Phil Elmore's Blog, page 17

Episode 27, “Uh Oh”

 

“Lock,” said Neiring to his car. Behind him, Moxley hitched at his trousers and then checked the weapon before arranging it under his overcoat.  Much as he hated to admit the private detective was right, Neiring took out his own service automatic and press-checked it. He put it back in its thermoplastic holster, making sure his own coat would not foul his draw.

The neighborhood was one of the worst in Hongkongtown, three blocks from the Redlight. Here, the night sky was dominated by the silhouettes of dormant mini-factories, which rose in spires all around them.  Hongkongtown’s industry was highly modular and always scalable. Factories that were turning out goods today might be cold and shuttered tomorrow, only to be reactivated for increased capacity a month later.  The structures around them were sealed.

Neiring didn’t like the look of the street. It was cluttered with debris. There were shipping containers, stripped ground cars, the burned out skeleton of a hydrogen cycle. Garbage rose in mounds and blew in scraps and chunks with the howling wind.  They were close to the sea wall here. That proximity drove gusts between the factories and whipped them to painful velocities.

“This is the one,” said Mox. He pointed to the nearest of the darkened spires.  “This is the address.  There’s no way there’s a school here.  According to the public registry, this is a robot plant for making tool-holders.”

“Let’s take a closer look,” said Neiring.  “Maybe we can pry up one of the shutters and get a look inside.”

“Works for me,” said Mox.  He took a step forward and froze.  The sound of a bottle skittering across pavement echoed across the street.

“Who’s there?” Neiring called out. He drew his weapon, staring into the darkness.

“Uh oh,” said Moxley.

Someone they could not see began banging a metal object against the paving. The sound was deliberate and rhythmic: Thump, thump, thump. A pause. Thump, thump, thump.

“Who’s out there?” Neiring demanded.

“Get back in the car,” said Moxley.  He was near the driver’s side. He curled his fingers around the handle.

“Mox?” said Neiring.

“I said get back in the damned car!” shouted Moxley.

“Doors!” shouted Neiring.  “Ignition!”  He threw himself in the passenger side as Mox climbed in, grunting as he squeezed himself between the wheel and Neiring’s usual seat.  The detective slammed the throttle forward and the directional back, spinning the vehicle around, trying to point the nose back the way they had come.

A chunk of paving the size of a trashcan lid bounced off the windhield, leaving a stress fracture.  Mox poured on the power, but now there were figures blocking the road.  Where they had come from, where they had been hiding, Neiring could not imagine. This wasn’t a few people; this was practically a flash mob. They were dressed in rags. The headlights of Neiring’s car caused them to flinch and snarl.

Mox hit the brakes and wrenched the directional back.  The car began to reverse, picking up speed.  Behind them waited the dead end that was the cul-de-sac of factories.  Before them, the crowd of disheveled men and women began to walk, then to jog, then to run.

“We are so holing screwed,” said Mox.

“What is it?” Neiring asked. “What are they?”

“Sleepers,” said Mox.  He shifted directions once more, bouncing up and over the lip of the drive path, clipping one of the menacing Sleepers as Mox accelerated past.  A steady stream of rocks, bottles, and other hard refuse was now bouncing from Neiring’s car, denting and cracking its polymer shell.

“You almost killed that one,” said Neiring.

“I’ll try harder next time,” said Mox.  “Sleepers aren’t people any more, Ray. You don’t see it. You don’t come down here enough.”

“Look out!” shouted Neiring.

Too late, Moxley saw the metal cable. The Sleepers had pulled it taut between a pair of shipping containers, using the alloy boxes to brace the cable.  The detective had time to slam the brakes while reaching out to shove Neiring’s head below the level of the dashboard.

The cable scythed through the windshield a hand’s width above their heads. Fragments of transparent plastic showered the two men.

“Out,” said Mox. “Out, get out, get your gun ready! Now, Ray!” He all but pushed Neiring from his side. Neiring drew his automatic again. He had never seen Moxley this agitated. It took Neiring a moment to realize why.

Mox was terrified.

The Sleepers encircled them. The ring of shuffling addicts began to close right away.  They held a variety of weapons, from pipes to knives to chunks of pavement.

They never made a sound.

Moxley threw himself over the hood of the car and landed heavily next to Neiring, stumbling and swearing.  Neiring dragged the detective to his feet.  Moxley, revolver in hand, then put his back to Neiring’s.  “Don’t shoot until I say,” he said.  “When they come they’re gonna come for blood.  You shoot for the head or the pelvic girdle. You got it? The eye box or the triangle, Neiring. Nothing else is going to stop them.  Pray we’ve got enough.”

“Enough?”

“Enough bullets for all of them.”

Neiring’s nose twitched.  He could smell them now.  Sleep smelled of lilacs. It was cloying and thick, completely out of place.

The Sleepers themselves had pallid skin and eyes so bloodshot they looked like rabbits.  Prolonged use of Sleep didn’t just break capillaries in the eyes; it cut off the supply of blood to the epidermis, slowly killing the addicts from the outside in.  Like lepers, they would flake and crumble, dropping fingers and toes before entire limbs went missing. Neiring had never seen a Sleeper as far gone as these.

The Sleepers charged.  Neiring flicked the selector on his pistol to three-round burst and began pumping rounds into the crowd.  Moxley’s revolver barked again and again.  The detective’s hand-cannon was deafening at his back, but Neiring was grateful.  Mox was deadly accurate.  His revolver’s heavy caliber split skulls two at a time. With most of his shots, he managed to drill a Sleeper and take down the one standing behind him.

Neiring’s pistol started to beep.  He dropped the magazine and replaced it with a practiced motion, a motion he had learned and used only on a government target range.  Dead addicts were piling up at their feet now, but the ones behind the corpses simply climbed over their comrades.  Neiring kept firing.  He felt his weapon begin to grow hot as he emptied the magazine, reloaded again, and emptied the gun once more.

Then the Sleepers were all dead.

Ears ringing, Neiring turned to see Moxley breaking his revolver, dumping its spent cartridges, and sliding in a fresh moon clip. The top-break weapon fired explosive, rocket-propelled rounds. It was considered wildly impractical by most professionals. Moxley was not among them.

Neiring scanned the circle of dead. Some of the Sleepers were missing fingers.  Many had rags tied to their feet; some were barefoot. Several were missing fingers and toes.

“They were so quiet,” said Neiring.  He was holding his empty pistol as if he might fire it. Its charging block was locked back. He was out of reloads. “Why were they so quiet?”

Moxley’s hands were shaking.  He managed to get a vapor tube in his mouth and thumb it alive. The blue light cast odd shadows on his moon-pie face.  “Their vocal cords dry out first,” he said.  Even his voice was trembling.  “You meet a Sleeper who can’t scream anymore, he’s not coming back. He’s taken the night train. The skin turns to ash not long after.”  He pointed his gun at the circle of corpses.  “This isn’t normal. When we left they should have been satisfied.”

“I don’t follow,” said Neiring.

“Sleepers are territorial,” said Moxley.  “You invade their space, they’ll come at you. Get gone and they’ll let you go. They don’t like you, you don’t like them. It’s mutual. There’s only one reason they’d try to kill us while we were fleeing, and that’s because they thought we wanted to steal from them. Like a rabid animal guarding the only watering hole.”

“I don’t understand,” said Neiring.  “What does this mean?”

Moxley spat.  He took a long drag from his tube.

“It means,” he said, “that somebody’s been feeding them.”

Technocracy — White, Male Nerds: What Monsters!

My WND Technocracy column this week is about white, male nerds and the attempt to mischaracterize them in popular culture.

Why, imagine that: Technology is still largely the purview of the skilled white males who invented so much of it…

Notably, the practice of cataloging “micro-aggressions” is one in which harmless behavior is held up as part of an imagined conspiracy — the “hateful” or “misogynistic” whole presumed to be greater than the sum of the parts.

Read the full column here in WND News.

Smooth Criminal: Good-Looking Men, the Internet, and Feminists

“The hottie mugshot proves that crime pays—if you’re a man,” sniffs The Daily Dot. Chris Osterndorf, writing for the Internet gossip sheet, further laments that the viral mugshot photo of one Jeremy Meeks of Stockton must somehow be further proof of man’s pervasive victimization of woman (Women? Womyn?). “Jeremy Meeks might be objectively good looking in the traditional sense, but the fervor over his handsome face seemingly stems at least in part from his criminal past, rather than in spite of it,” speculates Osterndorf, who goes on to assert that Americans are obsessed with crime and even “attracted to it.”

This is the flimsiest of premises for the conclusion(s) to which Osterndorf hurries, but then, his (hers?) is not an objective analysis of the viral fame Meeks’ “handsome mugshot” achieved for him when people began passing it around online. Rather, Osterndorf started with her (his?) conclusion that all this attention for a good-looking man (a MAN, for God’s sake) must somehow be hurting a woman somewhere (and preferably many of them).

Osterndorf vacillates between whining that our society doesn’t take violent women seriously, and complaining that sexism is somehow holding back a greater understanding of women as antiheroes. While society seems willing to “fetishize” female sociopaths and other deviants (such as mentally ill women who drown their children or even murder them to achieve Internet fame), evil, evil, unspecified but omnipotent men are conspiring to marginalize and exploit these exponents of grrl power. One has to wonder why such strong, empowered, clever, capable, sassy, complex, in-your-face females are forever being so easily dismissed and misused by their patriarchal oppressors. Could it be that Osterndorf is projecting onto our culture’s love of crime stories a gender bias and sexism that simply isn’t there?

Tyranny of the Beautiful People

Osterndorf even manages to claim that “classically good looks” are “more often than not a part of what makes a criminal considered ‘attractive,’ as is the case for most people. Keep in mind that Meeks isn’t the first Internet phenomenon that is indicative of this. There was another ‘attractive convict’ meme that preceded him.” Bizarrely, Osterndorf conveniently ignores that this previous meme was a mugshot of Florida’s Meagan Renea McCullough, a woman addrested for DUI. The fact that the McCullough meme was every bit as popular as the Meeks mugshot, preceded Meeks’ Web fame by four years, and featured a woman, not a man, would seem to undercut both Osterndorf’s argument and the impetus to write it (as one presumes there isn’t a four-year-old Osterndorf piece decrying our collective and chauvinist fascination with hot women who drive drunk).

Or is it the “traditional,” even “classic” notion of beauty that Osterndorf disputes? What standard of “good-looking” is the Daily Dot’s author using if not the one the rest of us are applying? Any idiot, even a straight man, can look at Meeks and identify features that any heterosexual woman would find appealing. Why this obsessive-compulsive need to qualify descriptions of Meeks’ appearance, if not to allow for some other standard of attractiveness — one of which Osterndorf presumably approves? Is Osterndorf simply ugly? Is his or her entire article simply a means to lash out at society’s judgment concerning who is handsome and, by omission, who is not?

So it would seem, for Osterndorf then cites figures claiming that good-looking people receive better treatment by the legal system than do ugly ones. It’s common knowledge that good-looking female teachers receive less harsh punishment than do ugly females (or males of any standard of appearance) who have carnal knowledge of their students. This, however, does not rise to a level Osterndorf considers worthy of notice. No, this is about the beautiful people running roughshod over the the Osterndorfs of the world, leveling their smoky gazes and strong cheekbones at our legal system’s cameras and flouting their misbehavior under our collective noses. “This is why we aren’t interested in female criminals the way we’re interested in male ones,” the author somehow manages to write — completely forgetting that media personalities like Nancy Grace have built entire careers chronicling the crimes of female perpetrators. (Wait, though, were those criminals too good looking? Maybe they don’t count.)

So, are the Meeks inheriting a patriarchal Earth? Are good-looking men being given a pass despite their violent behavior?

How Crime “Pays” For Men

Let’s look at how well “crime pays” for men. You’ve heard these figures before. “Women are charged fewer times than men for violent crime, convicted less when guilty of the same crimes as men, and are given shorter sentences or simply receive probation,” according to Men’s Defense. “Judges are reluctant to jail women; while men are arrested 4 times as often as women, they are imprisoned 24 times as often…”

Men’s Defense goes on: “Practically every time a man and woman get into a physical fight, regardless of who is the aggressor, the man is blamed. If married, police usually throw him out of his house. As 17-year Seattle family law attorney Lisa Scott explains, ‘From top to bottom the current domestic violence system won’t let women be anything but victims and can’t see men as anything but batterers. And from the moment a 911 call is made there is practically no such thing as an innocent man. It doesn’t matter that you’re actually innocent. Or that she attacked you first. Or that you both went over the line and that both of you want to put it behind you and work it out. The system will prosecute you and persecute you until you’ve confessed your sins—even if you’ve none to confess. And you’re not cured until they say you’re cured—even if you were never sick to begin with.’”

What about non-criminal activities? Surely “male privilege” and institutionalized sexism must be giving men a better deal in the society and in the workplace than women get. It stands to reason, doesn’t it? One has to wonder, then, why it is that in almost every country, men commit suicide more frequently than women. They perform more of the risky jobs, and die from the risks more often, than their female counterparts, too. Men accounted for 54% of the work force but 92% of all workplace fatalities in 2007. And of course, men have always shouldered the brunt of military casualties; from 2002 to 2014, men accounted for almost 98% of military deaths. Why, clearly, this is male privilege. Combined with all the advantages men seem to be enjoying in the field of crime, it’s a wonder we don’t spend more time extolling the virtues of our glorious patriarchy.

Manufactured Outrage and Projected Insecurities

Fasination over Jeremy Meeks’ mugshot isn’t rampant sexism at work. It isn’t even particularly symptomatic of a legal bias in favor of attractive people (even though, let’s face it, good-looking people generally have an advantage that ugly people don’t). It certainly doesn’t show that society romanticizes male criminals over female ones, or that we as a collective group aren’t somehow stopping female criminals from getting their cultural due. Instead, outrage over the Jeremy Meeks meme is manufactured. It is the fantasy of those eager to see the phantom of institutional sexism under every annoying orange and behind every grumpy cat. A meme need have no logic and it need not portend anything sinister.

Sometimes a good-looking man is just a good-looking man, no matter how uncomfortable that makes Chris Osterndorf.

Episode 26, “The Monster”

 

[image error]The pavement fell away beneath his feet. His lungs burned. A stabbing pain gripped his side, gnawing at him, trying to pull him down. He could not stop. He could not give in. He dared not slow.

Everyone says it can follow you anywhere.

Jonas Mayer flew through alley after crossway, past glass facades and lighted portals, through intersections clogged with overnight traffic. Four times he was nearly hit by ground cars and pedicabs. A rider on a hydrogen cycle clipped him with the handlebars.  He tripped, stumbled, scraped his face on the paving.  He practically tore out his own fingernails clawing his way back to his feet.

Everyone says that it never gets tired.

He was crossing the RotenStrasse when he thought he saw its eyes glaring at him from a doorway.  On Marshal, he was convinced he caught a glimpse of it, trailing him amidst the crowd.  Near the Bowl, he ducked into a photo kiosk that was out of order.  The robot salesman mumbled nonsense to him while the flash fired again and again. He scanned the passing crowd, looking for some sign of it.

There. Had he seen it? Was that the monster? He couldn’t be sure. Everything was too dark. The photo flashes had ruined his night vision. Did that shadow move? Colored blobs danced in his vision.

He wanted to scream.  He looked left. He looked right. Where was he? Somewhere in the middle of Dragon Street.  Where could he go? Where was safe?

Everyone says it won’t go in small spaces.

He saw it. Row’s, it was called.  A public diner.  There would be other people there. It was well lighted.  The monster wouldn’t dare take him there.  It couldn’t. The doors were narrow sliders. The diner burned with artificial brightness.  He would be safe.

He would stay until it was light. Then he could use the morning pedestrian traffic, the foot commuters, as cover until he could get home.

Stupid. So stupid to get caught anywhere down here after dark.  Word was out. From Dragon to the twenty-four-hour amusement park, at least, and maybe farther out than that, you weren’t safe.

Everyone says it needs darkness to hide.

He almost collapsed when the sliding doors closed behind him. He smelled coffee and the deep fryer and bowls of spicy soup.  There were plenty of other people here. Groups, couples.  No way the monster could take him in front of all these witnesses. Everyone said that.  Everyone said that it stayed in the shadows whenever it could, hiding until it chose a victim.

He slid into a booth and peered out the window.  The lights inside made it hard to see through the darkness.  He cupped his hand over his eyes and tried to watch the street.

Row’s was famous for its human staff.  The waitress jostled his elbow, impatient for his order.  Jonas turned and said, “Coffee–”

The monster had found him!

He screamed.  The figure next to the table didn’t move. He realized the towering being wasn’t a monster at all. It was just a gaunt figure in a rain slicker.

“Are you all right, sir?” it asked.

He rubbed his face with his palm.  Some kind of robot. He’d never seen one that looked so human.  The robot sat down without asking. It stared at him from beneath its hood.

Everyone says that it crushes your skull.

He looked around, wondering if anyone had noticed him shout.  No one had or, maybe more likely, no one cared. This was Hongkongtown. You couldn’t throw a brick and not hit a Sleep addict screaming from withdrawal.

“I’m… sorry,” said Jonas.  He stared at the robot.  “I thought you were someone else.”

“That’s understandable,” said the robot.  It sat very still across from him.  “If you don’t mind the observation, sir, you seem more than a little troubled.”

“I’m… I’m under a lot of stress.  I’m Jonas, by the way. Jon to my friends.”

Everyone says that it follows the List.

“Perhaps you would let me purchase you a meal, Jon,” said the robot.  “I’ve spent many years on the streets of Hongkongtown. I know weariness when I see it.”

“Thank you,” he said.  “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to return the favor.”

The robot made a strange ratcheting noise deep within its metal chest.  “I do not eat,” it said. “Rest easy, friend.”  It gestured with a pincer-like hand.  Drops of rainwater fell on the table.

“Do you come to Row’s often?” Jonas asked. He had no idea how to small-talk a robot.

“No,” it said.  “I came in here to get out of the storm. You’re lucky. It was much worse out there an hour ago.”

The waitress arrived. She took his order without interest. The coffee, when it came, was strong and hot and burned. He drank it black. “Yeah,” he said at last.  “Lucky.”

“Tell me, Jon,” the robot said.  “What exactly is it, out there, that you’re afraid of? You keep watching the windows.”

Everyone says it may wait in your home.

“I….” Jonas said.  “You wouldn’t believe me.  The stories people tell.  About the monster.”

“The monster,” said the robot.  “The one that kills sex offenders in Hongkongtown.”

Something cold, something the coffee could not touch, settled in the pit of his stomach. He put his mug down.  “How do you know that?” Jonas asked.

“I’ve heard about it too,” said the robot.  “I told you, Jon. I’ve spent a lot of time on these streets. I hear things.”

“I heard it,”Jonas said.  “I heard the monster today. A block from my flat. I heard it talking about someone it was going to kill.  Me. It came for me. So I ran.”

“And now you’re afraid you’ll be killed,” said the robot.

“Everyone says that happens.”

“Everyone?” asked the robot. “Who is everyone?”

“My friends,” said Jonas. “The people I know.”

Everyone says that you’ll never be missed.

“I can help you, Jon,” said the robot.  “I’ve heard the stories. I know a place that’s safe from the monster. It’s not far.”

“How…?”

“I like to think my purpose,” said the robot, “is to help weary travelers find their rest at last.”

It made no sense. It was a robot. How was it even having this conversation with him? What could it possibly know that could help him? And why would it bother? The logical part of his brain told him to run, told him to get out of Row’s, told him to leave this strange machine far behind him.

But he had nowhere else to go.  He could go home. But he’d tried to do that once today already.

He could travel to another part of the city. But there was no one he could stay with, no one he could count on. Not if he got too far from home. He didn’t have the money for a hotel stay of any length.

Everyone says it’s already too late for you.

Tossing a chit on the table for his coffee, he stood.  “I want to be safe,” he said, close to tears.  “I just want to be safe.”

“I can help you, Jon,” the robot said again.  It placed a metal claw on his shoulder and guided him to the exit.  Once on the street, it pointed.  “Go that way for two blocks,” it said. “Turn left when you get to the cross street with the mail kiosk. There’s a tram stop there. Wait there for the four o’clock tram. You should find that this gets you where you need to go. You’ll be safe.”

He wanted to believe. He had no other choice.  He muttered a thank you to the strange machine in the hooded slicker and ran into the night.

Everyone says that it puts out your eyes.

He barely saw the people and vehicles passing him.  The tram  stop bore a pair of benches, their backs conjoined. He sat facing the street.

He had made it.  He was here.  He glanced at his watch.  It would be four soon. He was going to make it.

He felt the couple that sat down on the opposite side of the bench. The metal seat vibrated beneath him.  Tourists got fatter every year. He almost laughed at his own joke.

“These are good grades, Annika,” said a rumbling voice.

“Thank you, Daddy,” she said.  “I like the virtual school. It’s better than my old school.”

There was a pause.  The cold ball was forming again in Jonas’ stomach. He tried not to move.

“You’re sure?” asked her father.  “You learned so much before I found you. The way you describe it, I think your old school must have been pretty special.”

“I guess,” said Annika.  “I didn’t like it so much when they hit us with the stick.”

Jonas swore he heard the deep-voiced man spit in surprise.  “Hit  you with… They did what?”

“You know,” said the girl.  “Whenever we got something wrong. To help us learn better.  Never where anyone could see.  That’s what sleeves are for.”

Their tram would come. Their tram would come and they would leave. It was going to be okay.

Everyone says there is no hiding place for you.

“Annika,” said Peyton, “Your old school. Do you think you could find it on a map for me? Do you know where it is?”

“Of course, Daddy,” said Annika. “That’s one of the first things they taught us. They weren’t even mean about it all the time.”

There was smoldering wrath in the man’s voice when he spoke again.  “Good,” he said.  “I think I want to go there.”

“I don’t want to go back,” the girl said quickly.

“No,” said the man.  “You won’t have to.  I just want to visit. Once.”

“We’ll need to finish with Mister Mayer first,” she said.  “He probably thought he was pretty smart, running into the crowd like that. He probably thought we would lose him.”

It couldn’t be happening. They could not be talking about him. It was a bad dream. He was supposed to be safe. He was supposed to get on the four o’clock tram.

“He was fast,” said the man.  “I hate that he got away. He’s a bad man, Annika. He may hurt more children. His repeat offender index is very high.”

“I know,” said Annika. “I don’t want him to hurt anyone else. I don’t understand why these bad men aren’t kept in prison. They aren’t like you. They couldn’t just leave if they were in prison.”

It wasn’t fair. He didn’t deserve to die this way. It wasn’t right.

“I don’t understand that either, Annika.” The big man shifted on the bench.  “Mayer has to come home someday. Maybe we go back and just wait.”

“Oh, you don’t have to,” she said.  “He’s behind us.”

Jonas turned in his seat. His eyes met hers. She smiled at him.

The monster had found him.

The monster had brought its father.

He turned to run. The big man’s hand grabbed his neck.

Everyone  picked by the little girl dies.

Technocracy: The Omnipresent Police State

My WND Technocracy column this week is about the pervasive surveillance of all Americans that Congress claims it is trying to “rein in,” even as secret courts and secret laws continue to hold sway behind the scenes.

All Americans are criminals. None of them has rights.

This is unacceptable and completely contrary to what the Founders envisioned for our country.

Read the full column here in WND News.

Episode 25, “Not Recovered”

 

[image error]“He’s rebooting now,” said the medical tech. His name tag declared him “Foster” and bore a serial number.

VanClef looked up from where he sat reading reports on a pocket tab. He tucked away the device and went to stand next to Foster.  His boots rang on the white tiles of the government medical center, located in a heavily guarded and classified annex of Hongkongtown’s largest private hospital.

On a hydraulic table wide enough to accommodate a ground car, ORN84821796 lay quietly.  The armored carapace of the battle machine was streaked with oxidation. VanClef ran one gloved finger across this. His fingertip left a runnel in the orange lattice.

The “patient,” if that word applied here, was surrounded by the armatures of robot medical equipment.  Various tubes and couplings were connected to access ports on his metal frame.  There were open pods on his shoulders and forearms.  Refueling hoses snaked to his legs.

“What is his prognosis?” VanClef asked.

“Good,” said Foster.  “You realize that once they’re decommissioned, they’re not supposed to be recoverable.”

“I’m aware,” said Vanclef.  “He’s viable nonetheless?”

“He will be,” said the tech.  “I’m running a glucose and stimulant suspension through his organic systems now.  It should shake off the cobwebs and get him fully conscious again.  The mental conditioning appears stable, and his brainwaves show no sign of degradation.  Once we designate you as his unit commander, he’ll follow your orders with… reasonable reliability. I can’t guarantee that his cognition hasn’t suffered. His brain has been in the equivalent of a coma for several years. There’s always some fall-off of higher function.”

“How will that affect him?”

“His reaction times will be slow,” said Foster.  “Reflexes will be similarly retarded. It shouldn’t affect his heirarchal protocols.”

“Good,” said VanClef.  “Slow is not a problem. Insubordinate… that would be a problem.”

“I still haven’t received the necessary authorization paperwork,” said Foster.

“It’s coming through channels,” said VanClef.  “You’ll have it.”

“I hope so, sir,” said Foster.  “Without it I’m obligated to report the misappropriation of military resources. We’re not licensed to field this equipment.”

“It’s being taken care of,” said VanClef.  “The weapons pods will function?”

“Once you’ve supplied the necessary munitions,” said Foster.  “They can’t be had commercially. This model is obsolete.”  He handed VanClef a plastic print.  “These are the specifications.”

“Yes,” said VanClef.  “I anticipated as much.”  He gestured to the door of the surgical chamber.  “And our guest in the next room?”

Foster sighed.  He gestured for the Intelligence agent to follow.  The door slid quietly aside as they approached.

The smell of chemical antiseptic stabbed his nostrils. Undergirding this was something much worse, something rotten and cloying.  He coughed.  From his pocket he took the black silk handkerchief he always carried.  This he placed over his mouth.

“The damage is considerable, as you can see,” Foster reported.  The man in the hospital bed was swathed in pressure bandages and wore an oxygen helmet. Machines breathed for him; machines processed and treated his blood and bodily wastes. Several machines whose purpose VanClef could not divine were connected to the squat figure’s limbs, chest, and pelvis.

“Will he live?”

“The better question, Agent VanClef,” said Foster, “is whether you want him to.”

“It’s that bad?”

“Yes, sir,” said Foster.  “You should consider euthanizing him, in my professional opinion.”

“As long as Temken is alive,” said VanClef, “his salary accrues in my operating budget.”

Foster shrugged.  “That’s your call to make, of course.  Mister Temken’s skull has been cracked and his brain evulsed.  We’re fairly certain he is awake in there, to the extent that he retains higher brain function, but there is almost certainly some damage.  I’m circulating a full spectrum of painkillers through him, as much as we can without risking renal failure.  As it is we’ve had to install heart and lung machines.  The trauma he endured provoked several organ failures. There’s also the long-term risk of infection.”

“Is that why he smells so badly?”

“We’re fighting a necrotizing bacteria in his extremities,” said Foster.  “That’s something he picked up here in the hospital, to be honest.  He should be dead already. I’m astonished he survived the medivac here.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen a living man as badly damaged as this.”

VanClef pressed his handkerchief more tightly to his face and leaned over Temken’s helmet.  “Where are his eyes?”

“Not recovered,” said Foster.

“The pressure of having his skull split did that?”

“I assume as much.”

“All right,” said VanClef.  “How much pain is he in?”

“As much as there is,” said Foster.

“Pity,” said Foster. “Let me know if his condition changes.  In the meantime I want you to conduct an analysis of Ian Peyton’s physical specifications.  Find me a weakness.  Any weakness.  His metabolism makes it extremely difficult to tranquilize him, for example. If you can concoct something we could use to do that, I can close this case.”

“You want to take him alive?”

“It would be preferable,” said VanClef.  “But it is not a requirement. And let me remind you that Peyton’s specifications are classified.”  He took a print from his coat and handed it to Foster.  Foster held it up to the light.

The outline of a hypertrophic man dominated the print. Several call-outs indicated organ locations and contained columns of statistics.

“I may not find anything,” said Foster.

“Every system his a weakness,” said VanClef. “So does Peyton.”  He shot a last glance at Temken and then swept from the room.

The medical tech shook his head.  Looking more closely at the medical records VanClef had given him, he realized that the patient’s name was not listed as Ian Peyton.  It said, instead, “Stillwater, William.”

Foster frowned. He would just ignore the discrepancy.

The schemes of Intelligence agents were none of his concern.

Technocracy: Like it or not, the ‘Internet of Things’ is here

My WND Technocracy column this week is about the “Internet of Things.”

How fast will you be traveling down the highway when your car’s self-driving system experiences a “blue screen of death” error?

If you haven’t heard of it — and according to a recent poll, there’s a good chance you haven’t — the IoT is a term applied to the interconnected “smart” devices that put the mundane functions, aspects, and devices in our lives on the Web and communicating with one another.

Of course, the IoT is also why your home appliances’ network connections  could be used to turn them into virus-laden e-mail-spewing slave machines.

Read the full column here in WND News.

Episode 24, “People Are Funny”

 

[image error]“Best waffles in town,” said Neiring.  He dug in with his fork.  “You’ll regret missing them.”

“I ate at Row’s,” said Getty. He took a rebreather from his nostrils and tucked it away.  Most residents of Hongkongtown had long ago adapted to the ozone bursts.  A few, particularly those with respiratory ailments or who were elderly, required nose filters for the worst periods.

“I thought the same thing,” said Neiring. “But they really are delicious.”

“First things first, Inspector.”

Neiring looked around.  A robot server bearing a tray of drinks trundled past.  He reached into his coat and produced a plastic envelope full of chits.  This he passed across the table to Getty.

The prison guard took the envelope, slit it with a fingernail, thumbed the chits. He nodded.

“As agreed,” said Neiring.

“I could lose my job for giving you this,” said Getty.  From his own rain slicker he produced a data chip. Neiring took it.  “There isn’t much. I warned you there wouldn’t be.  But I got what we had.”

“What does it say?” Neiring asked.  He took another large bite.

“Annika Peyton’s records don’t exist,” said Getty.  “At least, they didn’t. A week before her father’s execution, a recursive data error starts propagating through some of the nodes on the grid.  It had barely resolved across all of the ‘nets when Richards, that fool, saw the display at the gallows and announced it to the world. Even then, the records aren’t complete. There are no medical certifications.  No other family ties. No entry for a birth mother. No address history. That little girl just winked into existence at twelve.”

Nering sipped from his coffee mug. “So what is there?” he said.

“There’s a listing for her school,” said Getty.  “With an address near the Redlight, which doesn’t make any sense. The neighboring zones are all industrial. There are no schools there.”

“Could it be a decoy?” asked Neiring. “The data, I mean. Planted by–”

“By VanClef, you mean?” said Getty.  “If it is, you don’t know me. I was never here.”

Neiring held up a hand. “Seriously,” he said.  “How badly are you putting yourself at risk to get me this information?”

“Not too badly,” said Getty.  “I’m near my pension. There aren’t too many at the Promontory who are senior to me. The data error isn’t directly traceable. I’ll be fine as long you don’t throw my name around.”

“I won’t,” said Neiring.  The guard started to get up.  Neiring held up a hand.  “Getty,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“Inspector,” said Getty, “I could have drawn death house duty the day Ian Peyton escaped. Instead, I called in sick. That’s the only reason I’m alive today.  If you ask me, hunting Peyton and his daughter is a mistake. And not because Intelligence warned you off.”

“That’s what everybody keeps telling me,” said Neiring.  Getty tipped an imaginary hat, turned, and left the wafflehouse.  Neiring cut another slice from his waffle.

“He’s not wrong, you know,” said the man in the booth behind him.

Neiring finished his dinner.  Behind him, Moxley got up from the adjoining booth.  He tucked the revolver he carried back into its holster under his coat, then sat down across from Neiring.

“You were sitting there with your gun out?”

“You’re damned right I was,” said Mox, sticking a vapor tube in his mouth. The tip flared blue as he inhaled.  “You’ve got to learn to think less of people, Neiring.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that if VanClef had gotten to him, it wouldn’t be beneath an Intelligence operative to send somebody to hose you down. I had my gun on him from the moment he walked in.”

“Which is why you suggested we meet in the most remote diner in the city,” said Neiring, “with only robots on hand  as witnesses.”

“I suggested this place because the food is good,” said Mox. “I like to eat.”  He flagged down a passing robot from within a growing cloud of byproduct mist. “Gimme a plate of eggs and bacon. Over hard. Real eggs, too, not that synthetic crap.”

The robot beeped and rolled away.

“I guess we’re lucky,” said Neiring.

“Why?”

“VanClef didn’t send an assassin. Getty came to get paid. We’re lucky that he’s as corrupt as everybody else in this town. Everyone’s got their hand out.”

“Hongkongtown,” said Mox.  “While you were playing strangers in the night with Getty, I spent the day chasing down something odd.”  He took a stack of plastic prints from inside his coat and spread them on the table.  “See something odd?

“Annika Peyton,” said Neiring.  Each of the photos was of a blonde-haired girl, small enough to be twelve years old.

“No, see,” said Mox, “that’s just what I thought, too.  These are surveillance pulls from the city patrol drones.”

“Those records are supposed to be destroyed,” said Neiring.  “Privateer law.”

“They are,” said Mox.  “They purge the files every two days.  These sightings are all over Hongkongtown. From Dragon to the Promontory and back again. And all within the last 48 hours.”

“But that’s crazy,” said Neiring.  “Annika couldn’t possibly be in this many places at the same time over just two days.”

“No,” said Mox. “She couldn’t. And she didn’t. You macro those shots, every one of them comes up negative for Annika Peyton’s facial recog. Not enough points of similarity.”

The serving robot, or one like it, wobbled over with Moxley’s food.  The detective took his plate and began digging into the eggs.  He grinned widely.

“How can you eat around that vape tube?” said Neiring.

“The same way I can drink while I do,” said Moxley.  He took a silver hip flask from his coat and knocked back a long swallow.  Neiring shook his head when Moxley offered him the flask.

“So what are you saying, Mox?” Neiring asked.  “That a small army of little blonde girls is running around Honkongtown, fouling the surveillance algorithms?”

“No,” said Moxley.  “These are…” he trailed off.  The serving robot sat patiently next to the table.  “Get lost,” he told it, rapping on its housing with his knuckles.  “We’re set for now.”  The robot rolled slowly away.  To Neiring, Moxley said, “Old circuits.  I bet there’s a robot graveyard out back.”

“The little girls,” Neiring prompted.

“Right,” said Mox.  “See, we’ve both been wondering how Peyton and his kid are walking around Hongkongtown without tripping any automated surveillance markers.  Should be simple enough, right? Well, I talked to a guy down in the tech center. He says the surveillance drones and all the public cameras have cut-out programming to prevent false positives. Cuts down on the nuisance reporting, right? Well, I figure Peyton or his kid, probably the girl, know enough about computers to introduce ghosts.  Simulated little blonde girls, carried throughout the local nodes by a virus.”

“That sounds far-fetched,” said Neiring.

“It did to me too,” said Moxley. “Until I checked facial recognition against the DNA database. None of these kids exist, Mox. Not one of them. Sure, a few kids slip through the database every year. But every last one?”  He expended his vapor tube and dropped it on his now empty plate.  “That’s how they’re doing it. I’m certain.  You’d need somebody on the ground tracking them, eyes-on, to acquire them.”

“So where does that leave us?” Neiring asked.

“Need you ask?” said Mox.  “We take that chip and we go look at this school that isn’t supposed to exist.  Detective work one-oh-one, buddy.”

“And if that’s a dead end?”

“Don’t get ahead of me,” said Mox.  “I’m on a roll.”

“All right,” said Neiring.  “Let’s go.”

The pair headed out of the waffle house.  Just outside the exit, some wag had draped a hooded rain slicker over the tall, skinny robot minding the door. It looked almost human that way.

“What are you chuckling about?” Neiring asked.  “Doors.”  The passenger and driver-side doors of his ground car, parked at the curb outside the waffle house, opened themselves.

“Nothing,” said Moxley.  “People are funny, that’s all.”

As the car pulled away, neither man saw the cloaked figure turn its metal head to watch them go.

Technocracy: Is the Internet killing people?

My WND Technocracy column this week is about the “Slender Man” stabbings and the power of memes in popular culture.

We are all Slender Man’s children…

The fact is, claiming that Slender Man made you kill is a lot like claiming you did it in the name of Satan. It doesn’t matter what you blame, for you are responsible.

Read the full column here in WND News.

Episode 23, “Violet Speakeasy”

 

[image error]“Annika, I’m worried about something.”

“You’re always worrying, Daddy,” said Annika, looking up from her plate. “We’ve talked about this.” With her fork, she attacked the second of two enormous waffles.

“I’m serious,” said Peyton.  “Because you’re with me, you’re not going to school. I didn’t want you to go back. I didn’t want you to leave. But I think I was selfish. You’re so smart. I’ve been thinking about this and I feel like it’s wrong for you not to get an education.”

The wafflehouse on Dragon Street was dimly lighted, boasting plenty of alcoves and recesses.  The booth they had selected was configured, on one side, for customers using mobility scooters. Peyton sat cross-legged on this side, while Annika sat in a chair across from him.  While he watched, Annika took the syrup hose from its clip on the table and doused her plate with it.

Peyton scanned the room but saw nothing to concern him. The wafflehouse had been recommended by Montauk.  “It caters to a diverse selection of differently realized beings,” he had said of it.  “They’ll give you no trouble. Should the authorities visit, they’ll have no memory of your stay.” Peyton suspected that the serving robots moving quietly among the tables were, in fact, Ogs. It had never occurred to him that an Augment might pretend to be, or disguise himself as, a robot. Watching them closely now — an irregular step here, an overlong pause there — he thought he saw telltale signs of individual behavior in the serving staff.

“I’m learning a lot while I’m with you, Daddy,” Annika told him. “Things I couldn’t learn in school. I’m learning how the world works. I learn just by watching you.”

“That’s what worries me.”

“You’re doing it again,” she said. “You’re all frowny and wrinkled. Stop it. At school they taught me math and circuits and networks and geography. But they didn’t teach me about lying. They didn’t explain mean people, or bad people. They didn’t show me what to do, or how to find someone who can do what I can’t. You taught me all that.”

He wasn’t sure what to say to that. He waited while she finished her meal, left a small stack of plastic chits on the table, and walked her out.

“Please come again,” said the robot by the door. Peyton looked at it carefully. It inclined its head to him. One of its glowing optic sensors flickered.

“I will,” said Peyton.

On the street, they struck out in the direction of home. It was not a terribly long walk, but it was not short. Several times Peyton had wondered if they might secure a vehicle. Stealing one was easy. Buying one would not be difficult. But he had seen no ground cars big enough to fit him. Short of dragging Annika around in a pedicab as he stood to one side of the vehicle, he did not see an alternative to walking.

“That robot winked at you,” said Annika.  They walked through the street throngs easily. Peyton walked ahead, separating the crowd, creating a wake in which Annika could have run circles. He looked down at her and winked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Robots don’t wink,” said Annika.

“That’s because it was an Og,” said Peyton. “I think most of them were. Maybe all. It’s hard to tell when they don’t want you to know.”

“There are robots everywhere,” said Annika.  “I wonder how many of them are really Ogs?”

“Montauk might know,” said Peyton.

“I like him.”

“I’m not sure he’s a ‘him,’” said Peyton. “But I’m not sure he’s not, either.”  He turned right, leaving the stream of pedestrians to cut through an alley. Their paid flop was on the other side.  “Do you like playing with Samuel and Aimee?”

“Of course,” said Annika.  She was walking beside him now, skipping.  “Aimee and I are teaching Samuel trigonometry.”

“Why would you do that?” Peyton asked.

“You can’t understand triangles until you understand trigonometry, Daddy.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” said Peyton.  Perhaps Montauk could explain. He would have to ask.

Movement farther up the alley made him stop. Annika, without prompting, fell in behind him, shielding herself with his thigh.  The two men who approached had been hiding in the shadows of a stack of disposer tubes — compressed cylinders of dehydrated, deodorized garbage that were produced by the domestic in-sink units found in most dwellings.  They approached almost in lock step, walking next to each other.  They were dressed shabbily, like street beggars or Sleep addicts. One wore a threadbare overcoat. The other was bald and dressed in layers of beige rags.

“Evening, big guy,” said the bald man. He passed by, nodding, almost bowing.  The other man nodded as well.  They seemed in a hurry to put distance between themselves and Peyton.

Annika turned to follow their progress.  The two men stopped some distance away; they were now engaged in a furious, whispered argument. Peyton could make out their faces in the light from the street beyond, but he could not hear their words.

“Come on, Annika,” he said.  “Let’s go.”

“They’re talking about us,” said Annika.

“What?”  He looked to her.  Her mouth was forming words silently. “Are you… are you reading their lips?”

“Yes,” said Annika.  “Aimee taught me.”

“Why would–”

“Daddy,” said Annika.  “The bald one wants to know why the other one didn’t use his knife.  They’re arguing about mugging us. The bald one says the other one is a coward. He says you might be big but your guts come out as easy as anybody.”

It was the way she recited it that caught him, burned him, stoked the fire of his temper.  His rage erupted. He pointed to the wall of the alley and she pressed herself against it, eyes wide, missing nothing.  He took a step forward.

The two men saw him coming. They started to run. There was no way they could match Peyton’s long strides. He caught them easily, digging his fingers into their clavicles from behind.  They fell to their knees, moaning.  The blade of a knife caught light from the alley mouth.

Peyton flexed his right hand. The bald man screamed and dropped his knife. Peyton snapped his clavicle bone and then pressed a thumb into the back of the bald man’s neck.

“Please!” said the bald man.

“Please what?” Peyton asked. “Please don’t stab a man while he walks home with his daughter? Please don’t murder strangers? Please don’t make the streets of this filthy city the kind of place where the gutters clog wtih blood?” He snapped the man’s neck with his thumb. The bald man made a noise like deflating balloon.  When Peyton let go, the corpse fell onto its face.

The other man had stayed very still.  He risked a glance over his shoulder at Peyton.  “I never seen you,” he said. “I don’t know you. I don’t know him.”  This last was a jerk of the chin to the dead man.

“Thinking,” said Peyton.

“I like a drink,” said the man in the overcoat.  “Maybe a few pills. I steal. I never killed nobody.  Please, mister, I never did.”

“Liar,” said Peyton.  He grabbed the man by the back of the neck and shook him.  Bones snapped. When he was satisfied, Peyton dropped the body.  He went to rejoin Annika, who took the edge of his hand and skipped beside him as they left the alley.

“I could go to school through the virts,” she offered.

“People do that?” said Peyton.  “It’s real school?”

“Yes,” she said.  “All I have to do is register. The name can be anything. Anything made up.”

“A fake name?” Peyton asked.  They were close to home now. Annika skipped more vigorously.  “Something common.”

“Bo-ring,” she said in sing-song.  “Violet,” she said.  “It should be Violet.”

“You’ll need a last name,” said Peyton.

“Violet Speakeasy,” said Annika.

Peyton actually laughed.  “That’s… distinctive.  You’re sure? They’ll expect you to answer to that, won’t they?”

“I like it,” said Annika.  “In the virts you can be anyone.”

“If you’re sure,” said Peyton.

“I am,” said Annika.  “Besides,” she looked up at him as he paused to unlock the front door of their flop.  “If I go to school in the virts I won’t meet anyone you’ll have to put to sleep.”