Cyberpunk

by Victoria Blake

Getting Hazel, or rather “Zelda,” to come across in the bedroom—the term

  “ambivalence” didn’t begin to capture his feelings on that subject. It was all

  about fingernail-on-glass sexual tension and weird time-traveling flirtation

  mannerisms. There was something so irreparable about it. It was a massive

  transgressive rupture in the primal fabric of human relationships.

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  BRUCE STERLING

  Not “love.” It was a different arrangement. A romance with no historical

  precedent, all beta pre-release, an early-adapter thing; all shakeout, with a

  million bugs and periodic crashes.

  It wasn’t love, it was “evol.” It was “elvo.” Albert was in elvo with the

  curvaceous bright-eyed babe who had once been the kindly senior citizen

  next door.

  At least he wasn’t like his dad. Stone dead of overwork on the stairsteps of

  his mansion, in a monster house with a monster coronary. And with three

  dead marriages: Mom One, Mom Two, and Mom Three. Mom One had the

  kid and the child support. Mom Two got the first house and the alimony.

  Mom Three was still trying to break the will.

  How in hell had life become like this? thought Huddleston in a loud interior

  voice, as he ritually peeled dead pseudoskin from a mirrored face that, even

  in the dope-etched neural midnight of his posthuman soul, looked harmless

  and perfectly trustworthy. He couldn’t lie to himself—because he was a

  philosophy major, he formally despised all forms of cheesiness and phoniness.

  He was here because he enjoyed it. It was working out for him. Because it

  met his needs. He’d been a confused kid with emotional issues, but he was so

  together now.

  He had to give Zelda all due credit—the woman was a positive genius at

  home economics. A household-maintenance whiz. Zelda was totally down

  with Al’s ambitious tagging project. Everything in its place with a place for

  everything. Every single shelf and windowsill was spic and span. Al and Zelda

  would leaf through design catalogs together, in taut little moments of genuine

  bonding.

  Zelda was enthralled with the new decor scheme and clung to her household

  makeover projects like a drowning woman grabbing life rings. Al had to admit

  it: she’d been totally right about the stark necessity for new curtains. And the lamp thing—Zelda had amazing taste in lamps. You couldn’t ask for a better

  garden-party hostess: the canapés, the Japanese lacquer trays, crystal swizzle

  sticks, stackable designer porch chairs, Châteauneuf du Pape, stuff Al had

  never heard of, stuff he wouldn’t have learned about for 50 years. Such great,

  cool stuff.

  She was his high-maintenance girl. A fixer-upper. Like a part-time wife,

  sort of kind of, but requiring extensive repair work. A good-looking gal with

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  a brand new wardrobe, whose calcium-depleted skeletal system was slowly

  unhinging, requiring lots of hands-on foot rubs and devoted spinal adjustment.

  It was a shame about her sterility thing. But let’s face it, who needed children?

  Zelda had children. She couldn’t stand ’em.

  What Al really wanted—what he’d give absolutely anything for—was

  somebody, something, somewhere, somehow, who would give him a genuine

  grip. To become a fully realized, fully authentic human being. He had this

  private vision, a true philosophy almost: Albert “Owl” Huddleston, as a truly

  decent person. Honest, helpful, forthright, moral. A modern philosopher. A

  friend to mankind. It was that gesamtkunstwerk thing. No loose ends at all.

  No ragged bleeding bits. The Total Work of Design.

  Completely *put together,* Al thought, carefully flushing his face down

  the toilet. A stranger in his own life, maybe, sure, granted, but so what, so

  were most people. Even a lame antimaterialist like Henry Thoreau knew that

  much. A tad dyslexic, didn’t read all that much, stutters a little when he

  forgets his neuroceuticals, listens to books on tape about Italian design

  theory, maybe a tad obsessive-compulsive about the $700 broom, and the

  ultra-high-tech mop with the chemical taggant system that Displays

  Household Germs in Real Time (C) (R) (TM) . . . But so what.

  So what. So what is the real story here? Is Al a totally together guy, on top

  and in charge, cleverly shaping his own destiny through a wise choice of

  tools, concepts, and approaches? Or is Al a soulless figment of a hyperactive

  market, pieced together like a shattered mirror from a million little impacts

  of brute consumerism? Is Al his own man entire, or is Al a piece of flotsam in

  the churning surf of techno-revolution? Probably both and neither. With the

  gratifying knowledge that it’s All Completely Temporary Anyway (R).

  Technological Innovation Is An Activity, Not An Achievement (SM). Living

  On The Edge Is Never Comfortable (C).

  What if the story wasn’t about design after all? What if it wasn’t about your

  physical engagement with the manufactured world, your civilized niche in

  historical development, your mastery of consumer trends, your studied

  elevation of your own good taste, and your hands-on struggle with a universe

  of distributed, pervasive, and ubiquitous smart objects that are choreographed

  in invisible, dynamic, interactive systems. All based, with fiendish computer-

  assisted human cleverness, in lightness, dematerialization, brutally rapid

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  BRUCE STERLING

  product cycles, steady iterative improvement, renewability, and fantastic

  access and abundance. What if all of that was at best a passing thing. A by-

  blow. A techie spin-off. A phase. What if the story was all about this, instead: What if you tried your level best to be a real-life, fully true human being, and it just plain couldn’t work? It wasn’t even possible. Period.

  Zelda stirred and opened her glamorous eyes. “Is everything clean?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is it all put away?”

  “Yep.”

  “Did you have another nightmare?”

  “Uh. No. Sure. Kinda. Don’t call them ‘nightmares,’ okay? I just thought

  I’d . . . you know . . . boot up and check out the neighborhood.”

  Zelda sat up in bed, tugging at the printed satin sheet. “There are no more

  solutions,” Zelda said. “You know that, don’t you? There are no happy

  endings. Because there are no endings. There are only ways to cope.”

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  THE BLOG AT THE

  END OF THE WORLD

  By Paul Tremblay

  About Becca Gilman:

  I am twenty-something, living somewhere in Brooklyn, and am angry and scared like everyone else I know. Sometimes this blog helps me, sometimes it doesn’t.

  I have degrees in bio and chem, but don’t use them. That’s all you really need to know. All right?

  still here

  Becca Gilman • June 17th, 20__

  Barely. I tried calling Mom two days ago but there was no answer and

  she hasn’t called me back. I’m still not over GRANT’S passing; my personal

  tipping point and I hate myself for referring to Grant that way, but it’s true.

  I haven’t left my apartment in over a week. The local market I use for

  grocery delivery stopped answering their phone yesterday. I’ve only


  seen three cabs today. They’re old and dinged up, from some independent

  cab company I don’t recognize, and they just drive around City Line, circling, like they’re stuck in some loop, like the drivers don’t know what

  else to do. At night I count how many windows I can see with the lights

  on. The city was darker last night than it was last week, or the week before. The city is falling apart. It’s slow and subtle, but you can see it if

  you look hard enough. Watch. Everything is slowing down. A wind-up

  toy running down and with no one to wind it up. Everything is dying but

  not quite dead yet, so people just go about their days as if nothing is

  wrong and nothing bad can happen tomorrow.

  I’ve had a headache for a week now, my neck hurts, and I’ve been really

  sensitive to light. I’m scared, but not terrified anymore. Mostly, I’m just incredibly sad.

  PAUL TREMBLAY

  6 Responses to “still here”

  squirrelmonkey says:

  June 17, 20__ at 9:32 am

  I just tried calling and left a message. I am going to stop by your place

  today. Please answer your buzzer.

  Jenn Parker says:

  June 17, 20__ at 1:12 pm

  I’m not surprised that you’re experiencing headaches and the like. You’re

  so obsessed with the textbook symptoms, you’re now psychosomatically

  experiencing them. I am surprised it has taken this long. I had February

  2009 in the pool. Get help. Psychiatric help.

  beast says:

  June 28, 20__ at 4:33 am

  i live in new york city to last weak i saw this guy drop dead in the street he

  pressed a button at the traffic light on the corner and then died there was no

  one else around just me he wasnt old probably younger than me he died

  and then i saw whats really happning to everyone cause two demons fell

  out of the sky and landed next to him maybe they were the gargoiles from

  the buildings i dont know but they were big strong gray with muscles and

  wings and large teeth the sidewalk broke under their heavyness they

  growled like tigers and licked up the blood that came out of the guys ears

  and mouth but that wasn’t good enough they broke his chest open and there was red everywere on the sidewalk and street corner i didnt know

  there was so much blood in us but they know they took off his arms and legs

  then gather him up in their big strong arms and flew away he was gone i

  went back and checked the next day he was gone after i walked around the

  city i saw the demons every were but noone saw them but me they fly and

  climb the buildings waiting for us to die and take us just like you i am afraid and stay in my apartment but don’t look out my window any more

  revelations says:

  July 5, 20__ at 12:12 am

  Maybe you’re “fuck heaven” comments from you’re earlier post caught

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  THE BLOG AT THE END OF THE WORLD

  up to you, and you’re fear mongering and lies have finally caught up with

  you. GOD punishes the wicked.

  Jenn Parker says:

  July 5, 20__ at 2:45 pm

  I like beast. I want to party with you, dude!

  Hey, revelations, stick to book burning and refuting evolution.

  revelations says:

  July 12, 20__ at 10:09 am

  I can sum it all up in three words: Evolution is a lie.

  Link Roundup

  Becca Gilman • May 19th, 20__

  I don’t feel up to it, but here’s a link roundup, in honor of Grant

  San Jose Mercury News: The Silicon Valley’s home sales continue to

  tank with the number of deals at a 40-year low. The mayor of San Jose

  attributes the market crisis to the glut of homes belonging to the recently

  deceased.

  The Burlington Free Press reports that a May 3rd session of Congress

  ended with the sudden death of Missouri Representative William

  Hightower and Senator Jim Billingsly from Vermont. While neither

  Hightower nor Billingsly has been seen publicly since the 3rd, the offices

  of both congressmen have yet to make any such announcement, and

  their only official comment is to claim the story is patently false.

  The Miami Herald reports that according to UNICEF, the populations of

  children in Kenya and Ethiopia have declined by a stunning 24 percent

  within the past year. The UN and United States government dispute

  the findings, claiming widespread inaccuracies in the “hurried and

  irresponsible” census.

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  PAUL TREMBLAY

  8 Responses to “Link Roundup”

  Jenn Parker says:

  May 24th, 20__ at 7:48 pm

  Reputable sources at a quick glance, but let’s address each link:

  The San Jose Mercury News has already issued a partial retraction

  here. The mayor of San Jose never attributed the market crisis to the

  supposed glut of homes belonging to the deceased. Honestly, other than

  within the backdrop of our collective state of paranoia/hysteria, such a

  claim/statement doesn’t make any economic sense. People aren’t

  buying homes for a myriad of economic reasons, but too many deaths

  due to an imaginary epidemic isn’t one of them.

  The links to your burlington and miami papers are dead. I suppose you

  could spin the dead links to bolster the conspiracy theory, but here in

  reality, the dead links serve only as a representation of your desperation

  to perpetuate conspiracy.

  squirrelmonkey says:

  May 25th, 20__ at 7:03 am

  Ever heard of Google, Jenn? Those articles can still be found in the cache. It’s not a hard to find. Do you want me to show you how?

  Jenn Parker says:

  May 25th, 20__ at 1:23 pm

  Why were the articles almost instantaneously removed? You’ll tell me

  it’s due to some all-encompassing conspiracy, when the real answer is

  those papers got their stories wrong so they had to pull the articles.

  Happens all the time. I guarantee retractions will be published within days. Oh-master-of-Google, prove me wrong by finding another news-outlet corroboration to either story. Read carefully, please. I want a news-outlet that does not site the Burlington Free Press or Miami Herald

  as their primary sources. If you try such a search, you’ll be at it for a long

  time, because I can’t find any other independent reports.

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  THE BLOG AT THE END OF THE WORLD

  slugwentbad says:

  May 25th, 20__ at 10:13 pm

  I’ve called Billingsly’s office on three occasions, and I’ve been told he’s

  unavailable every time.

  Jenn Parker says:

  May 25th, 20__ at 10:23 pm

  Oh, that proves everything, then.

  discostewie says:

  May 26th, 20__ at 8:27 am

  Bees and bats and amphibians are disappearing, mysteriously dying off

  (are you going to refute that too, Jenn?). Is it so hard to believe that the

  same isn’t happening to us?

  batfan says:

  June 25th, 20__ at 3:37 am

  Hi, remember me? Come check out my new gambling site for the all the

  best poker and sports action. It’s awesome. http://www.gamblor234.net

  speworange says:

  August 222n, 20__ at 10:46 am

  Humans are harder to kill than cockroaches.

  More Grant Lee

  Becca Gilman • May 12th, 20__


  I went to Grant’s wake today. The visiting hours were only one hour.

  2pm–3pm. I got there at 2. We had some common friends but I didn’t

  see anyone that I knew there. I didn’t see his sister or recognize any

  family members either. I waited in a line that started on the street. No

  one talked or shared eye contact. This is so hard to write. I’m trying to

  be clinical. The mourners were herded inside the funeral parlor, but it

  split into three different rooms. Grant’s room was small with mahogany

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  PAUL TREMBLAY

  moulding on the walls and a thick, soft tan carpet on the floor. There

  were flowers everywhere. The smell was overpowering and made the

  air thick. The family had asked for a donation to a charity in lieu of flowers. I don’t remember the charity. There was no casket. Grant

  wasn’t there; he wasn’t in the room. There wasn’t a greeting line, and I

  don’t know where his family was. There was only a big flat-screen TV

  on the wall. The TV scrolled with images of Grant and his friends and

  family. I was in one of those pictures. We were at the Pizza Joint, standing next to each other, bent over, our faces perched in our hands,

  elbows on the counter. I had flour on the tip of my nose and he had his

  PJ baseball hat on backwards, his long black hair tucked behind his

  ears. Our smiles matched. It was one of those rare posed pictures that

  still manage to capture the spirit of a candid. That picture didn’t stay on

  the screen long enough. Other people’s memories of Grant crowded it

  out. Also, the pictures of Grant mixed with stock photos and video clips

  of blue sky and rolling clouds like some ridiculous subliminal commercial

  for heaven. There was a soundtrack to the loop; the music was formless

  and light, with no edges or minor chords. Aural Valium. It was awful. All

  of it. The mourners walked around the room’s perimeter in an orderly

  fashion. Point A to B to C to D and out the door. I didn’t follow them. I

  held my ground and stayed rooted to a spot as people brushed past

  me. No one asked if I was okay, not that I wanted them to. I watched

  the TV long enough to see the images loop back to its beginning, or at

  least the beginning that I had seen. I don’t know if there was a true

  beginning and a true end. After seeing the loop once, I stared at the

  other mourners’ faces. Their eyes turned red and watered when the