Mayhem: Post Earth: Mayhem, #3

By GK Jurrens

★★★★★  

"Hope arrives on our doorstep in an unusual package."

"A fresh brand of hero on an epic journey leads a small band of specialists who provide the key to surviving the final planetary extinction event."

"A science fiction story for our time."

"Mayhem: Post Earth" begins fourteen years after "Mayhem: Mean Streets" ends. JM Rutherford, Danny Morrissee and Mace Bastian, along with new friends, once again take the stage to battle new villains who are not only evil but bigoted. As always, the stakes couldn't be higher. As Birdman had predicted in "Mean Streets." 

Life mirrors life in the year 2178. The brief but violent Corporate Wars of the 2160s declare governments obsolete. For better or for worse, global governance by three corporations has arrived. During that time, sixteen-year-old Daniel Morrissee joins the United Westican Corporate Security Service—the Corps—and is thrown into combat. 

Three weeks into his tour he loses both legs as his life slides from bad to worse. Morrissee, aka SeeMore, sees everyone's immediate future, all at the same time, and it is too much. Others call it a gift. To him it's a curse that threatens to steal what's left of his ragged sanity.

Fourteen torturous years later, SeeMore creates a technology that enables him to live in a new world of his own invention—a cyber-world, the c-dub.

Then SeeMore meets Mysty Brass and everything changes. Again. But bad people seek to destroy the new life they are creating. Why? And at what cost to… humanity?

• Language: English
• Publisher: GK Jurrens
• Release date: Jun 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781952165092

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

Welcome to Post Earth, book three of my Mayhem series, where everything you think you know is challenged, and nothing remains the same. Nothing.

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My books are very much character-driven. That means fascinating and quirky people mired in their gritty relationships play a central role, and many of them across interlocking action-packed story lines vie for your attention.

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At the end of each of my books, I’ve included some useful references:

The cast of major characters and their respective roles are listed for you (see Appendix A),

A visual map lays out relationships between all major characters within and across story lines (Appendix B),

A glossary of terms commonly used in the twenty-second century. Like you, many of these terms were new to me (Appendix C).

I’ve spent almost two years of my life crafting a world full of despair, hope, joy and redemption as unlikely but lovable heroes attempt to foil insidious villains in this trio of manuscripts designed to immerse you in a fascinating future I pray never happens.

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We must remain alert to this possibility to prevent its self-fulfilling prophecy.

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We do this if not for us, for our children and their children, and theirs in turn. We leave behind their legacy, do we not?

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In the end, you will be uplifted!

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Enjoy what I hope will be a thought-provoking and entertaining read.

- GK

PART I

GENESIS

1

TECHNOLOGY & THE HEART

HORRIBLE NORMAL

TORONTO,

THE ONTARIOS

2178 AD

The year dragged him along with excruciating deliberation at a breakneck pace despite his self-imposed solitary confinement. SeeMore, also known as Daniel G. Morrissee in the real world, knew his head would explode at any moment. But if it didn’t…

His long-legged, long-sleeved undergarment was a snug fit not so long ago. Its legs ended in neat folds pinned closed, one just above the knee, one just below. SeeMore continued to lose weight, but that was the least of his concerns. His gift was killing him. While nobody cared how he looked, including him, had someone turned on the lights, his youthful but gaunt appearance would have shocked them. He couldn’t recall the last time he brushed his wild mop of black hair with just a hint of premature gray. Sitting half-reclined in stygian darkness didn’t help, nor did it matter.

His pittance of a corporate pension covered the rent of a shabby-chic apartment not much larger than most spacious walk-in closets. That pension, however, did not cover all the rental fees of three large travel cases stacked on the cluttered floor littered with interconnecting cables. Their open faces revealed panels of equipment whose status lights cast enough of a dim glow to remind him how small this dismal space would appear if any daylight could penetrate its windowless walls. Nevertheless, SeeMore’s tiny bunker in a marginal Toronto neighborhood remained his refuge, at least until next week’s rent came due. His apartment provided a roof, but his gear gave him purpose—a modicum of solace.

An incessant deluge drowned his senses twenty-four/seven, threatening to asphyxiate him. He stumbled through an impossible jungle—the tangled chaos of his own brilliant mind. At every turn, the destinies of so many others snared and strangled him. But he pressed on, even though the jungle grew ever more dense, wrought with escalating danger. SeeMore's sense of prescience bombarded him with visions of the near future—everyone’s future. His sanity fell prey to a precarious madness from one moment to the next, now growing worse by the day. He needed something to change soon before he surrendered.

But that was a silly passing indulgence, wasn’t it? Giving up was not his nature and he kicked that pity party to the curb even before its inception. His brilliant blue eyes pierced the darkness with twin beams of hope.

One thing became clear. He would swallow no more pills. Medders did not understand, and their prescriptions often caused more harm than good. Now he would trudge a different path. Somehow. At the moment, his sheer force of will allowed him to survive yet one more day.

Most of the time, SeeMore wore a shimmering prototype, a translucent undergarment with thousands of embedded nano-circuits and sensors. He had invented this next-generation InterFace Suit, or IFS. But that had taken a lot of help from the few friends he hadn’t yet alienated. He really needed a better name for the darn thing. Unlike other IFSs on the market, this suit felt like a comforting second skin and... Hey, maybe that would be a better name—Second Skin.

SeeMore's full-immersion suit and sensors comprised his portal to the CyberWorld, the c-dub, his online haven. In the c-dub, he walked on his own feet and legs. Actually, his avatar did. His handicap disappeared in the c-dub, unlike the RealWorld, the r-dub.

Plagued his entire life, each glimpse into the future, whether intentional or not, exacted an emotional and psychic toll when he used it in the r-dub. Often he physically weakened too. In the c-dub, however, that was not the case. He had no idea why, but he was grateful.

He needed to be more whole, more penalty-free—somewhere. Anywhere. Besides, the r-dub grew increasingly intolerable. There was an overflowing emptiness there that oozed into his every pore like a viral infection. That was okay, though, because the r-dub wasn't his home—just an inhospitable place he tolerated, a place he visited because he had no choice. That was still necessary. Occasionally.

Today’s test would challenge the torrent, yet another tsunami, of everyone else’s anxieties and cluttered debris—meaningless factoids—that threatened to drown him. Wave after breaking wave tried to sweep him away while he clung in desperation to the present moment in just his own thoughtstream. He gasped for a rescue breath, the next breath.

In a few minutes, for the first time, he would exercise his latest invention called a sensory filter—a tight piece of software, the development of which he’d been able to focus long enough to get to this point. There were so many intrusions. This SF would suppress the onslaught.

Please, God, it just has to work.

SeeMore sat alone in the dark in an odd-looking chair, his only chair. Time for the alpha test, ready or not. Driven from a madness that would trample him before his twenty-ninth birthday, just two weeks away, hope beckoned him, seduced him. Either he would reluctantly stumble across the very threshold of Hell from which there would be no return, or his escape from the creeping madness was at hand.

Now he might even reach the age of thirty—if this worked. But the noise and the confusion.

It would be so easy to…

No!

SeeMore’s IFS interacted with a suite of posterior-situated transducers—microscopic devices that both sent and received neurological impulses to and from a network—underneath his mop of unruly hair. Those transducers tapped into the cerebral cortex and amygdala regions of his brain by virtue of their proximity. Off the books, a sympathetic medder had implanted these subcutaneous nano-transducers with a series of injections over a year ago.He hoped to suppress his prescient impressions, this chaotic clutter. At least he hoped to control the degree to which they subjected him to their excruciating intensity. Or more accurately, firmware. This new software would be revolutionary… If…

As SeeMore prepared to activate this crucial test, he ensured his dead-man switches protected him. If the test went awry, letting go of either pressure trigger, one in each hand, killed the test instead of him. He would just return to his Hellish version of horrible normal.

All set.

Activate…

Nothing.

Disappointing.

Disheartening.

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Several interminable moments passed. Then a dense bank of noisy clouds parted the gloom. What was it? Shiny ribbons of new hope? His weary soul took a deep cleansing breath. Was this really more clarity than he’d experienced in his entire life?

The darn thing works! The boyish shout was his own, with a voice hoarse from lack of use. SeeMore sorted through the softness so foreign to him, trying to make sense of what had just happened, or to be precise, what had stopped happening. Except for the screaming and the shouting. He realized his own giddiness filled his db—his domestic bunker. Despite the discomfort, he hopped around on his seldom-used prosthetic limbs that he’d strapped on for this test, just in case.

He howled.

It works!…

Still bombarded by ambient chaos, the searing pain had subsided noticeably. Premonitions belonging to future moments of hundreds of his many neighbors, acquaintances, and a few friends still piled on top of one another behind his eyes. But the pain diminished to a duller barrage. Now even the drone of traffic outside his db eclipsed the pain.

Better! After further adjustment, with more that would still be needed, he rejoiced. A sense of release threatened to overwhelm him as waterfalls tumbled down his stubbled cheeks onto the front of his suit.

This will work.

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He sat for hours enjoying the ear-jangling tranquility as he contemplated his prospects for a now-survivable future. Focus was achievable with less pain. Suddenly he was certain of his sanity for the first time since the wars, at least as much as anyone’s. And with his new focus, he realized neglecting his hygiene served no useful purpose. With a wireless umbilical to the c-dub through his IFS, he clumped his way to the db’s bathroom on his spring-like prosthetics. For the first time, he noticed they looked like bouncing ‘C’s.

Bathroom. An artifact of twenty-first-century decor. Yet another perfunctory remnant of his r-dub life he’d discard given the choice. Hmmm… another design choice…

SeeMore celebrated with an elaborate little springy dance as he flushed those deplorable pills into oblivion—forever, he hoped. He peed—standing up—while he was there via an access port in his IFS. A return to his roots, but only a temporal trip. A new day, and now a life he had just upgraded with his SF upload. Transhumanism, indeed.

But, Have I now improved my lot, or made it more dangerous, or both? Blind and deaf in heavy traffic for the first time frightened him. The sound of his imagination without overwhelming stimulation gave rise to a new kind of ringing terror. And inspiration

SENSING MORE

TORONTO,

THE ONTARIOS

Thirteen months slipped aside. Daniel Morrissee—SeeMore—had launched his career as a successful entrepreneur in the c-dub. With his new company, UpLife, his innovative product line for online lifestyle enhancements became the talk of his explosive industry and a brilliant signpost for his generation.

Many lauded SeeMore’s personal genius and drive, comparing him to a historical figure named Steve Jobs, founder of a company called Apple Computers during the genesis of ultra-tech early in the twentieth century. He did not object to that comparison, although from reading that brilliant visionary’s history, he knew his own personality and ethics took a different path.

SeeMore possessed at least one distinct advantage over his emerging competition. He saw the future—at least for the next twenty or thirty minutes. He learned how to control and leverage this pivotal advantage in his business affairs, but not so much within the hermitage of his personal life. That wasn’t fair, although sometimes unavoidable, and the source of more than a few awkward moments.

During the last year, SeeMore discovered other pressies—those with prescient abilities. He figured since his sensory filter helped him so much, he'd help others. He located and recruited them via the feeds to test his SF and its derivatives with remarkable results.

Armed with these findings, he outsourced both to r-dub and c-dub designers par excellence, then personally marketed and sold his SF with his own line of premium suits. Some carried with them a sense of flair for safaris into the r-dub. His higher-end line offered revolutionary c-dub and r-dub integration features. From there, he developed more SFs and IFS models from customer feedback and from his own… intuition… with phenomenal success. Competitors joked, "SeeMore knows what his customers want before they do."

During his search for other pressies, he stumbled onto another fascinating fact. He located other troubled individuals like himself, but different. A lot of them. Some of his new acquaintances didn't tune into a general framework of the near future like him. Instead, they sensed the most private and unspoken thoughts of others in the present moment, and with painful precision. SeeMore worked with a few of these telepaths—tellies. He’d known a few before the wars, but had been isolated since. They reminded him of some old friends from Chicago who started him on his path of survival to this point. He would never forget Lamatte Foliére and Sierra Blade. If it weren’t for them…

So SeeMore developed an SF derivative that changed tellies’ lives no less remarkably than his own.

Like SeeMore, their burden became their gift, and once they survived believing they were insane or flawed, and leveraged one or more UpLife products, they flourished in their newfound freedom.

Sensory filters, elegant in their genius and simplicity, did nothing more than adjust a selected brain wave’s intensity. It canceled out certain cerebral activity with great efficiency and precision, in total safety. This was SeeMore’s Rosetta Stone—his key to deciphering the hieroglyphs of gifted minds.

UpLife’s offerings gained a devout following that grew by the day—by the minute—especially among the surprisingly large community of tellies and pressies of his generation, but among others as well.

Adjustability or customization of an SF designed for a particular purpose, coupled with the IFS for sustained use in the c-dub, and integrated with a client’s r-dub lifestyle? Trickier, but doable. For those who still insisted on spending time in the r-dub, he created suits and sensors for use everywhere, even under street clothes.

SeeMore, UpLife’s CEO, struggled to understand why anyone would spend any more time in the ugly r-dub than necessary, but some customers still wanted that. He obliged their desires.

The wearer might attempt to sustain her c-dub and r-dub consciousness at the same time; although he discouraged this practice for obvious reasons. SeeMore advocated one or the other at a time, not both.

The extraordinary comfort of SeeMore's suits made wearing and using them long-term, even when not in active use, a practical and normal choice. That single factor made UpLife’s suits a huge winner in an emerging market.

Since SFs filtered brainwaves, adjusting them with ease topped the list of requirements… say, with the user’s simple but focused intent.

SeeMore deserved to be ecstatic. So did his swelling flock of delighted clients, especially other tellies and pressies. He now spent most of his time in the c-dub where both his business and his emerging personal life flourished.

While he found the work rewarding, its escalating demands overtook him. Even given his intense drive and thousands of bots that automated simpler tasks, he needed help. It was time to ask.

---

During testing of the tellie SF, SeeMore met Mystery Fillebrax, an enigmatic telepath who was painfully aware of her special abilities, but unable to manage them.

She preferred to be called Mysty Brass—half the number of syllables, easier to remember, saddled less by the stigma of her parents’ sense of drama… She much preferred her online persona.

As soon as she and SeeMore connected, he sensed an attractive future for their relationship, and she respected what she saw in the present.

Mysty found SeeMore to be a man of integrity, but there was something else.

She wasn't sure how she could ever repay him for transforming her life. Mysty migrated from an unbearable existence to a productive and irresistible élan with SeeMore’s revolutionary tellie SF, and with SeeMore himself. She enjoyed working with him to develop that innovation—to develop herself—even though they had yet to meet in the r-dub.

Besides, she needed to change her employment. When SeeMore offered her a permanent position, she pounced on the opportunity to help other people—as SeeMore had helped her.

UpLife doubled in size.

There’s so much we can do, should do…

She loved SeeMore’s optimism, even as it was laced with his bashful doubt, but she didn’t need to hear the words, not even his adorable unfinished sentences as he migrated from spoken word to obvious thought.

They—their avatars, that is—sat in soft chairs pretending to be business-like while back in the r-dub, the real world, each sat in the dark in two different cities. UpLife’s opulent c-dub conference room oozed with an intimate ambiance, though far too spacious for just the two of them. The room featured one wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. Both boss and already-trusted minion gazed at a shiny sky over a roughly manicured space three floors below. The park comprised a loose canvas of meandering paths. SeeMore had carved out little time to code more detail thus far.

As she cast her analytical eye out that window, it occurred to her she looked down upon more green than most major metropolitan areas in the r-dub. Mysty loved watching folks stroll through that simple park. She found herself amazed that some wore masks, superfluous here. Were they so used to them even as an unnecessary habit in the c-dub, or perhaps as a fashion statement? After all, there was no air here, depleted, polluted, infected, or otherwise.

I’m excited too, SeeMore. I have several thoughts on how to make SFs easier to adjust and calibrate.

I know.

She saw in her mind’s eye he’d learned as a child that most of his friends found that phrase intimidating… off-putting. Sorry. Old habit. I like your sense of style on this. Immediate changes to an SF’s parameters based on mood or social context? Good stuff. But let’s be careful to ensure those changes aren’t too automatic. We always want our clients to be in control.

Mysty smiled, chagrinned by the irony. She did find it disconcerting that SeeMore predicted her thoughts from within her own blind spot, as he spoke her own words coupled with his analysis of them, while speaking of being in control. But she trusted his intentions, spoken or not; although she wasn’t sure why. This foreign concept of trust assaulted her as she made every attempt to respect his privacy. The tellie SF almost made that possible. At least now she could choose.

---

He didn’t mind when she sensed his moods and read his thoughts. Here, unlike the toll taken for reaching outside their own time or minds in the r-dub, it didn’t hurt either of them. Not in the c-dub. They smiled and shared that idea. Neither of them cared to hide anything—two books sharing many of the same words, even drafting new chapters together. Sometimes, they questioned who had originated an idea or which conclusive thought in response.

But there was something more, unexplored—unspoken and assumed forbidden—or awkward, to be avoided, at least for now.

SeeMore, SFs are an amazing concept. We could do more. A lot more.

You mean, optimizing in addition to filtering?

Oh crap, I’m doing it again, but he continued anyway. "I’ve been considering that too, and it seems we're about to trip across more than a few ethical boundaries. If we tread with care, though, I see the same opportunities. Mood enhancement. Mood projection. I like where this is going. At least some of it."

He found himself trying hard not to gaze at the endless billows of her auburn hair that framed the ski slope of her rather bold neck line—porcelain with a pink tinge. Not beautiful… interesting. She’d obviously put a lot of thought into her avatar’s appearance. Captivating.

Their dialogue, sparse with words, relaxed and open, despite SeeMore’s slightly apprehensive demeanor… if someone less perceptive were listening, they might ask, What am I missing?

SeeMore seemed intent on the use of words, however, to render precise what he sometimes only perceived as general vectors. Mysty’s vision, though, gave her the edge with precision for which she harbored some embarrassment.

He explained. He needed no special gifts to read her expression.

Look, Mysty, some words between us may seem superfluous but necessary, at least for me.

SeeMore, we need never speak of this again. I’ve known you for, what, five weeks now? We already share more than most with few words. I treasure that. It’s who we are, and represents what we already mean to each other.

At this, she blushed. Her eyes darted toward her feet as she nibbled at the forbidden fruit: there were no secrets. Her lower lip trembled as she pressed on, her avatar’s fingers silently tapping the tops of her thighs under the table.

"But we should not be self-conscious about using words even if they're not needed. Especially when we both need a precise meaning. Okay?"

Thanks, Myst. SeeMore thought, Who is this woman? She launched another coy smile. Her fingers stopped tapping and relaxed.

Back to business, he continued. At any rate, what else do you have in mind?

"Well, it’s now easy enough to attenuate the incoming stream of other people’s thoughts and impressions. Instead, what if we amplified or reinforced certain patterns instead of just suppressing them? To enhance a client’s ability to perceive themselves somewhat differently, or even to project certain impressions into others’ streams of consciousness. For example, I can imagine a user might like to become more sensitive to the emotions of others if that’s not one of her natural tendencies.

He leveraged where she was taking them. Or what about the client with poor reaction time? What if we were to heighten her situational awareness to allow a faster response to immediate danger? Or even to enhance how she’s perceived in the minds of others?

Mysty said, How about the ability to juice the client with a hot shot of O2 from his mask via his suit’s physiology logic? He'd define when that would be important from within his configuration settings. Like a brain food tickler, or an antidote to an adrenaline hangover. Anyway, there are likely lots of others.

SeeMore delighted in this discussion. He had not snagged all those details on his own, now not sure who had come up with what, exactly.

Wow. Good stuff.

Hey, my life improved overnight, as soon as I had access to your SF.

SeeMore reminded Mysty, "Our SF."

She blushed at hearing the word our spoken out loud by her… boss.

Yes, well, why not exploit this technology for all of our clients in as many ways as we’re able?

SeeMore said, "I need to make some decisions regarding this idea of projection though. A dubious concept, at least at first blush. I can see we might pull our clients over a gray line, of their ethical standards—and ours. But enhancing someone’s awareness and perception? Likely a lot of work breaking new ground. Let’s go for it. We’ll need more help, Myst. He smiled. She knew. Helping others? Sure, but why not fatten their coffers in the process? But he worried about how much more crypto they’d require for this expansion.

That smile again. For more than one reason? So obvious to each other, yet neither would admit…

OLD FRIENDS

OLD WASHINGTON,

MARYGINIA

Scars sang to Murph Hardin, always sensitive and stretched; especially the big purplish ones, but he didn’t mind. In fact, his collection of scars were his best friends, his only friends. They said a lot about him, and to him. Burns carved smooth scars. Self-inflicted stitches could be pebbly, but his gravelly road rash would snag silk—not that he ever wore silk.

Rips, slits, and punctures—old wounds—each sang its own ballad; each told its own story. Emotional scars, however, left murky smudges that defied clarity.

He drove everywhere, even when roads and trails got rough—wimps and have-nots walked. Sometimes the hunt required a hike, but he never really drove or walked. Murph prowled. He fancied himself an apex predator, not of just one world, but of two. He smiled. Yeah, he liked that. His prey never saw him coming because they’d peer right through him.

Murph didn’t assassinate. He exterminated—sub-humans, freaks of nature—no emotion, just results, and he never failed. No arrogance, just fact. Old for his age, Murph continued to polish his craft. As a boy, life dealt him rough hands, but he cheated the deal in his favor the three decades since. Tonight would be no exception—he’d done his homework. He tracked his quarry through this smelly patch of urban jungle. Although it didn’t leave many tracks, Murph picked up its scent. Whenever his quarry drew near, one of his scars sang to him. A violent confrontation involving a rotating power tool erased several layers of skin from the back of his left shoulder eight years earlier. That cheese grater scar now tingled like a sweaty shiver in a sub-zero gale. It was close.

This mongrel didn’t venture out of its r-dub hole much, but when it did, his sources never spotted it far from the alley near the dim glow of a bodega down the street. He remained coiled and ready to spring from the shadows.

As he sloshed across the street—the gutters in this hill neighborhood always flooded near crumbling curbs—he sidestepped the occasional pools of pale yellow cast by a half-dozen green and rusty street lamps between him and his quarry.

Murph loved these old twentieth-century neighborhoods. This one survived urban renewal and sub-human blight in what used to be called the District of Columbia before the rising sea permanently flooded half of the city.

This might have been any neighborhood in any United Westican metro area or regionplex. Disintegrating gutters and sinkholes weren’t repaired here because nobody cared. Most just moved across the swollen river onto the higher ground of New Wash.

Spiraling tangles of corroded razor wire sagged from their intended perches atop chain-link fences now more brown than gray. He wondered if the windswept trash that swirled around the sodden garbage piled everywhere was the stuff of lazy street cleaners. Or were they afraid to come down here? Probably both, if any still worked this area at all.

Where he could, he stepped over the half-submerged human detritus in salty sewer water, snagged like drowned flies in a wet web. Murph delighted in such reflections of dread and neglect.

This narrow street meandered its way through a canyon of dilapidated buildings where busted-out windows out-numbered boarded-up holes. The effect reminded him of knocked-out teeth from an over-the-hill cage fighter’s grin.

Little of the hazy sun’s rays penetrated this plasticrete labyrinth even during the day. But that was okay since the dark and the dirt welcomed him, day or night.

There it was! At that moment, he relished a brief but all-consuming shudder of anticipation as he spotted his quarry. Every time was like the first. His road rash sang to him.

When he took her, he would ensure moist and smelly and sticky. He loved this because he felt… almighty. The pungent scent and acrid taste from the hunted about to be conquered? He could imagine nothing sweeter.

Murph chose a shuffling trajectory to intercept hers near the stygian maw of her alley next to the bodega and its inviting glow—a beacon of hope, even normalcy. He became one of the locals despite his incongruous clothing. That didn’t matter though because invisibility already cloaked him and she was just an arm’s length away now.

He would have towered over her if not for his limping slouch. Both of them bathed in the bodega’s illumination, but his demeanor broadcast complete surrender as he approached.

He knew she’d be purring with sympathy for him. He’d done his homework. Murph offered up a boyish smile from behind his four-day-old stubble as if embarrassed to ask a simple favor.

Excuse me, lady. Can you…?

He maneuvered them two steps to her left and forward with a gentle hand resting on her bird-wing elbow, from the edge of light into a dark embrace. And then time slowed.

He refused to admit to orgasms at such moments, but a happy ending for Murph came at the very moment of penetration. With an aggressive but passionate motion, he angled deeper into her and continued thrusting, now probing with reckless abandon.

Hahhhhhhh… She must have just taken a breath as if to speak, maybe to plead. With her open mouth a fraction of an inch away from his, her long slow exhale hinted of something organic and digested, announcing she no longer needed… anything. He had fulfilled her. She now seemed resigned to his continued thrusts, each deeper than the last. She gazed up into his obsidian eyes cast in the dim shadow of a strong brow in the darkness.

The wonder of it all.

The anti-spark.

I am not cruel, just efficient. Besides, these sub-human freaks don’t deserve my emotional pain—only my pleasure.

He enjoyed her slippery skin pressed against his, both made slick by seepage, her discharge steamy in the embrace of that clammy night.

Murph judged the evening a success. She didn’t move. Still in their intimate embrace, with flared nostrils and slightly yellowed teeth bared in delight under his predominant beetled brow, he hungrily drew in the pungent odor of her urine and feces as he withdrew. A languid motion of satisfaction and release—at least for him. For her, no choice remained.

Now he couldn’t wait to clean up. The freak’s blood dripped from both his hands and forearms like warm syrup, as well as from the seven inch flat-black blade of his reliable dagger. Between his sticky left thumb and forefinger, he wiped it on her bodice. The thrill had passed—already. One less sub in the world.

He reflected as if composing a critique—a single-handed twisting upward thrust would have sufficed for this bony little mongrel, but two hands? Better; more intimate; more deeply fulfilling.

Next.

PALE ORB

EARTH,

MILKY WAY

They had watched. For millennia. And not just here. These ancients sometimes did more than watch. Two in particular, though nameless, took to calling themselves Baine and Boone. They pitted their wits against one another. Each had their motivations, but neither fully understood the other.

They both stared at a tiny greenish-blue orb nested in the dark. Trimmed with a broken halo of spotty off-white froth, its growing fragility hinted at an egregious lack of balance. The composition had long ago skidded off-color.

Such robust complexity in something so small suffered from a systemic virus and approached a precipice.

Baine thought, Finally!

Boone thought, So soon?

They detected a stench that conveyed a malodorous despair. Some breathable air still hung around the gritty speck its self-inflated inhabitants called Earth. Boone knew everything would soon change again, as it must, for the young ones down there. But would it be for the better even though she knew it would still get worse?

All will depend on the young ones. Maybe with a little help.

2

ON THE MOVE

SCURRY FOR SHELTER

NEW WASH,

MARYGINIA

Pedestrians scurried from one overhang to another like cockroaches startled by a harsh light.

The muddy sky threatened its worst, as usual. Sometimes it delivered on its threats, but occasionally it lightened to a translucent slate-gray after a corrosive cleansing by another bout of noxious acidic mist. The difference between day and night? Not much more than a vague impression.

Industry titans remained kings, and it seemed most gave up caring about anything other than their bottom line, and that their mask oxygen supply functioned—if forced to venture out. In fact, no sane person of any means got caught in the open without their mask feeding them on-demand oxygen—O2—with whatever purity they could afford, especially in New Wash and the other metroplexes or regionplexes.

A naked face out in the open for more than a few minutes painted a sign in two primary colors: ignorance and impermanence.

The elite wore elaborate masks and goggles whenever it became necessary to venture out. The majority wore simple unadorned masks as a matter of survival. And goggles were costly. Masks worn by more affluent citizens incorporated twin mini-pucks. But each trickled only enough mask O2 to prevent hypoxia. A one-day supply of O2 could feed a famished family of three for a week. Twin O2 cheeks represented a prestigious fashion statement. They were called tricklers.

The privileged few simply stayed put, at least within the major population centers. For them, windowless buildings rich with amenities were the norm, and limousine transports featured manicured air when circumstances mandated travel. Even then, travelers most often only boarded their limos in subterranean garages or lofty parking bays curtained off from street air. Most folks subscribed to costly O2 mask services. Some distilled their own, but that required rare homemade equipment that was hard to find.

Mangled macadam littered the streets. Clogged storm drains and apathy were harder to avoid than the ragged remnants of humanity. Personal safety was less of an issue than a few years ago, so most clung to the cities, although the few remaining less densely populated haunts were almost as bad. Some risked rural areas where less toxic air trumped a more chaotic rule of policy.

Everyone sought sanctuary.

ROGUE’S GALLERY

FORBIDDEN NEIGHBORHOOD

THE C-DUB

Another year passed, and both the r-dub and the c-dub changed—again.

Norm Adare preferred to be called Dare. He had experienced an autonomous disconnect earlier that afternoon. Despite that, even though it sounded like a bad thing, he felt wonderful. Well, good, anyway. Sort of. Until yesterday, he was a normal teenager haunting the halls of UpLife. Then everything went wrong. He distressed and displeased his boss, SeeMore, and he thought he understood why. One thing was for sure though—SeeMore wanted to talk. Dare didn't. SeeMore would try to talk him into returning. That was not going to happen. He had tasted freedom, at last. Anything less? No.

People had been telling Dare what to do his entire life. It made him sick, but he would put up with it no more. Despite the advice of his boss, friend, and mentor of three months—an eternity—Norm ran. Now he found it hard to breathe. And it wasn’t the air because there wasn’t any air in the c-dub, was there?

He enjoyed his job at UpLife, but the whole package smothered him, so he walked out. No, he ran out of the building. He wasn’t sure where to run, but run he had until his clothes were drenched. Sweat—a superfluous affectation, an enhancement he tested. He wouldn’t know first hand why or why not, but clients actually paid so their avatars could sweat!

Lost but exhilarated, for the first time, he had decided to do something. Anything of his own accord. Now he holed up in a crappy space on the ground floor of a dilapidated building with nowhere to go. This place looked like a left-over from a zombie warfare game, deteriorating and abandoned.

He’d never smelled anything like this place. Then he realized that was because there was no odor at all. Another virgin experience. He wasn’t even sure how he got here; although he recognized it was a quarantined neighborhood. They branded places like this high-risk and forbidden. Maybe that’s why he found this place appealing, little more than remnants of the old online gaming days. Rudimentary wire-frame scaffolding—green grid-work on a field of black—because black was easy to code—brought memories of ancient vids he'd seen on historical game construction.

Some spotty areas were nothing more than the absence of light or form scattered among areas with rudimentary definition, lots of right angles because they too were easiest back in the day. This place looked like a half-finished movie set—two dimensional, a lot of emptiness, like him.

A few old-timers still hung out here. Most seemed harmless and ill-conceived, pixelated avatars, some weird, some oversized, all ill-defined. Smaller ones scurried with no discernible purpose or pattern, like gauzy imitations of life, but with no intrinsic purpose. Leftovers.

He avoided the nasty bits of code floating around called stingers. If they latched on, like stick-a-burrs, they'd infect him with, well, he had no idea what. But, he’d be careful, and now he was more than a little scared. He’d deal with that, too.

Oddly enough, he found the potential danger exhilarating. Whatever he decided next could mean life or death. He was unsure of what to do next. Like unfinished code, a miniature black hole drew him in. Dare just learned that afternoon that he was a CO, a Cyber Onliner, nothing more than a software construct in the c-dub—he wasn’t even human! How could that be?

And then… there he was.

How d'you find me?

SeeMore reminded his mentee he knew everything. Dare observed SeeMore walking toward him tentatively as he made his way deeper into the expansive room. Diffuse violet and yellow light seeped in through narrow windows high on the walls of this cavernous space, caked with dirt, or something nastier, reflecting off Dare’s hairless scalp.

Dare hunched on the floor near a far corner, a frightened animal. His huge dark eyes stared in a silent scream of desperation. If he’d had eyebrows, they’d have arched upward, wrinkling his tight, smooth forehead.

"Dare, look, you’re impatient to get on with your life. I get that. Can we talk for a while?

Nothing to talk about, man. I want out.

Out of what? You’re still learning about life. It can be hard. But that’s how it works. You didn’t mean to hurt anyone, right? We’ll get through this.

"No, we won’t. Listen, SeeMore, you tried to help me. But there’s no other option for me now. I gotta go my own way. That’s it. Thanks anyway. You’re the