Tag Archives: SciFi Short Story

Mary Mechanic

I will not ask. No way. I‘d rather take all night than ask. Asking is for sissies. I‘ve got no clue what‘s wrong with this bloody beast, but asking is not an option. Never no asking, ever.

Up to her elbows in chain oil, Mary tries not to mumble what she reminds herself to think, to strengthen her resolve to go it alone. She also takes care not to look up from the spread of parts what would be an early twenty first century ebike in its assembled form.

Such so called Pedelecs, because of the electrically assisted pedaling, were a typical fad of the late presustainable era. What passed for a battery in those days delivered minimal storage capacity for maximum bulk, and no wearable  photovoltaics to top up on the go. Pretty much useless over long distances or for steep climbs. But this sorry device reminded its nonagenarian owner of the joys of youth, when it turned up at the far end of a cellar that had to be redone after unusually severe floods. He decided to have it repaired and upgraded, as a vintage gift for the twentieth birthday of a grandchild that will be hard pressed to pretend cheer.

As no expense was to be spared, Mary opted to replace the toxic mess left from the original battery by the best bioreactor money can buy. For a daily dose of ten Milliliters of sugar water the genetically engineered glowyeast delivers enough juice to carry bike and rider over one hundred kilometers flat, with minimal muscular exertion. No annoying stopovers at fast charging stations. Carry a couple of refill syringes, and you‘re good for a whole day of mobile fun.

The bioreactor alone is equivalent in worth to an electric Harley Davidson. That‘s Mary‘s gift to the poor grandchild. If she‘s clever, she will overcome the disappointment, read the manual, discover the hidden gem, have the bioreactor replaced by a nanotube battery and buy herself a one year subscription to a virtual reality chamber instead of the three day pass she had been hoping for.

The glowyeast is in place and humming with productivity, the power transmission is a no brainer, but the mechanics prove more tricky than expected. The cogwheels resist assembly in standard formation. Mary has so far discovered eight ways not to do it, plus one that might work. Unfortunately, that one and so far only viable option runs contrary to basic basics. Every first year trainee knows all wheels should turn this way, and this way only, not that way. Except here, it’s the opposite. Either the elders had different basic basics, or Mary is about to mess up big.

I will not ask. I will not look up, otherwise Esther will come running. She has this way of saying ‘Come on sister, let me help you. Can’t have the boys thinking we’re not up to it, right?’ Drives me mad. Asking is for sissies, totally not ok.

I could go for a soda. With a little luck, Bodu will be at the fridge. Incredible, how many sodas he’s gulping down over a day. We’d have a little chat, about antiques. A chat, that’s not asking.

Of course it is. A chat is asking. Whom are you trying to fool here? No asking, period.

Mary has once again assembled the parts in the only way that feels right, except for running contrary to all basic basics. Only one way to find out who is right, her intuition or tradition. She releases the brake on the bioreactor and gently, gently exerts pressure on the pedal with her left hand, ready to emergency stop the engine with her right, in case it goes against.

Oh marvel, oh wonder. All fine, all parts working together for the common goal, ready to hit the road. Mary heats up in a rush of conflicting emotions. She did it. Without asking. All on her own. She’s one hell of a mechanic, getting even messy antiques back up. But could he, the constructor of this mess?! He owes her a long and sweaty afternoon, the bastard. Pity he must have been dead for decades, Mary would so love to kill him right now. How dare he?!

“Hey, sister, you did it, and all by yourself! Was wondering whether to drop a hint, like about some people in some countries driving on the wrong side of the road. Funny, how the folks in Asia and Europe had their mechanical conventions all upside down, back in the days of this antique, isn’t it? My first one took me a whole day to figure out, so congrats, you got there faster…”

Mary hadn’t heard Esther coming, too busy having more than one feeling at a time. Now she’s back to normal, as in one feeling, strong. She’d love a T-Rex to amble by and select Esther as snack. Nothing gory in her vision. No screaming, no wriggling, no red splashes. Just Esther swallowed by dinosaur mouth, period. Peace.

Esther is still talking, oblivious to the fact that she has just been snacked on, as far as Mary’s personal universe is concerned. Mary does her best not to listen while packing up as fast as possible. Her official workday ended three hours ago, and now she needs out. Otherwise, her inner T-Rex might suggest a novel use for the big wrench. Traditionally, it’s not meant to be used to smash someone’s skull. But sometimes, intuition needs to prevail over tradition.

Paul Plumber

“Shit happens, goes the saying. Technically incorrect. Only a tiny amount, think cholera epidemic, does happen. Happening suggests spontaneous, fast, wild, out of control, right? Of course it does! And that’s not how people move their bowels. Paul, would you mind describing your last occasion, for the sake of helping the class understand? Paul?”

Paul’s mind rushes back from afar. Very joyfully busy picturing himself on a honeymoon with Peter, two rows ahead to the left, profile of a demigod above what must be a superb body ready to be unwrapped from too much cloth, Paul had forgotten about the rest of the world, including this bloody waste of his hard earned cash of a teacher now staring at him with expectant malice. That’s were the sound vaguely identified as relevant must have come from.  

Never lost for words, Paul goes: “Yes, sir?”.

Ending on a question mark usually does the trick. Makes cross costumers spell out. You don’t want to waste time defending the color of a toilet when they’re mad about its height. 

Color complaints, you have to show the customer his online order with the small print stating that colors look different on screen. Takes a while, and skill, to get him to blame his gadget and pay. Height issues, you only need to shrug an go “Norms and standards, need I say more?”.

“Yes, Paul?” goes the teacher, surprisingly well aware of the 101 of efficient full frontal customer interfacing. Might have been a professional, in some earlier life.

A lesser guy would panick, but not Paul. He feels himself winning. He’s good at this, all his team says so. He doesn’t hesitate to elaborate: “Yes, sir? What can I do for you?”.

The class seems to consider his question hilarious. Paul doesn’t mind. A good laugh is always nice to have. The teacher doesn’t laugh, yet, but nor does he look like getting mad. A bit tired, a tad disappointed, not mad. So far, so good.

After a short pause and with a slight raise of one eyebrow, the teacher goes:

“We were contemplating the fact, Paul, that most bowel movements don’t happen spontaneously. They are controlled. We are willing them to occur, or to refrain from occurring. Would you be so kind as to provide an example, from your own personal experience? Where and how do you usually go about your defecating business?”.

Now that’s a nice surprise of a simple task. Paul would have hated one more microbiome question. He’s getting better at naming those apparently vital lodgers of everybody’s bowels, but which of them are good and which bad still eludes him. He’s starting to suspect some of the bugs switch sides, just to make his life complicated. Much easier to tell the class about his when, where and how. Only challenge is how to impress Peter in this context.

Paul is glad to be such a natural born entertainer. A lesser guy would fail at this task, but he never runs short of anecdotes. Using his storyteller voice, Paul goes:

“Well, so glad you asked, sir. Always wondered whether it’s only me, actually. I like to take some light reading along. Depending on mood and season, I’ll vary. Today, I picked the “Biker’s Fortnight”. Fortnight as in two weeks, not as in Fort-n-i-t-e the legacy game…”

Paul was planning to go on describing pictures of a biker outing, guys all dressed up in black leather and bling, to match the chrome of their rides. With a little luck, Peter would share his esthetics, and feel attracted. In a best case scenario, he would even flash the kind of fleeting smile that Paul could use as a conversation starter on their way out.

Not at all does Paul appreciate the teacher cutting in. Instead of letting him proceed with his perfect seduction plan of a story, the brute goes:

“Exactly, Paul, thank you! ‘Legacy’, that’s the word I was aiming for. So much has changed, over the last couple of decades,  in so many aspects of life. But in some areas, we still think inside very old boxes, too lazy to challenge obsolete traditions.

Back in the days of my grandpa, when water fit for washing ourselves, or even drinking, was routinely wasted on flushing away human excrement, it made perfect sense to install defecation infrastructure in the bathroom. Nowadays, no one would dream of spoiling potable water in this way, not least because one ends up in jail faster than one can spell ‘ecovandalism’ for trying.

By the way, never ever do you guys dare fix one of the few remaining old style toilets. Yes, some rich people living in grand old houses are offering excellent cash for this kind of illicit service. Yes, they promise no one will ever find out. But, let me tell you, this never works. Over the long run, all pipes get leaky. You’ve got a better chance to get away with brewing LSD than with fixing a WC. But I’m not here to help you stay out of prison.

Getting back to the point I’m trying to make: Where do we keep installing the toilets that transform our solid waste into fertilizer, as if this was 2010 instead of 2100? We keep installing them inside  individual flats. In the bathroom, more exactly, in that very same spot where grandpa’s version was attached to the plumbing. Absolutely no reason to keep proceeding like this. 

If toilets were invented now, we’d never put them so close to our living quarters, because smells, logistics,… need I say more? Emptying urine bottles into the waste water regenerator, fine and clean, no problem. But no one wants to talk, never mind handle, shit. Much better to commute to dedicated defecation hotspots. The farmers are all in favor, too. Much easier to collect bigger volumes in one central spot than do rounds and rounds for not much.

One dedicated defecation hotspot per neighborhood, nice place, well maintained, with staff keeping things neat and orderly, that’s the modern way. Combine this with some emergency kit at home, just to be on the safe side, and the world will be a better place.

Now, I can practically hear you guys thinking ‘What’s that nonsense he’s talking? Aren’t we supposed to modernize our business and catch up on latest trends by attending this course? Modern days my ass, I’m not giving up thirty percent of my business!’ That’s what you’re thinking, of course. No need to deny it, and you’ve got a point, theoretically. In practice, you lack vision.

You guys, you’re best qualified to set up and own your local defecation hotspots. You go infrastructure and services, guys, and you make serious money. Don’t let some know nothing suits get ahead of you. You’re the experts, you’re best placed to do this…”.

Paul’s mind drifts off once again. He’ll propose to Peter, half jokingly, to hedge his bets, right after class. Not for marriage, of course not. He doesn’t even know for sure that Peter is gay yet. He’ll propose a defecation hotspot partnership. The paperwork is bound to be heavy, the investment to build such premises will be huge, much better to join forces. And later, who knows?

If all goes well, including a police siren approaching fast being meant for someone else, not related to that broken pipe he shouldn’t have touched, even though he really needed that cash, Paul might get himself rich and happily married in one smart move.

G Day 89

What to do on a cloudy Thursday afternoon in thirty three C heat?

Not much, and certainly nothing physical. Kchalo spares a thought for all the robots doing all that work. To think that the poor ancients would have been busy in such heat. Shocking.

Kchalo turns up the cooling of his reclining chair a notch. Not doing much feels less stressful with a chilly neck-rest helping the body not to sweat more than strictly necessary. Less sweat, less need to raise his beer bottle to drink from it.

Yes, he’s holding an actual beer bottle, well chilled thanks to the convenient fridge under his reclining chair. And he‘s taking actual sips from it.  Kchalo prides himself on his traditional skills. No automatic infusions from a sleeve container for him. He prefers to take in fluids orally, just like the ancients. Yes, there is some exertion involved, but it‘s worth it.

The reward for raising a bottle to the lips to drink, a nice ritual in itself, is a sublime taste experience. 

Some people pretend it’s perfectly replicable, that at the end of the day, the brain can’t tell the difference between drinking for real and the suggestion of the corresponding sensations as conveyed by the next fluid balancer app, but that’s so wrong.

Having heard of the studies supposed to demonstrate the superiority of an infusions-only lifestyle, Kchalo did his own trial and proved the scientists mistaken. His experiment was anything but double-blind, of course, but who the hell cares if the brain can be fooled in an unnatural setting? It’s pleasant, to drink from a beer bottle, period. No need for techie mumbo-jumbo to confirm something as intuitively obvious.

The artificial sensations conveyed by the mind altering substances in the infusion do have an effect, Kchalo won‘t deny this fact.

Yes, there is relief from thirst. It‘s felt rather faster than in an actual drinking experience, as if relief from thirst was the point of drinking beer. There‘s also quite a strong aftertaste of well chilled beer in the mouth. In the proven absence of any fluid that effect is more creepy than pleasant.

Same for the rapid onset slight tipsiness that makes you urge to brag about hacking your delivery drone to have it exceed the speed limit. No one is going to believe you made it fly at Mach 1.2, and scared the neighbors with a nice little sonic boom. You‘re vaguely aware of behaving stupid, but you can‘t resist the fun of the tale.

And the Mach brag is better than the alternative, boozy macho pretense. Everybody so knows that a nerd like Kchalo has a better chance to boost drone speed to impossible levels than to achieve the kind of romantic conquests suggested as mandatory by all screens.

Thinking of which. Kchalo suddenly knows what to do, on a hot Thursday afternoon.

Even more exertion involved than in the act of physically drinking from an actual beer bottle. He‘s going to sweat hard on this one, and so is she, his partner in the strenuous undertaking. But hey, a man has to do what a man loves doing.

To steady his body for the upcoming ordeal, Kchalo reaches into his fridge to pick three spicy high protein cheese cubes he wolfes down without taking the time to munch or savor. Energy input is what counts now. With all this stuff passing through his mouth, he‘ll have to remember to brush his teeth when he takes his shower, but that’s for a later hour. Now he’s going to have fun.

Kchalo pulls down the Virtual Reality visor integrated into his reclining chair, waits for the motion feeder to grab his neck and establish a connection, steadies himself into a well balanced position, with his legs slightly more apart, grabs the armrests, calls on his back and leg muscles to prepare for action hard and fast, takes a deep breath and yells „G Day 89“.

No gentle onset with this episode. Kchalo gets jolted right into the action. All his muscles tense up all at once, making him sweat and puff like a steam engine. He‘s pounding along fast, needs all his alertness to stay on top of events, back and legs aching under the effort.

It’s even worse for the horse, of course, weighed down as it is by Kchalo, the traditional armor and the heavy saddle. But she‘s a tough black mare, racing along the track in a mighty stampede, taking the corners so low the public hums in fear of a fall.

Impossible for the others to keep up with them. After the first round, they’re one length ahead of the field. After the second round, Kchalo and his champion mare no longer recall that field, too busy racing and breathing. In the third and last round, they both feel like dropping dead, but the public cheers them on. They barely make it through the last bend. The mare slips, the public yells in horror, Kchalo shifts his weight, in exactly the right way at exactly the right moment, and they make it, to win the race with five lengths of advance, an all time record.

Kchalo’s back is as sore as a coal miner‘s in the bad old days without robots. He feels like torn up down the middle, what is left of his legs a wobbly mess. But he so loves reenacting Gymkhana Day 2089 at the Ikeja Saddle Club. His parents had brought him to watch the show for his sixth birthday. His dad was carrying him on his shoulders to allow him a better view. He pissed his pants when the mighty frontrunner stumbled. Dad was sweating so badly he didn’t even notice the additional wet and Kchalo went unpunished. Never will he forget that glorious day, never will he tire of reenacting the most exciting event he ever witnessed.

Undue Reticence

„What exactly do you mean by ‚It’s not working‘, Floup*? It can‘t be not working, not as such. Failure is impossible this time round. The mechanism is ultraoctople effective. Tried, tested, refined, retested, rerefined, reretested, and again, and again, and yet again. You know it, Floup, for the sake of clear waters, you were there and did it with me!

Our tool is as close to perfect as any such booster can get. We took all imaginable precautions, worked at maximum diligence, and we did it. We created an as good as perfect vector. We rolled it out and it will do its job. Nothing can possibly go wrong with this one. So tell me, Floup, what by the unholy rules of logic do you mean with this stupid ‚It‘s not working‘ statement?“.

Behind their joking tone, Smeech are bubbling purple with irritation. If they were into physical violence, they would lash out with their two strongest arms. But they‘re science personified, never lose control to the point of engaging in physical altercations. This is no muddy waters wrestling arena, it’s a lab. A place of peace and science.

More exactly, it‘s their lab, even if it technically belongs to the Pangalactic Promising Planets Preservation Project. The P5 bureaucrats might claim it as their place. But they have zero clue about species engineering, so how would they own this fine institution?

‚One can‘t own what one doesn‘t understand and can‘t recreate‘, any third grade youngster will manage to recite if woken in the middle of the night. They might need a little more alertness to be able to explain the axiom, never mind outline what it implies for sustainable social organisation and planet management, but the basic understanding…

Smeech suddenly realize Floup should by now have interrupted their thoughts with the requested confirmation. No such message is forthcoming. Instead, they‘re twisting their arms into the kind of knot suggesting pronounced embarrassment. Not a good sign. Same for their body pumping like the next compartment pressure leveler, and their visible heartbeat.

Something is very wrong, and Smeech need to understand what is going on. Switching from cheeky to bossy boss, they go:

„Floup, you bloody nuisance of a semicompetent pseudosentience, what the crystal is wrong? You either tell me at once, or you might as well brace yourself for a new career in shark breaking. You know the rules: The precious few safe and cuddly jobs in science and administration are assigned on the basis of intelligence and social merit. Social merit, Floup. Being truthful at all times is one major component of this criterium. You have to tell me, now. What – is – wrong?“

To Smeech‘s surprise, Floup actually pull themself together, and in a blink. With two thirds of their eight tentacles transformed into a solid column and only one third stretched out as stabilizing foot, they now tower a body length above Smeech and go:

„Shut up. Just shut up. And listen. We boiled it. Oh yes, you’re reading me right. We boiled it. This is one more gigantic boiling mess. Remember the glitch with our very first retrovirus, when so many of the dominant primate subjects came down with immunodeficiencies, instead of developing the photosynthetic ability we were trying to confer? One big bad boiler that cut our funding down to bare bones, as I‘m pretty sure you recall. Ah, I got your attention now, don’t I? No need to turn red, Smeech, and no cannibalism, please, the current boil isn’t that bad. But we might both be headed for the shark farms anyway.

This salty nuisance of an alien target species once again develops side effects we didn‘t see in our local model, for whichever salty reason. Perhaps it’s related to their lack of fur. The young ones are doing fine, just like our specimens. They integrate our virus without so much as a sneeze, forming a marvelously symbiotic partnership with it. Couple of generations on, their brains should display the intended improvements. Just in time to keep the planet viable for our cousins, hopefully, and accidentally for themselves, too. So far, so fine.

But some of the old specimens, and there‘s an awful lot of those around, they must be damaged in some unforeseen ways. They start well, no negative side effects for days. And then, out of a sudden, their lungs fail, unlike anything we‘ve seen during testing. In some cases to the point of them dying. And, guess what, Smeech? They hate it…“

Deflated, Smeech let themself sag flag to the bottom of a lab they no longer dare call their own. 

They don’t need to listen to the rest of Floups tale. The dominant species on their assigned promising planet might be stupid, often outstandingly so. But it is also stubborn. Especially when fending back against any lethal dangers simple and imminent enough for it to grasp. It‘s going to prevail, again. Smeech and Floup boiled it, again. Their best efforts won’t be enough. One more promising planet with wonderful oceans is at high risk of getting turned inhabitable. They probably won‘t be allowed to try again, and reassignment to the shark farms looms large indeed.

On the upside, Smeech always wondered if this shark breaking business really needed to be so tedious. By means of one more retrovirus, it should be possible to cure the undue reticence of the beasts and teach them to love pulling carriages. Improving alien primates might have been beyond their skills, but re-engineering very local lazy sharks, that should be within reach.

* Please pronounce Floup like soup

Breathalyzer

Bump. Soft left turn. Slowdown. Bigger bump. Sharp left turn. Gilbright reluctantly opens his eyes, thereby deactivating his mobile storyteller. No need for an arrival alert to tell him he’s home, his body is familiar with this sequence. The autonomous commuter pod delivers the customary message anyway: 

 “Dear passenger, 82 Lower GT Drive reached at 15:22. Exit with current attire safe, no additional precautions required. Your next trip is booked for tomorrow, March 6, 2120, 10:12, boarding here same. Please say ‘adjust’ to reschedule or ‘confirm’ for confirmation.” 

 Gilbright goes “Confirm”, unenthusiastically, and waits for the pod to go through whatever routine always keeps it from unlocking the door at once. 

This delay can’t be about cash. He himself had taken a profit motive for granted until very recently and most people still assume as much, but that’s not the rationale.. 

To celebrate the bonus he got two months ago, Gilbright splashed out on the upgrade to the premium package his mobility provider just happened to offer, by one of those lucky coincidences. He can now ride as many pods as he fancies, whenever and wherever he wants, for a total one hundred and fifty hours or five thousand kilometres per month, whichever limit is reached first, without extra charge. 

His commute takes a good thirty minutes in the morning and rarely exceeds twenty in the afternoon. His non-job errands add up to less than an hour per day. He didn’t yet find the time to schedule any of the excursions he had in mind when he awarded himself the premium package. A couple of minutes of idling in the docking port won’t bring him anywhere near the limit. This delay can’t be his mobility provider milking him. 

 If the recurring lag period isn’t about profit, it might be one more case of government overreach. Always trying to mess with peoples lives, the elected super nannies. Would be like them, to force mobility providers to slow down passengers, under pretext of one more unproven and uncomfortable health benefit. 

Well, if this is about forcing him to calm down, it doesn’t work. Gilbright feels his blood pressure climbing by the second. He’s not claustrophic, not the fears kind of guy at all, but a man should be allowed to exit his pod whenever he so chooses, period. 

 Click goes the door, very softly, finally granting Gilbright his currently most fervent wish. Two steps to his front door. Zoom goes the camera, and green goe… What the hell?! 

The intruder alert is meant to startle, but if it gets any more effective at this task it will be a lethal weapon. The light above the door is also flashing red, but this is far less disturbing then the deafening howl of the siren. 

 Gilbright feels his bones turn into icicles. He’s a licensed resident, not some burglar, never mind one of those Caucasian intruders. He’s a regular citizen, no deportation material 

Unable to move, Gilbright has to endure an eternity of agony before the siren suddenly dies. The light has also switched to green and the door goes: 

“Apologies for the false alarm, sir, and congratulations, your new haircut is very stylish indeed. To avoid future inconveniences, please feel free to provide advance authenticated visual notice of any such alterations of your appearance. Or may we suggest to activate breathalyzer authentication? By far the best way to prove your identity. Thanks for your cooperation in making the world a safer place.” 

Gilbright is relieved, and proud. His home is well defended, exactly as promised by estate management. There’s this notice to all residents, next to the parcel retrieval area, informing about more stringent safety settings, in the context of a fresh wave of European refugees. 

If his new haircut triggers the intruder alarm, his wife has zero reason to worry about Caucasians in the cellar. Last week, there was a dire incident in an estate just like theirs, but someone must have messed up front door security. That’s what happens, when you go cheap on building maintenance, instead of using proper professionals. 

Two levels up and one corridor down, Gilbright braces himself for all hell breaking loose again, but no problem. His owner occupier profile has been updated to his new look, the door to his flat opens at once. 

Having awarded himself an early beer to celebrate this success, he decides to heed the advice of the system. He can’t waste energy and time on forever updating his profile picture to avoid setting off that hell of a siren. Time to switch to the modern way and activate the breathalyzer, provided this doesn’t interfere with the occasional beer. 

He asks his living room:

“Assuming I was to switch to breathalyzer identification, what happens in case of alcohol intake?”.

Always ready to help, the flat management system answers at once, in this wonderfully deep and melodious voice so suggestive of cosy private moments:

“No problem, sir, absolutely no problem. Neither with trace alcohol in pastries, sweets or apple juice, nor with more solidly ethanolic beverages, like beer and wine and even liquor. Zero problem. This particular aspect only constitutes a tiny fraction of the particles lacing your breath. Ethanol is actually ignored in the context of identification purposes, together with other components that vary strongly depending on food and drink intake. For authentication purposes, we rely on components that remain stable past age two, except in very rare cases of metabolic dysfunctions that don’t apply in your case. Please confirm breathalyzer setup sequence initiation.“

Gilbright hesitates. His jumpy microbiologist wife is full of scary tales about snoopy analytics. Her jokes about intercourse frequencies calculated on the basis of mere drops of blood, that didn’t sound good. But breath is far less substantial than blood. And one close call with the intruder alarm is more than enough. The next stage would have been the guard dog bot with the taser. The decision to activate the breathalizer is such a no brainer.

On the next morning, Gilbright is pleased not to experience a delay at the end of his ride to the office. The pod door opens at once. Funny, how some issues resolve all by themselves.

Optiboost On

Glam take a deep breath, open the door and don’t step outside.

The night is over, but there is little light. Grey curtains of rain are waving by. Yesterday’s mosaic of puddles has merged into a lake. It stretches as far as the eye can see, turning all the shelters into islands. A foaming river running through the lake signals the location of the cobbled path Glam are supposed to walk, if they insist on leaving the building.

Fascinating, how the river has decided there is some kind of downhill to flow towards.

The neighborhood is as flat as a slice of powersquashed termite protein, before it starts crumpling in the frying pan. Same for the whole city, and the wider metropolitan area. The former rubbish dump, now a nice forested hill, with a wildlife sanctuary, is as mountainous as terrain gets, in the Favogoro region.

The impromptu river has gotten its direction wrong. It flows away from the coastline. Someone even farther inland will get very wet feet, and the mess will stay put for as long as the rain lasts.

Glam consider pitying the poor folks getting flooded. Too busy feeling sorry for themself, they quickly discard this option. One face-to-face office day per month to endure, and they had to get picked for the date with the worst weather, again.

In December, they had to march through a thunderstorm. In January, the wind was blowing so viciously it got very close to being called a tornado. And now the kind of downpour that sends edgy folks checking their emergency floats.

Still standing in the precarious shelter of the doorway, Glam wonder. Three ordeals in a row, that’s a lot. There’s a pattern emerging. And where there’s pattern, one has to wonder about intent. An intent that would be malicious in their case, obviously.

The quantum computing freaks in R&D have been promising big advances for ages. The ultimate weather forecast, reliable months ahead, that would be a mighty breakthrough, a life saver for millions.

When Glam were in kindergarten, their parentals used to debate whether or not to keep the catastrophic weather event insurance, and which part of their flimsy housing to fortify next. They made heroic efforts to stick to an outdated way of life that was getting more outrageously expensive by the month. The holidays were cancelled first, then the rare weekend trips, and in the final phase even the monthly BBQ.

Took Glam’s parentals five years and hundreds of rows to get themselves ready to cope with the inevitable and move to a first shelter. And what a rudimentary affair they chose, by current standards. Bit on the thick and slow side, totally unlike Glam.

With a reliable long term weather forecast, it would be possible to harass people by forcing them to commute on the worst days, a brutal form of cloud mobbing. But such forecasts would still be great to have. Weather is a life-or-death issue, and not just for the outdoorsy professionals in the high paying hazardous jobs, like agriculture.

Billions and billions have been going into improving forecasts, over decades, without much to show for the expense. There was some incremental progress, of course. The autonomously relocating offshore wind turbines are getting their positioning right more often, power supply has become pleasantly steady. But a reliable long term weather forecast, that’s on a different page. Glam know such advances don’t just pop up, their scientific mind doesn’t do fairy tales. But they would like to ask someone, about the chances of sudden progress in forecasting.

Unfortunately, they only know one scientist working at the cutting edge of weather research, Sark from Cloud Seeding and Advanced Mitigation. They had to go full blunt on that unbearable character, because hints didn’t do the trick. Only when they shouted, for all the department to hear, that nothing, not even a free two year naturafood subscription, would ever make them consider a shared glider ride+, and that they’d rather forgo their precious Optiboost than spend time together, did the premium nonitohape retreat.

Glam don’t have anyone to ask, about imminent weather forecasting progress. Thinking Sark is a downer. They can’t keep standing in this doorway. They’re getting wet, even though the rain doesn’t hit them directly. Either they dive into the mess, or they retreat inside and call the HR bot, to claim non navigable weather.

Previewing this call does Glam’s mood no good. They might as well hand in their resignation. This weather sucks, but it isn’t the kind of calamity that allows one to call in commute impeded. The HR bot will take less than a second to assess and discard, before reassigning them to a job with an even longer commute.

Time for Glam to choose between horrible an atrocious.

Stepping onto the cobbled path will get them ankle deep into fast flowing water that carries along all kinds of yuck. The thick layer of foam veers between a yellowish white and outright brown, not a good sign at all.

The still part of the lake looks better. But underneath its alluringly foam free surface lurks the mattress of carbon capture moss, currently a soggy mess that won’t carry Glam’s weight. They’re sure to sink in knee deep. That’s not just disgusting. The telltale green stains would get them fined for environmental vandalism.

The foaming cobbled path river it is, then.

Time for a good fat dose of Optiboost.

Glam press their left earlobe to activate the device. Next, they silently count down from thirty. The hormonal cascade works fast, but the effect is far from instantaneous.

By the time they’re done counting, the weather has turned alluringly interesting. Who would prefer walking a sunny path to splashing around in a foaming river? Certainly not invigorated Glam.

They gingerly step into the brownish foam and enjoy the challenge of the slippery cobbles. Thankful for an exciting day, they discard their conspiracy theories. 

###

Watching Glam struggle by means of a surveillance duck prepositioned in the vicinity of their shelter, Sark look forward to revisit this footage whenever they recall the sting of the rejection.

Being a nice person, they would never publish such material, they record for strictly private consumption.

Being also a diligent person, Glam decide not to publish yet.

This local weather management prototype shows promise, definitely. Three successful trial runs prove that it is perfectly feasible to cajole wind and rain into bundling in one designated location, to spare the rest of an area. Precipitation and gusts can’t be avoided, but a certain level of control is surprisingly simple to achieve, if there’s enough power for the catalyst.

Glam are proud of their invention. They look forward to all that praise, for saving lives and advancing the common good. There’s some urgency, of course. But one shouldn’t rush out new tech. Much better to do more testing, much more consumer friendly.

And, by a happy coincidence, more testing also gives them the chance to ruin on more commute, for Glam. With a little luck and a slight increase of the test area, to increase the amount of rain and the water level, they’ll trip and dip next time.

Health SCare

A syringe? They are proposing to use this big fat monster of a syringe, on him? Adam is upset.

It says 5 ml on the ampoule, but this is one big blob of yellow stuff. Big and yuck. The whitecoat is pulling it into the syringe, slowly, slowly, as if to emphasize the danger. He proceeds by means of a needle big enough to moonlight as plumbing.

Never is this a mere 5 ml. 50 ml, it should definitely say 50 ml on this ampoule. Typos everywhere, ever since the invention of the autocorrect. Bloody so called fucking progress…

Adams injured left foot suddenly aches less. It’s sure to recover just fine on its own.

No need to punch a hole into the poor body part, and certainly not by means if this enormous needle. Pumping in this big blob would make the foot hurt more. There must be another way.

Waking up from anesthesia only to endure agony, Adam has been there, two years ago. 

It took the stupid autonomous coffin of an ambubot eight minutes to find Adam, two to diagnose his ankle as sufficiently damaged to require medical attention and fit him with a self adjusting mold, and another fifty to trundle across the city. The dumb device refused to roll at more than the legal twenty kilometers per hour, for supposed bloody lack of a fucking emergency.

When they finally reached the medpoint, a white coat confirmed ankle damage. Adam was told to breath from a mask, and went blank. He woke up with a headache to get told his ankle had been fixed. Except it wasn’t, hurting in totally new ways instead. For two more hours. And no running, for two days. He was barely able to walk home at his usual pace.

Health care, they call this mess. Well chosen term. Works fine for the healthy.

Adam wonders where they‘re hiding the mask, and the tank with the anaesthetic.

With all the greens growing all over the place, fighting for the dim light from one solar paneled window and  four blue bulbs, it‘s hard to tell where the storage cabinets are.

Nice hydroponics, though. Latest fashion, well implemented, makes for growth at jungle speed. 

Some of the protomatoes should have been harvested two days ago. Judging by the sweetness of their smell, they‘ll have to go ketchup. The neoplantain and ultrachilli are overdue, too. Never would they reach that advanced stage of ripeness in Adams more humble office.

Whitecoats, such a spoilt profession. Paid a fortune to hurt people, the lucky bloody bastards. And first in every queue, be it for potable water, energy or food and supplements. ‘They exercise a vital profession’, goes the legend. As if there was magic in handling a yellow blob.

Funny, how the three cocannabis bushes are picked clean, just like everywhere else. There’s a human inside the white coat after all, and it shares some cravings with proper folks.

Thinking about longing switches Adams mind back to his quest to locate the drawer with the mask. The question is gaining in urgency, fast.

The ampoule is empty, except for some yellow smears hinting at a sticky consistency of its former content. The syringe is full. Adam has to steady himself to face its approach, about as nice an experience as looking down the barrel of a pump gun.

Having him see the syringe that close up is causing unnecessary trauma. They could and should already have put him under at this stage, to spare him additional harm.

Adam doesn’t get so say as much. The whitecoat grabs his damaged foot and goes:

„Come on, citizen Adam, no need to panic. Just take a deep breath, look at my wonderful vitacranberry bush, hold on tight, and I’ll be done in a second. It‘s actually more like thirty seconds, to stick to therapeutical transparency rules, but you‘ll live and walk.“

Adam is lost for words. This is supposed to be a civilized era, the age of bio and balance, in all realms of life. And this whitecoat is threatening to subject him to a massive intervention, without anaesthesia? Seriously? And if yes, what next? Driving around in cars belching toxic fumes? Smattering the world with radioactive particles? Handing every citizen a mocom, to make sure even the last bleeding idiot finds a riot to join? Back to Barbaria, anyone?

Adam would love to argue his case, but his tongue got stuck to his palate.

There‘s nothing he can do, about the assailant now taking aim with his lance of a needle. Adam should kick, jump and run, before it’s too late. But he stays put instead. He even stares down a particularly fat purple vitacranberry, just as he was told to.

When the needle pierces skin and tendon in one go, right at the most tender spot, Adams heel explodes in the sharpest of pangs. And this is just the beginning.

Next, he’s hit by a crescendo of ever stronger pain. It‘s no longer sharp, more a fast increasing pressure, as if someone was trying to pump up his heel way beyond its intended size. Every single yellow molecule adds to Adams anguish. His heel is going to explode, any second now, in one huge blast that will rip off his leg and tear apart his groin.

Clutching to the last remnants of sanity in a mind overwhelmed by physical distress, Adam promises himself never to run a marathon again. If ever he survives. He‘s barely conscious by now. With all his energy going into suffering there‘s none left for breathing.

„… and here you are, well done. Just stay like this for ten more minutes, to let the tendon repair agents do their fabulous biotherapeutical job, and you’ll walk and jog like new. Better luck for your next marathon, citizen Adam, and have a nice day.”

Adam missed whatever first part of the message over the ringing in his ears. He is far from convinced of his survival, but there is improvement.

His left heel is no longer getting bigger. It has switched to a new type of more pulsating but overall lesser ache. The strained muscles in his legs and groin that had been contracting in one big effort to brace themselves for the impending explosion dare start to relax.

It’s all still very tentative, but there is progress. Adam will be sore for days, below navel level, but his survival becomes more probable by the second.

And no headache. No post anesthesia dizziness. That’s nice.

Adam would have granted himself half an hour of legs up, one shouldn’t rush recovery from major surgery, but the junior whitecoat with the thick beard, braided in red, and the thin hair, braided in blue, compliments him out after exactly ten minutes.

The first steps come surprisingly easy. Adam crosses the reception in a proud swing, walking so fast he fails to overhear what his syringe wielder is telling the man at the desk:

“One more wannabe runner sissy, and I’m done with this, Egon. One more of these whining pains in the posterior, I quit this job, I swear I will. I’ve had it with this lot.

Healthy to cry for in the first place, running long distance without proper preparation, relying on us to repair any damage they do to themselves, that’s bad enough as such. But if they go crybaby on top, not even appreciating the marvels we perform, with zero understanding of what an incredible feat it is, to be able to cure a ruptured tendon in minutes, by means of one injection, with minimal discomfort… One of these days, I’m going to crack, Egon, I swear I will.

Can I get one of the hip oldies next, please, please, please? The more ancient, the better.

They recall how they saw people limping on crutches, for weeks, back in their childhood days. Scroll back fifty years, any failing joint was a big deal. They had some primitive devices, but you don’t want to look at the details, or the odds to reach full functionality. IoN wasn’t even invented back then, no one was dreaming to go one up and Improve on Nature.

Tell an oldie that hip replacement will take two hours, including recovery, and he’ll cry, with joy. Tell him that he’ll walk and dance better than ever, after years of slow decay, and you risk getting yourself kissed. That’s a bit gross, OK, I do prefer my lovers on the fresher side of ripe. But it’s still a nice positive feedback, and that’s what keeps us going, right?”

Bad Timing

„Phase two, step one, engage.”

Olu wouldn’t mind Samaria’s voice to be a tad softer.

He’s all in favour of lady bosses, because diligence, resilience, morale, and whatever else got praised in last years stupid gender awareness training session.

In Olu’s school days, gender blindness was all the rage. Only as far as curriculumdom was concerned, obviously. Being past reproductive age, the teachers had little trouble pretending to believe there was no difference between the Adams and the Eves. Their charges, Olu’s teenage self included, begged to disagree, always fervently and sometimes physically. Olu knew exactly whom he wanted to get laid with, and gender blindness made about as little sense to him as wasting valuable games time on homework

A little more than a decade on, science has caught up with Olu’s intuition. Unfortunately, it has also declared the ladies especially apt at management. Studies have been conducted. The gender awareness instructor, a lady, of course, had them track through a landscape of 3D graphs. On talent after talent, the guys were hills next to the ladies mountains. The ratio was only reverted for physical strength, and the ability to tolerate blood alcohol levels. Very important features, but unfortunately not from a business perspective. 

A little less volume, and a little more melody, that’s nice to have, in a voice.

Olu selects the phase two icon on his screen.

He’s left handed and of course wears his control glove on that hand, anything else would feel weird. He fondly recalls how his late boss Kevin, who was right handed, switched glove sides when he arrived, to make sure his instruction would proceed as smoothly as it did. A nice gesture, from a superior, to welcome a new teammate.

Having completed the demanded action, Olu confirms:

“Phase two, step one, engaged.”

And Samaria to snap back, much faster and more robustly than necessary:

“Phase two, step two, engage!”

Olu resents. This is not the fire brigade, they’re not about to perform news type heroics. There’s no life-or-death countdown, no nuke ticking in the basement.

They’re on board an Arctic surfer, harvesting vintage ice, one thousand cubic meters at a time. If they drop one of these gigantic ice cubes, and go on to miss their quota, nothing happens. If they vanished now, some filthy rich snobs would have to make do with good old desal for drinking and oral hygiene, like everybody else. Olu is no union man, but a catastrophe this isn’t, that much he knows.

Olu would love to tell Samaria to stop fuzzing.

He won’t, because in this shithole of a workplace every single word uttered is being recorded. Someone might listen in right now, ‘for quality purposes’, as in surveillance. Quality of workforce life is not the target management is going for, obviously.

Samaria would resent being criticized in public, and take revenge. By means of the shift schedule, obviously. Tougher blokes than Olu have been turned into weeping wrecks by one harvesting season of split standby shifts. You have to keep yourself available 20/7 to take over in a maximum of five minutes, and get paid a third of a minumum wage for a maximum of ten hours per day for the standby time. Stress plus financial ruin. Terrifying.

The higher ups can watch, too.

Most of the time, it’s an artificial intelligence scanning the video feed for early signs of upcoming trouble. It’s sure to have noticed how hard Olu has been staring at this screen, for the last two days. Never would an AI miss signs of anger. Unlike Samaria.

If only the bitch was a little more like Kevin. He would have noticed at once, when Olu stopped smiling. Never would Kevin have dared not to ask, about issues. And he was always ready to remedy, never hesitating to choose his own discomfort.

With Samaria, Olu is exhausting his grump muscles to no effect.

Poor Kevin. He was so stressed by his minority status, always on the lookout for any signs of anyone resenting his presence, always ready to apologize. A bit tedious, his very Caucasian servility, but still nice to have around.

Mostly nice. There can be too much of a good thing.

Olu recalls how Kevin’s apologies for fetching the wrong protein bar from the canteen culminated in a mea culpa for colonial crimes. Yes, there’s a lot of history, behind something as simple as a coconut flavor, and it’s full of white-on-black crimes. But you don’t want to hear about the more gory aspects of slavery while eating. 

Kevin never tired of telling anyone he met, about how sorry he felt, for all the misdeeds Caucasians committed, until well into the 21st century. He was most upset about them having enjoyed centuries of undeserved privileges, and forever grateful for his fine job.

“Being allowed to harvest ice, instead of slaving away in often deadly flood or fire combat, such luck, no idea how I got here,” Kevin used to say, slipping on his own slime.

Kevin’s presumed luck turned out the be deadly after all.

Olu was glad never to have added to Kevin’s pressure, unlike some of the colleagues. Otherwise, that fatal heart attack could have felt like his fault. A full Karoshi death, right here, on the chair bloody Samaria is squatting now. Less gruesome than a fire fighter death, but still pretty bad, as far as the result concerned. Death by apology. Unlike some people.

Olu hopes the monitoring AI can’t read his mind too well. He’s thinking a combination of Samaria and a fire fighter accident he saw on TV, and he’s well aware that’s not the kind of thought one is supposed to harbor, in a team context.

“Phase two, step two, engage, now!”

Samaria’s voice is so over the top, painful to listen to. Despite the discomfort, Olu struggles to refrain from grinning. Adding even one word, that’s against protocol. The bitch is at fault now. No need to look up from his screen to know her head will be in process of going steam cooker. When she’s angry, her eyes bulge forward, like ready to plop out.

Taking care to add a little pause after every word, Olu goes:

“Phase two, step two, engaged.”

He’s sticking to protocol, come what may. Takes more than a nuisance of a shrill boss to impress him. Samaria dared not grant him a switch of shifts. He won’t be watching the Dota 5 Champions League final this year. A never no way. Ever since he played his first game, he never missed any major encounter, never mind a Champions League final. 

A crime to beat all crimes has been committed, and Samaria will pay for it.

Tag Trauma

“And that’s you, SP all topped up, sir. And to the very top. Big Small Puchases for you, if you don’t mind me commenting. What a jolly number. Don’t get to see that every day…”

Giving the fin operator his kiss-my-ass look, through sunglasses worthy of a much more fancy occasion, Joha urges to get his device back, and out of this smelly place. This fucking so called age of e-money is one big fat e-drag. And currently not e- at all.

Joha is forced to waste time in a queue, in person. Just because one bloody idiot e-robbed a central bank to oblivion, forcing the people to sell their country, thereby prompting a second idiot to e-impersonate a commander in chief, to invade the neighbors.

Yes, losing your country is bad. Yes, having it go to war is worse. But it was just two small armies, with old fashioned weapons. Not even sat strike capability. For a mere two days. A three digit number of victims. A year’s worth of worldwide roadkill. So what?

Fucking clean cash craze, no one needs this. Certainly not Joha.

Waiting for some matron to get done arguing about what would not even qualify as a proper tip at last night’s venue, that’s no job for a guy. His friends wait outside, in his car. They can observe him standing here, like some erectily dysfunctional grandpa. Shame.

Why can’t this bloody bullet proof glass at least be tinted? Age of transparency Joha’s ass!

What is that waffling slime of a fin operator looking at now? Something is happening, on his screen. He should be handing back Joha’s device, they were as good as done.

Dull discomfort of drag morphs into piercing snafu pain. ‘No e-fuckup now, not on a weekend!’ is all Joha manages to think before the fin operator goes:

“Congratulations, sir, you’ve been tagged! You get a say, on education. Oh, and look at this, a one billion dollar budget. You’re so lucky, sir. Don’t get to see that kind of number every day…”

Stunned, Joha barely dares look out once again. His car is shaking with his so-called friends rocking their swivel seats laughing. They’re filming each other chanting. So easy to read their lips:

“Joha has been ta-hagged, Joha has been ta-hagged” goes their chorus. In his own car. His bad luck is already doing the rounds online. News of misfortune travel porn fast.

Joha pretends to listen to the fin operator while weighing his options. There aren’t many.

Attending one of these online jamborees demotes an influencer to laughing stock in no time.

Stupid Dafe of last year’s fame got himself tagged, to weigh in on the worldwide alignment of firearms regulation. Misconsidering the gun topic as cool, Dafe went public pride. In return, what used to be his crowd asked:

“Proud to  spend a full day with mostly old people? Some of them old and female? Not to mention a sprinkling of white snobs? And doing what, in this most disgusting of companies? Oh, you’ll be reading and writing, school-type stuff, and talking about it? You’re so braaave…”

Joha also recalls his own cool contribution to the online lynch mob.

He came up with the slogan ‘Rock the rest home?’ under a picture of an artificially aged Dafe, and he’s no Morgan Freeman, kissing an even uglier white nonagenarian. Most of the 2.2K commenters were less polite. Today, barely anyone recalls there used to be a Dafe.

If he had a choice, Joha would rather come out as gay than attend a bloody citizens-of- everywhere-united-for-the-global-bloody-good-fucking-forum. 

Joha might actually come out as gay, once he will have made it to London and built himself a cool British star DJ life, but this is not the moment for this intricate kind of considerations.

Tagged to attend a fucking forum. On education, of all topics. Shame to the power of shame.

Unfortunately, disgracefully, there is no choice.

Poor Omo2go tried to opt out.

According to rumors, he invested a considerable sum, to get his tag declared a technical glitch and voided. ‘Global food security equality’, that mouthful made him reach for his e-wallet. Under the 2045 zero corruption tolerance policy, Omo2go was sentenced to keep rotting in jail until 2068, and to share a cell with his targets. Who’d want to be in his boxers?

Finally getting his device back, Joha doesn’t return the fin operator’s smile. He’s suppressing a shiver. Not the fault of the air conditioning. Envisaging Omo2go type risk made his ass freeze in shock. Joha has to attend that fucking forum. There’s no escaping the tag.

Takes Joha seconds to prepare the needful on his device. Next, he walks back to his car, his head high, to get rid of the jeering traitors. He flashes the screen at them, casually. Seeing their profiles ready to be denounced as carjackers sends them running, as expected. Joha might have particular reasons to fear prison, but the basic sentiment is widely shared.

Next, Joha tells the car to head for the university.

His mind is all made up. With his street creds ruined, he might as well do the nagging granddad of a high potential grant manager who calls him every other week the favor to resume his physics.

Bye, bye cool life. Hello career. Degree, PhD, CSD.

And if he can keep the flame of his current anger burning, he’ll come up with a big fucking e-blast show stopper. They dared terminate his DJ career. Their fault.

Jerks and Perks

“Now this is rich. Is this still 2119, or what? Ever heard of the age of respect? Feels rather like the new waste age to me. Yesterday, it was stuff that got discarded. Now it’s mind output we’re throwing away. Full speed backwards, futility power to max, is that the idea?

If that is what you’re aiming for, you’re in for a surprise, buddy. Any idea what me getting distracted from making code happen costs, in terms of wellbeing? The future of peoplekind is at stake here. Me having to point my outstanding cognitive abilities at your joke of an occupation, for even one second, guess what that is.

Oh sorry, no guessing, sure. Let me explain: Waste to the power of waste, you misfunctioning nuisance of a you-call-this-a-service? provider. Still too complex? Oh so sorry, let me rephrase: Big-big waste. You’re doing this so to the wrong guy, buddy…”

Stakhay is shaking so bad the gravity mitigation function of his seat struggles to keep up with his momentum. His back goes ouch. This workplace is so tediously unlike the upstairs he longs to visit. Double ouch. The combination of back and wallet pain boosts Stakhay’s anger.

He raises his voice some more to go:

“And now I pulled a back muscle, because of you imbecile. This job is getting more dangerous by the day. No wonder folks barely manage to clobber together their quarterly one hundred hours of desk time, in this savage environment. It’s wasteful, and a health hazard.

Is that what I deserve, to keep things rolling for the average blokes and blokettes? Without me, buddy, no food on the table, no game in the box, no water in the tank. We call that one hydrogen, but never you mind. Unless you want to go about explaining the difference? ”

Stakhay pauses for effect. Just as practiced in that funny interactive skills workshop. The lead coach made him attend, to groom him for even more senior roles that will bring him within striking distance of space flight kind of cash. Stakhay is ready for the apology he’s due.

He gets a bland stare instead. Combined with a hint of a smile. This face adds up to an insult.

Stakhay doesn’t tolerate aggression. Pointing his elbow at the exit, he shouts at the offender:

“Out, at once. Oh yes, buddy, this is an elbow I’m showing you. Oh yes indeed, this is exactly what needs to be done. You asked for it, here it comes. And now you get your lower limbs into motion. Those feet are made for walking, buddy. No idea what the squishy bit in the upper cavity does for a living, but your feet seem to be up to a job.”

The massage therapist seems on the brink of disobedience. It‘s a long blink, even for his kind. In the end, he does leave. As soon as he crosses the threshold to the corridor, the walls starts chiming his personal menial-worker-alert, to spare complextaskers one more encounteremma.

Stakhay is proud of this innovation. With all the support staff cruising the building, it was getting ever more stressful for the top cast to move around.

You want your feeder to deliver your custom grown and cooked artificial protein mix. You want your earplug support to bring and insert what fits todays body mood. You don’t want to meet someone else’s physical needs minder in the corridor.

They used to just be there, when you walked round a corner. Even strong guys like Stakhay got torn. Walk on and risk small talk? Or retreat to safety in loneliness? More fragile complextaskers went off the rail on such occasions, a terrible loss.

One was injured so badly he never recovered. That was a peculiar case. It involved a re-enactment of what last centuries barbarians refered to as ‚kissing‘, with the personal dress manager throwing himself at the victim. A massacre.

Most of the encounters are comparatively benign, but still. Stakhay is proud to have reduced this office‘s hazard score by means of simple implants and an array of loudspeakers.

That‘s creativity, not to call himself a genius outright. Take what‘s there, reassemble, and whoosh, the world becomes a better place. The corridors are safe, thanks to him.

Next, he will come up with a prevention strategy for in-office incidents.

A body kneader addressing a complextasker verbally, instead of just stretching his earlobes for better focus, as ordered, that’s so off. It might have been nothing but a “hi”, but to minds like Stakhay’s, that’s the butterfly triggering the tsunami. He was on the point of…

There. He doesn’t even recall the breakthrough he was making. Gone.

Even one spark of his brilliance getting lost is a tragedy. Mindless destruction, just like in the waste age. And look what they did to the planet? Even space is starting to look positively habitable compared to that hot smelly mess. And Stakhay’s beautiful mind is next.

Stakhay urgently needs his shrink.

If only this particular staff wasn’t so talkative. There’s no way yet to make these work on mute. 

Stakhay shivers under the next wave of envy.

Bloody lucky future folks: Holidays in space and silent shrinks.