Phil Elmore's Blog, page 22

Technocracy: I Was a Third-World Warlord

My WND Technocracy column is about the dangers of pouring time and real-world money into the endless world of Massively Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Games (MMORPG).

…[W]hen the virtual world consumes the majority of both your time and money, it is not a “game” at all.

Back in 1991, when the only MMORPGs one could play were text-based and accessible through my university’s computer network, I watched students fail out because they became obsessed with the virtual world.

Years later I played an MMORPG myself, and was briefly very powerful within it.  There came a day, however, when I received a very sobering reality check.

Just what are you accomplishing with your time “in-world?”

Read the full column here at WND News.

 

 

Episode 04: “Nightmares”

 

[image error]“Watch your programs, Annika. Keep the door locked.”

Annika stood in the doorway to the hourly flat’s single bedroom. She looked unconvinced.

“Is it time?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Peyton.  “I’m going to take the medicine. It will make me feel worse before it makes me feel better. I’m going to need to stay in bed.”

“I can stay with you,” said Annika. “You need someone to look after you.”

Peyton felt himself smile.

“You’re a good daughter. But Doctor Gorsky warned me that the medicine has very serious side effects. You may hear me thrash around and yell a lot.”

“Why?”

Peyton thought for a moment. “Nightmares,” he said finally. “It might give me nightmares. No matter what, Annika, I want you to stay out here and watch the screen, all right? Download anything you want with the prepaid.” He handed her the plastic chit with its embedded circuit. “Don’t come in. I’ll come out.”

Annika looked at her shoes, which had faded considerably. “Okay, Daddy,” she said.

“Good girl,” said Peyton. “And Annika?”

“What, Daddy?”

“If you fall asleep out here, that’s okay. I put a blanket on the table. If you wake up and the sun is out again, and I don’t come out, don’t check on me. Go to the transit station on Harper and wait there. Okay?”

Annika nodded, sullen. She turned and trudged to the wall screen in the living area, switching it on with a jerk of her chin. Peyton waited to make sure she was engrossed in something he could not grasp — he understood none of the programs she enjoyed — and then closed and locked the bedroom door.

The bed groaned beneath his frame when he sat on it. He waited to see if it would collapse. He had snapped two flop-house beds already. This one had a metal frame, however; this one held.  He took the ampule from the bedstand, removed it from its plastic wrapper, and placed the sharp tip against his neck.

He pressed.

Warmth flooded him. It was not bad at first. Gorsky had warned him that there were many side-effects of the cleansing procedure. To rid his joints of the waste crystals produced by his implanted glands required an extremely powerful solvent.  Muscle spasms, pain, and hallucinations were all possible results.

Peyton was terrified that he might strike Annika while in the throes of the cleanser. He could easily kill her if he lost control. Each of his fists was larger than her head. But she would be safe in the next room. He would not leave the bed. Not until the drugs had done their work. He reached down and gripped the mattress with his fingers, making the springs squeal.

His limbs grew heavier. He started to sweat. He started to reach up, to pull his shirt off, but thought better of it.  Instead he gripped the mattress harder.

Don’t let go, he told himself. Don’t leave the bed. Stay on the bed no matter what.

Pain. It came slowly, building in waves that crashed into him and through him.  Soon the waves were pinpoints. The pinpoints became knife wounds. The knife wounds were soon gunshots.

He held out as long as he could before he started screaming.

 

* * *

 

Knocking. Tapping. Daddy. Pounding.

Peyton felt his heart hammering in his chest. His face felt tight and cold. His sweat had evaporated. The sheet beneath his neck was stiff with salt.

Knocking. Daddy. Knocking.

He hadn’t thought to turn on a light. It must still be dark outside. That was good. He ran one hand over his face.  His skin tingled.

Pounding.

He turned to look at the clock on the bedstand. He couldn’t see the display. Had the power gone off?

“DADDY!” screamed Annika through the door.

Peyton threw himself from the bed and crashed into the bedstand. He tossed this aside and heard the clock shatter on the floor. Turning, he stepped again, only to collide with the wall.

Blind. He was blind.

Something about the cleanser. A side-effect. Annika was pounding on the bedroom door, screaming his name. With difficulty, he found the handle and threw the latch. He felt her collide with him.

“Police, Daddy! Police! At the front door!”

Peyton knew a moment of complete panic. He couldn’t fight the police like this. He couldn’t protect her. He could hear them now, pounding on the door outside, announcing their intent to break it in.

“I can’t see,” he whispered.  “I can’t see anything.”

Annika was tugging at his shirt. He started to fold his arms around her, to comfort her, but she wriggled out and up, climbing him, using his shirt for handholds.  Then he felt her arms around his neck. She had almost no weight as she hung there, riding on his back, her face inches from his right ear.

“Annika,” said Peyton. “The clock. Where?”

“Kneel down, Daddy,” she told him. “Left. More. There.”

Peyton picked up the shattered clock. Pieces of plastic fell off in his hand, but the heavy rear housing felt intact. The police took their time, but when they were finally ready, the door collapsed under the pneumatic arm of what sounded like a tracked breaching drone.

“They’re coming!” Annika said.

Peyton waited half a beat more for the first of the police to clear the drone. The robot would be off-center, near the lock plate. They would have to climb around it. He visualized the square of the door. And threw.

The clock struck flesh and fouled the first cop’s shot. The whine of a projectile skimmed past on his left. He bladed his body to put himself between Annika and the police.

Peyton charged. “The door!” he shouted. “Out through the door!”

Something struck his chest, hard. It burned.

“Left” Annika said. “No, right. Right! Hit with your right hand!”

Peyton balled his fist and punched as hard as he could. He felt ballistic armor under his knuckles, heard ribs crack, heard the cop scream. He tried to draw his hand back, felt something cold and hard. His fists came together and he was holding a weapon of some kind. His finger found the trigger. He swung the barrel out and away.

“How many?” he asked.

“One two three!” Annika said. “Three!”

Three men. Armed, ready to shoot. Would the gun he held have a safety switch? ID coding? He held it at waist level and started pulling the trigger.  Twice more he felt impacts, felt his flesh tear, felt his own blood leaking from his body.  They were shooting him. They were shooting him and he could not see them.

Annika shouted in his ear, crying now. The weapon Peyton held was a flechette launcher, a riot piece. He fanned the barrel from left to right, hosing the room. The gun was deafening in the little flat. He felt warm liquid spatter his face.

This blood was not his.

“Left!” shouted Annika. “Hurry! Shoot!”

Peyton rotated left, fired, and did so again, shifting his point of aim each time. Was that a flash of light? He thought he could see the muzzle blast. The dark was no longer black, but gray. Something burned along his ribs on the right side.

A body hit the floor. The gun no longer fired when he pulled the trigger. He dropped it.

“How many?” he demanded again. He was panting, breathing heavy. His wounds hurt, but not too badly. He would live. He would heal quickly.

“No more,” Annika said. She was sobbing into his ear. “No more in here. Turn. Turn more. Go straight.”

He listened and obeyed.  When the outside air hit hit his face, the sunlight overpowered him.  He fell to his hands and knees, eyes watering.  Tears streamed down to splash his hands. He groaned.

“Hurry, Daddy,” Annika said.  “I see a parked police car.” He turned to her voice and now he could see shapes. The shapes were starting to become a face.

He grabbed her, held her, hugged her.  “Guide me down the street,” he told her.  “Find the first alley and we’ll turn. We need distance from this place.”

“Can you see now, Daddy? You’re all bloody. Are you hurt?”

“I’m okay. Don’t worry. I can’t see well but I think it’s getting better.” He hoisted her up and carried her under one arm.  Tears were still streaming down his cheeks, but he didn’t care. His vision was returning.   Annika had saved both of them. She had been incredibly brave.  He did not know how to explain it to her. He did not try.

She did not speak for a long while, and when she did, he could not hear her.

“What was that?” he asked.

“I told you, Daddy,” she said.  “You need someone to look after you.”

Episode 03: “All Frowny”

 

[image error]Peyton reached up and plucked the sensor leads from his chest. The steel table groaned when he turned to sit up. Gorsky looked anxious. The little man had been fretting over his furniture from the moment Peyton arrived.

“Well?” Peyton asked.

“Your implanted glands are operating as they were designed to do,” Gorsky said.  He wiped his hands, which were reasonably clean, across the front of his coat, which was not. “The growth hormones that maintain your mass are stable, so you shouldn’t see any more height or girth. Barring a radical change in diet.”

“That isn’t want I asked about.”

“No,” said Gorsky.  “The pains you are feeling are due to the build-up of byproduct crystals in your joints. Your artificial glands are inefficient. They produce wastes as your body breaks down the hormones they feed it. Was this not explained to you?”

“No,” said Peyton.

Gorsky took a step back. “I can prescribe a cleansing agent,” he said.  “Its effects are… unpleasant. I don’t carry it here. But I can order it.”

“Then order it.”

“I’ll need quite a bit of money,” said Gorsky. He hesitated, then said, “Quite a bit of money up front, I mean.”

Peyton pushed himself from the table. He landed on his boots so heavily that he rattled the glass-fronted cabinets full of medical paraphernalia. Gorsky was against the wall in heartbeats.

Peyton sighed and took his ragged shirt from the hook on the wall. He was going to need new one. Annika would need an entire wardrobe. Peyton had no idea how to shop for clothes.

“How much?” Peyton asked, pulling his shirt across his massive chest. Gorsky cited a figure, practically whispering. Peyton nodded.

He turned sideways and let himself out of the examination room, past the beaded curtains. Annika was watching one of her mysterious computer-generated entertainment programs on the wall screen. There were toys and books in the waiting area as well. There were no patients waiting.

“Are you all done, Daddy?” she asked. She nodded her head at the screen, causing it to switch off, and stood to take his hand.  Peyton held out his own and let her grab the edge of his palm. His fist would have enveloped her hand entirely.

“Almost,” he said.  As they exited into the alley behind the medical shop, the smell of Hongkongtown assailed them.  Annika skipped as they walked, deftly leaping over trash and other debris.

“What’s wrong, Daddy?” she asked. “You’re all frowny.”

Peyton paused and looked down at her. The mouth of the alleyway waited, and beyond it, a city nearly as busy at night as it was in the day.  He shook his head, started to speak, and stopped. It took him two more tries before he could explain. Honesty was his only option. He lacked imagination.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said.  “As long as we stay in places like this, the police won’t find us. But we need things. And I’m not sure if everything we need is here.”

“Places like what?” she said.

“This is a privateer zone. Hongtowntown and the sectors around it are free market. Police are paid for here. Subscribing, they call it.”

“Subscribing,” Annika repeated.

“Nobody here is going to pay to have us brought in. It’s too expensive and they don’t have reason to care.”

“They don’t?” said Annika. “I would care if I thought somebody bad was nearby.”

“Yes,” said Peyton. “But you’re special.”  He offered her a smile before sobering. “I need medicine from Doctor Gorsky.”  It occurred to Peyton that Gorsky probably had no medical license. Not a valid one, anyway. But his back-alley surgery was the best they could do. And he did seem to understand Peyton’s composition.

“I didn’t like Doctor Gorsky,” said Annika. “He seems nervous. He seems like he would tell people where to find us.”

Peyton eyed her curiously. “What makes you say that?”

“I don’t know. He just seems that way.”

“Well, let’s hope not,” he said.  “But I need money. And we’ll need to buy you clothes. And me. But if we have money we can get clothes.”

“And your medicine,” said Annika.  She let go of his hand, skipped to the end of the alley, and looked both ways.  Before Peyton realized what she was doing, she was beckoning to him to follow.  He lumbered to her and crouched behind, staring out of the alley. She looked up and down the street for a long time.

“What is it?” Peyton asked.  There were strips of shops on either side of the street.  Many were porn huts and drug dens. There were several whose purpose he could not identify. Most had bars over their windows. One that did not had a picture of an analog clock face painted on its window.

“I want a watch, Daddy,” Annika said.

“You… want a watch?”

“Yes. May I have one?”

Peyton shrugged.  “Sure. Stay close to me.”

They crossed the street.  Traffic was light at this hour, but there was still plenty of it. Annika had to run to keep up with Peyton’s long, heavy strides. She stayed glued to his hip as he pushed open the locked door of the shop. The lock plate came away in fragments.

“We’re …closed,” said the old man behind the counter.  His eyes turned wide. Peyton dropped the fragments of lock on the floor.

“You don’t have to be nice to him,” said Annika. Something in her tone was oddly stern.  Peyton looked at her, confused.  She pointed to the plastic sign adhered to the front window, beneath the hand-painted watch face. The sign bore a code that Peyton did not understand. “He can’t have bars because the police won’t let him,” Annika said. “He’s on the Registry. He has to tell people that. It’s why nobody comes into his store. He lives on government allowance, I bet.”

Peyton glanced around. The glass cases were full of timepieces, some expensive, some cheap. But the glass was smudged and dusty. He looked back the way they had come. Their feet had left tracks in the carpet, which was also laden with dust.

When he looked back, the old man’s expression had hardened. He was holding an antique shotgun above the countertop.

“I don’t need your trouble,” said the man. He gestured with the cut-down muzzles.  “Just get out. Get out or I’ll blow you in half—”

Peyton reached across the counter and snatched the weapon. He grabbed it so hard that the old man’s hands crashed against the glass of the counter. The man yelped.

“You’re very fast, Daddy,” said Annika.

Peyton took another step and grabbed the proprietor by the throat. His fist completely encircled the man’s neck.  Annika skiped around them both, behind the counter, and plucked the disc of the man’s phone from his pocket. She let it sit in her palm and tapped a few buttons.

“This says his name is Marachuck,” she told him. “It’s a nice phone. I would love to have a phone like this.”

“Not a good idea,” said Peyton. “We’ll get you another. Police can track that one. And probably do.”

“Oh,” said Annika. “That makes sense.”

“Please,” wheezed Marachuck.

“What was your crime?” Peyton asked.  He asked again, and shook Marachuck for emphasis. Something cracked inside the old man.

Annika was already using the phone. Her fingers danced across its screen with practiced ease. “I found some news from two years ago, Daddy. It says he’s a wrap-ist.”

“A what?” Peyton turned from where Marachuck was quickly becoming a darker red. Annika held up the phone so he could see it.  “Rapist. That’s pronounced rapist.”

“What’s a rapist?” Annika asked.

“A bad man,” said Peyton.

“Why would a bad man have his own store?”

“The privateer zones are full of predators. These are among the last places they can go, legally. There are more criminals here, as a percentage of the population, than anywhere else. I guess that’s why they make them put up window signs. It probably makes somebody feel better.” said Peyton. He let go of Marachuck. The old man made a meaty heap on the floor.

“You dropped him,” said Annika.

“He was done telling us things,” said Peyton.  “Do you need so many watches?”  Annika had somehow divined the function of the latches securing the display case panels and had opened two of them.  She was scooping watches into a black velour bag the size of a pillowcase, something that had been inside the display.

Annika laughed.  “They’re not for me, silly.”

“How did you know about that card on the window?”

“School,” said Annika.

Peyton blinked.  “What are you doing with those?”

“Doctor Gorsky had a whole box of these under his sofa,” she said. “Watches and phones and metal pens. Pens! And some other things. Some junk. Some jewelry. Some knifes.”

“Knives,” Peyton corrected.

“Knives,” Annika repeated.  “We can pay Doctor Gorsky with the watches. He must like them so much.” She stopped and took a gold pocket watch on a chain from the bag.  “I like this one,” she said.  “May I keep this one?”

“It’s yours,” said Peyton.

She beamed all the way back to Gorsky’s. Peyton looked down at her before he knocked on the surgeon’s door.  “You’re very smart,” he told her.

“I know,” she said.

Technocracy — Is Your Fridge Sending Malicious E-mails?

My WND Technocracy column this week is about the unintended consequences of our Internet-enabled appliances.

In the police state that it is the Democratic Party’s America, there are no free citizens and no one is innocent until proven guilty

When all technology is a threat, all technology owners are under suspicion… just as the Democrats want it.

Read the full column here in WND News.

Episode 02: “A Kind Heart”

 

[image error]“You have to share,” said Annika. “Sharing means you have a kind heart.”

Harlan “Pedro” Willis smiled with his mouth closed. His teeth were stained and rotten and he knew she would notice. They always noticed. It wasn’t so bad once you got a few drinks into them. But they always noticed.

He shifted on the plastic edge of the sandbox. Wiping sweat from his palms on the fabric of of his jeans, took up the plastic shovel. This he gave to her. She plucked it eagerly from his hands. It was bright and yellow and had a character’s face painted on its plastic blade.

“Thank you,” she said.  “My name is Annika. What’s yours?”

“Pedro,” he said. He smiled again.”Are you here all alone?”

“You don’t look like ‘Pedro,’” said Annika.  “I’m twelve. I like this park. I was on the swings before, but I decided I wanted to play in the sand.”

The little playground was quiet, screened from the adjacent motorways by double stands of trees and a security fence that was used to secure it at night. The dampening effect rendered the nearby traffic almost silent. There were surveillance poles at either end, but these had been repeatedly vandalized. They were currently inoperative. Willis checked the sky for drones. It was a beautiful day.

“Are you all alone, Annika?” Pedro asked again. His lips felt dry. He ran his tongue along them. He could feel his fingers, feel the tingling in his fingertips, as he looked at her.

She wore colorful leggings and an oversized sweater bearing knitted flowers. Her hair was gold and reached her shoulders. A purple ribbon held it back. Annika hummed as she dug a trench in the sandbox.

“Daddy said I could play here,” she told him.  “He said I could play as long as I want.”

Willis looked around. The swings, the climbing wall, the gravity well… they were all empty. He scanned the trees around the park but saw no one. The parking lot was empty except for his own truck.

“I have lots of toys,” said Willis.  “You could come to my house. We could play there.”

“I’m hungry,” said Annika. “Can I have breakfast?”

“Of course!” Willis said, too quickly, not caring.  “All the breakfast you want. Let’s go.”  He held out his hand.  She took it.

“Your hand is sweaty,” she complained.  But she went with him.  He hurried her to the truck, feeling his heart hammer in his chest, worried that at any moment her father or some other park-goer would appear and ruin it. He did not start to believe in his good fortune until she was seated at his kitchen table, happily eating waffles printed in his dining nook.

His back was to her. The cooler door was open. He held the dropper of benzodiazepine.

He was trying to decide how much to give her, how many drops to put in her orange juice, when she spoke up.  “It’s warm,” she said.  “You keep it warm here. Can I play video games?”

“Of course you can, honey,” said Willis.  “The console’s connected to the television in the bedroom.”

“Okay,” said Annika. “But it’s so warm. Can you open the windows in the living room? The big ones? I like big windows.”

“Sure, honey,” said Willis.  He hurried to do it, pocketing the dropper.  When he came back to the kitchen she was already drinking the juice.  He frowned.  “Finish your juice, beautiful,” he said.  “And I’ll fix you some more.”  His voice cracked. He didn’t care.

Annika got up and went to the cooler. She began rummaging through it, making a pile of vacuum-sealed steaks. Then she examined the printer menu. Whatever she saw pleased her. Willis thought she had a beautiful smile.

“Let me show you the games, honey,” he said. He could hear his own pleading. Every part of him ached. “Right after you have your—”

“No,” said Annika. “I’ll play them by myself. Good-bye, Mister Pedro.”

The floor creaked. Willis turned, looking for the noise, head down. A very large pair of boots was waiting. The boots were were worn by a man. The man was also very large.

Willis looked up and opened his mouth to scream.

The big man folded heavy hands over Willis’ face. And squeezed.

 

* * *

 

Peyton woke on the living room sofa. It was almost big enough. Sunlight streamed through the open windows. The early breeze was cool. He had slept in his boots and his feet would be swollen. His joints ached.

He stood and went to the kitchen. Annika had made him steaks and Neggs in the night, leaving them on a plastic-covered plate in the dining nook. He stepped over the dead man on the floor and, plate in hand, ate the steaks with his fingers. He did not eat the Neggs. They had served Neggs in prison.

Annika was in the shower. He would need one as well. He estimated they had a day, perhaps two, before the pedophile’s employer or parole officer sent a drone to check on him. Peyton and Annika would need to be gone well before that.

The shower noise stopped. He checked the bedroom down the hall from it. The gaming console was still on. Its game was suspended or paused. Peyton did not understand games, but he had seen them played. He was glad they made Annika happy.

He felt the ambient moisture increase. Annika appeared at his flank wearing several towels, one of which was wound on her head. She paused to hug him. He kissed the top of her head through her towel.

She retrieved her clothes from the cleanser on the bedstand. He turned away while she dressed.

“You’re so smart, Daddy,” she told him.  “He said almost exactly the things you said he would. And he had good games. Do all the men who visit the park so much have good games?”

“Only some of them,” said Peyton.

“He must have had a kind heart, to share with us the things we need.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then you gave him a kind heart,” she said, convinced. “He had better food than I thought he would.” She looked up at him, briefly concerned. “Did you find your lunch?”

“I didn’t eat the Neggs,” he told her, nodding.  “I don’t like them.”

“Nobody does,” she said.

He waited for her to finish dressing.  “When you’re ready,” he said, “It’s time for us to go. We’ll have to find a new place to stay tonight.”

“There are other parks,” said Annika.

 

“4104″ — Part 02

 

“You have to share,” said Annika. “Sharing means you have a kind heart.”

Harlan “Pedro” Willis smiled with his mouth closed. His teeth were stained and rotten and he knew she would notice. They always noticed. It wasn’t so bad once you got a few drinks into them. But they always noticed.

He shifted on the plastic edge of the sandbox. Wiping sweat from his palms on the fabric of of his jeans, took up the plastic shovel. This he gave to her. She plucked it eagerly from his hands. It was bright and yellow and had a character’s face painted on its plastic blade.

“Thank you,” she said.  “My name is Annika. What’s yours?”

“Pedro,” he said. He smiled again.”Are you here all alone?”

“You don’t look like ‘Pedro,’” said Annika.  “I’m twelve. I like this park. I was on the swings before, but I decided I wanted to play in the sand.”

The little playground was quiet, screened from the adjacent motorways by double stands of trees and a security fence that was used to secure it at night. The dampening effect rendered the nearby traffic almost silent. There were surveillance poles at either end, but these had been repeatedly vandalized. They were currently inoperative. Willis checked the sky for drones. It was a beautiful day.

“Are you all alone, Annika?” Pedro asked again. His lips felt dry. He ran his tongue along them. He could feel his fingers, feel the tingling in his fingertips, as he looked at her.

She wore colorful leggings and an oversized sweater bearing knitted flowers. Her hair was gold and reached her shoulders. A purple ribbon held it back. Annika hummed as she dug a trench in the sandbox.

“Daddy said I could play here,” she told him.  “He said I could play as long as I want.”

Willis looked around. The swings, the climbing wall, the gravity well… they were all empty. He scanned the trees around the park but saw no one. The parking lot was empty except for his own truck.

“I have lots of toys,” said Willis.  “You could come to my house. We could play there.”

“I’m hungry,” said Annika. “Can I have breakfast?”

“Of course!” Willis said, too quickly, not caring.  “All the breakfast you want. Let’s go.”  He held out his hand.  She took it.

“Your hand is sweaty,” she complained.  But she went with him.  He hurried her to the truck, feeling his heart hammer in his chest, worried that at any moment her father or some other park-goer would appear and ruin it. He did not start to believe in his good fortune until she was seated at his kitchen table, happily eating waffles printed in his dining nook.

His back was to her. The cooler door was open. He held the dropper of benzodiazepine.

He was trying to decide how much to give her, how many drops to put in her orange juice, when she spoke up.  “It’s warm,” she said.  “You keep it warm here. Can I play video games?”

“Of course you can, honey,” said Willis.  “The console’s connected to the television in the bedroom.”

“Okay,” said Annika. “But it’s so warm. Can you open the windows in the living room? The big ones? I like big windows.”

“Sure, honey,” said Willis.  He hurried to do it, pocketing the dropper.  When he came back to the kitchen she was already drinking the juice.  He frowned.  “Finish your juice, beautiful,” he said.  “And I’ll fix you some more.”  His voice cracked. He didn’t care.

Annika got up and went to the cooler. She began rummaging through it, making a pile of vacuum-sealed steaks. Then she examined the printer menu. Whatever she saw pleased her. Willis thought she had a beautiful smile.

“Let me show you the games, honey,” he said. He could hear his own pleading. Every part of him ached. “Right after you have your—”

“No,” said Annika. “I’ll play them by myself. Good-bye, Mister Pedro.”

The floor creaked. Willis turned, looking for the noise, head down. A very large pair of boots was waiting. The boots were were worn by a man. The man was also very large.

Willis looked up and opened his mouth to scream.

The big man folded heavy hands over Willis’ face. And squeezed.

 

* * *

 

Peyton woke on the living room sofa. It was almost big enough. Sunlight streamed through the open windows. The early breeze was cool. He had slept in his boots and his feet would be swollen. His joints ached.

He stood and went to the kitchen. Annika had made him steaks and Neggs in the night, leaving them on a plastic-covered plate in the dining nook. He stepped over the dead man on the floor and, plate in hand, ate the steaks with his fingers. He did not eat the Neggs. They had served Neggs in prison.

Annika was in the shower. He would need one as well. He estimated they had a day, perhaps two, before the pedophile’s employer or parole officer sent a drone to check on him. Peyton and Annika would need to be gone well before that.

The shower noise stopped. He checked the bedroom down the hall from it. The gaming console was still on. Its game was suspended or paused. Peyton did not understand games, but he had seen them played. He was glad they made Annika happy.

He felt the ambient moisture increase. Annika appeared at his flank wearing several towels, one of which was wound on her head. She paused to hug him. He kissed the top of her head through her towel.

She retrieved her clothes from the cleanser on the bedstand. He turned away while she dressed.

“You’re so smart, Daddy,” she told him.  “He said almost exactly the things you said he would. And he had good games. Do all the men who visit the park so much have good games?”

“Only some of them,” said Peyton.

“He must have had a kind heart, to share with us the things we need.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then you gave him a kind heart,” she said, convinced. “He had better food than I thought he would.” She looked up at him, briefly concerned. “Did you find your lunch?”

“I didn’t eat the Neggs,” he told her, nodding.  “I don’t like them.”

“Nobody does,” she said.

He waited for her to finish dressing.  “When you’re ready,” he said, “It’s time for us to go. We’ll have to find a new place to stay tonight.”

“There are other parks,” said Annika.

 

Episode 01: “4104″

 

[image error]Richards looked up in horror.  “Forty-one oh four,” he said. “FORTY-ONE OH FOUR!”

The guards’ heads snapped up.  At the gallows, Peyton’s chin rose from his chest. His eyes bored into the computer kiosk. Richards dove for the switch, the red lever that would release the floor beneath the prisoner and send Peyton to his death. He slammed his palm down.

It was a simple log. It should have showed nothing. Reviewing the observers was standard procedure. Why had the computer flagged it?

Peyton’s eyes narrowed.  His massive shoulders flexed.  The manacles securing his wrists popped like a cheap rivet. The enormous man had time to fix Richards with a glare.  Then he fell, so slow, hanging and then falling through the square of empty space—

“Seal the gallery!” ordered Richards. “Blast doors. Give me the blast doors!”

Something wriggled at the edge of the empty square. Richards caught it, turned to it, paled.  Fingers. Peyton’s fingers. They were white with exertion.

The big man pulled himself up from the edge of the opening, landing heavily on prison-issue boots. He was flushed now. That was bad. The surgically implanted hormone sacs in his body would be shunting adrenaline, cortisol, and half a dozen other artificial compounds through his muscles. Pain-killers. Stimulants. A chemical cocktail designed to make a mortal man a wrecking machine. Small wonder it was a capital crime.

“Forty-one oh four,” said Peyton.  “That’s impossible.”

“It is impossible!” Richards lied. “We checked! We checked just as you asked!”

“We had a bargain,” said Peyton.  Around him, all four guards drew their batons and charged them. On the other side of the gallery, two men with assault rifles waited. Richards dared a look at the window. The blast shield was lowering slowly into place, darkening the mirrored surface inch by inch.

“I looked, I tell you,” said Richards. “The computer turned up a random datum at the last possible moment. It can’t mean—”

“But it does,” said Peyton.  “You were going to let me do it. Let me die quietly.”

“But that’s what you wanted!”

“It hurts,” said Peyton, flexing his outsized fingers.  “It hurts all the time.  But it doesn’t hurt so much that I would leave without—”

“NOW!” Richards ordered.

The guards struck.  Peyton shrugged off the first blow. He endured the second. He suffered the third.

He grabbed the fourth.

Electricity crackled up the length of his arm as he crushed the baton in his fist.  The discharge shocked the operator, dropping him to the floor.  The guard was dead before he got there; none of them were properly grounded. Peyton’s blackened hand was already curling into a fist when the second man got in his way.  The blow crushed vertebrae in the guard’s neck. He folded.

Fire leapt up the front of Peyton’s shirt. He ignored it, grabbed the other two guards, pulled them close. The fire kissed them and enveloped them. Peyton held them, burning, to the coals of his chest until they shrieked for mercy.  Then he snapped their necks and dropped them to the floor.

Peyton smoldered.  Richards was still clawing at the security compartment of his kiosk.  Peyton relieved him of the task. He grabbed Richards’ hand, crushed it, folded it beneath the man. The arm cracked and split. Peyton never blinked.

“We had a bargain,” whispered Richards.

“Which you broke, Warden,” said the prisoner.  He held Richards’ skull in his hands until it, too, cracked. The kiosk was harder to break. He broke it. The blast shield lifted.  He used Richards one more time, throwing the body through the gallery mirror. The safety glass shattered on the third try.

The body drew the bullets of the men inside. Peyton hurried after it. He smashed the first man with his knee, took the fallen rifle, and beat the second man with the gun. It did not take long. The plastic rifle broke, but not too soon.

There were six people in the gallery. Two of them screamed.  Peyton examined them all.

Too old. Too old. Nothing familiar. A reporter. A detective, unarmed.

And a little girl.

“I’m twelve,” she said. “I’m Annika.” She smiled.

Peyton smiled. He held out his hand. It was bloody. He took it back. He offered his arm.

She took that. He hugged her.

“We’re leaving,” he said.

“Won’t they stop you?” said Annika.

“I won’t let them,” said Peyton.  “I only agreed to today because they said you were dead.”

“I’m not,” said Annika.

“No,” said Peyton.  “You’re not.”

“You smell funny,” said Annika. She wrinkled her nose.

“I do,” said Peyton. “A little.”

They left. On the computer kiosk above the broken body of Warden Richards, the screen still glowed.

“4104,” it said. “Next of Kin found (Dependent).”

“4104″ — Part 01

 

Richards looked up in horror.  “Forty-one oh four,” he said. “FORTY-ONE OH FOUR!”

The guards’ heads snapped up.  At the gallows, Peyton’s chin rose from his chest. His eyes bored into the computer kiosk. Richards dove for the switch, the red lever that would release the floor beneath the prisoner and send Peyton to his death. He slammed his palm down.

It was a simple log. It should have showed nothing. Reviewing the observers was standard procedure. Why had the computer flagged it?

Peyton’s eyes narrowed.  His massive shoulders flexed.  The manacles securing his wrists popped like a cheap rivet. The enormous man had time to fix Richards with a glare.  Then he fell, so slow, hanging and then falling through the square of empty space—

“Seal the gallery!” ordered Richards. “Blast doors. Give me the blast doors!”

Something wriggled at the edge of the empty square. Richards caught it, turned to it, paled.  Fingers. Peyton’s fingers. They were white with exertion.

The big man pulled himself up from the edge of the opening, landing heavily on prison-issue boots. He was flushed now. That was bad. The surgically implanted hormone sacs in his body would be shunting adrenaline, cortisol, and half a dozen other artificial compounds through his muscles. Pain-killers. Stimulants. A chemical cocktail designed to make a mortal man a wrecking machine. Small wonder it was a capital crime.

“Forty-one oh four,” said Peyton.  “That’s impossible.”

“It is impossible!” Richards lied. “We checked! We checked just as you asked!”

“We had a bargain,” said Peyton.  Around him, all four guards drew their batons and charged them. On the other side of the gallery, two men with assault rifles waited. Richards dared a look at the window. The blast shield was lowering slowly into place, darkening the mirrored surface inch by inch.

“I looked, I tell you,” said Richards. “The computer turned up a random datum at the last possible moment. It can’t mean—”

“But it does,” said Peyton.  “You were going to let me do it. Let me die quietly.”

“But that’s what you wanted!”

“It hurts,” said Peyton, flexing his outsized fingers.  “It hurts all the time.  But it doesn’t hurt so much that I would leave without—”

“NOW!” Richards ordered.

The guards struck.  Peyton shrugged off the first blow. He endured the second. He suffered the third.

He grabbed the fourth.

Electricity crackled up the length of his arm as he crushed the baton in his fist.  The discharge shocked the operator, dropping him to the floor.  The guard was dead before he got there; none of them were properly grounded. Peyton’s blackened hand was already curling into a fist when the second man got in his way.  The blow crushed vertebrae in the guard’s neck. He folded.

Fire leapt up the front of Peyton’s shirt. He ignored it, grabbed the other two guards, pulled them close. The fire kissed them and enveloped them. Peyton held them, burning, to the coals of his chest until they shrieked for mercy.  Then he snapped their necks and dropped them to the floor.

Peyton smoldered.  Richards was still clawing at the security compartment of his kiosk.  Peyton relieved him of the task. He grabbed Richards’ hand, crushed it, folded it beneath the man. The arm cracked and split. Peyton never blinked.

“We had a bargain,” whispered Richards.

“Which you broke, Warden,” said the prisoner.  He held Richards’ skull in his hands until it, too, cracked. The kiosk was harder to break. He broke it. The blast shield lifted.  He used Richards one more time, throwing the body through the gallery mirror. The safety glass shattered on the third try.

The body drew the bullets of the men inside. Peyton hurried after it. He smashed the first man with his knee, took the fallen rifle, and beat the second man with the gun. It did not take long. The plastic rifle broke, but not too soon.

There were six people in the gallery. Two of them screamed.  Peyton examined them all.

Too old. Too old. Nothing familiar. A reporter. A detective, unarmed.

And a little girl.

“I’m twelve,” she said. “I’m Annika.” She smiled.

Peyton smiled. He held out his hand. It was bloody. He took it back. He offered his arm.

She took that. He hugged her.

“We’re leaving,” he said.

“Won’t they stop you?” said Annika.

“I won’t let them,” said Peyton.  “I only agreed to today because they said you were dead.”

“I’m not,” said Annika.

“No,” said Peyton.  “You’re not.”

“You smell funny,” said Annika. She wrinkled her nose.

“I do,” said Peyton. “A little.”

They left. On the computer kiosk above the broken body of Warden Richards, the screen still glowed.

“4104,” it said. “Next of Kin found (Dependent).”

Technocracy: How celebs hang themselves via Twitter

My WND Technocracy column this week was inspired by Shia LaBeouf’s recent plagiarism-induced meltdown on the microblogging site.

Monday morning, a brittle Shia LaBeouf proclaimed on Twitter, “I AM NOT FAMOUS ANYMORE.”

Twitter allows the little people to talk to their celebrity royals, and in so doing portrays those celebrities not as the characters they play, but the people they really are.

Read the full column here in WND News.

Technocracy: Knockout Game Racism Is NOT What Should Worry You

My WND Technocracy column this week is about the “knockout game” generally… and a disturbing incident in Brooklyn in particular.

If these attacks remain uncoordinated and random, they are offensive and a nuisance, but not a society-ending danger. All of that changes when social media and technology are used to organize the attacks.

When social media is used to coordinate random acts of violence, they become something new. They become terrorism, and they are powerful enough to overwhelm on-site law enforcement.

Read the full column here in WND News.