by Various
-Hey.
-Hey. I didn’t know if you’d be up yet.
-Got lots to do, hon. Only a month until the big visit. Gotta make sure there’s enough for the VCs to see beyond simulations. They seem very insistent on being able to touch stuff.
-Talking of which…
She gasps.
-It’s done? It went ok?
He shrugs, smiles back at her, touches his still numb cheek.
-I guess so.
-Let’s see.
He watches her stare past him, into non-space, eyes mechanically blinking through menus he can’t see.
An area of her cheek starts to glow a pale, dull blue, followed by a similar effect on a section of her forearm. He glances down at his, sees the same glow where his arm is numb. He extends his hand out to connect with the glow on her arm, running his finger in tiny, repeating circles. There’s no feedback, no sense of touch for him, but he knows she can feel him, even as his fingers intersect with her ghostly avatar, by the way she moves in response, by the way she breathes, whispers.
-Oh baby.
Her hand comes slowly up to his face, hovers in front of it, millimetres from where he knows his cheek must also be glowing blue. They’ve tried this a thousand times, unsolid spectres trying to make impossible contact, fingers flailing through skin like video game models fighting a collision detection bug.
Except this time.
He feels a finger on his cheek, followed by a second. Feels them stroke his face slowly, downwards. At first the sensation takes him back to childhood dentist visits again, that feeling of cold, fading anaesthesia—but then there’s sensation of warmth, of blood flowing back. Shivers down his spine, hairs on end. Dizziness, excited nausea. He struggles to breath, to hold back tears.
She sees his reaction, her eyes widen in concerned response, and she places her other hand on the glow in his forearm. Everything multiplies. A tear rolls down his face, and she watches it pass effortlessly through her hand.
-Baby, you ok?
-I… yes. I’m…
-I know. I know.
-It’s… it’s so intense.
More tears.
-I know baby. Just relax. Roll with it.
-I…
-Relax baby, it’s fine.
Struggling to breathe, form words.
-I… I love you
-I know. I love you too.
And then everything freezes, the dull light of her apartment giving way to the artificial glow of the tram, as his lenses interrupt the call to tell him it’s his stop. He blinks back angrily at reality’s inconsiderate interruption, at the idiotic gawping faces of the still-human idiots that turn away to avoid his glare, and frustratedly pulls himself to his feet.
• • •
-I’ll be honest with you, I’m more concerned about your hands than your penis.
Two weeks later and he’s back in Timo’s humming, steel tube.
-Okay…
-I mean, don’t worry or anything you know. It’s just that… well. If anything goes wrong down there we can have you on an overnight train to Zurich and they’ll have grown you a new one by the time you wake up. But hands… well hands are complicated.
Keyboard clatter amplified over tinny speakers, the whirr of the scanner coming alive.
-The last time I did hand work was… last year. A pianist. It was a nightmare.
-Right. Ok. Timo, you never mentioned this before the injections-
-Oh, man. Sorry. Sorry. The procedure went fine, don’t get me wrong. Great result in fact. Unprecedented connection rate, very stable gel-network. It was a fucking masterpiece, even If I say so myself.
He sighs.
-Good.
-Yeah. Yeah it was good. It was just beforehand man. The insurance guys. The lawyers. Paperwork. Nightmare. I mean, how am I expected to agree to liability on a procedure that could technically land me in prison anyway, right?
-Right.
He closes his eyes, tries to block out Timo’s voice, his normally calm tones grating, enticing fear. Instead he tries to lose himself in the tube’s cacophony.
-Ok, well you know the score man. Should be done in about an hour. Just try and stay still if you can. You sure you don’t want some music on?
-No, no music. I’m fine.
@BBCHardtalk
Tonight—2330 GMT: exclusive interview with multi-billionaire tech investor turned libertarian separatist Gale Klass about his sea-steading project, the controversies surrounding its construction and whether he really believes that democracy was just a historical blip.
>>Blink for preview<<
They sit cross-legged, facing each other, six thousand miles apart.
He strokes her cheek, this time his fingers responding. The warmth of her blush response, the smooth marble of her near-perfect skin.
She strokes his arm in return. He’s learned to ride out the intensity now; how to normalise it and when to let it overtake him like a drug-rush.
She’s talking, half distracted. Talking again about San Francisco, and how the city centre has descended into near collapse. About how it’s been overrun by the crazy, the homeless, the dealers, the dropouts, the trash.
-The difference is in other cosmopolitan cities, the lower parts of society keep to themselves. They sell small trinkets, beg coyly, stay quiet, and generally stay out of your way. They realize it’s a privilege to be in the civilized part of town and view themselves as guests. And that’s okay. But here… it’s too much. They act like they own the center of the city. Like it’s their place of leisure…
-I know honey. It’s why what you’re doing is so important. You’re building the future.
-Haha. I guess.
She looks him in the eyes, and her hand falls to his crotch.
-I’m building a future for us.
He’s already hard as her fingers encase him. Breath escapes his lungs, saliva fills his mouth. He feels her squeeze him, feels himself twitch in response.
-Fuck
-Can you feel that?
-Fuck. Yes… fuck. Jesus. Yes.
He moves his hand between her legs, watches her arch backwards, as two fingers part simulated labia while a third sinks inside, finding software calculated approximations of warmth and damp. Sub-dermal nerve endings fired by implanted, semi-organic gel. She groans, louder than he expected, and he feels a grin spread across his face.
-Jesus
-Is it ok? Too much?
-No. God, no.
He watches her body shudder in the half light. There’s no movement, no friction—just the connection of nerve ending to gel to data and back again. A completed loop spanning continents. Atemporal, suspended ecstasy. Even in the clench of rapture, he knows what this is, how important this is. This is the beginning. They are the future. The anointed, chosen to take the next step.
She opens her eyes, stares deeply into his, returning his grin. Her hand, shaking, falls from his cheek. On the way down it intersects his empty body, sickly video game clipping again, but this time she holds it there. Her hand in his chest cavity, gently caressing a heart she cannot feel.
She stares at his chest, shaking against his simulated fingers inside her, her mouth slowly forming words.
-I want to touch you here.
• • •
-Okay, that’s all the i’s dotted, the t’s crossed. I think.
He can tell Timo’s not happy. The last two weeks have been nothing but a flurry of meetings with lawyers; ambulance chasers as hollow as their over-groomed avatars.
-I really appreciate this, Timo. I understand it’s a… risky move for you.
-Yeah, well. Just don’t die on me, ok? I don’t need to deal with that shit. I’m an artist, not a doctor.
It’s the mantra he’s been repeating for days.
-I’ll try.
-Ha. You’ll be fine. Just fine. Now take your shirt off, get on the bed.
Timo takes a syringe full of gel from a small Amstel branded beer fridge in the
corner of the studio, and takes a plastic tube from a box perched on top of it. As he walks back across to the bed he rips it open, revealing a four inch long surgical needle that he attaches to the syringe.
-Okaaaaay. Just lie back, keep calm, and we’ll try and get this done as quickly as possible. I’m not going to lie you though; this is probably going to hurt. Quite a bit.
@CNN
San Francisco—Violence erupts at floating city protests
BREAKING—reports of shots being fired during protests against Gale Klass as he visits the construction site of his controversial sea-steading project.
>>Blink to follow this story<<
He shouldn’t be “here.” Security is unprecedented; the VIPs unable to take a toilet break without being escorted by one of the assault rifle-toting sec-ops guards, their faces hidden behind the skull-wrapping compound eyes of their helmets.
But it’s a big day. Her big day. She’s proud, she wants to show off to him. And why not? She’s achieved so much, and Klass himself—the man they would make their king—is here to see it all. So she pulled some strings—the perks of being lead project manager—and got him access to the same feed they’re pumping out to shareholders. From there he’s managed to jump in to her private space. So he can show her his support.
He silently, secretly, invisibly squeezes her hand.
It doesn’t break her flow, her words never missing a beat, but he recognises the faintest trace of a smile flicker across her face. For just a half-second. He can read her. As she talks, the other—still unbuilt—half of the floating arcology unfurls itself and towers above them. Restrained, dignified sounds of appreciation from the VIPs. He squeezes her hand again.
And then the shouting starts. Faceless guards shouting and pushing the party back. One runs straight through him. He loses her hand in the chaos. The sound of automatic gunfire.
He glances behind him, just in time to see the minibus hurtle towards them, its windscreen dissolving into a cloud of glass and blood as two of the sec-op guys empty everything they’ve got. It swerves, lurches sickeningly and then
white out
he screams her name
when he can see again all is glitch
His ears ring. Pixels the size of small houses blink in and out of existence. Smoke fills the air before software dutifully removes it. Anything that moves leaves ghetto compressed glitch trails that nauseatingly defy depth and perspective. The ground is drenched in blood and legs and very still-human offal.
The minibus is somehow upright, even though half of it has disappeared in the bomb blast. The two spec-ops guys are pulling this miraculously still-alive guy out of the wreckage, shoving him to the floor, dissolving his head into another blood cloud. The gunfire sound cuts through the ringing in his ears. He screams her name.
He resists the urge to rip out his contacts, and instead he stumbles through the collage of limbs and fabric and unending crimson, shouting her name.
And then she’s there, her face pale and her ribcage open and he can’t tell if she can see him, and he’s kneeling in entrails that feel just like the hard floor of his apartment. He tries to cradle her head but it slips through his hands, and then he goes to hold hers instead but they don’t seem to be where they should be, so he cries and shouts and repeats her name
and then all is glitch again
and he can see the blue glow on her cheek, just faint there, and he touches it lightly, and her eyes flutter and her head shakes and what sounds like breath comes from between her lips. Holding/not holding her cheek he looks back to where the sec-ops guys are inspecting the minibus wreckage, and screams at them for help, that she’s still alive, that she needs fucking help but they don’t see or hear him because he’s not really there.
He’s never there, not when she needs him.
He feels a weak brush against his forearm, and he snaps his head back down to see that her hand is there—so soaked in blood and shit that he couldn’t find it before—and she’s moving it up his body, reaching inside of him. She tries to speak but the words don’t come, because most of her lungs are missing, and he tells her to shush.
Behind him the sec-ops guys are backing out of the still smoking minibus shell, shouting about a second device. One of them starts to run.
And then he feels her, feels her icy fingers around his heart, feels them caress it, the intensity dizzying, almost seizure inducing. He looks down at her, tells her he loves her, and watches his own tears fall away from his face and straight through her, as though she didn’t exist.
She squeezes inside of him
and then
white out
@CNN
Amsterdam—Man found dead after 7 months
Dutch authorities today revealed that the body of a man had lain dead in his apartment, apparently undisturbed, for over seven months, until last week when neighbours reported an unpleasant smell. The man, identity as yet unrevealed, had died of massive cardiac arrest. Neighbours described him as “aloof” and “a recluse.” Police Inspector Smidt described the case as “tragic”, adding that it was “especially sad that young people, in this day and age, still seem to hide away and have no connections to the outside world.”
>>Blink to read more<<
Clint Morey became eligible for the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer with the publication of The Outer Rims (2013), from 47North.
Visit his website at montanawriter.wordpress.com.
* * *
Novel: The Outer Rims (excerpt) ••••
THE OUTER RIMS
(excerpt)
by Clint Morey
First published as The Outer Rims (2013), by 47North
• • • •
Chapter 1
“SMILE for the camera.”
Roger Wallace sat on the rough log with his son on his lap and his wife next to him.
“It’s not a camera, Daddy,” six-year-old Matthew said. “It’s Roy.”
“I stand corrected. Smile for Roy.”
Roy was the family’s state-of-the-art personal robot. It was a small disc about a foot in diameter and less than three inches thick. It hovered at eye level, because Roger felt that was less intimidating than having it float above people’s heads.
Louise brushed the hair from her eyes. “Do I look okay, Roy?”
“You look beautiful, Mrs. W.”
She poked her husband. “You should learn from Roy.”
“Is the house in the picture?” Roger asked.
Roy adjusted the framing so the Wallace family was in front of the stand of colora trees, whose bright red leaves were in full display. The house was just off to the right. “House” was a generous term for the low half-shell structure that resembled a yurt.
“Recording,” Roy said.
The Wallace family smiled at the camera as Roger spoke.
“We’ve been here for two months and although we haven’t seen any of the Ananke people, we know they are near. They’re probably watching us from just beyond the tree line even as I’m speaking to you now. We leave gifts on special platforms at the edge of our field, and for the last two weeks, someone or something has taken them each night.”
Louise held up a necklace. “This morning we were surprised and delighted to find this. It’s a necklace from an Ananke warrior. We believe it’s a sign that we are close to having a meeting with these people.”
“Some of you have asked about our safety.” Roger took out his gun. “We have weapons for protection against the critters that roam freely on this planet. As for the Ananke, we would never think of using weapons against them. We are here to tell them of God’s love. We would appreciate your prayers for our safety and for the opportunity to show them how much God loves them.”
“Very nice, Mr. W.,” Roy said. “I’ll edit it, add some nice titles and some candid photos of the family, then send it out to your supporters.”
“Thanks, Roy.”
“Would you like to do your mom now?”
“Good idea.” Roger looked down at his son. “Be sure to speak clearly. She has trouble hearing.”
“When do I get to see her?” Matt asked.
Roger tried to answer his son but couldn’t.
“You’ll see her in heaven,” Louise said softly to her son as she smoothed down Matt’s shirt then licked her fingers and tried to flatten the unruly hair that stuck out to the side.
“Recording,” Roy said.
“Hi, Mom.” Roger spoke to the hologram of his mother that Roy displayed. He smiled and tried to be upbeat. He had hoped to see his mother again before she passed away, but that wouldn’t happen. The doctors gave her just a month to live. “You look beautiful, Mom. We’re doing well and your grandson continues to grow. I’ll let Louise give you the details but I want you to know I love you.”
“Hi, Mom,” Louise said. “Life has been exciting.”
As Louise told her mother-in-law of the latest adventures of the Wallace family, Roger was doing his best to maintain his smile as he remembered growing up.
“Mr. W,” Roy said.
Roger looked at Matthew. “Are you making faces again?”
“No, sir.”
“Behind you, Mr. W.”
Roger and Louise turned and saw the three men coming toward them. They were Ananke warriors. Two of them carried traditional long spears and one had a bow with an arrow at the ready.
Roger and Louise clasped hands, and Roger prayed.
“Lord, thank you for sending these precious people to us. Show us how to share your love with them so they will understand how great you are. Amen.”
“I’ll get the food,” Louise said, and she walked quickly to the house.
Roger stood and set his son on the log.
“You stay here and pray.”
Roger picked up the weapon he had shown to his supporters and slipped it back in its holster.
“Keep recording,” Roger said to Roy.
Louise came out with her special baked treats, and the couple walked out together to greet their guests. They had no idea if the Ananke would like their food, but Roger figured his wife was the best cook on the planet, so the odds were in their favor.
