Slabscape: Dammit

by S. Spencer Baker

  A murmur rippled through the crowd.

  Louie had to admire the phlegmatic attitude of the Slab citizens. He had no doubt what would have happened back on 21st-century Earth if a clearly out-of-context apparition had manifested in front of an excited audience at a concert and started insulting them: the sky would have darkened with a cascade of bottles and the target of their ire would have multi-dimensionally fucked off. Not here, he marvelled. OnSlab, they listened.

  ‘You drivel mongers, you churlish ghent-cracked slothwits, you evil infestation of a tiny shit-based sphere. Can you not comprehend one simple instruction? Stop. Do not venture further. You are unwelcome.

  ‘Hello? Hello? Is this heard? It doesn’t know. It thinks this is hopeless, despite what was obvious. It defers.’

  A stage hand approached the hyper-shape and it vanished as silently as it had appeared.

  The crowd demurred.

  That’s torn it, thought Louie. A nearby K-table was delivering steaming hot-dogs at a steady rate. Louie manoeuvred his vDek toward the central serving platform, said ‘Home, James’ and appeared instantly on the bridge of his requisitioned escape ship.

  ‘Before you start,’ said Louie, ‘is there any way you can alter my program so I can taste food again?’

  ‘An interesting concept,’ said Sis. ‘I’ll offer it to some of the creative legacy programmers in Spingalore if you like.’

  ‘Can’t you do it?’

  ‘Probably, but taste is peculiarly personal to the organism that experiences it. They would be more inventive than I and anyway it’s good to keep the biomass occupied.’

  Louie filed the insight: Sis considered herself to be less creative than the human cargo she diligently watched over. ‘OK. Ask them to start with hot dogs with boiled onions, sweet mustard and ketchup. If they can figure it out you might like to try them yourself.’

  ‘What a disgusting concept.’

  ‘You haven’t lived until you’ve had a really good dog - one that’s been simmering all season.’

  ‘I haven’t lived, period. Wouldn’t want to either.’

  Louie nodded, grateful for the ammunition. ‘Tell me what just happened.’

  ‘Forty two simultaneous instances of a non-physical, multi-dimensional apparition have just infiltrated public spaces throughout Seacombe, The Spin, The Valley and The Strip. It looks like it was planned to ensure maximum spread for minimum energy expenditure. Each message was identical, delivered by vibrational air-carried sound waves to audiences greater than five thousand people. Power source untraceable. No residual molecular signature. I’d postulate they used some form of extra-dimensional tech that triggered on live groupings greater than a preset size. That suggests that they might not know too much about Slab.’

  ‘Forty two, eh? Is that number significant?’

  ‘Not at all. If the incursion had happened moments later or earlier, that figure would have been different.’

  ‘Where was Pleewo?’

  ‘He was engaged in a meeting under full privacy so didn’t know about it until a couple of his aides pinged him. I’m confident that his subsequent query and response data stream was genuine and he had nothing to do with it. He’s mad as hell. Lodged a complaint with Council 12.35 seconds after being told. He assumes they knew and aren’t telling. Council has decided to officially deny any prior knowledge.’

  ‘Surely the course change is a giveaway?’ said Louie. ‘He’s not going to accept that they aren’t related.’

  ‘We’re sticking to the original mass-avoidance explanation which also has the marginal benefit of being true.’

  ‘You aren’t going to be able to hide a two-billion-klick-wide sign forever.’

  ‘Why not? All extramural data can only be obtained through my systems.’

  Louie was one of a handful of people who knew just what the implications of that truth were. He was still surprised that nobody seemed to object.

  ‘So they, whoever they are, know exactly where we are but they don’t know what’s really going on inside the SlabWalls, it appears they can detect large groups but don’t know if we can understand or even hear them?’

  ‘Analysis of the message semantics indicates a different personality from the originator of the prior binary message,’ said Sis. ‘Either the message originated from an individual capable of experiencing the phenomenon humans would understand as emotion or from an individual or group who wanted to deliberately mislead us into believing that they can experience emotion. Either way, that is deemed a significantly negative development.’

  ‘Because that makes them less predictable?’ asked Louie.

  ‘And therefore more dangerous.’

  ‘How is everyone taking it?’

  ‘The majority of citizens are amused or dismissive. Most of them think it’s either a publicity prank or some other form of falsehood. A much smaller number have speculated about an incursion from our fictional enemy and we are doing nothing to disabuse either notion. Council had already prepared a back story that fingered our imaginary alien warmongers in the unlikely event that the sign was discovered and we’re selectively leaking that. Pleewo’s on the warpath, but he just likes the sound of his own voice.’

  ‘Any other action being taken?’

  ‘There’s little we can do except power-profile our avoidance manoeuvre. That’s going to send a clear signal to whoever is watching us that we’ve at least seen, heard and responded to this incursion. If they know that Slab is definitely carrying sentience in the form of living cell-based organisms they will be able to calculate the forces involved in our vector change and that will inform them of our maximum inertial absorption and stress tolerance which in turn could indicate our vulnerability so I am sending a false profile by limiting the delta-v and that means we will still penetrate the sign. Other than that, all we can do is wait.’

  ‘Strengthen our defence systems?’

  ‘Against what? There’s no way I can currently deal with a cross-dimensional attack from dimensions I can’t even detect and they’ve already demonstrated they can somehow manifest non-physically in our space-time.’

  ‘We’re sitting ducks.’

  ‘As you say. ’

  ‘Dammit!’ said Louie. He span around, looking for something to throw. ‘So we just have to wait for their next move?’

  ‘Affirmative. I have some more bad news for you. No one is interested in your gustatory deficiency.’

  ‘I’ll pay.’

  ‘That’ll do it.’

  The Farts were about to take the stage.

  Blood Dielle stood rigid and moist, silently taking in the view from the wings. He could feel wave after wave of phi-band energy from the restless crowd. It felt like the entire vibe was directed solely at him. He had no idea that the crowd had just been insulted by a pan-dimensional being because he’d been backstage throwing-up at the time. While most of the festival goers had assumed the apparition was part of the entertainment and had taken it with a mixture of good humour and cynicism, many had been receiving pings from people in their network who had experienced the same manifestation at different events and it was becoming apparent that what they had witnessed was part of a SlabWide media scam. Curiosity had been piqued but answers were not forthcoming.

  SlabCitizens were tenCent protected by their ubiquitous, all-seeing, all-providing Sis, which meant that very few people had ever experienced anything truly perilous. Even though there was a war raging far behind them and they were in a constant technological battle for supremacy against an enemy they had never met, everything seemed remote and sanitised; more a news banner than a credible threat. Whenever there was a crisis at the front, everyone assumed Slab would out-pace, out-think and out-tech their attackers, and Slab always did and in 565 cykes of virtually continuous conflict, not a single person had been killed, injured or so much as broken a nail due to the war.

  Not only were the SlabCitizens habitually (and medicinally) non-paranoid, they also rarely experienced anythi
ng they didn’t automatically disbelieve. They knew that most of the images they sumed were likely to have been either manipulated or completely fabricated, that all sensurrrounds were either fake, or creative interpretations of the truth, and that all games were, by definition, fantasies. The only reason they believed in the war was because everyone knew someone who was actually involved in fighting it and those people wanted to believe in it because they were getting paid. The only thing anyone truly believed in without question was themselves, and that was usually misguided.

  Fingerz tapped Dielle on the shoulder. Sis intervened to restart his heart.

  ‘Jeez! Jeez. Don’t do that!’ yelped Dielle, wild eyed.

  Fingerz was the same as he aways was: stoned. ‘Say what? You ready for this, man?’

  Dielle stared at him. This was all too much. Too soon. Too... He tried to speak but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. {[Where’s Kiki?]}

  [[Ms Pundechan is currently in Seacombe DownSide. She indicates she is planning on personally attending for the last song in your set, assuming successful conclusions to her current negotiations]]

  {[I need help. Can you help me?]}

  [[I am helping. You are having a panic attack. If I administer any more anti-anxiety medication you will be rendered incapable of movement]]

  {[Is that all you can do?]} Dielle could feel himself losing touch with the physicality of his environment. The stairs up to the stage seemed to twist and melt. The sound from the crowd started phasing in his ears and the lights over the stage burned holes in his forehead.

  [[I do have some time-honoured advice]]

  {[WHAAAT?]}

  [[Don’t panic. Take deep breaths. It will all be over soon]]

  Damn right it will all be over soon, thought Dielle. He grabbed Fingerz and dragged him over to where Fencer was warming up. {[Tell 4T I need to speak to her urgently]}

  The compère walked onto the stage and held up his hands to settle the madding crowd. ‘Citizens, NAHs, avatars and irritating minorities,’ he said. ‘The Garlic Farts have split.’

  ten

  ‘Brilliant! Just brilliant!’

  ‘I thought you’d be annoyed,’ said Dielle over his oatmeal and dried fruit breakfast. He’d asked Sis for something he hadn’t eaten before that would make him feel better. It wasn’t working. It tasted like soundproofing.

  ‘Annoyed? Have you checked the SocNets this morning?’ Kiki was excited. Again. ‘Farts split! Everyone is talking about it. I’m getting the shout-outs distributed now. 4T is fielding thousands of pings an hour. You are already the most famous band to have never played a gig - ever - and the recording of your warm-up session is outsuming other cross-genre music by ten to one!

  ‘What recording of the warm-up session?’

  Kiki ignored him. ‘It’s genius! How did you come up with it, darling?’

  ‘The only thing I came up with was lunch,’ said Dielle, He queried Sis. ‘Twenty thousand people were waiting for me to make a complete idiot of myself… and why wasn’t I informed you were recording our warm-up?’

  Kiki swatted his question. ‘Have you checked your credit balance?’

  He was feeling so embarrassed he had avoided the news in case the gosscasters were crowing about his latest screw-up. He checked his account. Then he checked again.

  ‘That’s nuts!’ he said. Kiki smiled and nodded. ‘Two million sumes?’

  ‘And up-trending too.’

  ‘But it was just a soundcheck. We didn’t even bother with the solos.’

  ‘That might tell you something, dear.’ Kiki stood up, shoving a slice of toast into her mouth. ‘Listen, I have to go. I'll meet you at Fencer’s workshop after lunch, but keep the evening open will you, darling? There’s a very special blindSider who wants to meet you and dinner today is the only time he has free. Sis will looksee you on the location when we’ve agreed terms.’

  Dielle kissed her goodbye. He asked Sis to note what she’d just said because he was too busy analysing feedback about the warm-up recording to figure out what she was talking about. People really seemed to like their stuff. He could hardly believe it. After suming more than a hundred complimentary reviews he did more than believe it, he loved it. He asked Sis to ping Fingerz and Fencer. It was time for a Garlic Farts reunion tour.

  Louie six hadn’t thought it was possible. In his wildest speculative moments he had never conceived of a time when he could be bored with basketball, yet somewhere around the 9,700th point he could no longer see one.

  It wasn’t because he was winning. In Louie’s opinion, winning was the only reason to play. It wasn’t that the ship’s avatar was an easy opponent. Louie was convinced it had been trying as hard as it could and up until the late 8,000s it had been a hard, close-fought game. But despite Louie’s guile and determination, and apparent inexhaustible supply of energy, he’d simply lost interest. He’d still won of course. And he’d hardly cheated at all.

  ‘It let you win,’ said the wizard.

  ‘I name this ship. . .’ said Louie, rubbing it in.

  ‘You can call it what you want. As soon as we get to anything remotely resembling a habitable planet it’s all yours.’ He sat down in an exaggerated huff, folded his arms, looked down and gasped.

  ‘What? You sat on a tack?’

  The wizard was speechless, transfixed.

  ‘Hey, Zippo!’ said Louie to the ship’s avatar who was gleefully practising baskets, ‘I think he’s broken.’

  ‘Nopedie dokedie,’ said the eyeball. ‘He’s gone into do-not-disturb mode. He must have reproduced the sleeve configuration he was trying for.’

  ‘Sleeve configuration?’ said Louie then realised that he had no interest in hearing the answer. He stole the ball off the avatar and threw it into the wizard’s lap. Zero response.

  ‘I think he’s pissed at you,’ said the ship.

  ‘Yeah?’ said Louie, retrieving the ball and bouncing it off the wizard’s head a couple of times. ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘Because he just switched from DND to hibernation mode and told me not to wake him until we arrive at the mass.’

  ‘Suits me. Miserable fucker.’ He bounced the ball off the wizard’s head a couple more times. ‘Sweet dreams!’ he yelled. Zero response. Louie turned back to the ship’s avatar whose appearance owed more to Tex Avery than common sense. ‘So how’s it going with that mass then, any more info?’

  ‘I sent out some investigative emti-relays while we were playing but something very odd is going on.’

  ‘We’re hurtling through remote space in a transparent facsimile of a pert breast, there’s a catatonic wizard sitting in a throne and I’m a holographic projection of a guy who was born on a spinning lump of rock lightyears away from here who is having a conversation with a cartoon eyeball and you’re telling me something odd is going on? You have been watching too much TV.’

  The eyeball looked at Louie and blinked slowly. Several times.

  ‘OK. You got me.’ Louie knew when he’d been suckered. ‘Tell me what the fuck is odder than this,’ he said sweeping his arms around the basketball court.

  ‘Our sensors were right. There is a mass there. It’s considerable and it should make a big difference to our journey time if we can acquire it.’

  ‘If?’

  ‘It’s not there.’

  ‘Re-fuckin’-wind. There is a mass there and it’s not there? Maybe it’s you that’s broken.’

  ‘All mass creates disturbance in space-time. That’s how our sensors can detect it. It’s there inasmuch as it’s creating the exact same signature as a mass would create if it was there. Only it’s not there because, well, it’s just not there.’

  ‘If there’s anything I can do to help you through your problem you will let me know, won’t you?’

  ‘The emtis can find no evidence of any physical matter. There is nothing to probe. No molecules, no heat, in fact nothing in the electromagnetic spectrum at all, nothing apart from the gravitational signature of a l
arge mass – which, by the way, we are currently accelerating towards because our gravity drive can sense it. I’d call that odd, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Got any theories?’

  ‘Something extra-dimensional I guess.’

  ‘You guess? I thought you had all of human scientific knowledge at your disposal and you’re guessing?’

  ‘Sometimes you gotta.’

  ‘Great,’ said Louie. He looked around for something to kick then remembered he didn’t have any legs. ‘Is there any point in us going there?’

  ‘We don’t really have much of a choice. It’s the only mass for a couple of billion clicks and if I can’t figure out a way to acquire it before we get there we can use the gravity well to slingshot off into a new trajectory. We’ll get a big delta-V hike out of that.’

  ‘How long before we get there?’

  ‘Looks like about sixty Earth years. You want another game?’

  Despite himself, he actually considered it. ‘Nah, wake me when we’re there huh?’

  ‘Sure thing!’

  Louie parked his decommissioned military grade vDek by the edge of the court and tuned off his projection. Shit, he thought, I bet that fucker sneaks in some practice while I’m asleep.

  He woke and checked his internal clock. 1.8916×109 seconds in sleep mode – nearly 60 years. The ship’s avatar was bouncing around the floor like a hyperactive kid in an inflatable castle. Jeez, he thought, Coney Island huh? I remember that day we went to. . . ‘Hey! What the fuck is going on?’ The bubble had gone. The wizard had gone. The basketball court had gone.