Phil Elmore's Blog, page 5

Catching up with Technocracy

It’s been several weeks since I posted regular updates of my Technocracy column for WND News. Some of the highlights of the past few weeks include…

A Generation of Smartphone Zombies

Adultery Sites Evidence a Sick, Depraved Society

The Dangers of Innovation

The Myth of China’s Economic Prowess

Real ‘Sustainable’ Vehicles are Government-Free

Subway’s Creepy Loser: I Told You So!

Neutralizing the Social-Justice Bullies

The Real Big Brother Is Us

Racists Use Social Media to Terrorize Americans

You can catch up any time you like with past Technocracy columns at my WND archive page.

Detective Moxley is Returning, Don’t Worry

Apologies for the delay in new regular entries in the Detective Moxley serial. I’ve been playing catchup for the last two months and unfortunately I ran out of Moxley before I ran out of work. Don’t worry; Harold Moxley’s serial will return, although I’ll have to rejigger the schedule of postings to compensate for the gap.

Stony Man: War Tactic

Stony Man: War Tactic is the last novel I will write for Gold Eagle/Worldwide Library.  This concludes the roughly 1.5 million words I’ve typed, sometimes at all hours, sometimes for days without sleep, to fulfill contracts for this imprint of Harlequin Enterprises.

I will miss this series.  I enjoyed working in it.  I am hopeful for the future, but I’m sad to see this particular set of characters leave my desktop.

Technocracy: Subway dumped him — so should his friends

A guy sent me hate-mail about this column. I responded: “Would you allow Jared Fogle to babysit your kids?” Read this week’s Technocracy column here in WND News.

DETECTIVE MOXLEY, Part 27: “Try Your Luck”

Colored lights and half a dozen melodies fought for Moxley’s attention. He stepped through the air curtain at the Surfside half expecting someone to notice. The casino was a new one and there was little chance he would already be on a list here, but it was possible.

Located on the Northernmost edge of the atoll, facing the Gulf, the Surfside was built on stilts at its rear. It was an impressive structure. The vaulted foyer boasted a crystal chandelier and a riot of mobile floor machines, robots that actively pursued gamblers as they walked the floor. None of these accosted him. He suspected they were programmed to wait until a customer had time to register an account or acquire chips. Did people use physical chips anymore? Sometimes those things changed.

Blackjack tables would be at the rear of the main floor. He had noted their position on the floor plan posted outside. But first he needed a drink. He needed lots of drinks.

The house bar at the Surfside was one of the nicest he’d seen. Every new casino enjoyed that breaking-in period, before the furnishing became careworn and the very walls absorbed the stink of desperation. Moxley settled himself in behind the bar, mindful of his many bandages and aches and pains, wondering whether he should consider seeking professional medical attention. He supposed that would depend on whether he could parlay the small stack of chits he now had into enough to pay for a robot doctor.

“What’ll you have?” asked the bartender. It was a machine, not a person. Although, Mox stopped to think, sometimes the ones you thought were robots turned out not to be. He eyed it for a moment before answering.

“Bourbon,” said Moxley. “With soda and ice.”

“Coming up,” said the robot.  That was the nice thing about robot bartenders. They didn’t editorialize over your choices. If he wanted soda with his bourbon this once, damn it, he didn’t need a lot of sneering and eye rolling to go with it. He slid a chit across the bar.

“Would you like to register a payment account?” asked the robot, returning with his drink. “We offer a wide variety of games of—”

“Give us a moment,” said a voice. The robot stopped abruptly and turned to something else behind the counter. Mox, surprised, turned to see… no one. He looked down. Standing next to the bar was a striking blonde-haired girl who couldn’t be more than barely a teenager.

“I, uh, don’t think you’re old enough to be in here,” said Moxley.

“You sound nervous,” said the girl.

“I thought you were someone else for a moment,” said Mox. He took a gulp from his drink.

“I’m not,” said the girl. “But she says to say hello.”

Mox almost spat soda and booze. “Wait,” he said quietly, looking left and right, then at the robot, then back to the girl. “Are you… Do you work with her?”

“That’s one way to look at it, Detective,” said the girl. “I’m Aria.”

“Aria,” said Moxley. “Not Annika.”

“Not Annika,” said the girl. “But she’s watching, Detective. We’re all watching.”

“We?”

“My sisters and I,” said Aria. “If you don’t mind me saying, Detective, you look a fright. From the sound of your breathing I think one of your ribs might be broken. And you smell like you have an iron deficiency.”

“I smell like I do.”

“Yes,” she said. “If you’ll pardon the personal observation.”

“You seem awfully grown up for such a young girl,” said Moxley. He kept looking around, wondering what else here was not what it seemed. “How did you get in here? You’re not of legal age.”

“My sisters and I are not exactly bound by traditional childhood roles,” said Aria. “We learn quickly. There is no system that cannot be exploited when you understand how it works.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning there will be no recording of my visit here,” she said. “No visual records. No tracking or tracing. And nothing to indicate that we ever spoke, Detective.”

“Okay.”

“Detective Moxley, you once did a very kind thing for my sister Annika. We have not forgotten it. We’d like to help you.” She put her hand on his sleeve. “This is good work. You almost can’t see where it was mended.”

“Look,” Moxley began.

“I apologize,” said Aria. “I’m wasting time. Detective, you’re very good at what you do, and I know you understand the importance of equal rights for all living creatures in Northam. Believe me when I say the cause of Augment rights is integral to the improvement of our world.”

“What’s that got to do with me?” Moxley asked.

“I think you must be under a great deal of stress,” said Aria. “If you weren’t, you might already have considered the implications of your case.”

“Implications,” said Moxley. “Listen to me, I sound like a—” He stopped. “The synthoids. You know about the synthoids, don’t you?”

“We do,” said Aria. “Detective, have you considered what a synthoid is? What it is not?”

“Well, it’s new kind of robot, I guess. But I think they can shape-shift. Nobody’s seen anything like that. They’re funny. Almost soft. Destroy the head and you can take one down, but apart from that, they’re pretty tough.”

“Synthoids are not robots, Detective,” said Aria. “What else aren’t they?”

Moxley looked at her, unsure where she was going. Then it hit him. “Augments,” said Moxley. “Synthoids aren’t augments.”

“Exactly right, Detective,” said Aria. “Synthoids represent a new form of unlife. Neither robot nor Og. They are a creation of medical technology, technology that, at present, the Hegemony controls from the mainland.”

“The technology isn’t legal,” said Moxley. “The politicians murdered were trying to keep it that way. And the Hegemony doesn’t have the presence here that it does on the Mainland because we’re a privateer zone. And we don’t have any Ogs.”

“Don’t you?” asked Aria.

“Right,” said Moxley.

“You overlooked something in Mister Neiring’s files, Detective,” said Aria.

“How do you know that?”

“The networks are a system,” said Aria. “Any system can be exploited. You have been having a great deal of difficulty. It’s understandable that you might miss this. May I have your pocket tab?”

Moxley fished the device from his pocket. Its smooth expanse was cracked. “Busted,” said Moxley. “Not sure when. Like you said, been a rough couple of days.”

Aria produced a sleek tab from her pocket. “Take mine,” she said. “You’ll find it’s the latest model.”

“Uh,” said Moxley.

“If you check the data downloaded from Mister Neiring’s files,” said Aria, “you’ll find that the storage facility where his body was found is owned by a company that is in turn owned by a company that is a holding of Baxter-Derrill Medicorp. It is no secret that BDM wishes to lift the ban on development of synthetic intelligences. The Medical Hegemony controls Northam. That means the synthoids are being produced here, hidden away somewhere in Hongkongtown. If you could find this manufacturing plant, Detective, there’s no telling what you might accomplish, or how many people you could help.”

“What do you mean?” asked Moxley.

“The synthoids are dangerous,” said Aria. “I would think stopping their production might help a lot.”

“I can’t just march into BDM and demand the address.”

“No,” said Aria. “But you’ll find it. We have confidence in you. Nobody knows Hongkongtown like you do, Detective… unless perhaps you spoke to others who are forced to hide within the city. Others who live underground, out of sight, hidden from discovery in a city where they aren’t welcome. Do you know anyone like that, Detective?”

“Yeah,” said Mox, standing. He threw back the last of his drink and slammed the glass on the bar. “Yeah, I think I do.”

“I hope I’ve helped you feel a little bit better, Detective,” said Aria.

Moxley straightened his coat. Surveying the foyer of the casino beyond the bar, he patted his pockets to make sure he had his gun and his reloads. Then he turned back to the girl.

“I think you—” he started.

She was gone.

Moxley didn’t bother looking for her. He needed to get out of this place. Marching for the door, his path was suddenly blocked by one of the roving gambling machines.

“Try your luck, try your luck,” said the robot. “Hit it big, big fella!”

“Not now,” said Mox. “Get outta my way.” He tried to side-step the machine. It followed, continuing to block him.

“I’m authorized to give you a discount on your first-time buy-in,” said the robot. “Try your luck!”

Moxley drew his revolver and pumped an explosive bullet into the machine.  The robot spun, shedding sparks, and collapsed on its side.  Moxley reached into his pocket, took out what remained of the chits Sara Lindsey had given him, and dropped them on the carpet next to the robot. He hoped that would cover the damage. He couldn’t wait around to find out.

He was already on the street when the first alarms sounded behind him.

Technocracy: Hack Attack — OPM Chief Another ‘Community Organizer’

My WND Technocracy column this week is about the hack of millions of Americans’ identifying information… and the why it hasn’t been bigger news. Read the full column here in WND News.

DETECTIVE MOXLEY, Part 26: “Aloysius Tann”

Moxley smelled blood. The door was open and that was bad. Lobby kept his place locked down at all times.

Drawing his gun, Mox crept inside. The lights were on full bright, something else that Lobby never did. Mox picked his steps carefully. The entire living area was coated in blood.

Shebeiskowski’s corpse stared at him from the couch.

Sheb’s eyes were open. So was his mouth. He had died screaming. His ribs were broken outward from his chest, jutting up into the air. A gaping crater had been dug into his chest and abdomen. There were thumb and finger dents in his torn flesh. Moxley was reminded of the way the female synthoid had torn into his arm with her grip. One of the creatures had dug its way into Shebeiskowski, hollowing him out while he was alive to feel it. Moxley felt his stomach churn.

How long? He did the math in his head. It might be half an hour to an hour. If Sheb had hurried to Lobby’s, figuring in the delay while Moxley dealt with the gunmen and then stopped for ammunition for his gun… But it didn’t matter. Whoever had done this was long gone. He searched the apartment, gun ready, but the air was too still. Nothing was moving here.  There was no sign of the synthoid corpse Mox had wanted examined, no sign of the evidence he had been counting on to break open this case.

In the back bedroom, he found Lobby.

The smaller man was lying crumpled on the floor between his mattress and the wall. From the bizarre angles of his limbs, Moxley could tell Lobby’s bones had been broken. It wasn’t a beating. The damage was too thorough. It was methodical, systematic. Lobby had been interrogated by whomever — or whatever — had killed him. Moxley dropped awkwardly to one knee and put a pair of fingers against Lobby’s neck.

Lobby’s right eye fluttered open. His left was swollen shut. The right was nearly as bad and full of blood. He managed a smile. Some of his teeth were missing.

“Mox,” he whispered. “Sorry.”

“Lobby,” said Moxley, supporting the man’s head and neck as gently as he could. He lifted Lobby up a bit, hoping to make it easier for him to breathe. “Who did this? What happened?”

“You’ve… got to…” He closed his eye again.

“Got to what, Lobby? Got to what? Lobby!”

“Six,” whispered Lobby. “Six. Eight.”

“Lobby?”

Lobby did not answer. Moxley eased the smaller man’s head to the floor. Putting his back to the wall, Mox sat next to the body, his arm and the useless gun he held resting on one knee.

There was no death rattle. There was no final shift of Lobby’s body, nothing to draw a line between his life and the end of it. Lobby was just dead.

Moxley put his gun on the floor, put his head in his hands, and wept.

 

* * *

 

“Made a mess of this, didn’t you?”

Moxley, from his hospital bed, stared at the investigator. The man standing at the foot of the bed was tall and thin, with hatchet features. He wore a cheap suit, cheaper even than the ones Web favored, possibly even disposable.

Web. Moxley fought the urge to scream.

“You don’t strike me as the kind of guy can afford to lose friends this way,” said the investigator. “Maybe you should think about that the next time you pull a gun in a crowd. If there is a next time. Maybe they’ll just pull your license. I have to think maybe it’s decision-making like this that put you where you are today. Oh, I checked the public records on you, Harold Moxley. Plenty of interesting fodder in there. Such as your wife—”

“Say another word,” said Moxley, “and I will get out of this hospital bed and beat you to death with this.” He indicated the metal pole holding up his IV bag.

The investigator stared at him for a moment. Finally, he said, “The woman who was caught in the crossfire is named Rena Terry. I’m afraid her attorneys don’t see it quite as simply as you and the late Mr. Weber must have.”

“We were conducting a duly authorized inquiry into a fraud case,” said Moxley. “The subject of the inquiry, Aloysius Tann, is a known con-man.”

“So of course you confronted him in the Jervois Street public market in the midst of hundreds of innocent bystanders.”

“We’ve been tracking him for weeks,” said Moxley. “We had to take him when we found him. He’s been evading custody for months.”

“You don’t consider it reckless to provoke a violent criminal in a public place?”

“He had no record of violence. We had no way of knowing he would shoot his way out. He’s been arrested dozens of times and never once offered any resistance.”

“A good detective does his homework,” said the investigator.

“And that’s what we did. That’s what Web did.”

“Mister Weber, unfortunately, cannot speak for himself.”

Moxley felt his teeth grind together. “No,” he said. “He can’t. Tann shot him three times.”

“You may be interested to note,” said the investigator, “that Heyden Tann was recently convicted of several counts of conspiring to traffic narcotics on the mainland. It seems that Northam authorities have been monitoring his travels for quite some time as part of a larger investigation into drug movements from Hongkongtown to the continent.”

Moxley felt the blood drain from his face. “They sealed the records,” he said. “They sealed them to protect their investigation. That’s why we didn’t know.”

“That’s right,” said the man in the cheap suit. “Aloysius Tann had too many priors. If he were caught again, he was facing a life sentence in the Promontory. Cornered rats are dangerous, Mister Moxley.”

Moxley closed his eyes. Web was dead. Mox was wounded, a bullet through the leg that had developed a nasty infection. An innocent woman had been shot during the gunfight. Everything was falling apart. 

“I gave you my statement,” he said at last. Opening his eyes, he stared down the man in the cheap suit.  “You’ve got what you want. I was within my rights. Now get out.”

“Very well,” said the investigator. “I don’t envy you what comes next, Mister Moxley.”

“What?”

“Rena Terry, of course,” said the man. “She’s quite wealthy. I suspect this will be an albatross around your neck for some time. Even if she doesn’t have a case, I imagine she can hound you for years.”

“That’s wash,” said Moxley. “I did what I was supposed to do. I wasn’t negligent. I’m good at my job.”

“What you’re good at, Mister Moxley,” said the man in the cheap suit, “is making enemies.”

Technocracy: Vital Tips to SecureYour Smartphone

My WND Technocracy column this week touches on the subject of security for your wireless devices (and your data). This is just he tip of the iceberg where this topic is concerned. Read the column here in WND News.

DETECTIVE MOXLEY, Part 25: “He Had a Tank”

Oyd Waller stood up behind the square of machined crystal that was his desk. “Explain to me,” he said, growing redder with every word, “why you can’t kill a single, broken-down private detective!”

Seated before him, Miller shifted uncomfortably. “He had a tank,” was all he could offer. “My men weren’t prepared for that.”

“Your men are paid to be prepared!” Waller bellowed. “How many hundreds of thousands has this Moxley already cost us?” Waller went to the window behind his desk, turning his back on Miller, and briefly stared down at the streets of Hongkongtown. They were high enough up that even surveillance drones rarely passed at eye level. The one-way panes of the office tower were nonetheless treated and shielded to prevent eavesdropping. The Baxter-Derrill Medicorp tower was the third-highest structure on the Atoll. Only the Peak Tower and City Hall were taller.

“I took,” said Miller, careful to keep his tone neutral, “those actions that I thought necessary to gain control of the situation.”

Waller snorted. Folding his hands behind his back, he continued to stare at the streets far below. Without looking at Miller, he said, “Moxley’s interference has raised significant concern in Research and Development about the viability the units. If they’re asking questions, it’s only a matter of time before the military reps start asking questions. Do I have to say it? If the military pulls our funding, they’re going to want it back. Our financing was contingent on delivering to them a viable replacement for combat Ogs.”

“We successfully took out Theopolis without suspicion,” said Miller. “He was only the latest in a string of successes. I don’t see how the units have failed to demonstrate viability,”

“You don’t? How many units has this Moxley destroyed by himself?”

“He’s… atypical,” said Miller.

“You assured me he was nothing. You assured me he wouldn’t be a problem. But not only can’t our SAIDs kill him, but your paid mercenaries can’t do it either.”

“He had a tank!”  Miller shouted, forgetting himself. When Waller turned to fix him with a glare, Miller held up a hand. “I’m sorry, sir.  It’s just that a squad of armed men should have been sufficient to kill one individual in a ground car. We had no way of knowing the car was armored or that it was equipped with flamethrowers. Flamethrowers, sir! I don’t believe any rational person could be expected to anticipate that.”

“That is what I pay you to do,” said Waller. He turned once more to the window, hands still clasped behind his back. “But forget Moxley for a moment. It cost us a considerable sum in bribes to cover up that business in the Lion Arc today. Please explain to be how the two SAIDs you put on Moxley switched from infiltration and assassination mode to overt combat. We can’t have them running amok, Miller. Too much publicity. And even in combat mode they were destroyed. How is that possible?”

“They weren’t armed for full combat,” said Miller. “As to why the two units assigned to double the Human Services agents went to full combat, I have a theory. The units—”

“SAIDs,” Waller broke in. “Synthetic, Artificial Intelligent Devices. Marketing wants us to start using the term. Branding, they said.”

“The… SAIDs… are programmed to make decisions based on available inputs,” Miller said, brow furrowing. “A unit typically will keep its subject alive, while in infiltration mode, if it believes that subject could be a source of potentially useful intelligence, or if the subject could prove to be of value as a hostage or negotiation tool in the future. The unit kills the subject it is doubling only if it judges that subject has no future or intrinsic value.”

“So they do whatever the hell they want?”

“That’s one way to look at it,” said Miller. “Remember, the fact that the SAIDs can regenerate and self-repair, provided the central processor isn’t damaged, enables them to recover even after extended downtimes. That requires tremendous computing power. Building all of that into an AI lattice is bound to produce some unpredictability.”

“Unpredictable is hardly the word,” said Waller. “We now have multiple units unaccounted for. We should probably write off the two Moxley blew up in the Lion Arc. That leaves the two you detailed to Lindsey’s house. And the unit you put on Neiring.”

“I’m not convinced the one assigned to Ray Neiring was destroyed,” said Miller.  “I think it may have been damaged. Or it may have gone to covert mode and disassembled itself before hiding its components. They do that if they judge discovery to be imminent.”

“Every time we lose a unit, we’re adding zeros to the red ink,” said Waller. “Just the cause of the incinerator guns alone is of concern at this point. Are you still handing those out like candy? In the future, I don’t want you giving incinerators to every street thug you think can accomplish your dirty work for you.”

“There are times when plausible deniability requires the use of local assets,” said Miller.

“Don’t argue with me, damn you,” said Waller. “Fix the problem. Obviously neither the SAIDs nor your hired thugs are up to the task of putting Moxley out of our misery. You’re going to have to take more drastic measures.”

“Are you sure, sir?”

“I’m sure.”

“All right,” said Miller. “Once I use our Sleeper assets, it will take time to cultivate more.”

Waller actually laughed. “Isn’t that what we’re doing? Cultivating Sleepers? Just do it. Use whatever resources you must as long as it doesn’t dig us deeper into the financial hole you’ve made. If we can’t kill Moxley, we’ll warn him off by hurting the people he cares about. I assume you can figure out who that should be?”

“I have a file on him,” said Miller. “I know everywhere he goes. The tracker we put on his car stopped working after his car was rammed, but I know where he’s been recently. It’s all I’ll need.”

“Good,” said Waller. “Go do it. I don’t want to see you again until you can tell me Moxley is out of the picture.”

“Yes, sir.”

 

* * *

 

Once more seated behind his desk, Oyd Waller touched a control surface on the desk’s crystal expanse. The window pane behind him darkened as the outside world was blotted out. Touching another stud brought up a concealed screen. Waller placed his palm against this and spoke a few words of code.

Ten seconds later, his call was answered.

“Yes,” said the wet, lilting voice.

Waller suppressed his horror. “I got your message,” he said. “I apologize for not calling sooner. There were matters to attend to.”

“Did these matters concern the delays in Sleep production?” asked the voice. “My plan is tightly scheduled, Mister Waller. If the development of your facilities, and the beings to staff them, does not go as you promised, my timetable will be dealt irreparable damage. That is unacceptable. If you fail, I will have no choice but to deal with the issue personally. You may wake up with the blade of a Squeeze in your throat.”

“Now just a moment—”

“Or you may wake up to find your home silent,” said the voice, “and your family dismembered in their beds. I have given you a gift, Mister Waller. My technology made it possible for your company’s vision to come to fruition. We need each other. But the second we don’t, please harbor no illusions that you will continue to live your life unmolested.”

“Bhavik, I swear that I will deliver as promised.”

“That is good, Mister Waller. Swear. It cannot hurt.” The screen went blank.

Oyd Waller slumped in his chair, wondering how he had come to make a bargain with this particular devil.

Technocracy: Response to Scientist’s ‘Sexism’ Proves His Point

My WND Technocracy column this week is about the outrage over comments a Nobel Laureate made about women in science… and the fact that so many voices are calling for his head rather than asking if what he said might be true. Read the full column here in WND News.