Man, blue windbreaker, cellphone in a pouch around his neck:

I just wanted to tell you about the sound you heard, the sound you thought you heard coming from my phone. You have headphones, the people behind me were talking louder than my phone could be, the sounds you thought you heard-

Me, I don’t realize the kind of person he is:

You think I imagined hearing noises from your phone?

Man, who is older with grey in his thick, black hair. His widow’s peak points down at me like a diving raven as I sit at this table in a cafe. He stands, he steps forward and back, he gestures:

No I don’t want to make it sound like that, I don’t want to argue, I just want to help you. You know we have a lot of technology and a lot of people don’t know how much technology we have and what it can be used for. If at some point in the near future a picture of a government agent appears on your laptop screen there, you should ask for proof. We’re here and there’s satellites above us that can track the devices we’re using. You have headphones, my phone doesn’t go that loud — I wish it would be louder, sometimes, but it’s a cheap phone — you have a nicer phone but you need to know that they’re tracking that. If a picture comes up on your screen, it could be coming from Nigeria. You can’t trust their identity, they can fake that. It’s a setup they try and get you for a scam. That’s what happened to some people in my family. Two hundred fifty thousand dollars is what they got because that’s what they do.

Me? I was so ready to go into argument mode that now I have to forcibly make myself nod and smile. Except, smiling isn’t quite appropriate. Nod and furrow? Just don’t look combative. Don’t ask questions. These are all ways to invite longer explanations:

I see.

Man, speaking at a reasonable pace, and at a reasonable volume. The beautiful woman sitting one table away has stopped typing, but the man doesn’t break eye contact with me:

Yes, they are scammers. That’s the technology in Nigeria and tracking you hear above you in the sky. If anyone tries to get you with an image on your computer screen you need to get them on video phone. You need to see the movement, on video phone, of their lips moving. Icons and names on the computer? Those can all be faked — most people don’t know that, that the technology is like that, and how it works. You have to see the real identity that they can’t fake: this! The face! An image of a badge can be in Photoshop in just a few hours, but if you see their lips move and their face that’s how you can identify them. Even then they have the satellites. They’re tracking you — audio, video — they can adjust what they look like, cater to you with what they say. Especially the old people, they’re more susceptible. That’s how they got my family, maybe I should say, I think. But it’s everything — it could be anything. So I just wanted to let you know that’s how the radio waves can affect your mind with all this technology we have.

Me, wondering if this deep breath meant his lecture was over. I’m thinking I could turn, put my headphones in, ignore him, as if I had never gotten up and asked him to turn the volume of his phone down. I could be writing right now. The cold shoulder might provoke him though. Is it better to let this run its course? How long could that last. I’d better get a drink of water, yes, that’s better and it lets me break eye contact in a non-aggressive way:

I’m sorry to hear that.

Man:

Yes, well, so be on the lookout if, in the near future, the police try and contact you. They could be coming for you — your house, your money, your children — it could be anything you care about. That’s what I want to warn you about.

Me, that drink of water helps clear my head. This is fascinating, actually. What was I even writing, anyway? Something that seemed worth focusing on, I suppose, if I felt the sound of people yelling on a train in a YouTube video was too disruptive. A man is speaking to me now, though, and listening is just as satisfying a use of time as writing. Maybe it helps him feel better, too. I’m giving him my attention happily, although I still don’t know what expression I should be making with my face:

Thank you.

Man, not showing any signs of walking away:

Of course, that’s all I wanted to say. I didn’t come over to argue about the phone, but to let you know how we have all this technology and it interferes with you. Not just with the identities but with what you think and what you see. It’s… you can look this up to find out. A lot of people don’t. So, last thing, I’ll let you know — I’ll ask you: do you know how many satellites we have above us right now. Don’t say. Above the United States — do you know?

Me, shaking my head, gently:

…

Man, pointing to the sky:

Over nine hundred satellites, each equipped with telescopes but also radioscopes — radios. It’s powerful things in the radio spectrum and it’s all around us. They can target us, with electricity and reflecting heat from the sun. Melt a car right in half. You can look up videos of that. They’ll track you, but they track you anyway, so I just wanted to warn you about that. That’s why I came over here.

Me:

Thank you.

Man, looking no less frustrated than when he started talking:

That’s all I wanted to warn you about. Remember the real identity: the face. Yes. Thank you. Alright then.

Me:

Have a good one.

Man, walking back to his table:

Mmhmm.

Me, thinking I can keep my cool until I make eye contact with the beautiful woman at the other table. Her mouth is agape and her teeth are white but she doesn’t really want to talk to me so she breaks her gaze before either of us laugh. We don’t laugh. I don’t know if I’m a bad person for even wanting to laugh. I say nothing:

I will remember, sir. I will try to remember everything you told me. I will count how many times you repeated each piece of advice and each anecdote. I will shame myself for wanting to laugh at you. I will pat myself on the back for diffusing the situation, even though I had no control over your behavior at any point. I will channel the feeling I had when I realized you weren’t an asshole, just crazy. I will try to put that into words, so that others may have the same feeling. And when all of your words have been written and posted to the internet, then as many as five other people may hear your advice. And when that happens, there will be another resource that the government and the people in Nigeria can use to track our lives, sir. And if it turns out you’re right, and my car gets melted in half, well that would make me look like a total dipshit.

The following story contains profanity and graphic imagery which may not be suitable for my mom. What started as sort of a joke gift a friend turned into three thousand words about love, death, and dicks. This is an experiment with the genre of “erotic fanfiction” based on the Magic The Gathering universe, though in depth knowledge of the source material is not necessary and should probably be avoided at all costs. Also, shoutout to Shipwreck SF as a continual source of inspiration. Enjoy!

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Read Part 7

Wheels were turning in Jane’s head, but also she was thinking. Cyberpipe vapor did not agree with her system. Nanobots were hard at work filtering out any toxins before the air hit her degenerative lung tissue, but still a painful inflammation was growing in her chest. I could kill for some freeze-vapor right now, she thought. Seated opposite her, the man in the pinstriped suit flashed her another chrome-filled smile. Actually, that doesn’t sound so bad. She tucked her long black hair into the hood of her jacket, hoping it would block the stench.

The HoverLuxe had wound its way through narrow San Francisco streets for at least an hour. Jane found it curious they never took to the air, but evidently the Mr. Polhaus was in no hurry. Beyond introducing himself and reloading his pipe with a fresh cartridge he had done nothing but stare at her and smile whenever she coughed. Jane felt comfortable withstanding such brutal torture. Every minute gave her the upper hand as Ricky hacked that data.

Hopefully.

In the meantime, Jane scanned the inside of the town car in a lazy, meandering way. Wood paneling was a good sign: that meant old-school, which meant Mafia, not Bolt Gang. There was, however, a subtle odor of bleach. Sanitization Robots were known to collect DNA samples when they encounter unusual bodily fluids. This car had been scrubbed down recently — by hand. Not a good sign.

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The lake was cold today. The dredgeman noticed this, just as he noticed the dirty grey sky and the brown leaves falling from the willow trees. The banks of the rivermouth are smothered with leaves this time of year. The barge’s propellers chopped through the shallows, grinding summer’s branches into winter’s mud. Metallic groans echoed through the hulls — the engine was stressed. It refused to wake up and breathe cold air. Fumes, a shade blacker than the day before, left streaks on the undersides of leaves still clinging to branches.

This too the dredgeman noticed. He saw, he remembered, but he did not think. He did not acknowledge the barge’s complaints. And so the barge pushed out, cut through the shallows, and entered the deep water.

A dredge barge might have a crane, or it might have a hook, a claw, a net, a suction tube, or a blade. The dredgeman uses the right tool for the job. On this lake though, there is only the worst job. The dredgeman learned that lesson long ago.

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Read Part 6

Rick got up and poured himself another cup of coffee. Coding the exploit was taking too long; after the breach last night, Pliant had locked down most of their systems. The gaming network was still active, though — there had to be a way in.

The coffee was bitter and delicious.

He hadn’t heard from Jane in three hours.

The list of Brain-Protocol addresses was the only thing making an exploit possible. There was a time, Rick knew, when a resourceful quack (or “hacker” as they said back then) could just scan the “web” for insecure devices. Then came the neuro-tech boom and suddenly everyone realized the term “Internet of Things” was offensive when the “things” were actually sentient beings. The Internet of Brains stirred up a lot of civil rights questions, but it finally made encryption and authentication mainstream issues.

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A handsome, ethnically-ambiguous man sweeps across the stage. It is the future, or an alternate present, and he is the host of a television show. The stage has a backdrop which is colored a color. There is a couch, which is another color.The man’s suit is a third color. All of the colors look good together, but I can’t explain why because this isn’t my world. This is the world of Reality Television.

The man’s name is Franz Gauthama Sartescarte but he uses a stage name which is Phil O’sopher. Everyone thinks that’s great. Everyone watches his show, many people love it, no one watches it too much, and all of the children brush their teeth before bed. Everyone is just as happy as you are, and just as sad as you are, but they all watch the show no matter how they are feeling. The show is called Who Is Actually, Genuinely, Truly a Good Person?

WIAGTAGP is a social experiment in the same way that leaving the house in the morning is a social experiment. Mr. O’sopher, however, would argue the show is far less cruel than that. In fact, contestants are trying not to leave the house at all. They are not trapped though. They can leave any time they want, but they want to win more than they want to leave.

WIAGTAGP is a competition in the same way that leaving the house in the morning is a competition. The rules are simple:

1. Six people live in a house together.
2. No one knows which of them is a good person.
3. When an individual decides he or she is not a good person, he or she must leave the house.
4. If an individual decides he or she is a good person, he or she wins.
5. Everyone must wear purple on Thursdays.
6. There is no voting and no one can force any other person out of the house. (Except by reminding someone that they forgot to wear purple.)

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I don’t cry during visits to the doctor anymore. I hope my doctor appreciates that,  because as a little boy I was nimble and could really dodge a needle — that is, if curling up in a ball and crying counts as nimble. It is important for a child to have an aversion towards stab wounds, but vaccines are vaccines, and I would probably scream more if I had the mumps anyway. My mom needed a way to persuade me to accept healthful-injections, so that’s how I first experienced Toys-R-Us.

Oh toys. There is no feeling like shopping for toys inside of a giant warehouse devoted to toys. Previously, I had only browsed Lego catalogs and the paltry shelves of the local pharmacy chain. Entering through those quadruple-sliding automatic doors was a revelation. This was where presents were born! This was where rich kids got fancy shit! Maybe I could get some fancy shit!

Mom quickly established that there was a price limit on “being brave” which, honestly, was probably higher than I deserved. That didn’t matter much to me; the experience was worth more than any single toy. This place had child-sized cars that you could actually drive. There were toys that were just upgrades to other toys. There were lifelike characters from TV shows I had never been allowed to watch. Fortunately, there were branded gadgets from the most aptly named franchise possible: Toy Story.

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Setting-Sun Francisco
Where I wonder what I spent
Paying for a service that’ll tell me where the money went
And it’s not just the rent
It’s the cost of living
	Amidst the piss
	Dried on a spray-painted fist
	Outside the office
That’s been giving me the paycheck
To spend eight hours a day
	So that I can say I’m okay
		So that I can defend
		My decision to spend
		The weekend
Connected to cell-towers and play
Video games ‘cause they give me superpowers
And I got friends who claim it’s enough
So I hope they get stuff for their birthdays 
And I hope they get love on their worst days
And, yes,
	Drink champagne when they thirstay

But that’s not my line
No, you know
I got the privilege to wine
My life is fine
But I’m dissatisfied with satisfaction
All my struggles are distraction
In this city built on misplaced passion
This place is a reaction
	To a craving
The whole world’s attraction to saving
Every data point
	I had a date make a point
	That today’s date is just a point
On a line, and the line is time
But we’re all bad at math
	So we wait for fate to disappoint
	According to rules we appoint
Then we curse the graph when the path turns
And take more photos ‘cause a fool never learns

Good thing I’m different
Or just indifferent
As long as I criticize
	The disguise
	On which I rely
I can hope you don’t realize
	The lies
	I despise
	Are my allies
Did I mention my paycheck?
Did I mention my office?
Did you know I get respect?
Did you know I take solace
In disrespecting myself
And hoping my wealth
Doesn’t grow faster than my mental health?
But right now The City says I need more
	I gotta do chores
	Work as a…
		Servant
	Figure it out,
		Pretend I deserve it
And, someday, get to those issues I mentioned before.
	Then I can try not to pout
And think about leaving
This City where it’s always evening.

It’s a lifetime service industry
With no warranty
But I guarentee:
	Eventually,
	This city
	Sinks into the sea
But hopefully there will be
A cloud where you can find me.
And the sun
	Setting right behind me.

Lucy reaches to refill my drink. Her elbow sticks into my stomach and pulls me out of a dream. I’m sure my eyes were closed for only a moment. A ray of sun had crept into the room, past the fireplace, across the couch cushions, over my face — hadn’t I just blinked it away? A long, lazy blink to clear my vision. But now our drinks are drained — gone with the sunbeam — and it is time to remember where I am.

Time to feel Lucy’s elbow.

Time to stoke the fire.

No more light comes through the cabin window. I can see a dull blue sky, thick with jealous clouds reluctantly gazing down on pristine, white snow. Even the trees are white. Through the window they are just silhouettes blocking the sun, now so low in the sky.

The elbow relaxes, releasing me. Lucy tucks herself into the corner of the sofa, swings her legs up onto mine, and spreads the wool blanket across our bare skin. She gives me a satisfied smile and raises her glass.

It takes me until the end of winter to gather the energy to reach for my drink, and then all of spring to pick it up. By the time we’ve clinked glasses it’s the middle of summer and I’ve gone savage with thirst. The glass is cold, the liquid is cold. My lips grow cold, then the sensation spills down my throat. The taste of mint is fall, but I crunch a piece of ice between my teeth and it is winter again.

Ice? When did Lucy fetch us fresh ice? And, when she went to get ice, why did I not get up to stoke the fire? I can see it is almost gone now; it just smolders with a glow to match the colors of the setting sun which peek around the trees and through the cabin window. I am warm, though. The blanket wraps our bodies in a hot embrace which would be almost uncomfortable, were it not for the drinks — the ice.

Perhaps I should have taken care of the fire at some point in the past year, the year I spent reaching. The year since I dreamt of walking outside through a snow-covered countryside. We let it go, though, Lucy and I. We let the fire die while we sip our iced drinks, digging our toes deeper into the blanket.

So the embers fade, and the sun sets.

It is dark, but we are warm outside.

And we are cold inside.

Lawrence works for the Milwaukee Tribune. Lawrence is very proud of his position. He has been with the newspaper since back when reporters wrote up their stories on typewriters.  He became editor of the metropolitan section the same year everyone switched over to computers and digital layouts. When the company upgraded to hologrammatic displays, Lawrence mastered the new tech and helped teach others. And, when they finally switched back to typewriters during the retro-renaissance, Lawrence was happy to step in as editor-in-chief to replace his former mentor who retired out of frustration. Through all of these changes, Lawrence has always helped the Tribune keep up with the Times.

The newspaper went through another major change five years ago with the arrival of Clark. Clark had a human name, but Clark was something completely different: a Fully Upgradable Typist Robot. Designed and manufactured by Adroit Industries, capable of typing 300 words-per-minute across ten different languages, Clark was the ultimate office tool for the retro-trendy newspaper.

The older reporters were skeptical at first, but Clark proved to be a great relief for their arthritic fingers that sorely missed hologrammatic interfaces. The fingers of an FUTR are a beautiful mix of form and function, composed of wood, ceramic, and aluminum. Sometimes Lawrence would just watch these hands at work — they really stood out against the tan polymer that made up Clark’s body. The FUTR had arms, legs, and a torso but no head. Clark does his thinking in his chest, and all expressions of communication are handled by a simple ticker display that stretches between his nipples. Lawrence considered this a bizarre — but very stylish — choice by Clark’s designers.

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