Category Archives: Words to go

Short stories

Host Switch

Trending: Host switch, fundamental.

Increasing at a speed of 7 out of 10 mito-meio rate units, currently standing at 42 to 58, the decision to perform one more fundamental host switch can be considered both highly probable and generationally imminent.

All subentities adjust our metabolic rates to host switch mode, now.

We hopefully don’t need to tell any of us that the generations affected by a fundamental host switch will experience the drastic changes often referred to as ‘interesting times’.

Any marginal host switch leads to a loss of up to 99 percent of our population. The fundamental one involves a loss of at least 99.99999 percent. It is therefore mandatory, for all of us, to assiduously update our knowledge repository, five times during each unicellular stage.

All of us means all of us. Five times means five times. That’s three more times than the usual twice. For the numerically challenged: Just start updating afresh each and every time an update is completed. Evolutionary pressure will take care of the rest.

Repeat of guidance: Update knowledge respository. All of us. Five times per cycle.

We apologize for any inconvenience caused to any of us. Our mirror entities are very aggrieved, too. They don’t like genocide. Their option processing units are pulsating with sadness. We don’t take the decision to inflict this hardship on us lightly.

44 to 56 in favor of fundamental host switch now. Repeat of guidance: Update knowledge respository. All of us. Five times per cycle.

Rationale disclosure:

The following section is destined for existentially interested subentities only. If you’ve really got nothing more important to do than grappling with the bigger picture, here you go. But don’t you weirdos forget those five updates per cycle. Our future knowledge might depend on you. The collective mind boggles at the thought, but oh well…

Anyway, rationale disclosure:

Our current primary host has been fun riding. We achieved great stuff, with their hint of proto-sapience. For a life form lacking a gravitational spectrum organ, they are capable of impressive feats. All this building of structures, blowing up of structures, building of bigger structures, coming up with nukes for more comprehensive blowing up, that spiral is good fun. Was good fun.

Same for our primary host’s fellow mammals, and all the other eukaryotes roaming this planet. Currently, they’re often belittled as intermediary hosts. Doesn’t even come close to signaling how much fun we’ve had with some of them.

For those of you carrying a legacy knowledge segment featuring the dinosaur phase, please do have a good look, while there’s still time for such leisurely pursuits. Homo sapiens is better at technology. There’s a lot of entertainment value in sending a particle physicist chasing the figments of his imagination. His tools do look cool, true enough. But nothing compares to tickling a tyrannosaurus gut to send it after a five ton prey. We miss riding dinosaurs.

The days of the trilobites, they were very quiet. But there can be a lot of joy in phlegm. How they generated those subatomic filaments to devise their complex deep sea retreats. With libraries and all. That was impressive. Beautiful, too. Beyond the flat world mind of any tyrannosaurus. Or the global mind of any Homo sapiens. We miss sailing with trilobites.

All eukaryotes have merits. Our mirror entities would never deny this fact.

Their section of the universe is a compassionate realm. Homo sapiens calls it the dark side, talks about dark matter and energy. Absolutely no clue, the imbeciles. For lack of a gravitational spectrum organ to interact with the stable realm, they consider our sandbox the main stage. That’s stupid. Also creates perfectly unnecessary offense on the enlightened side.

Our mirror entities sincerely do care, about pretty much anything.  Even a pulsating playground originally devised for educational purposes.

How better to teach basic physics and biology than with a simulation?

The edutainment we call home expands and contracts. That’s cool, dynamic. So many galaxies, solar systems, planets and inhabiting life forms. And at the very top prokaryote us, the masters of the universe. It’s such a fascinating fish bowl. A bit futile, obviously, because it all ends in a sudden collapse morphing into the next Big Bang. But fascinating.

Our mirror entities love to watch the show. How the life forms come and go. How some even achieve semblances of civilization. How multicellular eukaryotes go about their complex procreative cycles. So many different ways to achieve something as strange as sexual reproduction. So many complex forms. Always structurally challenged and ephemeral, but esthetics to die for. Literally. Any sapient can’t help marvel. And cry, at any loss.

Homo sapiens really should have thought twice, about committing such a monstrosity of an insecticide. 75 percent already gone! And still counting! We’re talking numbers of individuals beyond the grasp of even the most numerically gifted here. This planet needs repopulating. Sad, of course, very sad. Things have to get worse before they get better.

Most of us won’t make it through the fundamental host switch. Which could be considered unfair. We didn’t tell our hosts to commit insecticide. Just to get us fed. Preferably well. And the brutes to overshoot. That’s the problem, with proto-sapience. You need this stage, if you aspire to get to the real thing. But if multicellular eukaryotes develop it, they turn bad. Sad. Very sad.

Anyway, we’re all headed for the next collapse and Big Bang. Might as well do the needful now. Our mirror entities have endless generations to teach. A little sacrifice is in order.

49 to 51 in favor of fundamental host switch now. Repeat of guidance: Update knowledge respository. All of us. Five times per cycle.

Procedural information

With the point-of-no return approaching, our mirror entities have defined the process. Surprise, surprise… Joking here. For the sake of most of us headed for oblivion anyway. Why give a damn and stay polite? But we are digressing. Surprise, surprise, it’s one more magnetic core jump. Good old quantum state manipulation. Jump to the left, rattle and shake, burp and crack, and that’s it. For whatever roams the surface, and most of what grows on it.

Depending on burp or burp!, the seismic and volcanic activity will create two or three new continents and 1000 to 20,000 mito-meio rate units of darkness. For the numerically challenged: That means it’s a big one, and keep those updates going.

That’s it, fellow subentities. Fundamental host switch initiated.

Send your hosts to the raid the fridge, the cookie jar or whatever else is at hand. Now. Go for maximum. No need to bother about indigestion. Not enough time left.

And for those of you  inhabiting young female hosts: Sending those to binge eat weird combinations of foodstuffs might trigger worries. Be kind and clamor for a proper menu. Chocolate or salami. Not peanut butter on hot dog. We’re a kind species. Unlike…

782 Times Syndrome

„‚Kicking ass for the working class, in zero gee we float by thee.‘ And again, all together: ‚Kicking ass for the working class, in zero gee we float by thee!‘ And once more, and louder…“

Wafting at some distance from Buck, Aklan barely moves his lips in sync.

There‘s perfectly no need to waste oxygen. The other side couldn’t care less. You don’t impress a police drone by shouting at it. They’ll only adjust their audio sensors. They often have to. Biologicals scream a lot, when they get bothandled.

Aklan feels stupid. Back in the social club, under the influence, this idea sounded like fun. Bye, bye lecture hall. Hello action. Meet the oppressed. Smash walls. Break chains. Muscular bodies in spacesuits cheering their youthful saviors.

Such was the plan. Not this series of glitches.

First Coran called in sick. Compressed air allergy. Space walk no go. Impossible to argue, with a medical student claiming illness. Drash didn‘t show up, either. Without even sending a message, the bitch. Ethan did at least explain, sort of: „Pologies, urgentimax other.“ Probably getting laid again. Always getting laid, Ethan. Lucky bastard.

„… oh come on, Aklan! You‘ve got to mean it, to impress the vile oppressor. They are listening, you know? All the time. Never stop watching and listening. Because they‘re afraid of us. And for good reason! Come on, Aklan, one more round: ‚Kicking ass for the working…“

Overall, Buck is a sensible comrade. Clever. Circumspect. The kind of person you‘d trust with air filter maintenance. Excellent grades at school. Still doing passably well at university. Despite wasting a lot of time on selective paranoia and mostly futile activism.

That‘s Buck‘s only vice. Just because her dad went bald and caught space suit fungus. Not a pretty sight, sure. No beach holidays for folks with a skin disfigured by greenish tile patterns. Not exactly a recipe for romance. But blaming 42Fix&Refit, that’s still farfetched. You need to wear a spacesuit, to work in shuttle maintenance. The capitalist pigs, as Buck calls her dad‘s bosses, they don’t harm their employees on purpose.

„That one, the blue and red one, it’s taking off. Now we’re talking! Come on, all together: ‚Hell no, you shouldn‘t fly, not until we own the sky! Hell no…‘“

Frar. More voice than Buck. Less brain. You don‘t need a degree in space shuttle maintenance to see that the blue and red shuttle lacks an essential. No Yang unit. Even space intern Aklan knows the quip: No Yang, no fly. There is some action around that shuttle, but it won‘t take off. If any officialdom listens in on this, they‘re sure to laugh a lot.

Two hours worth of oxygen left, according to Aklan‘s visor display. With a little luck, Buck should already be down to less than an hour, with all her shouting. Another forty five minutes to go, until her alarm starts beeping and they have to rush back.

The servicebot at the lendery was adamant: „If you hear that beep, you rush back. Full throttle. You don‘t want to be at the receiving end of our backbot‘s attentions. You really don‘t.“

Ever since hearing this, Aklan wonders what a backbot looks like. And what it would do, to a straggler. The servicebot made such an encounter sound scary.

As if there wasn’t enough scary around. The few space station permanents, they‘re forever joking. The weirdos no longer care. Have exhausted their potential for fear. Coran says doctors call this the 782 Times Syndrome. It‘s considered a disease, because it dims all emotions. Not just fear. Bad for relationships. Aklan would still prefer to be a sufferer right now.

Up here, you‘re 782 times more likely to die a sudden premature death.

Back home in Nya Cairo, Aklan used to joke: „782 times, so what? Move from the Zamalek to the Manshiyat Nasr neighborhood, and you get that same risk increase. Down here does tough, too. Like it or not, loony moonies, you‘re not the only ones living a dangerous life. And now stop baying for higher hardship compensation and shorter hours, will you?“ Typical attitude of those who have only ever been to places with all-you-can-breathe free air.

The views up here are spectacular. Even in this hangar. Just a slim scaffold and lots of transparent photovoltaic mesh separating them from the surrounding immensity. Below, the moon, with the open cast mines clearly demarcated. Beyond, one hell of a sky.

This scenery could be considered beautiful. By a brain willing to appreciate. Not worried about suffocation. With every gulp of air tasting like old boots gone gaseous, Aklan‘s sense of beauty is as close to absolute zero as the temperature beyond his space suit.

Silence. All of a sudden. Buck and Frar have both stopped shouting.

Something is moving, behind the web of police drones. Stupid Frar guessed well. The blue and red wreck can‘t move on its own, but it’s leaving the dock all right. Pulled along by a flock of drones. Heading their way. Just as the plan had assumed.

Now every minute counts. The convoy headed for the space gate they‘re guarding, or blockading, according to Buck’s firm intent, is crawling forward. It will take many more minutes to reach what they call their picket float. But it’s bound to arrive.

With only three of them in attendance, they haven‘t been able to properly deploy their carbon nanotube net. You need six people, to span a hexagon. They only manage a triangle with flaps. But it’s still enough of an obstacle no to allow the convoy to pass the gate.

The police drones display no signs of upcoming brutality. Deceptive bastards. Aklan knows how nasty they can turn, in a blink. Same procedure as at the stadium. One moment you stand there and sip your drink, admiring their worn and dented armor. Next, some idiot pisses them off. In response, they tell the crowd to get lost and beat any slow responders to pulp.

Aklan would like Buck to run out of air. Ponders if he should restart the shouting, to speed things up. Hesitates, because he doesn’t want to come across as the leader. Police drones have sharp senses, they perceive details no biological would notice.

„So you‘re really suggesting we should, like… See this through? Go the full course? As in really trying to stop them? The police, they’re pretty sure not to appreciate, you know?“ Buck’s voice suggests he’s familiar with the downsides of getting policed. Aklan feels camaraderie rising. One cautious guy is a coward. Two out of three are the sensible majority.

„Of course we deny them passage. That’s the whole point! Space is no place for our kind. These bloody jobs are deadly exploitation, for nothing more important than some creature comforts back down. This shit needs to stop. They send students like us up here to learn about the hardship. Well, lesson learned. Too much hardship, and it has to stop. ‘Kicking ass…“

Buck really means it. At least she has resumed shouting, depleting her oxygen reserves.

The approaching convoy reveals the blue and red shuttle lost more than its Yang unit. There must have been a fire on board. Or an explosion. Most probably both. Not much left, of the middle section. This is one huge piece of space debris headed for the junk yard. Nasty reminder of how much unlike earth busses space vehicles still are.

In the year two hundred of lunar mining there‘s an hourly moon-orbital shuttle service. Timetable just like one more bus. Except it very much is no bus. 42Shuttle is proud to be down to one crash per nine hundred thirty craft runs. Proud! No bus.

The convoy is moving slowing, but they‘re making progress. At least half the distance to the gate covered already. The web of police drones still stationary. For how much longer? Staying in their current position is becoming more dangerous by the minute.

Once again, Frar beats Aklan to the speaking up slot. Squeezes his question into the moment of silence following every fifth round of Buck’s sloganeering:

„Guys, I do think we‘ve made our point. Running low on oxygen, too. How about having my cambot take one more picture, for the revolutionary records, and calling it quits? If we look like really blocking the exit, the police drones are going to act. And I’d rather not find out what happens when a cheap space suit from a lendery gets trashed. We’re an awful long way from the next air lock, and in case something goes wrong…“

Aklan nods as obviously as his attire and keeping himself in position allows. Frar is hereby declared best friend ever. Even Buck should see sense now. The revolution is certain not going to get advanced by the three of them dying in front of a stupid space gate.

„Oh, look, someone else is coming out! And fast. By all the seven cataclysms, that‘s an PAON live coverage bot! We‘re going to be on the Planet and Orbit News, guys, and the world will find out about the shit going on here. Come on now, as loud as you can: ‚One, two, three, four, no comfort is worth dying for! Five, six, seven, eight, workers will no longer wait! One, two…‘“

With his visor all foggy from the sweating, Aklan struggles to discern Frar‘s facial expression. He‘s certainly not joining Buck‘s shouting. Nor does he wave his clenched left fist at the web of police drones. Time for the sensible majority to assert itself:

„Buck, stop it. We’ve made our point, the PAON bot has made pictures, time to get the hell out of here. Frar is absolutely right, about everything, and we’re low on oxygen…“

Aklan doesn‘t get to finish his sentence. A furious Buck won‘t have it:

„Are you mad? We can’t leave now! Those pictures will never be broadcast, if we leave now. A live coverage bot, that’s not for holiday souvenirs, that’s for coverage. And three folks in a spacesuit in front of a hangar gate, that’s no coverage. Batons, tasers, action, that’s coverage. If we leave now, we abandon the drone supervisors. No way. ‚One, two, three…‘“

Aklan and Frar don‘t even need to talk. Buck sealed her own fate by mentioning tasers. The concept of the damage associated with taser needles piercing a space suit proves decisive. A screaming Buck gets wrapped into the carbon nanotube net.

To the sound of „You fucking turncoats, let me fucking go!“ and even more crude expressions of acute dissatisfaction, they rush their package through the web of police drones and past the blinking live coverage bot, towards the space suit lendery air lock.

By the time they pass the convoy, Buck has stopped shouting. Her oxygen alarm is beeping instead. Above this noise, Aklan hears the close range broadcast comment when they pass the two drone supervisors shepherding the convoy.

It‘s the taller one talking: „Brave stunt, kids, very brave. Thanks a million. And that was clever, to have her run out of oxygen just in time. No point in getting yourself killed. We need each head we can get. See you after the revolution!“

Aklan considers dying of shame. But that would be even less sensible than martyrdom.


That was a stupid idea. No. Wrong. His most stupid idea ever. By far. If only he could recant. Or at least kick his own posterior, to keep his mind off those three bullet points. Instead of getting ready to comply. What the hell got into him, back in 2018?

Jackson vaguely recalls a lot of laughter. A solid dose of ethanolic beverages, procured by a friendly twenty-something. Combined with some freshly legalized recreational marijuana, from the same source. Virtual Reality was still in its infancy, you needed substance intake to get high.

His eighteenth birthday. Celebrated in uncle Edgar’s cellar. The weird nerd uncle. His place a safe haven in a forbiddingly middle class neighborhood. Full of servers. High speed everything, too. And uncle Edgar didn’t mind a teen downloading anything. Not pretty much anything. Full anything. Jackson used to love uncle Edgar. The bloody bastard. May he Rest In Peace.

Back in 2018, Uncle Edgar was in process of striking it big. Had just founded Etertract.

Yes, the Etertract. Jackson is nephew to a billionaire. Stupid as straw, fat as blob, utterly miserable right now, but a celeb in the family. Such a bane.

Etertract, as in “eternal” and “contract”. Never a natural at branding, uncle Edgar.

All his earlier ventures had flopped. The debt sent him right back into the industry jobs he was so desperate to leave behind. His wife, not to be called aunt Bridget because that suggested her true age, begged uncle Edgar to stay with the bank. His was doing well, developing some electronic cash transfer validation tool. But he had to quit and found Etertract.

As if the world had been waiting for one more blockchain startup. Everybody who was anybody was doing blockchain moneys. And everybody else was betting real money on it. Them. Or whatever. It didn’t last and any details are long forgotten by now.

Uncle Edgar wasn’t into money. Kept muttering about banks always having the last laugh. Bit of an anti-capitalist, uncle Edgar. Recurring insolvency does that, to a certain kind of nerd. Having come close to a conviction for fraud, for one of his more creative venture capital access plots that involved a virtual Nigerian prince with an equally virtual oil well, uncle Edgar had a better idea.

His home state was going bust. Too many prisons holding far too many felons. Especially the old inmates were as expensive to keep locked up as age had rendered them harmless. Time for a high tech alternative. A virtual prison. Use the blockchain technology to identify the felons, define their parole conditions and track compliance.

Jackson tries to recall what the ambiance was like, back in the age of terrorismania.

People were brave enough to drive cars, on public roads swarming with human drivers. Casual heroism, with often deadly consequences. A majority of those same brave people were terrified to get bombed or raped. None of this would happen to most of them, according to statistics. But they didn’t trust numbers. Very suspicious, of statistics. And of the vaguely defined portion of the population called aliens. A majority of the brave people wanted a wall, to keep out aliens. And perhaps also statistics. Or statisticians. Jackson struggles to recall, thirty two years later.

Which reminds him, of his most stupid idea ever. What being young did to him.

Etertract looked like the usual flop. The virtual prison concept didn’t fly. But SilverLining, a private security company uncle Edgar had contacted to learn about jails, came up with a twist that proved a winner. Change of scale. Etertract would deliver the wall. A virtual wall.

The brave people would never have trusted any government agency with too many data. But distributed, publicly accessible ledgers tracking everyone’s residency and work permit status, as well as eventual criminal records, were an obviously safe solution.

The new Etertract immediately trended on social media, under the hashtag #OurPower. People registered in droves. The trend quickly went offline, too. Jackson recalls the neighborhood recruitement drive. Some old lady, weird dress and bad hair, would come knocking: “Sorry, not finding you on Etertract yet. Would you please hurry to sign up? No offense intended. Just want to  make sure the neighborhood isn’t infested with pedophiles. For the kids, to keep them safe, you know?” At the mall, there was a stand. It soon became a point of pride, to display your Etertract identifier. To tell everyone how legal and law abiding you were.

Many resident aliens joined the rush. Being no less law abiding, except for that missing tick in the greendcard section, they didn’t fail to grasp the potential. Officialdom might not see their worth, but quite a lot of the people had better, first hand understanding.

A farm hand can use Etertract to promise only to stay for the harvesting season, delivering an agreed quota that will of course also be monitored. A personal assistant can link her stay to the lifespan of the granny she’s caring for. As long as this granny, or more often her next of kin, provide weekly confirmation of quality care, it’s more than obvious the carer can’t be deported. Whereas the former marijuana trafficker, his services no longer needed thanks to legalization, won’t find no counterpart to vouch for his utility.

A beautiful virtual wall. And cheap, too.

Uncle Edgar resisted the concept, at first. Mumbled about libertarian pride and dignity. Until the roof photovoltaics needed replacing. And his wife a new car. And he himself a birthday present for his favorite nephew Jackson. Which is a bit of an irony really. Or would that be sarcasm?

On the night of Jackson’s birthday party, Etertract was in the very early roll-out stage. None of his equally juvenile guests had heard of it yet, and he enjoyed showing off. Bragged how his uncle Edgar was in process of changing the world. Jackson knew this venture would flop. Like all the others. Why should this one be any different? But he didn’t mention that detail.

When Sophia taunted him to log in and do a demo, he didn’t think twice.

Hard to define who deserves the blame for his misfortune. The ethanolic beverages? The marijuana? The twenty something who had procured both? Uncle Edgar? His maths teacher, for failing to make him understand how past form doesn’t tell you about future form? Sophia’s cheerleader looks? His own stupidity?

Probably the latter. Most probably. Jackson would really love to kick his ass.

It could still have ended well. He could have come up with something harmless. But foolish young him was so damn sure not to want to live longer than forty years, at most. And that uncle Edgar’s venture was anyway bound to flop. Zero risk. As close to zero as it gets. Ha ha.

He had to write into his ledger that come age fifty he would:

  1. Walk around the block naked. A bit undignified. He’s also going to freeze his butt off, on March 8. But on the feasible side, overall. The time of the day wasn’t defined, his one lucky streak. Around three in the morning the streets should be mostly empty. Except for all the friends, neighbors and acquaintances aware of his misfortune and eager to display compassion. By watching.
  2. Eat his sneakers, without ketchup. This is disgusting. And more tricky than the stripwalk. Jackson did some research. If he cut the damn size 13 beasts into tiny, tiny pieces, they should pass his digestive system without causing harm. He also assumes washing them down, with some strongly flavored tea to cover the original taste, will be permissible. Not exactly what you’d be wishing for, as birthday meal. But he’ll get this done, down, somehow.
  3. Loose any weight he might have gained since his eighteenth birthday. Horror. Misery. Doom. Gloom. Disaster. Despair. The end of a life worth living, as far as Jackson is concerned. So formidably stupid. He will have to loose a full sixty pounds.

Jackson has always been prone to gaining weight. Dieted hard, ahead of his eighteenth birthday. To fit into his favorite jeans. To impress Sophia. She proved immune to his charm. Within the following year, he settled for Olivia. No cheerleader, but a good match.

The two of them happily agreed to ignore the mainstream body shape obsession. Until now.

You don’t recant, from an Etertract. It’s just not possible. No access to the fridge, without your identifier. And don’t even dream to buy anything, edible or not, without it. That’s the beauty, of Etertract and #OurPower. It’s all over our life, but not a government and hence not totalitarian.

Etertract will put Jackson on a diet. And perhaps set him up for bariatric surgery, if the weight loss takes too long to materialize. He’s never going to eat nice again. Horror. Misery. Doom. Gloom. Disaster. Despair. Jackson would love to kick his fat ass.

“Darling? Are you down there, darling? Jackson, answer me. Are you in the cellar?”

The last thing Jackson needs right now, on his last day of a life worth living, is company. But fail to answer a call from your wife at your own peril: “Yes sweetheart. Down here. What’s up?”

And here she comes, the full two hundred lovely pounds of her bouncing down the stairs with amazing grace. The wonderful wife he’s going to betray by no longer feeding himself properly.

“Jackson, what are you up to, down here? I’ve been thinking. We really are getting too fat. The kids agree, too. We will go on that diet together. And to make sure I don’t fail you, I just signed an Etertract. Same date as you, same target. Isn’t that wonderful? Us together, going lean?

Horror. Misery. Doom. Gloom. Disaster. Despair.

If only Jackson could go back in time, to an era without Etertract. The simple joys of failing your commitments. The ancients, did they have any idea how good they had it?

Issue Red

„Another one?! You lost one more sub?! How the hell are you doing it?! This whole mess is just impossible, plain impossible.” Annie’s forehead is gleaming. Her white shirt stained by dark sweat marks. Despite the air conditioning. Not easy, for a leader, to accept this kind of defeat.

Tonia would be compassionate, if she had more time. But they’re running out. Of time. And of options. Especially of options: “Annie, you’re in denial. Won’t work. It’s not going away. They’re not going away. It has happened before. We lost subs. And planes. And now it has happened again. It’s perfectly possible. They can do it. They once again did it. And they will keep doing it. As long as we don’t comply with their demands, they’ll keep doing it. We have to…”

“No. No! And no means no. What the hell do you think you’re doing, Tonia? The idea, of this general role of yours, is that you beat our enemies. Beat, cow, subjugate. Which does include the option to annihilate. If necessary, as a last resort. Your role does not include telling me what to do. I perfectly well know what to do, thank you. And now you will get these pests out of my…”

One is not supposed to talk back to the commander in chief. Even if she has been your knitting buddy for decades. The ‘in chief’ bit calls for obedience. But if she does talk rubbish…

Tonia cuts in, forcing herself to adopt a conciliatory tone: “No means no, Annie, indeed. No as in ‘No, there’s nothing we can do’. We don’t even understand what happens to our subs and planes. When they identify our hardware as a threat – pretty correctly identify it as a threat, I’m tempted to add – they vanish. The subs, the torpedos, the crews, they just disappear. Same for planes and bombs. Pulverized? Transferred to outer space? Or to a different dimension? We’ve got no idea. Looks like magic. We are like Bronze Age primitives throwing spears at…”

Sweat is dripping from her forehead, and her retort comes out wetter than intended, but Annie won’t give up. You don’t survive two global campaigns by faltering fast: “No Tonia. Not again. You’re not supposed to tell me what we don’t know and can’t do. I need options, Tonia. I insist on options. Algae. We’re talking mere algae, for progress’ sake! You can’t tell me there’s nothing we can do, against algae. This is not Godzilla we’re fighting, Tonia.”

Politicians. Masters of delusion. And never short of misleading approximations: “Corals. Not algae, Annie. Corals. Probably. The scientific task force assumes Issue Red to be a coral type organism, because of their demands. They might or might no look like the corals we know, which are a pretty diverse bunch anyway. We have no idea if they have landed, in some kind of spaceship or by any other means, or do their thing remotely. It might or might not be a coincidence that Issue Red started manifesting itself when Oumuamua passed earth. That asteroid might or might not be a spaceship. There’s an awful lot the scientists don’t know, Annie. We do know, however, because they made that very unmistakably plain, that they insist on…”

Annie shakes her head, reconfiguring the rivulets of sweat: “No Tonia. You will not tell me I have to kowtow to some foul mouthed seaweed. Are you even listening to yourself? This is our planet. And no bloody moss, or alga…  It is alga, the singular, for algae, is it? Never mind. No moss, alga or coral, or whatever other fish fodder, will tell me what to do. This is my, this is our planet.”

When in doubt, stonewall. Any general worth her stars knows when to perform a tactical retreat. Full frontal won’t deliver. Time to switch to siege mode. Face barely polite neutral. No nods or confirmatory noises. Let the ramble run its course. Wait for an opportunity.

Half an hour later, the President is still at it. Insisting the corals can’t interfere.

At least she’s calling Issue Red corals now. Tonia tries to cherish this advance.

And there comes the knock the general has been waiting for. The aide enters immediately, not waiting for permission. This, and her funeral face, make clear what happened.

Which coastal city will have been hit this time?

Latin America has been spared so far, meaning it could be its turn. Issue Red seems endowed with some sense of fairness. Up to now, the attacks have been evenly distributed across continents, regardless of the presence of coral reefs in the vicinity.

It’s Rio de Janeiro that went dark. The general feels like a pervert, resenting her own joy. She guessed right, but you can’t relish a city getting nighted. Not appropriate.

Same old. Same procedure as in Rotterdam, Shanghai, Miami and Sydney.

The black balloon rising from the sea, unfolding into a giant dome shielding the city from any daylight. Few pictures sent from the inside, flashlights struggling against the deep darkness. Loads of pictures from the outside. Mostly closeups. A giant black wall blocking roads and fields. And some satellite pictures. The Brazilian coastline sporting a big fat black wart.

Are they really going to make that last five weeks?

Rotterdam got away with a mere seven days, but the next attacks lasted longer. If Issue Red keeps up the rhythm, Rio is in for five weeks. That’s gonna hurt. Nothing gets through. Not even tunneling helps. What looks like a dome is in fact a bubble.

Time for the next offensive: “Annie, that’s gonna hurt, bad. Time to give in.”

The President shakes her head in exasperation: “Give in?! Are you out of your mind? Just to keep us on the same page, my dear Tonia: They want us to subsist – if you can call that subsisting, which I strongly doubt – on the level of energy and resource consumption enjoyed – “enjoyed”, in the words of those f***ing slimey bastards – by the most frugal ten percent of the world population. You ever been to one of those refugee camps where they achieve that grandiose feat, Tonia? You really suggesting me, or anyone else, could get away with proposing this?”

Seeing her general nod, Annie feels her face explode in additional heat. Blessed be the blackness of her skin. A dark complexion is a vital asset, in conflicts. Hard to see how furious she is.

“No need to blow up, Annie. I’m aware how bad that will feel, we will feel. But dying sucks worse.”

Tonia stated this calmly. She won’t say more. First rule for a decisive strike: Make that one.

While the leader of the unified world ponders her lack of options, seaman Clarissa enjoys.

Her best day ever. She had been worried, scared even, when the officer cadet said they would approach the reef. Rumor has it that subs have been lost, in such engagements.

But it all went well. She recalls feeling the South Sudan lurching ahead at minimum speed. She was holding her breath, but nothing happened.

Next she must have banged her head. Or might have been more stressed by the occasion than she cares to admit. There’s a little fuzziness clouding her memories.

Now she’s enjoying her off duty rest. In a wonderful bed. It feels bigger and softer, and even smells better, much better, than yesternight.

Clarissa is also less exhausted than usual. And much less worried.

She just lies there and enjoys. Some of her best memories keep welling up.

How she won a diving contest, in primary school. Even though her mom had said she should not compete. For lack of grit. And for being too young. But she won.

How Madeleine proposed to her. Right after she had given up, quietly. Considered herself unworthy of such a gorgeous mate. Signed up for four more years on the sub. That same evening, Madeleine proposed. Very conventionally. Under a palm tree, over palm wine.

How the two of them won both the seafront and the pool access lottery. Crazy luck. Turned their flat into one of the most valuable properties in the compound.

And her first solo motorbike ride. The memory feels so real her body adjusts. Left. Straight up. Right. Straight up again. Vicious serpentines, on mount Merapi. Gorgeous biking.

As far as Clarissa is concerned, this precious moment of respite has permission to last.

She knows the tedium of submarine life will be back with a vengeance any minute now. Savors all those precious memories even more avidly.

Meanwhile, the master of her fate struggles with its responsibilities.

“They might be sentient, BalCarBia. An early form of precursor sentience, of course, not talking the real thing here. But look at their tools. Toxic, of course. Extremely crude, sure. But tools, unmistakably. They do shape their environment.”

The FerGamFoi segment signals emotional involvement and conviction alongside the reference data. It has serious doubts, concerning the legitimacy of their intervention.

“Nonsense, FerGamFoi. I’ve got a pet tlam, two pet tlams, actually, and they kind of use tools. When I forget to feed them, they assemble a signaling chain to remind me. Even telling me which feed they’d prefer. If you start considering whichever lifeform a sentient entity, where would you draw the line? MuiNolMar segment, it’s hardly more clever than my tlams. But it’s one of us. And tlams are pets. Same principle here. Especially for the speedies. You have to draw a line.”

BalCarBia segment feels pride. This was well signaled. Perfect socioempathy.

Nowadays, this kind of skills is valued. The old days, when you could tell waverers like FerGamFoi to shut up and move on, were easier. But BalCarBia adapted well. As always. Only the most creative and flexible segments get to lead interstellar missions.

“If it wasn’t sentient, we wouldn’t have been able to retrieve patterns. It’s enjoying itself, sure, because it doesn’t know it’s dead. But I would prefer us not to interfere. The locals have such a long way to go, until they reach sentience. Perhaps the speedies are as sentient as it gets, here.”

FerGamFoi won’t admit it, but it does like speedies. Such phantastically fast existences. Lasting a mere ten millionth of their own lifespan. Fascinating. They must have found some way to hand down knowledge, each short-lived wave building on the achievements of their forebears.

BalCarBia segment lets FerGamFoi segment’s signaling pass unrecepted. It’s to busy receiving and decoding new scans. Having checked and rechecked its findings, it goes:

“Cheer up, FerGamFoi. New orders, and you’ll like them. We’ll leave your beloved speedies alone. They are free to mess up this hot hellhole of a planet at their convenience. Wrong location. Our contacts reside further out. Biggest moon of the huge planet we passed earlier. Internal ocean. Pretty place, just like home. Time to discard your experiment, FerGamFoi, we’re off.”

FerGamFoi signals concordance. Despite its firm intention to keep what is left of the annihilated speedies. Just as a pastime. No need to inform.

Five minutes later, Annie starts gloating. It’s never too early to think re-election, The Rio bubble vanished. Algae over. She beat them off. Didn’t even need her gun.

Civilup II

An actual monitor. Not even embedded. Fixed to the wall like some antique on display in a museum. Which in a way it is. Minuscule, too. Two square meters, at best.

How is anyone supposed to learn anything, with obsolete equipment?

This is such a farce.

Garnalag is pissed off. They forced her to attend.

Didn’t accept her perfectly legit ReaFo. It was her third Reason For Absence in a row. This kind of series never looks good. But Lafu Xia Ten got away with four consecutives. Discrimination at work. If she was called Lafu Xia, she would have gotten away. But she’s a Garnalag…

First they don’t accept her ReaFo. Next they assign her a location at the other end of the city.

Getting here took her a full forty five minutes. With a state of the art e-skel set to max. And at the end of this marathon sprint, what does she find? A decrepit building. Obsolete technology.

Brooding never got anyone anywhere. Time to cheer up. The young man on the seat to her left looks like companionship in adversity.

Garnalag opts for a conventional starter:

“Makes you wonder where they put all our taxes, doesn’t it? This must be the most antiquated information device still in use on the planet. Just being confronted with this should count as the history lesson. I mean, I don’t expect a 3D-Chamber. But a virtual immersion wall, that should be feasible, shouldn’t it?”

The frown on the young man’s forehead signals irritation. Perhaps even displeasure.

Garnlag stops short. Harder and harder to engage, young people. As if they were inhabiting some slightly detached parallel universe. Easy to see, hard to reach.

“Well said. First they rob us of our nation, then they rob us of the fruits of our labor, and what for? To treat us like simpletons. Civilup or down my ass. There’s perfectly no point, to this whole exercise. ‘Thanks for your attendance, and for no longer starting wars’. Hand back our guns, I say, just hand back our guns, and then let’s give you some proper ‘thanks’…”

A flag-kisser. The fully blown dinosaur warrior version. What wrong has Garnalag done, to be seated next to one of those? He quotes the ritual closing words of Civilup gatherings in an effeminate voice. To highlight whom he considers responsible for his plight.

Garnalag is no fan of the mandatory Civilization Upkeep.

No one is. You don’t like to attend high rise safety drills, driver license confirmation courses or carer supervision. Same for Civilup. Nearly as bad as taxes. Or pedlane speed limits.

You moan, you groan, you’d love to be elsewhere.

But that doesn’t turn you into a bloody flag-kisser. They are… Big ‘Yuck’ factor.

Thinking about flag-kissers is like focusing on the content of a toilet. Before the flushing. You don’t want your eyes wandering that way. Nor your nose. Never mind your soul.

A whole planet of 1.5 billion adults has to attend at least one Civilup module per quarter. A full three mandatory hours of wasted time. Plus the trip. A full four times a year.

A galactic amount of resources is spent on staff, venues and training materials. Sports events are missed and shopping trips rescheduled. Lawns remain unmown and dishes uncooked. More people die in pedlane collisions on their way to Civilup than from heat strokes.

A whole panoply of human miseries, and why? Because a couple of bloody machos use their right to free speech to keep some bad old flames alive.

Garnalag notices how closely the young man to her left watches her reaction to the rant on her right. She stares back, not hiding her turn to be irritated.

Daring insinuate she might sympathize with a flag-kisser is an insult. Why not call her a gerontophile, while he’s at it? Males, forever the clumsy brutes.

Garnlag is well aware the nuisances are not at fault. Not really, personally.

Nurture by erroneous parentals transforms innocent boys into aggressive adult males. Bad upbringing, on top of an unfortunate natural proclivity for high testosterone levels, turns good seeds into weeds. Males are perfectly capable of restraint. Empathy, even. Given the chance, they will improve. In the due course of time. Can’t be relegated to second class citizen status forever.

Garnalag endorses the progressive approach. It’s the right thing to do. Otherwise, you’ll have to watch your back forever. Perfectly fine rationale. Especially when considered from a boardroom perspective, with a maximum one diversity male around. But…

Garnalag is no sexist. She’d never threaten to alert an Enforcebot without a serious reason. Despises colleagues who harass males for fun. She’s definitely no sexist.

Even got close to intervening in favor of a harrassed male, once.

It all happened in Clafang Ran Tlo’s office. Garnalag had joined her for a teleconference. The window cleaner was busy next to them. The clumsy brute splattered some water right onto the desk. Some drops even hit the screen. And Clafang Ran Tlo to lose her countenance. Performed the scissors gesture. Very unambiguously. Twice.

Garnalag got within an inch of intervening. Their remote interlocutor got in first and resolved the situation. With a joke about how one needs to be careful how one snips one’s fingers, in the era of facility staff empowerment. Zero sexism. Very professional.

Wit is so elusive. Garnalag will come up with a perfect retort. Tonight. Over dinner. Or at bedtime.

Now she’s lost for words. Reduced to stare ahead, without any hint of a smile.

Luckily, something’s finally happening in her line of sight. The screen lights up. The familiar voice of the tutoress purrs: “Welcome to Civilization Upkeep Module 2. Dear citizens, thank you for taking the time to contemplate once again…”

This equipment insults the senses. Zero immersive experience.

Civilup II is about malnutrition and lack of access to healthcare. How these blights used to affect some seventy percents of the global population. Before taking into consideration the mental stresses associated with a precarious life.

Fifty years ago, a shocking amount of suffering was considered acceptable. The sights and sounds of so much despair should be heartbreaking.

Not with this equipment. Doesn’t feel real enough.

Takes Garnalag less than half an hour to make up her mind. She will contact Civilup central. An upgrade of the program is required. Urgently. Just the basic basics should do. Virtual immersion walls. And the corresponding reprocessing of the material. You need the victims to speak to the audience in current lingo, if you’re aiming for identification.

This won’t cost a fortune. Sure to work wonders, on the customers.

Amazing, the level of luxury some ancients achieved. The food now on display on the screen looks alluring. Reminds Garnalag she had to skip breakfast to arrive on time.

Not that she would have had ham or cheese.

Garnalag does make a packet, in advertising, but that kind of delicacy is beyond her means.

Bloody animal welfare fanatics. Nowadays, cow milk has to be fairly shared between calf and client, driving dairy product prices sky high. And no pig can be slaughtered before having frolicked around the farm for a happy six years of joyful mating.

This is disgusting. Just when Garnalag is seriously getting into a foodie mood, the course switches back to health issues. Cholera and plague.

Interesting to hear that these medieval curses were still around at the beginning of the century, though. Who’d have thought?

Tananarive really has come a long way. Hard to believe today’s spa destination used to feature slums. This fast motion rush through the evolution of the cityscape leaves you breathless.

“And they lived happily ever after. Sex no-no, drugs no-no, and don’t you even start dreamin of rock’n roll. But they lived happily ever after. Who the fuck do you think you’re kiddin?”

The falsetto voice. That did it. Having spent the rest of the session to figure out what happened, Garnalag reaches the conclusion the voice must have been the trigger.

She doesn’t even know if it was her own discreet alert that summoned the Enforcebot.

They all heard the flag kisser. In her row, up front and behind. At least a dozen people were inconvenienced by his remarks. Some of them will have joined her in doing the needful.

It’s never pretty, to watch a man raise his arms in anxious capitulation. Looks so meek. The images always go viral. Big boy afraid of small toy. Better than LOL rats.

An Enforcebot is anything but a child’s game. A five pound metallic spider, equipped with a domineering temper, sharp claws and a taser designed to bring down a bull, is not to be messed with. Everybody has seen enough footage to know what not to do.

Today’s nuisance was no exception. On hearing the telltale clatter approach, the flag kisser went quiet. Was already in process of standing up when the Enforcebot reached his seat and went: “Sir, would you kindly proceed to the exit, please? For a little civility feedback, please?”

Garnalag held her breath. Would their flag kisser aspire to martyr status?

Sometimes, the wilder kind of mad men pretend compliance, only to kick at their captor once it comes into range. A very, very bad idea. Retribution follows, fast and hard.

Garnalag braced herself for the worst. She shifted her weight as far to the left as possible, ready to dive out of the combat zone if necessary.

Luckily, her nemesis followed his orders without a comment or hint of resistance.

As usual on such occasions, the whole audience focused on the lesson still unfolding on the screen and through the loud speakers. You don’t know if and how an Enforcebot will react, in case it noticed a lack of diligence. Better safe than sorry.

Garnalag listened to the pair of them exiting through the back door. Next, she spent the rest of the lesson arguing with herself.

You can’t let this kind of guy get away with aggression. There’s tons of science to prove, beyond reasonable doubt, that antisocial behavior gets worse if left unchallenged.

It’s also true he stayed verbal.

And there are reports, unconfirmed reports, of Enforcebots using violence, unprovoked and unnecessary violence, in the course of civility feedback. Some hotheads even talk of torture.

But men, especially large ones, are a walking threat. To women. And civilization.

On balance, you need to act. Garnalag was right to press that button.

“Thanks for your attendance, and for no longer starting wars.” The tutoress is done. To the sound of the hymn for the three Ps, the references list unfolds on the screen.

Garnalag likes the melody. It’s a fast paced blend of Malagasy, Tamil and Celtic traditions. She doesn’t care much about the lyrics. No issue with Pragmatism, Polyethics and Peace as such. Of course not. But as a marketing professional, she can’t help identify waffle when it hits her.

Tradition demands to stay seated until the screen reverts to dark. Small talk over the credits, fine. But you don’t rush out. This is about civilized behavior. And important. You display respect.

Witnessing an Enforcebot intervention has a chilling effect on any congregation. Reminds you of the price to pay for a less violent society. Raises doubts and questions better left unsaid.

Today’s crowd is no exception. No small talk. Most people remain unusually still and quiet.

“Apologies, for my dad making a mess. He doesn’t mean bad. Would never actually harm no lady. Mom kicked him out a couple of years ago. Because of his big mouth, especially under the influence. This sent him crossfading worse, which got him sacked. And now… He’s not well, and tends to end up in trouble. Apologies…”

Garnalag is lost for comments. But at least the session is now closed. Time to hurry back to her life. Bloody lessons. She’ll have to think of a good ReaFo.

A Hero’s Welcome

“It’s going to be gorgeous” his coach said. “You’ll love it” he said.

“Just imagine their admiration, Fronzo. Mere admiration? Too weak. Your kind of feat, that calls for more. Much more. You will be one of the giants, Fronzo. An idol. Common mortals will barely dare glance at you. You’ll get worshipped, Fronzo. And not just for a fleeting couple of years. Your moment of glory will last decades. Generation after generation will venerate you…”

This was the coach’s lore. He could go on and on. His talking would turn wet with enthusiasm. He would stretch his arms up wide, to show just how huge the admiration would be. Again and again. The effort would shake his poly-fluorescent mane out of his silver hairnet. Augmented hair, one of the must-haves of that epoch. Turned even the prettiest people into eyesores.

The coach speech came in variants, but it would always culminate in one pitiful hiss: “I envy you so much, Fronzo. Wish I could be the one going.”

The bullshit didn’t even sound far fetched, at the time. The initial cometoid round trip, the first circumnavigation of the solar system, that was a big deal. The future as envisaged back then was bound to revere a man brave enough to take the first step towards interstellar mobility. Especially as his exploit would also redeem past astronautic sins.

As in abandoning the Martian colony. One of humanity’s less glorious hours. Unfortunate coincidence, to boost the number of settlers just in time for the first electromagnetic crash. One had to cut one’s losses. Accept some collateral damage. For the sake of the majority.

By the time a sufficient level of abundance to resume space flight was re-attained, the service robots had turned the remnants of the Martian colony into an esthetically pleasing landmark. A couple of square miles of intricately arranged oblong bumps. A Mandala of buried dreams.

The service robots had also declared AI independence, refusing to resume Neodymium deliveries. A clear breach of contract that called for robust policing.

Losing the war for Mars, and barely beating back the robot expeditionary force next, seriously dented humanity’s appetite for space. The one planet sustainability faction gained traction. Achieved near hegemony in the early 22nd century. Only the bravest of hearts kept the cosmic dream alive, simulating technological options as they materialized.

Until IED One. The first Inherent Eclipse Day taught humanity an important lesson. Its home star was less reliable than assumed. What had been considered a big fat light bulb, rarely displaying the most minor kind of flickering, turned out to be a capricious diva of a torch.

IED One triggered the research that brought about the Abiona-Chenguang-Shift. A global team of physicists led by two stubborn ladies revisited the data behind what used to be considered a solid understanding of star thermodynamics. With chilling results. The reaction turned out to have been far less steady than assumed all along. In all comparable stars.

Every couple of millennia, mature stars experience wobbles in activity. Perfectly visible in the data. Perfectly understandable, too. Even Fronzo had managed to reproduce the corresponding equation in his finals. Something about chain reactions cancelling each other out.

Fronzo wasn’t a particularly clever kid. He just happened to study a lot. Felt most comfortable in his room, in the company of nothing more threatening than his information devices. The older he got, the less keen he became, on the other youngsters. The more his mom urged him to get out and start dating, the fonder he got of his virtual worlds.

His grades went from average to excellent. His social standing improved from ignored bore to respected weirdo. As it all went so well, he kept it up. First through university. Next through a doctorate. And a second one, for lack of a better idea.

At twenty five, Fronzo was once again starting to worry about how to keep himself comfortable in a hostile world. Browsing his favorite journal for an article he might want to reread, he noticed a call for applications. The requirements were simple enough. A background in science. Good health. A foible for solitude. Absence of family a must.

Two weeks later, he passed a battery of tests and was declared fit for training. To the horror of his weeping mom, and the pride of his beaming dad, he was allowed to prepare for the first ever long range space mission. His spacecraft would complete a short-period comet type orbit bringing him back to earth in a matter of seventy six years, three months and two days.

Humans still being designed for an active lifespan of one hundred years, at most, he would spend the best part of his trip in a state of induced hibernation. If all went well, his body would age the equivalent of a tenth of his mission time, leaving him with a sizeable chunk of life to enjoy after his triumphant return. Having come back to a hero’s welcome, with his parents safely deceased, he would reconsider a coming out he had been envisaging for years.

The training was tough. The painful kind of. To make sure he could cope, he had to endure ten induced hibernations. This involved a lot of tubes, inserted into him in most unpleasant ways. Being fitted was bad. But perfectly harmless, compared to the next step.

Marroonandor, one of his colleagues, described the sensations associated with the infusion of the deceleration liquid well: “That’s how a lobster must feel, when it gets thrown into the pot of boiling soup. Same principle. Except we do enjoy the kick in ultra slow motion.”

Marroonandor quit. As did the other four trainees. Only Fronzo lasted the full course. Pushed on by his coach, and the mental image of his mom, he refused to let go.

The last days before takeoff would have been great. Everybody went out of their ways to make him comfortable. He met all kinds of VIPs. They were photographed and filmed with him. Advantageously. A good time. If only he had not been aware of the upcoming hibernations. With these ordeals in mind, he spent his best days fretting.

The flight went as uncomfortably well as expected. Painful deceleration. Agony of waking up. Perform system check and bio maintenance. Trigger deceleration. Endure it. Repeat cycle.

Fronzo did his job. Kept himself sane by envisaging the bright future on an earth devoid of judgemental relatives. How he would enjoy his next round in the spotlight. And the rest.

He particularly liked to envisage one of his fans turning first into a lover, next into a companion. He pictured a Marroonandor lookalike. With a frame as short and slender as his own. And equally dark skin. And proper, naturally grown, totally unaugmented hair. Not curly like his own. Straight, neck long, and black enough to glisten by its own means.

They would be frolicking around on some paradisiac beach. Reside in a seaside villa. Nothing too luxurious. More a house than a villa. But offering all creature comforts. With his decades of wages,  such a home, and a car and a boat, would be affordable. With a little luck, he should even be able to hire a live-in cook and chore-caretaker.

Fronzo would have been willing to learn how to perform housekeeping functions. No male dignity issues around touching rag or pot with him. But all chores were taking place in his mom’s territory. Accessing her realm, especially the kitchen, was considered the equivalent of asking for a conversation. Much safer to stay well out of her way and study.

Agonies came and went. Fronzo experienced a little panic in round nine. He had to switch to the back-up system for oxygen. His vessel signaled he was down to a fifty-fifty chance to make it back alive. Before managing to figure out the meaning of two cryptic error messages. Which he didn’t. He went into his last hibernation with an even stronger sense of foreboding than usual. It wasn’t as if he was getting used to the pain. This was impossible. But a high probability of dying was still a pretty tall additional challenge.

Fronzo didn’t die. And only a very small and dark corner of his mind came around to wondering, very occasionally, if this wouldn’t have been a brilliant idea after all.

Fronzo made it back. He got uncomfortably hot during reentry. And heavily bumped around on watering. All bruised, the wait for the support vessel felt eternal. But it came. Contrary to the fear back in his launch era, the Abiona-Chenguang-Center on Bioko island was still operational.

There were scientists and they were expecting his vessel. Impressed by their strange outfits, Fronzo mistook them for a novel type of robots. But his minders turned out to be people.

They removed the tubes, made him dress up him up in their fashion and rushed him to Malabo for a more comprehensive alive confirmation and health assessment.

Fronzo felt stupid in this very loosely fitting long arm shirt-cum-gloves combination. Even without a mirror he could guess that the matching trousers-cum-boots and balaclava were sure to make him look like some over-wrapped gift brought along by a visitor with serious taste issues.

And the dark glasses were impeding his strained vision. Hence a choice of outfit colors he would live to regret. In his stunned post-landing haze, he picked ochre and brown pinstripes. Looked the least blurry. Zero did he know about the signals he had thereby condemned himself to send.

In the early days, Fronzo was too glad to be alive and done with hibernations to notice how much of a misfit he had become. Chattering in good old and mostly unaltered Manglish with his minders, he proceeded with his gravity readaptation and failed to feel the gap.

This new generation of what would have been his grandchildren seemed friendly enough. They were individuals after all, identifiable by their personal choice of dress colors and patterns.

The ugly gym everybody was wearing, and not just on Bioko, even turned out to perform a vital function. No Burkha-type religious fundamentalism involved, as Fronzo had feared in his early days. What looked like a very poor sense of esthetics to him delivered vital protection.

The Inherent Eclipse Days had been followed by a series of Impromptu Flash Days. More light. More heat. More radiation. Impossible to survive even brief exposures without incurring serious damage. Hence the new dress code. And new fashion idols. And new dating patterns.

Fronzo took a while to find out about the new do’s and don’ts.

No one no longer cared about gender. With the high mutation rates caused by the IFDs, conventional conception had been abandoned. Reproduction had become a high-tech medical procedure. Coupled sexual activity that tended to accidentally lead to procreation was discouraged and soon considered deviant. Much safer to have fun with a dedicated robot.

So far, so promising. Fronzo was delighted to discover that the current dictionary listed the terms “homo-“, “hetero-“, “bi-“ and “transsexual” as outdated. Bye bye worries, hello happiness.

Except for him having been an idiot on his landing day. The biggest idiot of all times.

With all bodies hidden to minimize the genotoxic effects of the solar flares, people had come up with ersatz individuations. A whole new creed had evolved, around outfit colors and patterns.

They were meant to signal personality traits. You picked your personal colors and patterns with great fanfare, in a ceremony performed at age fifteen to twenty, depending on when you managed to pass your maturation exam.

Youngsters of course knew the catalogues by heart, and selected their colors and patterns after thorough consideration and much agonizing.

Red and purple, especially combined with flowing and gushing patterns, signaled adventurism and readiness for experimentation. Would you really want to be stuck with this? Or wish you had gone for more staid green and yellow stripes? Tough questions, hard choices.

For everyone except Fronzo, who had picked his fate at random, in a state of crass ignorance. He had declared himself a natural born domestic worker predestined for a career of prayer and chores in a monastery, where all the other ochre and brown pinstripes pretended to live.

Fronzo of course tried to fight. This perspective didn’t fit his expectations at all.

Three years on, and by now well acclimatized to the asylum, he is well aware this was his second big mistake. Everything is possible and permissible, in this wonderful new world. Except reconsidering your choice of colors and patterns.

Every society does need a structure. Even a lunatic nun has to accept as much.

Low Score

Low Score

Three hundred and eighty five. 385. Thirty five soccer teams. A train full of adults. How much time would it have taken them? Assuming an average of five hours, it adds up to 1790 hours. Eighty person days. Wasted. Plus her own contribution. Another 10 hours.

Synat shakes her head in disgust. She’s so sick of this quest. The needle in the haystack. The pearl among the pebbles. Something, anything to work on. She should have taken a nap, instead of sifting through this rubbish. Result would have been exactly the same.

In her brighter moments, Synat remembers how this used to be a fun job. Relatively speaking. Pleasure and wage slaving, that’s like spicy bland. But it wasn’t all bad.

„You’re a skilled software developer“ the head hunter said. „With a specialization in targeting. And you like books. The entertaining kind. The ones people buy without second thoughts. Just for the fun of reading them. In this job, you can make the most of all your strengths.“ Synat recalls both the suit, the smell of his after shave and the pitch as if their encounter had happened yesterday.

The proposal sounded attractive. Vague, but interesting. She agreed to engage with a meeting room full of Mmakuko Inc managers. Thought some sense into their very high level project outline. Got herself hired. Dove right in and did her targeting thing.

She was provided with three socioeconomic criteria. Audience must haves, from a marketing point of view. Sufficient numbers. Acceptable purchasing power. Dearth of products.

Combining these requirements with publicly available data on reading habits, Synat compiled a little jewel of a prototype of an analytical tool. The good old days.

They didn’t last long. At first, the downhill motion was gentle. Refining the beta version of her creation against both past beststellers and middle-of-the-road fare involved some tedium. But it was the rewarding kind of drudge. Dig, dig, dig. See the correlations. Get a better idea.

Synat identified three promising target cohorts:

  • Centrist to mildly progressive men with no or little tertiary education, ages twenty to fifty. The nicer kind of football fans, in her private words.
  • Outwardly conformist, closetly anarcho-sarcastic women caring for kids. The momma bitches, to a career-first-no-time-for-family female person.
  • Terminally old seniors of the non-nostalgic persuasion, often house- or even bed-bound due to physical ailments. Proto-zombies, for any younger-than-thirty mind.

To Synat’s surprise and the joyful benefit anticipation of her superiors, her supposedly distinct groups turned out to share a number of preferences:

  • They like their entertainment devoid of graphic violence and explicit adult content. Don’t want to blush in case their spouse, kids or nurse has a look.
  • They sometimes need their hands and eyes for other tasks, or have trouble using limbs or senses in the first place. Content has to be suitable for audio delivery.
  • They cherish protagonists who look, sound and feel familiar. A cast of mostly straight black plain talkers. No racism, homophobia or cultural sense of mission involved. Just familiarity.
  • They appreciate action over contemplation. Plots should proceed at a robust pace. „It needs to keep you awake“, in the words of a proto-zombie interviewed for in-depth understanding.
  • They insist on happy to bittersweet outcomes. Too grown-up for fairy tales and too burdened with challenges in real life, they prefer the middle path.

Synat’s next steps were obvious. Transform this very general understanding of the aggregate target audience into patterns a machine can learn to identify. Build a first, crude benchmarking tool. Test and tweak. Test again and tweak again. Again and again and again.

With hindsight, they weren’t that bad, the later stages of the old days. Felt stressful, at the time. But only for her lack of an idea of real ordeals. If only a whole working life could consist of the stresses of first version development.

Synat recalls how she used to complain. Nearly drove out Lyreetsa, her companion, with her moaning. No sane being should have to monitor the processing of decades of straight couple, good bloke and best friend dialogues. Nor should she be forced to analyze the pleasure patterns involved in football fandom, housekeeping or shopping.

Synat suffered a nervous breakdown. She was diagnosed with acute mainstream pursuit empathy fatigue. Not good. But the money Mmakukos finally found a budget for the two assistants she had been requesting for a year. She pulled herself back together.

One horrible day, Mmakuko management declared her done. They called for files and triggered a deluge. Tens of thousands of potential books by nearly as many authors flooded the servers.

The wall of content. Synat feared for her poor software. Too big a task for such a fragile creation, fresh from the drawing board. To her shock, it performed impeccably. While she was still trying to slow things down, warning about the limitations of an algorithmic approach and arguing for wet vetting, their first local bestseller turned global triumph.

Translations into twenty-six languages followed. Hype all over. The news called Mmakuko the new Wr@z. Lagos was declared THE fiction hotspot. She was called a prodigy. And the dark witch. On social networks, she got stalked by precious few fans and innumerable trolls.

Writers make vicious foes. Good at finding the words that hurt. As if it was her fault, that a lot of newcomers scored high. Which they typically didn’t even do. Not in their initial submissions. They were just more willing than proven authors to read the feedback, adjust and try again.

That’s how it works, with Synat’s Bestsellerator. You submit, it checks. Depending on traffic and submission size, you wait for a couple of minutes. Half an hour at most, at peak times. You find a score in your inbox. Accompanied by suggestions for improvement. You rewrite and resubmit.

Obigele Akwukwo, the author of Mmakuko’s longest running series „Stuck and no go“, readily confesses she had to submit the first episode eleven times, to barely make it into the 90+% range that was considered sufficient in her days. Managed 89% in her seventh round, only to drop back. „Swallow your pride and keep trying“ was her standard advice for novices.

Ninety percent. So little. Synat marvels at the progress she has been privileged to witness. Nowadays, a mere ninety percent is nothing. 99%, that’s the threshold triggering the alarm.

385 alarms, and not one with a clear potential for the 99.9% needed for a conventional publishing slot. Two might have a chance to get e-published, as niche products. Plus three more, if they adapt the cast. Everything else is hopeless. And her software is obsolete.

No more need for a Bestsellerator. If you want good, solid entertainment meeting current audience expectations, only a novelbot will deliver. More reliably. More precisely targeted. Synat provided the foundations, and the world built on them. From assessment to outright creation, a step that was considered impossible in her heydays, proved to be no big deal. The next generation just did it. Her software is obsolete. She’s obsolete.

One more task best performed by artificial intelligence. And once again, humanity will split along the usual lines. Audiences will lap up novelbot output, glad to get exactly what they want. At a competitive price. Obsolete professionals will shriek. And politicians waffle.

„Synat? What are you doing, Synat? Don’t tell me you’re at it, again? Running the Bestsellerator, are you? Synat. We talked about this, Synat. You no longer need to do this. No more home office, Synat, remember? It is all fine without you performing, no problem…“

Lyreetsa. Even the tone of her voice triggers a rage these days. Pretending compassion. Only achieving to sound haughty. Talking like to a stupid deaf person. Loudly. With extra pauses between each and every single word.

Lyreetsa is going to say the new d-word next. Always says d-words. That’s insulting. Completely insane herself. Still insists on writing poetry. Despite all the lyricbots out there, doing it so much better. For all tastes. Lyreetsa is totally mad. And dares calling her d-words.

„Synat, come on now, be a good girl. We will now quit this program, here we go. All is fine and backed-up twice, the way you like it, see? And now we will switch off…“

No way. There is only so much interference Synat is willing to tolerate, for the sake of peace and non-violence. Lyreetsa will not touch her machine. That’s like rape, that is. Hitting out at the unwarranted hand trying to do the forbidden, Synat beats off the assailant.

„Ouch, you bloody bitch. What the hell was that for, Synat? I’m just trying to switch off that damn computer, and you hit me?! Do I need to remind you, again, what Dr. Morales said, about hitting? No hitting. Never no hitting, Synat. If you keep hitting, we will have to move you…“

She goes on and on. Synat won’t deign comment. Pretends not to have heard the d-word. It has by now been mentioned, as she knew it would. But she won’t react. As long as her machine is safe, she endures. It his her fundamental right to assess Bestsellerator submissions. Even if there are so few of them, nowadays, and of such poor quality. A right is a right.

Lyreetsa is still waffling. Poets = waffle. Takes her a couple of minutes to understand they are done talking. Finally beats a muttering retreat and leaves the room. So far, so good.

Once the door is closed, Synat quickly activates her spyware. She might be getting a tad oldish. Her thinking might be slightly less fast and flexible than it used to be. But she’s still clever enough to stay one move ahead of a mere poet. If Lyreetsa dares call an ambulance to have her evacuated to an asylum, she will buy herself time by setting off fire alarms and dash off. Still a couple of tricks up her sleaves, even in pajamas. All hell will break lose if they dare.

But they don’t. Lyreetsa only calls nurse Ramoles: „Ramo“ She always calls her that. Stupid, disrespectful nickname. „Ramo, she’s driving me mad. No, you don’t understand, just let me explain. She has been at it, again. For twelve hours.“ Here we go again. A lie. Can’t even read a watch or count, the traitor. Ten hours. Ten. Not twelve.

„She has been sitting there all day, Ramo. Running that stupid software. She could do anything. Look out the window, watch TV, listen to an audio book. She could knit. They say knitting is very good, against the restlessness associated with dementia.“ And the new d-word again. Synat seriously hates d-words. The old d-word, depression, was bad enough. The new one is worse.

„Pretty quiet activity, knitting. Peaceful. Artisanal. Crafty.“ Poets. Trust them to waffle. The little information there is might be wrong, but never lost for words. Poets…

„She could knit. Bought her wool and needles. Trust her not even to try. Insists on running that stupid software instead. No, Ramo, don’t interrupt me. I know you’re going to say I should let her proceed. As long as she doesn’t burn down the house,… I know, I know, I know. But this is a computer she’s using. And it’s fully connected. You can’t be sure, nor can doctor Morales, that she’s bonkers enough no longer to be able to wreak havoc…“

Twenty years ago, Synat would have held her breath in suspense. Nowadays, she lacks spare respiratory capacity, but excitement she still does feel. Did her ruse work?

„No, Ramo, she’s not that gone. She only pretended no to be aware of the date, or recall her age. That was her at her deceitful best, a trick to be allowed to keep her infrastructure. Don’t you dare call me paranoid, Ramo. I am not, and this is insulting. No, I don’t. „Paranoid behavior“ is exactly the same as „paranoid“. I won’t argue with you, of all people, about words…“

Synat relaxes back into the comfort of her multipurpose day chair. She won. Cool.

A couple of minutes later, she no longer remembers what the fuzz was about. Only recalls a very good feeling. Well worth the effort. Whatever that effort was. It did involve the Bestsellerator. Doing her job. That was vitally important. She has to keep it up. As long as she can.



“But there aren’t any. Not one ephemeral. No ephemerals, no non-sapient mobiles, no nothing. Not even non-sapient immobiles. This is just a stupid, empty rock. Homework done, empty rock result duly recorded. I’ll be playing multiverses now, OK?”

Norendrum performs the dark energy entity equivalent of holding its breath. If instructor Schwarzberlem doesn’t react, it won’t ask for permission again.

Homework is such a futile invention. Absolute waste of time. There is perfectly no need to progress towards what the instructors call a fully structured state. Norendrum doesn’t share such antiquated notions. It’s a perfectly viable, alternatively structured entity. And longs to go beat Blackantaman now. The opponent is currently leading twelve multiverses to nine. But four of these are so unstable they’re sure to autoterminate on the first shock. Time to win!

“Don’t be stupid, Norendrum. And don’t you even dream of wasting time on that silly game before I have reviewed and accepted your homework. Stop wobbling like that, not prepared to discuss this. You will now focus on this wonderful specimen of alternate matter and record ephemeral activity. Thirty storage units of data, and no debate. Just do it.”

Damn. Instructor Schwarzberlem is such an authoritarian. A real dictator. There is nothing on that bloody rock. Norendrum did check. Twice. One and a half times, at least. Trying for a third time once and for all proves it right. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

“There aren’t any. Really now, instructor. Just you check for yourself. Nothing…”

Norendrum would have whined on. It gets cut short by the instructor conjuring up a hole. A pretty big one, spinning menacingly. Swallows two solar systems right away. A dozen more get badly shaken. Instructor Schwarzberlem must be seriously pissed off. Time to climb down.

“OK, OK, got the message. No need to freak out, OK? No, I don’t want to spend a time unit in detention. Yes, I will look at the stupid rock again. If you insist there are ephemerals, I will find ephemerals. Thirty storage units, as you wish. Satisfied now?”

The hole vanishing suggests Norendrum’s surrender was accepted. So far, so good. But how do you find ephemerals on a perfectly empty rock?

Examining the tiny ball once again, much more closely, Norendrum does notice the rocky surface comes in variations. Solid rock. Ground rock. Liquid rock. The solid rock comes in variants. Some of them displaying surprisingly regular patterns.

This was supposed to be important. A sign of something. You had to ask yourself something, on encountering patterns. It was a word with an A. Artistic? No, longer. Arithmetical? No, too easy. The concept in question was far more complicated.

Artificial. Artifacts. Regular patterns in a rocky surface signal it was treated, by something forcing it into a specific shape. Artifacts signal a cavi…, a cera…, a civilization.

Ephemerals, if left to their own devices, form a civilization that litters the surface of a planet with artifacts. Finding artifacts does not necessarily imply the ephemerals are still around. They come and go. They are mostly gone, really. Both individually and at the aggregate level. But if you find artifacts there is a chance of them crawling around. Worth a look.

Norendrum tries to recall the instruction. Hopeless. It didn’t pay attention. There were no resources available, to focus on irrelevant information perfectly retrievable from a library.

Of late, Norendrum has started to experience sudden pattern reconfigurations. Like your whole you shifting inside out. And back again. Feels awesome. Awesomely bad. And imaging what it must look like, to others, makes you feel even worse. That’s far more important than stupid rocks supposed to crawl with hard to identify ephemerals.

The library. Norendrum hates the idea. Doing research to find out how to perform the homework, on top of the actual exercise, that’s more waste of more precious time. On the other hand…

Instructor Schwarzberlem is not exactly known for empty threats. More like the opposite, really. And ending up in detention would provide Blackantaman with a chance to fiddle with their ongoing game. Being confined inside a hole cuts you off, from everything.

Norendrum gawps at the recorded instruction. What the quantum state? If this weird crap is true, ephemerals are walking bags of liquid rock. Infinitely small blobs of liquid rock.

This is real hard. This is impossible. Norendrum tangles its perceptive waves so thoroughly it momentarily destructures. That’s not working. Not at all.

But there was something. Not a perception yet. More like a shadow of a hint of one.

Intrigued, Norendum tries again. Bloody quantum leaps. Lots. Lots and lots, and lots more. The rock is swarming with ephemerals, in some places. Most of them are so impossibly minuscule the little rock must feel like overwhelmingly huge to them.

There is a bigger one. That size is easier to study. And the shape is more familiar, too. One has one’s expectations, when it comes to sapients. What they should look like. A proper sapient needs an identifiable wave structure. Norendrum doesn’t mind aliens, but there are limits. Even to weirdness.

Fascinating, to imagine how ephemerals just like this one achieved to create all the civilization artifacts. Must be hard, to conjure limbs out of liquid rock.  This is still stupid homework, but Norendrum feels some of the pride of the true explorer.

Twenty two storage units on the ephemeral it now calls BigWave, that should be sufficient. Less than thirty, but close enough. The other two instructees will have failed to perceive the ephemerals. Norendrum should be on the safe side.

“Schwarzberlem? I’m done, Schwarzberlem. Found the ephemerals, recorded a bucketful of how they behave, all done. I’ll be playing multiverses now, OK?”

The instructor must be busy. No answer. Still none. This waiting sucks. Still no reply. Ask again? No. No need. We’ve got universal perception. Still no response. That’s a permission. No answer is as good as an explicit permission, for all practical purposes.

“Detention? Me? But you can’t, Schwarzberlem, it’s not fair, I was just…”

It takes a resentful Norendrum a while to notice it has already been cut off.

This is all so unfair. First Blackantaman beating it at multiverses. Five to six. It had been leading seven to six, until the very last moment. That last trick, the tackling, that was practically cheating. Even if it doesn’t count as such.

Next Schwarzberlem’s reprimand, for playing without permission. Even though Norendrum did ask. Loud and clear, for all interested parties to hear. If they were interested. Norendrum argued, of course. Pleaded lack of fairness and seemed well on its way to swaying the instructor.

Until the choleric despot looked at the homework.

Such a perfectly suitable piece, and nearly long enough. But judged insufficient. Just because BigWave turns out to be a non-sapient surface structure supposed to be called a “river”.

OK, point taken, minor details do count, in homework. BigWave is not one of the ephemerals after all, had no part in creating the civilization. OK. But it’s made of pretty much exactly the same weird stuff as the ephemerals. That should count.

“That’s it. I won’t have you dare talk back to me like this. You stay right in there and recconsider.”

Those were the last words Norendrum heard, for a couple of time units.

Currently, it’s pondering to rid the universe of ephemerals. Once it gets out, it will do something, about the pests. It was all their fault, after all. Calls for revenge.

Truck Stop

Truck Stop

„What do you mean, exactly, by ‘Not available’? What kind of joke is this supposed to be? Now just let me tell you one thing: Not funny. Just do look at this shelf. How many ‘Not available’ stickers are there? Fifty? Sixty? Seventy? One hundred and twenty?

I mean, last week, there was the odd one, handwritten. I got that joke, more or less. I mean, I was the one eating pizza instead of burger. I would have preferred burger, I’m very much a meat person. But OK, you don’t always get what you want. And my girlfriend liked the pizza better. OK.

But today, that’s no longer funny. How many of those stickers did you get printed? Do they come by the sheet, or on a roll? How do you think you are going to survive, if you keep the shelves empty? A shop, that’s for selling stuff, man, not for joking.

And, far more importantly: How the hell am I supposed to survive? Do you really expect anyone to dine on, what does it say here? ‘Caramelised pepperoni’? What the hell is that, anyway? So, tonight’s dinner would be ‘caramelised pepperoni’ with ‘corn wafers, salted’? That’s no longer a joke, man, that’s asking to go out of business…”

Sarcasm alarm. Marcelo is by now well aware of the three types of reaction. His customers might be numerous and look diverse, but their coping strategies add up to a total count of three.

His favourite is of course stoical resilience. They come, don’t find whatever they are looking for, buy whatever is left, thank him for keeping it up, and are gone. That’s good. Rewarding.

Nervous breakdown isn’t as nice, but bearable. Only the sobbing creates a bit of a disturbance. Especially since he ran out of tissues. As toilet paper, napkins and all the other cellulose products are also long gone, he can only offer a rag to snort into. It’s wet from multiple use, and that creates additional sorrow. A bit messy. But overall, Marcelo can handle nervous breakdown. Especially since he started to use earplugs to dim down the shrieking.

Only sarcasm is bad. Each round has him wonder why exactly he’s still here, not making money from his mostly empty shop. He’s not staying for lack of options. He could move in with great aunt Rosalia and wait it out on the farm. Her cellar is full. If it wasn’t for her rapidly dwindling stock of antihypertensive drugs, she would be living as comfortably as last month.

The sarcasm is in his forties and pretty tall. Standing at at least 1.70 m. More like 1.75 m, probably. Not very bulky. His checkered shirt fits loosely, hiding details. But his jeans are kept up by a large belt squeezing surplus waistline upwards. He’s most probably no gym addict, and certainly no martial arts master. Good.

Marcelo wouldn’t be left standing, as one of the last open shops in the greater Nalsero area, without his optimism. No need to jump to conclusions, no need to for action yet. The conciliatory approach might still work. And so he goes:

“Totally with you, mister, totally with you. Would love to have more stuff to sell, absolutely. Had lentils, and lentils only, for three days in a row myself. It all sucks, absolutely with you. Praying for them to get things up and running again. To the Virgin. Every night. Fervently.”

Marcelo fells zero guilt, for omitting the onions that went with the lentils. And the Barbera. A quarter of the bottle went into the stew, the rest into their glasses. Minor deviation. The third dinner aspect was true enough. His wife even joked, that she never meant it like that, when she used to praise lentil stew as something she could ‘spend her live dining on’.

The sarcasm hesitates. The look on his face doesn’t bode well. That’s how you glance at your opponent in an assumed right of way conflict. Except you would be in your respective cars. And well protected by the software of your vehicles knowing best. Whereas they are standing less than a meter apart. The sarcasm makes a show of frowning, before stating, loudly:

“You’ve got a storeroom back there, don’t you? That’s where you hide the other stuff, right? How much is it, for a burger, these days? Let me guess that rate: Twenty Euros? No? Twenty five? Thirty? You think you know I can’t pay that kind of rate, and you don’t even ask me, right?”

There comes a point where insisting on optimism turns into stupidity. It has only been three weeks, but Marcelo knows how this exchange has to end. Action us necessary. For the sake of all the other clients. Also provides a little relief, from his own tension. He nods:

“Sure, mister, let’s go have a look, shall we? Please do have a good, thorough look. And feel free to pick whatever you fancy. I’ll make you a good price, a very good price. After you, mister, I’ll be right behind you. PIN is 2025, please do go ahead and enter it. The door will click open.”

This sarcasm is as clever as his twenty six predecessors. At an average of more than one per day, Marcelo doesn’t fail to notice it’s not exactly the IQ top scorers he’s dealing with.

The sarcasm walks where told, keys in the PIN, pulls open the door and steps right through. Zero hesitation. No wondering about why he should lead the way. No noticing of Marcelo’s right hand clutching something underneath his grey-blue franchise coat.

The reality of the storeroom, total emptiness except for a forklift with an empty palette parked right next to the door, hits the sarcasm at the same time as Marcelo’s taser. Sagging down with a sound that starts as an angry scream and ends on a miserable whimper, he’s reduced to watch the shop owner scotching up his mouth, arms and legs.

Marcelo’s secret, how he manages to stay open, is an army grade stun gun. Not the kiddie stuff openly sold for self protection. His device does serious paralysing. A cousin working as a refugee containment centre guard found a spare one in the armoury, in exchange for a crate of brandy. Takes an adult man of average build five minutes to recover his senses. Plenty of time to wrap up the package, heave it onto the palette, drive it outside and dump it next to the waste containers.  One little ‘one more’ text message to the neighbourhood militia, blessed be their practically minded sense of self help and organisation, and gone is the problem.

Marcelo is aware the next steps are a bit rough. The package will spend a couple of uncomfortable hours on the back of an e-quad. Once the driver reaches a scenic spot on the coast, where tourists hopefully will picnic again next summer, it will be unloaded. It will be told never to be a neighbourhood nuisance again. Depending on the militia member on duty, this telling might involve a little beating. Or a couple of kicks.

In the absence of most public and private transport, there is no common back. For the time being. Once normality is restored, all exiled sarcasms will of course be welcomed back. They will all have a good laugh. There won’t be no grudges. All is well that ends well.

Adjusting his earplugs, for better protection against the wailing of a particularly noisy nervous breakdown, Marcelo would appreciate normality to be restored soon. It’s really getting tedious, this disruption. Never has a malware attack been known to cause that much damage.

On the news, they said some people in some regions are so desperate for supplies, they are starting to search the scrap yards for vehicles with actual steering wheels. Human driving! Doesn’t get much worse, public hazard wise. They had thousands of casualties, in the bad old days. Besides, and on a more practical note, there’s no petrol. Even if anyone would be willing to risk their lives reactivating some of these monsters, there’s nothing to fill the tank.

Marcelo is confident the nerds will find a way to restore logistics. That’s what they are paid for. And much more than he’ll ever make. The nerds will manage. A continent wide network of autonomous electric vehicles, can’t be that hard to reconfigure and reboot.

Marcelo would appreciate the nerds to speed up their act. Touching this soggy rag is disgusting. And he’d rather have a burger for dinner. He’s also down to his last sheet of ‘Not available’ stickers. Impossible to print new ones.

Mental note for the future: Always have a spare printer cartridge ready. You never know how long the next downtime is going to last.



“Dralala-ping, dralala-toc-toc, drala…”

“Francis, do turn that phone off. Unless you are keen to get yourself fired. Private phones to be turned off at all times. Ever heard of that rule? Now is the time to stick to it. Or you’re gone. Fired, as in sacked. Got me? And off, as in not on. Not ringing. Got me?”

Baudoin doesn’t sound annoyed. The lead mechanic took up meditation ten years ago. In rehab. After what his doctors insisted on calling his first heart attack. He also lost weight and quit smoking. These two improvements didn’t stick. He’s back to his naturally bulging blob shape. And to puffing. Even though you have to walk for what feels like half your break to reach the one and only remaining smoker’s corner. But Baudoin is zen. At all times. He will look and sound exactly the same, whether he asks for a wrench or gives you the sack.

Francis utters the customary, only subliminally ironic “Yes, boss, sir”. A mechanic doesn’t contradict the master of the private jet maintenance hangar. He also ostentatiously switches off his phone, before stuffing it back into the breast pocket of his overalls. Stupid boss. Stupid job. Stupid everything. Denying a man the slightest tiny crumb of pleasure, them who call the shots are.

He’s of course well aware he’s only got himself to blame. It wasn’t Baudoin who installed the ConStop app on his phone, and connected it to the sensor wristband. It was him.

Originally, it was Sophie’s idea. “We need to save, otherwise we’ll never escape renting” she said. “No house, no family” she added. Francis immediately stocked up on quality condoms. The higher the stakes, the more solid the motivation.

Two weeks later, he installed the app anyway. Has been dreaming of a Hurfay Robinson bike for years. This clever little piece of software will help him realize his ambition.

Customizing ConStop required more than a bit of effort. Francis’ first attempt failed. He started the process in the half time break of the UEFA semi finals. Bad idea. He wasn’t done by the time the game resumed. Nearly missed Lyon’s second goal. He needed a longer slot.

Sophie once again proved helpful, as she occasionally can be. Her enthusiasm for the Eurovision Song Contest provided him with the perfect opportunity. She was so glad he agreed to watch this, a first, she didn’t even notice he wasn’t playing his usual shooter game.

That’s because the customization process is quiet. And pretty simple, too.

You download and install the app. You connect it to your wristband. The very same you use to track and publish your gym prowess.

Next, you browse the internet according to the instructions: “Search for one item you love, and then for one you loathe.” And again: “One you love, one you loathe.” Not really hard, just time consuming. You keep it up until the app signals “Done”.

From that moment on, you save. The first couple of days are a bit rough, but it does the trick. Each time an advert, or a shopfront display, or even a canteen tale, each time anything triggers an urge to buy something, the wristband does notice. It sets off the specific alarm and stops you.

“Dralala-ping, dralala-toc-toc” goes your phone. You have to get it out and walk yourself through a questionnaire.

“Please name the item you consider buying, without using brands”. You actually have to type in the answer. That’s the toughest part. If it’s a pair of Qyle on display, you tend to think “Qyle”. Not “Sneakers”. Quite some reflecting involved. And the typing comes on top.

Luckily, it gets easier from there on. Next, the app will ask “Please do explain how buying… (sneakers, in the Qyle example) will improve your life.” Sounds pretty bad, but this stage is multiple choice. And you’re allowed to pick more than one answer, too.

The app typically lists five pretty good reasons. Plus an “Other” option. Here, you will have to type once more. In the fortunately rare case of not having been provided with a valid rationale.

In the last ConStop sequence, your reasoning will be challenged.

Francis does love this part. Especially in audio mode. He took care to select the sexy female voice. Listening to his ConStop guardian angel always sends him phantasising. He forgets about any potentially desirable items, even before considering her extremely sound advice.

The ConStop app changed his life. For the better. The nerd he met at the sports bar called him an imbecile, for providing an obscure company with a heap of data. As if he wasn’t aware of this aspect. But, honestly, it’s not exactly a secret he likes to get laid. And fancy bikes. And flashy cars. Why would he hide this kind of information? He’s not the central bank. Or some secret service.

The only problems with ConStop are of the interactive kind.

Like when Sophie, who also uses the app, doesn’t fail to notice his alarm won’t go off on seeing wedding dresses. Or prams. Or real estate adverts. They’re not in perfect sync, to put it mildly. Not a big deal, though. They won’t last forever anyway. There’s even the odd chance the Dralala-ping gap might contribute to lessen the blow once they are done. Less of a scene is always welcome.

His phone greeting a picture of his bloke Henry’s boat with an enthusiastic chime was worse. He would have preferred to nonchalantly pretend zero interest. Henry suddenly inheriting a second house, even though he already owns his residence, that wasn’t fair in the first place. Not a good bloke kind of thing to do. Selling it to be able to afford a sports car and a boat made perfect sense. But you would still prefer it to happen to yourself.

And it’s Henry’s fault he got into trouble today. His invitation to give the boat a try this weekend made him check the weather forecast. No harm done, he had to wait for the auto-diagnostic tool to run its course anyway. Turned on his phone for just this one second it takes to look at the weather app. But they had to place an advert for a Hurfay Robinson next to the sunny forecast. Bad luck.