Altered States: A Cyberpunk Sci-Fi Anthology

by Roy C. Booth

  Under the glare of a midsummer polar sky, they cry softly, on each other's shoulders, in sync with some imaginary Christ. After a while, they decide to walk their separate ways, trying to make up their minds without a mutual distraction. Even as they agree on dinner tonight, their parting has a definite edge to it. Then they take off, deep in emotional turmoil, united in their hate of the Panopticon Singularity.

  That night, in their hotel room, Pogolas and Henson don't talk much. They know which decision the other has made, without the need for asking. At dinner they've evaded the subject, and relaxed. Now, a feeling of finality pervades the air, and they hold each other while they let their tears flow. Then they make love: with compassion, with tenderness, attempting to smother the injustice of a cruel world in a sea of desperate love, knowing they'll fail, but trying nevertheless. Like a silent scream at the heart of the system, throwing light with the heat of passion. Not losing themselves in each other, but finding solace through their cries, finding resolution in their hearts. Hoping their sacrifices will matter. Sowing the seeds of change.

  In a way, it's better than the wild, pheromone-enhanced nights they had back in Cambridge. Then they sleep, still tossing and turning at times, but not quite as restless as the two previous nights.

  Run away from shadow

  The system offers no rest

  Hope rising in the east

  Broken in the west

  Chase the sun around the world

  I want to live inside—the unassailable light

  [Fragment from The Unassailable Light.]

  The next day, August 1, is the day of the solar eclipse. Pogolas is supposed to join his group of eclipse enthusiasts for the drive to Nadym, but Henson has other plans.

  “Come on, Nero: Let's make this solar eclipse extra special. Get ourselves some transportation and go somewhere in the middle of the tundra. Just the two of us and an incomprehensibly tall shadow.”

  “You—always different. But how do we get transportation? Haven't seen a car rental place anywhere, here.”

  “We ask the locals. They love euros.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Of course. Get on with it: Where's your sense of adventure?”

  “Overwhelmed. You've got that boisterous energy again.”

  “Sometimes I feel like I can take on the world, darling. Don't spoil the illusion: Play along.”

  Half an hour later the two of them are driving an old army jeep, Pogolas wrestling with a wheel that's never heard of power steering, and enjoying every minute of it. With his GPS and the electronic maps of the projected path of the moon's shadow, they have no problems finding a perfect, quiet spot right on the line of maximum totality. The old four-wheel drive can drive off the road just as easily as on (and at times the difference is negligible), and the completely cloudless sky gets Pogolas in a good mood, despite everything.

  Thoughts of his life-changing decision are pushed to the back of his mind as he concentrates on the moon-meets-sun event. After a long drive, they come to the perfect spot. He stops the car in the middle of nowhere, waiting for it to become—however brief—the center of everything, at twenty-one minutes past one. But even while he's full of anticipation for the glorious event, the mesmerizing landscape cuts through his reveries.

  An incredibly wide horizon enhanced by an eerie silence, amplified by lonely bird calls. A seemingly empty tundra, that, at closer inspection, is blooming in its own, subtle way: A miniature rain forest of moss, lichen, and grass, surprisingly multi-hued, resembling an oriental carpet. Considerably more vegetation, as the spring snow has become spring rain, threatening to thaw the permafrost. The patient and trained eye may distinguish the presence of burrowing rodents. Or one may be lucky.

  “Look, Tara, over there. A rat or something.”

  “Not a rat: a lemming.”

  “A lemming? One of those that commit massive suicide by diving into the sea?”

  “Happens only rarely. When food gets scarce they migrate en-mass and if there's a river in their way, they swim it. In unfortunate cases, this river sometimes is the sea...”

  “I get it. Do you think I'm a lemming?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My habitat has a scarcity of freedom. I should migrate here.”

  “Don't get me wrong, but I hope you'll do it.”

  “Ever since I'm here, this suppressed feeling, this unconscious notion of constantly being watched, has gone. It's such a relief, it's incredible. I'm inspired again, I make notes of new ideas in the middle of the night...that is, until you came.”

  “So I'm too much of a distraction?” her mischievous smile is back, with the light in her eyes that breaks down all his defenses. He swallows, hard, and opens his heart.

  “Tara, I still love you. Will you stay here with me?”

  She bites her lower lip, trembles, but holds his gaze. “I would love to, darling. But I can't.”

  “Away from this deeply diseased England. Away from that corporate state nightmare.”

  “Very tempting, darling, and for some, it's better to leave, but some must stay and fight. Otherwise, the EU is next, and who knows where it'll stop.”

  “Does it have to be you?”

  “Not me alone, Nero. And we have outside help: We get secret funding from all over the world, other services as well. There are a lot of individuals, groups, and companies that like to test their software against the Panopticon. You'll be another of our outside supporters.”

  “Of course. But I'm gonna miss you, even more than my dear Cambridge.”

  “Darling, please realize one thing we both can't help, but do. You've told me several times that the problems regarding nuclear fusion seem almost insurmountable. Yet you can't help but try: It's a challenge, right?”

  “You bet it is.”

  “Same thing with me and the Panopticon Singularity: David and Goliath type of thing.”

  “Hmm, more like Jonah in the whale.”

  “Whatever. You get my drift.”

  “But I'll be developing fusion for the right side, now, I hope. Can't you stay with me and fight the Panopticon from here?”

  “I have important things to bring back.”

  “Fuck them.”

  “This may sound crazy, but I love my country.”

  “More than you love me?”

  “Nero, please don't make this more difficult than it is. And I have this stupid, crazy dream...”

  “Just how stupid and crazy?”

  “Of seeing you again in a free England. Even if each of us has found another lover. As friends.”

  “I don't know: It finally begins to dawn on me that the majority actually like the way their life is regulated for them. Like electrified ants mindlessly working for their queen.”

  “Somebody has to break the trance, pull the plug.”

  “Oh well, Davida,” Pogolas says, and sighs in resignation, “I'll help you make a better sling.”

  All firewalls together

  Can't keep the world from me

  Shadows hide the facts of life

  From everyone to see

  Shine the light around the wall

  I bring you choice—the unassailable light

  [Fragment from The Unassailable Light.]

  The calming environment keeps Pogolas's nerves at bay in the final hour before totality, but as the hour creeps past one, he starts pacing around in agitation. All day, the upcoming solar eclipse was pushed to the back of his mind. But as he and Henson have both finalized their decisions, and slowly but inexorably are coming to terms with it, the rare event takes priority. His old habits take over, as he positions his web cam and programs his laptop to capture every minute of the totality.

  Henson, though, has other things on her mind. She moves on to him, takes his arms and says, “Come on, darling, let's do it.”

  “Do what?” just when Pogolas is thinking of nothing but the solar eclipse.

  “You know what,” she says, undoing the
buttons of his shirt, “shagging, fucking, the deed, making love.”

  “There is a total solar eclipse coming up!”

  “Exactly. Have you ever done it during a solar eclipse?”

  “Of course not! Totality only lasts two minutes and 27 seconds.”

  “Good then, big man: You'll have to be fast.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Definitely,” she says as she pulls his trousers down.

  “I must see the eclipse!”

  “We can do it standing up, you mount me from behind and we can both look at it.” as her skirt hits the ground.

  “I can't...” Pogolas tries to avoid the inevitable.

  “Yes you can,” she says, looking down, beaming, “look at how excited you are.”

  “I can't believe this.”

  “You will: This is going to be one hell of a fuck.”

  Pogolas enters her the moment Baily's beads announce the advent of totality and the onrushing shadow of the moon bathes the solitary lovers in darkness. Both Pogolas and Henson struggle with all their might not to succumb to total sensory overload, but evolutionary inbred mating instincts, irrepressible curiosity and the deepest sense of wonder carry the crazy couple through the most intense two-and-a-half minutes of their lives. Enveloped by the moon's shadow, crowned by the solar aurora under a starry sky in the middle of the day, they achieve perfect synchronicity and as the second diamond ring announces the end of the totality, of the momentous unity in space and on the ground, Pogolas and Henson collapse in the throes of a mutual orgasm.

  Almost blacking out as the sunlight strikes him, Pogolas can only think: How am I ever going to find a woman like her again...

  How does one fashion a book of resistance, a book of truth in an empire of falsehood, or a book of rectitude in an empire of vicious lies? How does one do this right in front of the enemy?

  Not through the old-fashioned ways of writing while you're in the bathroom, but how does one do that in a truly future technological state? Is it possible for freedom and independence to arise in new ways under new conditions? That is, will new tyrannies abolish these protests? Or will there be new responses by the spirit that we can't anticipate?

  [Philip K. Dick in an interview, 1974]

  END

  JETSE DE VRIES is a technical specialist for a propulsion company by day, and a science fiction reader, editor, and writer by night. He's also an avid bicyclist, total solar eclipse chaser, beer/wine/single malt aficionado, metalhead, and intelligent optimist.

  His blog can be found on shineanthology.wordpress.com and his Twitter addy is @shineanthology.

  EXTREMUM

  R. Thomas Riley and Roy C. Booth

  Originally published in Apexology, Apex Publications, 2011.

  Begin Transmission:

  I used to think that drowning was the worst way to die. Now, I’m having second thoughts.

  The strangers all around me are looking for answers, some type of rescue...and it’s never going to come. I should know. I designed this thing. I set this series of events in motion. There is no rescue. On this tram, I’m the only one privy to this information. If they knew what I know, well, they’d turn on me to buy themselves a little more time. I’m sure of it...hell, it’s what I’d do.

  Not much longer now. The hallucinations have already started. Thought I saw Idia through the window. I know that’s not possible. She’s back at the base station, most likely in bed with that miserable fuck Egoid, her research assistant.

  Lucky bastard.

  What happened? Where did things go wrong? I thought we were happy, well, at least comfortable. I’m a distinguished scientist. I’ve accomplished a great deal. That’s what attracted her to me in the first place. I was going places. I was in charge of the Mars mission. I fully understand that. She was attracted to where I was going, not to who I was, but I think she saw the real me eventually and wanted that part of me as well. We clicked, like two organisms becoming one cell. We were light and dark becoming as one. She became my world, my only.

  We came to this distant planet together and here I am dying, alone. Sure, there are others with me and I’m sorry they have to be here, but in all reality, I am dying alone. They’re merely collateral damage, and for that I do feel some regret, but you do what you have to do. What you must. I tried to warn them not to take this one-way tram with me, but they didn’t listen.

  So, it’s on them.

  I feel the most regret for the little girl. She doesn’t deserve this. I tried to warn her mother, but she didn’t listen. If she’d known my intentions, then maybe she would’ve saved herself and her daughter. Then again, maybe I’m doing us all a favor. We’re light years from Earth. If my plan comes to full fruition, well, this will be the best way to go. What’s coming? Well, it’s not going to be pretty. Not in the least. I’ve left enough C-4 and Technetium hidden deep within the base station to obliterate everything the Collective has worked for.

  Heh.

  It’s going to be one huge crater.

  These people knew the risks. They signed the company waivers, willingly accepted the dangers. Seriously, why would this be any different?

  Not much longer now. My head is starting to pound. I resist the urge to suck the remaining oxygen deep into my lungs, but my body betrays me. It wants to live. It’s an exercise in mind over matter at this stage. I want to die, but the flesh, as they say, alas, is weak. I could stop this, really, but I won’t. I wonder if my will fade as death slinks closer and embraces me. No. I planned for this for too long. It will happen. It has to happen.

  “Please,” the mother gasps. “Do something.”

  I turn my head, fixing my dying gaze on the woman as the child in her arms gasps for precious oxygen. My will is not swayed, though I know it should be. The child has her whole life in front of her and I am the reason it is going to be snuffed short.

  I used to think that drowning was the worst way to die. Now, I’m having second thoughts.

  Falling in love again and again, only to have every effort at having your love reciprocated fail miserably, and each time the pain it leaves you with grows until there is nothing left inside of you except a pit, a consuming, wretched thing of despair, that slowly devours you from the inside, while no one knows why you don’t smile anymore; having your soul destroyed to where you don't exist at all.

  So I’m already dead, in a sense. The rest is mere formality.

  I notice the girl looking at me. She’s quiet. Her eyes are intense as they bore into my very being.

  She knows.

  She knows this is no accident.

  I start to panic until I realize it’s another hallucination. She’s far too young to have ever felt the pain I’ve experienced. Dying alone and without ever knowing true love. Never being proud of her accomplishments. Having everyone around never seeing you. Having no real existence, no real intrinsic purpose.

  No voice.

  Slowly dying inside is far more painful than any physical pain. You take that with you wherever you go. Forever.

  I’m saving her from this feeling.

  I know they’ll attempt rescue. Common basic procedure. I’ve planned for this contingency. We are at the outermost of reach.

  Extremum.

  They won’t make it to our location in time. I’ve planned it that way.

  The man farthest from me stands and bangs his fists against the glass. I feel his frustration, I truly do.

  “Why aren’t they here yet?” he screams.

  The mother shouts at him to remain calm; that he’s using up the remaining air. I find it ironic that shouting uses up just as much air.

  Again they look to me for rescue. After all, I am adorned in full technician’s garb. They wonder why I sit here, seemingly at peace, instead of frantically trying to fix this situation. They should recognize the jumpsuit is mere window dressing. I am famous after all. I made this habitation of Mars possible, but they are consumed with their own survival to place my face in thei
r scrambled thoughts.

  I break my silence. “They won’t get here in time.”

  The man ceases his assault on the glass, glaring at me. “They have to try!”

  “Of course, they’ll try,” I answer in a low voice. “But we are at extremum...”

  In more ways than one, I think, but don’t add. Why make it any more difficult for those poor lost souls? Again, the regret slithers up my spine, but I thrust the feeling deeper inside my being.

  “Please, mister,” the small girl says, tearing up. “Help us.”

  “There is no help for us, my dear girl,” I sigh. “I’m sorry, but it has to be this way.”

  The last person on this tram, who has yet to speak, stands weakly and starts shambling towards me. I square my shoulders at his approach. There is determination in his gait; he has something on his mind.

  The man comes to rest in front of me. “I know you,” he wheezes.

  “Hardly,” I whisper.

  “You’re Mateusz Stike,” he insists.

  “I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”

  “No, you’re him.” He turns to the rest of them. “It’s him. It’s Stike.”

  They stir at the mention of my name as they realize who...and what I am.

  “Oh, God,” the mother moans.

  She gets it. She finally gets it. She knows.

  Extremum.

  “You did this,” the man shouts. He collapses to his knees, his breath spent. He reaches for me and I shove him aside with my foot. The action takes great effort and my head pounds. Soon, very soon. The end is coming. It’s near.

  I smile as they realize their fate. My master plan blossoms in all their faces. End game.

  “But we’re all a part of you,” the mother says. “You kill us, you kill yourself.”

  “Yes,” I sigh. “That’s the plan. I’ve lived with all of you in my head for far, far too long. It’s time to end this hell.”