He reboots my visual systems. He’s younger than I thought he’d be. As more bands of the spectrum come up, I see that he’s had a lot of work done. Way more than me. Way more than anyone I’ve seen before.
He’s well crafted. Most of him looks perfectly human. Except for that arm. I can’t stop looking at it. It’s not crude, like military enhancements. It’s a sculpted work of art- chromed angles and knotted steel muscles.
Audio comes next. He puts the stylus down. “Sorry about the shutdown. You were about to enter your Omega Seven state.”
The smoke clears and the explosions stop. I’m still standing and they aren’t.
I’m about to pursue the other half of the squad when I get the stand down order. “We’ve got it covered,” I hear on the Secret Service frequency.
I walk to the gate where I’m met by my new partners. Both of them are sporting some heavy mech.
“Agent James Yona, reporting for duty, sir.” The Rush is fading, enough for me to deal with conversation again.
“At ease. I’m agent Tovar, this is Agent Vasquez. You all right?
“Looks that way. Were you expecting company?”
Most guys hate the lab. Not me. They hate the lectures, the updates, the endless tinkering. I like to show off.
When someone says to me “Hey, what have you been doing with your imaging links?” or “This ware was never meant to work under these conditions!” it’s a compliment. Officially, they have to disapprove. Secretly, they like it. They just want to see what’s cool and what’s next like anyone else.
His actual title is “Resource Liaison.” Parole officer is a more accurate term. Since more than 40% of me is enhanced prosthetic or combat tech, I’m government property. Subject to recall and deployment at any time.
Sometimes I wonder if there was a debate over the 40% demarcation, or whether it was just slipped in a bill that no one read.
I remember my grandmother. Sitting on those hard, wooden kitchen chairs... or was it a bench? I can’t remember.
Her hair was long and black. She never smiled. Later someone would say it was just an “injun thing.”
She’d work in the kitchen. She was always in the kitchen, cooking meals for the procession of men who walked through. Some of them uncles, some of them uncle’s friends. Some of them... who knows?
She’d always talk. Sometimes one of the guys would want to put some music on.
“Stop that noise,” she’d say.
By Bryan White
Flight By Bsonk
“So, what did you call me over here for?”
“I’ve done it! Finally It’s finished!” He was a tall man, with childlike energy, who bounced all over the room with his exuberance. He wore threadbare clothes, with thick glasses and a white coat, and he had a cap over his disheveled hair. He was the picture of a garage mad scientist, and we were in his lair.
'For the Love of a Woman' is pretty close to final draft. I am opening it up for commentary here before doing the final polish rewrite.
. . .
He barged into my office without even knocking, the door bouncing off a bookcase and rebounding hard enough to send him staggering for a second. Startled, I jumped out of my seat and spun to face skinny, balding little Michael Swanson, as angry as I have ever seen a man get.
“You did it to Joseph! Didn’t you?”
'The Seed' is a short story I wrote a long time ago and published on the web last year, basically to serve as commentary in a blog discussion of God and the Singularity.
. . .
April showers bring May flowers; sometimes they bring darker things as well...