Friday, for serious.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
What is this "sleep" of which you speak?
Everything is in order, continuity is established, and like three typos were fixed. Seriously, I scoured the whole thing in the last like twelve hours and it's all good. Now I just have to register at Create Space and upload! Oh, and the cover, too. And dedication, acknowledgments, about the author, etc.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Update!
So I didn't hear anything from the NaNoWriMo people about what I got for winning this year. But then Rhodopsin picked up Borderlands (which is a sweet game, despite the fact that it's side-by-side split screen and Modern Warfare 2 controls - and you can't fucking change either of those things! Dammit!), and Silver Garou & I have been working on getting the achievements to unlock the ODST armor for our internet avatars (because unlocking sweet gear for your internet persona by playing games is like the best marketing gimmick EVAR). What does this mean? It means that D becomes very lazy. I managed to write enough to cover the Riley Williams segment just in case I wound up wanting to remove it, but other than that, I haven't worked on The Quantum Mechanic since the 30th.
But then I got an e-mail at like 9 pm last night stating that we winners do get a free proof copy, and since I want to get this ready in time for Christmas shipping, everything else is on hold until I've got that all ready. Just so y'all know.
By the way, "in time for Christmas shipping" means Friday. Like, this Friday. So I'ma get crackin'!
Saturday, December 5, 2009
101 Interesting Things, part thirty-six: Cordyceps, scourge of the jungle!
Cordyceps is one of my favorite kinds of parasite: a zombie parasite! That is, a biological zombie parasite, not a memetic zombie parasite (religion, nationalism, etc.). What do I mean by "zombie parasite?" I mean a parasite that overwhelmingly alters the behavior of the host, like rabies (which makes its host restless, vicious, and thirsty), in a way that makes it dramatically more likely to cause the parasite to spread. The common cold, influenza, ebola, these just straight up kill you (or get killed) and it's a pretty boring fight. But zombie parasites make you do things that you could imagine the parasite straight up asking you to do, and you say "Yes." Just like religion!
Seriously: so awesome. But don't ever mutate! You can click on any of those "source" links for bigger (and more!) images, and you can also go here for even more shots. Great stuff!
Check this out:
Footage from Planet Earth.
Cordyceps is a real monster, albeit a beautiful one. It can make floor-dwelling ants, which would normally spend their entire lives on or beneath the ground, climb. And it looks cool, too! Check out some of these sweet photos:Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Cross-Post: The Man with the Bag
My mom was fretting about there not being enough money this year for all the Christmas miracles she'd like to have happen. I tried to comfort her, so I asked what made Christmas magical in her youth, expecting that she'd reflect on things like family togetherness, a few nice surprises, and the hoopla of celebration; instead, she looked me in the eye and sadly said, "Santa," as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. My first thought was, "You child," but then I realized that calling her out on this would do no good, so I tried to constructively point out what really made Christmases good for her: the actual good things.
Anyway, the Santa Claus lie (and misinformation with intent to deceive is lying, no matter what your intentions are) is still being perpetrated upon my youngest siblings, so here's this.Sometimes I feel like I'm the only one in my family who doesn't think it's OK to believe something false because it makes you happy. There are only two situations where we do this: the "Bunny, Tooth and Claus" trinity, and religion. My parents have asked me to keep mum once again about Santa Claus, insisting on perpetuating the myth in young E’s mind. I assured them that I would maintain my position of evasive neutrality – really, it would only do more harm than good at this point, and he’ll soon figure it out for himself, anyway. Plus, he’s not even my kid. After that, C’s practically in the bag. Next on the hit list: the Easter Bunny, and then the Tooth Fairy!
I want to take a minute to clarify something, though, lest it go misunderstood: I love winter festivities. Sure, a few people turn into raging dick-bags when discussing the proper etiquette of how to greet someone, and fuck the haters (I say “Happy Holidays” a lot because I don’t really identify with the religious reasons behind any of them and therefore don’t really wish well for any holy day in particular, but if someone wishes me Merry Christmas or Happy Chanukkah, I’m content to interpret that as a wish that I have a good time throughout the season), but by and large, most people get a whole lot nicer. Also, winter is awesome and gift-giving is one of my favorite traditions. On the one hand, yay free stuff; on the other, it helps you get to know someone and keep them in mind when you’re shopping for something you think they’ll enjoy. I also think that the history of the Santa Claus myth is a fascinating case study in memetic evolution; however, as with any other work of fiction, I think the myth is valuable as a myth and only as such.
A lot of people are willing to get on one’s case about such things (like my parents), and I find it puzzling that they treat this with such idiosyncratic uniqueness. One of the more idiotic attacks that I hear is that if I don’t endorse the systematic teaching of the Santa Claus myth to young children as fact, then I must hate fun. It should be obvious that one can enjoy an end without approving of every single means available to achieve it (disapproving of rape doesn’t mean that someone hates sex). Similarly, I don’t have to hate Christmas to harbor qualms about one or two aspects of certain groups’ celebration of it – for example, the over-commercialization of the season, of which many people of varying creeds disapprove.
A more subtle approach is to say that I’m simply being no fun on this one subject, in this one respect – I take it too seriously and am making a mountain out of a molehill. I can actually respect that position, so long as I’m afforded the opportunity to defend my own, which is my goal in this entry (and this isn’t really directed at anyone who’s likely to read it, it’s mainly shit I would tell my parents if I thought it would do any good). First and foremost, Santa Claus is a symbol, and symbols are important: they shape the way we think, teach us lessons, and often serve as paradigm cases upon which we may base more pragmatic beliefs or courses of action. As a symbol, I think Santa Claus is actually a good thing; it’s the treatment of this symbol – the teaching of it as literal fact to young children, the reasons for doing so, and the attitudes with which this practice is commonly regarded – to which I take exception.
I also want to take a moment to head off any accusations that this is a thinly-veiled rant against religion. I don’t want there to be any veil at all, really, but this isn’t about religion specifically - it’s about the perpetuation of a tradition which I think is both totally unnecessary and harmful to a certain degree, yet paradoxically enjoys what I think is an undue amount of respect in mainstream culture. It just so happens that this is the same kind of problem I have with religion. These two issues share a huge amount of overlap, I make no bones about this. However, I wish to confine the discussion here strictly to Santa Claus. Once again, this is a beef I have with parents in general, and mine in particular.
As I said, I like the Santa Claus symbol, because it appeals to the naïve intellect of children but also bears out on a more mature reading. He’s a magical man who lives beyond the reach of human civilization and gives gifts to people in accordance with their conduct by means impossible to us mere mortals. To the child, this translates as, “Behave well and get stuff you want.” And, really, I think that characterizes the experience of children in most decent households: good behavior is rewarded, bad behavior is reprimanded. Good symbol. Us adults know, however, that sometimes a severely unethical course of action, when rigorously pursued, can still net a positive result for the agent (for example, the Enron fiasco, wherein corporate pirates robbed a lot of innocent people of money they deserved and – injustice of injustices! – were only lightly reprimanded for it - the punishment in no way fit the crime).
Good behavior, on the other hand, often goes unrewarded for a very long time, and sometimes is never rewarded at all. Obviously, the karmic reciprocity embodied by Santa Claus holds little sway over real life, but I think that the symbol here serves not as a lesson, but as an example: should we not strive to make our society such that the good are recognized and rewarded, and the wicked are chastised? This is not a mechanism by which the world works, but rather an embodiment of values which I think many of us share. Reap what you sow, and all of that.
Additionally, I think there actually is a much deeper lesson that is instructive (as in the children’s example), rather than exemplary (for the grown-ups): you can cheat other people, but there’s no cheating reality. If you do a good job at something, then that will be reflected in the product of your labor; if not, then it’s garbage in, garbage out. There are exceptions to this, of course, but this is the general rule. OK, maybe this last one’s a stretch, but still.
The problems arise when we consider the teaching of this myth not as a symbol, but as a literal fact. In the first place, it’s a lie: misinformation with intent to deceive, plain and simple. This, on its own, is not much – it’s the context and the consequences of actions that determine their moral content, not their mere descriptions, but I think this should serve as a warning sign. Lies generally turn out bad. And let’s not forget the enormous, conspiratorial scale on which the Santa Claus myth is foisted upon young children.
The problems arise when we consider the teaching of this myth not as a symbol, but as a literal fact. In the first place, it’s a lie: misinformation with intent to deceive, plain and simple. This, on its own, is not much – it’s the context and the consequences of actions that determine their moral content, not their mere descriptions, but I think this should serve as a warning sign. Lies generally turn out bad. And let’s not forget the enormous, conspiratorial scale on which the Santa Claus myth is foisted upon young children.
When taken as literal fact rather than fable, the “be good, get stuff” ethic can be disheartening to children when compared to how things actually play out: if Santa Claus is really magical, and satisfies the wishes of children based on their behavior, shouldn’t you be able to get anything you want if you’re just good enough? And if you don’t get what you want, then doesn’t that mean you’ve been a bad child (or not good enough)? And how come Tommy, that spoiled brat next door, got what he wanted from Santa, but you didn’t? What’s this guy up to, anyway?
Of course, this isn’t the way it always goes down, but my point is simply that Santa isn’t all sunshine and rainbows. There’s also the fact that a lot of kids, upon learning that Santa isn’t real, are heartbroken: obviously, this is a cherished belief, since they’re not saying, “Huh, I thought there was something strange about that whole story, I’m kind of relieved to learn it was all hooey.” This effect has a double-edge, I believe – on the one hand, it provides evidence that belief in Santa is a good thing while that belief is maintained (and that’s the killer); on the other hand, the more cherished the belief, the harder it is to let go of it.
So yeah, Santa’s got his up-side, sure, but there’s also a down-side which I think a lot of people underrepresent. It’s kind of a wash, though, as most of this business goes down at an age that many don’t very clearly remember, so who cares? Let’s look at the ostensive reasons behind Santa, then; or, just what this myth is used for. “Be good, or Santa’s gonna give you a lump of coal in your stocking.” That’s a threat, right there. A fairly innocuous one, to be sure, and almost always empty. However, what strikes me as sleazy is that the source of the threat is externalized from the threatener: Mommy or Daddy is threatening to do something you don’t like, but under the guise that it’s a threat from someone else, an all-seeing and implacable judge of right and wrong who – wait, I said I wasn’t going to talk about religion.
So yeah, Santa’s got his up-side, sure, but there’s also a down-side which I think a lot of people underrepresent. It’s kind of a wash, though, as most of this business goes down at an age that many don’t very clearly remember, so who cares? Let’s look at the ostensive reasons behind Santa, then; or, just what this myth is used for. “Be good, or Santa’s gonna give you a lump of coal in your stocking.” That’s a threat, right there. A fairly innocuous one, to be sure, and almost always empty. However, what strikes me as sleazy is that the source of the threat is externalized from the threatener: Mommy or Daddy is threatening to do something you don’t like, but under the guise that it’s a threat from someone else, an all-seeing and implacable judge of right and wrong who – wait, I said I wasn’t going to talk about religion.
The other side of that coin is that when the kid gets stuff they really like, who gets the praise? Not the people who did the actual work to make the Christmas Miracle happen, but the unseen benefactor in the sky – err, I mean, at the North Pole. Dunno what I was thinking there, innocent grin is me! (Look, I find it tremendously ironic that Santa’s like training wheels for a monotheistic deity, but so few outgrow the latter as they outgrow the former. No further comment on that, I promise.) In all seriousness, though, I do honestly think that the substitution of a false and magical justification for good behavior, in lieu of a rational and Earthly one, is a bad thing – both for the fact that it’s empty and wrong, and for the precedent it sets at such an impressionable age.
Look, one may say, all of this is small potatoes. The whole point of Saint Nick is that it’s an entertaining fantasy that’s fun for kids to believe while the magic of childhood lasts. Right? Still bad, says I. The fact that it makes you feel good to think something is true does not mean you actually ought to think it’s true. Take romance, for instance. Say one of your coworkers fancies another: do you think it would be good to make that person believe the feeling was mutual, knowing that that’s false? Of course not, you’re simply setting them up for disappointment – either quickly, when they start to act on those affections and get embarrassed, or gradually, as they wait for the other person to act on affections which are simply not there.
Look, one may say, all of this is small potatoes. The whole point of Saint Nick is that it’s an entertaining fantasy that’s fun for kids to believe while the magic of childhood lasts. Right? Still bad, says I. The fact that it makes you feel good to think something is true does not mean you actually ought to think it’s true. Take romance, for instance. Say one of your coworkers fancies another: do you think it would be good to make that person believe the feeling was mutual, knowing that that’s false? Of course not, you’re simply setting them up for disappointment – either quickly, when they start to act on those affections and get embarrassed, or gradually, as they wait for the other person to act on affections which are simply not there.
The same principle applies, and the same thing happens, with jolly old Kris Kringle. Perpetuating the illusion just adds to the let-down. And the whole “magic of childhood” tack kind of rubs me the wrong way, too. The message, as best I can tell, is that “magic is fun, reality is boring” (or “childhood is fun, adulthood is boring”). I find that false, and frustratingly so. If magic were real, then it would be like any other part of reality: discoverable, usable, investigable. There would be nothing special about it, just like there’s nothing special about computers (which, to my mind, are a kind of magic). As far as I can tell, what’s exciting about magic is not that it’s magic, but that it’s different. Kids who know there’s no such thing as Batman can still have fun playing Batman with their friends, or Hell, playing Cowboys and Indians when they know that they are not in fact cowboys or Indians. I did. Shit, I still do this stuff whenever I roleplay.
“Something Different,” every now and again, is exciting. It breaks up the routine. And you don’t need to think it’s true to have fun, you just have to pretend and have a functional imagination. Plus, reality is fucking exciting, too – you just have to know where to look. Boredom sets into the boring mind, and all that good stuff. Plus, the “magic” of childhood never really has to die, anyway. I find that, as an adult, I have more access to the stuff I liked doing as a kid, and now that the responsibilities are my own (which, to be sure, carries its own price – a price I pay gladly, by the way), I can determine when and how I do those things to a much greater extent than I could as a child. Being a grown-up fucking rules (and screw you, Mom, cake is a breakfast food!).
The point with all this is that I don’t have a problem with Santa decorations, or Santa floats in parades, or any of that nonsense. Go nuts. Really. Please, just, do whatever you like – I like the Santa myth, and adults know what’s up, so it’s all in good fun (for real). But when it comes to treating it like fact in a misguided attempt to "magic up" your kid’s childhood, I mean, nothing good comes of that which can’t be had by more wholesome means, and the bad stuff could all be rather neatly avoided by treating it like a superhero comic and telling your kid that it’s not true, it’s just a fun story. That’s really the source of my confusion: why the Hell isn’t Santa Claus treated just like Batman or Spider-Man?
The point with all this is that I don’t have a problem with Santa decorations, or Santa floats in parades, or any of that nonsense. Go nuts. Really. Please, just, do whatever you like – I like the Santa myth, and adults know what’s up, so it’s all in good fun (for real). But when it comes to treating it like fact in a misguided attempt to "magic up" your kid’s childhood, I mean, nothing good comes of that which can’t be had by more wholesome means, and the bad stuff could all be rather neatly avoided by treating it like a superhero comic and telling your kid that it’s not true, it’s just a fun story. That’s really the source of my confusion: why the Hell isn’t Santa Claus treated just like Batman or Spider-Man?
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
101 Interesting Things, part thirty-five: Ye Olde Science Repository
I saw on Pharyngula today that the Royal Society is putting up a bunch of their oldest stuff online!
One of the world's oldest scientific institutions is marking the start of its 350th year by putting 60 of its most memorable research papers online.They've got this super sweet timeline browser that takes you through the history with pretty pictures, and the papers touch on everything: meteorology, optics, medicine, anatomy, geometry, astronomy, everything! It's awesome!
OK, so this is really like sixty interesting things in one, but still: looking at the world to figure things out about it? Best. Idea. Evar! But enough out of me, go and learn!
Monday, November 30, 2009
Dear The Internet: I Win!
Look, see? I also donated some money and have a halo because of it. Oh, and I have a winner's badge thinger over on the right, too. Hopefully I can get that back in sales, if the CreateSpace deal is still going.
So yeah, I'm still not done writing, I just crossed the finish line. But I will post what I have when I finish this last un-deleted scene, and then it's time to arrange all the parts together for publishing. I want my hardcopy before Christmas!
More later, as I finish this last vignette.
EDIT: Finished! Final wordcount is 50,475. Moved this bit so it's "after" the last un-deleted scene (which should appear right below this, if I've done my math right). Hooray! Enjoy!
The Quantum Mechanic: Un-Deleted Scene Six
UN-DELETED SCENE 6: Victor playtests the device.
On a rocky planet circling the Sun at odd angles, a battle has just ended. Victor puts his weapons away, eats his fill, and then resumes his journey. The destination is not so important as how he gets there, but at the moment, he needs to make up some time. He visualizes wheels in his mind, designs a simple but effective drive train, then goes down to all fours while the device goes to work.
Hard rubber forms into tires around cartilaginous wheels. The discs calcify, and Victor's hands and feet are fused over the axles. His knees lift up from the ground, and callused pads nudge the wheels into motion. He's off. Victors leg bones are re-shaped, pulled out of joint, and arranged into pistons to more effectively drive his body. Along his spine, improvised neural architecture translates his thoughts into the proper motions, and then suddenly, being a motorcycle comes as naturally to Victor as walking.
The road is in a state of severe disrepair. Chunks of pavement jut out at odd angles, potholes threaten to jar him out of his smooth and calculated motions, and the odd tree and crater disrupt the road entirely at points. Victor presses on, his weight shifting to pull wheelies, bunny hops, and occasional leaps and bounds. His path of travel weaves through and around the encroaching wilderness, leaving only the occasional squirt of lubricating saturated fat. But it is enough for a quick and clever observer to follow.
Something approaches from the horizon, vaguely behind him. It moves with frightening speed, faster than sound. Victor decides to make his stand on a nearby overpass. His pistons disengage, and he gradually decelerates as muscles weave themselves into braided coils. Multipronged chitinous hooks form at the ends, and launch themselves at the overpass as Victor rolls underneath. Victor pulls his weight back, tightens his cords, and lifts off the ground. One of his hooks loses grip, and he loses balance - the device compensates by using the gyroscopic inertia of the still-spinning wheels to correct his pitch. Coming down from his arc now, the wheels disengage and Victor curls up to roll to a stop on the raised concrete. New arms and legs have formed before his tendrils have completely retracted, and now the metals he has been carrying with him are put to use: tiny bits of acid-cut shrapnel are chemically welded to each wheel, and as a rocket launches, Victor's eyes plot an interception course. The rocket is fast, but stupid, and the weaponized wheel is a small price to pay to take the explosive out of the picture. Victor hurls it with great power and accuracy, then winds up for his pitch at the jet itself.
At this height and range, the jet cannot change course quickly enough to dodge the incoming projectile. Instead, it launches a guided missile upon its target's position. The wheel tears through a wing, then the jet veers off before jerking toward the ground for a crash that shall be drawn out over several miles. As it nears its quarry, the digital pilot notes that Victor is tricking the missile's guidance algorithms into striking the concrete of the overpass - the man will be damaged, but not for long. The pilot's last thoughts before impact concern transmitting vital data on the new talents displayed by the target back to central intelligence.
Victor comes to rest after being thrown by the blast, watches the dying aircraft sail off into the distance. He notices a couple of nearby abandoned vehicles, checks them for any remaining gasoline. Two have had their caps removed, all unspent fuel either siphoned off or evaporated. The third one has about a quarter tank left; he drinks up the fuel, metabolizes it into more stable compounds, then heads off to search the wreckage of the plane, snatching up vegetation in passing to add to his biomass. By the time he reaches the first scraps of metal, he is a hulking colossus, picking up the twisted wreckage one piece at a time and arranging them as spines upon his back. They will be useful later, but there is nothing for him to do with them now.
After following the trail left by the felled hunter, Victor finally comes upon his prize: the remains of the cockpit. He is in luck, for the computer failed to wipe its mind before dying. Victor analyzes what is left of the machine, divining its home from the clues left in the dead slab of its brain. Nearby is a mostly intact fuel tank, too; this will be handy in time. Victor places what is left of the plane's nose upon his head, a mocking mask of his erstwhile pursuer, then forms himself into a great snake and sets about slithering across the plain at great speed.
After some time, Victor nears a deep forest. There are eyes everywhere: in the sky, under the ground, and especially in the trees. Without losing speed, Victor shifts his true brain to the rear of his body, letting his leading body act as a decoy. He writes subprocesses to handle navigational problems, then watches as his body courses through the thickening wood before him. Soon, he hears a buzzing from uncomfortably close; a swarm of stinging metal insects is upon him, injecting all manner of deadly substances into his body: corrosive acids, neurotoxins, engineered bacteriophages, retroviral scramblers. With his true brain at the rear, Victor is able to quarantine the infections as they attack his body at the mechanical, nervous, cellular, and chemical level, attempting to screw him up and shut him down from every angle all at once. He sheds the infected portions, sprays a few weapons of his own into the air, watches the swarm crumple and fall. He is wounded, but not mortally so. He presses on.
Near to the ocean now, he must find a way to cross. Flight is dangerous, for he is slow in the air; swimming upon the surface leaves him open to attack from all angles; the sea floor is slowest, but safest. Victor decides to take the low road, pitches down the seaside cliff, sticky tendrils shooting out to grasp the cliff face and control his descent. Into the salty surf now, he hugs the rocky bottom, thousands of tiny finned appendages guiding his tremendous length at every step of the way. He has far to go, and not much to help him along the way. The jet fuel is metabolized a little at a time to fuel electrolysis which Victor uses to separate oxygen out from the water; the remaining hydrogen is also spent as fuel, in stages and stages. A trail of bubbles and tracks in the sand is all that Victor leaves behind.
But after a time, with quite a ways left to go, Victor is consuming his own biomass just to keep moving. High above, he hears a broadcast signal: he is being watched. His position has been pinpointed. It is only an eye, no threat to him and not worth pursuing, but his position has been compromised. He keeps moving, makes an estimate of the time that is left to him. Soon, he comes across a hydrothermic vent in the inky blackness of the deep. Velvet tubeworms and albino crabs are both a meal and a textbook to him, as he adds their biomass to his own and learns their metabolic processes. He refines them, streamlining the chemical act of eating to something more suitable to his ideas of efficiency, then digs into the sea floor as muscular cords weave themselves into a large, stretchy bladder. Victor improvises valves to suck the vents into himself, and when he is of a suitable buoyancy, he releases his grip upon the earth and shoots up to the light.
Higher and higher, he virtually screams past all manner of ecosystems layered between the surface and the depths, bursting from the water in a plume of salty spray. He rises into the clouds, slowing down now as he forms his body into a large airfoil. Flattening himself, waving through the air like a magic carpet, Victor finally lets his breath out and forces the gas out behind him. Let them look at the sea floor; he has risen above that and now surfs among the clouds. He sacrifices altitude for speed, descending into a flattening path of travel as he achieves an ever more aerodynamic shape, arranging his various metal fragments to cut through the air as precisely and usefully as possible. Gravity has a great deal of work to do for him, and he squeezes the inexorable attractant to the very last drop, even at the expense of his last bits of extra biomass.
The coast is in sight now, and off in the distance a gleaming tower looms. As Victor descends back to sea level, gliding upon leathery flaps, he loses sight of his enemy's citadel but remembers its location. Plunging into the sandy beach, he grinds down his most useful-looking chunks of metal into deadly blades, then sheds the excess as he goes off in search of food. He is able to photosynthesize fuel from starlight, but it is a slow process and he cannot maintain his speed for very long with light alone.
There is a flash in the distance, and a bullet tears into Victor's head before he even hears the shot. He has learned to hide his true brain away from all of the obvious places, so the injury is but a minor inconvenience. However, his sensory apparatus has been damaged, and so he is not able to anticipate the next several bullets to tear through his body. Pain soon gives control to instinct, and Victor flattens himself against the ground, weaving around the thin grass to avoid betraying his presence. Safe, invisible, motionless, Victor then sorts out the damage to determine the general directions of these newest assailants. Winged automatons descend from the sky, flaming swords in hand, ready to cut their quarry down at the first sign of motion.
Victor waits for the right time to strike. He is invisible, colored and textured as his surroundings, inviting his would-be killers to tread upon him. One soon does, and he works his way inside, inflating a viciously bladed dummy body to be cut down by his own hand as he infiltrates the neural architecture of his host. He then mimics the expected chatter for a downed enemy report, sees into the whole communication network that tracks the progress and elimination of his partners in this game. He is inside the machine now, and by the looks of it, the first to infiltrate the network undetected. In his hidden mind, he reflects briefly upon the difficulty of determining whether another player has infiltrated the network as stealthily as he has. He sees the snipers now, knows their precise positions, but they are no longer a threat to him. He is dead to the system, a cypher born anew into this subverted soldier. No other devices have made it this close to the citadel, so the cadre of clockwork angels is ordered to return to the gleaming city on the hill.
Victor flies into the air in his new body, slipping easily into formation with his companions as they make their way home. He sees the glorious city in all its splendor as they approach, all of the din and furor surrounding the ivory tower at its center. He realizes with glee as they approach that that is their destination: he has infiltrated the honor guard of the central processor, the guardian angels of that angry machine trying to destroy him and his fellow players. Victor analyzes the memories of his host, determines the power structure of the central processor. There are failsafes upon failsafes, and he cannot simply cut one cord to bring down the entire house.
But he can destroy the building.
As Victor's host and companions take up their positions, roosting around the very top parapets of the ivory tower, he waits. They settle into their hibernation routines, and then Victor springs into action. He pitches forward, dives down along the face of the edifice, and lights his flaming sword as he nears the foundation. At nigh-supersonic speed, he corkscrews through the walls and supports, cutting the outer wall and inner structure to ribbons. Before gravity can take its toll, he is out and free, the fleeing traitor with a glittering tail of pursuers as the central processor for the whole city comes crashing down behind him. They are on to him, but it is too late by far. Machines wither, crash, and die as their centralized brain has all its supports torn out from under it, crushed beneath its own weight. The world skips a beat, resets, and Victor stands before a gunmetal gray automaton crackling with orange lightning.
"Congratulations, Victor. You win. Again."
"Why, thank you," he responds. "It gets easier every time."
"Still," the Quantum Mechanic responds, "I would have expected another to surpass you by now, as you have surpassed others in your own time." Victor blushes, flattered by the game master. "So, how do you feel?"
"I feel great! Triumphant. It is good to defeat an enemy, if only an invented one."
"What do you mean?" The Quantum Mechanic's face is inscrutable as ever, but its shift in posture indicates confusion.
"Well, you know, the central processor is only an enemy because we call it an enemy, and it acts like one. In reality, it's just a part of the bigger picture. Playtesting and all that. It's a honing implement, not a true enemy."
"Well, on that analysis, all enmity is invented." Victor pauses for thought.
"You know," he says after a few moments, "That's right."
On a rocky planet circling the Sun at odd angles, a battle has just ended. Victor puts his weapons away, eats his fill, and then resumes his journey. The destination is not so important as how he gets there, but at the moment, he needs to make up some time. He visualizes wheels in his mind, designs a simple but effective drive train, then goes down to all fours while the device goes to work.
Hard rubber forms into tires around cartilaginous wheels. The discs calcify, and Victor's hands and feet are fused over the axles. His knees lift up from the ground, and callused pads nudge the wheels into motion. He's off. Victors leg bones are re-shaped, pulled out of joint, and arranged into pistons to more effectively drive his body. Along his spine, improvised neural architecture translates his thoughts into the proper motions, and then suddenly, being a motorcycle comes as naturally to Victor as walking.
The road is in a state of severe disrepair. Chunks of pavement jut out at odd angles, potholes threaten to jar him out of his smooth and calculated motions, and the odd tree and crater disrupt the road entirely at points. Victor presses on, his weight shifting to pull wheelies, bunny hops, and occasional leaps and bounds. His path of travel weaves through and around the encroaching wilderness, leaving only the occasional squirt of lubricating saturated fat. But it is enough for a quick and clever observer to follow.
Something approaches from the horizon, vaguely behind him. It moves with frightening speed, faster than sound. Victor decides to make his stand on a nearby overpass. His pistons disengage, and he gradually decelerates as muscles weave themselves into braided coils. Multipronged chitinous hooks form at the ends, and launch themselves at the overpass as Victor rolls underneath. Victor pulls his weight back, tightens his cords, and lifts off the ground. One of his hooks loses grip, and he loses balance - the device compensates by using the gyroscopic inertia of the still-spinning wheels to correct his pitch. Coming down from his arc now, the wheels disengage and Victor curls up to roll to a stop on the raised concrete. New arms and legs have formed before his tendrils have completely retracted, and now the metals he has been carrying with him are put to use: tiny bits of acid-cut shrapnel are chemically welded to each wheel, and as a rocket launches, Victor's eyes plot an interception course. The rocket is fast, but stupid, and the weaponized wheel is a small price to pay to take the explosive out of the picture. Victor hurls it with great power and accuracy, then winds up for his pitch at the jet itself.
At this height and range, the jet cannot change course quickly enough to dodge the incoming projectile. Instead, it launches a guided missile upon its target's position. The wheel tears through a wing, then the jet veers off before jerking toward the ground for a crash that shall be drawn out over several miles. As it nears its quarry, the digital pilot notes that Victor is tricking the missile's guidance algorithms into striking the concrete of the overpass - the man will be damaged, but not for long. The pilot's last thoughts before impact concern transmitting vital data on the new talents displayed by the target back to central intelligence.
Victor comes to rest after being thrown by the blast, watches the dying aircraft sail off into the distance. He notices a couple of nearby abandoned vehicles, checks them for any remaining gasoline. Two have had their caps removed, all unspent fuel either siphoned off or evaporated. The third one has about a quarter tank left; he drinks up the fuel, metabolizes it into more stable compounds, then heads off to search the wreckage of the plane, snatching up vegetation in passing to add to his biomass. By the time he reaches the first scraps of metal, he is a hulking colossus, picking up the twisted wreckage one piece at a time and arranging them as spines upon his back. They will be useful later, but there is nothing for him to do with them now.
After following the trail left by the felled hunter, Victor finally comes upon his prize: the remains of the cockpit. He is in luck, for the computer failed to wipe its mind before dying. Victor analyzes what is left of the machine, divining its home from the clues left in the dead slab of its brain. Nearby is a mostly intact fuel tank, too; this will be handy in time. Victor places what is left of the plane's nose upon his head, a mocking mask of his erstwhile pursuer, then forms himself into a great snake and sets about slithering across the plain at great speed.
After some time, Victor nears a deep forest. There are eyes everywhere: in the sky, under the ground, and especially in the trees. Without losing speed, Victor shifts his true brain to the rear of his body, letting his leading body act as a decoy. He writes subprocesses to handle navigational problems, then watches as his body courses through the thickening wood before him. Soon, he hears a buzzing from uncomfortably close; a swarm of stinging metal insects is upon him, injecting all manner of deadly substances into his body: corrosive acids, neurotoxins, engineered bacteriophages, retroviral scramblers. With his true brain at the rear, Victor is able to quarantine the infections as they attack his body at the mechanical, nervous, cellular, and chemical level, attempting to screw him up and shut him down from every angle all at once. He sheds the infected portions, sprays a few weapons of his own into the air, watches the swarm crumple and fall. He is wounded, but not mortally so. He presses on.
Near to the ocean now, he must find a way to cross. Flight is dangerous, for he is slow in the air; swimming upon the surface leaves him open to attack from all angles; the sea floor is slowest, but safest. Victor decides to take the low road, pitches down the seaside cliff, sticky tendrils shooting out to grasp the cliff face and control his descent. Into the salty surf now, he hugs the rocky bottom, thousands of tiny finned appendages guiding his tremendous length at every step of the way. He has far to go, and not much to help him along the way. The jet fuel is metabolized a little at a time to fuel electrolysis which Victor uses to separate oxygen out from the water; the remaining hydrogen is also spent as fuel, in stages and stages. A trail of bubbles and tracks in the sand is all that Victor leaves behind.
But after a time, with quite a ways left to go, Victor is consuming his own biomass just to keep moving. High above, he hears a broadcast signal: he is being watched. His position has been pinpointed. It is only an eye, no threat to him and not worth pursuing, but his position has been compromised. He keeps moving, makes an estimate of the time that is left to him. Soon, he comes across a hydrothermic vent in the inky blackness of the deep. Velvet tubeworms and albino crabs are both a meal and a textbook to him, as he adds their biomass to his own and learns their metabolic processes. He refines them, streamlining the chemical act of eating to something more suitable to his ideas of efficiency, then digs into the sea floor as muscular cords weave themselves into a large, stretchy bladder. Victor improvises valves to suck the vents into himself, and when he is of a suitable buoyancy, he releases his grip upon the earth and shoots up to the light.
Higher and higher, he virtually screams past all manner of ecosystems layered between the surface and the depths, bursting from the water in a plume of salty spray. He rises into the clouds, slowing down now as he forms his body into a large airfoil. Flattening himself, waving through the air like a magic carpet, Victor finally lets his breath out and forces the gas out behind him. Let them look at the sea floor; he has risen above that and now surfs among the clouds. He sacrifices altitude for speed, descending into a flattening path of travel as he achieves an ever more aerodynamic shape, arranging his various metal fragments to cut through the air as precisely and usefully as possible. Gravity has a great deal of work to do for him, and he squeezes the inexorable attractant to the very last drop, even at the expense of his last bits of extra biomass.
The coast is in sight now, and off in the distance a gleaming tower looms. As Victor descends back to sea level, gliding upon leathery flaps, he loses sight of his enemy's citadel but remembers its location. Plunging into the sandy beach, he grinds down his most useful-looking chunks of metal into deadly blades, then sheds the excess as he goes off in search of food. He is able to photosynthesize fuel from starlight, but it is a slow process and he cannot maintain his speed for very long with light alone.
There is a flash in the distance, and a bullet tears into Victor's head before he even hears the shot. He has learned to hide his true brain away from all of the obvious places, so the injury is but a minor inconvenience. However, his sensory apparatus has been damaged, and so he is not able to anticipate the next several bullets to tear through his body. Pain soon gives control to instinct, and Victor flattens himself against the ground, weaving around the thin grass to avoid betraying his presence. Safe, invisible, motionless, Victor then sorts out the damage to determine the general directions of these newest assailants. Winged automatons descend from the sky, flaming swords in hand, ready to cut their quarry down at the first sign of motion.
Victor waits for the right time to strike. He is invisible, colored and textured as his surroundings, inviting his would-be killers to tread upon him. One soon does, and he works his way inside, inflating a viciously bladed dummy body to be cut down by his own hand as he infiltrates the neural architecture of his host. He then mimics the expected chatter for a downed enemy report, sees into the whole communication network that tracks the progress and elimination of his partners in this game. He is inside the machine now, and by the looks of it, the first to infiltrate the network undetected. In his hidden mind, he reflects briefly upon the difficulty of determining whether another player has infiltrated the network as stealthily as he has. He sees the snipers now, knows their precise positions, but they are no longer a threat to him. He is dead to the system, a cypher born anew into this subverted soldier. No other devices have made it this close to the citadel, so the cadre of clockwork angels is ordered to return to the gleaming city on the hill.
Victor flies into the air in his new body, slipping easily into formation with his companions as they make their way home. He sees the glorious city in all its splendor as they approach, all of the din and furor surrounding the ivory tower at its center. He realizes with glee as they approach that that is their destination: he has infiltrated the honor guard of the central processor, the guardian angels of that angry machine trying to destroy him and his fellow players. Victor analyzes the memories of his host, determines the power structure of the central processor. There are failsafes upon failsafes, and he cannot simply cut one cord to bring down the entire house.
But he can destroy the building.
As Victor's host and companions take up their positions, roosting around the very top parapets of the ivory tower, he waits. They settle into their hibernation routines, and then Victor springs into action. He pitches forward, dives down along the face of the edifice, and lights his flaming sword as he nears the foundation. At nigh-supersonic speed, he corkscrews through the walls and supports, cutting the outer wall and inner structure to ribbons. Before gravity can take its toll, he is out and free, the fleeing traitor with a glittering tail of pursuers as the central processor for the whole city comes crashing down behind him. They are on to him, but it is too late by far. Machines wither, crash, and die as their centralized brain has all its supports torn out from under it, crushed beneath its own weight. The world skips a beat, resets, and Victor stands before a gunmetal gray automaton crackling with orange lightning.
"Congratulations, Victor. You win. Again."
"Why, thank you," he responds. "It gets easier every time."
"Still," the Quantum Mechanic responds, "I would have expected another to surpass you by now, as you have surpassed others in your own time." Victor blushes, flattered by the game master. "So, how do you feel?"
"I feel great! Triumphant. It is good to defeat an enemy, if only an invented one."
"What do you mean?" The Quantum Mechanic's face is inscrutable as ever, but its shift in posture indicates confusion.
"Well, you know, the central processor is only an enemy because we call it an enemy, and it acts like one. In reality, it's just a part of the bigger picture. Playtesting and all that. It's a honing implement, not a true enemy."
"Well, on that analysis, all enmity is invented." Victor pauses for thought.
"You know," he says after a few moments, "That's right."
Friday, November 27, 2009
The Quantum Mechanic: Epilogue, part 2
Click here for part 1.
"Well, too bad," Gleck says. "Those people all had a chance at Heaven, and they were not worthy. They deserved what they got."
"What about you, Ben," Douglas asks. "Have you gotten what you deserve?"
"I - you - stop trying to twist my words! Look, I have no reason to help you, so I'm not going to. That's final!" Cameron sighs. Douglas strokes his chin. Alvina just stands and seethes at the miserable sadist in front of her, refusing to end the suffering of untold numbers of humans out of nothing more than sheer obstinacy.
"Very well," Douglas says at last. "I believe our guest needs some time to think."
"I need - " and he disappears. " - Nothing from you!" But now nobody is around.
Benjamin Gleck stands at the top of a mountain, alone. He shouts, but no one answers. He tries to expand his consciousness, but that heavy cloud weighs down upon him once more. He thinks. There has to be a way out. He looks around.
Of course! Gleck runs at full speed toward the nearest edge, and flings himself over. He laughs all the way down, thoughts of revenge and defiance running through his mind. He closes his eyes just before impact, and then - nothing. Nothing happens. He opens his eyes, and he is safely upon the ground. Funny, he didn't feel anything. He pinches himself. He registers pressure, understands that a fold of his skin is being squeezed between his thumb and forefinger, but he feels nothing. He looks around for a rock, grabs it, and then tries to smash his hand upon a boulder - the rock crumbles in his hand. He tries to smash his head upon the boulder, but he only registers a dull anaesthetic thumping. No pain. No sensation at all, only the understanding that his head is in fact bouncing harmlessly upon stone.
Ben screams to no one in particular, shouts after the wind, curses the rocks around him. He can't feel anything, he can't hurt himself, he can't even die. So he walks.
Benjamin Gleck walks for a very long time, through forest and valley, along rivers and over mountains. Day and night, rain or shine, he walks throught he world. He never feels hungry or tired, he does not eat and does not sleep.
How did this happen? He tries to sort out how his life has come to this insensate wandering, but the thinking is troublesome. He must stay strong in his faith. And so he walks. And walks. And walks.
He tires of walking, but there is nothing else to do but think. Food eludes his grasp, animals give him a wide berth, anything he attempts to use for a tool simply crumbles in his hand. He can only do two things: walk, or think.
Benjamin keeps walking.
He loses track of time, has no idea where he is or where he's been. He thinks he's on Earth, but he's not sure. Sometimes, he comes across the remnants of civilization: depressions where basements used to be, great wreckages of cities overrun by the wilderness that once surrounded them. It is not the world he knew. But he knows that the Quantum Mechanic is watching his thoughts, so he guards them carefully. He refuses to give his enemy the satisfaction.
One day, Benjamin finds a beach. He sits in the sand for a while, watches the waves lap at the beach. He finds round, flat stones in the surf, skips them out into the waves. He's not very good at this, and the waves do not help. He walks out into the ocean, breathes in the salty water, notices the cold impassively as the fluid fills his lungs. He stops breathing, feels no urge for air, and then walks along the sea floor for a while. He sees many shapes in the undulating distance, far-off shadows that could be any of a million things he has never learned.
Far enough below the ocean's surface, there are no distractions. There is only darkness. After many days of this, Benjamin cannot stop himself from reflecting on his life. He swims up towards the surface for what seems like days, finally seeing some light, then breaking through the waves into a great expanse of water. He is surely turned around. He has no idea where there is any land, which direction he is facing, or where he is. Treading water is a constant effort, unable as he is to expel the water from his lungs. It still does not help distract him. He stops struggling against gravity, and lets himself sink back down into the inky depths.
It's a waiting game, he realizes at some point during his descent. It's a waiting game, and there is no victory for me here. I cannot do anything until I give my enemy what he wants. I cannot eat, or sleep, or even die. He won't do anything to me except keep me limited to my human capacities, and protect me from the rest of the environment. And the Quantum Mechanic can wait as long as he likes. OK.
Now what?
Benjamin doesn't want to spend eternity wandering the world as a passive observer, struggling to stop himself from doing anything that would give his tormentor any amount of satisfaction. His enemy has reduced himself to a force of nature, and for Ben to get anything that he wants, he must give a little, first. That is painful. But he accepts that it is the rule, and so he gives a little.
"I'm sorry," he warbles out to the ever-darkening water around him.
Nothing.
Benjamin thinks. Words probably don't matter. Fine. He thinks some more. The Quantum Mechanic probably doesn't care about what I think, he only wants my cooperation. He wants those poor saps saved from Hell. And Cameron - that sniveling faggot wants to reunite with his long lost man-lover, and - and - and do all those things they're not allowed to do! That bothers Benjamin more than anything: how can they believe in God, know the scripture, realize the error of their ways, and then still have those desires? Ben tried to glorify their bodies, make it so they didn't need to have those thoughts any more, but they still had them anyway! What is wrong with them?!
Benjamin realizes that he has no answer for this question. "They're sinful" is no help, because what he's trying to explain is that very sin. "Why are they sinful" cannot be answered by "they're sinful." But why can't they just stop being that way? Can't they just do things God's way? Although, while they were on Earth, they were really doing things God's way: they knew their sin for what it was, and they abstained. Then Benjamin took them to a mock Heaven, just like so many people, and they just fell again. He tried to help them let go of their sin, but they just wouldn't stop!
Maybe Ben did something wrong. Maybe the glorious city with the Lord on the throne and the Son at his right hand wasn't enough; maybe God needed to do something. Why didn't he? Maybe Ben tried too hard to be like God in his defiance of the Quantum Mechanic. But isn't being godly a good thing? Maybe not for people, it isn't. But then how come Douglas seems to be having such an easy time of it? Why doesn't that guy try to keep everyone in line? Why doesn't he ask for anything back from the people who he's helped so much? What good is it to be like God, if you don't get any of the perks?
Benjamin prays for guidance, but to no avail. After time beyond reckoning of being alone with his thoughts, he has learned to recognize his own voice in his head, and he realizes that every voice coming to him in answer is only his own. God is not helping him. Maybe this is a test. But who is testing him? And what is the right thing to do? How could he know it? How can he make sure he doesn't get it wrong?
Benjamin's mind clears once more, but due to no effort on his part. He honestly has no idea. There are no answers for him here. And the old answers he received in his youth are no help. Maybe he needs to find some new ones. Maybe it's time to start things over.
The fact is, the Quantum Mechanic is holding him here. He knows this. He also knows that God has not intervened, and probably won't intervene on his behalf. He also knows that all have sinned, and fall short of the glory of God. This includes him, Benjamin Gleck. OK. What does he want to do? He wants to live his mortal life and then go to the side of the Lord. But he can't do that until he cooperates with the Quantum Mechanic.
OK. This is OK. He did some very harmful things to some very incorrigible sinners, but that was not his place to do. If there is a god - that is, God does not need his help. Benjamin thought that he was supposed to do the Lord's work, but then he overstepped his bounds. His actions exceeded his authority. Punishing sinners is not his duty. And besides, as long as those people are in his simulated Hell, there's probably no way for them to turn from their sinful ways, anyway. It's not enough to just punish them, he has to help make them better. And that means he must admit his mistake. To himself, to God, and to the Quantum Mechanic. And then he will help them rescue those trapped sinners, and then he will help make them into better people, and then he can live out his life and go to God.
Well, then. There are his answers. Now all he has to do is find his way back. Benjamin sits upon the ocean floor. At this depth, wrapped in these clothes, his lungs full of water, he does not swim so much as climb upwards, shoving the water beneath him, then reaching up and grasping for more height. Higher and higher he climbs, out of the depths and up to the air and the light. Off to the East, the sun is rising. He swims towards it.
After many days, Benjamin finds his way to the shore. He looks around for the nearest tree, does a handstand against it, and finally the salty water flows out. He has not taken a breath in many, many days, but the habit comes back with a little practice. He looks around. He has no idea where he is, or where he's supposed to go. He calms his mind, relaxes, and tries to reach out - just to look. No suppressive clouds this time. Good! Farther, farther - he recognizes the shape of the land. He's on the coast of Washington. Off in the distance, there is a house in Montana with smoke coming out of the chimney. Benjamin sets off towards it.
Alvina answers a knock at the door to see a serene looking Benjamin.
"Hello, Mister Gleck," she says evenly. "Welcome back."
"I, um," he stammers, unsure of what to say. He thinks for a moment. "Thank you."
"Come on in. Can I get you something to drink?"
"Water would be nice."
"Sure thing. Cameron's reading in the living room, Douglas is finishing up dinner. Would you like to join us?"
"Yes, I think so." Ben is on guard, steeled for any confrontation, but none ever comes. He walks into the kitchen to see Douglas stirring a pot of rice. "Hello."
"Hi!" Doug is all smiles and effervescence. "I trust you found what you needed?"
"I - " Ben stammers, puzzled. "Well, yes, I suppose. Weren't you watching?"
"Meh, yes and no. I just tried to make sure you didn't do anything foolish, but other than that, I pretty much left you to your own devices. Why do you ask?" Ben reflects briefly over all the silly motions he went through, trying to somehow antagonize or provoke the man he used to call his enemy.
"No reason," Ben finally says.
"Fair enough. If you'd like to take a shower, there are towels in the hall closet."
"Thanks."
Under the hot stream, it occurs to Benjamin that he can feel once more. He feels relaxed, a little sleepy, and rather hungry. After washing off the dust of the road, he towels off and finds a new suit next to the pile of rags he walked in with. He puts it on; it fits perfectly.
"So," Cameron asks at the table, "Did you have a good walk?"
"Yes, I suppose I did."
"That's good. And are you ready to help us?"
"I - " Ben pauses. "I did a whole lot of harm to a whole lot of people, Cam. I really feel awful about that. I don't - I don't know what I can do."
"Hey," Pleasance puts a hand on Benjamin's shoulder. "Listen, it's OK. Well, I mean, it's not OK, but it will be. Nobody's died yet. Not that we know about, anyway."
"I hope so."
"Everybody makes mistakes, Mister Gleck," Douglas says. "The trick is to see what you can learn from them."
"Yeah. Still - I wish I didn't have to learn this one the hard way."
"Well, sometimes that's just what needs to happen."
"I guess."
"So," Alvina chimes in, "Where are all these people, anyway?" Ben breathes deeply, blinks slow.
"I pretty much made them into brains in vats, sent them on a bad trip in their own minds, and flung them out into the darkness between the stars. I remember the vectors I sent them on, and about their times, but - well, I'm not too sure on some of the earlier ones. There were a lot of them."
"It's OK," she says, "We've got time."
"Yeah, I guess we do," he replies. "Hoo, boy. This is going to be a lot of work."
"Yes, it is," Douglas says. "And it won't end just by finding them - I don't expect that very many of these folks will be in quite as good a shape as our friend Cameron, here. We really have our work cut out for us. But it's work worth doing."
Benjamin nods, chokes back some tears. He has behaved in a very un-Christian fashion, just trying to do what was right. He realizes now that some of his ideas were rather strange - and if only he had taken the time to weigh the consequences if he was wrong, then maybe - no, no good can come of this. He did what he did, and now he has to deal with that. He's a very different person now. He closes his eyes, counts to ten, takes a couple of deep breaths.
"You still with us, buddy," Alvina asks after a few moments.
"Yeah," Benjamin replies. "It's just hard. Reconciling what I did with who I am now. It just seems so foreign. I don't know what I was thinking - I guess I got carried away."
"I think you'll be all right," Douglas says with a nod. "Welcome back to the civilization game, Mister Gleck."
"Well, too bad," Gleck says. "Those people all had a chance at Heaven, and they were not worthy. They deserved what they got."
"What about you, Ben," Douglas asks. "Have you gotten what you deserve?"
"I - you - stop trying to twist my words! Look, I have no reason to help you, so I'm not going to. That's final!" Cameron sighs. Douglas strokes his chin. Alvina just stands and seethes at the miserable sadist in front of her, refusing to end the suffering of untold numbers of humans out of nothing more than sheer obstinacy.
"Very well," Douglas says at last. "I believe our guest needs some time to think."
"I need - " and he disappears. " - Nothing from you!" But now nobody is around.
Benjamin Gleck stands at the top of a mountain, alone. He shouts, but no one answers. He tries to expand his consciousness, but that heavy cloud weighs down upon him once more. He thinks. There has to be a way out. He looks around.
Of course! Gleck runs at full speed toward the nearest edge, and flings himself over. He laughs all the way down, thoughts of revenge and defiance running through his mind. He closes his eyes just before impact, and then - nothing. Nothing happens. He opens his eyes, and he is safely upon the ground. Funny, he didn't feel anything. He pinches himself. He registers pressure, understands that a fold of his skin is being squeezed between his thumb and forefinger, but he feels nothing. He looks around for a rock, grabs it, and then tries to smash his hand upon a boulder - the rock crumbles in his hand. He tries to smash his head upon the boulder, but he only registers a dull anaesthetic thumping. No pain. No sensation at all, only the understanding that his head is in fact bouncing harmlessly upon stone.
Ben screams to no one in particular, shouts after the wind, curses the rocks around him. He can't feel anything, he can't hurt himself, he can't even die. So he walks.
Benjamin Gleck walks for a very long time, through forest and valley, along rivers and over mountains. Day and night, rain or shine, he walks throught he world. He never feels hungry or tired, he does not eat and does not sleep.
How did this happen? He tries to sort out how his life has come to this insensate wandering, but the thinking is troublesome. He must stay strong in his faith. And so he walks. And walks. And walks.
He tires of walking, but there is nothing else to do but think. Food eludes his grasp, animals give him a wide berth, anything he attempts to use for a tool simply crumbles in his hand. He can only do two things: walk, or think.
Benjamin keeps walking.
He loses track of time, has no idea where he is or where he's been. He thinks he's on Earth, but he's not sure. Sometimes, he comes across the remnants of civilization: depressions where basements used to be, great wreckages of cities overrun by the wilderness that once surrounded them. It is not the world he knew. But he knows that the Quantum Mechanic is watching his thoughts, so he guards them carefully. He refuses to give his enemy the satisfaction.
One day, Benjamin finds a beach. He sits in the sand for a while, watches the waves lap at the beach. He finds round, flat stones in the surf, skips them out into the waves. He's not very good at this, and the waves do not help. He walks out into the ocean, breathes in the salty water, notices the cold impassively as the fluid fills his lungs. He stops breathing, feels no urge for air, and then walks along the sea floor for a while. He sees many shapes in the undulating distance, far-off shadows that could be any of a million things he has never learned.
Far enough below the ocean's surface, there are no distractions. There is only darkness. After many days of this, Benjamin cannot stop himself from reflecting on his life. He swims up towards the surface for what seems like days, finally seeing some light, then breaking through the waves into a great expanse of water. He is surely turned around. He has no idea where there is any land, which direction he is facing, or where he is. Treading water is a constant effort, unable as he is to expel the water from his lungs. It still does not help distract him. He stops struggling against gravity, and lets himself sink back down into the inky depths.
It's a waiting game, he realizes at some point during his descent. It's a waiting game, and there is no victory for me here. I cannot do anything until I give my enemy what he wants. I cannot eat, or sleep, or even die. He won't do anything to me except keep me limited to my human capacities, and protect me from the rest of the environment. And the Quantum Mechanic can wait as long as he likes. OK.
Now what?
Benjamin doesn't want to spend eternity wandering the world as a passive observer, struggling to stop himself from doing anything that would give his tormentor any amount of satisfaction. His enemy has reduced himself to a force of nature, and for Ben to get anything that he wants, he must give a little, first. That is painful. But he accepts that it is the rule, and so he gives a little.
"I'm sorry," he warbles out to the ever-darkening water around him.
Nothing.
Benjamin thinks. Words probably don't matter. Fine. He thinks some more. The Quantum Mechanic probably doesn't care about what I think, he only wants my cooperation. He wants those poor saps saved from Hell. And Cameron - that sniveling faggot wants to reunite with his long lost man-lover, and - and - and do all those things they're not allowed to do! That bothers Benjamin more than anything: how can they believe in God, know the scripture, realize the error of their ways, and then still have those desires? Ben tried to glorify their bodies, make it so they didn't need to have those thoughts any more, but they still had them anyway! What is wrong with them?!
Benjamin realizes that he has no answer for this question. "They're sinful" is no help, because what he's trying to explain is that very sin. "Why are they sinful" cannot be answered by "they're sinful." But why can't they just stop being that way? Can't they just do things God's way? Although, while they were on Earth, they were really doing things God's way: they knew their sin for what it was, and they abstained. Then Benjamin took them to a mock Heaven, just like so many people, and they just fell again. He tried to help them let go of their sin, but they just wouldn't stop!
Maybe Ben did something wrong. Maybe the glorious city with the Lord on the throne and the Son at his right hand wasn't enough; maybe God needed to do something. Why didn't he? Maybe Ben tried too hard to be like God in his defiance of the Quantum Mechanic. But isn't being godly a good thing? Maybe not for people, it isn't. But then how come Douglas seems to be having such an easy time of it? Why doesn't that guy try to keep everyone in line? Why doesn't he ask for anything back from the people who he's helped so much? What good is it to be like God, if you don't get any of the perks?
Benjamin prays for guidance, but to no avail. After time beyond reckoning of being alone with his thoughts, he has learned to recognize his own voice in his head, and he realizes that every voice coming to him in answer is only his own. God is not helping him. Maybe this is a test. But who is testing him? And what is the right thing to do? How could he know it? How can he make sure he doesn't get it wrong?
Benjamin's mind clears once more, but due to no effort on his part. He honestly has no idea. There are no answers for him here. And the old answers he received in his youth are no help. Maybe he needs to find some new ones. Maybe it's time to start things over.
The fact is, the Quantum Mechanic is holding him here. He knows this. He also knows that God has not intervened, and probably won't intervene on his behalf. He also knows that all have sinned, and fall short of the glory of God. This includes him, Benjamin Gleck. OK. What does he want to do? He wants to live his mortal life and then go to the side of the Lord. But he can't do that until he cooperates with the Quantum Mechanic.
OK. This is OK. He did some very harmful things to some very incorrigible sinners, but that was not his place to do. If there is a god - that is, God does not need his help. Benjamin thought that he was supposed to do the Lord's work, but then he overstepped his bounds. His actions exceeded his authority. Punishing sinners is not his duty. And besides, as long as those people are in his simulated Hell, there's probably no way for them to turn from their sinful ways, anyway. It's not enough to just punish them, he has to help make them better. And that means he must admit his mistake. To himself, to God, and to the Quantum Mechanic. And then he will help them rescue those trapped sinners, and then he will help make them into better people, and then he can live out his life and go to God.
Well, then. There are his answers. Now all he has to do is find his way back. Benjamin sits upon the ocean floor. At this depth, wrapped in these clothes, his lungs full of water, he does not swim so much as climb upwards, shoving the water beneath him, then reaching up and grasping for more height. Higher and higher he climbs, out of the depths and up to the air and the light. Off to the East, the sun is rising. He swims towards it.
After many days, Benjamin finds his way to the shore. He looks around for the nearest tree, does a handstand against it, and finally the salty water flows out. He has not taken a breath in many, many days, but the habit comes back with a little practice. He looks around. He has no idea where he is, or where he's supposed to go. He calms his mind, relaxes, and tries to reach out - just to look. No suppressive clouds this time. Good! Farther, farther - he recognizes the shape of the land. He's on the coast of Washington. Off in the distance, there is a house in Montana with smoke coming out of the chimney. Benjamin sets off towards it.
Alvina answers a knock at the door to see a serene looking Benjamin.
"Hello, Mister Gleck," she says evenly. "Welcome back."
"I, um," he stammers, unsure of what to say. He thinks for a moment. "Thank you."
"Come on in. Can I get you something to drink?"
"Water would be nice."
"Sure thing. Cameron's reading in the living room, Douglas is finishing up dinner. Would you like to join us?"
"Yes, I think so." Ben is on guard, steeled for any confrontation, but none ever comes. He walks into the kitchen to see Douglas stirring a pot of rice. "Hello."
"Hi!" Doug is all smiles and effervescence. "I trust you found what you needed?"
"I - " Ben stammers, puzzled. "Well, yes, I suppose. Weren't you watching?"
"Meh, yes and no. I just tried to make sure you didn't do anything foolish, but other than that, I pretty much left you to your own devices. Why do you ask?" Ben reflects briefly over all the silly motions he went through, trying to somehow antagonize or provoke the man he used to call his enemy.
"No reason," Ben finally says.
"Fair enough. If you'd like to take a shower, there are towels in the hall closet."
"Thanks."
Under the hot stream, it occurs to Benjamin that he can feel once more. He feels relaxed, a little sleepy, and rather hungry. After washing off the dust of the road, he towels off and finds a new suit next to the pile of rags he walked in with. He puts it on; it fits perfectly.
"So," Cameron asks at the table, "Did you have a good walk?"
"Yes, I suppose I did."
"That's good. And are you ready to help us?"
"I - " Ben pauses. "I did a whole lot of harm to a whole lot of people, Cam. I really feel awful about that. I don't - I don't know what I can do."
"Hey," Pleasance puts a hand on Benjamin's shoulder. "Listen, it's OK. Well, I mean, it's not OK, but it will be. Nobody's died yet. Not that we know about, anyway."
"I hope so."
"Everybody makes mistakes, Mister Gleck," Douglas says. "The trick is to see what you can learn from them."
"Yeah. Still - I wish I didn't have to learn this one the hard way."
"Well, sometimes that's just what needs to happen."
"I guess."
"So," Alvina chimes in, "Where are all these people, anyway?" Ben breathes deeply, blinks slow.
"I pretty much made them into brains in vats, sent them on a bad trip in their own minds, and flung them out into the darkness between the stars. I remember the vectors I sent them on, and about their times, but - well, I'm not too sure on some of the earlier ones. There were a lot of them."
"It's OK," she says, "We've got time."
"Yeah, I guess we do," he replies. "Hoo, boy. This is going to be a lot of work."
"Yes, it is," Douglas says. "And it won't end just by finding them - I don't expect that very many of these folks will be in quite as good a shape as our friend Cameron, here. We really have our work cut out for us. But it's work worth doing."
Benjamin nods, chokes back some tears. He has behaved in a very un-Christian fashion, just trying to do what was right. He realizes now that some of his ideas were rather strange - and if only he had taken the time to weigh the consequences if he was wrong, then maybe - no, no good can come of this. He did what he did, and now he has to deal with that. He's a very different person now. He closes his eyes, counts to ten, takes a couple of deep breaths.
"You still with us, buddy," Alvina asks after a few moments.
"Yeah," Benjamin replies. "It's just hard. Reconciling what I did with who I am now. It just seems so foreign. I don't know what I was thinking - I guess I got carried away."
"I think you'll be all right," Douglas says with a nod. "Welcome back to the civilization game, Mister Gleck."
101 Interesting Things, part thirty-four: Mimicry, Nature's Disguise Kit!
There's a whole lot to be said for doing your own thing, but sometimes it pays to be like someone else. As it turns out, there are some pretty cozy niches available for those organisms which are able to disguise themselves like other organisms. Take the myrmarachne spiders, for instance:
These guys are jumping spiders, but they waggle their legs like antenna, and I guess the ants buy it. But then, people have gotten turkeys to try to mate with socks on sticks... and then again, there's porn. But yeah, spiders acting like ants, infiltrating their society, and then eating them. It's like a nature's social predator. Awesome!
As it turns out, ant mimicry isn't exactly a "new thing," other bugs have been doing it for quite some time. Take Macroxiphus, a katydid that mimics ants in its larval stage:
And what do you know, but flies do it, too:
But it's not just ants that get mimicked. Check out Macroglossum stellatarum, a moth that mimics a hummingbird:
And that's not all that moths mimic, either; there's a hornet moth, and a wasp moth, too!
And let's not forget the stick bug (which, I just learned today, actually makes a good pet!) and the leaf bug, the first two mimics I had ever learned about. But the top of the mimic heap, without a doubt, is the mimic octopus. This guy can mimic the shape, coloration, and behavior of over a dozen different animals! Check it out:Further reading:
World's Weirdest Moths (or: Why Moths are Way Cooler than Butterflies)
Wikipedia's mimicry page
As it turns out, ant mimicry isn't exactly a "new thing," other bugs have been doing it for quite some time. Take Macroxiphus, a katydid that mimics ants in its larval stage:
Podosesia syringae (ash borer) photo found here
These crazy moths don't just look like their role models, they also ape their behavior, such as flight patterns. The hummingbird hawkmoth moves like a hummingbird, and the hornet moth moves around erratically like a hornet when it's surprised.And let's not forget the stick bug (which, I just learned today, actually makes a good pet!) and the leaf bug, the first two mimics I had ever learned about. But the top of the mimic heap, without a doubt, is the mimic octopus. This guy can mimic the shape, coloration, and behavior of over a dozen different animals! Check it out:Further reading:
World's Weirdest Moths (or: Why Moths are Way Cooler than Butterflies)
Wikipedia's mimicry page
All uncredited photos taken from Wikipedia.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
The Quantum Mechanic: Epilogue (work in progress)
Couldn't quite finish, and I have to leave for a train in a bit. So here's what I've got so far. More later. Happy gluttony day, everybody!Epilogue: Life Goes On
Life for you has been less than kind
So take a number, stand in line
We've all been sorry, we've all been hurt
But how we survive is what makes us who we are.
- Rise Against, Survive
Alvina Orange hears a knock at the door for the first time in decades. Few bother to track down the original Quantum Mechanic any more, now that everyone has has the option of being uplifted thanks to the efforts of the Million Minds. It's not just a matter of finding Earth, but of finding the right one, and why go to all that trouble when anything you could want is yours for the making, the taking, or the asking?
Except when you need to find something that's been lost.
Douglas comes downstairs and meets Alvina in the foyer. She opens the door to a shining figure, with wings of opalescent gossamer.
"Can we - uh, help you?" Alvina isn't sure what to say.
"I surely hope so. My name is Cameron Pleasance. May I come in?"
"I remember you," Douglas says, "You're that internet guy who - "
"Yes, I know. That was a long time ago. I have learned much since then."
"All right. Well, yeah, I guess you can come in. Can we get you something to drink?"
"No, thank you."
"Well," Alvina says, "What's on your mind?"
"I need you to bring back the Entropic Engineer."
"Absolutely not," Douglas says, his hand slicing through the air. "It's out of the question. We're not going over this again."
"Why," Alvina asks, ignoring her husband for the moment.
"He has something that doesn't belong to him. I need to get it from him."
"What, a sparrowlark skeleton? You know, we've actually found something like that." Doug's tone lacks contempt, but neither does it carry respect for his guest. Cameron lets a beat pass before speaking again.
"I don't think you know what I've been up to, lately. I'm not exactly the same person as I was back on Earth. That is, back in the Milky Way. I've learned a thing or two."
"Fine, fine, so you're just visiting from Heaven to get your - "
"I haven't been in Heaven, Douglas. There is no such place. I know that now. But there is something very like Hell, and a great many people are stuck there, and I need the Entropic Engineer to tell me where they are so that I can rescue them." Douglas strokes his chin a few times.
"Here's the problem: I don't remember Ben Gleck. I can't reconstruct him as he was. I'm sorry, I really am - now that I know that's what he was up to, I wish I could do something about it. But I just don't remember him."
"I do," Alvina says. Douglas looks at her, incredulous. "What? I stabbed a man in the back of the head, Doug. The least I could do was remember what he was like before he died. I just kept the memory locked up. It was my dirty little secret. Turns out, it's come in handy now."
"I - no, you're right." Douglas runs a hand through his hair. "OK, so what's the plan, then? We just bring this guy back and hope we can keep him in line?"
"Um, I didn't really have a 'plan,' I was just going to ask nicely."
"Bea, the last thing this guy remembers is thinking that he killed me."
"That's - a good point, actually."
"If I may," Cameron interjects, "Why don't we try dealing with him honestly? It may take time, but it's the only hope we have." Douglas and Alvina have no objections to this. She resurrects the memory of her husband's greatest enemy.
Benjamin Gleck falls back, stunned by the abrupt change in scenery. One moment, he was enjoying his victory, and now he's on a kitchen floor somewhere with - him! How did he live? What has happened? Gleck tries to reach out with his mind, but feels a cloudiness descend upon his awareness like a smothering blanket. He relaxes, tries to focus - the blanket lifts. He tries to extend his mind once more, but the creeping stupidity is back - dammit! That self-righteous prick is smothering his powers again!
"OK, now what?" Gleck folds his arms, doesn't even bother standing. Cameron steps forward and offers a hand.
"Welcome back to the land of the living." Gleck ignores him. He pulls his hand back. "You may not recognize me. I am Cameron Pleasance." Gleck goes wide-eyed.
"You! You were damned to Hell! How did you get out?"
"Long is the road, and hard is the way, as they say. You showed me all of Creation before you sent me away, if you remember. Your torture chamber was truly terrible - an infinity of falling from grace, the bad trip from Hell, so to speak. But eventually, I saw through it, and I was able to work my way out by figuring out the meaning of all those things you had shown me."
"So, what, you've brought me back to take your revenge?"
"Nothing of the kind, my friend. I've brought you here for the keys to Hell. I'm going to free everybody you've been hurting these past millennia."
"You - you don't know where they are."
"I don't. I've had a lot of time to think, and I need your help. There's just no two ways about that - all I want now is to rescue Kirk from the prison you put him in, and everybody else, too."
"And what if I don't tell you?"
"We have ways of making you talk," Alvina suggests with a grin. "Oh, man, I've always wanted to say that! But I'm serious, you know. We can torture you."
"No," Cameron says. "That won't help. It will only hurt him more. We need his honest cooperation."
"What for," Douglas asks. "I honestly don't see why we can't just force him to tell you whatever it is you want to know." Cameron rubs his forehead.
"The problem is that he's the only one who knows all the people he took." Cameron's shoulders slump as he speaks. Gleck grins. "And I will not rest until everyone is rescued. We can't know when that's done without his help." Douglas thinks back - he can remember a few of the people who disappeared, but there were many thousands who were Raptured away by the Entropic Engineer, and he did not make any organized effort to track them. All of those people, condemned to eternal suffering, and nothing he could have done about it.
"My, how the tables have turned," Gleck says as he gets to his feet. "Look at you, so high and mighty, passing your pronouncements on me, resurrecting me from the dead to play your silly games. But I'm the one with all the cards, it seems! And I suppose you want me to bring your boyfriend back so you two can finally go on moustache rides together, huh?"
"I just want Kirk's suffering to end," Cameron says evenly. "Whether he still loves me or not, I don't know. And I don't care. I still love him, and I can't bear the thought of him being tormented."
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
The Quantum Mechanic: Un-Deleted Scene Five
UN-DELETED SCENE 5: Science happens!
Randall James introduces the puppet to the rest of the crew at Skeptics Coalition International. Douglas has finally agreed to one day's worth of tests, which the two of them have spent the last two weeks refining into reproducible trials that will be sure to win the million dollar prize.
"All right, this young lady with the ponytail is Paulette Jensen, the shorter gentleman right next to her is Melvin Heller, and they'll be conducting the tests with us today. Over behind the glass are Edward Johns and Jimmy Sprague, they'll be running the recording equipment. I've got the itinerary, and your job is to show us some magic!" Handshakes to the folks in labcoats, friendly waves to the men behind the glass, and it's time to get the show started.
"We'll have to ask you to remove your helmet," Jensen says, "As well as any electronic equipment you're carrying. You know, cell phone, watch, GPS, mp3 player, anything." The Quantum Mechanic regards her coolly for a moment.
"I'm sorry, I don't think you understand," it says with a chuckle. "This is not a costume, it is a prosthetic body which I am manipulating from out of state." It raises its hands and removes the hollow head, showing it to the startled woman. Heller does a double-take.
"So, what," Jensen asks, "Are you the invisible man or something?"
"No, of course not," the automaton says, waving a hand through the air where a head ought to be. "I'm the Quantum Mechanic. This body is a puppet."
"Are you remote viewing this entire space, then?" She cocks her head to the side, trying to figure out a way to convince herself that she's not hallucinating or dreaming.
"Why, yes. That's exactly it."
"I see." She nods her head, but remains unbelieving. "So, Randall, what's on the agenda today?"
"Well, we've got a few demonstrations planned for remote viewing, remote manipulation, a few fireworks displays, and general conjuration. The rest of the day is free for some of the more standard tests."
Sprague asks the Quantum Mechanic to turn around and be seated while Heller shuffles a deck of playing cards behind his back. Douglas considers objecting, but goes along with the song and dance for formality's sake. There is, after all, an order to this - whether he's got physical eyes in the building or not. Heller finishes shuffling, and Jensen announces that the test will begin.
"Three of diamonds," the Quantum Mechanic announces. Heller turns a card. Three of diamonds. Jensen checks a box.
"Next."
"Six of diamonds." Heller turns a card. Six of diamonds. Jensen checks a box.
"Next."
"King of spades." Heller turns a card. King of spades. Jensen checks a box.
They work through the whole deck, and Douglas doesn't miss a card. A machine does the shuffling the second time, but Douglas still doesn't miss a card. The third go-round, Douglas turns every card into the Ace of spades for fun. Heller frowns. Jensen complains. But a hundred and four out of a hundred and four is an impressive record, so they move on. The transmutation was neat, too.
"OK," Johns asks from behind the glass, "Melvin, I need you to go into the other room with the pen and paper in it. Just start drawing three pictures, make them detailed, spend a few minutes on each one." He nods and complies. "Umm, Quantum Mechanic, I need you to sit at the table and describe his first drawing to me."
"All right." Douglas seats the automaton. "He draws a line down the center of the page. A triangle on the left side, now a circle on the right. Now an X through the circle, and a star inside the triangle." On and on, Douglas describes the drawing for the men behind the glass. The Quantum Mechanic draws the second one along with Heller, then makes a duplicate copy of the third one as soon as he's done.
Next, Douglas makes various items dance impossibly through the air, powers a few electronic devices with his mind, conjures rubber balls from out of thin air, and makes golf balls materialize inside glass boxes.
"How are you doing this," Jensen asks at some point.
"Magic!"
"No, seriously, I need to know how you're doing this, or I think I'm going to go nuts. This just isn't possible."
"These principles aren't yet named, Miss Jensen," he begins to explain. "I don't know what to call them, myself. I'm really bad at naming things, you see."
"Well, OK, that's fine - but then what's it like? Do you just will things into being, or what? Are you doing secret chants in a hut or something?"
"No, nothing of the kind!" Douglas is laughing in Montana, but doesn't want to embarrass the investigator. "It's more like programming, except that I don't need a keyboard, and the screen is reality, and all I'm really doing is moving bits of code around. Not exactly like that, but it's closer."
The tests continue, and The Quantum Mechanic passes every single one with flying colors. A perfect score. The demonstrations were convincing enough, but contractual obligations being what they are, certain methodological hoops must be jumped through, and the whole rigamarole must be documented in its entirety for posterity's sake. Also to ward off individuals of a belligerently litigious mindset.
"Well, Mister Mechanic," Sprague says at the conclusion, "You've got your cool million. To whom should I write the check?"
"To Randall James, if you please."
"Seriously? You're not even going to tell us who you are?"
"No, thank you. He'll be managing the finances for me."
"So what are you going to do with it," Johns asks.
"Randall will be divvying the funds up among several very worthy charities. I plan on getting back to work."
"You're quite the philanthropist," Jensen says. "What's your angle? You trying to win a popularity contest or something?"
"No," the puppet replies. "I just want to do some good in the world. I guess I'm a goody little two-shoes."
"I think you're more than that," Alvina says after Douglas tells her how it went. "I think you're a full-blown righteous do-gooder. And that's, like, totally hot."
Randall James introduces the puppet to the rest of the crew at Skeptics Coalition International. Douglas has finally agreed to one day's worth of tests, which the two of them have spent the last two weeks refining into reproducible trials that will be sure to win the million dollar prize.
"All right, this young lady with the ponytail is Paulette Jensen, the shorter gentleman right next to her is Melvin Heller, and they'll be conducting the tests with us today. Over behind the glass are Edward Johns and Jimmy Sprague, they'll be running the recording equipment. I've got the itinerary, and your job is to show us some magic!" Handshakes to the folks in labcoats, friendly waves to the men behind the glass, and it's time to get the show started.
"We'll have to ask you to remove your helmet," Jensen says, "As well as any electronic equipment you're carrying. You know, cell phone, watch, GPS, mp3 player, anything." The Quantum Mechanic regards her coolly for a moment.
"I'm sorry, I don't think you understand," it says with a chuckle. "This is not a costume, it is a prosthetic body which I am manipulating from out of state." It raises its hands and removes the hollow head, showing it to the startled woman. Heller does a double-take.
"So, what," Jensen asks, "Are you the invisible man or something?"
"No, of course not," the automaton says, waving a hand through the air where a head ought to be. "I'm the Quantum Mechanic. This body is a puppet."
"Are you remote viewing this entire space, then?" She cocks her head to the side, trying to figure out a way to convince herself that she's not hallucinating or dreaming.
"Why, yes. That's exactly it."
"I see." She nods her head, but remains unbelieving. "So, Randall, what's on the agenda today?"
"Well, we've got a few demonstrations planned for remote viewing, remote manipulation, a few fireworks displays, and general conjuration. The rest of the day is free for some of the more standard tests."
Sprague asks the Quantum Mechanic to turn around and be seated while Heller shuffles a deck of playing cards behind his back. Douglas considers objecting, but goes along with the song and dance for formality's sake. There is, after all, an order to this - whether he's got physical eyes in the building or not. Heller finishes shuffling, and Jensen announces that the test will begin.
"Three of diamonds," the Quantum Mechanic announces. Heller turns a card. Three of diamonds. Jensen checks a box.
"Next."
"Six of diamonds." Heller turns a card. Six of diamonds. Jensen checks a box.
"Next."
"King of spades." Heller turns a card. King of spades. Jensen checks a box.
They work through the whole deck, and Douglas doesn't miss a card. A machine does the shuffling the second time, but Douglas still doesn't miss a card. The third go-round, Douglas turns every card into the Ace of spades for fun. Heller frowns. Jensen complains. But a hundred and four out of a hundred and four is an impressive record, so they move on. The transmutation was neat, too.
"OK," Johns asks from behind the glass, "Melvin, I need you to go into the other room with the pen and paper in it. Just start drawing three pictures, make them detailed, spend a few minutes on each one." He nods and complies. "Umm, Quantum Mechanic, I need you to sit at the table and describe his first drawing to me."
"All right." Douglas seats the automaton. "He draws a line down the center of the page. A triangle on the left side, now a circle on the right. Now an X through the circle, and a star inside the triangle." On and on, Douglas describes the drawing for the men behind the glass. The Quantum Mechanic draws the second one along with Heller, then makes a duplicate copy of the third one as soon as he's done.
Next, Douglas makes various items dance impossibly through the air, powers a few electronic devices with his mind, conjures rubber balls from out of thin air, and makes golf balls materialize inside glass boxes.
"How are you doing this," Jensen asks at some point.
"Magic!"
"No, seriously, I need to know how you're doing this, or I think I'm going to go nuts. This just isn't possible."
"These principles aren't yet named, Miss Jensen," he begins to explain. "I don't know what to call them, myself. I'm really bad at naming things, you see."
"Well, OK, that's fine - but then what's it like? Do you just will things into being, or what? Are you doing secret chants in a hut or something?"
"No, nothing of the kind!" Douglas is laughing in Montana, but doesn't want to embarrass the investigator. "It's more like programming, except that I don't need a keyboard, and the screen is reality, and all I'm really doing is moving bits of code around. Not exactly like that, but it's closer."
The tests continue, and The Quantum Mechanic passes every single one with flying colors. A perfect score. The demonstrations were convincing enough, but contractual obligations being what they are, certain methodological hoops must be jumped through, and the whole rigamarole must be documented in its entirety for posterity's sake. Also to ward off individuals of a belligerently litigious mindset.
"Well, Mister Mechanic," Sprague says at the conclusion, "You've got your cool million. To whom should I write the check?"
"To Randall James, if you please."
"Seriously? You're not even going to tell us who you are?"
"No, thank you. He'll be managing the finances for me."
"So what are you going to do with it," Johns asks.
"Randall will be divvying the funds up among several very worthy charities. I plan on getting back to work."
"You're quite the philanthropist," Jensen says. "What's your angle? You trying to win a popularity contest or something?"
"No," the puppet replies. "I just want to do some good in the world. I guess I'm a goody little two-shoes."
"I think you're more than that," Alvina says after Douglas tells her how it went. "I think you're a full-blown righteous do-gooder. And that's, like, totally hot."
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Happy Birthday, Origin! or: No better reason for a Tuesday-night party!
Today marks the sesquicentennial of On the Origin of Species! I just had to rescue my copy from between my Oxford Annotated Bible (complete with heresy!) and my Encyclopedia of Mythology. I needed heavy books, you see, and I'm not a fan of cleaning up after old projects. It's a metaphor in my basement: somewhere in between the organic collection of fables, and an academic discussion of naturally occurring phenomena, there's science afoot. Or I'm reading too much into a pile and it's just a meaningless coincidence; I mean, the World is full of those, too.
PZ gives thanks and airs grievances, bridging the gap between our autumn harvest and winter solstice. Oh, and he also points out some... some... some I don't know what. I read this earlier today, but was waiting until I got home to watch it with my own eyes, and I watched a lot. I see a guy flail at a couple points, it doesn't look comfortable. And I see a lady holding his hand and moving it to type on a touch screen. Like, he's usually looking vaguely at the shiny screen when they show this "facilitated communication." But I never see him do any typing by himself, and I really have no idea how (or even whether) they checked to see if it was "really him" talking. Like, I'll totally settle for any old footage, but I gotta see something more than this to believe - especially when they say things like, "He was conscious for a long time, but it's difficult to know for how long."
You know why this testing thing is so important to me? Because what if their brain scans are right, and he's "really in there," aware of everything going on - but he's still paralyzed, and all the world is going crazy around him, and he can do nothing but watch helplessly as he's led along in a farce? What then? Damn, I guess we'd better make damn sure, huh?
Anyway, I was reminded of this when I clicked one of the latest posts on the Atheist Blogroll over there to the right, taking me to Infallible Failure. He's also got a post on some more bus ad news! At least the discourse is civil, this time - I would actually like to hear atheists pimping for their worldviews when showing off how happy their kids look, so I won't begrudge that to a Christian (or anyone!). But he and Jen before him are technically correct that they miss the point - and she says it with an awesome MS Paint diagram, so who am I to quibble over technicalities? MS Paint is like cruise control for masterpieces!
No, seriously, stop acting like your kids have to believe the same things you do, Humanity. The more you try to make that happen, the more they'll resent you for it. Read the sign, dammit.
But yeah, happy anniversary of publication to Mr. Darwin! I'm gonna go celebrate.
Oh! And I just saw this, too:
I Love xkcd from NoamR on Vimeo.
Y'know, as long as I'm linking things, I may as well point you at Caveman Science Fiction, because it's awesome. This guy needs to like do more awesome things, because they're awesome and so is he.
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