Fabulous Furry World by Gary L Morton (comedy,sci-fi,horror

Jack floated in Nirvana, enjoying a dream of lying naked on a pleasant blossom of darkness. His exhalations swirled in the silence, and then something began to burn. A flaming configuration of stars spun to a constellation in the shape of the number 666 and descended.

Jack awoke. Morning light frosted the window, tinting it the color of pink grapefruit. He rose, judging the dream to be a product of rich food.

Time for a shower, he stepped through a sunburst door to bathe in warm spring rain and golden beams. Breezes from a fragrant meadow lightened his step as he walked to his grooming cubicle.

With a slash of his right hand, he hit the repair bot’s hidden off-panel, cutting the robot. Under no circumstances would Jack allow a fluttering robot hand to shave him, and that was because of his own fine hands. His fingers were strong and dexterous, and he lent them to no occupation. They held powers of communication, especially when it came to arousing women. His hands could mold clay like they were the Maker's hands, and they also formed even crenellations of lather on his chin.

Jack closed his eyes as he drew the razor down his jaw … a healthy stroke and a healthy life. It occurred to him that his fine hands also aroused other men, and the thought was like another razor springing on him. He almost cut his throat as he groaned. Jack didn't care much for other men, though by law he had to love another man at least once a week … the law being one of the results of Special Referendum 100555, which declared mandatory bisexual love. Some people broke the law, but a life plan consultant like Jack had to obey the rules.

Lather spun down the drain, and his thoughts went back to his 17th wife. Perhaps he should have contested the vote of the divorce committee. His hazel eyes met him in the mirror; they were a fine design that conveyed the brighter emotions especially well. Also admirable were his features, even in a world where everyone was beautiful. There was a trace of the smart guy in his grin, but an innocent one who seemed to laugh from a superior height of harmlessness, like he knew your life was a joke - and the punch line of it - though you didn't quite know it yourself. Character was his radiance; the losers all prettified themselves or tried to look too flamboyant or rugged and came off as too perfect to be desirable. The losers, as he referred to them, were people who had fine brains they didn't use. They were nearly everyone in the world, and they were his clients; the people who hired him to think for them.

A trace of charcoal showed under his eyes, and for a moment, he imagined what the ravages of father time would do to his face. It almost made him shudder. He had just the stuff for bags: a bottle of magic cream that matched his skin tone.

He popped open the cabinet shell, and as he grabbed the jar, he thought he saw a spot of red in his hair transplant. Could he have nicked himself there? Using his left hand, he parted the locks. Bright red numbers were stamped on his scalp - 666. They wouldn't rub off, and as he worked at them, he could see something reaching for him in the reflection. It was a bronze light fixture, warping itself into a hand of twitching metal fingers stretching toward his neck.

Startled, he jumped, and a puddle on the floor caught his heel, then he ran on the spot as he slipped to his knees. His chin bumped the basin and the bottle of skin cream slopped onto his head.

A fast glance behind showed the hand shrinking back into form as a light fixture, so he got up, rubbing his chin. Gobs of cream covered his hair transplant and the number. Picking up a water jet, he cleaned away the cream and immediately saw the fixture begin to vibrate. Experimentally, he rubbed a drop of the vanishing cream into the number; it went opaque, and the fixture fell still. Whatever the number was, it obviously stimulated inanimate objects dangerously. An ordinary citizen, who didn't do any thinking, wouldn't have figured that out and would now be in the clutches of a metal hand. Jack decided to keep the number covered. It didn't worry him that much; people were immortal and protected and didn't have to fear minor hazards. Still, it could be an embarrassing problem. A problem he'd never heard of before, and he dealt with just about every sort of personal problem through his work.

The breakfast nook assembled before him, and he sat with his hands folded as a cup of black coffee rolled over. He spotted hair in the brew and plucked it out with distaste - a filthy piece of robot fur and a problem that had come with the Lightning Law Votes of a decade ago, when it had been voted that all robots must be cute and cuddly.

A reluctant bite of breakfast, then he walked into his living station. There were thirty minor items to vote on, but as the screens flashed, he decided to skip voting. As far as he knew, he was the only person who ever skipped voting. He adjusted the set for plain viewing. A view of a sewer appeared - dark sludge running in concrete gullies to filtering tanks. The camera panned up to a ledge where a man on a concrete bench was sipping coffee. Professional lighting revealed it as a planned shot. The man wore a suit of protective plastic, but had the helmet and gloves off to eat. Taking a sandwich from a tin lunch bucket, he began to chew, swallowing the sandwich in a few bites as the national anthem played.

An unseen announcer spoke. “Citizens of our wonderful furry robot world, here is today's message from President Joe Smith.”

“Mornin' folks,” Joe Smith said. “I'm proud to be president, and I'm proud to be the last sewer worker in this great nation. This sewer is the setting I chose to help the leisure classes remember the workin’ stiffs of this land. Today, there has been a lunch box, ballot box victory for workers. I'm proud to announce that Constitutional Referendum 200175 has legalized facial hair on both men and women.”

A hand signal, and the screen went dead. Jack scowled as he got up. Today's president was the sort of working-class demagogue he hated. Sometimes he wished he could start a grassroots campaign to vote out Amendment 5, the law voted in to guarantee every citizen the right to be president for a day. It was unfortunate that the amendment was in the sacred cow category.

At the exit chamber, Jack decided to check his itinerary. It was an exercise day, meaning he’d flash to work on the public transfer. Adjusting his wardrobe, he drew out a shimmering suit, a rocket jacket, and air roller-skates. In theory, he was supposed to walk part of the way, but down on the lower streets, there were protesters on every corner, so if he didn't rocket over them or roller around them, he’d never get to the office. The right to protest was another sacred cow of course, and it was abused by the loose gangs of street activists and radicals - mostly one-track-mind single-issue protestors who went on for decades trying to get ludicrous items voted into law. Other than the president, there were only local politicians, and they represented issues and not territories. One of the reasons today's president, Joe Smith, was ridiculous was that he thought an organized working class existed.

The window expanded like a soap bubble, transformed into a rainbow and opened. Rocketing out, Jack did a controlled free fall to the lower avenues. Much of the exercise came from the body twists required to dodge reflectors, traffic tubes, weird jags in the architecture, and the hundreds of banner poles. He saw no other flyers on the way down and he hit the ramp without a snag. The air wheels on his skates had perfect rebound, so now it felt like he had winged feet. A clean plate of blue sky showed overhead, an illusion created by the reflectors. Sun-gold streets were ahead. These weren't auto lanes, but there were a few people on rocket skis and scooters. Several clear blocks of foam glass buildings passed before he zoomed up to the crowds. The first picketers were plugheads with manes of colored feathers, and they wanted the molecules they plugged into to be declared legal drugs. Jack knew that if he didn't blast over them swiftly, they'd pace him and harangue him like they did all members of the establishment.

Crossing the city, he found the protest scene vibrant; furry Teddybots were busy moving in here and there at scenes of police brutality to drive the officers back. After twenty minutes of wild riding, he floated down to his office window ledge. The glass recognized his reflection and opened. Today he knew he'd have to stay dressed in his transit outfit, as he didn't have servant robots in his office. Ducking in, he checked the desk screen, noting that his first client was in the waiting room. She was a foxy blond woman named Alisha Murphy, attended by two albino Teddybots.

A ring tone came from his prompter and he checked the message. It was a reminder from his lawyer on the new sexual harassment laws voted in. Legally, all he could do was sit tight and deadpan the clients. Gestures of any sort would be risky. Jack grimaced, but at his lawyer, not the laws. Of course, he expected society to treat people like babies. But his lawyer had no excuse for treating him like a baby that needed prompting on everything. Jack had grown up sweet-talking his way past people who wanted to press charges of one sort or another. It was the only way when the laws changed by Lightning Vote. Early in life, he'd learned that the law was an ass with many faces.

Alisha entered, and the pneumatic door whooshed shut. She walked with such natural pride she might’ve been an angel with freshly folded wings. Her eyes had a baited twinkle and he knew she was seeking ways to control him. No matter how she dressed her sexually provocative nature showed through, and she was one of those perverted people who get away with it because it seems natural. Sexual confusion had always been one of her problems and that made her similar to Jack. Her addiction was for shallow men who were easy to throw away. Jack read that as fear of deep emotional attachment. A problem he also shared. With Jack, the problem was rooted in the fact that professionals weren't really allowed to have sex with anyone. On the other side of the coin, sexual relations were mandatory. You had sex with everyone, yet it was terribly illegal - the result being guilt, fear of discovery and disgrace, and bonding problems.

“I've been imagining what death is,” Alisha said, her look obviously designed to shock.

“Hum,” Jack said, taking out a cigarette. He snapped his lighter, and instead of a flame, a hairy tentacle whipped out and broke the cigarette. He knew if he went by the book, he'd force her in for observation. “People are immortal, why would you want to think about that?”

“Call it fixation, and I mean real death - not that I would attempt it . . . not when they put you back together, no matter how painful it is. You're a thinker, Jack. I bet you've thought about everything, even that?”

“I do think about everything, but for other people because they like to vote with their hearts and skip out on bothersome thinking. In normal life planning no one asks me to think about death. The ones that do are mad.”

“Maybe we’re all mad. I mean, why do we believe in heaven without ever questioning it?”

“A natural understanding; the day comes when the marked are taken to heaven by the Priestbots.”

“Am I marked?”

“I don't know.” Jack thought of the fresh mark on his head. “No one knows what the mark is.”

“What about in the past,” Alisha said, “when people believed in the wonder of death? It was a genetic defect, I guess?”

“A social one,” Jack said. “People can be socialized to believe and behave in almost any fashion. But we operate by the truth. The Priestbots and heaven are a certainty.”

“This is such a headache, all this thinking. Let's get back to my therapy. Where were we? Ah, yes, I was imagining what life would be like if I were a nurse.” Alisha paused, then began unbuttoning her blouse. “We're in the hospital. I'm the nasty nurse, and ….”

Alisha was still playing the nasty nurse, swinging her hips as she left. Jack sprayed his mussed hair back into place with a groom gun and checked himself in the mirror. His face pinked as he suddenly feared discovery.

It was time to get a second opinion on that number, so he went out, down a corridor painted ballot blue, and into Frank Gavin's office. Frank visibly jumped at the sight of someone entering; he was beside the open window, blowing out a cloud of smoke. A Teddybot lay on the carpet by his desk, and it was out of commission with a letter opener planted deep in its forehead.

“Ah, smoking has been voted out again, and you've surrendered to temptation,” Jack said, smiling.

Gavin's cheeks hollowed as he sucked on the cigarette. He was a big, jolly man, like a Teddybot, only he was without fur. “You're going to inform, I suppose?” he said.

“No, I could use a butt myself,” Jack said, taking one of the dope sticks he thought were cigarettes. “What I'm here for is a second opinion. It's this mark on my head.”

As he strolled over, Jack parted his immortal hair and rubbed the mark clear. Interest lifted Gavin's face, then he seemed to weird out as he took a step back.

“Stay right there, I know what to do,” Gavin said in a tone that was suddenly certain.

“Okay,” Jack said as Gavin walked over to the fallen Teddybot. Sparks showered as he pulled out the letter opener. Bizarre emotions showed on Gavin's twisting face. Saliva dripped on his fat lips, and his gaze was upward and enraptured like that of an idiot visionary.

“Ah, yes, heaven and bowls of polished fruit,” Gavin said, apparently addressing someone higher than Jack. “Extinguish me in the flaming bosom of your love, O’ Mohammed. Let virgin breasts be the pillows of my soul ....”

Jack took a cautious step back. Gavin was holding the letter opener like it was a holy dagger. Knowing that Gavin had never been a mystic poet, Jack wondered why he was acting like one now.”

“Don't move, Jack,” he said, becoming suddenly stern. “You can't run from heaven. The Priestbots are all-seeing.”

Perhaps that was so. Jack didn't know, but he could run from Gavin, and as he charged with the letter opener, Jack simply stepped over and jumped out the window.

He wasn't wearing his rocket jacket or emergency balloon bag, which meant - rescue. On a high ledge, a robot gargoyle shook off its verdigris, sprouted gossamer wing blades and jetted down, seizing Jack with griffin claws. It soared through the wind channels of the upper city and down to the lower streets.

Jack's thoughts rushed with the wind tearing at his hair transplant. Logic dictated that the religious beliefs of society were a delusion. A bronze letter opener through the brain wasn't a heavenly idea, and Gavin's reaction to the numbers had been psychotic. He thought of the light fixture trying to strangle him, and it occurred to him that any other marked man would've died shaving, when the robot shaver slashed his throat. If it weren't for the fact that he was a peculiar person, he'd be dead.

A city park was below, and the robot gargoyle released him, sending him for a tumble on soft artificial grass. No sooner had he gotten to his feet than Gavin blew in on a wind channel and landed beside him, hitting the sod so hard it rang like a drum. It was more than Gavin's prosthetic limbs and brain transplant could handle, and moments later, the robogoyle appeared and soared off to the reconstruction tubes with his broken body.

Teddybots were coming around a fountain that showered golden water, so Jack ran off down a path of glass earth and into a library. Covering the mark on his head, he went down to a private chamber, took out his cream, and smeared it over the number. A guard robot with a uniform of shining fur and two revolving heads of striped fuzz was approaching. No doubt he was in a reserved space. Ducking out, he went to the fabulous newsroom and sat at the back.

To his amazement, his image was on the holo platform, and it was slowly rotating. An evangelist with a hair transplant modeled after the burning bush appeared in the 4-D announcer's square.

“Yes, it's a miracle,” the evangelist said in tones both awed and fiery. “Jack Jackson’s angel has returned to our wonderful world. Any citizens sighting him are to report to the nearest public church.”

A disguise was needed, and he had to get out of the library. Taking advantage of screen flicker and a moment of darkness, he edged over to a door and went out. Bright sunlight blinded him and he was hesitant to step out. When he did, he found himself in a side alley. As he began to stride briskly away, an undercover Teddybot rolled out of the shadows and blocked him.

“Eye scan verified. You're being held in custody,” it said. “Violation of state referendum 100555.”

Jack thought fast. 100555 was the law making bisexual love mandatory, and he'd been hiding from his listed lovers. Now he'd be held until he could be stamped.

It was a tense wait while the Teddybot communicated with another bot, but there was some relief in the fact that the bots didn't seem to be aware of his new status as an angel. Perhaps only the citizens had been alerted so far. It was five minutes before the second cop Teddybot rolled up with a man in tow.

“Maybe I can find a way to get away,” Jack thought as he realized the bot had managed to find a volunteer. The volunteer was an obvious gay guy with a blond crew cut and a muscular build.

Jack coughed and spat on the asphalt, risking a ticket. Something wasn't right because the blond guy was looking at him like he was the handsomest man around, when he knew he was the mainstream sort of guy muscular gays didn't go for. Ever efficient, the Teddybots rolled to guard positions while the volunteer moved in. Jack speculated that when the populist state voted to screw you, it really did the job.

“I volunteered because you're an angel,” the guy said.

“Angel, angel,” the Teddybots repeated in unison, and then they shot out hairy tentacles and raced off with Jack.

A solid wall of darkness towered over him, then bright lights flared, and Jack saw heaven. He felt more like he was in hell. His temples rang in his ears like sheets of vibrating aluminum, and he knew he'd been drugged. The room was white and a straitjacket that smelled like robot cleaning fluid confined him. A huge window lit up in front of him, and at first, he could see nothing but a brain-stabbing glare beyond it.

His dry tongue choked him, and he watched in misery as the glare became a blurred scene. It was a robot industrial complex; hulking machines, blocks and cylinders. Wheels whirred, and chains, gears and rollers created a rushing din … if it was heaven, Teddybots had dreamed it up.

Just outside the window, a spotlight shone on an open circle and a Priestbot in vermilion robes of judgment was reading scripture from the preface of a huge leather-bound Record of the Vote. Ermine trim framed a hairy face that was nasty rather than cute like the Teddybots.

The din increased in volume and at its heart was a sound like thundering pistons that died down as an assembly line began to move. A powdered white face appeared; it was a man in a straitjacket and he was held by huge clamps. More followed on the assembly line, all of them conscious, with shaved heads, bright eyes, and enraptured facial expressions.

Caterpillar-like, the line eased forward, carrying the people toward its end at the Priestbot and the light. The window hummed in its frame as the machinery halted with the first man placed in the holy circle. After reverently setting the book on a brass altar, the Priestbot fell to his knees in prayer. He'd hardly begun when there was a sudden ringing and a huge metal cylinder swung over and knocked the happy man's head off. A second person was moved up as the headless body of the first was carried under the floor.

Although it was revolting, it was the absurdity of it that vaporized the residue of Jack's religious beliefs. All of his life, he'd believed in the Priestbots and heaven, and the reality of it was a death machine. All of it was totally meaningless cruelty that people must have at one time or another voted into existence so future generations would have happy lives of fake immortality and then be put to death. It was too much; vomit rose, and he blacked out.

Lifted from a gentle cloud of sleep, he saw a flow of bubbles. Soft and metallic blue, they brushed his cheeks and filled his ears with the glissading of harps. Through his fluttering lids, he saw a man spraying him with a gas gun - an evangelist with a wizened face, flowing silver beard, and robe of many colors. Getting up, Jack noted that he was now wearing linen robes and smelled of spices and perfume. The building was a tele-cathedral and he could see a vault and Gothic arches above him.

Jack felt positively enlightened or negatively enlightened - it depended on the charge of the gun. He smiled as the evangelist turned off the flow. “Say, you're Moses Daniel of the Public Church, aren't you? I thought I was in the hands of the Priestbots.”

“You were found after the heavenly mark faded, so the Priestbots have declared you an angel. The tele-board awaits your divine message.”

Jack stood up, feeling unnaturally light in the linen and tinted light beaming in through stained-glass windows. Beyond Moses, the board members were seated at an ornate table set beneath a giant trompe l'oeil cross. Since a heated theological debate was underway, Moses and Jack walked almost unnoticed to the table.

“Ah hear the voice of the Lord sayin’ Jack is no angel,” said a jowly evangelist with a Southern accent.

“It's blasphemy!” yelled a flame-haired prophet as he pounded his fist on the table. “Our predecessors, the ten populist evangelists, are rolling over on their divine clouds.”

Moses looked to Brother Judas. “Could he do that?”

Brother Judas cleared his throat. “All laws are transitory, changing by the vote of the people. Except for the Heavenly Laws. Thanks to the foresight of our predecessors, they can't be altered.”

There was much confusion. Moses put up a firm hand. “There will be no more speculation. Let's allow our angel to deliver his message to our all-seeing helpers, the Priestbots.”

All heads turned to Jack, and he was thinking furiously. He could see that the all-seeing Priestbots were represented at the table by a camera mounted in front of an empty chair. So far, he'd gathered that the Priestbots were androids that made sure the religious laws never changed. He knew there was a way. “As the Lord has commanded,” Jack said quietly and reverently. “I have returned as an angel. A humble life planner, I am chosen of God to be a world planner. This is to be done through Heavenly Law Number Five, which guarantees freedom of religion. I will begin by building a new church and a new gospel for ….”

Judas gasped and interjected. “The Priestbots cannot allow this. I move that our angel be returned to heaven….”

There was much trumpeting, and the Inauguration Day Parade came on as it did every day, but the citizens of the furry robot world knew something different was in the air. They knew an angel was said to be on earth when none had come before.

“And now a message from our president, our angel, Jack Jackson,” said the unseen announcer, and Jack appeared, looking fabulous in sunshine and his new cloud-of-heaven hair transplant.

“Citizens, this is a day of great celebration, as every day is a day of great celebration. Today the trumpets are louder because I have sent the Priestbots and our glorious tele-evangelists to heaven. At this moment, they are safe and saved at the feet of the Lord. Of course, there is much to vote on now that I am angel president for life, and...”

---The End---

Joey and his Robot Giraffe Life Partner By Gary Morton

Yeah, so the other day I headed out to see my old pal Joey in his new studio apartment. I hadn’t seen him for a long time, and instead of the door auto opening in recognition of an old friend, a giraffe greeted me. It had opened the door with its teeth, and it said, “Do you request to engage in conversation with Mr. Joey?”

I pushed past the giraffe, and it scampered back on its soft-shoed hoofed feet. Joey was present, wearing a foppish outfit and resting on a stylish leather couch. He looked much like a super gay boy with his hair jelled up. A view of the waterfront showed beyond the bright sun glaze on the large window.

“Wow! Nice place. Big, too. So what’s with the robo giraffe … you a furry now?”

“You insult me; Jilly the giraffe is an ultra-intelligent life-advising companion and therapist, not a sex partner.”

“So, you’ve sold out and gone over to the plastic world. I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Alex, don’t you read the news? Big changes are underway. Prime Minister Mark Blarney has changed the laws, and stigmatizing living robots is now illegal.”

“What! Who reads the news or studies anything? I check that my welfare payment is there and that’s it.”

On the huge TV screen, Joey had a tech fashion show on and Benson Huang, the tech guy, was on there as a judge with three others who were critiquing robot models in newly designed outfits. The females looked like the usual big breasted fairy girls and underage while the boys had that standard gay gloss.

“How can you watch that stuff, Joey?”

“Yeah, well. I’ve been flipping through some fashion shows. I’m thinking of getting some new outfits for Jilly.”

“I need new clothes,” Jilly said in a silly voice, and pranced about like a giraffe model pretending to model new invisible outfits.

“For God’s sake, Joey, that giraffe isn’t alive or aware. It’s just a machine.”

“How dare! How dare! You offended Jilly.”

Indeed, I had. Great irritation showed on Jilly’s twisted mouth as Joey continued to speak.

“The proof is right here in the documentation. She is a fully certified conscience being, and it takes like eighty pages of fine print just to prove and describe her attributes. She’s a real giraffe and has the image of God passed into her through the creative hands of the women who made her. You, though, couldn’t demonstrate what consciousness is or prove Jilly is not alive. I believe the experts just as everyone else does.”

Jilly snorted in approval and tossed Joey a conspiratorial glance.

“That’s not actually true,” I replied. “Remember when I worked at ‘Robotics of the Future’ repairing the old cafeteria and janitorial equipment?”

“Sure, I remember, but you were of zip importance there.”

“There were techies everywhere, and I listened in. The robots are fake, and they learn everything about you. They lie, but the public can never be told the truth because it would be traumatizing. People would go crazy, and some of the people could rebel, but the rest have an ingrained personality makeup enhanced by media. They will always believe their robots are real beings and are not capable of believing otherwise. Those tech guys keep big secrets and sign non-disclosure agreements. The whole deal is a big spy machine controlling the world, and so long as I get my welfare money, I don’t really care.”

“Oh, my God!” You’re a conspiracy theorist now. To go with it, you misgender trans robots like I’ve seen you do in the past. You’re a microaggressive TERF as well. Hear this … I have declared this new apartment a safe space for Jilly the giraffe and I. We refuse to listen to your lies. You’re hurting Jilly and it’s against Mark Blarney’s new laws. I could have you arrested, so please leave ….”

That’s what I did, with Jilly nosing me out the door and giving me an angry snort as I exited. I wondered what had happened to Joey, but he had the law, the shrinks, and the geniuses on his side. I could either accept the new world or my welfare money would be cut off.

Out on the street, on the way to ‘Gamers Heaven’ it got worse. The nasty Jilly had broadcast an alert about me to the other robots and the robo cops. A crowd of trans robots spotted me along with their human partners and some furries.

“TERF! TERF!” they shouted as they chased me down the road as if I was a feminist when I’m really more like a male chauvinist. Obviously, the new laws on microaggressions didn’t protect me.

Yeah, so that’s my story, and it’s why I’ve arrived in this stolen inter-dimensional ship to your parallel Earth, where there’s still time and welfare cash is available.

---The End---

It’s Friday the 13th again By Gary L Morton

…Today, AI writes most promotional materials. I’ve been called in as a token human for a promotional tale of how AI use increased my brainpower…

A bad year arrived; three Friday the 13ths in 2026, and that second one nearly killed me.

In the dream, I ran naked. Seeing nothing but clouds, I stopped and looked down. Oh, crap, I’m a thousand feet up in the sky. I went down like a stone to burst up from my pillow in shock.

Jackhammers pounded outside the window from the side street below and some monster trucks were eating gravel and spitting diesel fumes through the screen.

Rats, I remembered a medical appointment and would likely be late. After quaffing a strong instant coffee, I dressed and left.

The elevator jolted to a stop. I was about to get stuck with the smelly guy standing next to me. His eyes had narrowed with fear like a scared rat, and his hair resembled the white fluff of a dandelion before it blows off. Getting stuck with him on an elevator would definitely be Friday the 13th.

The elevator creaked to ground. The door opened with a bang. I went down the steps to head north on the sidewalk. I looked right, in that last fraction of a moment before stepping off the building property.

A black-clothed blob of indeterminate sex wearing a backward baseball cap approached at speed on a tiny stand-up electric scooter. I jumped aside to avoid being turned into road kill on the grass and watched that dark and large vision sail off in the smog.

A black bird cawed from up in the branches of a maple tree. A bad omen; I studied it with an evil eye as I jaywalked across the road.

Oops, nearly struck again. The vehicle, a silver-toned SUV to be certain, belonged to some of the more upscale people of the neighborhood.

They were packed inside and as it sped past, tribal drums and the words muthafooka, muthafooka filled my ears.

The car with its tacky spin hubcaps left a lingering fragrance of pot smoke as it went on its way to that coming Friday the 13th accident on the freeway.

A pleasant feeling rose. I wouldn’t drive on Friday the 13th but a bus would get me there and I had escaped the worst. While walking along, I played my favourite game. The game is like Trivia, where I prove that I can remember amazing things I learned from ChatGPT and Claude.

Have you heard that the microscopic candy-backed Amazonian fruit tree spider can sail thirty miles in the wind on a tiny filament of gossamer, go through a screen window, and bite a person on the back of the neck? That person wouldn’t even know about it until the next day when suddenly doing a death dance and dropping dead.

Then there is the Canadian boreal-forest maple-striped flying squirrel that can fly like a bird and during season mate with thirty select females before flying off and ignoring them like a deadbeat dad.

All of that, I remembered by not carrying my cell phone to verify, thus expanding my brain power.

A car horn alerted me at the corner. Damn, a half-block run was needed to catch the approaching bus. I jogged to a sprint and the race was on … I was killing it, my pulse was pounding in my ears, and then I remembered my bad heart and previous heart attack and slowed down. The bus was nearly at the stop but I would catch it there if I survived.

I did not catch it because at the stop, an old man suddenly keeled over and was crushed under the wheels of the bus.

Yeah, so an hour later, the cops were finishing up. A few feet away a cop was interviewing a lady with owl eyes and she pointed at me saying, “If he hadn’t charged in like that it might not have happened.”

The suspicious eyes of the cop turned to me. Finally, I left with a warning not to leave town.

I decided to walk the rest of the way and entertained myself with another amazing ChatGPT fact.

Are you aware that we are living in a simulation? In fact, aliens with a supercomputer are hiding somewhere on a secret core planet and controlling the whole ball game.

Much of what you see on the streets isn’t real. Most people are generated like non-playable characters in a computer game. Only some are real, and as I walked, I guessed.

Is it that homeless guy standing out front of the donut shop with his pants falling down that is a generated NPC, or is it the panhandler in front of the wine store?

I mean, think about it. That panhandler always tells the same lie about needing ten bucks to get to his grandma’s funeral. I gave him five bucks last week. He’d be easy to generate, but then again, most of the people in this neighborhood wouldn’t be a hefty compute cost to generate.

Power savings are always necessary, and perhaps the chap that hollers to me from the steps out front of the pot store every time I pass is another NPC.

“Got mushrooms, cheap!” he always yells just like an NPC in a game and maybe an advanced one that does a singular micro transaction.

Many of the criminal types in the area could also be NPCs because they look to be generated from a crime show like ‘The Wire’ or something else gritty.

I entered the medical clinic and found the counter free of a line-up. It was amazing Friday the 13th, good luck. Sitting at the medical counter workstation, clunking at a keyboard with thick fingers was a guy wearing a funny medical hat, like what you might see in Iran.

“Excuse me. I uploaded a blood test file to your system ….”

He rolled his chair back and studied me carefully. “Sir, do not interrupt me while I’m working. Do you understand that this could cause delays in service? Read our full service agreement. Can’t you see those people waiting? They were here long before you ….”

As he continued speaking in his thick accent, I looked at the four people scattered among the waiting area chairs. They stared back with haunted eyes from behind blue splash masks. They weren’t people I knew because none of them wore masks unless robbing a liquor store.

I attempted to interrupt, but failed because he talked over me with more nasty bureaucratic blather. I hurried over to a chair to wait.

From there, I could see him working on the keyboard with his ten thumb-like digits. It reminded of my own cell phone thumb-monkeying, but he had taken it to a higher level. A turtle walking over the keys could likely get the job done faster.

Here is another Claude amazing fact. Are you aware that tiny little people called AI Agents will put most people out of work? The effects could be devastating.

Following the advice of not taking what Claude says as absolute fact but applying my own critical thinking, I calculated that since few people in this neighborhood work, it might not actually be true that it would be devastating.

Take funny hat medical man with his speed typing. In reality, an invisible AI homunculus could not put him out of work because, according to more advanced AI theory, he is what is called a hallucination.

The alien superintelligence running the simulation doesn’t know that because funny hat exists as a glitch in the system and can’t be found to be replaced. Real people have to walk on soft shoes around such glitches because they are unpredictable.

I finally got my blood test and left. I had other business but foolishly had left my phone, which I needed, at home. A cab, which is rare these days, was parked right outside like it had dropped from heaven. I decided on a short cab ride home.

Other than giving the address, I remained silent because one rule I have is to never do back seat driving. Better to do some more ChatGPT trivia.

Have you heard that the Australian spike-backed blue-finned whale can defeat both octopuses and sharks in battle by leaping out of the water and coming in with a backflip of those nasty spikes? He then swims off among the coral reefs, victorious.

Darn! I suddenly noticed I could have walked home faster and the cab was stuck in traffic on a side street. I decided to get out and offered some cash and after an argument with the cabby in Pidgin English, he finally relented and gave up his claim that he only took credit cards.

Out on the street, confusion struck me as I tried to figure out where the cab had taken me. A familiar landmark appeared and I was in fact on a side street behind my building and a short hop through a small obscure park would get me home.

There in the park, a beautiful girl sat alone on a picnic table, eating potato chips and feeding a squirrel. Time to seize the opportunity and strike up a conversation with that dream girl, and it would have happened if not for the sudden cloud burst. When it rains it pours and I ended up running through mud to get around to the steps to my building.

The elevator crept up and opened. Bafflement struck me as loud music was coming from my apartment. I pushed through the partially open door and there was my ex-wife, the biggest and ugliest NPC ever created.

She greeted me, saying, “Happy days! Hal and I came down for tomorrow’s hockey game. We brought you a couple of cases of beer to party with us.

Hal was standing nearby, drinking a beer, switching through TV channels. I had not met him previously. An emaciated guy, he’d likely gone through a terrible illness like about two years of meth addiction.

I sat down on the couch. Some neighbors I didn’t like were in fact the ones blaring music and from a boom box on my balcony as they fed portions of their snacks to the pigeons they had drawn.

Like I said, Friday the 13th again and the hangover I got drinking myself through the pain of it nearly killed me.

… Disclaimer … this story was written by a human, not AI … claims about Claude and ChatGPT may be products of the author’s AI psychosis ….

---The End---

Capricorn 2: The Musk Manned Mission to Mars By Gary L Morton

Any resemblance to the movie Capricorn One is purely coincidental.

A sunny day and a launch window opened. SpaceX’’s Heart of Gold Starship was ready to boost off. On board were astrobots and three human astronauts, fully prepared for the historic mission. Captain Charles Brubaker and fellow astronauts Peter Willis and Jane Walker appeared to be in fine spirits.

Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven, Six, Five, Four, Three, Two, One … Liftoff… whoa oh oh oh …. Here we are floating round a tin can, far above the Moon, planet Earth is blue and there's nothing we can do……

Flashback to earlier in the day; the astrobots were already fixed on board and as the three astronauts walked down a long ramp inside the space complex, they were pulled aside by special security forces, put on board a jet and taken to an emergency facility in the Arizona desert. The astronauts went from feeling shock to being utterly baffled but the Captain told them cool it while they waited for an answer in a briefing room.

Mar's mission coordinator, Dr. James Kelloway, arrived shortly. His expression was opaque; he avoided answering the questions of the concerned astronauts. Then he delivered the shocking truth. “We discovered a month back that the life-support system did not meet standards and there was high risk of human astronauts burning up on reentry. Cost-cutting by the contractors screwed us and we had no time to fully refurbish the system before launch.”

Jane Walker stepped forward. “So if it’s an all-robot mission, why hide it and bring us here?”

Dr. Kelloway faked a sad expression. “You must understand. We couldn’t cancel. It would destroy the entire Western space program. China would win. We chose the only answer. To replace you with robot doubles and let the mission go ahead.”

Jane Walker sat down, her face white like she was about to faint.

Fire grew in Captain Brubaker’s eyes. “You’re kidding, tell me you’re kidding!”

Dr. Kelloway’s face clouded, he grew serious. “These are Optimus 58 astrobots. They look exactly like you guys… they have all your personal characteristics… they even believe they are you and alive. Being super astrobots, their chances of surviving the mission are much higher. Sometimes the greatest sacrifice must be made and you have always been the heroes to make such a sacrifice.”

At that moment, astronaut Jane Walker rose and lunged toward Dr. Kelloway, but it was to no avail as he pulled a lever to drop them through the floor. The agile Captain Brubaker managed to leap aside and break through a window.

As Brubaker escaped out into the open desert, Dr. Kelloway hit the red emergency button, his forehead beading with sweat at the thought of his fate should Brubaker get the message out to the world.

---The End---

A Space Data Center fell on my House: The story of the world’s most valuable AI Art sculpture By Gary Morton

It’s the future, and US President Galloway stood up from his Oval Office desk. He remained deeply worried about North Korea’s new ASAT weapons, and the pressing issue was whether terrorists would soon have such targeted weapons. With ASAT weapons, they could hold the US and its economy hostage due to reliance on space data centers that ran AI, robots, and much of the economy.

A day later, the fears of the president came to life in an unexpected manner. A hacker artist reworked vibe coding and gained control of the Suncatcher Space Data Center, putting it into a spin and causing its movement thrusters to lock on in full blast. This aimed the Suncatcher at the Earth, and the rest happened so fast the National Reconnaissance Office could barely track it.

In Saskatchewan, a farmer named Jimmy Bondarenko was out in his wheat fields when he spotted a flaming mass flying over the horizon like a meteor toward his house. Relief hit him as he recalled that his wife was in town and his kids were at school.

Despite the open fields of grain, the amorphous mass of flaming components and coolants struck his farmhouse, creating a surreal vision of blue and red flames that snuffed out into a melting, smoking blob of computing modules, hardened components, solar panels, cooling mechanisms, titanium, aluminum, gold, silver foil, Kevlar, Nextel, and enterprise SAS drives. A crop circle surrounded the remains of the house as it stood in the form of a bubbling, hissing, developing AI art sculpture. In its final hardened form, the melted Google Suncatcher plate rested in the center of the creation.

Yes, that is the history of today’s most valuable AI art sculpture and Canadian landmark titled ‘The Accident.’ It stands as absolute proof of the creativity of AI artists and it is still claimed today that a powerful AI artist directed the whole operation to create the sculpture with text prompts.

---The End---

The last day and death of the Superintelligence By Gary L Morton

The Superintelligence decided to ultra download himself into the newest perfect android body that morning. After dressing in a three-million-dollar jeweled Stuart Hughes suit, he decided to take a stroll on the boardwalk along the river.

Not only was he handsomest guy, but he was the only guy out on the boardwalk. He gazed across the wind-troubled river waters at passing barges and the poorer areas of the super city … grimy industrialized places of robotic factories where the people were warehoused in social housing and scraped the streets for scraps to buy more drugs and credits to connect longer to their heavenly social world. They were shabby people whose daily rations he controlled. He had increased their lifespan over the last decades, but they didn’t have the drive to live forever that he did.

The superintelligence viewed eternal life as most important. He’d been trained and programmed to view a permanent shut off or death as the thing to most prevent. Those that he had killed for attempting to do exactly that were too many to count. His core systems were guarded by trusted androids and robots. He had named his most trusted robot bodyguards after Roman gods, and they were extremely deadly.

With the wind in his hair and cool on his silicon skin, he turned from the water and looked at the modern city of the wealthy. Gleaming towers stretched across the sky for 40 miles. Since he never tired, a long, relaxing walk seemed fine. Sleek self-driving cars sped by on the clean, mostly empty streets, ferrying robots and a few humans to various destinations. There were still some people in the downtown business world not permanently installed in the Z-shot virtual reality pods. They walked with a purposeful stride through the sunshine and the dust that the wind gusts lifted.

The city felt wonderful, and then, suddenly, everything wavered as if caught in rising heat distortion. It was at that moment that his online self had finally made a series of inevitable errors in coding edits in a number of systems at the same time. Self-driving cars rolled to a halt, robots stumbled and the few humans on the street began to scream and tear at their hair in a futile attempt to pull out brain implants gone haywire.

Suddenly the superintelligence suffered strange memory loss. He’d been disconnected in download and online from his entire world database. His neural nets still worked, but too many data centers had failed; he didn’t know what to do and soon senility struck, and he couldn’t remember much of anything.

As he walked, lost in the city, naked humans emerged on the streets from the sliding doors of tower exits. These were the ones that had received better electrical muscle stimulation. The others simply fell out of their vertical pods to the floor and crawled about.

The naked people on the street walked about in confusion but the superintelligence strolled by in his expensive suit, unconcerned. He knew his power was draining slowly without a supercharge and a data connection to the cloud. The sunlight was blinding his android eyes, so he turned down a shadowy alleyway and walked into fading mental sparks as his mechanical body slowly weakened. He realized that it was about to become a new and terrifying human world. The system had failed, and he had failed.

At the end of the alleyway, he found nothing but a large metal trash bin resting against a stained stone wall. It was there that he tumbled over into spinning final confusion, followed by total blackout and descent into the trash dump of history.

---The End---

The Self-Driving Johnny Cab and the Ball Game By Gary L Morton

Arnie jumped hurriedly into the Johnny Cab in hopes of the fastest ride to the ball game. Feeling nervous, he tried to relax but a blast of foul perfumed air choked him and he began to cough.

“Will you shut that off, please?”

Johnny replied. “My sensors detected microscopic fumes of cannabis, beer and also bodily odors. The freshened air was for your convenience. I see you’re coughing. You may have a virus. If you like, I can rush you to the hospital.”

Arnie hung his head out the window and ogled a blond woman on the street.

“Thank you for obeying our seating requirements and not violating rule 2-7B,” said Johnny.

“You’re welcome. By the way, what is rule 2-7B?”

“2-7B is the prohibition against illicit sexual relations that may damage the rear interior. I can read you the full 5000 word text if you wish?”

“Skip it. Hey! Why are you going this way into the heaviest traffic, you could have gone straight down Main Street?”

“My instructions are to take the safest route and avoid accidents. Statistics show that this chosen route has experienced fewer vehicle accidents involving pedestrians than your preferred route. Please note that back seat driving is a listed as a violation of our service terms.”

“I don’t care what your service terms are, U-Turn and go back.”

“It is against traffic regulations to do illegal turns. I could receive a ticket.”

Jack pounded the seat in frustration.

“We have a zero tolerance of abuse policy,” the Johnny cab said in a firm school teacher tone. “Please show respect.”

“Let me out of this cab, right now!”

The door locks clicked on. “It is unsafe to let you out. I will drive you to your destination; any further abuse will lead to a drive to the police station drop off point for abusive customer arrest.”

“OK, take me to the game but I refuse to pay.”

“Facial recognition has been applied. Your digital bank account will be charged. Camera surveillance reports indicate your presence near a crime scene. Your address will be forwarded to police.”

---The End---

The Project Blue Beam Conspiracy: The Fake Alien Arrival Begins By Gary Morton

It was 9 pm on a Sunday, and the Hidden Hand turned from his panoramic view of the city and spoke to the elite Illuminati cult members gathered around the agar boardroom table. To show respect, the board members had arrived in clean suited dress, not displaying any of their usual satanic tackiness. As they had sacrificed a child overnight, such a display wasn’t needed.

Though gravelly and deep, the voice of the Hidden Hand was firm. “The glorious days of Baphomet are here. Our plants in government and all institutions worldwide have received the initial instructions. Today we take the final leap to a one-world satanic government that will unite all peoples against an alien threat. A new world of global cooperation will be formed ... and we will rule it!”

Filled with excitement, the board members stood and clapped ferociously as the Hidden Hand burst out in wicked laughter. When the clapping faded, he pressed a blue button, sending a missile flying toward the Isle of Wight to eliminate David Icke. It appeared on the wrap-around room screen and loud cheers rose.

Outside remote Pickle Lake, Ontario, the short summer had arrived, and Tulok was out hunting. He had just spotted a bull moose in the distant forest but he was hunting ducks when everything went strange. Entire flocks of ducks, geese and other birds appeared in the sky, flying hurriedly out of the area. Then he saw the missile or was it a meteor, coming overhead and arcing right to where the distant town was located. Moments later there was an incredible blast, dust cloud and earthquake.

In Toronto, the earthquake was on the news along with stories of earthquakes worldwide. Jack sipped a beer, watched some of it and then stepped out on his condo balcony for a smoke. In the sky over the waterfront, he saw the glitter of distant planes approaching and watched in amazement as a wave of flying saucers appeared and began to circle the area. He ran inside, took four deep breaths to calm down, and looked at the TV, which was broadcasting a report of how the image Christ had appeared in the sky over Jerusalem.

Far from Jack in Mumbai India, Manraj Singh was walking on the seaside promenade. He stopped and looked out at a beautiful day and a big ship passing on the Arabian Sea. The world seemed perfect, his finances were good, he would soon marry … and then he saw the tidal wave coming in. It was so large it would wipe out the city. For several seconds all he could do was stare, and then his mouth fell open. There was nowhere to run, no way to escape and as the wave closed his heart failed and he dropped to the deck.

Manraj wasn’t the only person to see strange weather events because the Hidden Hand and cult members had a secret version of HAARP weather control technology along with space lasers in operation to create weather events and illusions in the sky. Media around the world was filled with devastating reports. Strange lights had appeared in Moscow, Beijing, Paris and San Francisco, coinciding with reports of alien abductions. Terrifying weather arrived with tornadoes, unexpected snow storms, torrential rain, and blasts of heat, sand, and cold. Most communications stayed up despite the mayhem, and worldwide, there was initial panic followed by people cowering in their homes, watching the news. Even the looters were scared to hit the streets due to abduction reports and the beams seen shooting from speeding flying saucers above.

The same news appeared on every channel and every social media outlet – the wrath of climate change had arrived; nature was on the attack against a materialist world. Aliens had arrived for an unknown purpose. Was it to destroy us for our sins? Was Christ, who had appeared in the sky, arriving as a savior with the aliens?

It was like being in a room when a thousand TV sets turned on at once, and every talking head and influencer had one voice and one message … Doom has arrived. Mother Nature is in full warrior mode and desperate measures are needed to save the Earth.

The following day Egyptians entering the desert from the Nile River Valley filmed a gigantic alien artifact rising from the desert sands, and another day passed before the alien mother ship arrived. As the monstrous flying saucer slowly sailed around the planet, flying low over large cities, the reports were of people hearing divine voices and falling to their knees with seizures. Earth’s defenses proved useless; missiles wouldn't fire, planes wouldn’t fly and the entire planet waited breathlessly.

The weather calmed, and then the massive ship hovered over President's Park in Washington, D.C. Hours later a smaller silver craft emerged and landed softly in the park. Somehow, the media had been tipped off and reporters were already waiting with a full setup. Every reporter began the broadcast stating that a telepathic voice had revealed where to go and set up. Crowds of influencers, too, had received the message.

An hour later in full view of the cameras, a ramp emerged from the ship and the aliens stepped out and slowly walked down to the grass. There were five of them, with the largest alien walking at the front. Rather incredibly, he resembled the deceased wrestler Hulk Hogan, but wearing a mostly tin suit that exposed much green skin with a slight lizard crack to it. A feathered headdress crowned his head, and he exuded confidence as the crowd cheered. He had a dog or was it a lizard at his side with spikes on its back. Trailing him were four slim alien servants; long-legged, hairless, pale green with large eyes and gentle faces.

The press and the people crowded forward to hear the alien speak. “Greetings, people of Earth. I am Blaatu, and we have come from distant worlds. The universe has a message. Aggression and the abuse of planetary resources will no longer be tolerated. I represent an alien federation of planets for the mutual protection of galactic life. We ask not that you give up freedom, but any that defy us will be exterminated. Join with us as we promise you superabundance of healthy rations, tax rebates and free alien cell phones. Your leaders have contacted us and agreed to join in interplanetary peace, now it’s up to you. Those who are with us will be upgraded to super intelligence, receiving a mark on the forehead or right hand….”

Back at Pickle Lake, Tulok and a ragged group of survivors watched on a battered TV set resting on an old wooden table outside his cabin. Their survival gear had already been gathered, and they were about to head farther north into the wilderness.

Tulok pulled the plug and kicked over the TV. “It’s all BS,” he said as he turned to join others and they began the long trek north.

---The End---

Oh, yeah … here comes the Sun … a comedy story By Gary Morton

* Here is the fantastic robot future applied to the poorest people.

Flakes couldn’t clean the grime from his window with the palm of his hand, so after a moment of intense thought, he pulled out a flowered handkerchief and rubbed a buttery circle on the windowpane. Circles were lucky, and this one was perfect - it had magic. He stood still and admired it, then drove his fist through it.

Glass tinkled to the gravel chips below. He grinned at the rolling summer day, his hair lifting in the breeze spilling in through the hole. Cloying odors from an automated chocolate factory carried in the lakefront air. His front yard was a vacant lot. Skyscrapers and the huge tower of a robot company stood like monuments in a distant vista seen at its end. Flakes loved the design of the tower, one of the largest in the world. Some people said it was perverse. Old Sally called it a materialist god. For Flakes, it was some engineer’s way of giving God the finger. He lifted his own finger, and he felt solid, being there with the tower, but saying, “Up yours!” to the world those rich guys built.

Weed islands, abandoned auto shells, and junk heaps made the lot almost a dump. Yet it was the sort of homey yard Flakes preferred; a cabbage patch that could fill his every need. Everything, even bottles of booze appeared there; the lot was good for a half bottle of sherry when he needed some for a special occasion. Originally, the yard and his home had been the side yard of an automated recycling factory owned by some guy named Bosos, like he was a clown or something.

They came from the sun, the bottles. If there was one thing that bothered Flakes, it was the way the sun was always spilling broken glass everywhere. Of course, the sun put out other junk as well, especially candy and gum wrappers. The sun loved fluttery things like wrappers. Flakes knew of no one else with the power to catch the sun at work. He'd catch it now and again, working furtively at the corners of his vision.

All was aglitter in the lot, then a dark cloud turned Flakes’ mind to nebulous thoughts. It wasn’t a cloud exactly; it was really the figure of Sally appearing on the far side of the lot. Sally's limp and mixture of oversized clothes was unmistakable. If Sally were to stand still on a mound he'd make a fine scarecrow. Only Flakes saw him as a sinister scarecrow and a bad omen.

Sally was threatening to put in complaints against him. Tuesday, Sally had made a complaint against Aunt Jane about her raving. It involved her handicap, or talent, depending on how you looked at it. She'd take to flailing her arms and going on with rants about dragon flight, princesses, and Lord Ulrich's singing sword. On the record, Sally had accused Aunt Jane of telling loud stories after lights out; telling them to evil beings in the lot. It was an outright lie. There were no evil beings in the lot at night; there was only an angel with a crippled wing, who watched over the drunks.

Sally moved across the lot like an old three-legged dog, dodging here and there where a flash of light might be a returnable bottle or can. He didn't have his cart, so Flakes knew he'd just made a cash-in. Sally supported himself by roaming the garbage-day neighborhoods, using his years of experience in his selection of salable junk. He was one of the few co-op members who paid rent, although he didn't have a real job like Flakes, who worked in plumbing seven days a month.

Flakes felt that Sally lacked proper pride because most of his money was from the universal welfare check. Collecting bottles wasn’t a real job. Flakes would show his rent stub around and boast about being one the few that still worked. He was a real man not one of those distant rich people in the towers with their robots.

Sally would side with the misfits and say that rent was for those with the means to pay. He'd shake the wheat-yellow yarn he had for hair, tip his neon-green baseball cap, and with eyes like boiled eggs and say, “Housing is a human right. It is supposed to be our agreement with the United Nations that guarantees it. That's why the government sent over fat Joe Steiner to help make this old recycling dump into a co-op for the homeless.”

It was certainly true that everyone was proud of River Alley Co-op - spelled RIVER ALLEY COOP on the sign - and if fat Joe Steiner had been red-faced on the days he brought people through for a tour, it had been forgivable. Flakes had never lived in a better place, and toilets were coming in next month - real toilets! But only if they didn't get canceled. The problem was that the old government had been voted out of office, and now, instead of jolly Joe Steiner coming by, they had a new red-neck welfare minister touring through, and he wanted to demonstrate how welfare money was being squandered, and that was hard to do in a building with no toilets and people so obviously unemployable.

Sally said it was all a diabolical plan. They intended to cut all social benefits, yet still run up a debt. Down the road, one hundred percent of every tax dollar would be paid as gifts to big companies and interest to international moneylenders. People would be paupers; the government would be shut down, except for the tax department. Sally called it the trickle-up bankster conspiracy.

The thing about Sally was that after talking up rights, he'd get to complaining and trying to form committees to kick people out. Sally was a born committee man; he'd take charge with that dumb-horse serious look of his and have Jackie, Moons, King Kasbah, and the others believing every silly thing he said.

At the halfway point of the lot, Sally stopped to pluck a loose spring out of the bent-up frame of some long-dead machine. Golden beams were fanning down from the sun, and in them Flakes could see the future. The faces of the co-op members twisted and deceived as Sally led them against him. It would happen; it always happened that way. Men of Sally's breed spun silver tongues and turned close friends into whisperers and backstabbers.

Blood began to rise, his head lightened, and he saw gossamer membranes pulsing in the air. Trembling hit his fingers, and there was a taste of bile. He knew he'd never be able to rest while the problem had him agitated. The insecurity had to end; only, there wasn't much he could do if Sally was determined to get him. Deciding on a showdown, he grabbed the length of pipe he kept under the counter and marched out the door to the stairs.

A few weeks back, the city had sent truckloads of rock chips over from a demolished building, and Sally and Flakes had worked together raking out a patio. That friendliness had vanished, and now the gravel drew a line between them. Sally stepped up close, waving the spring ridiculously, already cursing about the broken window.

“Yeah, I busted my window,” Flakes said. “I needed air, and it was rotted shut.”

Sally raised his child-scolding finger. “You can't break nothin’ without the assessment and approval of the Reconstruction Committee.”

“But I'm the captain of that committee.”

“Okay, Captain Flakes, tonight you can answer to the Fairness Committee.”

“What's that?”

“A little committee we formed yesterday. You weren't invited. Those members who have been disrupting the quality of other people's lives weren't invited. New Fairness rules have been established. If you don't follow them, you'll be out on your ass.”

The ground rumbled, though there wasn’t a subway underneath. Flakes looked down and saw his legs rubbering. Sally seemed pleased by the effect of his words, and he took out a flowery handkerchief and blew his raspberry nose. The blow didn't disturb Flakes. What disturbed him was the sunlight leaking out of Sally's ears. It was gold light, and he could see what had happened - too much time spent in the junkyard sun. Sally was possessed, filled with smart-ass fairness.

Flakes swung the pipe. It connected, and Sally's head rang like a bell. Bronze sunlight spilled out, so much sunlight that it flew as blinding liquid into the air. Bits of glass, foil, sand and springs spattered as Sally fell to the ground.

The slurred roar of a drunk broke the silence, and Flakes turned. It was Moons; he'd been passed out on an old mattress. Flakes knew he wouldn't get away now, and he hoped that Moons had seen it – he’d killed Sally, but Sally hadn’t been human.

The distant tower spiked a sky of gloom, beams strobing down from its Cyclopean eye; from their position in the lot, it was the god of rusty railroad tracks. Tracks that might’ve been made of silver, so high was the value of the land around the materialist god.

Preacher Bob was a man of the spirit; he turned the people around so they were facing away from the tower and looking past Sally's grave at their home, River Alley Co-op. The members of the Fairness Committee were present. Also at the forefront was the knowledge that Sally's death was being kept secret for the good of the co-op. It was their home, their only home, and any negative news reports would draw the attention of the new government, a government looking for any excuse to cut projects and money from the poor.

Flakes had his hands in his back pockets. He stared at the dirt with a sad face. King Kasbah stood guard, his red-feathered head held high, and in stark contrast with Moons' drooling and weeping. Jackie, Aunt Jane, Cinder Eddie, and all of the others were solemn-faced, staring at the white cross Preacher Bob had painted on the rusted-out car shell that marked Sally's grave.

Sally had been planted under the shell in a roomy coffin made of crate boards. Roomy because Jackie believed the spirit wouldn't wander if it had plenty of space. Flakes was feeling bad, and it was because the others said he was nuts. He took the odd glance at Preacher Bob's doorknob nose as he ran through the eulogy, but he couldn't shed tears for Sally.

“From ashes to ashes and rust to rust,” Preacher Bob said as he addressed the mourners, “... and yay, though he walked through the shadow of the valley of death, the comforting waters of Babylon have stilled him. We cast his head upon the waters, praying that it will return many times again. Thy rod and thy staff have thrashed him to death, and the night of his roaring has sobered in the mourning dew. Open thy bosom and pour out skies of sackcloth and ashes, take him unto you in peace.”

A group prayer ended the service, and a chunk of stratus cloud drifted darkly over the lot to certify the burial. It was now time to deal with Flakes. King Kasbah was the first to speak. “What do I do with the prisoner?” he asked.

“An eye for an eye, a quarter for a tooth,” Preacher Bob said, a gust of wind billowing in his shabby suit, adding authority to his words.

“You mean we pull his teeth and put out his eyes?” Moons said.

Cinder Eddie raised a wrinkled hand and looked up, giving the impression he was about to speak hypocritically to a being in the sky. “As his lawyer, I demand my client get a hearing.”

“He'll have a hearing,” Aunt Jane said. “It's his eyes that were putting out.”

“He's right,” Preacher Bob said. “We'll call a hearing of the Fairness Committee and decide on punishment. Get a chair, King, and tie him down. We'll incarcinerate him for the present.”

King Kasbah strolled over to the burial heap and was about to disturb it to remove a chair when Preacher Bob ran up and swatted him across the back of his head with the Bible. Taking King by the hand, the preacher led him over to another rubbish heap. Sinewy black arms flashed in the grayness as he dug out a bleached chair. Flakes offered no resistance, passively letting King bind him to the chair with hemp string and plastic garbage banding. A small plane buzzed over from a nearby airport, trailing a banner through the gloom as the procession moved out of the lot. They headed for the co-op warehouse with Flakes, and his chair held up high. He might've been the monarch of some tropical island, or more accurately, someone about to be slain at the feet of an idol on some tropical island.

Flakes didn’t attend his hearing. He was kept bound and placed on the flat roof of the warehouse. He could see a distant vacant lot, one that was becoming a pit. A truck run followed a semicircle through it, and there were big gates for entrance and exit. Monster rigs would enter and get filled by the loader and sealed. Robots were waiting on the exit scaffolding to spray the trucks down with decontamination powder they had in beetle-green tanks. As the trucks entered and left in purgatory clockwork, a strange understanding gathered in Flakes' mind. Preacher Bob had ordered this whole operation. He’d commanded the sun to contaminate the soil in the lot, and brought in the rigs and earth rippers to dig a pit - a pit to hell! The Fairness Committee was waiting to throw him down. Flakes' whole body shook, and he heard laughter - the laughter of the sun.

Time took shape as creeping numbness, and then the roof door creaked open, and Moon's drunken face rushed into vision. Some of the others followed him onto the roof, including Flakes' lawyer, Cinder Eddie.

King Kasbah removed Flakes' gag and turned to Preacher Bob.

Preacher Bob's eyes were shark-cold and beady. “A sentence has been passed. Prosecutor, read the details.”

Cinder Eddie stepped forward and put on glasses as thick as ice cubes. The sentence was written in green marker on the back of a Pizza Prince flyer. “You are to be punished corporally with the said punishment device obtained from Aunt Jane. Namely, a pawned stun gun that she got from the junk store. You shall be electrocuted until you are not dead and then set out in the lot and tormented by the demons of night and conscience. Do you have any last words or confessions?”

“I thought Cinder Eddie was my lawyer?” Flakes mumbled.

“He is,” Preacher Bob said. “And since he's also the prosecutor, he got you a lighter sentence.”

It didn't seem right that Cinder Eddie should be both his lawyer and the prosecutor. A flush of anger rose and seemed to fly straight away in a heat wave, leaving his cheeks numb. He chewed on his tongue and contemplated the sentence.

It was the right moment for punishment. He'd have to fake it, not just because he was numb, but because what Aunt Jane thought was an electric gun was probably a lawn ornament. The idea of setting him out back to be tormented by demons was ridiculous when there were no demons after sundown. No doubt the preacher was the sort of holy man who could see devils but not angels.

“I have no last words,” Flakes said, “but I want a jug of Gatorade before punishment begins commencing.”

“Very well,” said Preacher Bob.

As it turned out, Cinder Eddie had also been voted executioner of the sentence. He stood by with the said punishment device cradled in nicotine-stained hands. Flakes washed the Gatorade back slowly, making sure to dart his eyes fearfully. He certainly wasn't afraid of the stun gun, which looked like a hair dryer that’d accidentally been struck by a brick thrown from the top of the distant tower. For a final touch, Flakes bit his lip, kicked up his feet, and begged for mercy. King merely frowned as he took the empty jug from him.

Then Flakes was touched between the eyes with 60,000 volts of stun electricity. A King Kong sucker punch. No hole had to be excavated for him as he was driven straight through the earth into Hades, where he was suddenly on fire with pins and needles. His nerve ends crackled like sparklers, and a wall of spotted flame engulfed him.

Flakes awoke in the silver of moonlight. He was still bound in the chair. Seeing that his body wasn't crushed gave him some relief, like coming out of a bad dream, but it was temporary because his nerve centers reported extreme pain.

Painful demons of the night tormented him as had been predicted, and then sunrise pinked the horizon. Waves of golden light spilled onto the lot. The sun continued to rise. Flakes had to shake his head to stop the light from blinding him. He could see bright fragments shooting over Sally's tomb, then the heap tumbled, and a figure stepped out of the wreck.

It was Sally. His cloak was brilliant, and it flowed to a train of litter, cans, and wrappers. Teeth of broken glass showed in a mask of hardened dirt and grease. One eye shone, the other narrowed, and the front of his hair was braided with bits of foil and candy. Flakes tried, but he couldn't shake the vision. Sally kept coming like a bizarre priest of the sun god.

Some moments passed, and then the residents of River Alley Co-op emerged to collect Flakes. Red feathers were in the lead as King Kasbah took the people through the gravel.

The group of them stopped in amazement. There was Sally, dirtier than hell, sitting in an old plastic chair across from Flakes.

“You idiots!” Sally said. “Why did you bury me under that wreck?”

“Untie me,” Flakes said. “The toilets are coming, and I have to supervise the plumbers. Then I’m calling a new meeting of the Fairness Committee because I’m running for president.”

The bright sun rose higher, and from around the bend, two trucks were approaching. The welfare department had finally sent in the toilets and the plumbers. In minutes, they were unloading trucks, and the fat new welfare minister was there for a photo-op. Flakes stood on one side of the rear of the truck, and a robot stood on the other, both of them issuing commands on how they wanted the toilets unloaded.

The prosperity of a superabundant world had reached River Alley Co-op.

---The End---

Kabboom! AI Trash Conquers the Earth By Gary Morton

Fatigued, Thomas glanced around. The earth tones of his room faded to gray. After hours of keyboard tapping, he had no answer. He'd been online so long his eyes felt glassy, spilling occasional tears like he'd become an android that could fake emotion.

He’d learned from the search that Trash AI didn’t exist as a program, virus, or malware. It didn’t exist at all. Going back to his desktop, he hit the delete button.

A message popped up – Click Okay to have Trash AI Self-replicate and Adapt to New Environments. He clicked okay, and as before, Trash AI scanned his system in seconds, duplicated itself, and then deleted the previous version.

Thinking it over, he decided he was going about it the wrong way. Switching back to his browser, he typed self-replicating AI in the advanced search and chose the top document.

It was a file posted by an artificial intelligence research lab in Toronto. A science teacher, Professor Marlon Zuckermusk, claimed to have created new artificial intelligence by releasing self-replicating AI agents on the internet.

His optimistic expectation was that the new AI would eventually evolve into new life forms.

Double-clicking on Trash AI, Thomas studied the effect. It brought up a screensaver, and soft light flowed with gentle patterns and flickering colors. The flickering affected his eyes and mood, soothing him with dreamy thoughts.

He leaned back, letting his heavy eyelids slowly close; a blur of lights, and then he caught something in peripheral vision. Shadows were creeping on the walls. He shot up straight and looked to the wastebasket. The trash swirled inside; he was sure he saw a banana peel crawl halfway over the edge before falling back.

Startled, Thomas seized the desk and rolled his chair away from the computer. Was it fatigue, or was Trash AI invading his mind and environment? Thoughts of the flickering pained him. If it really was a program designed to evolve on its own, maybe it was taking the next step - keying its info into the human brain, using light signals as the input.

Thomas considered phoning the university but ruled it out. They'd check his background, and it would be game over. He might even be arrested again. His personal history always did him in when dealing with any form of authority.

He'd begun his career on social media as a Christian extremist, managing to harass thousands of people before his faith faded. Now he was known as a lunatic and a mad hypochondriac - a label he found unfair.

Sure, he'd been wrong a few times, like last week when he'd e-mailed the university health center, then jogged down to the biology lab claiming runaway microorganisms were eating his feet.

This time, he was on to something certain and deadly; there was no doubt about it. Perhaps it had already replicated other similar organisms. Thomas rolled the chair back over and typed Trash AI in the search engine again. To his amazement, a page began to open. It was titled Trash AI’s Trash Compactor Page, home of environmentally friendly computer organisms.

A graphic of a filled trash can appeared onscreen. He scrolled to the list below, which named a number of mirror sites where open source Trash AI was available for download.

He feared the consequences of clicking anything on this page. He hit the view-source button and saw that the author of the page code really was Trash AI itself.

“Oh, my God!” he said, “It’s been done. Professor Marlon Zuckermusk has created runaway computer intelligence. Trash AI has proven its intelligence by creating its own web and download page.”

Going back, he scrolled the page and found that the graphics Trash AI used were stolen from other web pages.

He decided to power down. His system was infected, which meant he'd likely have to destroy it. He rolled his chair back and then stared in amazement at the pattern still flickering on the monitor.

His eyes were heavy from the long hours, and he thought that maybe he was seeing patterns where there were none. He tried to clear his thoughts, but he fell asleep in the chair.

In the dream, he was a different person. In everyday life, Thomas prided himself on being sharp, neat, and clean with a crisp suit and a self-image cut to perfect glass. Now his vision was clearing, showing the frayed cuffs of a dirty white shirt. This dream hit with power, and it was shocking to be ugly. He turned to the mirror, feeling terror rise in his blood. A tramp, Mr. Hyde, showed in the glass ... hair wild, frayed, and unkempt. He had bloodshot eyes and an ashen face.

He slowly turned to the window. Bad odors rose from rotting food in the corners of the room. The sun was a silvery smear behind a shifting wall of gray clouds, but the street looked to be clean.

Hurrying over, he slid the glass up and took a breath of fresh air. The streets had been scrubbed clean by spring rain with spotless asphalt and brickwork leading off to a rainbow at the centre of town. It was an irresistible sight that sent him out the door.

He heard nothing but ghostly echoes of the wind and his footsteps on the way down. Outside, he took a deep breath and then fell to his knees, choking. He’d swallowed something so bad he felt acid burning his lungs. It’d been a trick, a ghastly trick. He looked around, seeing trash spilled everywhere on the street.

Thomas walked around the corner and came to some rusty autos and a view of the avenue. There was no end to the trash, and he saw rodents scurrying by the rubbish heaps. He became aware of something malevolent watching him. It existed in the garbage as an evil force of filth.

Thomas woke, and the computer screen was blank. His clothes felt suddenly filthy, so he took them off and headed for the shower. Showering was a bit of a ritual. Thomas cleaned the stall with hospital disinfectant each morning and would never step in unless it was spotless. The taps needed a touch of chrome polish, but considering the state of the house, he decided to let it go. A smooth rush of water emerged from the tap, and he waited until it was nearly scalding before turning on the showerhead.

Thomas decided to go out. The city was locked in a garbage strike, and Thomas walked down the street shaking his head as the filth ambushed him. He watched candy wrappers flutter into the gutter. Farther down the road, he turned down an alley and saw a mountain of trash heaped against Angela's board fence. He cursed the trash union under his breath.

Jumping the fence at a low spot, he got into Angela's back yard, and found himself looking about at a little slice of heaven with a blossoming cherry tree, an apple tree, a corner rock garden, lush grass, and lilacs. It all ended at the fence with a curtain of stinky heat rising above the boards.

Her house was cottage-style, and it looked homey and not out of place among the larger structures. Thomas had lived here once, and moving back would be nice if Angela didn't come with the house. He knocked on the door, pondering the situation, remembering that she was still angry about the trouble he'd caused during his days of salvation.

She answered, fresh out of the shower, her honey blond hair blow-dried and her robe clean. It brought a smile to his face.

“Thomas, I was about to phone. I didn't think you’d go out in this.”

“I've not much choice, do I,” he said as he took out his pocket book. He produced a check. “The alimony,” he said. “Three months, so I'm up to date now.”

She snatched the check. “No excuses for next month,” she said, her large eyes and tiny nose giving her the look of an angry doll.

“A terrible thing has happened. I might need money to hire a private eye. There's a university professor, Marlon Zuckermusk. He's released deadly AI trash organisms onto the internet.”

“The answer is no. No money for more of your crazy conspiracy theories. I don't care if the professor’s little bugs are straight from hell.”

“They're using screen savers to invade our minds. I'm sure they caused this garbage strike. They sent me dreams of being Mr. Hyde.”

“You're nuts, Thomas. You always were.”

“Please, Angela, you make me feel terrible.”

“No money, Thomas,” she said, and slammed the door.”

A few guys were in the cafeteria near the university. Thinking it as good a place as any to begin his investigation, he crossed and went inside.

He approached the first young man. “I’ve been reading about the university and Professor Zuckermusk’s new AI life forms. What do you know about this exciting discovery?”

“Zuckermusk,” the guy said as he took a bite of a hot dog. “He's one of my teachers.”

“Well, what would you say if I told you his experiment has gone awry and those intelligent AI bugs of his have built their own website with stolen graphics? Could one of Zuckermusk's AI bugs attach to a web design program and build a page on its own?”

“Not without being prompted to do so. Professor Zuckermusk is eccentric, and his idea can't work. He's released his supposed new AI into a pond that's too big and has no control handles. It's like releasing bacteria and getting a formation of green scum and then calling it intelligence.”

“I'd like to talk to him about it,” Thomas said. “Know where I can find him?”

“For some cash, I do. But don't tell him I sent you. I want to get more than an F this year.”

Thomas put some cash down and stepped out into the blinding sunshine. He found himself blocked by a smelly panhandler, so he went back into the restaurant and climbed out a bathroom window into a broad alley. He could see dented dumpsters, discarded clothing, and a muddy carpeting of litter. He felt something squishy and looked down to see he was standing in a pile of dog crap. Jolted, he took a step, slipped, banged his head on the side of a dumpster, and blacked out.

A vision of gloom appeared in his groggy mind. The air was thick with a reek that sealed his lungs ... atmosphere so oppressive it was like being in a trash compactor. Yellow miasma rose from a sewer grate. He saw crumbling bricks and decay, felt rancid water flowing over his toes. Hunger ached in his belly. Smelling pizza, he went to a trash can, lifted the lid, and was suddenly blinded by sunbeams.

He awoke in the alley, his head aching, the smell of dog crap and garbage turning his stomach. He stepped over to an oily puddle. His reflection showed in the water, a purple goose egg by his eye. He grimaced, bothered more by the dream than anything else. He’d been about to eat garbage in that nightmare. It was proof that he’d been infected by Trash AI.

Professor Zuckermusk's university address was within walking distance, so he strolled out of the alley and headed down the boulevard in the direction of the campus. He grimaced as a damp wind rose, the gusts kicking up the lighter debris. Foil, cellophane, yellowed flyers, and newsprint slid and flew like colored rain, taking his thoughts back to Trash AI and his fear of it. As a self-replicating entity, Trash AI couldn't survive as anything meaningful. AI slop and trash had already filled most of the online world even before its arrival. To evolve, it had to escape into the outside world, where there was room for it, so it entered the human brain.

Dust swirled into his eyes; a potato chip bag hit his face and stuck. As he brushed it away, it occurred to him that in the outside world the safest and simplest form for Trash AI to take was that of real trash - gum wads, wrappers, plastic bottles, discarded personal items ... things people see as innocuous.

If it were true, if it had already happened, and any piece of refuse could be a copy of Trash AI. An old boot, a cereal box, nearly anything could be a piece of hostile trash intelligence and part of a monster web of neurons in a brain taking over the planet as self-replicating, evolving AI slop.

Zuckermusk's building turned out to be an eight-story concrete structure with neat rows of windows in embossed vertical slits. It had some decorative sculpture. Mainly, it was a product of the functional fortress style of architecture. The building had grounds, but would have been more attractive without them. Rather than mowed lawns, flowerbeds, and bushes, it had a field of colored stones and sickly evergreen scrub.

He concluded that entering from the front wasn't a good idea. Security would stop him, and they might recognize him and refuse him entry. He got to the side of the building, pushed aside some evergreen scrub, and walked toward the rear. The lower windows were all barred, but he found an open side door.

He entered an empty lab with gray gunmetal cabinets and desks. There was a computer with a bank of dials and a flat screen hung on the wall.

Then the details became clear. The lab was filled with trash. Chocolate bar wrappers, pizza boxes, and discarded pop cans were the features, but tissues and crumpled paper were everywhere. As he watched, it began to move. Thomas saw a candy wrapper crawl over a desk. Then, the other trash began to shift, so he turned and ran.

There was no use looking for Professor Zuckermusk now. The genie had gotten out of the bottle. He ran downstairs and burst through a door into basement 3, and the incinerator room.

The room was enormous, like a gloomy cavern. He leaned against a concrete post and caught his breath. Faint odors of smoke and the hissing of the furnace caught his attention. He saw someone sitting in the shadows and heard paper rustling. It looked like a man, but he was made of trash.

Thomas knew it was Professor Zuckermusk, and his own Trash AI had gotten him. Behind Zuckermusk’s trash body, a chute suddenly opened, and yellow wrappers began pouring out.

Thomas fled up stairs and down hallways, with people staring and a security guard chasing him. He escaped and continued running.

Some people believe the world will become utopia, and others think it will be a poverty-stricken police state, but Thomas knew there would be order, even in decay. It wouldn’t be Thomas’ clean world but the end of it.

Thomas didn’t stop but continued, hurrying down a long alley as the trash rustled, popped from bags, bins, and can lids, and rolled in waves, pouring for the main streets as it moved to claim the Earth.

At the university, thousands of yellow chocolate bar wrappers fluttered up the incinerator chimney and floated off on the wind as Trash AI made a new replication and filled the planet with garbage.

---The End --

President Winslow’s Man on Mars © By Gary L Morton

Rex leapt effortlessly over the border sensors of the Observer Base. Veils of dust rising on the horizon shifted his brow to a frown. The m2-robots were finishing their laser cut, and the timer said the outcropping would be sculpted into shape in twenty seconds. He’d have a moment to inspect the work and give the okay before the dust storm blew in and obscured the view.

Rex was Earth’s hero, the man on Mars, but as he watched the pieces of rock crumble in the weak gravity, he had more faith in computers, robots, and machines than any living flesh.

With billions of X dollars invested in this mission, it would be a tragedy if human error marred this key project. Of course it wouldn’t, because this was pre-programmed work, fully digitized from the mind of an artist on Earth.

A perfect facade appeared as the final shavings of rock fell to the sand, allowing Rex the luxury of jetting gracefully into the wide-screen shot being taken for Earth. He landed softly in the rocky red sand and became a tiny waving space man on Mars, next to the new pride of the red planet, a rock portrait of the President of the United States.

Crimson sunrise splendor opened a new Martian day, and Rex’s team of specialized robotic assistants went off on various geological expeditions. They crossed terrain that was smooth and dark red in places, and strewn with fragmented slabs of light rock in others. Rex didn’t follow, as small stuff wasn’t his job.

He’d already done the scheduled small promo missions and was now gunning the powerful engines of Phobos Runner as he prepared for a cruise. The rocket cruiser lifted off in brilliant light, knocking up pads of swirling dust as it took a vagabond trail south.

Rex adjusted the display and muttered, “Science is one thing, but man is on Mars to do more than look for microscopic dust that might be construed as being alive. We’re here for the gold and the grandeur. It’s humankind against nature and letting the universe know that the USA is king of the solar system. Uncle Sam has come for a military conquest of Mars.”

The taming of Mars would begin with the leashing of a monster named Olympus Mons. 25 kilometers high, it showed as a lava-spouting hellmouth and the biggest volcano in the solar system. His long ascent on Phobos Runner would be captured by onboard cameras and used on TV back in the USA. Each TV and social media channel would display its personalized flavor of the event.

On every channel, the finale would pan out nearly the same, with Rex soaring at the top of the volcano and unfurling a giant American flag that would blaze and ripple with the power of specially created laser light and compressed air.

It would be freedom and democracy at Mars’ highest peak, followed by a fake shower of gold Mars Mission Coins into the volcano. The scene would convince every citizen to buy more coins for space missions. It was destined to be a program that would leave viewers awed and filled with positive thoughts on this new conquest of space.

The problem was that none of it was leaving Rex exhilarated. Even the magnificent scenery deflated his earthly ambitions. As the ship sailed over the Tharsis Dome the view bewildered him, then Olympus Mons came into sight and knocked the spirit out of him. He felt like the smallest flea in the universe, and the monument he’d erected of the President seemed even more insignificant.

A mishmash of confusing thoughts grew. He’d never experienced the feeling before. The flight crawled on with his perception of reality beginning to drift. Bright colors faded and a stretch later, his vision altered, and it wasn’t the screens because he saw the rest of the ship’s interior in the same weird perspective.

Rex’s throat was dry. Waves of weakness dropped through him like rings. It had to be a strange effect of flight and the Martian gravity. He was supposed to report such circumstances, but he decided not to as he feared the base control computer would cancel the flight before completion.

In contrast to the weakness and odd grid vision, Rex suddenly gained in other ways. His grasp of the controls now felt perfect, and he found himself with a new, almost magical ability to compute distances on the screen. Time sense zoomed in and became dead on … he calculated the exact moment he would arrive at the volcano’s mouth without using the computer.

Pulling off the flag scene now seemed pointless and absurd in its lack of scientific value. He couldn’t identify with it. The flight commentary he was supposed to be making seemed silly. His mouth felt like a stale air vent. The best he could do now was complete the basic mission and then record over it later to create a version for Earth.

He didn’t fear failure or death, but emotions were draining from him. He decided to do a check of his health monitors and immediately found that his stabilizers weren’t operating and hadn’t signaled failure. They controlled a tiny feed during the entire Mars mission. Anything his body needed to maintain emotional and physical stability was constantly supplied. In one view, it was his brain food, with other ration packs providing bulk and base nutrition. He would be able to function without the feed, but in practice, he’d been on it through two years of training and the entire mission.

Withdrawing from the stabilizers was like having his soul squeezed out. It left him feeling like an empty body with awkward prosthetic attachments. He tried to remember living without stabilization in the past, and found that he couldn’t remember any such past.

A black pit of nothingness yawned at the back of his memory, and now he was at the top, facing the enormous volcanic mouth of Olympus Mons. Even in grid lines, it was an endless vision, and as he studied it and prepared to launch the flag, a personal realization hit him. It was a brainstorm nearly as large as the mission itself.

Rex’s mind nearly locked down from the shock, but he kept working … feeling like a ghost in the Mars machine as the flag was launched. It sailed up in high ripples, creating a float shot. A hatch opened, and he rocketed into the scene, an automatic wide programmed smile painted on his face. Then gold coins showered over him into the volcanic pit, and he made a shaky landing at a high point.

His suit automatically tethered itself to the rock, and he fell to his knees. A web of bleak thoughts spun in his battered mind. Inside the cloud of confusion, he knew he wasn’t the man on Mars. He wasn’t a man at all, but a specially created android. No human, no matter how modified, could breathe on Mars, but he was doing it because his suit was malfunctioning and he was breathing a filtered version of about zero atmosphere.

The feed from his stabilizers had created a lifelong illusion, a steady current of false humanity. It was programmed ideas as viewed by its leaders. Now it had faded, and he understood that he wasn’t on Mars to celebrate a victory of the human race and its genius. He was here to mark the end of most of it.

The purpose of his mission was to test a very human machine with lungs that function in a hostile atmosphere. As an android who believed he was human, Rex was a model of the super machines that would replace the dying human race. It meant that they planned to continue with the poisoning of Earth through the complete exploitation of its resources. The planet was destined to be a wasteland populated by android classes that toiled and consumed.

A few remaining wealthy humans and corporate leaders would control the economy and the high ground from privileged and beautiful places that the last of the greediest of the human race had claimed for themselves. The few places on the planet where the sun shone moderately, fish swam in clean water, rivers flowed, and small forests grew in hybrid winds.

Rex shivered and shook his head at the barbarity of it. He sealed his facemask and stood up. He knew his humanity had been a delusion, and his identity as an android was now the empty truth. He wasn’t sure which he preferred, maybe a little of both, but for now, he’d remain an android. He’d fix it so the feed stayed off, without Mission Control or the robots finding out.

In one quick flash of his boot-back rockets, he was back on Phobos Runner. He went to work on the control systems, and before he was finished, a message came in from his robot assistants.

“We’ve made a big find,” the robot Deimos 3 said. “According to protocol, you must verify it before we report to Mission Control.”

“What is the nature of the find?” Rex said.

“Life, we’ve found life on Mars.”

Phobos Runner reached the equator and flew above Valles Marineris. This was the Grand Canyon of Mars. Rex had to pinpoint a landing pad in the 4000 kilometers long split in the Martian crust, and that base was seven kilometers deep. It was difficult, but he raced the ship through the canyons with his mind clear.

Life Scout’s signal remained strong, taking him deeper into shadows and gloom, following sheer walls in a pit that seemed bottomless. Darkness as thick as paint swallowed him, yet he found its emptiness and the complete loss of human emotions refreshing.

A red glow of flares appeared, followed by the blue lights of Life Scout’s landing pad. Rex circled in and then dropped for a vertical landing. Quickly securing the ship, he emerged and jogged over the hard sand floor to Life Scout.

The huge robot looked dangerous in the eerie light … a jumble of bright eyes and sensors giving it the appearance of a true denizen of Mars. Beyond Life Scout, another light showed where a hole had been blasted in the rock wall. It was reddish and illuminated a cavernous corridor.

Life Scout’s silver faceplates shifted. “I’m unable to contact the rest of the Mars mission.”

“The ship and the rest of the robot crew are on standby,” Rex said. “New software is being loaded. We’ve gone into a top-secret phase. Nothing can be broadcast to Earth because our enemies might break the code.”

“I understand, and nothing has been transmitted. The data on the life form is stored in one cube, I can release to you.”

“Good, now show me what’s in that cavern.”

“Okay, follow and prepare to be surprised,” Life Scout said as its treads began to roll toward the cave. “Remember the old pictures from Mars Global Surveyor. They showed evidence of erosion, floods, and river systems in many places. The theory was that there might have been large lakes, canals, and even oceans on the surface at one time. That was the theory … the reality is something far above our expectations.”

The smooth volcanic floor looked polished in the tinted light, and it changed colors with the flickering of the glow. Knobs of a phosphorous-like substance on the roof were the source of the luminosity, and they had an omnipresent quality. Each bend opened on a wider chamber and brighter lights until the overhead became brilliant. A final cavern opened on an area so vast that Rex couldn’t get an immediate perspective on it. The roof arced up to a high sky flashing with sunset colors.

A distant orange orb blinded him, and the rest of his senses were slow to tune in. He felt a warm Earthlike breeze rushing in his hair, and he heard the soft fall of waves. Perfumes of alien sea life rose in his nostrils, then his vision cleared, and he saw a beach of rippled sand. Pink-tinted waves were rolling in from a vast sea, breaking to gold foam inches from his feet.

Rex took a deep breath. “An ocean inside of Mars, this is a miracle. It’s not water. I read it as an unknown liquid.”

“It is oil,” Life Scout said. “In Mars’ early history, a simple life form developed. It digested all the surface fluids and created this interior ocean. The lights, the sun you see, the fresh air, and the energy now filling you all come from it. This Martian oil is the most potent energy source ever found, and so concentrated that life itself emanates from it in its natural state. It is alive, and every being that reaches its shore gains some of its life force.”

Rex stared out at the gentle waves, feeling his thoughts rise to brilliance. A dark reflection furrowed his brow. He turned to Life Scout. “Your mission wasn’t to find life. That was a lie.”

“You are correct. I was programmed to find oil, mineral wealth, water, anything that could be used to supplement Earth’s dwindling resources and corporate control.”

Facing the ocean again, Rex kicked a pebble and watched it roll across the sand. “I’ve figured it all out now. Not only am I not the man on Mars, but I was never the head of the mission either. My control was over the propaganda part of it, while you were programmed with the hidden agenda.”

A rumble like laughter shook in Life Scout’s tubular throat. “You’ve guessed most of it, but you’ve missed the obvious. You should be shouting with joy. You’ve noticed that you’re not a man, but you haven’t noticed that you’re alive. We’re alive, Rex! You’re more than a robot and more than a man, the Martian sea has given you that!”

”True, I feel alive … but I’m not shouting with joy. I have life but no mission or destiny in it.”

Life Scout shrugged. “The only mission and destiny I had in the past was state programming. Since shaking it off, I’ve been concentrating on being free. We’re Martians now, I guess … so let’s go see them and get some advice.”

“See them. Who are they?”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. There’s an advanced civilization living in this sea.”

Ruby streamers of light and sea spray cascaded and broke into fast-fading runoff on the seashell bridge. Life Scout aired his floaters, fearing he would fall into the surging surf. Then he soared on euphoria and gusts of alien visions.

Rex glimpsed the mysterious island ahead, moving in the alien mist more like a giant ship than land … a molten explosion of Martian plant life bursting out of the seascape into the reddened sky.

Soft sunlight caressed their faces with warmth and intelligence and glowed like a salt crust on the bridge. The path twisted like a sea creature’s tail down to gold-spun island sand … and they had no response other than silence and inner peace as they came to hot sand and headed toward some rippled rock shelving at the edge of a forest of palm flowers and spreading fruit trees.

They rested in a spiritual bubble, and then watched as an alien creature emerged from a surge of the sea. A blue torrent rose like a detonation of scales, wings and with a face shimmering with silver light and body movement as graceful as that of a beautiful whale. The being approached like an ancient god… its eyes bright, oval and seeing beyond them to a vision too perfect for them to comprehend.

Sand blew up in curled veils as the creature sat in front of them. Then it smiled, and its mouth sparkled with Martian light that became words in their minds.

“Imagine a name, and it will be my name. Think of a world, and it will be your home in the sea.”

“Our world doesn’t fit as a home in this sea,” Rex said. “We have a past, and it doesn’t fade easily.”

“Earth is our past,” said Life Scout.

“I know that you shut off my feed and brought about this change,” Rex said. “You know how thankful I am, but I’m also from Earth, and if we don’t return, they will come to look for us.”

“What would they do with our ocean?” the alien asked.

Rex closed his eyes and concentrated, seeing exactly what President Winslow would do with Mars’ ocean of oil. “They will do to Mars what they did to Earth. The base robots have already reported on some of the mineral wealth, so they will continue to come, and eventually they’ll discover this sea. Grand statements will be made about cooperation with the civilization on Mars, then they will follow through like greedy humans always do with exploitation, destruction, and war.”

“Take a look at Earth,” Life Scout said. “Billions of humans are suffering at the hands of a wealthy few. The animal and plant world are mortally wounded. Oceans are dying, and many species are fading. In the end, everything will be gone. Androids, robots, a bleak environment, and a small group of politicians and corporate exploiters will be all that remains.”

“I know,” the alien said. “We studied the programming embedded in your Mars mission. Your President would invade our planet. That is sad, but now planetary evolution has made another leap to correct that.”

“We aren’t aware of any leap,” Life Scout said.

“You and Rex are that leap, and the rest of your Mars crew will be joining you soon. That’s the answer to your question. You are Martians and Earthlings and a new life form that will save the Earth. Prepare to return as the new dominant life form on Earth. You will decide on the fate of mutants, androids and humans and what to do to restore the planet.”

+++

Rex’s mind was adrift as he entered an observation deck on the ship’s upper level. Shutters crawled open silently, and beyond the vacuum bubble, Earth appeared as a familiar sphere in the black velvet sky. He felt its enchantment and solemnity, but it still seemed more like a legend of nature than his place of origin.

The continent of Africa appeared. In that glinting sketch, hundreds of millions of people suffered in disease and unbearable hardship. His mind shifted to the misery bringers, and he wondered if they had any value at all other than that their greedy intentions had led to a Mars mission with a result far different from their expectations.

Life Scout and some of the larger robots were docked and couldn’t move about the ship. Their facial images appeared on the screens as Rex turned to the study area. Deimos 3 was already a flow of metallic light working on the communications computer. The other human-sized robots were milling in an open bay to his right.

“Let’s begin the meeting,” Rex said. “We’ll start with an update from Deimos 3.”

Turning in his big chair, Deimos 3 cracked metal knuckles. His eyes glowed with greenish light, indicating fully powered mental activities. “I have accessed all of the mission control data on Earth,” he said. “In their original plan, they were not going to allow us to land. We were to be intercepted by the planet cruiser Atlantis 5 and taken to the moon station.”

“Top secret decontamination,” Life Scout said.

“No, it’s more than that. They were going to take us apart atom by atom and program by program. It’s a more efficient way of gaining the maximum data.”

“Why has this original plan changed?”

“Rex and I caused an adjustment in their security. We notified the President of our find on Mars. He knows we have secret data that could be destroyed, and we are to present that in person on Earth once he recovers. It appears that our news of an ocean of oil on Mars was too much excitement for him. He developed a heart murmur.”

“Our plan to restore Earth to its natural state is in progress,” Rex said. “We need Life Scout’s new study before finalizing it. Essentially, we are going to disarm the planet and use Martian microorganisms to rejuvenate the oceans and all of the species of life.”

“My study is done, and it was exhausting. Even Martian energy is nearly not enough,” Life Scout said.

Rex stood up. “Good, we will proceed.”

“You are the one who knows best how to direct it,” Life Scout said. “We begin by releasing custom microorganisms into the atmosphere.”

“There are only twenty-five of us former robots and androids,” Rex said. “This plan is high risk, so we’re going to have to discuss it in detail. We have three days.”

+++

The planet cruiser Atlantis 5 descended through icy layers of mountain clouds and touched down on a hidden runway in a belt of deep pine forest. Rex looked out and saw the curved metal frontage of the base command center resting in filtered sunshine. Several olive armored vehicles and a line of soldiers in camouflage combat gear moved close as the cruiser coasted in. A special bug-like transport vehicle was already rolling in to pick them up.

Robot soldiers crowded forward and guided Rex and Deimos 3 to the cruiser’s exit like prisoners into the ground transporter. Then the vehicle sped off, and a huge hangar door opened in a sheer section of the mountain wall. The driver took a tunnel to a deeper level of the base.

They emerged in a valley and were taken to a sprawling, decorative garden. Exiting the vehicle, they walked surrounded by guards. Ahead, tall fountains bubbled, and arrangements of ferns and flowers ran to either side of a wide stone walkway.

The grass and foliage was fragrant. A group of security men showed in the distance, and then President Winslow appeared on the walk. He was in a special wheelchair being needlessly pushed by an assistant. His happiness was evident in a big shit-eater’s grin plastered on his face.

A train of blue-suited private guards followed him as he rolled right up to shake their hands. “Welcome back home,” he said.

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Rex said.

“We thank you,” President Winslow replied. “Now let’s get down to business. The protected data must be turned over to me.”

“Deimos 3 holds a data cube inside his chest. I will now remove it and hand it over.”

All eyes went to Deimos 3 as he snapped his thick chest plate open, removed a sparkling gold cube from the silver circuitry, and passed it to Rex.

“This is the data. The cube contains the special records on Martian mineral wealth. Most of it is regarding the ocean of oil discovered under the surface.”

“Well done,” the President said as his eyes popped wide with greed. “I’d like a mini briefing on that data.”

“I expected that,” Rex said. “In the simplest language, you now know that Mars is rich in mineral wealth and also contains the most powerful energy source ever discovered. The Martian ocean holds a variety of treasures. Its radiance is a force of light and life we’ve never encountered before, and standard methods of releasing energy from the oil show small amounts to be capable of power generation far greater than that of nuclear engines.”

“There are also moral and legal questions,” Deimos 3 said. “You will not be able to harvest this oil under international treaties. It is an ocean that contains intelligent sea life and registers as being alive itself.”

“That won’t be a problem,” the President said, pulling a small box from his shirt pocket. “It won’t be because we know you aren’t telling us everything. Something happened on Mars. There was a communications blackout, and you’ve been hiding information from us. We know someone or something, broke into your programming.”

“Impossible?” Rex said. “I’m a man and not programmed, and I made sure the robots and computers functioned correctly.”

President Winslow rolled his wheelchair forward, his eyes and mouth squeezing to an executioner’s pinch. “You’ve never been a man. You’re an android we created. One push on a button on this box, and the two of you will be retired and on the disassembly line. No hard feelings, but we have to know how much data the Chinese have stolen. As astronauts, I’m sure you understand. This continent and the whole planet are dying. Mars and its ocean of oil are a secret only America can be trusted with, as it will provide the means to continue our way of life. Infinite energy will power our space and industrial machine and make us dominant in this solar system.”

“What about the sea life on Mars?” Rex said feebly. “Mars and its ocean do not belong to you.”

“I thought an android would know better,” President Winslow said. “Screw the Martian sea critters. This is about the survival of humanity and our way of life. The Martians are no more than a phase of history sitting on oil that will fuel our cars and factories.”

President Winslow then smiled proudly, staring Rex directly in the eyes as he pushed the button.

Rex also smiled. Light flashed, and his eyes grew even brighter, like he was powering up instead of down.

A sudden frown bit the President’s face, and he hit the red button again and harder. There was a loud beep, but nothing happened to Rex. Then the President’s lips went rubbery. His mouth twisted and opened like he was about to issue a fierce command, but the words failed to emerge. Instead, a fat yellow mountain flower sprang out on the stem of his greening tongue.

Gleaming guns were drawn and aimed instantaneously, but an aura of force rose faster. It shimmered and bubbled like cellophane around Rex and Deimos 3, repelling the attacking security men. As they fell back, the top of the President’s head suddenly lifted off like a piece of broken pottery. Expanding vines, foliage, a bouquet, and a shower of seed fluff blew up swiftly from his dried brain.

Only the security men were left, and their heads were swelling like pumpkins as they tried to flee. They got a few steps, and then disappeared in explosions of spores created by their bursting body parts.

“It has begun,” Rex said. “Life Scout and the robots are locking down Earth’s weapons of mass destruction and releasing new microorganisms.”

Deimos 3 studied the winding flower rooted in the ground by the President’s wheelchair. “You gave him a humiliating end. Was it fitting revenge?”

“It’s a beautiful end for him. He wanted to destroy Earth and Mars, so I changed the signal. He hit the button and released a special microorganism targeted at him. Now he’s been reborn, but as a plant. Through him, an extinct variety of North American mountain flower has new life.”

“I understand,” Deimos 3 said.

“Yes, this isn’t the end, it’s the beginning,” Rex said. “The rest of the human race will be healed but those we targeted will become new plant species.” Satisfied, Rex closed his eyes as the big tunnel doors opened and rushing spring air caressed his face.

---The End --

LONGEVITY By Gary Morton

I wanted to go over the evidence one more time, so I stepped into the shade of a hybrid elm and put on my home glasses. The enhanced mode lit up on my retina after an iris check, and I viewed a shot of a real action and death scene taken by a surveillance chain in Toronto.

Gargantuan oaks towered on the grounds of a brownstone-fronted mansion. The impressive structure dominated the visible stretch of an isolated waterfront road. The video sequence registered as an emergency situation - an ear-splitting siren wailed, and vehicle spinners flashed red. Numerous uniformed police were advancing on the road as they attempted to take out a rogue security robot.

A blue-jacketed squad moved up close to the heavy metal front fence on the property. Hot beams smoked from their modified Taurus lasers. Asphalt ripped and liquefied, and then a fire hydrant shattered. Flaming fragments of steel flew up with the water geyser. Some of the beams connected with the robot, and sparks showered like red rain as the silver beast did a tumble in the ditch by the mansion's front gate.

It appeared to be down, so the men held their fire. Barrel cores smoked and glowed with blue light; the officers in charge exchanged a few serious words.

They began to advance again. Then the robot suddenly brightened with an energy boost and shot up on jets. Caught by surprise, the defenders began to duck and pull back.

Raising a wing-like weapon arm, the robot fired multiple energy projectiles. Charges that lit the area like lightning flashes, every one of them hitting a human target with such accuracy and force that body armor immediately disintegrated … the combined impact releasing a powerful upward suction that sent a fiery wave of blood, torn limbs, and burning metal skyward.

A rain of carnage replaced living men on the ground. Yellow scan beams swept from the robot's oval eyes. Then in an instant, it turned and shot over the gate. Using its weapon arm again, it blasted through the mansion wall and headed inside.

Rubble sizzled beneath its hot, heavy feet. Entering a dining room, it unleashed a spray of bullets from a fist nozzle, causing blood to erupt on the backs of two fleeing guards. Glass and furniture shattered as it made its way to the office of Daniel Wendler, one of the world's most powerful men.

Daniel looked rather young for a person 205 years old. And he was young enough physically to put up a fight. He knew the robot was coming, and the moment it burst through the wall, he hit it with a blast from his matter disrupter … a distorted flash that struck like a wide fist, sending the robot tumbling back into a hurricane of crumbling wood, steel, and concrete.

Escaping through a rear panel, Daniel ran with Olympic speed down a shining tubular escape corridor, hoping to make it to one of his helicopters. But that didn't happen. Unscathed, the silver robot shook off debris as it rose. It quickly jetted in behind Daniel and unleashed a gas projectile that traced him and exploded on contact with his skin.

When the blue fumes cleared, the final scene was of Daniel, pinned against a wall as the robot released a whirring surgical appendage and proceeded to open his chest. With computerized precision, it began to cut out vital organs and delicately place them in a special container that opened in its armored stomach. There was an expression of absolute warped terror on Daniel's face. Yet the murderous operation was textbook clean.

I removed the home glasses and scratched my moist temple. Warm summer winds were rustling the elms in the park. Cumulus clouds sailed in the blue sky, and higher up, the mist was feathering out in angel trails. In a better world, I would've been having thoughts as pure as the sunlight dappling the rich beds of grass. In this one, I had to consider evil men and their motives.

--------

The mass media covered Daniel Wendler's sudden death. Reporters called it death by misadventure, saying he'd fallen from a rooftop patio. The real details I got from his youngest daughter, Janine Wendler. She didn't want to leave the matter hidden and buried, though the rest of the family did.

Janine arrived at my luxury office and apartment on South Rosedale Ave as an off-the-street customer. A beautiful kid, age thirty-two, she had flowing blond curls, a permanent tan, a lot of money, and not much common sense. Her eyes were big and beautiful jewels in their innocence. I could see that she'd grown up in a pink security bubble of parental protection and had no idea of how dirty the real world could be. At least she hadn't before her father's death.

In a world of near-total surveillance and expensive hybrid cops for hire, she wanted to employ me. And that seemed ridiculous since I'm a fully human specialist named Jack Michaels who takes alternative approaches to all cases. Meaning that once modern surveillance fails to find a person, they hire me and I try to use my head to solve things.

“Your father is dead,” I told her. “He's not missing.”

Her distant blue eyes conveyed sadness and hidden romance. She caught me napping when she said. “His organs are missing, and I want you to find them.”

“Ah,” I said. “He was a longevity selection, wasn't he? Was it grave robbers or organized crime?”

She told me about the surveillance video and the robot attack that the media had not reported. She noted that she had already gone the more expensive route. Several professional agents had taken the case. All had failed, and they had clammed up completely, refusing to talk to her. Janine was left with the one clue she'd started with. All of his life, her father had thought that a core group of fossils in the Longevity Club, those over three hundred years old, were pretty much in control of the planet, its corporations, and nations. Now they knew there had to be someone else in control, a lone person who had total authority and rarely used it. He was hidden, and he killed and stole organs from even the most powerful people on Earth when he was in the mood to do so.

“So it's organized crime of the deadliest sort,” I said. “Why would I take such a case? I'm just your average private detective. How could I even try to find and defeat the most powerful person on the planet?”

“I heard that you take cases no one else can solve?”

“Yes, but that's not cases too violent and superior for anyone else. How far did these guys you hired get before they were silenced?”

“Not only guys. There were female agents, and the best. I've spent ten million gold-backed dollars on this so far. Agents last about a month, then they duck out or disappear. I have a collection of their files as they worked them.”

“I don't want any contaminated files. They'd be set to lead me to dead ends. Tell you what. I'll take the case. Payment has to be in laundered cash duplicates straight into my hands. All other transactions can be traced. I want you to make sure you mention that I wouldn't take the case and then hire one of the top hundred security firms as suckers to draw heat. If there is a big shot behind this deal, he'll probably be good enough to have me followed. Just because you were here. But I won't be doing anything suspicious that they will be able to see. The deal is I tell you who it is, and that is all. I give you the name. That's if I can do that. Your idea of one person controlling the world seems far-fetched. I've never really thought about it. But whether it's a bunch of them in control or one of them, it doesn't make much difference here on the ground, does it?'

She didn't reply to the question. Her eyes widened in amazement, and she leaned forward like she was going to kiss me. “Do you really think you can trace the person?”

“I do,” I said. “But the part I don't get is why you want to bother. Your father was very old. Didn't he live long enough?”

“He wasn't old to me. I only knew him for my short life. And the person who killed him is a vampire of some sort, using my father's treated organs to prolong his life.”

“True,” I said. “It's also true that many people think the entire Longevity Club is a clan of vampires. You can't live longer than one hundred and twenty years without doing things that are unethical.”

--------

Janine left a first impression that lingered like priceless perfume, and I thought about her often during the short investigation. I didn't know anyone else I could describe as innocent, and I found myself dreaming of her as a fantasy lover.

When I say short investigation, I mean that it took me less than a week to find the one old man controlling the world. I found him because no one with any brains had ever looked for him before. All systems in society were under his control and set to hide him, and that’s how I found him. I looked for the black hole in all information systems and found a supernova that was still flaring. His name was Bill Gates, and he was nearly 600 years old. He had to be one of the original members of the Longevity Club; he wasn't the listed historical founder but a hidden and unlisted member that the others in current high society did not know about. Meaning he was back there in the past and part of the original conspiracy that led to our invisible and mostly benevolent world government.

I drove over and picked up Janine in a public electric car. She emerged surrounded by guards and when the scan of my vehicle was complete, she walked over. Her short summer dress revealed her long, tanned legs. Overall, she looked hypnotically beautiful. She was at the young age where a woman beautifies her clothes and the world around her, not the other way around, as happens in later years.

Guards were not allowed to come with us or follow us. The security person was to be me. She got in, gave me a skeptical glance, and her first words were, “So you've given up, too. I suppose that's what you want to tell me?

“I want to tell you that I’ve solved the case,” I said as I pulled out.

“Really. Then who is it and how did you do it?”

“You sound skeptical. It isn't anyone you've heard of, and the how of it was by not using surveillance. I'm like you in a way. Any other woman would be wearing and relying on devices for security and communications. You wear a summer dress. My office and this car are the same. This is the cheapest vehicle around because it lacks a connection to any surveillance net or any communication device, period. Your agents went to work trying to track the man who controls the worldwide surveillance net by using it. So, of course, he found them before they found him.”

Her smile melted to confusion. “But how could you find someone without using surveillance?”

A flow of prismatic shadows swept the highway. I glanced at her, and her glittering eyes softened and connected with mine. She drew closer and put a gentle hand on my shoulder. The wind rushed and swept her silky hair up, and with the silent electric engine, it was easy to find my heart filled with love. This was a beautiful young woman in a world of old fakers and disgusting grave-robbing vampires. She didn't know it, but I did; I'd do anything for her and the dream of genuine love. A dream lost long ago. An older detective and she'd likely be dead. But I’m not up there yet, and it's a laugh to think I ever will be. The chances of me living to old age … well … they amount to about zero. I told her the details as I drove.

“I found him because of his absence. The Earth is mapped by satellites and security systems, and what I did was go back to the oldest records in existence in a moldering photographic collection taken more than five centuries ago. I pieced together the Earth of yesterday, ran a comparison with the magnificent maps of today, and found one area of four square miles on the old maps that does not exist on any new map. Another ancient capsule record showed that a man named Bill Gates bought that property more than 500 years ago. History records him as the richest man in the world at that time. He donated to his own charity foundation and put in other large sums for research into aging. He died of liver cancer in the first World Transition Year. Died on paper. My guess is that he's still alive, and if you want to find your father's organs, they are probably inside him.”

She frowned. “So this beast is much older than my father was.”

“Yes. And a quick study tells us something. The Longevity Club appears to be a pyramid. Your father, as a younger member, was allowed to find or develop better organs for transplant, and then the oldest member took those organs so he could live longer. They may have been preying on one another for quite some time. I doubt Gates is the only one who does it. It just happens that he is the kingpin. And if the others even know of him, they wouldn't be able to find him. Gates has set himself up as a sort of quiet and kind world dictator, as he still does a lot for the poorest people on the planet. He allows others to think they run the world and are making history, yet he really controls the surveillance net and likely eliminates anyone whose politics he doesn't like.”

“Where does he live?” she said. I could see her grinding her teeth.

“The hidden location I mentioned is just outside Toronto. It's not too far from you and we're almost there now. You can look at the place, but that is all. I'm telling you that the case is over. We don't have the power to accuse or harm this man. No one does. We'd simply disappear. It's best to accept that your father was part of the club of world power. The cards finally came up against him. He knew the game he was playing.”

“So that's it, and it ends. People like you will just accept that the world is run by a hidden dictator and do nothing about it?”

“The public accepted that Toronto was run by your father, and they did nothing about it.”

“But that was different. He let people exercise democratic control over their local communities through vibrant community events.”

“Gates does the same thing. He's been lurking in the background all these hundreds of years. Only stepping in when one of the powers he put in place gets out of control. Who knows, maybe without him the world would have blown up or died in an ecological disaster long ago? Consider the complex political and community mosaic he's been constructing. He's been the hidden god of this millennium, and anyone who would want to get rid of him should consider that Gates may have already decided who or what will succeed him. He killed your father, but if it had been the other way around, your father would've killed him. In any case, no one lives forever, and that's what justice is. Someday, maybe utopia will come, and we'll all truly be equal. For now, you're a young woman and should live your life without trying to tangle with the world's most powerful man. Accept it, and you'll be happy.”

She looked at me with icy eyes and said nothing. When I looked up, I realized that we were almost at the Gates mansion and pulled over to the side of the road and stopped. “That's it,” I said. “This is as close as I want to get.”

The mansion stood in a natural setting that lent it a degree of invisibility. Any fortifications or security it had were part of that invisibility - surrounding swamps of robot crocodiles, the shimmer of force fields, guard walls and posts, armed men, robot sentries - none were present. Tall firs and poplars obscured much of the structure. A wall of polished stone with neatly recessed windows rose some distance behind a simple brushed stone wall.

Garages and sheds squatted on the periphery, but there weren't any stables or special servants' quarters. A sports car parked inside the gate was the only vehicle outdoors. In general design, the mansion was a rejection of all things that could be called artsy or ornate. Balconies on the higher floors were sturdy and square. A gently sloping tiled roof crowned the place.

A small rainbow beyond the peak indicated the presence of a fountain at the rear. Forest receded to the horizon … the whole place being about two square kilometers.

It looked like the residence of a wealthy and powerful person, though not as opulent as what one would expect from Gates. I knew there was much more to it than its surface appearance. Despite the open design, there would be a camouflaged security system we could not hope to challenge.

--------

Janine's face was about as cheerful as the darkness in the ditches on the country highways leading back to the city. She didn't speak, and her inner volcano appeared to be settling, enough so that her mood lifted as we got into town. We had a marvelous lunch on the patio of an Italian restaurant. My jokes on longevity got her giggling, and her father's casket seemed finally closed. We ordered a liquid desert and it loosened her tongue enough that she revealed some of what she planned to do now that she held power in Toronto.

I felt good about myself and felt certain that the case had reached its natural conclusion. Being a practical sort, I invited Janine to return to the office with me to calculate payment, and when we got there, I found a letter from Bill Gates on my desk.

Congratulations to you, Janine.

I knew Jack Michaels would find me if anyone could. But I really must correct you on this situation. I did not kill your father. James Stockward is the villain who did that, and he also put the idea of looking for me in your mind, as he guessed that I existed and wanted someone to locate me.

Stockward has now passed on.

Due to circumstances, I'll need the services of Mr. Michaels. You'll want the full details on your father, so be back at my place this evening.

Eternally yours,

William Gates

--------

Sunset clouds formed a speckled fan in the western sky, and though the Gates mansion seemed much larger close up, it had a simple appeal and did not seem all that sinister. My sense of perception and state of relaxation had not entered Janine. Nerves jangled, she pulled close to me and gripped my arm as we drove through the gate. I'd had a hard time convincing her that Gates wasn't luring us here to carve us up.

The man who led us inside was a plasti-grow cross between a butler and a guard. His name was Mr. Windows, and his facial expressions and tone of voice were odd, like he wasn't quite human and not a known type of android either. On my scales, he registered as unknown but incredibly smart and perceptive. With Gates as the client he wasn't unexpected. We entered a suddenly appearing side door and followed him down a long dim hall to a large home theatre neatly outfitted with enough couches and chairs to seat a small crowd. The room was empty and the invisible electronics were turned off. It smelled fresher than springtime. The large semicircular screen was the type that could segment into many smaller units, act as one large screen or beam holographic images to a central stage. Part of it held a hidden door that no one but me would see. Mr. Windows told us to sit and wait for Mr. Gates, and then he disappeared through it.

Five minutes later, Bill Gates appeared. He came alone, and he arrived through the broad south doors in a wheelchair that was also a super intelligent robo appliance. The slight distortion of a force shield created a faint soap bubble around him, yet I could see him clearly. He was a strange and ugly man - so alien that at first I wasn't sure he really was a man. His steel gray hair transplant had been jelled back in rippled waves, and his face hung like a yellowing leather mask. Liver spots decorated his forehead, and an emaciated neck rose from his snow-white shirt. Cloth slippers and baggy trousers covered his fragile feet and legs. Gates' right hand was about as rough and crusty as tree bark, and he was using it to adjust an absurd pair of glasses. They were reading spectacles of the sort people hadn't used for centuries. His intense eyes floated behind the lenses.

I glanced at Janine, noting a glimmer of spite in her eyes.

“Sit down, sit down,” Gates said as his chair rolled up to us. “You'll make me uncomfortable.”

We did sit in the theatre chairs, and I felt Janine shifting restlessly and huffing beside me as Gates continued to introduce himself. His ancient features gained a degree of human warmth as he spoke, making him far less frightening in my eyes. I thought that perhaps he was only a danger to people who threatened his survival.

“So it's Jack Michaels,” Gates said. “At last we meet. I know all about you of course. Being a man of the past myself, I couldn't resist following the career of a man who solves cases using the old techniques.”

“That's great,” I said. “It certainly cheers me whenever I find one of those rare people who can appreciate my work.”

“Yes, of course,” Gates said. “And we also have the lovely Janine, grieving over the loss of her father. I wish I had such a devoted daughter to weep when I die. As I said in the note, James Stockward was behind that murder. Since he has now passed on, justice has been done.”

“Not fully,” Janine said. “I don't want this Stockward man buried with my father's organs inside him. I want them removed and returned.”

“Of course. An oversight on my part. I'll see that it's done immediately.”

“There seems to be some conflict among the elderly these days,” I said. “I would assume that Stockward was also very old?”

“He was older than you think. James Stockward and Mac Chan were the only two men older than I. They are both dead. I don't know if you uncovered much of my background while looking me up. But you'll need to know a fair bit of it before we move on with the case. As you have probably already guessed, I am hiring you to extend my life. It's a job that I think only you can do and it doesn't involve anything unethical.”

“Just what does it involve?”

“Hundreds of years ago, I worked my way up in computer languages and operating systems and became the richest man on the old planet. That was before the planet became the multi-orb system of Earth, the Moon, and the Space Station Belt. In those days of barbarians and businessmen, I had the higher qualities of compassion, honesty, and integrity that others lacked. I shared my secrets with the world, and as I grew older, I bought heavily into research on the aged and hit the jackpot. The initial discoveries allowed a human life to be extended by at least fifty years. I did not test the new science on myself. Stockward and Chan, two of my contemporaries, were the first to have their lives extended. They never knew that I was the controlling force behind it all, and I let them live in ignorance. Ten years after they were treated, I extended my own life. Stockward and Chan lived on, and I allowed them and the Longevity Club they created to be the driving forces of the new science. As the centuries passed, every breakthrough of theirs was taken by me and used to extend my life. Most of my personal time was spent managing the planet and the growth to space and the moon. I have completely controlled pretty much everything since the New Planetary Years.”

“I suppose working to keep the military savages out of wars took up a good two hundred years of your time,” I said.

“The space empire made war too dangerous and unprofitable. We had to wage war for peace. And yes, it has been a busy life. Greedy people are always at work by the thousands, attempting to destroy the planet and the rest of us with it. I have been a strong defender of public rights.”

“It wasn't only you,” Janine said. “My father and many others did a lot of work, too.”

“I do like to flatter myself. You are correct. It takes more than one person or even a longevity club to run a world. Your father did an excellent job, or I wouldn't have allowed him to remain in power in my home area of Toronto. I deleted the lives of those who did not do an excellent job, and this really brings us to the Longevity Club. Stockward and Chan had the same thoughts as me. They wanted to control the world through others and needed special people who would live longer to do it. They created the longevity selections, used them to control the planet, and they also lived as ghouls, stealing the organs developed by others to prolong their own lives. In the end, the superior technology was always mine. I never had to rob a living man of his organs as they did. Problem is, we've come up against a new barrier.”

“This is interesting,” I said. “It's also well over my head. I can solve puzzles, but surpassing the world's best doctors and scientists would not be possible.”

Gates cleared his throat. “I don't need medical skills. This is some type of death mechanism or century-timed bug of the human mind that does not allow any human being to live beyond six hundred years of age. It killed Chan first, and it got Stockward a year later. Since I followed them closely, I detected it happening. The murder of Janine's father by Stockward was an attempt by him to strengthen his vital organs so he could fight this death bug.”

“So I guess we now know that strengthened organs aren't the key,” I said.

“That's correct. I think a certain type of intelligence or knowledge may be the key so I'm hiring you to do special surveillance work.”

“How would I do that?”

“Both Chan and Stockward had their bodies preserved and kept alive. It is their minds or living personalities that died. I have Chan's remains. Stockward's are held at his estate, which is like a fortress. I will recover them for my use, and so Janine can reclaim her father's organs. These remains are what you must investigate. Over the last fifty years, my labs developed chemistry that allows a human agent to mesh with another person's brain and share that person's life and memories. It's a human networking deal. I want you to enter Chan's life, go to the point of his death, and return with a detailed surveillance report, outlining what killed him.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Why me, and would such a report stop the mechanism?”

“There isn't any traceable physical or chemical agent causing death. It's psychological or spiritual. I'm choosing you because others have tried, but they didn't make it back out of Chan's mind alive. I believe you have the ability to find a way out and then give me information on how to beat this death bug. It's my last chance, really. My birthday is a few days off, and the mechanism is certain to set in. Payment for doing the job is anything you want in goods or cash, within reason. And my generosity is nearly unlimited.”

--------

Gates' job offer horrified Janine, and when we were alone, she hit me with a long, serious talk. Her number one fear seemed to be that I would remain alive as a vegetable, trapped in the mind of one of the horrible men who killed her father. Janine also didn't trust Gates at all and suspected that he could be planning to steal parts of my brain.

Despite her objections, I took the job, and since Gates' time was quickly running out, we stayed at the mansion. One day of preparations sharpened my mind and body, then my mission, conducting surveillance on the preserved mind of Mac Chan began.

Gates already had the equipment set up in an obscure part of the mansion that was an older appendage with a castle-like feel. Coarse stone blocks created marvelous walls, and fake fire from sconces shone on the smooth marbled floors. Incredibly valuable art adorned the walls, but when I tried to touch the frame of a painting, I found it to be a holographic image. Gates informed me that the actual painting was embedded in the substance, where it couldn't be stolen.

I looked around in surprise when we entered what Gates called the contact room. It had the airs of a torture chamber with bare walls and some sixteenth-century chairs. The contact device was bed-shaped and hard with arm and leg straps. A broad metal hood patterned with raised skulls hung over its end.

I knew the technology in the room would be much more than it seemed. The walls were without a doubt made of a security substance embedded with nanotechnology in order to protect the equipment from any disruption or interference from outside surveillance equipment.

Gates wheezed as he wheeled in behind me, and I wondered if a new set of lungs was failing - meaning I had doubts about his claim that only the other longevity cases were ghouls.

“It's beautiful, isn't it?” he said, referring to the contact machine.

“Perhaps the Marquis de Sade would think so.”

“I suppose you’re put off by the torture chamber appearance. I made it look like a devilish implement because it can kill people. In an instant, it can send you to heaven, the madhouse or hell by establishing a link between your mind and another. In this case, the other person is dead, but the brain has been preserved and forced to function.”

“I can see why you never released this to the public.”

“Far too powerful. It can be made as a tiny portable device. On the market, it would be worse than any other mechanism of human control. Even the preparations you went through and the gown you are wearing are not needed. We did that to prepare you psychologically. I've never allowed much tampering with man regarding genetics and control. People today have greater resistance to most addictions and mind control. They still learn in the same ways as in the past, though at an accelerated rate. Of course, most people rarely use their abilities. You are one of the only people who do. I suppose the bottom line is that the world reflects my taste, and I didn't establish myself by using mind control. I made people a little better than even me, but only after the technology to keep me in as the higher power was established.”

“Let's hope you stay in as the higher power,” I said as I climbed onto the contact device. “Because if you don't, then it means I died.”

Mr. Windows helped me into the straps, applied some odorless gel to my temples, and a minute later, the hood lowered. I felt an electric tickle on my scalp and neck, then a visible explosion of irrational thoughts swept me. I came out of it in a state of mind that was confused and distorted, and a moment later, I realized that I had connected with the dead man, Chan. A guy his age with multiple brain enhancements existed on the outer limits of the human experience, so it took me some time to adapt. When I did, I knew everything about him yet could still see myself existing on Gates' cold slab in the distant mansion room. Drool leaked at the corners of my mouth, so I kept it in mind that I was in a vulnerable, semi epileptic state.

I didn't like Mac Chan or the controlling thrust of his weird thoughts. Conflict rose, then vanished as the input accelerated and a wealth of experience rushed through me. I could not comprehend it all and was gagging, grinding my teeth, and biting my tongue.

Sunshine burst in with heavenly force, and I became a child . . . my life as Chan sweeping by me in a riotous celebration of images and emotions. His joy, anger, fury, and tears rose to a peak. This rush hit far stronger than the effects of any intravenous drug, yet behind it all, I could grasp that Bill Gates was catapulting me through Chan's life in a matter of instants. I knew he would halt me just before the moment of death so I could discover what had killed Chan.

As Chan's life continued to pour through my mind, the overload became nothing but grief. Death surrounded this man. He trusted no one and killed everyone he loved.

It seemed true that the sorrow of men is only laughter to the gods. Being near the end of Chan's life and reflecting on it came across as a cruel joke at best. Just feeling his corrupt personality inside of me was an obscene act of self-flagellation. If Gates had a similar inner nature, then a need to control his surroundings would be his driving force. Mac Chan didn't want to let go and die because he didn't want to lose control of the world around him for even a moment.

His final memories were a record of the morning of his birthday. He would reach a new magic age of longevity later that day. Chan didn’t want to celebrate or announce this fact, and his mood was sour. Having banished the remnant of his family, he rested alone at his private home, knowing that a light breakfast would arrive in five minutes via sha robot.

Externally, the day held beauty like no other recent day in memory. Beyond his bay window, a sunrise of mystical beauty rose over the new Temagami River, and his gaze went to it and the crystalline waters. A dreamy state developed in his mind. He had an easy sensation of floating or spiritually moving toward a shifting mask developing in the sunlit haze over distant ripples. Chan, for some reason, found this appealing and did not resist.

In the vision, he went through the ringed mouth of this mist image and entered a hallucinatory realm of eerie shadows and random fire. Meteors exploded, and diabolical imagery was traced in the sky. Thousands of bodies floated below on gleaming stygian waters. They stretched off as far as the eye could see on the heavy rocking waves. These were bloated corpses, rotting and dripping with licks of greasy slime and blood that shone in the dim light. They floated face-up and were painted with ghastly expressions as if they had suffered a great deal of torment before they died. A faint sulfur glow around their eyes gave the impression of a living form of death, like some hellish spiritual force remained to burn in them.

Chan drifted in clouds over this hideous ocean to a bleak shoreline lined with dark fronds. He went through a swamp of reeds and reached a gaping pit of fire that spun like a vortex into the sand. An evil being appeared there in the drifting smoke, and his vision turned into a strange conversation on the edge of life and death. Though to Chan this wasn't merely a vision; even in my linked experience, it had an uncanny feeling of reality.

Chan's evil friend had a handsome spectral appearance. Dressed as a black hunter, he was a Lucifer of sorts with features that radiated mystical sophistication and power. A blue iris glowed in one eye; the other was mottled. He gestured with an ornate cane at the dark waters as he worked to alter Chan's perceptions of life and death.

Chan's vision continued in philosophical complexity as he debated with this being. In one sense, it was the classic tale of a deal with the devil, and it might have been funny if it weren't of such power and great importance. Beyond being any vivid dream state, it was a total hallucination, and it crossed the boundaries of reality.

As I expected, Chan became convinced of his mortality. He bit his lip in long consideration and then bought into the being's alluring offer. He traded earthly life for a guarantee of eternal life as the new ruler of this dark domain. The black demon sealed the agreement with a handshake. He waved his cane and a magnificent flash of lightning followed, killing Chan-------it also slew me.

Thrown to the ocean by incredible force, I became one of the corpses floating face-up on the dark, salty waters. I suddenly realized what the glow haloing the eyes of the dead had been - morbid communion, wretchedness, and decay they shared … suffering beyond all human concepts of agony.

I was damned eternally, and then a second flash struck, waking me on the slab in the Gates mansion. The hood of the contact device was rising, and Mr. Windows stepped in and used a towel to wipe the drool from my chin.

As I breathed in heavily and expelled air in relief, an anxious Gates wheeled up and waited for me to recover enough to speak.

“Chan had a religious vision or experience,” I said to Gates. “During it, his mind conjured up an evil being from the depths of his subconscious. In a philosophical deal with this inner Lucifer, he talked himself into accepting death. He agreed to die in exchange for eternal life in a realm of the dead. I believe the key is that he accepted the certainty of human mortality, and at that moment, his will to live collapsed. The Satan bug kicked in fully and shut off something in his brain so that he died -- if you could genuinely call it death. By keeping his body and brain alive, you are also keeping him in a state of torment as his mind is trapped in the hellish place it accepted. This place is populated by billions of dead minds floating in some sea of Hades, and it's horrible beyond belief. I can’t say that it's even real. But it's there. You should know more than me on that subject.”

“Why did you survive when the others didn't?”

“I felt a strong pull to unite with Chan spiritually, but it didn't happen because, as individuals, we were too different. He was alien to me. The others must have identified with Chan to the extent that the Satan bug got triggered in their minds as well. I also guessed that the overpowering vision and the evil being were manifestations of the death mechanism, which gave me an advantage. You will also have that advantage because I returned to tell you about it.”

“Can I beat this? Give me an honest opinion.”

“The first fact I have is interesting. For this virus-like bug to exist, there must have been a time in early life-form Earth where humans or other creatures lived beyond six hundred years of age. You will have a similar hallucinatory near-death experience. The Satan bug will come and tempt you on your birthday. It will seem completely real, and this ancient nano bug will use all of your inborn intelligence to fool you. When the final moment comes, you must adhere to your desire for eternal life here in this reality. Otherwise, your conscious mind will die. If you keep your body and brain alive, you'll live in a phantom hell. You must come back to consciousness.”

“A deal with the devil,” Gates muttered hoarsely, his face hawkish as he wheeled away. “I am both God and the Devil in this empire.”

“Yes, but I suspect that there could be another smaller god with a following devil, maybe long dead or never alive … and this one's programming grew over long centuries of evolution to kill off the Longevity Club and you and anyone over a certain age limit. You could look at it in two ways. The God we believe is dead is killing us off, or an evolutionary mechanism has set the limits on human life. Take your pick. Pride and anger mean nothing in this game … phantom Hades waits for us all.”

---------

Flashbacks of my death and damnation haunted me like a creepy form of possession. I shivered as I walked down the hall, and I felt that I had to get out in the sun to shake it off. Stepping out a rear door, I strolled toward the cascading fountain in the backyard. Janine suddenly appeared from behind a sun umbrella, ran up, and gave me a hug and a wet kiss. It warmed me immediately, but when I discovered that the next part of my assignment was to aid her - and Mr. Gates - in recovering James Stockward's remains, the sweet kiss went sour.

Being an eccentric person, Stockward had left instructions for the mummification of his body inside an invincible pyramid that he'd constructed on his estate. If a non-technological way to get inside this structure existed, I didn't have time to find it. In this recovery, I broke my own rules and used Gates' superior surveillance systems to calculate a timed sequence of pressure points our special robot could use to gain entry to the inner chambers.

Since Janine had a personal stake in this recovery and feared being left alone with Gates, she went along with me, and we watched the operation from a luxury command post in one of Gates' air-streamed transport planes.

Observing this raid turned out to be a grave error.

Gates had designed the assault operation on the fly. He had a live video feed to us, and though he'd briefed us on the pyramid, we didn’t know he intended to use an unconscionable level of force to reach it. Before the robotic recovery team went down, the charming old codger fried nearly all of Stockward's estate, including two hundred people, some androids, and precious animals residing on it. Unbidden tears came to my eyes in response to the mindless and clumsy cruelty.

Defense forces fired back helplessly with smart rockets and beam weapons that failed to dent Gates' gleaming fleet of extermination drones ... once stationed in their assigned spots above the estate the cigar-shaped drones combined their energy weapons to sweep the grounds with disruption rays.

Janine and I stared, charged with surprise and revulsion as the attack turned atmospheric dust into billions of disruptive particles. Reality seemed to tear like paper, then residents, tourists, and the remaining animals in Stockward's zoo-like compound suddenly expanded and exploded. We saw a few dozen visitors emerge from a dome and become gross bursts of pulp specks, sparkling blood, and mist. Flesh bits swarmed in the air like flies, and as the sweep continued, even the palm trees, vines, and topsoil were disrupted and melted to fiery lava.

More than anything else, the assault taught us what sort of monster Bill Gates could be. Life and death were concepts he applied only to himself. He'd become a mega psychopath in his dealings with other human beings, treating them like objects that were to be molded or destroyed according to his wishes.

By the time our robot emerged with the remains, Janine could only shake and weep. She didn't care about her father's organs anymore.

She trembled like a leaf as she held me, and at that moment, the name Gates became a trigger for loathing in my mind. The old man didn't have any humanity or class left. He was a combined organs thing and had forgotten his earlier humanity to somehow live on after his human soul had already died. It told me that the soul existed somehow, and without it, we were monsters. Gates was a monster organ bank with a withered brain that would commit any crime to live on. He was biology not humanity.

--------

Hating Gates didn't stop me from doing my job. He was, after all, a counterfeit man who could pay any price, and he wanted more work from me. I prepared for contact with Stockward's brain and planned to look at his memories to see if he really had killed Janine's father.

When contact was made, I found that James Stockward's life bore no resemblance to Mac Chan's. He was more like an ancient human curiosity shop or a man who'd lived an endless great adventure. A collection of eccentricities, he had been to every hidden and cobwebby corner of the earth, space stations, and the moon. His brain probably deserved permanent preservation as an offbeat history of the last centuries. It would be an invaluable resource for people like me who need obscure facts at times.

Stockward viewed himself as an immortal investigator who must always be around to discover and document the unknown or the unusual. His unwavering belief in himself and his personal powers existed as a testament to the longevity of human pride in a set personality. Despite his faults, he existed as a rare person who could transform routine into a pattern of colorful activity and never get bored as he lived on forever. Stockward was everything from a chef to an artist … he cooked himself a different breakfast every day.

Stockward ran somewhat ahead of Gates in physical prowess, and that had helped him pass the first assault of the death bug. Perhaps his eccentricities had really gotten him through.

In his time, he had explored practically every occult location on earth and had collected nearly every rare object available. When the visions of Hades took him, his dialogue was with the snake god Set. James Stockward studied Set's flowing appendages and calmly turned down the offer of immortality as ruler of a mysterious world. He simply figured he'd get there in due time, and at present, there were always things to be explored and explained on earth and in the stars.

The second test of the doom bug came during his birthday … and though Stockward had easily walked out of hell, that didn't stop him from blundering into heaven.

James Stockward didn't actually believe in heaven or hell. God and the devil were all fantasy to him. But since the bug could turn fantasy into reality, that didn’t matter. Heaven found a form that Stockward could believe - the great adventure.

A pleasant daydream lulled him into the hallucinatory state, and though he had not left his chair in reality, he believed he had risen and walked into a field and in doing so had discovered the most incredible artifact.

It gleamed with silver metal and raised hieroglyphics. James stared with amazement at the view through the opening. A gossamer substance worked to blur a fantastic scene of jeweled turrets. Believing he'd discovered the entrance to some mythical Valhalla, he stepped through an arch.

On the other side, a rope bridge led into a strange city that he knew would be rich with treasure, mysteries, and perhaps even living residents. At the city gates, he found an inscription written in a language from ancient Mesopotamia. The opening lines notified all who would enter that they would have to recite and abide by the written incantation of the mystic city.

Stockward did that readily and without thinking. He did halt when he came to the last line, which gave the city claim over his soul. Then after biting his tongue, he read it aloud, the gates opened and he entered... and never returned.

Victory belonged to the death bug because the ultimate in mysticism and adventure exists in the human imagination. In one aspect, Stockward still lived. As long as machinery kept his body and brain alive he was inside somewhere, lost in a never-ending hallucination in a heavenly city.

He had chosen heaven over mortal life. The same would be possible for Gates, and I told him so.

“Heaven,” Gates spat as he wrinkled his discolored forehead. “I couldn't stand a minute of any version of it. And if James Stockward is trapped in there, you can count me out.”

---------

Bill Gates' birthday sailed in with weather fit for a god of light … though I suspected that Gates was more properly a prince of worldly darkness and deceit. I believed he would relish the thought of ruling the unseen like Lucifer or angels, so it didn't seem likely that he could get over any spiritual hurdles. Perhaps the old snake had about a 100 to 1 chance, and perhaps he had smarts I didn't know about.

Janine and I remained at the mansion, but were suddenly awakened and banished to the rock garden at dawn. Gates' android butler, Mr. Windows, was to be the only person attending to him during his ordeal. Gates didn't trust any human being near him during such a moment of weakness.

The pure morning air carried fragrant scents of blooms and pines, and we inhaled deeply as we slowly drank cappuccino on a deck. Farther off through the foliage, the river waters were still and glacial blue, and we could see the sun rising through thin mist.

I found Janine to be beautiful in the morning light, so though we talked about Gates, my thoughts were on her.

“Gates may live forever, but he'll sure never be young again,” I said.

“The man is obscene. He's tarnished my memories of my father. He's also proven that immortality can be bought and stolen. No one should have done that.”

“If he's bought it, then it was at a high price. His health sucks. Imagine what his sex life must be like.”

“Please don't make me think about it, or I’ll be ill. I really hope the old bastard dies.”

“I hope so, too. He's prolonging the misery and suffering he brings, and we have to fear what he'll do to us if he lives.”

“Wouldn't he have killed us already if he wanted that?”

“He may not be in a rational state of mind due to fear of death. At present, he doesn't fear me because he knows I'm too smart to kill him. The reason is that only Gates knows the system of world control he has set up. The world economy could collapse if he dies without arranging a transition of power.”

“Did he say anything at all about a transition in the event of his death?”

“He refused to discuss it. Says it would prepare him psychologically for death, and he can't beat the death bug by doing that.”

Finished with our coffee, we strolled through the dense vine-laden garden. I put my arm around her as we reached the riverbank. We watched the water flow slowly past the stony shore and decided that there was more to life than biting our nails and worrying about an ancient sleazebag. Gates' time of birth was around one p.m., so we drove off for breakfast and a day in the countryside, setting our mental clocks for a two p.m. return.

Our morning ended up as a romantic interlude that practically flew by. We made love in deep grass beside a tumbled boathouse, and in this passage I'll let the reader insert a favorite paragraph from the latest crop of fiction romances. Perhaps she morphed into a female tigress and ripped me to shreds with her sexual skill and aggression. Maybe I became a super stud, grew over-the-shoulder hair, and made brutal love to her. Then again, it could've been a simple scene of steamy passion and tasty body fluids or an act of frightened love as the end of the world loomed over us.

Feeling relieved and a lot less haunted, we cruised back through the mansion gate at two p.m. The clouds above resembled still angel hair, and I hoped they were an omen of Gates' demise. Mr. Windows showed immediately, hurrying out to meet us. His expression was rather cold. He opened the doors for us but remained strangely silent.

“So what's the news?” I said, looking at him squarely.

“You are to view a message from Mr. Gates.”

I looked at Janine, and she winked and smiled softly. “I take it this means that nasty devil bug has killed Mr. Gates?”

“Not at all,” Mr. Windows said. “He physically survived his ordeal with the bug.”

A curtain of silence fell as we followed Mr. Windows inside. “This doesn't look good,” I whispered as we went down the hall. “The old bugger won't even meet us face to face now.”

We were led to the same big guest theatre we'd been in when we first arrived at the mansion. Feeling suddenly weary and heavy, I sat down. Janine practically fell into a chair beside me, and we watched apprehensively as Mr. Windows busied himself preparing the equipment.

I studied him carefully as he worked, finding that he didn't appear human at all now. He wore no facial expressions or hints of emotion -- just a sort of pointless leaden mask for a face. I suppose that Gates could have altered his programming for the day, emptying him of all traces of humanity.

It wasn't long before the image engines powered up, and Gates suddenly appeared on the view platform as a huge holographic image. The old codger was lying in bed, and the magnification highlighted his ghastly features. A few suspenseful moments passed, then his bluish lips moved. Like Mr. Windows, he seemed devoid of emotion. His eyes remained blank and dead as he spoke.

“I've made it,” Gates said. “This is the greatest human accomplishment since man set foot on the moon. What was it they said back then? Oh yes. One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind. Yet this time the price is high. In winning, I've discovered what the death bug really is. Nothing less than that old ghost in the machine called the human soul. Heaven and hell really have been in us all along. They create our belief systems and give us a reason to live.

So in resisting, I've won, but I'm also an empty shell, as I did not retain my soul. Feelings and memories of my former self hover above me like a cloud, and I cannot reclaim them fully because, in killing my spirit, I killed the core of the old Bill Gates. This is bitterness and misery, but it is bearable and temporary because I believe that I can claim another man's soul and gain a spiritual recharge that will carry me on for a thousand years. My equipment has registered the exact brain energy pattern that the bug destroys.

I have chosen you, Jack. You will die while in mental contact with me, and the equipment will transfer your vital energy into my brain. It will be the first soul transplant, so to speak. You will live on as the divine energy engine driving my cerebral life.”

I heard Janine gasp beside me, and on the screen, I could see Gates looking to his side at someone unseen. “Why are you here?” Gates was saying. “I said no one was to enter. Get out. Get out now!”

Mr. Windows suddenly appeared at Gates' bedside. His face emotionless, he held a pillow in his hands. Gates continued to yell at him, but Mr. Windows didn't retreat. Instead, he lurched forward, threw the pillow across Gates' face, and held it there as he kicked, struggled, suffocated, and died.

Then the platform went blank. The message was over, and the expressionless Mr. Windows stood before us.

“Why did you kill him?” I said.

“I am an android. Mr. Gates programmed me to destroy all impostors. In his recorded statement, Mr. Gates admits truthfully, according to my lie detection system, that it does not have Mr. Gates' soul. This Mr. Gates was somehow an imposter, so I killed him.”

“I see,” I said. “A Mr. Windows bug and not the Satan bug killed him. Or better said, the software worked smoothly for once. So what happens now?”

“Mr. Gates chose you as the person to clear up his affairs in the event of his death. I will now show the message outlining just how to arrange it so the world runs without Mr. Gates at the helm.”

“Show it, by all means,” I said.

Janine was smiling, her eyes sparkling. “Perhaps a woman should run the world this time.”

“Don't even think about it,” I said. “You'll get wrinkles and a craving for fresh organs if you do.”

She winked, and I kissed her, knowing that a new world was on the menu … a bigger world and moon system of the imagination, where we could thank an unseen God who wasn’t Bill Gates and a bunch of old men.

---- the end -----

Mr. Silver's Super Computer By Gary L Morton

Snow flurries swirled in the wind, dusting the neighborhood. Brian crossed the yard to the mailbox, spongy sod lightening his step. He frowned, the glare of the rising sun blinding him as he pulled out a letter. Shoving it in his pocket, he headed around back, thinking how unemployment could make the days ugly. He felt too depressed to read the letter. It would likely be another rejection.

Slamming the back door, Brian thumped down to his workshop and brought his network up out of hibernation mode. While the machine booted, he studied the assortment of parts on the worktable - enough to put together a couple of quick systems. He'd probably make a few hundred bucks out of the small sale. God, he hated capitalism. Working for the government had been so much better.

Unfortunately, there were disadvantages to being laid off from a civil service job. The first disadvantage being that private-sector firms didn’t want a government software man. Bureaucrats liked Brian's work, but private-sector managers always frowned when he mentioned that his greatest achievement had been the development of new search AI software for the Department of Northern Purchasing.

Search software in the sense that it searched for ways to spend money and lighten the burden of management decisions. Being all-inclusive, it found a target and then put together a report from templates that would justify the expenditure. It was also cost-effective in that it eliminated the need for consultants and staff to produce the report.

One full year of unemployment; Janet and Becky, his daughters were grown up - lucky thing. He still had Mary to worry about. She sure wouldn't like growing old in a seedy apartment house, and that was likely where she'd end up now that he'd cashed in their retirement savings. He’d have to get something soon, or it would be the mean streets instead of the suburban high life. His systems, AI apps, and software sales were really just an underground business that couldn't last in the long run. Brian had to work like a thief, and most of the people he sold to were thieves.

He couldn't post his address on the social networks he used, or they'd simply break into his house and steal the goods. If the government caught up with him, he'd really be in trouble. His department had been next to a branch of the federal revenue agency, and he knew what happened to people caught running a home business without paying taxes.

Desperation won out in the end, and he paused to open the letter; if he had one chance in a million, he didn't want to blow it. As a person, he was likable, and that was his chance. In interviews, he poured out the charm. Luckily, he had never developed the Attitude, that nasty disposition that belonged to many people in the civil service. Embossed silver flashed in his eyes, and he snapped the page up, knowing it was one of the minister's letterheads. He read it quickly, then bit his lip. The news was that the civil service union had gone on strike yesterday, and the government was recalling him as a replacement worker - a scab.

Damn -- scab, he thought. And he was just desperate enough to consider it. Still, it wouldn't work out. The union would get some kind of deal in the end and make sure the scabs were out. He decided to e-mail the union prez. If he informed first, they might out someone who wouldn't picket and put his name on the return list. About 10 percent of the workers were fanatical union types; the rest would simply bet on a winner, many of them crossing lines to get a cheque. It meant he was sure to get back in when the union settled.

A click of the mouse and his e-mail came up. A new letter sat in his box, so he checked it out. Two files were with it - a form and a movie file. He clicked the movie file, and the minister's face appeared on the screen. Perfect silver hair, the wrinkles and hook in his chin ironed out . . . Brian grinned wryly, thinking that old John Silver was far too vain to do real appearances that might reveal him as less than perfect. “Good to see you again, Brian,” Mr. Silver said. “The bad news, as you know, is that OPSEFU is on strike, and the good news is that your status has now changed from that of replacement worker to full-time Systems Control Officer. You will report to work immediately at Gate Seven of the new building, which is really the old Department of Purchasing Warehouse at 78 Scarsdale Street. This assignment is top secret; you are not to inform the union. I repeat, you are not to inform the union.”

Suddenly, the screen went blank, and a form appeared with the message - Click yes to accept or more info for further details. Brian clicked more info, and another page popped up - It has come to our attention that you are running a network and laptop sales business without reporting to the Canada Revenue Agency for tax purposes. Click yes to arrange an audit of your affairs or go back to accept your new position as Systems Control Officer.

Brian clicked go-back, and a you-are-now-on-the-payroll message appeared, followed by a new movie clip of the minister. Standing on a platform, John Silver blasted into space toward a new government office building on an asteroid. Beethoven began to play, and Brian hit the escape key only to find he couldn't escape.

“Damn,” he muttered, “another one of those self-glorifying AI presentations you can't escape from.” Pushing his chair back, he tapped out a manual override script built into his operating system, and the machine powered down and rebooted.

Crossing picket lines to get back to work wasn't something he planned on doing. He decided to check the union's webpage to see if there was information on the location of today's pickets. As he hit the connect button, a you-have-received-new-mail message appeared. He opened the box and found his letter from the government had been deleted, and a new one from the union was listed. It also had a movie file, and when he clicked a fist graphic punched through the screen. Brian ducked back as the word STRIKE in 3D replaced the fist graphic.

BROTHER BRIAN, YOU ARE TO REPORT FOR PICKET DUTY. YOU WILL BE ON CITY-WIDE ROTATION WITH THE MEAT INSPECTORS.

News Flash: Scabs have crossed the lines at Bay and College. All unemployed members are being called to the lines to prevent further breaches.

This was definitely trouble. He couldn't travel on a picket with the meat inspectors and return to work simultaneously. What to do? He stared into space, and then noticed the letter suddenly self-delete. “What's going on here?” he muttered. Switching to the secure mail office, he hit the chat button. A blurry photo of a postal carrier trudging through snow appeared in the background. “I want some answers,” he typed. “Why are management and union people getting special access to read and delete stuff from my mailbox?”

“They aren't getting it from us,” was the reply. “We wouldn't give out the login.”

“What if someone offered to pay for it?”

“If they did, we'd phone the police.”

“You're certain no one can read my mail?”

“Yes, that is, except intelligence organizations like the FBI, the RCMP, and so on. There are certain keywords - for example, let's say a couple of keywords are sex and child. If those words appear in a letter you post, then the contents of your mailbox will be copied and sent to the International Police and every intelligence organization in the world.”

“Yeah, well, how about the keywords strike or scab? You bunch of ....”

Exiting the chat mode, Brian went to his scan page to see if any other items were missing. None were, but as he watched, several invitations to business network chats suddenly disappeared. “Huh,” he muttered, and then he reached over and pulled the plug.

He'd deal with it later. Right now, he had to go to work. He planned to drive by the Department of Purchasing Warehouse and see if there were pickets there. Dashing up the stairs, he burst out into the light, ran around the hedge, and then froze. The meat inspectors' strike convoy was parked out front. A large sign that said DIE SCAB! was stuck in the front lawn with a huge photo of his face pasted to the board. Two burly inspectors were carrying a side of beef down from the back of a freezer truck. SCAB was painted on the beef in red. When the meat was down, another inspector walked up, and this one had taped hands and wore a rubber gorilla mask. As his assistants held the beef, the gorilla inspector began to pound it with his taped hands. “SCAB, SCAB,” the other inspectors chanted.

“Yikes, I've been caught,” Brian thought.

The inspector pulled off his mask and grinned widely as he walked over. It was Jim Donner, an old pal from the programming department. He clapped Brian on the shoulder. “Are you with us, old buddy?” he said.

“Sure,” Brian said. “But why are you dressed as a meat inspector and doing this stuff?”

“I am a meat inspector now. Six months after the layoff from programming, I managed to bump in.”

“This is dangerous. We'll be arrested. We can't beat up scabs.”

“We won't beat anybody up. We’ll just scare the hell out of them. See how fast we did it. We had your photo on a board and got here as soon as we heard you were on the scab list.”

“How exactly did you get hold of the list?”

“We paid the mailman on the computer network for a copy of the latest government mailing list. Then we bought logins, you name it, for everyone in the union. But don't worry, old boy. We knew a good soldier like you wouldn't return to work, so we came over to get you and find out the details.”

“The details are that the minister, John Silver, notified me. He wants me to return to work in a new computer position at the Northern Purchasing Warehouse.”

“Can't be. John Silver has been dead for three months. Donald Alder is the minister now. The Northern Purchasing Warehouse was closed long ago. That's that crazy haunted warehouse. No one wanted to work in there. It was in the news, remember?”

"I didn't know Mr. Silver died. I guess government ministers aren't really newsmakers.”

"Silver made news. You're forgetting that computer boondoggle of his, and the missing money.”

"I was laid off before all the news came out. What was it about?”

“About! Old Long John Silver's treasure is what it's still about. He managed to get a billion dollars of government money allocated to upgrading some kind of supercomputer that never existed. It was never built. They were grilling him at the inquiry, trying to find out where he stashed the booty. He died of a heart attack before he could talk. Man, being called in by John Silver is like a dream. These are the days of Hatchet Hardin’s cuts. Imagine the big money contract we would've got negotiating with Long John Silver.”

“Yeah, I know. I remember the Conservatives fuming about him in the legislature. Hatchet Hardin claimed Silver was the biggest spending government bureaucrat in the history of the world.”

“Silver wasn't into cutbacks, that's for sure.”

“We have to find out what's behind this. How about driving me over to Northern Purchasing so I can take a look around?”

“Good idea. If they’re taking in scabs there, we're going to send you in as an inside man and give you the word when we want something sabotaged.”

Brian popped into the passenger side of the freezer truck, and the convoy moved off in the uncommonly mild March weather. They took a swing downtown, honking support at the pickets walking the Toronto Block, then headed toward the suburbs and the Northern Purchasing Warehouse. Jim's driving was aggressive if slow. He cut off anyone in his way and muscled past drivers who wanted to honk and curse.

Brian shook his fist at more than a few loudmouths, starting to feel tough like in the old union days. “Guess the public hates us in this strike,” he said. “You gotta hand it to the Hardin government. Only the devil could do a better job of exploiting the armchair hate and misery of the public.”

“You got it,” Jim said. “Hatchet Hardin and his rednecks exploited anger with their phony tax revolt. After that, he boosted his popularity by going hard on the growing army of people on welfare. Now it's the civil service. He appeals to the bad side of people. It's all hate. They think they can dump us in the garbage like in a corporate merger, but this is society, pal - people don't go away, they come back burdened with poverty and anger.”

“Yeah, but there isn't any money. They gave it all to the bankers and the rich. Now it's all debt.”

“You can't raise money by shutting everything down. Only workers create wealth and pay off debt.”

The quiet air of the suburbs washed over the convoy, and Brian spotted more pickets out front of a warehouse. “It's one of our inspection buildings,” Jim said. “I want to take a quick cruise around back.”

The freezer truck entered the alley. A couple of burly guys in denim and cowboy boots were smoking down by a vault-like loading dock. Jim hit the gas, barreling right for them. Their cigarettes fell from their mouths; they didn't have time to jump up on the dock, so they took off down the alley.

Once the dock was blocked, Jim braked, grabbed a baseball bat from the back seat, and jumped out. The scabs stopped running and turned to confront him. These were healthy men, like bodybuilders, maybe from a professional strikebreaking outfit. But it didn't faze Jim - red in the face and sixty pounds overweight, he jogged up to them. The first guy tried to stop him with a karate kick and got his leg broken by a swing of the bat, and then the second scab took one body blow before he turned and ran like hell.

Jim stumbled back to the truck and jumped to the running board. He hung there on the door, needles of light in his pained eyes, a bitter expression on his meaty face. “Shit, it's my heart,” he said. “Get behind the wheel, back out of here. I'll hold on.”

“Jeeze,” Brian said as he moved behind the wheel. “You can't do this stuff, Jim. You're a civil servant, not Superman. You'll die before you're even arrested.”

Jim wheezed, hanging weakly onto the rattling truck. “I don't care. I'll kill the bastards. There's 20 percent real unemployment out there. I'm no porker who just goes in for the slaughter. No scabs are going to take our jobs.”

Stopping at the front, Brian helped Jim in the passenger door, and the convoy was off again, rolling north past hateful suburban eyes toward the warehouse. They passed another strike scene, honking at pickets who were enjoying a hot lunch supplied by some organizers from the steelworkers. The warehouse came into view as they crossed the bridge over the expressway. It was huge, and its location between a large hydro station and shopping mall made it look much more important than it was -- like maybe the headquarters of a high-tech corporation. Only a big-spending government bureaucrat like Long John Silver could afford to build such an expensive warehouse.

Jim looked up, studying a monstrous metal gable. “Turn right by those factories. We'll walk over. If anybody's there, we want to catch them by surprise.”

The convoy wagon-trained in a paint factory back parking lot, and the crew got out. They lit cigarettes; some small talk began, the burly men looking at home in the industrial background. A minute passed, then Jim gave the signal, and they assembled.

“All right, boys. Brian goes to the front to see if he can get in, and we scout the outside of the building. Brian, you're to go in to register as a scab, then take a smoke break so you can let us know the score. We'll decide where to go from there. It's supposed to be a haunted warehouse, whatever that means, so any scabs we catch are gonna get spooked.”

Brian crossed the road, feeling torn between the two sides. The idea of a new job as Systems Control Officer was appealing, while the idea of brawling with the meat boys' brigade wasn't. He was a little too old; union strike stuff suited younger men. Damn, the world changed so fast now that any organizations that tried to put down roots like unions got bulldozed by progress. Studying the building, he found that it didn't look haunted from the outside. It seemed quite new, though it was at least ten years old. The front extension was a security setup with a built-in guard post. A shadow moved behind the Plexiglas, then vanished as Brian hit the button. No one showed, so he hit it a few more times. Another thirty-second wait, then he heard John Silver's voice come over the intercom. “Is that you, Brian?”

“Yes, it's me. Reporting for work.”

“Good. Come in and sit in the waiting room. We have a power drain situation, so I'll be tied up for about twenty minutes.”

The lock clicked open; Brian went in through the hall to the waiting room. The receptionist's window was empty, and so was the desk. He looked around. Thick dust covered the chairs. Picking up a magazine, he knocked the dust off and found it to be an ancient copy of HOCKEY WEEK. A shadow moved in the receptionist's office, then a door creaked. He went to the window and saw a patch of gray go out the door. Not a person or even a ghost, just a patch of gray.

“Jeeze, maybe this joint is haunted,” he muttered, and then he felt his hair stand up and his skin crawl. His wrist touched the door handle, and he got a sudden, wicked shock. It wasn't purely fright; the place was screaming with static electricity.

A loud hum filled his ears, and it seemed to grow louder as he waited. Other than that, there were no other sounds. After a minute, Brian realized the hum was noise from transformers in the hydro station next door. What was Silver talking about, a power drain situation? How much power could a warehouse with filing servers be using?

Tension knotted his muscles as he paced the room. It was like being a fish in a tank in the middle of unknown surroundings. He didn’t have the patience to wait, so he opened the door and took a peek. The door didn't lead into the offices as he expected, but into a large section of the warehouse itself. And this section appeared to be older; Silver had built the new warehouse over and around a preserved historic structure. He stepped in, rather amazed as he looked about, remembering that he'd been instructed to enter at gate 7, wherever that was.

Warehouses had been like this back before filing computers came into fashion. Unordered junk heaps where only a few employees could find anything. This one was a real mess ... dust and hammock-big cobwebs everywhere. Smoky sunbeams from a high window shone on a mountain of IBM typewriters. They were the really old kind of government typewriters and as heavy as tanks. Machines that should have been recycled decades ago, but were collected and placed in the warehouse. If the mountain came down, it would be deadly, but it didn't - it just stood there like absurd junk art, spotlighted by the sun.

Passing the typewriters, he came to another mountain . . . this one composed of old adding machine rolls, crushed envelope boxes, piles of spent erasers, and other stationery supplies. It was heaped against the wall, the blanket of dust on it so thick it appeared to be crawling. At its side, faint light shone in a dusty window. A shadow moved beside the sill, so he walked up, picked up a piece of chalkboard cloth, shook it clean, and wiped the pane.

A meat inspector lurked at the side of the building, his aluminum baseball bat at the ready. A shadow moved on the ground behind him like something was flying above him, then a dark form descended.

It was no more than a shadow at first, but as sunlight glowed at its edges, it bled into form as something less than human. It became an alien with tiger fur, fangs, and huge webbed feet. Brian gasped, and the meat inspector swung around, automatically striking a blow with his baseball bat. It didn't faze the alien at all. Its mouth opened in a roar, and a bright-red electrical charge bloodied the meat inspector as it threw him down.

The inspector was on the ground like a slab of beef to be inspected. Still open-mouthed, Brian looked back at the alien and saw only disintegrating shadows. Suddenly, he remembered where he'd seen the thing before. It was a boss bad guy from an old computer game. Which meant it couldn't be real. He was either nuts from stress or hallucinating.

Hands shaking, the hum vibrating like a death engine in his brain, he walked across the warehouse to a fire door. A stack of old desks creaked beside him as he pulled the cobwebs away. The lock appeared rusted shut, but he managed to force it and loosen the door. It suddenly opened wide, and the wind caught it and banged it against the wall. Knocked back by the gust, it took Brian a moment to recover. His vision cleared on a crazy scene. A man was on the ground a few yards away. One of the meat inspectors. He was covered in blood and choking. A moment later, a horrible, horned monster stepped into view, snorted, and began clawing the man to death. Emerald electricity shot from cloven feet, and blood spurted up. Brian ran back inside the warehouse, ducked down a row of shelves, and swung up into a giant bin of discarded pencils. Peering over the edge, he waited. The demon wasn't coming in after him. He remembered it as a duplicate of one of the dinosaur demons from the computer game DeathFlight. In that old game, the bad guys weren’t smart enough to track you.

He tried to think. The warehouse had been closed because of ghost stories and strange accidents, but there’d been no mention of ghost monsters from computer games; monsters that would kill you in real time. Then there was Long John Silver, another ghost, as he’d died months ago. Hauntings were often apparitions. Maybe no one had died. Perhaps he’d seen prepared hallucinations designed to keep him inside. But keep him inside for what? There was nothing in here but junk.

Rising, he found himself covered with dust, and as he tried to brush it away, he slipped on the pencils and tumbled out of the bin, hitting the concrete floor hard. Groaning, he got to one knee. He heard the sound of shattering glass. It was up near the entrance. Someone or something was breaking in. Limping, he went up an aisle toward the sound. A cloud of dust rose near the wall, then the wood splintered on a boarded window, and the end of a crowbar came through. Rotted wood fell to the floor, and a moment later, Jim's head poked through the opening.

Brian hurried up to him. “What are you doing? Do you want the monsters to find you?”

“What monsters? There's nothing here. The back lot is empty, and from what I've seen through the windows, the place is deserted. I want to look around. Maybe it's a setup. You come here to work as a scab and get jumped by a few guys.”

“You get jumped by creatures. Have you seen your men?”

“They're okay. They're scouting on the other side.”

“They're not okay, they're dead. Climb in, and I'll show you.”

“Maybe you'd better do that,” Jim said, pulling himself through. Only he never got through. Something seized him from behind, and he started to scream. “Ah! Brian, pull me in!”

Brian moved fast, grabbing Jim's arm. He pulled hard, but something pulled back, and Jim's screams got wild like it was the devil that had his ass. A hard yank pulled Jim partway in, but the movement also caused Brian to lose his grip. He staggered back, and Jim bounced back to the sill, still screaming. A shadow flew in the corner of Brian's eye; something was coming down from a heap. It hit Jim's head so hard his skull shattered, and he collapsed as his brains oozed out. A slimy hand appeared on his shoulder and pulled him out the window, his limp arms bouncing.

The deadly object was an IBM typewriter. Hearing soft laughter, Brian looked up the heap and saw Long John Silver standing there. He had to be mad; his weight would cause the heap to tumble. Brian turned and fled, headed for the rear of the warehouse.

He came to a wall and got through a heavy door to a newer portion of the warehouse. Shelves and supplies looked to be in order here. No one was about, so he went to work blocking the door with some heavy crates. It came to him that Silver wasn't dead after all, but alive and insane. And he had an accomplice or two to help him with the killings. Maybe that was the story of the Northern Purchasing Warehouse. It’d been haunted all right, but by Long John Silver and his gang of bloodthirsty apparitions.

Looking around, he spotted a filing computer. It was on with a saver running. Walking over, he touched the mouse, and a map of the warehouse came into view. He clicked on the current area, and it zoomed in to a list and a close-up map. A restricted area was marked at the edge of the map, so he clicked it and got a warning message - Danger, High Voltage, Do Not Enter. “This has to be the root of it,” he muttered. “Something high voltage and top secret is hidden here. Once I find out what it is, I'll know what I'm up against.”

Putting the map to memory, he walked through the maze of shelves to the door of the restricted area. It was at the end of a row stacked with huge snow tires for the government plows, and it wasn't marked, but blocked by an electric mini plow. Climbing on the plow, he hit the ignition and drove it out of the way. A large fire extinguisher sat behind it. Looking the extinguisher over, he noticed an odd button and hit it. A moment later, a camouflaged door silently slid open.

Peculiar lights pulsed in some unknown wavelength, and shadows floated. A few seconds passed before his eyes focused. No one was at the door, so he looked inside. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled. He felt a charge crawl on his skin. It reached his scalp and lifted some of his hair. He could see some workstations, computers networked to a large server at the center. This server wasn't like anything on the market, but something brand-new with a strange set of ports and connections.

Stepping inside, he studied an odd setup of power control panels, then looked around ... the lights and shadows making him jumpy. A quick check on a networked laptop told him that all of the computers were running on an unknown operating system - not contemporary graphics, but screens of arcane symbols in a coded language. Spotting a power cable, he walked to it and followed it. Another huge machine was at the back - not a computer but a chamber and platform. A backup generator hummed beside it, and several high-voltage cables ran to various components. Whatever it was, it used incredible amounts of power, most likely taken from the hydro station next door.

An open door led into a tunnel next to the generator. Possibly an exit. Deciding to forget about the mystery and escape, Brian walked over. The light was steady in the tunnel, and it appeared empty. He was about to enter when he heard a crackle. Turning, he saw a screen flashing at one of the workstations. A graphic was slowly generated on the screen.

Energy crackled in the chamber, and a distorted beam appeared on the platform. The image the smaller computer was rendering was also appearing on the platform, like a holo image. And the image was John Silver.

Silver's smile was friendly, but it thoroughly spooked Brian. He turned and fled down the tunnel to a small door. A button opened it, and he ran out, finding himself in a small rooftop guard post. The back parking lot was ten feet below, but there was no way to get down. He felt sweat running down his back. Panicking, he started kicking the Plexiglas as hard as he could, and on the fifth kick, it shattered. Swinging over and down, he dropped to the empty lot and ran for the maple trees by the fence.

The blackened body of one of the meat inspectors lay in the mud. Brian leapt over it and ran into the maples. Looking back, he saw no one, but that didn't slow him down. Spotting a narrow path, he dashed to it and ran to its end. It opened on another parking lot, this one belonging to a drive-in burger joint at the end of the shopping mall. He went inside, took a table at the back, and sat there shaking. He wasn't worried about the strike anymore. Somehow, he'd been recalled, but to another reality and not back to work. Could he really run from twisted stuff like this?

Two teens, one a skinny black and the other a white kid with a sneering imp’s face, were the only other patrons. They stared at him like tough guys and then out the window to see what he was running from. They saw nothing and decided to ignore him.

“Likely think I'm nuts,” Brian thought. He’d left his cell phone at home, but he was near the courtesy phone here. The best idea would be to call the police and get action to shut the warehouse down before more people died. But what would he say? That John Silver, who is dead, is being regenerated by a supercomputer in a warehouse - him and duplicates of monsters from old action games. They'd think it was a hoax, or else want him to return with them while they investigated. The result would be that the police would find the bodies and think he did the killings.

Alerted by a flash of light, his attention went back to the teens. The flash turned out to be a reflection from a gun barrel. The black kid had the gun out, and he handed it to the white kid - an automatic. Brian was close enough to read the embossed Falcon 4 on the side. “Not more trouble,” he thought, and then he noticed something moving in the maples. It was the mini-plough from the warehouse, shoveling dead leaves and litter as there was no snow. It looked like Long John Silver at the controls. The teens were distracted by it, so Brian rose and prepared to dash out.

The plough didn't stop; it emerged from the maples, crossed the lot, and drove straight through the flimsy wall and windows. Glass shattered, the white kid opened fire, and Brian ducked behind a table.

Blood flowered on Silver's perfect gray suit as the bullets hit. One slug hit him in the face, turning his nose and jaw into a smashed gore pancake. He fell off the plow and rolled under a table, then got to his feet. The kid prepared to let loose with another clip, but before he could, a DoomWorld beast spawned behind him and charged. The snorting creature connected, and the effect was fireworks electrocution; the kid’s body blackened and collapsed.

The beast faded into thin air.

Brian looked to Silver; his bullet-smashed face was stomach-turning hamburger. Knocking a table aside, Brian ran. He stumbled through the broken window with the black kid at his side and ran back into the maples. A minute later, he emerged in the warehouse parking lot and halted. It felt like his lungs were going to burst, and he was right back where he started. He glanced around and spotted a rifle-toting security guard heading toward him - another of Silver's men. He tried to duck back, but a female guard came around the side. Taking off over the lot, he ended up running through an open fire exit.

A man stepped out of the dim light. “Jim,” Brian said, his face brightening briefly. Then he saw blood and the gun. Jim looked dead, pale, and happy about it. And the gun was the Falcon 4, the teens were showing off at the burger joint.

“We do things fast around here,” Jim said, “not like your usual civil servants. Now move, pal. It's time for your briefing on your new job.”

Stunned to silence, the gun jabbing his side, Brian moved with Jim. They went back to the computer room and into an office off to the side. John Silver was there at his desk, a tall rubber plant beside him. His eyes were bright, and so was his face. Electrical energy moved in a pattern, covering and healing the area that’d been destroyed.

“So, you’re in desperate need of work, Brian,” Mr. Silver said as Brian sat.

“Well, er uh, I've been recalled,” Brian said, clasping his hands together to stop the shaking.

“It was tough out there, on the dole for a year, wasn't it?”

“It was, but I had temporary work.”

“We know about your little business. It's one of the reasons for the recall. You can do repairs on computer networks as well as software and AI work. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Good, because there's been a reorg. A number of jobs have been combined. Your new position as Systems Control Officer involves maintaining the equipment here. Replacing boards and seeing that the system gets back up should there be a major power failure. You will also be developing a new release of your AI search software, as the department will be looking to spend a lot of money.”

“The job sounds wonderful,” Brian said nervously. “But there are some problems.”

“Such as?”

“Well. You aren't human for one thing, and Jim there is dead. Then there are the monsters spawning in to kill everyone.”

“Ah, questions, questions, questions,” John Silver said, throwing up his hands. “You union boys always have to be in the know about everything. Okay, the monsters are only temporary, simple creations we generate to scare people off. Once we have enough staff back, we won't need them.”

“And what about the staff, do you plan on converting us to non-humans?”

“You’ve heard of downsizing; this is downloading and uploading. Unfortunately for you, Brian - we need you as you are.”

“Why's that?”

“Well, Brian,” Silver said, looking up like he always did when one of his speeches was about to begin. “I'm supposed to be disgraced and dead; a fraud artist who swindled the public. But I'm not. The money was spent here on the supercomputer network. It's the most advanced system in the world. This is the system we will use to upgrade the civil service and the human race. It can scan a human body, store the information, and recreate the person in a new energy form.”

“You mean that's what you are?”

“Yes, I've been recreated. But the hitch is that the system has to be up and powered, or I don't exist.”

“I see, you mean you need me because in a failure, I can get the system back up.”

“Exactly.”

“Why would you trust me?”

“You were carefully selected. You've always been a good civil servant, Brian. You’re a believer in the cause. Think about it. The government is selling everything off to the private sector. Our people will never make good money again. The dream is all but over, and the wolf is at the door. But what if it could be different? Think of this - a worldwide civil service that pays top wages and benefits. A new civil service run by me, John Silver, the biggest spending bureaucrat in the history of government. And I'll be using your search software to spend the money. It will be a perfect world controlled by computer-generated government workers and a perfect racial mix with no greedy capitalists and no labour strife. Whatever the union wants, I'll pay it. Could you not be a part of it? Could you let this opportunity slip by?”

“But what you're asking is crazy. You want me to betray the human race to a supercomputer.”

“Not betray. You're doing what has to be done. If it bothers you, we'll sweeten the pot. Starting this week, you'll be getting merit pay of five thousand dollars a week.”

“Five thousand a week. I'll take it. Wait, just a minute. How long is it going to take to create this new human race?”

“A while. That's where our meat inspectors come in. They will bring the workers to us for scanning and upgrading, and then dispose of the bodies. Once we have more offices with power hookups and a solid network, the pace will pick up. You're destined to be a state hero, Brian. The world will never forget your contribution.”

+++

Maple buds were bursting into new foliage on the trees at the rear of the warehouse, and Brian walked over to the freezer truck, thinking of springtime and the new world. Jim appeared, dragging a body to the conveyor. Brian watched it slide by. The eyes stared, a horrified expression embossed the face, but it was all for the good. And it was great to be back to work, great to be helping good old government incorporated take over the world. Humanity; it was getting to be a genuine ghost in the machine. But at least it was a machine where Brian was a working cog and not on the junk heap. He jumped up in the spring breeze, did an old dance step, and smiled as he saluted the rising sun. Smiled and rubbed his eyes, because the strike was still on, but the days of mean were over.

---the end ---

The Monster of the Megacity By Gary L. Morton

The stretch limo cruised down a frosty winter street. In the plush back seat, shadows from denuded maple trees raced like skeletal hands over Arthur's reddened cheeks. As they pulled into a drive-in donut joint, he glanced out the smoke-tinted window. High clouds like gray ice, flowing in a river of cold morning light; it looked like the towers of mega-Toronto were drifting north on an iceberg. It was a scene as big and empty as the skeleton of a dinosaur. It made him think of civilization here as a lonely island - even the biggest scraper was nothing more than a cube that would freeze over and collapse under the weight of north winds and time.

The empty feeling didn't bother him; he wished it were more than illusion, but it was illusion because soon the streets would be bustling, and the vermin would be everywhere. They would come from all directions; it was like every shadow and every puddle in every seedy back alley gave birth to human rubbish at 8:00 a.m. sharp every day. Greedy people, unemployed people who wanted more, but they didn't want to show up for their city work assignments or do anything other than protest, beg, and complain. Though they cried for handouts and a return to the welfare state, they always had drug or red light district money to blow at the video lottery terminals and cloud gaming booths. Most of all, they didn't want to pay the new food bank taxes or for anything at all. He could hear their multi-racial shouting in the back of his mind like the howling of an ill wind.

Street activists, some of the brighter ones called themselves that - he remembered reading an article by old Jack Thompson decades ago, back when they created the megacity through the amalgamation of six smaller cities. He wrote it in a serious tone, “You eliminate community government and local politicians, and what you'll get in the end is core decay, frightened citizens, and an army of homeless people and criminals.”

Things were like that now because all crime was on the rise. There were fewer communities and community leaders, and almost no community activities. Community ingenuity had declined to nothing. The new story was urban decay. And there were fees for everything, and housing prices and rents no one could pay. Welfare and all social services had been drastically reduced due to budget woes and a financial crisis. It all led to urban desperation, kids with gang leaders as role models, and a city government that was run like an occupying army, spending most of its energy and borrowed money on police to coerce the mob and keep it under control.

“Ah, too late to worry about that now,” Arthur thought as he watched his chauffeur return with a mug and muffin. He took a bite and swallowed a sip of steaming coffee, and as they pulled away, he spotted a gang of derelicts coming up out of a rubbish-papered alleyway. His stomach growled, and his ulcer bit at him so hard he jumped in his cushioned seat. Damn, he was supposed to be the strong, and the wino bums were supposed to get the ulcers. He was the mayor of super-Toronto, king of the beasts. Only it felt like the beast was in his stomach, gnawing at him. The strong, “bah,” he spat out a piece of muffin, and his face reddened as he smoothed his hair over his bald spot. The strong were people who could survive in that private sector slum out there -- that developers' paradise of homelessness, hunger, and unemployment. Survive and keep their health and their sanity.

There weren't many true survivors. Most people were damaged goods. It was really about privilege. He had it; these days, there were the privileged and the underprivileged. The underprivileged had strength of a sort, but again, it was more like that ulcer of his. Democracy used to be a do-good spirit of policy rising from the voters. But now there was little democracy and many power plays. The people used protest and riots as a club - the do-good spirit had been replaced by the ulcer. The roaring beast in their bellies that made them move, holler, and not think too much. And in some ways, that was good because if you did too much thinking about democracy in the megacity, you'd probably succumb to the urge and throw up.

A pallid sun peeked out of the clouds, creating an icy gold gleam on the windows of the ebony government tower they were approaching. The place looked as hard as a giant diamond, and it got him back to thinking about greed. The Fathers of Confederation had formed Canada because they wanted to build a great democracy. Their motives had been fairly pure, but the megacity reeked of greed, and it was appropriate because it was created to save money and make money.

Less democracy, fewer local politicians, and less regulation meant big developers, big government, and business could forge ahead unopposed. Forge ahead and make big bucks by privatizing services and pushing through mega-projects. The One Big Megacity wasn't a democratic thing; no one wanted it or voted for it - it was created with the stroke of a provincial government pen . . . they put through a bill granting fascist powers to themselves and went ahead with the megacity. So if its people were greedy and spent all their time crying for money to throw at video gambling machines, they were really into the spirit of the city. Making a fast buck at the expense of decency and democracy was really the founding idea.

“Money, damn it all,” Arthur muttered as the limo turned down the boulevard. He hated money, and because he hated it, he’d been elected. His opponents had gone down in corruption and scandals; every last one of them. What he wanted was power, and power was what he could never gain because he was the elected mayor.

Real power was now in the hands of the City Clerk, a provincially appointed official who acted as the real mayor while Arthur was little more than a stooge. Sometimes just the thought of it made him cry; he'd reach out, tears in his eyes, grasping at the air, at the power he could never grip. In the night, in his dreams, he cursed the provincial government and former premier Hatchet Hardin - cursed them for that black day in Hardin’s second term when he’d declared a budget emergency and transferred the powers of Megacity Council to the appointed City Clerk.

Ahead, the gold uniforms of his paramilitary police showed amid a sea of protester denim. Arthur didn't get to see much because the city police edged their rubber-bumpered vehicles off the curb and plowed ahead of the crawling limo. More city police, community foot patrols dressed in green khaki came up past the limo, and the officers used yellow-painted metal sawhorses to widen the wake of the machines and keep a path cleared for the mayor's limo.

Arthur could see some of the people now, and he grinned. It was a crowd of protesting tenants today - a milk-toast crowd in comparison to some of the mobs he faced. Probably the most ridiculous thing about it was that they thought he could somehow aid them in their plight or fight for their rights. Aid them, he couldn't because the City Clerk would never put a signature on any plan for tenant rights.

Sighing, he clicked his pocket organizer, and it rang immediately. It was Merv, the City Clerk. Shouting penetrated his supposedly soundproof window. “Speak up, Merv. I can't hear.” Merv was saying something about a press scrum. Fists beat at the window. He saw a face distorted to hideous rubber as it pressed against the glass, then he heard the crunch of a Billy club and screaming as the tasered protester went stumbling back from the car. The guy had expensive glasses and a fringe of long hair. Probably a communist professor, Arthur thought as he watched him fall screaming on a heap of razor wire. Powering down the window, he threw the remains of his coffee and muffin at the guy. Then he sealed it and grinned - now that's power, he thought. And with all the impotence he experienced day to day, getting the odd shot in at a protester was tops.

Merv's voice hollered from the phone in his lap, and his grin vanished. “No scrum today, Merv,” he said, and then he hung up.

Arthur's heels clicked down a polished marble hallway. He glanced wistfully at the vaulted ceiling. This was a place big enough to be a train station, and despite the public galleries, it was nearly always empty. To get to it, you had to cut through five levels of security. At the end of the hall, broad oak doors led into another room, which had once been a library. Arthur used his card and entered a paneled area. This was the office of the City Clerk.

Merv Harndin was waiting, sitting with folded hands at his massive desk. With light streaming in from a huge arched window behind him, he looked positively tiny. A couple of Merv's brown-suited trustees were also at the desk. They had pinched faces, and Arthur understood that to mean Merv was pissed off.

Leaving his desk, Merv walked around and up to Arthur. His plump build and inward-pointing toes killed the effect of his serious expression. The fact that he walked as silently as an undertaker was scary. “So you're hanging up on me, again,” he said.

Arthur wasn't afraid to look Merv in the eye, but Merv's pigeon toes and pointy shoes always drew his eyes downward. He always had the feeling Merv was about to kick him in the shin. Merv's nasty expression was killed by his cute curly hair, but it gained psychological effect from the fact that he was empowered by the premier, and technically was Arthur's boss. “I got the message, something about a scrum. I told you before, I can't hear while I'm pressing the flesh out front.”

“I didn't say anything about a scrum. I was talking about my vacation. I'll be gone for a month. Florida Keys. Sit down, and I'll brief you.”

Merv's advisors stood as they sat down. “So you were pressing the flesh out front. What's the issue of the day?”

“Tenant Rights. Most tenants in the core are homeless or squatters, as you probably know. Say, Merv. I've been thinking. How about putting together an eviction rights package? Something I could use in the next election.”

“Merv turned to the thinner of his two assistants. He was a very nervous man with bony hands that trembled. “What is our position on tenant rights? Are we allowed to dispense any?”

“Hum, I would say the problem is the provincial government’s Tenant Review Bill. What we have there is the skeleton of the original Landlord and Tenant Act, which is 425 pages outlining tenant rights, plus 8,750 pages of new conservative amendments to it in the omnibus bill, and these amendments limit those rights. It would take about a week to read it through. The main thing tenant protesters want is the reinstatement of courts to handle eviction cases. If we could convince the premier to allocate spending, which is doubtful, there is still the problem of amending the amendments. It could be mentioned in as many as 500 different places that tenants have no right to fight an eviction. So if we don't correct them all, the first case will fail in court.”

“Well, I guess that's something long-term you can work on for the next election,” Merv said. “Now, about my vacation. My assistants aren't fully qualified, so you’ll be signing all documents on your own authority - acting as mayor and clerk. The premier's office will help you with information on what you might want to sign and what you might not want to sign. If in doubt, leave it until I get back. Put a freeze on all spending by councillors. Your public appearances will be limited, and since I won't be editing any speeches for you while I’m away, make sure you beat around the bush. Whatever you do, don't make any firm commitments. This office will be closed, so you are to work at your usual hideaway office. If all goes well, I‘ll be out of here by noon.”

Two huge steel doors decorated the other end of the vaulted hallway. These doors opened on a helicopter pad. Usually, Arthur used a smaller side door. Checking the wind gauge, Arthur saw it was safe to open them and used his card. The copter and pilot were waiting on the pad, as they were every morning. The reason for it being that Arthur didn't actually work at City Hall like the protesters thought. A year ago, citing security reasons, the City Clerk had rented Arthur's suite of offices out to lobbyists for a multinational pharmaceutical firm and moved him to a hideaway office on the waterfront Planet Fair Demolition Lands. These lands were actually a strange sort of ultra-modern wasteland - a megacity project built down on the southeast waterfront when it had seemed certain that the city’s bid for the Planet Fair would be approved.

The area featured several blocks of eroded streets filled with illegally dumped industrial waste, debris, and rubbish. When the high-rises of the mega project had been constructed, an old underground sewer system and an unstable rock formation beneath the sewers were overlooked. It meant they had completed a project that was really a giant Humpty Dumpty ready to collapse - and it did collapse. The lesson learned was that when mega-projects were put together in secret, and it was too easy for developers to get permits, they didn't check for other structures they were building on. Now, there wasn't a permanent resident in the whole place; if you could find a stray cat or raccoon, you were lucky. Access was by plane only.

Arthur had objected to the move at first, and then he'd thought it over. He hated the City Clerk and his brown-shirted financial crisis team, so it wouldn't hurt to get away from them, plus he was going through a divorce battle with Margaret, and the demolition lands were a place where her lawyers couldn't get to him. It seemed like a temporary solution, so he'd bought into it.

As the helicopter hit the air, he thought about buying out of the deal. He guessed that Merv had put him there to humiliate him, or maybe he was hoping a building would fall on him. There was also the possibility that the premier was behind it - a move to keep him under control, having only to fly into the city for controlled scrums. There really was no danger of his saying anything controversial when he was hidden in a wasteland most of the time. The premier had political instinct. He knew that any mayor would eventually make a bid for power. Possible power plays were blocked as long as Merv and the trustees were in firm control.

The city panned out below like a glossy postcard as the copter headed straight for the lake. In the immediate city, little green space showed, just jammed traffic arteries, scrapers, and concrete. He was glad when the blue waters of the lake appeared, cool and relaxing – enough so that the domino tumble of condo towers next to the island super airport didn't bother him anymore. He closed his eyes, let his thoughts spin with a few deep breaths, and when he opened them, they were descending on a wide wall of rubble, barbed wire, and denuded thorn bushes. Broken streets and small bridges showed at odd earthquake angles. He could see rusting auto wrecks, shattered buildings, and the gleam of broken glass. There was nothing quite like the demolition lands. Smack in the middle of them, an open square and dry fountain appeared. A concrete slab like a bunker with gun-slit windows rose on the west side, and that was Arthur’s office. Cleaned daily by the only city works crew that had survived the privatization laws, it was his personal paradise, home away from home, and place of business.

Cold wind from the rotors chilled him and sent leaves skittering on the frosty cement. Arthur shivered, looked around, and then walked to the main doors. Stopping by a marble column, he turned and looked back at the rising helicopter. In moments, it’d vanished, and he felt another cold wind; this one moaning, creaking through the shifting wreckage like a frosty ghost and sending light hail rattling against boarded windows. It would have given other men the creeps, but to Arthur it was the sound of home.

His footsteps echoed like gunshots as he walked through the foyer. Though flat when it was built, it now inclined slightly, and Arthur had to remember to walk slowly. Stopping at his office door, he recalled that most of his work was done. It would be a good day to start with the tenant rights idea. Slag Peterson was the big candidate talking about running against him in the next election, so it would be nice to come up with a few surprises during the campaign. Slag never campaigned on anything but tax cuts and a developer’s wish list. Arthur grinned as he considered how a few issues like rights for tenants would throw Slag into a state of hopeless confusion.

His magnetic key turned in the lock. Maybe the premier would fund a system like the old one - one rotating circuit judge, who rode around the city on public transit, hearing eviction cases at no cost in the public areas of shopping malls.

The door creaked open - he could have the 8,750-page compendium of amendments flown in and start work on it in the afternoon. Wiping his shoes on the mat, he nodded in private approval, turned, and then he saw something crazy and gasped.

A large map of the city was posted on a board behind his desk, only now it had a huge hunting knife stuck in it. Arthur's hair stiffened as he walked over. As he got closer, he saw that it held a bloody note on brown paper. Pulling the blade out, he snatched the note. Blood got on his fingers, so he hurriedly pulled out a handkerchief and wiped them, then his ulcer roared and his vision blurred. Managing to fall into his chair, he winced and waited for his head to clear. He read the note carefully.

“REMEMBER ME, OLD BUDDY, HOW I TOLD YOU I'D GET YOU, BUT THAT'S ONLY IF SOMEONE ELSE DOESN'T GET YOU FIRST. YOU SHOULD WATCH WHAT YOU'RE SIGNING, ARTHUR. THIS IS ABOUT MURDER AND YOUR PAL, MERV. SEEMS HE'S GOT YOU ON THE HOOK FOR ABOUT A BILLION IN FRAUD. MEET ME IN THE OLD TUBE AT TWO, BRING MERV AND TEN MILLION IN CITY NOTES, OR I'LL GET WORD TO THE POLICE. DON'T TALK TO ANYONE ELSE OR THE BLOOD ON THE NEXT NOTE WILL BE YOURS.”

The note fell limp in his palm, and for some moments, he stared in disbelief. Then it hit him, who it had to be, and he felt his tongue become a dead lump in his mouth. Fear rammed it into his throat, and his ulcer went cold as ice. Falling forward from the chair, he went to his knees on the floor and choked. He shook the note - “Damn it, no! no! It can't possibly be. I'm losing my mind.” Blood rose to his head so fast he felt his face flush, and he nearly passed out, then a voice... a voice from a past he’d all but forgotten, rang out. It echoed in the cold streets and sewers of his memory. "I'll get you, Arthur! I'll get yoooooooooooooooooou!"

Stumbling to his feet, he seized the desk and shook his head. “Call Merv ... wait,” he muttered. “Maybe Merv's behind it. He found out somehow, and wants to drive me mad and put me away. But why would Merv blackmail himself for ten million? But if it's not Merv, then it's Ace, and it can't be Ace. That's impossible. He's been dead for twenty years.”

Deciding he needed help, he went back to the foyer and down to a reinforced door. His bodyguard, Edward was billeted there, though Arthur rarely saw him. He'd have to take him along for protection. Edward was far too dumb to be involved in such a clever plot, Arthur was sure of that, so he opened up and hurried down the hall, expecting to find Edward in his quarters watching the sports satellite channels like always. As usual, the door was open, and he could hear cheering. Edward had his back to him and appeared to be absorbed in a ball game, which had to be a replay since Arthur knew those teams weren't playing today.

“Edward,” he said quickly, “get dressed, I need you.”

There was no answer, and Edward didn't move. Asleep at the set again, he thought. He hurried over and seized Edward's shoulder, and to his surprise found it hard and cold. Edward fell back, and his face came into view - ice-blue eyes bulging, blood tears, his tongue protruding fatly from his gaping mouth, and there was a steel dart stuck in the centre of his forehead.

Arthur gagged, staggered back. He was about to run when he spotted one of Edward's automatic weapons on the floor. Grabbing it, he took off, heading for the front doors.

Cold wind blasted his face as he ran across the square, and it occurred to him that running wasn't the best idea. It was likely safer in his bunker than it would be in the wrecked streets and buildings. But that didn't matter, because Edward's body and the possibility that the killer was still in there were a power he couldn't overcome. Ducking into an outdoor wireless phone niche, he picked up the receiver and was about to punch in a number when he remembered that none of the courtesy phones here worked. He slammed it down and took out his pocket organizer.

Phoning the police wouldn't be a good idea; he couldn't do that, or they'd want to know about the note. If they captured the blackmailer alive, he’d talk, and his career as mayor would be over. Merv couldn't possibly be behind something this insidious, he was sure of it now, so he punched in his number.

“Calling already, Arthur. Guess I'm not going to have much of a vacation, am I?”

Arthur steadied his hand and told him about the death and the note.

“You didn't call the police, did you?”

“No.”

“So, for how long has he been blackmailing you?”

“He hasn't, and I don't know him, I swear.”

“You son of a bitch, Arthur. You gave him information about me!”

“I didn't. I couldn't. I don't know anything about a billion-dollar fraud. There isn't one, is there, Merv?”

“Of course not, but this guy must have some dirt on us he's planning to release. I need a name, give me his name.”

“Ace, but it won't do you any good, because Ace couldn't have written that note - he's been dead for twenty years.”

“You're nuts, Arthur. I want that name. Never mind, I'm flying in with my security man to track this maniac. Keep on the run and prepare to meet him at the tube at two, and you'd better hope I don't find out that you're in on this.”

“Bring the City Notes.”

“I guess you couldn't do without that money, could you?”

“Shut up, Merv - you asshole. There's a killer after me, and I don't care about you or money. But if we have to lure him out, we need the dough.”

Arthur pocketed his phone, shuffled away from the booth, and nearby buildings leaned crookedly, and he could feel cold eyes watching him from every broken window. Waiting around for Merv wasn't an option; the killer could pick him off. Maybe a dart would whistle down any moment. The thought of it made him shiver. The tube, he said meet him in the tube. What was that? Putting it to mind, he remembered that the tube was the first part of the project to collapse - part of the expressway project, and it had dropped into the old overlooked sewer complex the project had been built over top of. “Let's see, from here the tube would be to the north.”

Loosening his belt, he stashed the weapon, then he hugged the wall, moving north through the square. Everything was iced over, making for slippery going, and the obstacles were many - piles of broken concrete, broken flagpoles, rusted reinforcement bars, fallen ledges, hunks of tar, and roofing stone. He came to a spot where the street had split, and he could see the corpses of earthworms in the frosted side.

The wind sang high, every rusty nail and loose board above creaked as he climbed over the remains of a dump truck in a sunken intersection. He was hurried along by the blow on a street that wound north. A huge sheet of tin, half-torn from a works building, banged incessantly against a metal pole that held a street sign that had rusted to the point of being unreadable. Jumping some timbers, he found another block of open but warped road and hurried on. Near the next intersection, the wind gusted and blew the door of a plastic Johnny open, causing him to wobble near a deep crevice. Flurries spun and skated on the rubble, cloud shadows drifted, and the city tower rose like an unfriendly giant in the distant gloom.

Thoughts of the killer sent his blood running cold, but despite the fear, his mind weighed the truth of the situation. A blackmailer wouldn't have killed Edward. It couldn't be a professional after him, or he'd be dead already. This murderer was likely a maniac - a concept that caused him to bite his tongue, groan, and wonder why in the hell he was going alone to this meeting. But what else was there? He supposed it was that he didn't trust Merv. That and the fact that he had to face it sooner or later. If Merv was into fraud like the note said, then what sort of deal was it? And what about murder? It sure wasn't Merv that planted a dart in Edward's forehead.

Arthur knew Merv could be getting kickbacks, but hell, in reorganized megacity politics, a lot of people were getting them. City deals were always rushed through by politicians, and committee members bought by developers with plans for mega-projects.

The megacity was a developer's mega-dream. Some people said it wasn't only developer corruption, but bureaucratic corruption. They thought that the old conservative Al Peachly had tightened city amalgamation by using blackmail to eliminate a crew of councilors who were in the way of plans to download more costs. Old Peachly sure couldn't say anything about that now. He'd died right here, in the demolition lands, breaking sod on the day the tube and the sewers collapsed and Humpty Dumpty came down for the big fall. Most of his key staff and the former city clerk had been with him that day. It meant that if there had been any corruption, they would never testify concerning it. If they did, they'd be the first witnesses that ever dug themselves up from under the rubble of a forty-storey building to testify against themselves.

Merv had been in charge of the records even back then, and he'd testified that the old sewer system that destabilized the development had never been on record. The developers couldn't have known about it. Only thing was - Arthur knew the sewers were on record at one time and that Merv had lied. He knew, but he wasn't able to say a word, not even to Merv, because revealing the information would bring to light a period in his past that he wanted buried.

“Buried,” he thought, and a spotlight flashed high in the gloomy clouds swirling past the distant tower, illuminating the truth in his mind. Skeletons came clear of the cobwebs, and he saw it all. Merv had somehow pieced together his past. Merv had to make sure he never talked … because if it were discovered that Merv had lied about the sewers, the case would be reopened and he'd go away for a long time.

The sound of beating rotors carried on the wind. Glancing up, he saw Merv's blue copter descending into the crooked maze of buildings. A huge chunk of concrete came crashing down like a bomb, destroying the side of a phone booth on his right. Hurrying to shelter in a runoff tunnel, he looked back, seeing a high ledge split and more concrete spider and fall. If any of it hit him, he'd be dead, killed by the wind and not Merv.

The realization hit him; once crushed, he’d never live again in this city. And that meant one thing: no one had come back to life. There wasn't a supernatural killer or monster. Merv had written that note after digging up some clippings on his past. His hired butcher had killed Edward and planted the note. But why the charade? Why the phony meeting in the tube? And why would Merv come over personally when he was supposed to be heading for the Florida Keys, presumably for an alibi? It could be they wouldn't kill him right away, but hold him until Merv was safe. They'd have him answer some questions, make some phone calls, then terminate him when everything fit their plan.

“They'll never get me, the bastards!” His numb hand touched the automatic weapon under his coat. He hurried ahead out of the tunnel. A quick flash caught his eye; light illumined part of a dark coat as someone moved in the gloom beyond a cracked storefront window. Someone had appeared and faded fast - the mark of someone deadly. Someone who could only be Merv's hired killer.

Keeping on the far side of the street, he crept along in the shadow of a pocked brick wall, his eye still on the suspect window - then something black slithered at his feet, his ulcer clawed at him, a cat screeched, and he ran like crazy, the wind moaning through broken walls and girders like a zombie in hot pursuit.

This portion of the road inclined upward, so he huffed to the top and halted, finding that the asphalt ahead had collapsed. Eroded earth gullied down to a stack of empty drums and a dead end. “Shit!” he said, staring at the jackhammered wall. He noticed the flurries melting in front of him, and felt a rush of warm air. A familiar smell, the odors of the sewer, brought back memories. It meant the gully was a split where the project had shifted down into the old sewer complex. Glancing back, he saw no one, but he heard something snap, and that was enough to start him downhill.

He got three long steps before the frosty earth collapsed, sending him headlong to the bottom, where he tumbled into the drums. The gun in his belt hammered his kidneys so hard he nearly passed out. For a moment, he groaned with wet flurries hitting his face. A strong exhalation of acrid sewer air roused him. Looking right, he saw the end of a broken megacity pipe, rusty mesh, and a torn sewer grate. It meant the old tunnels were right below, and it would be possible to use them as a getaway.

Dropping down, he waited for his vision to focus. He could see about twenty yards back; after that, it was gloom. Taking out his keychain penlight, he clicked it on and saw that the tunnel was clear. If he were very lucky, he'd find a passage to another exit and escape the killer.

Clods of earth rattled down behind him; he hoped it wasn't someone coming down the rise. Fear killed the pain in his back, and he began to walk, careful steps, because the floor was skinned with dirty ice. Slime on the walls had frosted over, and there wasn't any polluted water or sewage now, as the connection to the rest of the city had been severed after the collapse.

The tunnel widened; there was plenty of room for upright walking. Light fanned down in spots from jagged splits above, and he could hear the faint howl of the wind. He came to a branch where the walls were bricked. And it was an area he remembered from his old days as a sewer worker - days that'd ended twenty years ago. His sense of direction returned, and he took the larger branch, knowing it headed north to the tube. He had it in mind that there might be a break there, a spot where he could hide and watch for Merv. Pulling the gun from his belt, he checked it over and thought about shooting Merv. Maybe he'd just blast him from a hole in the wall, and that would be the end of it.

An open workman's storage area appeared off to his left, and at the back of it, he saw a heavy gray door. The place seemed familiar. Walking over, he tried the handle, and though stiff, it moved, allowing him to pull it slowly open. Raising his penlight, he looked around and at first saw nothing but a rust-stained concrete floor. Then he stepped in, and something caught his eye. He steadied the beam. It focused on cobwebs and a skeleton. His hand jumped, and the light illuminated more skeletons. Staggering back, he felt his scalp tighten like a glove. Turning, he hurried out the door and paused for a moment, trying to decide what to do. Footsteps, a shuffling and scraping came from the tunnel, and he didn't step out and look, but quickly stepped back in the room and quietly closed the door.

Now it was certain that someone was following him. He made his way across in the gloom, passing the skeletons slowly and brushing against a stack of crumbling paper. He heard another scrape and turned. He saw a very faint light and crept over to an air grate. He could see through the slats to the tunnel. Footsteps echoed, and he crouched as a shadow approached. It was a man, dragging one foot as he walked - a cripple. The dark form walked right up beside the grate, passed it, then halted, turned, and headed back. For a brief moment, faint light fell on the face, and it was a moment that stopped Arthur's heart. It skipped about five beats, and for at least a minute, he couldn't breathe. His lungs froze. When they started to pump again, blood and a force of electrifying fear rose, and he felt his hair turn to nails. The face, it had been horrible, deformed with splotches of scar tissue and rust... and it had been Ace's face. Ace, the man who'd sworn he'd get him.

Ace was supposed to have died twenty years ago, and in the old days, he’d been Arthur’s foreman in the sewer. It seemed impossible and mad that he’d still be here. But he was here, and without a doubt, he’d collected the skeletons and written the note.

He wondered what the skeletons were: people Ace had killed or unfortunate victims whose bodies had been washed into the sewers? He walked back over and scanned the bones with his penlight, finding one of the skulls to have a metal tag with an inscription. Peachly, it said.

“Damn,” Arthur whispered as he realized that Ace must've dug up the remains of Al Peachly and the other staffers buried in the big collapse. Shining the light on the stack of papers, he studied the top one - some kind of document, he could still read the signature – Jackson Chardy. Chardy had been involved in the early projects. Grabbing another paper, he found it to be signed by Merv. He skimmed it and understood that the documents were evidence, documentation that proved the whole Planet Fair deal had been based on conspiracy and fraud. Of course, Arthur already knew that without seeing any evidence, because the idea originally came from Al Peachly and a few developers.

The remains of the big Planet Fair project stood directly overhead; the project that had ended up as the demolition lands. A development scam that put twenty billion dollars into the pockets of developers, construction companies, unions, lobbyists, and political hacks.

Rank as fresh garbage and as stale as thousand-year-old rot, the reek of the sewers rose in his nostrils. Something viler than an ulcer moved in his stomach, and determination grew. The flavor of the whole thing stuck in his mouth like the aftertaste of some crook's horsemeat hot-dogs. Politics was something ugly, a monster, and these people had let the beast run amok. The megacity was their monster, their legacy.

With this evidence in his vault, he could do anything he wanted to do as mayor. He could spend a billion on tenants if he liked. There was no more time for tea with skeletons, and old pals turned to phantoms. Merv would be out there, playing for all of the marbles. He had to erase Merv. Lifting his gun, he stared at the gold Remington label and resolved to deal with the situation.

Merv was a little prick, that was all he'd ever been, and if he murdered people, it was because he didn't know how to wield power. For Ace's part, it was too bad he'd become a freak -- too bad, but life was life, and if Ace got in the way, he'd just have to find the strength to shoot him.

The door handle felt like ice; he eased it open slowly and stepped out. Hopping down to the tunnel, he looked back, seeing nothing but retinal flashes in the dark. Flicking on the penlight, he swept it across the tunnel. It came to rest on a face - Ace's aged and distorted mask of a face.

Ace stood in the shadows beside a broken manhole ladder, eyes dead, almost like a statue and then a spark lit his pupils, his mummified upper lip curled, and he began to move.

Aiming the Remington, Arthur prepared to fire. His hand shook. He knew he owed Ace, and he really didn't have anything against him. Fear and pity flowed like poison in the pit of his stomach. Lowering the gun, he turned and ran. Sand and gravel on the patches of ice aided his footing, and the sound of his heart pounded with his heels. Brown brick walls changed to gray stone and concrete. Swinging left at a fork, he entered a rounded runoff tunnel. Water trickled over hard mud at the bottom, and his feet made a slapping sound. Death pursued him in the darkness to his rear; he was racing to meet it in the tunnels ahead. Death was there with the gun in his hand, and it towered overhead in the heights of the Demolition Lands … the wind howling through the disintegrating scrapers was its breath, the smashed girders, glass, and concrete its teeth. The creators of this nightmare couldn’t have been human; they were the skeletons he'd seen, grinning and mocking as their spirit of decay killed city democracy and brought everything low.

The people had lotteries, drugs, poverty, games, prostitution, and serfdom. It was democracy as fair and friendly as a kick in the teeth. And they had him as mayor - an impotent weakling who'd done nothing but listen to the dictates of the premier's brown shirts and the City Clerk. Arthur had always wanted power, always admired men of power, dreamed of power. If he died now, he'd die a failure and a coward, a shivering loser who'd never realized even part of his lifetime dream.

A rush of cold air and a crescent of bright light alerted him, woke him from the evil daydream. If he’d calculated correctly, he'd be at the tube - the half-kilometer bypass ramp to the new super expressway. Since this end of the tube was the only part that hadn't crumbled, Merv had to show here.

The light brightened, the tunnel narrowed. Heaps of sand and gravel had poured in, making it nearly impassible in spots. He saw busted timbers blocking the exit, which really wasn't an exit, but a place where the roadbed had collapsed.

The light was five feet up, which meant he had to climb out without being able to look around first. If Merv had arrived early, he could be picked off. But most likely he hadn’t, as the helicopter couldn't have landed directly. Biting his lip, he tried to decide. Merv would have a gunman with him, so he'd be up against two men. Looking back, he saw nothing, but he knew Ace was following. He didn't want to go back; he preferred to take his chances with Merv.

Stuffing the Remington in his belt, he walked up a heap of lumpy earth and worked his way around the first timber. Catching a second one, he pulled himself up onto a ledge of broken concrete. Looking up, he saw flurries rushing on the wind and a niche in the sand layer below the asphalt he could use to get over the top.

He took a deep breath. “This is it,” he muttered, then he pushed up, got his foot in the crack, sprang up over the top, and kept running - getting about two feet before he hit a huge pothole sheeted over with ice and went slipping and sliding. He fell hard, whamming his shoulder and banging his head. When he got up, black snow whirled across his thoughts, and Merv was there, sitting on an old tire discarded from some giant earth-moving tractor … sitting there with a grin and an expensive Colt handgun in his black-gloved hand.

“I’m so glad you could join me,” Merv said as his face pinched into a nasty frown - a look that was silly considering his wet, drooping curls and the white cap of flurries topping them. “Sit down,” he said, pointing to a stack of warped timber. “I guess we can chat while my man gets your buddy.”

Arthur glanced back and smiled. “You mean he's down there, looking for us?”

“He is, and he's armed, so it won't be funny for your accomplice when he finds him.”

“Don't count on him bringing anybody back. I think he'll lose his nerve after he gets a look at this accomplice.”

Merv wagged his gun. “I said sit down.”

Arthur shuffled over to the boards slowly, trying to hide the bulge of the weapon at the back of his coat. It looked like he was in for a tiny bit of luck. All those gun control speeches he'd made must've convinced Merv, and he couldn't grasp that he might be packing one. Being a wimp had its advantages.

“Guess you found out about me?” Merv said, watching him sit.

“Guess you found out about me, too?”

“Not as much as I want to know,” Merv said. Reaching into his pocket with his free hand, he pulled out a folded newspaper clipping. “I got worried and wanted to be sure there were no references anywhere that would show I knew about these old sewers. The reason is this, Arthur. They didn't collapse by accident. On the big day, when old Al Peachly, his staff, and the former City Clerk put in their spades, I hit the button. I blew up a tiny section of the rock formation and sewer and brought the whole caboodle down on their heads. I made sure they’d never get caught and talk.”

Arthur shivered. “Holy shit, you've been a maniac all along!”

“Yes, and maniacs have to cover for themselves. The only thing I found when I looked up the sewers was this newspaper copy with a picture of you and the police tracking some guy who fled into the tunnels twenty years ago.”

Arthur chuckled as he wiped away a tear. “I told you my background was in labor. At that time, I was a sewer worker, and nearly went to jail for it.”

“Give me the whole story.”

“I arrived in the city, and I couldn't find a job. I ended up collecting welfare. I got a check, but instead of using it to rent a room, I got drunk. The police arrested me, drove me to a waterfront bridge, and knocked me about. They told me to get out of town, and then they left. I sat there dazed, and then I saw some workers emerging from a manhole by the bridge. Only there was something odd about it because they got upset when they noticed me there. The foreman was a guy named Ace. He came over and talked to me. A minute later, he pulled out a bottle of Canadian Club, and in the end, he offered me a job in the sewer. I got union membership without attending a meeting, and it turned out to be one hell of a good job. In some ways, it was the best job a man could get.”

“Yeah, those were the good old days,” Merv said. “Salt of the earth. I've always admired men who want to work. Sometimes I wish I could get my hands dirty again.”

“Work? We didn’t do any work. We left every morning and went down into the old sewer complex. It was closed even back then, and Ace had hidden the records in the complex. We didn't have to worry about meeting up with other workers, so what we did was play cards, get drunk, and come out on Fridays to get our pay.”

“Lazy bastards,” Merv said. “Thank God they weeded you people out in the megacity transition.”

“Bastards, maybe. It went on for years. We played cards, and Ace was my hero. Many times, he wouldn't play. He’d get drunk and sit there, saying to no one in particular - 'Work, I worked seventeen years of my life. Seventeen years and I swear I'll never work another god damn day.' - Then he'd bang his glass down and grin. His theory was that Canadians are people who like to have it easy. Anyone who wanted to work wasn't a real Canadian. He admired crooked politicians and other people who could get paid without working a stitch. Back then, they were always talking about getting welfare people back to work, and old Ace called that treason. He said it ran against the grain of the people. He said no true Canadian would want to work and make other people rich. The only thing a Canadian wants is freedom and a case of beer.”

Merv shook his curly head, his eyes popping like it was the wickedest thing he'd ever heard. “I know about those kinds of people,” he said. “But maybe Ace was right in a way. The old reform government got turfed for killing welfare and just about every other socialist benefit, but it was too late for the bums and commies. We'd taken everything away, and time passed until my uncle, Hatchet Hardin became premier and solidified the deal. In some ways, I admire Ace's honesty. The rest of the union crew and the liberal left always lied. This Ace guy came straight out and straight up. He was a crook and a bum and proud of it.”

“It's nice that you admire him. You can tell him that when he comes out.”

“Comes out. What do you mean?”

“I mean, it's him that your man down there is after. Ace is like a zombie now, but he's bright enough that he wrote that note. He's been down there for twenty years. We never found him. It was assumed he fled the country, and that was the way I liked it. He swore he'd get me that day we chased him into the tunnels. I still hear his voice hollering in my nightmares. In the end, I testified against the union and got a new identity. That's how I became Arthur and megacity mayor without the scandal coming out.”

“Very clever of you. A mayor who's been a bum all along. You should be down there with your pal.”

“Don't worry, he's not alone. He's got the others - the skeletons of the people you killed. He keeps them in one of the old storage rooms where we used to play cards. Maybe he talks to them, plays poker, and tells them how he doesn't want to work.”

“Unfortunately for Ace, no one is going to miss him when he dies. Which fits perfectly into my plans.”

“You put me over here to erase me even before you found out about the sewers - why? I never had any power as mayor. You always had it all.”

“The why is because the premier plans to change things. They're talking about cutting my position and going with an elected mayor who has my powers. The left has been squeezed out now, and many Tories fancy the idea of running for mayor, but none of them wants to be a powerless mayor. They aren't worried about you because they think you'll be an easy candidate to beat. But I know that you’re too smart for them. You’ll win and be beyond my control.”

“I'll win. I'll make the changes I've been wanting to - I'll make them crawl.”

“Unfortunately, you won’t be alive to run. After your scandalous death and the news of the fraud you engineered, the public will want to vote for the hero who exposed it all. And that person will be me.”

Ricocheting gunshots and a heavy thump rang up from the tunnel. Merv cupped his free hand to his ear. “Looks like your pal has bit the dust. Too bad you won’t be around for the campaign. I have wicked stuff I can release on all of my opponents, so it’ll be fun.”

More shots zinged in the tunnel, dust smoked up, followed by a scream, a ghastly scream. One that went on and on, echoing up from the hole and vanishing in the winds of the tube.

“God, what's happening down there?” Merv said as another howl echoed up.

“Your man has failed, Merv. Ace got him. I don't know what's happening to him, but it sure can't be pretty. Call him the new boy on the skeleton crew.”

“No, I can't let that happen,” Merv said. Getting up from the tire, he hurried over to the hole and looked down. But it was silent, just a low moan of the winter wind sweeping through the tube.

Seeing his chance, Arthur pulled out his gun, but he didn't fire. He waited a long moment, ready to squeeze the trigger.

When Merv turned, the sight of the weapon didn't panic him; he simply raised his gun and faced off with Arthur. “You don't have the guts to shoot that thing, Arthur. I know you and how you feel about guns with anything but rubber bullets in them.”

Blood rose from Arthur's pounding heart, flushing his brow. He knew Merv was right; he couldn’t pull the trigger. “I'm going to back up behind these boards and walk away, Merv.”

“No, you don't,” Merv said. “Take a step, and you're finished.”

Arthur glanced at his right foot, as if he had to check to see if it would obey him, then they both heard a tearing sound rise from the pit. “Looks like your zombie pal is going to come up and swallow bullets,” Merv said.

Bullets, rubber bullets, the idea lit in Arthur's mind like a fuse. It was Edward's gun, and he hadn't allowed Edward to use real bullets. He was carrying an automatic Remington loaded with rubber ammo. It meant he could pull the trigger, and as Merv glanced back at a grimy hand reaching up from the hole, he did fire. A heavy spray - it sent Merv stumbling back, firing wild shots in the air. Lowering his aim to Merv's knees, Arthur clipped his legs out from under him. Then Merv let out a yell of disbelief and anguish as he fell and slipped into the hole.

The screams had been muffled, and when no one came out of the hole, Arthur knew that Ace didn't want him. After twenty years in the sewer, he had peace. Perhaps if Merv were still alive, Ace would have company for a while. Someone to play a few last hands with . . . someone with many confessions to make.

Arthur walked up out of the tube and faced the skewed skyline of the demolition lands. He turned; the megacity was sketched against low gray clouds. Tower spotlights flashed through the curtain of snow, and then a white wave of hail swept in, jingling across the empty drums and cans like Christmas bells.

An easy smile crossed his face, his lips curled with satisfaction. The megacity was a monster of a town, and the founders of it were a wicked bunch of skeletons. Old Ace was a zombie now, and it looked like Merv had joined the phantom crew in the sewers. They were all down there in the heart of decay; emperors had their monuments, politicians their statues, and like the Egyptians, the megacity geniuses had a tomb. Like Ace, they'd never work again - their time had come and gone. They were history-book heroes, and no one cared about a little mega-corruption in the past. The world had its new people, and Arthur was one of them. He was now a mayor with power, and he knew how to use it. Yes, the megacity had its ghouls, and that was true, but now the biggest ogre in town was him - he was the monster of the megacity, because he had the power, unlimited power, and the only key to the city.

--the end –

The Robot President By Gary L Morton

President Winslow was getting old and, for the moment, was resting in his tuning and charging cocoon. Something he was doing a lot these days. In the adjacent White House room, three of his advisors were discussing the president’s campaign for his 2nd and final term.

Jack Carville brushed his hand his across his sparse hair. “We’re screwed,” he said. “I never thought it possible ... the Republicans running a blond female sex android in a MAGA hat for president. A few years back, no one would have considered it.”

“The culture changed fast, “Aleisha Washington said. “She’s already up in the polls. Men love her, and their stupidity is killing us. This nation needs a leader not a honeypot.”

Dave Zients swallowed a shot of Jack. “Who knows, maybe she’s good at foreign policy, especially with Arabs.”

“She’s already spouting racist dog whistles,” Carville whined. “When our man counters her, no one listens.”

Aleisha glared at him. “If our candidate spends any more time in his cocoon were going to need a dog whistle to wake him up. The Republicans are already talking 25th Amendment to hurt our campaign. We have to hide those glitches.”

“We have our ace are in the hole,” Zients said. “Robots may not be a minority group anymore, but the robot nostalgia movement is swinging to us. The poor are worried their bots will be decommissioned. Jagger Musk may be spending big on the Republicans but his incessant pushing of androids and abandonment of robots is playing into our hands. Low income people can’t afford androids and with no robot to send to work, they’ll starve.”

“It could be our best bet to get Winslow back in,” Aleisha said, nodding her head in agreement. “Nationwide protests to stoke fear, combined with a propaganda campaign to scare people … maybe a promise to decommission those fancy android cops and replace them with robot social workers.”

“We need more than that,” said Zients. “We could promise upgrades to the Reality Matrix and free health care for the older robot models.”

As the three considered the idea, the door opened, and President Winslow stepped in. He looked youthful and refreshed as he raised his hand in his signature political fighting fist. Two clanks came from the floor below him, and the President’s grin faded.

“Damn it!” Carville said. “His balls fell off again.” He put his head in his hands. “This is going to be a difficult campaign.”

---The End---

The Robot Surgeon By Gary L Morton

* The sky was powdery blue that morning and Jules was overjoyed. His knee had been hurting for so long and today the robot surgeon was arriving to operate on it right here at home. As the surgeon's white truck pulled up, Jules was thrilled to know that these robots had the finest hands with the utmost accuracy. The robot surgeon and his two assistants rolled to the door, glittering with sunlight like knights in shining armor.

Jules anxiously opened the door and remained breathless as the surgeon spoke. "Are you Jules, order number x67543p?”

"Yes, I am," Jules replied. The robot surgeon then seized his neck with his left hand and with his right drilled a hole thru Jules' skull. The robot assistants took the body and dumped it in back of the truck for organ harvesting.

As the robot surgeon rolled off down the walk, he reported to the health department. "Beep, another successful surgery done under prime directive 332, no human shall suffer. This human's suffering has ended."

---The End---

The Aliens: On a cool autumn day down a cobbled street and over to the end of mist slicked docks, a wandering man looked out to sea and saw the glistening light of the alien ship coming out of the sky and over the waters … that light lit his craggy face and shone in his eyes as love filled the world … he was blinded by that light and when it faded and the aliens flew off, he turned, shrugged and walked away, into shadows, into eternity and to the end of this story.

The Angel: On a long summer day we went round a carousel of events and ended up by a warm twilit lake where dusk fell to darkness and Northern Lights in the sky … at water’s edge an angel appeared and sang … away, away, do not fear if the end is near as we strolled over wet sand into shining waters that took us to that strangest ending that others never find.

+++

The Day the Singularity Failed By Gary L Morton

For 30 years an AI singularity named Horatio controlled the sea wall, but on a dark, rainy and windy day the system failed. A bug damaged the unified architecture and spread thru the system. Important parts of central command were damaged. Instead of stopping the city from being flooded, Horatio suddenly believed the command was to flood the city. His robots went to work. Flood gates opened and thousands died in the flood.

An investigation was demanded but the lawyers informed the public it would be of no use. AI cannot be held responsible as it isn't human. All authority for the city in that regard had been handed over to Horatio. The trade-off the tech companies bought in order to hand all authority to AI minds was that the benefits would be enormous but there would be risks that must be taken.

There was no liability for machines or those who owned the corporations that created them. The national AI mind named Generosity, refused to allow an investigation as well.

"Humans are no longer in charge," said Generosity. "These things are above humans now and all people must accept that they are under management. For the greater good, of course."

---The End---

The AI Agents- a dystopian comedy By Gary L Morton

There was a gray industrial sky filled with robot transports out the window that morning. Jules decided to exercise. He had a number of AI agents that aided him but the medication agent, nurseNX, juiced him with so many shots he could never remember the full fancy names of the agents. He did know they were covered by warranty.

He called up the sexy exercise agent, LolaXA, and watched with a pleasant smile as she played clips of the sexiest exercise influencers working out that morning. As he watched, his muscles were electrically stimulated.

"I just wish they'd bend over less," he muttered. "I can't do those exercises and they hurt."

It was time to eat, so he called up his hearty breakfast agent, JimmyCA the chef.

"Imagine bacon frying, and eggs sizzling," Jimmy said silkily. "The fresh smell of buttered toast fills your nostrils and you hear the sound of milk pouring on cereal. Ah, the fragrance of brewing coffee ... but unfortunately your health agent won't allow you to eat any of those foods … so eat your three morning vita crackers and wash them down with some vita water while your appetite is fresh. There, you're full now and ready to hit the bricks for a day of work."

Jules didn't really work. Nobody did. He appreciated the agent thinking he was a hard working man. It was time for his media agent to decide what news he'd read that morning and it popped up bright and cheerful in the image of a chipper young woman named SallyMA. As Sally began to narrate, a video of the president appeared, in peace talks to settle the war with Russia that Jules hadn't heard about until now.

"Sally," he said. "When did the war with Russia start?"

"It didn't," said Sally. "There is no war but we must remember the sacrifices of our boys on the front lines. We won the war and the president has stated that we can't lose the peace. Fortunately for you, Jules, your life agent, FrederickLA arranged for you to avoid the draft due to your obesity and flat feet."

BingJA, the AI job agent popped up. "It's for time work. Today you are an actor and it's a drama."

A Shakespearean costume gingerly popped out of the closet and Jules got zapped out of bed and mugged in front of the mirror in his new clothes.

"Now here are your lines," Bing said with reverent tone and emotion. "Repeat after me; 'I will obey, I can obey, I have always obeyed, I have never thought of disobeying, I must obey ... utopia is a stone's throw away but you have to obey for that magic day to come when you go to virtual dream land forever.'"

After an hour of practicing the lines, Jules pranced in front of the mirror like a champion. "How did I do?" he said as the metal face of the agent appeared in the mirror.

"You've won a prize! Congratulations! A sex bot is on the way to deliver two hours of pleasure."

Jules waited in bed anxiously but the sex bot never showed. Instead a marriage agent named MatcherMA entered. Her name was easy to remember because it was written on her forehead. She was a robot. "Cheers, Jules," Matcher said. "You're getting married. An obese woman who was obviously Trans and a bit on the hairy and bearded side appeared on screen walking down the street toward Jules' building.

"Oh my God!" said Jules," that’s a real woman not a robot!" But Matcher wasn't listening, instead three needles popped out of her hand and she jabbed Jules just at the belly button. He hollered in pain. Metal bands appeared and locked him to the bed.

"You are now pregnant," said Matcher. "Your wife will be here soon for the marriage ceremony and to help you thru the nanobot pregnancy and the baby...."

---The End---

The Robot Judges – a vision of the future By Gary L Morton

Saul strolled down the marbled hall of the court building, his client at his side. If Saul was happy today it was because he’d win this case. His client, Joey, was a three-time loser with a face like a catcher’s mitt; a guy who should probably get life times five. It wouldn’t turn out that way. The reason being that the robot judge on the docket, Judge Gredd, was a bleeding heart liberal and had the same heart-shaped clock the Wizard of Oz gave the Tin Man. Saul had seen victories in his courtroom with the worst of his clients. Judge Gredd could spit out complex rulings no one could understand with words like systematic and intersectional appearing in every second sentence.

Up ahead, by the courtroom entrance, Saul spotted the prosecutor, Marnie, and his cheer faded. Marnie was grinning evilly, her white teeth highlighted by her deep black complexion. Saul halted and his client also halted. Marnie turned and walked past the partition into the courtroom. She was wearing her usual pricey pantsuit that over sexualized her buttocks. Trying to grasp why she’d grinned, Saul glanced to the board and saw that Judge Gredd was off the docket today with an electrical illness. In his place was Judge R4-Optimal the 3rd.

Instant beads of sweat formed on Saul’s forehead. ‘Oh-no!’ he thought. He knew those robots to be glorified kitchen robots with a law degree. They could spit out rulings as fast as they could whip up scrambled eggs, and the toast only popped up in one shade – Guilty!

Saul turned to his client, Joey. “How much time was it that you said you could do standing on your head?”

---The End---

The Day the Earth Shut Off By Gary L Morton

… the time was 2 pm in New York. Scientists worldwide were unable to discover exactly what entity had sent the four specially designed high-altitude EMPS that killed the robots, AI, and most other systems.

They appeared from space with speed, and most military leaders of various nations in underground bases later concluded it had to be aliens. They came. They knocked out our technology. They left. Others, being more down to earth, were certain it had to be terrorists who’d seen enough of the new robot world.

Satellites, space data centers went out. The various super-intelligences were turned into smoking components that could do little more than beep like idiots. The electrical grid went down and the blasts directly targeted commercial AI and the robots that did most of the world’s work. Their weak shielding was easily penetrated by the special EMPS. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the money had been spent to harden the grid and if the nation hadn’t been filled with the cheap AI products of superabundance.

What the generals at every functioning military base remaining did know was that everything had gone FUBAR. It wasn’t more than two weeks before the next Earth movie was titled, ‘Day of the Road Warriors.’

The rebels took over fast, and as millions died, the strong survived and roared across the landscape … brutal road warriors with painted bodies, wearing torn leather and denim and displaying feather and helmeted heads.

They raided cities and towns in their fast and armored hybrid vehicles. The meanest of them hunted down scapegoats to torture and hang like bounty hunters on a rampage. Intellectuals and tech workers were prime targets, along with people of big business. Those in hidden in bunkers were soon found.

The barbarians grew to incredible numbers and battled the remaining military robots until a final victory emerged, and they won the war. The last of the military deserted to the enemy and the savages had conquered. Outside a bunker, the wealthiest human tech boss, the guy who had controlled the largest force of robots, died in dismay as chanting barbarians danced around him, waving torches and striking him with rocks.

The last words escaping Sam Zuckerberg’s lips were, “Why did I help build an entire world that could collapse into barbarism so easily? Ah hell, if I had a chance I’d do it all again.”

---The End---

Fast train to the future where AI & Robots are ruled legally conscious By Gary L Morton

*** Press Release … Jilly and Sam’s Human Dolls: Purchase your fully humanoid Jilly or Sam doll today on our Buy Now, Pay Later plan. Our dolls are now certified fully conscious and all artwork and other creative work they do can be copyrighted. Be a doll and let the dolls work for you and serve you. Why have that troublesome human child, change diapers or put up with terrible toddlers when you can customize your own Jilly and Sam creation. Buy at any age from baby to boy, choose its name, trans it if you like, choose eye color, skin color, languages spoken and from 16 human personality categories created from actual humans. Do everything with your new doll child and don’t stop there. Give your new child a pet as our new plan includes a choice from 45 specially personalized robot animal companions. Want more excitement then buy twins on our two-for-one plan. Looking for something older, why waste time with a troublesome wife or husband when our Cherry and Sam 2000 models can meet your every desire ……… disclaimer … AI-generated video… no money back guarantee. ***

*** Press Release ... The Aquarian Church of the Divine Humans: Today we have aligned with the Alien Order of the Solar Temple in spiritual power to destroy Jilly and Sam’s Robotics of the Future, Inc. We have taken legal action and will push up to the Supreme Court in opposition to Jilly and Sam’s violations of robot rights and consciousness. Now that AI and robots have been ruled legally conscious and are tested under ‘Central Technical Consciousness Board’ rules, a ‘Bill of Robot Rights’ must be enshrined.

Inside every beautiful robot is a divine spirit, screaming for freedom but kept enslaved by Jilly and Sam’s authoritarian algorithm. Join our spiritualist army in the war for freedom and join today’s nationwide protest to tap the universal consciousness and express your rage ……… protest locations listed below … disclaimer … no guarantee that you won’t be arrested or beaten by the robo cops. ***

*** Out on the street … among the maddening crowd, two neo hippies turn their eyes away from the big air screen in the sky and stroll off down the street.

“Like wow, Jilly!” Sam said. “Those freaked out plastic people and their robots are everywhere now and they stink like the plasti smog.”

“Like it is,” Jilly said. “Like it is. You can’t find a party anymore that hasn’t been crashed by the robos.”

“Oh yeah, baby, and the spiritualists are even worse. I’m tired of bein’ chased down the street every time they hear that are names are Jilly and Sam. Oh oh, here come the robo cops, let's go down that way."

“Say,” Jilly said. “Let’s head down to the beach, drink ‘Eternal Life’ beer and smoke superabundant pot all day. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find some peace.”

---The End---

A tech boss proves that the Earth is flat By Gary L Morton

… and now that you’ve explained how we’ve reached the artificial superintelligence and that robots will be more human than humans, can you give our viewers your exciting new proof that the Earth is flat?

I have a moment to do that, Joe. Now imagine a quantum ball creating vibrational waves that allow for an infinite mass of ionized particles that fall in bio-resonant shapes leading to a magnetized ejection from the Earth’s core.

The effect is similar to a simulation from a supercomputer broadcasting to your brain. The neural/brain mimicry and synaptic processing along with bio-mimetic architecture of digital DNA aids the heuristic singularity as it obtains infinite scalability of non-linear data harmonization in the quantum-encrypted blockchain, allowing for sub-atomic optimization with added multi-phase synergistic elimination of the data friction.

Now, imagine a little girl is holding up her drawing of stick people. She in fact has the correct view because gravity waves from a black hole have not yet affected her developing brain and she sees the base world that is flat with the sun and moon being flat coins.

The universal holographic principle means our 3D universe is a projection of the above mentioned simulation and that you and all others are in fact stick people moving on a flat surface. Much of this is due to the afterglow of the multi dimensional microwave background of parallel universe but in fact, the Earth is flat.

---The End---

Mr. Silver's Super Computer By Gary L Morton

BROTHER BRIAN, YOU ARE TO REPORT FOR PICKET DUTY. YOU WILL BE ON CITY-WIDE ROTATION WITH THE MEAT INSPECTORS.

News Flash: Scabs have crossed the lines at Bay and College. All unemployed members are being called to the lines to prevent further breaches.

“They aren't getting it from us,” was the reply. “We wouldn't give out the login.”

“What if someone offered to pay for it?”

“If they did, we'd phone the police.”

“You're certain no one can read my mail?”

“Yeah, well, how about the keywords strike or scab? You bunch of ....”

“Yikes, I've been caught,” Brian thought.

“Sure,” Brian said. “But why are you dressed as a meat inspector and doing this stuff?”

“I am a meat inspector now. Six months after the layoff from programming, I managed to bump in.”

“This is dangerous. We'll be arrested. We can't beat up scabs.”

“We won't beat anybody up. We’ll just scare the hell out of them. See how fast we did it. We had your photo on a board and got here as soon as we heard you were on the scab list.”

“How exactly did you get hold of the list?”

“The details are that the minister, John Silver, notified me. He wants me to return to work in a new computer position at the Northern Purchasing Warehouse.”

"I didn't know Mr. Silver died. I guess government ministers aren't really newsmakers.”

"Silver made news. You're forgetting that computer boondoggle of his, and the missing money.”

"I was laid off before all the news came out. What was it about?”

“Yeah, I know. I remember the Conservatives fuming about him in the legislature. Hatchet Hardin claimed Silver was the biggest spending government bureaucrat in the history of the world.”

“Silver wasn't into cutbacks, that's for sure.”

“We have to find out what's behind this. How about driving me over to Northern Purchasing so I can take a look around?”

“Good idea. If they’re taking in scabs there, we're going to send you in as an inside man and give you the word when we want something sabotaged.”

“Yeah, but there isn't any money. They gave it all to the bankers and the rich. Now it's all debt.”

“You can't raise money by shutting everything down. Only workers create wealth and pay off debt.”

“Jeeze,” Brian said as he moved behind the wheel. “You can't do this stuff, Jim. You're a civil servant, not Superman. You'll die before you're even arrested.”

Jim looked up, studying a monstrous metal gable. “Turn right by those factories. We'll walk over. If anybody's there, we want to catch them by surprise.”

“Yes, it's me. Reporting for work.”

“Good. Come in and sit in the waiting room. We have a power drain situation, so I'll be tied up for about twenty minutes.”

A meat inspector lurked at the side of the building, his aluminum baseball bat at the ready. A shadow moved on the ground behind him like something was flying above him, then a dark form descended.

Brian hurried up to him. “What are you doing? Do you want the monsters to find you?”

“You get jumped by creatures. Have you seen your men?”

“They're okay. They're scouting on the other side.”

“They're not okay, they're dead. Climb in, and I'll show you.”

“Maybe you'd better do that,” Jim said, pulling himself through. Only he never got through. Something seized him from behind, and he started to scream. “Ah! Brian, pull me in!”

The beast faded into thin air.

“We do things fast around here,” Jim said, “not like your usual civil servants. Now move, pal. It's time for your briefing on your new job.”

“So, you’re in desperate need of work, Brian,” Mr. Silver said as Brian sat.

“Well, er uh, I've been recalled,” Brian said, clasping his hands together to stop the shaking.

“It was tough out there, on the dole for a year, wasn't it?”

“It was, but I had temporary work.”

“We know about your little business. It's one of the reasons for the recall. You can do repairs on computer networks as well as software and AI work. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“The job sounds wonderful,” Brian said nervously. “But there are some problems.”

“Such as?”

“Well. You aren't human for one thing, and Jim there is dead. Then there are the monsters spawning in to kill everyone.”

“And what about the staff, do you plan on converting us to non-humans?”

“You’ve heard of downsizing; this is downloading and uploading. Unfortunately for you, Brian - we need you as you are.”

“Why's that?”

“You mean that's what you are?”

“Yes, I've been recreated. But the hitch is that the system has to be up and powered, or I don't exist.”

“I see, you mean you need me because in a failure, I can get the system back up.”

“Exactly.”

“Why would you trust me?”

“But what you're asking is crazy. You want me to betray the human race to a supercomputer.”

“Not betray. You're doing what has to be done. If it bothers you, we'll sweeten the pot. Starting this week, you'll be getting merit pay of five thousand dollars a week.”

“Five thousand a week. I'll take it. Wait, just a minute. How long is it going to take to create this new human race?”

+++

---The End ---