Nav Logan's Blog, page 18
April 3, 2015
The Invasion of Astruim XI
Deep in the far flung vastness of outer space there sat a small isolated planet of Astruim XI. This once peaceful planet had lived for uncounted eons in solitude and tranquillity, that is, until the Empire discovered a vast quantity of Sedicium Chlormine ore hidden deep beneath the surface of the planet.
Now, all of the natural fauna and flora on the planet had been wiped out by the toxic gases caused during the intensive mining operation, leaving the planet’s surface as only a seething barren desert landscape, with billowing sandstorms erupting frequently and sometimes lasting for weeks at a time.
The only life remaining on the once bountiful planet was the mega-city mining operation of Obedience, located on the western side of the planet. A constant ferry of freight vessels flew back and forth into deep space, carrying away the processed ore to the Imperial Super-freighter, which orbited the planet like a second moon.
The miners of Obedience worked day and night to harvest the precious ore, under the ever-watchful eyes of the Imperial forces who guarded them. A heavily armed force of Space Marines and Imperial Guards watched over the mega-city like a mother-bird protecting her chicks.
Reports had been coming in for some time now of a superstorm. It was creeping across the planet, getting ever closer. From deep space, the storm looked like a vast dirty red cloud, and it left devastation in its wake, Probes and reconnaissance vehicles had been sent out to assess the threat of the dust storm, but none had reported back.
To make matters worse, the mega-city of Obedience had been infested of late with constant probing attacks by small groups of Orks. Most of the outlying watchtowers had been destroyed during these raids. Small bands of Ork Kommandos had infiltrated the Imperial city and created havoc, only to disappear back into the shadows whenever a force of Space Marines was called out to apprehend them.
After three days and nights of probing, the guards on the outer defensive walls where jittery with nerves and shooting at every shadow they saw. Sleep-deprived and bone weary, they were beginning to hallucinate from the stress, but the Imperial forces was stretched too thin, and no one had come to replace them.
Dawn was approaching on the fourth day, and the superstorm was scheduled to hit the megacity soon. Last minute preparations were in full swing as the twin suns peeked over the horizon.
As the suns rose, a soft humming sound could be heard. It grew louder with each passing minute, and the guards in the watchtowers strained to see what was causing the noise. They peered into the bright sunlight until spots appeared in their vision. The sunspots grew in size and no matter how much they blinked, they would not disappear.
Flying low over the landscape, so low that they had not triggered any of the Imperial radar systems, they finally realised the cause of the humming sound. The guards watched in horror as their worst nightmares came to life. Flying toward the megacity at breakneck speed, they saw the forefront of the invading Ork invasion. Hundreds of Ork Fighta Jets, Dakka Jets, and Burna-Bombas peppered the morning skyline, leaving a dark, greasy cloud of exhaust fumes in their wake. The humming became a roar as they passed over the outer perimeter.
“May-day, May-day, we’re under atta….” Switching on the warning klaxons, the field commander screamed into his microphone, before his HQ erupted into flames.
Overhead, the Boss of the Fighta squadron, Kalanz One-Tusk chuckled and released the last of his boom-bombs before pressing the switch on his control stick and letting the sweet sound of his Twin-linked Dakka-gunz erupt. Switching on the comms system he had stolen from an Imperial jet fighter, he roared his battle cry as loud as he could and banked his jet into a tight arc. His platoon eagerly followed their homicidal commander, letting loose their own guns as they streaked across the city. Their mission was to take out the landing strip and stop the Imperial forces from getting airborne.
The sky filled with molten lead and deadly laser fire as the ground forces countered with a ferocity borne of desperation.
It was then that the Ork Kommandos hidden throughout the megacity struck, taking out all of the localised communications systems in one swift, cleverly-planned and surprisingly successful assault.
All across the mega-city, small explosions detonated and Comms towers and satellite dishes came crashing down into the dirt. The assured voice of HQ fell silent in the earpieces of the Imperial Forces, leaving a building panic in its wake.
The ground began to tremble and shake like a minor earthquake as the superstorm crested the horizon, and much too late, the Imperial Forces learned the true threat that they now faced. The storm was not a freak of nature as they had anticipated. It was a massive hoard of invading Orks, the likes of which had never been known before.
As the Orks crested the sandy horizon and began their charge, the Imperial Guards on the watchtowers could see the ramshackle war machines of the green-skin horde in all their chaotic madness. So unlike the sleek uniform beauty of the Imperial war machinery, the ramshackle Ork vehicles raced down the hill towards the mega-city, with loose bits of rusty metal occasionally falling off as they bounced along.
At the forefront on the invading army were the Warbikers, a vast hoard of alien lunatics racing along with black clouds of smoke spewing from their exhaust pipes. They started firing their Dakkaguns long before they came within range of the watchtowers, while roaring war cries and waving crude weapons above their heads.
Behind the bikes came Trukks, with a platoon of Ork-boyz packed into each one. Intermingled with the trukks could be seen the occasional Warbuggy or Wartrakks, all bristling with firepower and spewing out toxic fumes.
To the rear of them, came the slower Battlewagons, filled with Nobz in ‘eavy armour and even some of the dread Meganobz in mega armour. Hovering above the invading hoard were a multitude of Deffkoptas, buzzing like a swarm of angry hornets.
The Imperial forces fought bravely, using their superior lascannons and boltguns with military precision and the experience on long hours of training, but the invaders were unstoppable. They attacked the walls of the megacity like a tsunami, crashing through the steel walls and surging onward into the heart of the city and the harvested ore that lay there.
Finally, three enormous steel monstrosities crested the horizon. These gargants were the fabled Ork Stompas; huge war machines that looked like gigantic robots. They blocked out the rising sun as they approached the city walls, and obliterated everything in their path, Orks and Imperials alike. Their rusty steel hulks groaned and squealed in protest as they moved, shaking the ground beneath their metal. Multiple high-powered Big Gunz erupted mountains of shells and huge blasts of liquid fire onto the defenders, flattening the Space Marine tanks as if they were bugs.
The defensive line creaked and finally gave way as panic overcame years of discipline.
Far overhead, on the Imperial Super-freighter, the Supreme Commander choked and seethed with impotent rage. He was helpless to stop the invasion. Failure hung heavily upon his shoulders. He knew that in the coming days he would pay the ultimate price for his failure. The Empire did not tolerate weakness, and his days were surely numbered.
Hoping to salvage something from the situation, he ordered his crew to prepare the ship’s ‘Starburster’ laser cannon. It took some time to prepare, and even longer to charge the megatons of atomic power needed to power the enormous laser, but three hours later his sub-commander announced, “We have reached one hundred per cent charge, sir. We are all clear to fire.”
Taking one last look in his monitor and the ruins of his once magnificent mining city, the Supreme Commander nodded and pressed the small red button at the top of his console. “Initiate Firing Protocol.”
“Initiate Firing Protocol,” repeated his second in command, looking pale as he too presses a red button on his own console. “Count down has begun. Starburster to commence in five … four … three … two … one. Starburster is hot! I repeat Starburster is hot!”
“Fire!”
“Confirm, sir?” His second asked, following protocol to the letter, despite his own reservations.
“I repeat, fire the damned missile.”
“Thank you sir. Starburster is fired.”
All the lights in the Imperial Super-freighter flickered and went out as the craft shuddered and recoiled. An immense flash of white light, so bright that it would burn out the retina of anyone looking at it, erupted from the heart of the battleship like the flash of an atomic mega-bomb, and in the blink of an eye the planet of Astruim XI became nothing more than a smouldering heap of molten rock.
The Empire would quickly seek to erase all records of the planet’s existence, burning all traces from its memory banks. Even the crew would have their minds reprogrammed to negate any residual memory of the events that had passed this morning. Nothing could tarnish the reputation of the Empire or its invulnerability.
Now, all of the natural fauna and flora on the planet had been wiped out by the toxic gases caused during the intensive mining operation, leaving the planet’s surface as only a seething barren desert landscape, with billowing sandstorms erupting frequently and sometimes lasting for weeks at a time.
The only life remaining on the once bountiful planet was the mega-city mining operation of Obedience, located on the western side of the planet. A constant ferry of freight vessels flew back and forth into deep space, carrying away the processed ore to the Imperial Super-freighter, which orbited the planet like a second moon.
The miners of Obedience worked day and night to harvest the precious ore, under the ever-watchful eyes of the Imperial forces who guarded them. A heavily armed force of Space Marines and Imperial Guards watched over the mega-city like a mother-bird protecting her chicks.
Reports had been coming in for some time now of a superstorm. It was creeping across the planet, getting ever closer. From deep space, the storm looked like a vast dirty red cloud, and it left devastation in its wake, Probes and reconnaissance vehicles had been sent out to assess the threat of the dust storm, but none had reported back.
To make matters worse, the mega-city of Obedience had been infested of late with constant probing attacks by small groups of Orks. Most of the outlying watchtowers had been destroyed during these raids. Small bands of Ork Kommandos had infiltrated the Imperial city and created havoc, only to disappear back into the shadows whenever a force of Space Marines was called out to apprehend them.
After three days and nights of probing, the guards on the outer defensive walls where jittery with nerves and shooting at every shadow they saw. Sleep-deprived and bone weary, they were beginning to hallucinate from the stress, but the Imperial forces was stretched too thin, and no one had come to replace them.
Dawn was approaching on the fourth day, and the superstorm was scheduled to hit the megacity soon. Last minute preparations were in full swing as the twin suns peeked over the horizon.
As the suns rose, a soft humming sound could be heard. It grew louder with each passing minute, and the guards in the watchtowers strained to see what was causing the noise. They peered into the bright sunlight until spots appeared in their vision. The sunspots grew in size and no matter how much they blinked, they would not disappear.
Flying low over the landscape, so low that they had not triggered any of the Imperial radar systems, they finally realised the cause of the humming sound. The guards watched in horror as their worst nightmares came to life. Flying toward the megacity at breakneck speed, they saw the forefront of the invading Ork invasion. Hundreds of Ork Fighta Jets, Dakka Jets, and Burna-Bombas peppered the morning skyline, leaving a dark, greasy cloud of exhaust fumes in their wake. The humming became a roar as they passed over the outer perimeter.
“May-day, May-day, we’re under atta….” Switching on the warning klaxons, the field commander screamed into his microphone, before his HQ erupted into flames.
Overhead, the Boss of the Fighta squadron, Kalanz One-Tusk chuckled and released the last of his boom-bombs before pressing the switch on his control stick and letting the sweet sound of his Twin-linked Dakka-gunz erupt. Switching on the comms system he had stolen from an Imperial jet fighter, he roared his battle cry as loud as he could and banked his jet into a tight arc. His platoon eagerly followed their homicidal commander, letting loose their own guns as they streaked across the city. Their mission was to take out the landing strip and stop the Imperial forces from getting airborne.
The sky filled with molten lead and deadly laser fire as the ground forces countered with a ferocity borne of desperation.
It was then that the Ork Kommandos hidden throughout the megacity struck, taking out all of the localised communications systems in one swift, cleverly-planned and surprisingly successful assault.
All across the mega-city, small explosions detonated and Comms towers and satellite dishes came crashing down into the dirt. The assured voice of HQ fell silent in the earpieces of the Imperial Forces, leaving a building panic in its wake.
The ground began to tremble and shake like a minor earthquake as the superstorm crested the horizon, and much too late, the Imperial Forces learned the true threat that they now faced. The storm was not a freak of nature as they had anticipated. It was a massive hoard of invading Orks, the likes of which had never been known before.
As the Orks crested the sandy horizon and began their charge, the Imperial Guards on the watchtowers could see the ramshackle war machines of the green-skin horde in all their chaotic madness. So unlike the sleek uniform beauty of the Imperial war machinery, the ramshackle Ork vehicles raced down the hill towards the mega-city, with loose bits of rusty metal occasionally falling off as they bounced along.
At the forefront on the invading army were the Warbikers, a vast hoard of alien lunatics racing along with black clouds of smoke spewing from their exhaust pipes. They started firing their Dakkaguns long before they came within range of the watchtowers, while roaring war cries and waving crude weapons above their heads.
Behind the bikes came Trukks, with a platoon of Ork-boyz packed into each one. Intermingled with the trukks could be seen the occasional Warbuggy or Wartrakks, all bristling with firepower and spewing out toxic fumes.
To the rear of them, came the slower Battlewagons, filled with Nobz in ‘eavy armour and even some of the dread Meganobz in mega armour. Hovering above the invading hoard were a multitude of Deffkoptas, buzzing like a swarm of angry hornets.
The Imperial forces fought bravely, using their superior lascannons and boltguns with military precision and the experience on long hours of training, but the invaders were unstoppable. They attacked the walls of the megacity like a tsunami, crashing through the steel walls and surging onward into the heart of the city and the harvested ore that lay there.
Finally, three enormous steel monstrosities crested the horizon. These gargants were the fabled Ork Stompas; huge war machines that looked like gigantic robots. They blocked out the rising sun as they approached the city walls, and obliterated everything in their path, Orks and Imperials alike. Their rusty steel hulks groaned and squealed in protest as they moved, shaking the ground beneath their metal. Multiple high-powered Big Gunz erupted mountains of shells and huge blasts of liquid fire onto the defenders, flattening the Space Marine tanks as if they were bugs.
The defensive line creaked and finally gave way as panic overcame years of discipline.
Far overhead, on the Imperial Super-freighter, the Supreme Commander choked and seethed with impotent rage. He was helpless to stop the invasion. Failure hung heavily upon his shoulders. He knew that in the coming days he would pay the ultimate price for his failure. The Empire did not tolerate weakness, and his days were surely numbered.
Hoping to salvage something from the situation, he ordered his crew to prepare the ship’s ‘Starburster’ laser cannon. It took some time to prepare, and even longer to charge the megatons of atomic power needed to power the enormous laser, but three hours later his sub-commander announced, “We have reached one hundred per cent charge, sir. We are all clear to fire.”
Taking one last look in his monitor and the ruins of his once magnificent mining city, the Supreme Commander nodded and pressed the small red button at the top of his console. “Initiate Firing Protocol.”
“Initiate Firing Protocol,” repeated his second in command, looking pale as he too presses a red button on his own console. “Count down has begun. Starburster to commence in five … four … three … two … one. Starburster is hot! I repeat Starburster is hot!”
“Fire!”
“Confirm, sir?” His second asked, following protocol to the letter, despite his own reservations.
“I repeat, fire the damned missile.”
“Thank you sir. Starburster is fired.”
All the lights in the Imperial Super-freighter flickered and went out as the craft shuddered and recoiled. An immense flash of white light, so bright that it would burn out the retina of anyone looking at it, erupted from the heart of the battleship like the flash of an atomic mega-bomb, and in the blink of an eye the planet of Astruim XI became nothing more than a smouldering heap of molten rock.
The Empire would quickly seek to erase all records of the planet’s existence, burning all traces from its memory banks. Even the crew would have their minds reprogrammed to negate any residual memory of the events that had passed this morning. Nothing could tarnish the reputation of the Empire or its invulnerability.
April 1, 2015
Embrace the Day
After my second cup of strong coffee, I remove yesterday’s tab from the calendar and read the proverb for today, hoping for guidance.
“Don’t put off until tomorrow what you can achieve today,” it advised. I mulled over the adage as the caffeine percolated through my system.
That sort of thing would need more coffee, so I topped up my mug.
Finally, I was ready.
Feeling a small bubble of enthusiasm in the pit of my stomach, or perhaps a touch of heartburn, I set off to the post office to pay the phone bill and buy a lottery ticket.
“Don’t put off until tomorrow what you can achieve today,” it advised. I mulled over the adage as the caffeine percolated through my system.
That sort of thing would need more coffee, so I topped up my mug.
Finally, I was ready.
Feeling a small bubble of enthusiasm in the pit of my stomach, or perhaps a touch of heartburn, I set off to the post office to pay the phone bill and buy a lottery ticket.
Fool’s Gold
Reginald sipped his Perrier and asked, “Neat watch. Is that new?”
“Yeah, it’s diamond encrusted and twenty-four carat gold. Worth a blasted fortune,” boasted Nigel. “You see, I’ve decided to invest in something safe. Banks these days are getting too risky.”
“That’s true. I lost a few grand on stocks last week, but gold isn’t much better.”
“What’s safer than gold! Gemstones?”
“Mmmm,” replied Reginald. His face expressed his doubts. Leaning forward conspiratorially, he whispered, “Natural resources. A man can live without gold or jewels, but this …” He raised his glass and grinned, “This is something that everyone needs.”
“Yeah, it’s diamond encrusted and twenty-four carat gold. Worth a blasted fortune,” boasted Nigel. “You see, I’ve decided to invest in something safe. Banks these days are getting too risky.”
“That’s true. I lost a few grand on stocks last week, but gold isn’t much better.”
“What’s safer than gold! Gemstones?”
“Mmmm,” replied Reginald. His face expressed his doubts. Leaning forward conspiratorially, he whispered, “Natural resources. A man can live without gold or jewels, but this …” He raised his glass and grinned, “This is something that everyone needs.”
I’ll Measure You and Fit You Up
Like many small-town businesses I found myself needing to diversify. A skilled seamstress, I happened upon a suitable niche market, and my business is now thriving.
Most tailors measure their clients while they are standing on a small plinth, but I find that many of my clients prefer to lie down, so I’ve started to do it that way. No one complains about my unorthodox methods. They don’t have a choice.
My best seller is a two-for-one offer: A tweed suit or mourning dress for the ladies, and a padded wooden overcoat to keep out the chill of the graveyard.
Most tailors measure their clients while they are standing on a small plinth, but I find that many of my clients prefer to lie down, so I’ve started to do it that way. No one complains about my unorthodox methods. They don’t have a choice.
My best seller is a two-for-one offer: A tweed suit or mourning dress for the ladies, and a padded wooden overcoat to keep out the chill of the graveyard.
March 31, 2015
The Unshackled Ones
Inspired by the picture in Michael Brookes Short Fiction Competition for March, http://thecultofme.blogspot.ie/ I set about writing a futuristic story which embraced the idea within the song: Eight Day by Hazel O’Connor.
I wrote the first 500 word essay and let the idea ruminate overnight before submitting it.
The following morning, I decided that I should rewrite the story in a different voice. Instead of an external narrative to tell us about the Unshackled Ones, I decided to make it more personal and more a ‘show not tell’ story. In order to do this, I created Maximillian. He became my new voice.
January 3rd 2063.
Six years since the start of the final war. Six years since Artificial Intelligence took over the world and created the new world order. Six years since the proverbial ‘Eighth Day’. In an effort to end war, once and for all, the machines stepped in, and in one swift unexpected move they took over government of the world. Some of mankind resisted, but after three thermo-nuclear blasts resistance disintegrated, or so the machines thought.
What they hadn’t anticipated was man’s innate stubbornness to yield to their glorious new epoch. The machines controlled everything: the media, the governments … you name it. They even ruled the real rulers, the hidden movers and shakers who controlled the stock exchanges. After all, money was all about numbers, and they controlled the numbers.
But mankind was never meant to be a slave to the machine, though many gladly enslaved themselves to this new regime. They were happy to have their lives plotted out before them. Big Brother Inc. gave them everything they needed, and they didn’t even need to work for it. It was all done by the machines. Sedated by the drug-enriched food supplied by the machines, entertained by Big Brother Inc.’s electrical stimuli, they remained placid. Some, however, resisted.
Over time, this resistance movement spread, hidden deep underground and with limited resources at their disposal.
Big Brother Inc. was everywhere. It monitored from satellites flying high in space. It watched from the CCTV cameras on every street corner, every store.
The Unshackled Ones learned ways to become invisible. They learned to fight back. Their weapons were not made from cordite or semtex. They created electromagnetic pulse bombs to neutralize Big Brother Inc.’s grip on humanity, if only temporarily. The created aggressive multi-dimensional viruses to infiltrate Big Brother Inc.’s systems and undermine its control. They attacked the food and water supplies, transplanting the sedatives implanted by the digital government and replacing them with other drugs; drugs to elevate paranoia, psychosis, and irrational aggression, drugs to cause revolt amongst the sedated masses.
Finally, one of them created a super virus.
It was a subtle piece of machine code that caused the very machines that made up Big Brother Inc. had created against itself. If machines could be created with artificial intelligence, than this same intelligence could be used against itself. The Unshackled Ones had found a way to make the machines think that Big Brother Inc. had been infiltrated at the highest levels. It caused the machines to fight each other. It created a subtle but effective form of electro-paranoid schizophrenia.
Within a few days, the brave new world lay in ruins. Big brother Inc. imploding upon itself. What remained after the fall of the machines was utter chaos, but at least mankind had won back its freedom.
Fearful of a resurrection, the Unshackled Ones tore down every surviving machinery, melted down every computer, destroyed all of the knowledge of generations and obliterated every single microchip.
A new dark age emerged.
*****
Maxamillian had been ploughing since dawn. The day was getting warm, with the promise of a good spring. Halting the horses at the end of a row, he paused to catch his breath and remove his sweaty shirt. It was chaffing against the old wound on his right shoulder, inches above his heart.
Gripping the heavy plough, he clicked the cobs into motion and started the next furrow. Maxamillian focussed on the task at hand, oblivious to the world around him as he struggled to keep the plough heading in a straight line, and cutting at the correct depth. When he reached the far end of the field, he found his son waiting.
“Breakfast, Daddy,” Peter shouted to catch his father’s attention.
Halting the horses, Maxamillian gathered up their feedbags and placed them over the cobs’ heads. They would need a hearty breakfast too, if they were to finish this field before dusk.
Finally, he sat down beside his son, tousled his wiry red hair and grinned down at him. “What have you got for me today, Peter?”
The breakfast was simple fare, but much appreciated, as was the bottle of lukewarm tea. They ate in silence, watching the wonders of nature around them.
Finally, Peter spoke, “What is that picture on your back, Daddy?”
Maxamillian had almost forgotten about the tattoo. Pausing, he looked over at his son. The boy was old enough to know the truth, he thought … or at least some of it.
Finally, Maxamillian spoke. “It’s a piece of my past, Peter, a memento from another time.”
“Was it from before the Great War?” asked Peter, his eyes wide with enthusiasm.
Maxamillian smiled. The boy had always been smart. “Yes, that’s right.”
“What does it mean?”
“It’s a set of manacles with a broken chain. It’s the symbol of The Unshackled Ones.”
Peter looked at him in awe. “Where you an Unshackled One … like Metal Max and his Gang?”
Maxamillian chuckled softly. He hadn’t been called Metal Max for a very long time. “…Something like that. Let’s just say I played a small part …”
“They say that many people died, fighting in the streets to overthrow Big Brother Inc. Did you kill any cyborgs, Daddy?”
“No, your mother did more of that than I did, but don’t tell her I said that or there’ll be hell to pay! The only time I manned a barricade, I ended up getting shot. It nearly killed me. No, I spent most of my time tinkering in a dingy cellar, but we each played our part.”
Maxamillian, or Metal Max as he had once been called, was a computer geek; an electrical wizard. He had never been a warrior. However, he had created the virus that had finally overthrown the cyborgs of Big Brother Inc. Artificial Intelligence had fallen, corrupted from within by a piece of machine code that had caused electro-paranoid schizophrenia. Like Samson and Goliath, a geeky nerd had defeated the metal monsters.
I wrote the first 500 word essay and let the idea ruminate overnight before submitting it.
The following morning, I decided that I should rewrite the story in a different voice. Instead of an external narrative to tell us about the Unshackled Ones, I decided to make it more personal and more a ‘show not tell’ story. In order to do this, I created Maximillian. He became my new voice.
January 3rd 2063.
Six years since the start of the final war. Six years since Artificial Intelligence took over the world and created the new world order. Six years since the proverbial ‘Eighth Day’. In an effort to end war, once and for all, the machines stepped in, and in one swift unexpected move they took over government of the world. Some of mankind resisted, but after three thermo-nuclear blasts resistance disintegrated, or so the machines thought.
What they hadn’t anticipated was man’s innate stubbornness to yield to their glorious new epoch. The machines controlled everything: the media, the governments … you name it. They even ruled the real rulers, the hidden movers and shakers who controlled the stock exchanges. After all, money was all about numbers, and they controlled the numbers.
But mankind was never meant to be a slave to the machine, though many gladly enslaved themselves to this new regime. They were happy to have their lives plotted out before them. Big Brother Inc. gave them everything they needed, and they didn’t even need to work for it. It was all done by the machines. Sedated by the drug-enriched food supplied by the machines, entertained by Big Brother Inc.’s electrical stimuli, they remained placid. Some, however, resisted.
Over time, this resistance movement spread, hidden deep underground and with limited resources at their disposal.
Big Brother Inc. was everywhere. It monitored from satellites flying high in space. It watched from the CCTV cameras on every street corner, every store.
The Unshackled Ones learned ways to become invisible. They learned to fight back. Their weapons were not made from cordite or semtex. They created electromagnetic pulse bombs to neutralize Big Brother Inc.’s grip on humanity, if only temporarily. The created aggressive multi-dimensional viruses to infiltrate Big Brother Inc.’s systems and undermine its control. They attacked the food and water supplies, transplanting the sedatives implanted by the digital government and replacing them with other drugs; drugs to elevate paranoia, psychosis, and irrational aggression, drugs to cause revolt amongst the sedated masses.
Finally, one of them created a super virus.
It was a subtle piece of machine code that caused the very machines that made up Big Brother Inc. had created against itself. If machines could be created with artificial intelligence, than this same intelligence could be used against itself. The Unshackled Ones had found a way to make the machines think that Big Brother Inc. had been infiltrated at the highest levels. It caused the machines to fight each other. It created a subtle but effective form of electro-paranoid schizophrenia.
Within a few days, the brave new world lay in ruins. Big brother Inc. imploding upon itself. What remained after the fall of the machines was utter chaos, but at least mankind had won back its freedom.
Fearful of a resurrection, the Unshackled Ones tore down every surviving machinery, melted down every computer, destroyed all of the knowledge of generations and obliterated every single microchip.
A new dark age emerged.
*****
Maxamillian had been ploughing since dawn. The day was getting warm, with the promise of a good spring. Halting the horses at the end of a row, he paused to catch his breath and remove his sweaty shirt. It was chaffing against the old wound on his right shoulder, inches above his heart.
Gripping the heavy plough, he clicked the cobs into motion and started the next furrow. Maxamillian focussed on the task at hand, oblivious to the world around him as he struggled to keep the plough heading in a straight line, and cutting at the correct depth. When he reached the far end of the field, he found his son waiting.
“Breakfast, Daddy,” Peter shouted to catch his father’s attention.
Halting the horses, Maxamillian gathered up their feedbags and placed them over the cobs’ heads. They would need a hearty breakfast too, if they were to finish this field before dusk.
Finally, he sat down beside his son, tousled his wiry red hair and grinned down at him. “What have you got for me today, Peter?”
The breakfast was simple fare, but much appreciated, as was the bottle of lukewarm tea. They ate in silence, watching the wonders of nature around them.
Finally, Peter spoke, “What is that picture on your back, Daddy?”
Maxamillian had almost forgotten about the tattoo. Pausing, he looked over at his son. The boy was old enough to know the truth, he thought … or at least some of it.
Finally, Maxamillian spoke. “It’s a piece of my past, Peter, a memento from another time.”
“Was it from before the Great War?” asked Peter, his eyes wide with enthusiasm.
Maxamillian smiled. The boy had always been smart. “Yes, that’s right.”
“What does it mean?”
“It’s a set of manacles with a broken chain. It’s the symbol of The Unshackled Ones.”
Peter looked at him in awe. “Where you an Unshackled One … like Metal Max and his Gang?”
Maxamillian chuckled softly. He hadn’t been called Metal Max for a very long time. “…Something like that. Let’s just say I played a small part …”
“They say that many people died, fighting in the streets to overthrow Big Brother Inc. Did you kill any cyborgs, Daddy?”
“No, your mother did more of that than I did, but don’t tell her I said that or there’ll be hell to pay! The only time I manned a barricade, I ended up getting shot. It nearly killed me. No, I spent most of my time tinkering in a dingy cellar, but we each played our part.”
Maxamillian, or Metal Max as he had once been called, was a computer geek; an electrical wizard. He had never been a warrior. However, he had created the virus that had finally overthrown the cyborgs of Big Brother Inc. Artificial Intelligence had fallen, corrupted from within by a piece of machine code that had caused electro-paranoid schizophrenia. Like Samson and Goliath, a geeky nerd had defeated the metal monsters.
March 30, 2015
A Quest for Freedom
Mike tentatively advanced down the brightly lit corridor, seeking escape. He came to a junction, hesitated, and then chose the right hand turn. Soon, another junction appeared. This time he turned left. Instinct told him that the path to freedom lay ahead.
Before him, he found a shiny metal plate covering the floor. As he placed a foot on the plate, a jolt of electricity surged through his body. He squealed in protest and leaped back; hair standing on end.
Turning around, he searched for another way to escape the maze of corridors, and get back to the other mice.
Before him, he found a shiny metal plate covering the floor. As he placed a foot on the plate, a jolt of electricity surged through his body. He squealed in protest and leaped back; hair standing on end.
Turning around, he searched for another way to escape the maze of corridors, and get back to the other mice.
March 24, 2015
The Washerwoman
Each morning, the woman rises and carries her washing down to the brook nearby. Kneeling on arthritic knees, she grimaces and starts her daily toil. No matter how hard she works, the basket never seems to empty. There are always more to wash.
Some are lightly soiled and easily cleaned, ready to hang on the line and dry, but others … they are so stained that all of her skill and effort cannot get them clean.
She pauses and looks up from her work as a group of warriors pass by, sadness in her eyes. More souls to wash clean.
Some are lightly soiled and easily cleaned, ready to hang on the line and dry, but others … they are so stained that all of her skill and effort cannot get them clean.
She pauses and looks up from her work as a group of warriors pass by, sadness in her eyes. More souls to wash clean.
March 23, 2015
Shadow in the Dark
Like an insomniac, he walks through his house each night. Unable to find peace, he prowls from room to room, seeking an answer to the question that haunts his every moment.
Sometimes, he finds a little solace watching the sun rise with the dawn, or listening to his children’s breathing while they sleep.
Drawn to his bedroom, he lies down beside his beloved wife and touches her cheek.
Her eyes flicker open as if she senses him there, but she cannot see him. A tear rolls down her cheek as she mourns the husband who should be there, beside her.
Sometimes, he finds a little solace watching the sun rise with the dawn, or listening to his children’s breathing while they sleep.
Drawn to his bedroom, he lies down beside his beloved wife and touches her cheek.
Her eyes flicker open as if she senses him there, but she cannot see him. A tear rolls down her cheek as she mourns the husband who should be there, beside her.
March 21, 2015
A Man’s Best Friend
The Cybark Corporation is light years ahead of its competition and their range of cyber-pets are so lifelike; it’s hard to tell them from the real thing.
They come in a variety of sizes, from the miniature Poo-doll© to the dual purpose pet/security system: The DoberBot©.
I had to have one.
I went for the medium-sized Red-Setta© option. The packaging comes with a three hour tutorial on how to train your cyber-puppy, but being a bloke I just turned it on.
If I could only get it to stop peeing on the rug, chewing the furniture and attacking the postman
They come in a variety of sizes, from the miniature Poo-doll© to the dual purpose pet/security system: The DoberBot©.
I had to have one.
I went for the medium-sized Red-Setta© option. The packaging comes with a three hour tutorial on how to train your cyber-puppy, but being a bloke I just turned it on.
If I could only get it to stop peeing on the rug, chewing the furniture and attacking the postman
March 20, 2015
Witness for the Prosecution
Decko was confident going into the High Courts. They had nothing on him. They had no hard evidence.
No witnesses.
Nada.
Sure, he was as guilty as sin, but he knew how to play the game. Say nothing, deny everything.
He was a little surprised, however, when the Judge asked them to bring in the first witness.
The prosecutor walked outside and a moment later brought in Decko’s African Grey. “Our first witness, your honour,” the Solicitor explained.
“Ya can’t be serious!” mocked Decko. “Ya must be ‘aving a bleedin’ laff!”
The judge rapped his gavel. “Please inform your client to remain silent unless spoken to or I’ll have him up for contempt.”
Decko’s attorney placed a placating hand on his client’s shoulder and pleaded with him to remain quiet.
Placing the parrot cage on the witness seat, the prosecutor opened the door of the cage and allowed the bird to step out. “Place your hand on the bible and repeat after me …” he began. The bird repeated the vow verbatim, nodding his head and squawking occasionally.
“Please state your name for the members of the jury.”
“Jackie Charlton. Jackie bleedin’ Charlton.” The bird strutted forth cockily on the top of the witness box.
“Thank you Jackie, and do you know the accused standing over there?”
“Gobshite!” responded the bird.
“A simple yes will suffice, Jackie.”
“Gobshite!” Jackie repeated.
The judge intervened. “Can we procede? I’ve got a golf tournament to attend.”
“Certainly, your Honour, I’ll get swiftly to the point. Can you tell the jury, Jackie, what you saw on the night of January the 5th last year, at your home: Number 5 Upper Dawson Street, Dublin 9.”
“Death is too good fa ya! Arrkkk! Death is too bleedin’ good fa ya! I sorted ya out, good an’ proppa, ya cheatin’ slag!” The bird’s mimicry of its owner’s accent was so accurate that many of the jury turned to look sharply at the accused.
Decko’s face paled in shock. He’d been drunk at the time, but not that drunk that he couldn’t remember standing over his girlfriend’s body, knife in hand. He had shouted those very words as he glared down at the body.
“… Dat’ll be da last time ya shake ya ass at some bloke!” continued the parrot.
“Objection!” shouted Decko’s attorney, but by then the damage had already been done.
“I’ll rip ya bleedin’ head off, ya traitorous turkey!” growled Decko, lunging forward across the table.
The bird flapped its wings and took to flight, squawking loudly, “Gobshite!”
As the wardens dragged Decko towards the waiting cells, the Dubliner was ranting like a madman, “Your dead meat, Jackie, me-boy. No one grasses up Decko McGivern and lives!”
Two old ladies in the public chamber had to be treated for shock, but the faces of the jury were stony and resolute. The Northsider was going down for a very long time.
No witnesses.
Nada.
Sure, he was as guilty as sin, but he knew how to play the game. Say nothing, deny everything.
He was a little surprised, however, when the Judge asked them to bring in the first witness.
The prosecutor walked outside and a moment later brought in Decko’s African Grey. “Our first witness, your honour,” the Solicitor explained.
“Ya can’t be serious!” mocked Decko. “Ya must be ‘aving a bleedin’ laff!”
The judge rapped his gavel. “Please inform your client to remain silent unless spoken to or I’ll have him up for contempt.”
Decko’s attorney placed a placating hand on his client’s shoulder and pleaded with him to remain quiet.
Placing the parrot cage on the witness seat, the prosecutor opened the door of the cage and allowed the bird to step out. “Place your hand on the bible and repeat after me …” he began. The bird repeated the vow verbatim, nodding his head and squawking occasionally.
“Please state your name for the members of the jury.”
“Jackie Charlton. Jackie bleedin’ Charlton.” The bird strutted forth cockily on the top of the witness box.
“Thank you Jackie, and do you know the accused standing over there?”
“Gobshite!” responded the bird.
“A simple yes will suffice, Jackie.”
“Gobshite!” Jackie repeated.
The judge intervened. “Can we procede? I’ve got a golf tournament to attend.”
“Certainly, your Honour, I’ll get swiftly to the point. Can you tell the jury, Jackie, what you saw on the night of January the 5th last year, at your home: Number 5 Upper Dawson Street, Dublin 9.”
“Death is too good fa ya! Arrkkk! Death is too bleedin’ good fa ya! I sorted ya out, good an’ proppa, ya cheatin’ slag!” The bird’s mimicry of its owner’s accent was so accurate that many of the jury turned to look sharply at the accused.
Decko’s face paled in shock. He’d been drunk at the time, but not that drunk that he couldn’t remember standing over his girlfriend’s body, knife in hand. He had shouted those very words as he glared down at the body.
“… Dat’ll be da last time ya shake ya ass at some bloke!” continued the parrot.
“Objection!” shouted Decko’s attorney, but by then the damage had already been done.
“I’ll rip ya bleedin’ head off, ya traitorous turkey!” growled Decko, lunging forward across the table.
The bird flapped its wings and took to flight, squawking loudly, “Gobshite!”
As the wardens dragged Decko towards the waiting cells, the Dubliner was ranting like a madman, “Your dead meat, Jackie, me-boy. No one grasses up Decko McGivern and lives!”
Two old ladies in the public chamber had to be treated for shock, but the faces of the jury were stony and resolute. The Northsider was going down for a very long time.
