As I watched this collage transfixed, Facilitate Emmons observed me and stroked her own control sleeve. Soon, we were two of a kind, our SHIRTs nearly mirror images of each other. Hers, I noted with increasing interest, showed much more attractive underlying topology than mine.
Across the table, our hands touched. “Let’s stop this now,” we both said simultaneously. We each did, and sat back in our chairs.
I could barely breathe. “What the hell happened, Emmons? How are these SHIRTs exactly the opposite of each other?”
She put fingers to her lips. “Tonight,” she whispered.
I had never expected to be so happy to remove my SHIRT and put it in its place in the closet. My nightSHIRT, of course, had only minimal physiological monitoring capability, and I could program it to respond only beyond specified parameters. One of those, at the moment, was pulse rate. I nervously awaited Emmons’ arrival. And hopefully, the removal of her SHIRT. I wondered if she would have only a nightSHIRT underneath. And hoped so.
Emmons arrived at 2000 hours, removed her SHIRT, keeping on her flimsy night version, which only piqued my interest even more. She was quite attractive, especially the long red hair. I set the apartment monitoring systems on External Only, poured her a dark ZiegenBock beer, and listened. Her perfume was no longer lilac, but faint, musky, cinnamon-like. I liked it.
“I don’t know where to begin,” she began, “but I am afraid this whole Bluenose versus TeaParliament thing is not natural. What they are putting out to influence the citizen adherents, I mean. You saw your SHIRT displays, and mine. These are just wearable versions of what citizen adherents access in their own homes and T3Vs and mobile devices and their own SHIRTs. But as we saw today, the Blues see one side of the truth, the Reds another, almost exactly the opposite. How did we ever get into this mess? Is there any real Truth?”
I was probably a few years older than Emmons and had more life experiences. Among these was having worked in rural areas while attending college, so I’d met and interfaced with a much wider variety of citizen adherents than had she. With this background I said, “Answering your earlier question today, and your last one just now. We got into this mess because the old Internet, that wild West, wide-open marketplace of ideas, had no filters, no interpreters, no voices of reason, no editors who could make sense of the firehose of information splashing out on ordinary people who just wanted a taste of it.”
Pressing the metaphor further, I went on, “Somebody wanted to satisfy a thirst for an answer to a simple question. The old Internet gave them a waterfall. The result was, some people drowned; they got bogged down in so much information that they could not function. Most people swam to shore, or grabbed a life preserver – they either withdrew from any kind of data coming in, or else they limited themselves to one narrow perspective.”
Emmons laughed, a wonderful lilt to her voice. “I love your explanation. I’m a swimmer myself.” Then in all seriousness, she said, “These life preservers, these specific websites and cable channels, they allowed people of wholly different lifestyles and viewpoints to live side by side physically, but without ever knowing or caring what their neighbors were experiencing.”
I agreed. “Yep. They seldom met each other in the flesh, or had the chance to discuss, or debate or even argue. In the early days of television, the entire nation of watchers shared the same experience and had a vicarious community. But the millions of video sites on the Net and the proliferation of cable channels, thousands of them, allowed almost every individual to pick and choose their own entertainment, their news –“
“—their religion and their education,” she interrupted, bringing us another refill of dark brew. “They could live forever in a cyberworld of self-selected information, not knowing they were drowning in their own narrow channels.”
I loved the analogies. “And when the old newspapers and magazines were washed away, only the separate ethereal cyberworlds existed anymore. There was little physical contact associated with their politics and their entertainment venues.”
She continued, “And thus the Near Civil War, when half the nation suddenly realized that the other half, sometimes people living right next door, were truly separate and radically different. Eventually these physical worlds collided, especially during that bad election campaign.” Fortunately for the old US of A, our nation had not been alone. The whole wide wired/wireless world went through this singular moment in history, all together. And produced Caracas, WORD and SHIRTs.
We never did reach a conclusion as to whether these solutions were the best to address the problems our parents’ cyber-generation had created. But after a while that evening, such deep intellectual exploration made no difference to us anymore; we had each drunk several beers by the time this discussion tailed off to inconclusion. And sometime in the evening, we set our nightSHIRTs on “Hibernate,” and met physically in yet another world, one of our own making, our own liking, lost in a cinnamon paradise.
When I heard the loud squeaky voice of Che again, it was morning and Emmons was gone. I sat up in bed, stretched and smiled. I never thought I’d be thanking degenerate illegal SHIRT-making recals for anything, but I was. It was going to be a great day!
About Arlan Andrews
Dr. Arlan Andrews, Sr., has been selling non-fiction since 1972, and SF stories since 1979, amounting to over 500 pieces in 100 venues worldwide. In his varied engineering career, he worked with missile-tracking telescopes, anti-ballistic missiles, nuclear weapons, 3D printing, biotechnology, virtual reality, environmental issues, and White House science policy. A consulting futurist, he is the founder of SIGMA, the science fiction think tank (www.SigmaForum.org) and was a Hugo novella nominee in 2015. Arlan’s story collections and novels are available on Amazon and other outlets.
Polk’s Prophetic Property
W.J. Hayes
It was said of Buchanan Polk that women wanted him, men wanted to be like him, and his enemies wanted him to die after being struck by a piece of space junk. As Andrew Adams sat in Polk’s corner office of Pisces Turrim, the headquarters of Polk Fisheries, Adams wished he would be the recipient of cosmic wayward hurtling metal. Adams was sitting while Polk was standing at what Adams guessed would be called “parade rest”, hands behind his back and legs shoulder-length apart, looking out the corner window. “We are a multi-billion dollar company,” Polk said. “We own one of the largest fishing fleets in the world. We lead the world in fish farming. And we have continuously expanded our capability to can and process our own fish.”
Adams said nothing. There was nothing to say. The old man was simply warming up. “I look out here,” Polk said, gesturing out the window, “and I see the large parcel of land purchased by this company to build the crown jewel of a canning center. Every detail was considered to maximize profit and minimize waste. It was scheduled to be built in six months. That was seven months ago. Do you know what I see today?”
Now Andrew had to answer, even though the question was, in reality, rhetorical. Adams knew the answer and he knew Buchanan Polk knew the answer. Most of New England knew the answer. With the growing realization that an errant bit of defunct satellite was not going to deorbit and put him out of his misery, Adams swallowed hard and said, “A big hole in the ground.”
“A big hole in the ground,” echoed Polk as he turned and faced his Vice-President for Logistics. “And why do I have a big hole in the ground? Why will no one in the construction trades venture near this site?” Buchanan asked this last question to the person entering the CEO’s Office, Orkney Cable. Orkney, one of those unfortunates named by his parents for the place of his conception, gave a weak smile. “Good morning, Your Grace.”
“It’s not a ‘good’ anything when your company’s balance sheets has a veritable money pit,” Polk said, as he gestured to the construction site. “Cable, as the representative of the construction contractors, please tell me the workers are prepared to go back to work.”
Cable shook his head. “Sorry s
ir. Even the inducement of twice the prevailing wage won’t change their minds. It’s crazy.”
“My point exactly,” observed Buchanan.
Orkney nodded. “I know. One of them said no amount of money would change his mind. What kind of lunacy is that?”
“And it is all because,” Polk paused and looked around at his desk for the report Adams had prepared. Picking it up with a flourish, Buchanan continued, “Because some... thing that looks like a deformed octopus spoke to you and said it would not allow it.”
Adams squirmed under the gaze of the CEO. “A squid. Well, actually, only his head looks like a squid. He has arms and legs. Big, nasty claws and wings...”
“Wings,” Buchanan muttered and started flipping through the report. “And he claims he is a god?”
“Dead,” corrected Andrew.
The CEO looked up. “What’s dead?”
“He, or rather it, is dead. A dead god.”
“A dead god?” asked Cable, trying to keep up with the conversation.
“Yes,” replied Adams
Polk frowned at his Vice President. “You were told all of this by a dead god?”
“It said it was a dream,” Adams said with a nod.
Orkney scratched his head.“So, it’s just a dream?” he asked.
Andrew shook his head, “No, it wasn’t a dream.”
“But you just said you dreamed it,” Cable persisted.
“No. It wasn’t my dream,” protested Andrew Adams. “It said it was the dream of a god.”
“Of a dead god?” asked Cable.
“That’s right.”
Cable and Polk exchanged glances. “I’m stumped,” said Orkney with a shrug.
Buchanan Polk put the report back on his desk, pinched the bridge of his nose, and said to his Vice President, “So to review, you had a conversation with a were-squid that describes itself as the dream avatar of a dead god, and it says I cannot build my factory on my property?”
“Well, I admit it does sound a little unusual when you put it like that,” Adams conceded after a moment’s pause.
Polk stared at Andrew for what seemed like an eternity. Then, for the first time Adams could recall, the face of Buchanan Polk, so famous for its stern, granite-like, visage, softened with genuine concern. “Look,” Buchanan said sympathetically, “I know that I can be difficult to work with. I realize I’m a type-A personality and I can push people to their breaking point. And candidly, well beyond that point. That can be a lot for most people. And that toll can cause a person to look for solace in drink or something else. If you need help, just tell me and I’ll make sure you get it. No one else needs to know. Your job will still be here when you return.”
The complete change in tone momentarily confused Adams as much as the sympathetic nods from Orkney Cable. Then the Vice President realized his boss was calling him an alcoholic. Or worse. “No sir,” he said firmly. “No, no. I am not drunk. This isn’t some sort of hallucination. That thing, whatever it is, does exist and it is the reason why the construction is not happening.”
Buchanan looked from Adams to Cable and back. The famous visage returned to its natural granite-like appearance. With a heavy sigh, Polk got up from his desk. “Fine, I’ll deal with this myself,” he said as he marched out of his office. Adams and Orkney sat alone in the office. When the silence became oppressive, Cable asked, “So are we supposed to wait here?”
“I don’t know.”
Cable looked at the Vice President, wondering if this man was like the Vice President of the United States, a heartbeat away from being in charge. With a shudder, he banished the thought. Sighing, he just knew it was going to be one of those days.
Buchanan Polk’s march to the sea led him through the barely-begun construction site. The aura of doom and despair, which had been so strong as to dissuade the workers from continuing to build the cannery, barely registered with Polk. Approaching the shore, Buchanan bent down and scooped up a handful of rocks. He began to throw them into the ocean, shouting, “Hey, show yourself, you Messianic Myopsina.”
From the corner office, Orkney Cable watched Buchanan, narrating events for Andrew Adams who hadn’t moved from his chair. “It looks like he’s yelling at the ocean.”
Andrew looked puzzled. “Why?”
“Well he’s either ordering the tides to stop or he’s trying to get the attention of your octopus.”
“First of all, it’s not my octopus. Second, it’s a squid. And third, it’s not actually a squid. The head is squid-shaped.”
Cable’s pithy response died on his lips. Outside, the ocean was roiling and he could see something rising from the depths. “Sweet weeping Mary,” he said, unconsciously rubbing the sobriety chip in his pocket.
Adams perked up at Cable’s tone. “What?”
As the creature arose before him out of the ocean, Polk’s eyes widened at the looming shape. In that moment, Polk felt not exactly fear, but concern that perhaps, just this once, he had maybe bitten off more than he could chew. Adams forgot to mention the fact the wings were from a dragon, he thought. By the time the Ancient Evil gazed upon his face, Buchanan had already wrestled his fears and buried them deep in his subconscious, somewhere beneath his regret for his 1992 Presidential election vote.
The creature looked at Polk. Buchanan could not see its mouth, and he wasn’t sure if it actually spoke or he was just hearing the rumbling voice in his head. “WHO DAREST TO SUMMON CTHULHU, ELDER GOD OF EVIL AND DESPAIR, WHO WILL….”
“I did,” said Polk, cutting off the Ancient Being’s speech. “My name’s Buchanan Polk. This is my property and I will thank you to go bother some other slob with your mystic mumbo-jumbo.”
“MUMBO-JUMBO? KNOWEST THIS MORTAL, THOU ART COMMUNICATING WITH CTHULHU, LORD OF THE DEEP WATERS, BRINGER OF MADNESS…”
Cable meanwhile, was experiencing mixed emotions at the sight of Cthulhu: fear and annoyance. The great beast below was so horrifying, Orkney was barely able to keep his bowels from loosening. At the same time, Adams’s clapping and repetition of “It’s real. I told you it was real” was rapidly getting irksome. “Quiet. I’m trying to listen,” Cable hissed.
“SUCH IMPUDENCE WILL NOT BE TOLERATED,” Cthulhu thundered. “THOU SHALT NOT SPEAK TO ME IN SUCH TONES. FOR LO YOU NOW CONFRONT THE DESTROYER OF ATLANTIS.”
Buchanan gave a patronizing smile and said, “Well, that’s an accomplishment for the resume to be sure. But, I want to know what gives you the right to interfere with my business?”
“YOUR BUSINESS? I CARE NOT FOR YOUR BUSINESS. THE PURSUIT OF COLOR PAPER IS OF NO CONCERN TO CTHULHU. ALL THAT MATTERS IS THE FEAR AND AGONY THAT WILL BE VISITED ON YOU AND YOUR DESCENDANTS.”
“And yet you are preventing me from building on my property,” Polk said, gesturing to the construction site. The Avatar of the Unspeakable Horror looked around the land.
“YOU CANNOT BUILD UPON THIS LAND FOR LO THIS LAND IS RESERVED FOR MY TEMPLE.”
“‘For lo’? Why not add a ‘yeah verily’ just to spice things up?”
Cthulhu stared down at Buchanan. The look on the creature’s face suggested it was raising an eyebrow, even though the beast had no eyebrows (or for that matter, eyelids). “THOU ART MOCKING ME?”
Polk affected a wounded look on his face. “Why would I mock you?”
The creature shook its head, tentacles flapping in the air. “YOUR FOREBEARS APPRECIATED THE USE OF SUCH LANGUAGE WHEN TALKING WITH THE BRINGERS OF THE APOCALYPSE,” it said in a slightly peevish tone.
In Pisces Turrium, Andrew Adams was unsuccessfully trying to take photos of the Ancient Evil with his cell phone. “Why won’t this work?”
Glancing sideways, Cable replied. “Your phone doesn’t take photos.”
Adams looked at his phone. “It doesn’t? It should. It is a top-of-the-line phone.”
“When did you buy it?”
“1996.”
Outside, Buchanan was challenging Cthulhu. “What I want to know is, where’s your
deed?”
“I HAVE NO NEED OF A DEED. THIS LAND IS MINE BY RIGHT OF THE ANCIENT ONES PROPHECY OF OUR ULTIMATE VICTORY.”
Buchanan smiled triumphantly, “So you don’t have a deed. Then you don’t own this land. So like I said before, shove off and sell your mumbo-jumbo elsewhere.”
“I AM CTHULHU AND HERE A MOUNTAIN OF SKULLS WILL BE COLLECTED AND USED TO BUILD MY THRONE.”
Inside the offices, Adams was still insisting his phone was top-of-the-line. “It may have been when you bought it twenty years ago,” Orkney said, barely keeping the annoyance out of his voice, “but a lot has changed. That’s why they are now called ‘smartphones’.Your phone is simply too old.”
Andrew considered this. He nodded absently and said, “That would explain why I have trouble trying to use Tindr.”
I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that, Cable decided, and focused intently on the scene below. He could see Buchanan standing in front of Cthulhu, the Evil Being seemingly stumped.“I… I AM GOD, SO… THE THRONE OF SKULLS IS A RELIGIOUS BUILDING AND PROTECTED BY FREEDOM OF RELIGION.”
“Ok,” Polk said, suppressing a smile. “Let’s for the moment stipulate you have, or rather are, a religion. That would only let you build your temple, or skull throne or whatever, on property you own. You can’t build on what you don’t own. That’s basic property law. ”
Cthulhu stared at Buchanan. Buchanan stared at Cthulhu. The creature stared harder until he realized the human would not blink or relent. An odd sensation began to overtake the dead god. He felt defeated. And as Polk continued to stare him down, Cthulhu inexplicably started wondering if it would be preferable for a meteorite to strike him down rather than continue this conversation. But it wasn’t a meteorite, but inspiration that struck. The Ancient One’s clawed hand made a sound very similar to fingers snapping. “I KNOW,” it said, “EMINENT DOMAIN.”
Freedom's Light: Short Stories Page 22
