Justin Pickard

F3: ‘Welcome to the Umweltzone’

This is the next layer of The Terminal. Very much unfinished, but – since I need lunch – I’ll post the second half next week. And then there’s at least one more piece to come – I really like the characters, so it could easily end up being more.

WELCOME TO THE UMWELTZONE

Pedal to the floor, I race through the liquid mist of post-industrial Berlin. Even in the twilight, silver and green dominate. A world of infinitely customisable architecture – modular units and wind turbines; turf and steel. This side of the wall, Berlin’s heritage was papered over and trampled underfoot. Preservation and conservation were thrown aside; surplus to the orgy of market-humping and wide-eyed commerce. Thirty years later, and this part of the capital is home to a thousand small business enterprises, buoyed by EU subsidies and staffed with caffeine-fuelled graduates of every stripe. Welcome to the Umweltzone.

The Nissan chatters away, exchanging data with Galileo and the other cars and lorries on the German A-roads. Yesterday, it was a hire vehicle; a bullet point on the expenses of the Brazilian account. Today, it’s utterly convinced of its role as an Interflora delivery van, bearing a cargo of vacuum-packed dwarf orchids.

I call it the lunchbox.

It’s monitoring traffic density, ethanol use, meteorological patterns, and the humidity of the simulated orchids. Apparently, I’m entering a pocket of unusually low pressure, part of a diffuse ribbon of bisecting the continent from Stockholm to Nice.

Luckily, the lunchbox isn’t capable of monitoring the integrity of its own information systems. Thanks to Simon, an adjusted p2p nav system is narrowing in on the physical location of our target. Now, we’re just waiting for her to make an appearance in the terminal.

“Is she there yet?” I ask, flicking my eyes to the dashboard chronometer. “It’s another hundred before the lunchbox is in range. At least.”

Allowing for speech/text conversion and a five second lag, I await his answer. My stomach is a knot of elastic bands.

“Not yet. Wish you could this place, Red; it’s bizarre.” The words belong to Simon, but the voice is provided by the vehicle. Distracted by the peculiarities of my own journey, I marvel at the temple to the railway, a great glass box which passes on my right.

Then, the voice of a woman; “What do you think?” With no obvious point of origin, the question fills me with raw panic.

“Stunning.” It takes a moment for me to realise that this response wasn’t me, but belonged to the diver. Definitely Simon; enthusiastic, with the occasional slip signalling his Mancunian origins. Which means … the woman was Rosanna; our target. Her voice sounds a little older than I’d been expecting, but – hell – at least she’s made an appearance.

Relaxing into the seat, I passively stare as the lunchbox indicates right, turning towards Alexanderplatz.

“And I’m on. You ready?” The artificial voice sounds peculiarly urgent. I have to remind myself that it’s a quirk of programming, nothing more. Outside, the square allows an unhindered glimpse of the city skyline, as punctured by the garish lights of a brutal spire; a lingering monster, born of the twentieth century. But the nav says we’re still out of range. Where is she?

“Think I can see the television tower. Give me a little longer?” I hazard, listening to the fawning and simpering of Simon and our target. She sounds younger than I’d been imagining.

Then the lunchbox is turning. A sharp lurch to the right, and the tower recedes into the ashen haze. Looking at the chronometer, I bite my lip. The elastic bands are back, and they brought friends. I can feel the droplets of sweat glistening on my forehead; should have packed the sweatband.

In the background, I’m forced to listen to Simon’s attempts at flirting. It’s excruciating. Frankly, if it wasn’t what I was paying him for, I’d probably have vomited by now.

But when the p2p nav starts blinking, my misgivings evaporate. A reverse-engineering of the girl’s connection protocol finally yields a physical location – Landsberger Allee; a converted hostel, right on top of the railway station.

“Think I’ve found the vats.”

This work is licenced under a Creative Commons Licence.

Mystery on Fifth Avenue

From the New York Times;

Indeed, as Ms. Sherry and Mr. Clough told their tale, this reporter had to ask Ms. Sherry if she ever questioned her architect’s sanity. “Yes,” she replied cheerfully.

Architecture + Pervasive Gaming = Genius.

F3: ‘The Terminal’

Now, I’m not quite sure if this is flash (it’s just over 1000 words), or the opening chapter of something a bit longer. I’ve got some vague ideas of what might happen next.

As ever, crit and comments more than welcome.

THE TERMINAL

Open to the void, the terminal’s absent ceiling is unnerves and unsettles. I’m sitting on the main steps, running my hands over the simulated marble – the texture is right, but the lack of heat data compounds my discomfort.

(20:25:05) RED: Is she there yet? I need another 100 to get the lunchbox into range. At least.

Yanking my attention back from the void, my pupils dart from left to right, picking letters on an invisible keyboard. With a blink, the message is sent.

(20:25:43) Diver: Not yet. Wish you could see this place, Red; it’s bizarre.

In the silence, the clattering of a mechanical departures sign. I turn my head, expecting movement, but there’s nothing. A foolish expectation, particularly taken in the light of the environment’s lack of roof.

“So, what do you think?”

Grace wears a charcoal skirt and matching jacket. Her hair is a mass of tightly wound fronds, the colour of burnt cherry. The only colour in this place, in fact. Grayscale elegance in a haptic mausoleum.

But everyone has their quirks, and my paycheck relies on my willingness to accommodate hers.

(20:27:21) Diver: And I’m on. You ready?

“Stunning.” I say, tipping my trilby. Nice touch; another of Red’s recommendations.

(20:27:40) RED: Think I can see the TV tower. Give me a little longer?

Returning the smile, Grace looks down. “Not me, Perry; the terminal.”

“I know.”

Silence; a window long enough to let my words sink in, but not enough to pass the baton of conversation.

“I was particularly impressed by the-”

(20:29:01) RED: Ha! Think I’ve found the vats.

Red’s comment is the push which topples the tower. Distracted by the floating text, my thoughts dissolve to dust. Grace leans in, touching me gently. The skin texture is real enough, but – as with the marble – the absence of body heat highlights the illusion.

“You okay, Perry?”

I shudder, hoping to dislodge the spectral presence. Or, at the very least, willing Red to stay silent.

“I’m fine.” Standing, I turn to gesture at the monochrome cavern. “Tell me more about this place.”

“Well,” Grace begins, pursing her lips, “Most of the mesh was a favour from this Swedish guy from college. In the year before the crash, he was part of some open source survey of famous sites and spaces. One of those geospatial things.”

I tilt my head sceptically.

“And what about the textures? The sounds? The lighting?”

“Added afterwards. I’ve got a good team working on this. We’re dragging it through beta at the moment – polishing, and plugging the gaps with archive photos and video footage. Right now, there’s a Canadian artist rendering the last of the roof.” Glancing over at the terminal clock, she allows a moment of silence. “Well, perhaps not right now.”

She smiles. Suddenly, I’m extremely aware of the ungrounded artifice of the pinstripe and trilby. I’m not supposed to be here. She’s going to find out, kick me back to the surface, and I’ll watch as the sister’s promises of cash evaporate.

(20:32:15) RED: Keep her talking. I’m trying to kick out the cameras; it shouldn’t take long.

“And what then?” I ask, frowning slightly.

“Well, once testing finishes, we’re hoping to turn it loose on the vintage crowd.”

Her face softens into another smile, triggering a faint pang of guilt. I stand, and walk over to her. Suppressing the niggles of uncertainty, I attempt to inject some amusement into my voice.

“Which explains the clothing.” I say, raising an eyebrow.

“Exactly.” She clasps my hand in hers. “Thanks for coming, Perry. It really means a lot to me.”

(20:34:58) Diver: Shit. Remind me why we’re doing this, Red.

“But you barely know me.” I say, dismissively.

We both listen to the mechanical clattering of the non-existent departures board, giving a dimension to the silence between thoughts.

(20:35:21) RED: A pile of cash? A way of ensuring the long-term mental health of a deeply unstable woman? You tell me.

Rhetorical questions aren’t supposed to have answers, and this revelation is a fist in the stomach.

“A deeply unstable woman?” Red’s words escape my clenched molars. “You didn’t think to tell me that much, did you?”

And then, quiet as a whisper; “She doesn’t seem particularly unstable.”

It takes a couple of moments for my actions to percolate the surface of my monochrome, simulated skull, birthing a moment of pure terror. Her smile hardening, Grace asks who I was talking to. I try to remain nonchalant.

“I didn’t … I mean, I wasn’t-”

She sighs.

“It’s okay, Perry, I think know why you’re here.”

“You do?”

Grace folds her arms.

“And here’s what’s going to happen next; I’m going to ask you to leave.”

“What? Why?”

Back in the vat, my heart and stomach strain against my chest.

(20:37:32) RED: Damnit, Simon, can you hold her a bit longer? I’m almost there.

“You’re going to walk out of that big door over there” – she gestures at the terminal’s main entrance, also opening onto the void, “And, you know what?”

“What?”

(20:37:49) Diver: How? Suggestions would be useful!

“I’ve had enough of your type, Perry – assuming that’s even your real name. You’re going to stay out of my life.”

Anticipating a response from Red, I stay silent. Grace looks at me with determined eyes. Gradually, the initial punch of ventricle-blowing panic dissipates. Screw Red; it’s time for the truth.

“Did you hear-?”

I raise an index finger to my lips, and the question dies in her throat.

“Well, you’re right on one thing, girl; Perry is no more my name than Grace is yours.”

She does a good impression of confusion.

“What the hell do you think you’re talking about?”

“Grace is a pseudonym. What happened to Rosanna Garcia, second in line to the Garcia ethanol fortune? Do me a favour, Rosanna, and look around you-”

I gesture at the gaping darkness.

“How can this be escapism? Without colour, without warmth, this can only be a pale emulation of the real. And the real wants you back, Rosanna. Your sister’s in the real, in Manaus, and she wants you back.”

“Really, I don’t know what you’re talking about-”

On my part, a split-second of doubt.

“… my name is Grace, and-”

(20:39:07) RED: And we’re done. Now, let’s get the hell out of here.

And with Red’s final comments, Grace is expelled from the terminal.

This work is licenced under a Creative Commons Licence.

Space monkey robot thought control!

Having written a brief summary of contemporary developments in monkey robot thought control for Futurismic, I was amused & intrigued by Geoff Manaugh’s attempt to link the monkey cyborgs with the Phoenix Mars Lander;

[W]hile I know that these stories are not connected, putting them together is like something from a Thomas Pynchon novel: monkeys locked in a room somewhere, controlling the arms of machines on other planets.

As if we might discover, at the end of the day, that NASA wasn’t a human organization at all – it was a bunch of rhesus monkeys locked in a lab somewhere, enthroned amidst wires and brain-caps, like some new sign of the Tarot, lost in private visions of machines on alien worlds. An experiment gone awry.

Their “dreams” at night are actually video feeds from probes moving through outer darkness.

Now, why does this make me think of typewriters?