an actual breakdown but that it didn't find any trace of the message afterward, too. An impressive feat, from whoever delivered that message to him.

  The message itself is a small puzzle: of course there must be some attempts at resistance. But as the web of the Panopticon Singularity spreads ever wider and deeper into modern society, it has become ever more effective in subverting those. So effective, that even rumors of opposition have faded away. This little spark of defiance fires up long lost hopes.

  The big question, though, is: Why him? It's not as if he has something special to offer. The time has come to leave for his work, and Pogolas decides that if he still remembers it the next day, he may not have dreamed it. Something really may have slipped through the ultimate web.

  The Stockholm Syndrome and brainwashing are variations on a theme. The kidnapping of Elizabeth Smart is a good example in which you take one individual out of a normal context and put them in a bizarre context with new rules, and after being in this different reality for a little while and under pressure, they will break down and go along with party line. [...] There are definite examples of people being able to have that kind of power, and the more repressive a society is, the easier and more likely it becomes...

  [Fragment of The Writing of the Wall: Randomized old newspaper scans dispersed throughout the Panopticon network.]

  Pogolas gets into his car, of which the crystalline fuel cell had been fully recharged. The motorway to the M25 is busier than normal, and the rain—from a sky that seems to be overcast all the time—doesn't help matters, either. By the time he enters the London orbital he's fifteen minutes later than usual. Of course, he can move nearer to Culham, but that means living in Oxford, of all places. No, if there's one thing the Panopticon's subtle and unsubtle urgings fail to achieve, it's moving him from his beloved Cambridge. Even if it means almost one-and-a-half hours commuting each way. An added benefit is that during that time he can let his mind roam, unhindered, as the ubik-link considers road safety important enough not to bombard him with ads as he drives (as long as he keeps the radio off). Some of his best ideas come to him during these drives. Except this morning, when he's getting late, and he wants to make up time. As he speeds up past the speed limit, his car node speaks up:—you are driving 7.4 miles an hour too fast—

  “I need to get to work in time.”

  —no, you don't. you have flexible work times—

  “I like to start as early as possible.”

  —then you should have finished your breakfast earlier. you took 8 minutes longer than usual—

  “Never mind, I want to get there as fast as I can.”

  —if you keep exceeding the speed limit, your insurance premium will rise by 10% for every ten minutes of speeding—

  “I can't afford that and you know it,” Pogolas lets out a frustrated sigh as he slows the car down, “while I haven't had an accident in ages.”

  —that's what everybody likes to think,—the automated voice insists,—but the statistics show otherwise. they also show that the number of fatal car accidents has dropped by 66.6% since the implementation of the Panopticon—

  To which Pogolas has no rebuttal. Of course, the numbers given can be false, but in his gut Pogolas suspects they are quite true. They're part of the Panopticon's continuing success: Roads are safer, people,in general, live healthier, and production has gone up in the last three years. Of course, there are those who keep on speeding, boozing, or smoking, but they pay the price immediately by an instant raise of their insurance premiums.

  Pollution has decreased considerably as car insurances for old type engines are heavily offset against the new fuel-cells, making the old gas-guzzlers an ever rarer sight on the country's motorways. Also the forced, accelerated implementation of solar, wind, and other alternative energy in order to lessen the dependence on the rapidly dwindling fossil fuel reserves, in combination with a strong financial impetus for an energy-conserving lifestyle has boded well for the both environment and the country's finances as it leads the western world by exceeding the Kyoto protocol requirements.

  Yeah, the walls of our prison are lined with environmentally friendly velvet, but they are stainless steel nonetheless. Pogolas can't help but think, the economy is booming, people live healthier than ever. But still: Is it worth it?

  Pogolas is very ambivalent about this. Admittedly, left to his own devices his paunch will surely return as he falls back on his old lifestyle. Then again, he feels he hasn't developed anything truly new since the Panopticon is fully enforced. He's working out old ideas, albeit more effectively, but still old ones. It seems that his creative spark is dying.

  Take the way his ubik-link ushers him from speeding, from eating too rich a breakfast: All for his own good. He's always been a slow riser and tries to make up for it on the road. Now he arrives at his work sooner, more refreshed, healthier. Less grumpy to his colleagues, somewhat easier in his social contacts, a bit more relaxed. And while to the outer world it seems he's doing his work in a more efficient manner, Pogolas feels, deep inside, that he's lost his edge. Even if it's a double-sided sword that used to cut him off from his colleagues, but an edge that keeps him—well—on the bleeding edge of research.

  It's the same vicious circle his mind has secretly been running for months. That day, though, a mite of defiance fires up his spark, however tiny it's become. He parks his car in the old Joint European Torus Laboratory's car park, and as he approaches the building's entrance his smile is only partly faked.

  After the routine DNA-check confirms his identity, he enters the research premises.

  In The Netherlands about four thousand DNA-profiles have been recorded. The number in the UK has already exceeded six million...

  [Fragment of The Writing of the Wall.]

  His congenial manner doesn't go unnoticed by his colleagues.

  “Morning, Ernie, and a good one, innit?”

  “Somebody sawed off the grumpy part, Ernie?”

  “Hey Ernie, haven't heard that whistle for ages.”

  Only then
Pogolas notices that he's whistling. In his pre-Panopticon heyday, Pogolas spearheaded several breakthroughs in fusion research, especially in his field of plasma turbulence. His uncanny way of predicting certain aspects of the seemingly random turbulent behavior, combined with a Spanish colleague's interpretation of his first name (stern), led to his nickname Ernie (although his predictive power failed with the Premium Bonds).

  Back then, Pogolas felt he was at the brink of a breakthrough. That optimism, however, has withered under the Panopticon's all-seeing eye.

  In Pogolas's department, it's been a quite a while since “Ernie” was so good-natured. A small part of Ernie himself—in a never relenting state of paranoia—thinks this bout of sweet temper is suspicious in itself, but Pogolas decides that suddenly returning to his normal, grumpy state is even stranger. So he sets himself to work in a jolly mood, but takes care to talk predominantly about work, work, and nothing but work, and keep the chitchat as innocent as possible.

  A bit to his consternation, he finds not only his work day flying by, but he's able to work out a new, albeit a minor, notion in his research field, as well.

  —you see, a good mood makes you produce better—he almost hears his ubik-link say.

  A jolly worker, a productive bee, he thinks, Oh please, don't let me become a happy slave.