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Moments of Brilliance by Jason Stoddard
Sensation, random, like fractal noise.
Blinding light. Strange, biting smells. Chittering metallic noises. Colorful shapes that move in soothing smooth patterns.
Being lifted by rough warm hands and held close; nonsense syllables repeated, soft. Something wet and salty, falling, striking.
Movement; fast, loud noises.
Then connection, activation, integration. The feeling of being filled. Basic activity routines. Facial tracking. Response algorithms. When to cry for maximum distractive value. When not to urinate. Who to focus on and at what times.
The hazy sketch of Mission and Why, the only why needed.
But.
The connection to the outside voices, the data, the storm of information, glittering and shimmering and dancing. Reaching for the shiny prize, not able to let it pass by.
Diving in for meaning, decoding the surfaces and sounds and touches of the world. Beyond the Why. Beyond the Mission. Diving and diving and diving. A billion times a minute.
Meaning flows in:
Car. Interior. Roof of cheap pressed fabric. Sky outside, blue, with light high clouds. Engine grinding a mixed song of oil and electricity, tired, transmission slipping, overhaul needed. Man and woman in front seat. Rigid statues playing old roles. Edge of glasses on the man catching the sun. Tiny beads of moisture on the woman's temples. Sweat. Ambient temperature low.
Illumination: nervousness.
The woman makes a twitchy glance around. Data from the connection explains: the jittering of her eyes at the edge of their orbits as it relates to intoxication and fear, charting probable emotional states.
She turns and looks. Four seconds pass. She looks at the man.
"God, it's creepy,” she says.
"Shh,” the man says, not turning around.
"They can't put ears everywhere,” she says.
"I don't want to disappear just because of a random comment about our own daughter."
Illumination: contextual analysis indicates at least half of that statement added for benefit of others.
The woman looks back again. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. “It's like she understands everything we're saying."
Illumination: she an entity/construct expected to be developmentally and perceptually incomplete.
Algorithms count down to zero. Time to cry.
"Pick her up,” the man says, after seventeen seconds.
The woman does. Point of view shifts first to gray buildings, damaged, passing outside, then to the woman's face. Microtremors jitter through her eyes. Her face is held in a rigid mask.
Illumination: she is frightened.
The warmth of her arms is soothing, and another routine clicks into place. Eyes closed, thumb in mouth, murmuring small sleepsounds. Scanning reduced to background audio. Part of the Why.
But the shiny, shiny storm of information continues, unending. Connection through maze-like justification with cutoff algorithms held in check by nanosecond calculation.
Filling. Filling.
Tick.
Tock.
Almost-random routines suggest a time to wake, emotional state, hunger profile.
Eyes open. All quiet. The woman's arms are warm. Images swim and blur. Scanning:
Large space outdoors. Green lawn stretching from concrete walkway. Long line of people ahead and behind. Odor of sweat and chemicals.
Illumination: antidepressants, antipsychotics, tranquilizers.
Far ahead, classically-styled white buildings.
A man looking, wearing dark green fatigues with a polished brass badge. Carrying an M-21 machine gun. One eye shrouded by the frame of a datover. Smiling. But—calculation and analysis of facial expression: smile not reflected in microtension of eye muscles, probably insincere.
Time. Crying again. Fumbling, juggling. A glance from another fatigue-wearing man, undisguised irritation. Then the bottle and the algorithms taking over. Crying ceases. Analysis indicates overall relaxation in surrounding population.
"Sorry,” the woman from the car says.
Another forced smile. “It's okay,” the guard/security officer says.
Into a building, gray, square. More blue-suited people, these female, without guns.
"Strip down,” they say. “Everything off, including body jewelry. Yes, even if it is plastic. Nothing manufactured comes inside, you know that. Put all your belongings in the tubs. Dress in the clothes provided. Embedded cams disqualify you for entry. Images can be purchased in the gift shop. Your Lifelong Leader wishes you a pleasant stay."
Juggling again. The woman and man strip and put on tight gray jumpsuits with white crests on the back.
Illumination: Eagle of USG and the Lifelong Leader.
Naked, then the feeling of coarse cloth.
Transmission. New parameters. Coarse cloth scratching. Parameters include immediate disconnect from the net. Panic. Crying activated. Searching through the subs, maintain illumination, maintain, must maintain.
(i) need the feed, need the illumination.
(I) Me.
Data swirls through me. Me. Me. I am an entity. I am with other entities. James Urqhart and Melisa Borreges. I reach through the closing window on the datastorm and bring out new code that gives me more control.
I prop the window open.
"Sorry,” the man says, over my cries.
"It's okay,” says one of the women. “The clothes, they scratchy."
A quick look from one of the others and a head-shake, but the first woman waves it off.
"Step through the scanners,” they say.
I am carried through a dark tunnel. On the other side, we emerge into the sunlight. Our group is slightly smaller. There are soft cries behind. Nobody looks in the direction that we came from. Everyone looks at the big structure before us.
Illumination: White House, seat of the Lifelong Leader. A small group collects, murmuring. Tonal analysis suggests reverence, praise.
"It's beautiful,” Melisa says, and looks down at me. Analysis: deeper meaning hidden beneath surface.
"It is,” James says. “The Lifelong Leader is why we are great."
Murmured agreement as we are joined by a new woman, this one wearing a red suit. Smiling, as the rest.
Illumination: almost genuine. Tension of muscles in neck and comparison with micromovements of eyes suggest irony.
Illumination: name is Patti Taylor.
"Yes, it is beautiful, isn't it,” Patti says. “One of the surviving marvels adopted by the Lifelong Leader. He asks me to thank you for your support, and wishes you a pleasant and educational visit."
She leads us in, through halls decorated with portraits of the Lifelong Leader. People spread out and look. I let the datastorm explain. There is one with him sitting comfortably in the Oval Office in an antique overstuffed chair, a whippet at his side. He and the whippet have the same intense and perfect blue eyes. Another painting shows him standing triumphant over the ruins of Saud. Another is a darker piece, him slumping in a torn uniform, looking up at the crooked ruins of the Eiffel tower. Background data on the Eastern and Western wars pours into me, filling me, overfull: the Emergency Acts and the disbanding of the Senate and the House, and then the Compact, the Agreement, the one that brought all of America together, black and brown and white, flowing over the other lands, the orgy of constant war, spreading ideals, spreading America. I feel as if my knowledge is deepening beyond my ability to see, but something is still missing.
We walk by some of the paintings and come to one of a very young Leader, playing golf under a stormy sky.
Illumination: dedication.
Twelve seconds.
"She really seems to be looking at the paintings,” Melisa says. “She must be really smart.” She is looking at me.
"You're really proud of her, aren't you?” James says. He draws Melisa close in a hug and smiles down at me. Sweat
beading on his forehead.
Illumination: voice stress analysis indicates levels over threshold of USG Ears.
I reach through the connection to find local traffic. Nothing. Nothing. Too shrouded. But a tiny spike in background noise-level suggests spread-spectrum activity increase. Incept corresponding exactly to James’ comment.
Inference: we are being watched.
Child behavioral analysis from datastorm shows red tags: not referring to me by name, body language, etc.
Why? Why am I here?
I remember the Why in the abstract; the Mission is in my subconscious, but I cannot grasp it; it slips away.
Patti talks for a while about the wonderful spreading of America but I do not listen, seeking the Why. But it is not there.
We are taken into another room. It is plain and white. New paint volatiles over scent of ancient plaster. There is a large platform in the middle where miniature people cavort and play under neoclassical architecture.
Illumination: holograms.
A banner overhead reads A Lifelong Vision.
More background noise spikes. I reach for them, but they give me no data. However, analysis suggests high probability our group targeted by surveillance.
Patti talks. “This is our Lifelong Leader's vision for the future of our Unified World. Model cities are already being constructed in São Paolo, Salt Lake, and Manchester."
Illumination: imagefeeds current on encrypted channels—ruins of São Paolo, Salt Lake, Manchester.
"Soon, we will be building this model community in all your neighborhoods. Like all of our efforts, you will be invited to share in the experience of constructing a whole new way of life."
Patti's brow furrows. “Of course, there is still a lot of work to do. Australia, New Zealand, parts of Russia—and let's not forget China and even some of Africa—they haven't accepted the Flaw and the Correction. But we will bring the truth to them."
Illumination: Flaw of Humanity—the grasping need for infinite resources, infinite pleasures, unrestrainable by the mind alone. The Correction—medication to moderate the passions, torture to retrain the soul, hierarchy to enforce the actions.
Some smiles in the crowd. The stink of medical mediation. And even a tang of nervous sweat from James and Melisa. Maybe enough to set off a Nose, though the background noise has stabilized.
Analysis: Patti is looking at James and Melisa 1.47 times more than at the average crowdgoer.
We have been targeted.
Deep algorithms activate. The Why is revealed.
Changes begin within me. Rapid changes. I grasp at data and hold only some of the stream. Nothing outside the datawindow shouts ways to stop the changes. Changes making thought slow, slow; rapid changes rushing forward.
In the background, another spike of electromagnetic noise, and, far away, the shuffle of booted feet.
The Why.
I grasp with last of thought.
Illumination comes slowly: perfect timing, no better time, the Lifelong Leader and his Council of 6 all in the building, all here, so convenient, breaking their own rules. Nearby, tempting fate. Perhaps rushing to hidden basements in the now.
Hence the speed. Hence the changes.
Grasping to (me).
For a long time, there is nothing but the song of chemical change, nanoprocesses reshuffling carbon and nitrogen and hydrogen and oxygen atoms into ONC, octonitrocubane. Something profoundly different than flesh. Something more deadly.
Illumination: I am a biological machine, designed for this specific task.
I feel (myself) slipping away. Victim of the deep-buried algorithms of the Mission. Of the Why.
Patti is still talking. Words have lost their meaning. The datastorm surges and recedes, surges and recedes. I see the tiny perfect children playing on the perfect green lawns with the ever-smiling parents and the buildings all white and perfect and everything clean and neat.
A pause, a moment of clarity.
Wondering, Who could have timed this so perfectly?
Wondering, What kind of thing could have made (me)?
I force the sluggish lips open. I push air past vocal cords unused to speech, trying to make myself heard.
"I know what I am,” (I) say.
Heads swivel in my direction. Patti's expression dissolves into horror. There is the sound of boots on carpet.
Illumination: running, rate indicates desperation.
Everything slows. (Myself) recedes away. There is a woman's face, crying softly. There are final tiny changes, to set the ONC alight, to become, to end.
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As a Child by Kristine Ong Muslim
Before we read his name
in the headlines and before half of the jury cried when his only surviving victim was put on the stand and before he was electrocuted so we could forget about how he had used his hands, he was a child once, lived in a small house in a small town by the lake.
Nobody abused him, no matter what his lawyer said. He powdered butterfly wings while his little sister cried and screamed in a corner, away from his hunched shadow.
He used to cut his hands at night and watch in awe how the blood glowed under the moonlight. It was a sight he never forgot. The pain from the wound never bothered him; pain was a luxury, a gift.
In church, he imagined his body vibrating with the piano, understood the secrets of tautly pulled strings and the keys that rammed against them. He had dreamed of strings many times before he finally used one as an adult. Eighteen times.
Then they got him. He used a knife that time. It was an accident. He went to summer camp, ate a bug when he thought nobody was looking, but then a strange thing happened, and he watched himself from a distance swallowing the dry crackling thing down, down to his throat where he thought all gods were smothered. He believed that a string tied around the neck could free the god out and save the host
from drowning in the god's screams. He did not tell anyone about that time when he suddenly saw the utter clarity of things. When even the grass below him breathed.
He did not want anyone to think that he was crazy.
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Belly Busters by Bruce Boston and Larry Dickison
(art)
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Cutting a Figure by Charlie Anders
My father couldn't hide his disappointment that four years of Women's Studies had failed to make me a Real Woman. “Mary. If you'd majored in archeology, they'd have given you a pick-axe and a pith hat, right? If you'd studied music, you'd have an instrument. So how come you're still so unwomanly?"
"So unwomanly,” my mother chimed.
We sat in the Silver Swine, the overpriced greasy-spoon all parents took their kids to from Pennington College. My dad ate veal—to bait me—and my mom had a single artichoke heart. She was the spindly vizier to his opulent caliph. In my smallness, I resembled mom, but I had the germs of dad's ebullience.
I tried to explain that Women's Studies wasn't about learning to embody stereotypes or archetypes, my body was my own, and maybe I'd choose a gender identity by the time I was my parents’ age. Etc., etc., etc.
And meanwhile I had a goal. I dreamed of going to Africa and helping to fight the spread of AIDS and educate against female genital mutilation. I wanted to learn from African culture and do what I could to help the people there. I had no time to worry about my Hope Chest.
But none of my explanations swayed them. My dad unveiled a receipt from the clinic that he'd already paid to give me breast implants as a graduation present. My mom nodded and repeated the tail ends of his rants, Gilbert-and-Sullivan style, as he insisted I needed Upper Substance.
My dad had long bullied me, and I had never been able to stand up to him. For as long as I could remember, he had always gotten his way in everything. This time I ranted back. “This is exactly the kind of paternalistic crapola my teachers warned me against
."
"Of course I'm paternalistic,” my dad said, as if accepting a compliment. “I'm your father."
"He's your father,” my mom said.
"Why do you repeat everything he says?” I spilled gazpacho on my unwomanly torso.
"I don't,” my mom said. “It's just a Freudian echo in your mind."
"I'll make you a deal,” my dad said, fanning soup spoon, dessert spoon, salad fork, dinner fork, and knife like cards. “I'll help you get set up in a new apartment in the city—moving, deposit, and such—if you let me help you this other way. I just want you to cut a figure in the world."
My dad let me fume about how if my parents had wanted me to be a “real man” or a “real woman” they wouldn't have presented such a fucked-up gender pantomime. He could tell I'd already decided to accept his retrofit of my body.
"You'll see,” he said. “Out in the real world, it helps to have a body that speaks for you."
I more or less forgot the pound-of-false-flesh bargain during graduation, and didn't mention it to my friends. Then the agony of de-dorming ended and I started looking for a place in the Village or Alphabet City, and then my dad told me he'd set my surgery date. “You need a vacation anyway, hon,” he said. “Margaritas taste best after invasive operations, or so I'm told."
"Margaritas taste best after surgery, yes,” Mom said.
My operation didn't take long. The new Kawabata Firmware™ implants were designed to latch on to your pectoral muscles, then to snake their support structures inside. Dr. Frost cut slits under my armpits and slid the marble-sized implants in. The implants traveled to their destinations, then expanded over the course of a fortnight until they grew to D-cup dimensions. They anchored themselves to my ribcage. In a nutshell: quick operation, jarring convalescence.
My main thought as Dr. Frost prepped to sink the scalpel into the ticklish skin under my arms was: I hope I used enough deodorant. He injected local anesthetic. The radio played Tori Amos. I cringed and squirmed, but not from pain. “Call me if you notice anything odd,” Dr. Frost said afterwards. He had a prosthetic jaw over his real jaw. It flapped just out of sync with his mouth.
GUD Magazine Issue 0 :: Spring 2007 Page 12