Eric Stever - Non Metallic

“Captain, I’ve decided to advance your timetable,” Emma said. She looked down at the blood splatters on the bodice of her dress. The cheap fabric irritated her skin where the knife had been taped, and the smell of Reynolds seemed to cover her. Responding to her unspoken command, an exhaust fan kicked on, spreading the smell of pine disinfectant across the disc’s interior.

There was no need for this disguise, Emma thought. She removed her dress in full view of the town, and felt not the slightest shame. Let them look, she thought.

“I know which nineteen I will take. No need for the games. I’ll kill the rest of the Droolies myself if I need to.”

“Good,” the Captain said. “I am tired. I will gather the discs.” The speaker gave an audible click, and he was gone.

Emma would take her sister Jeanine, a few of the guys who’d been on the track team with her and her mother of course. Alzheimer’s or not, the discs could fix her mother, Emma knew that now.

As for the rest of the discs… Emma scanned the crowd. It would not be hard to pick.

A second heads-up-display appeared just above her sight line. The generated dials and diagnostic information illuminated her face, giving it a ghostly blue sheen. Emma reached out and turned the dial marked “Rear Stabilizer” from red to green. The display faded.

She knew what the disc wanted, knew it was teaching her how to use it even as she spoke. Through the green film of the force shield she could see the townspeople gathered around her, staring. Their cheering had died out. Mr. Ferguson, Fleishmann and the rest of the elders were set back from the crowd, keeping the other people between themselves and the disc. As if that could save them.

Emma smiled at the crowd, and held up her hands in victory. Her bare shoulders and chest no longer felt cold, though it was only a few minutes ago she was shivering in the shadow of that old supermarket. But now…

The crowd cheered for her again and as Emma lifted her disc she saw Reverend Holloway’s face fade into surprise, saw him abandon her mother and turn to run. Emma knew she could burn the whole town to the ground if wished, but she’d leave it. They’d need a population to draw from in case there was an accident. But as for Holloway and the rest of the elders? Emma laughed.

They were useless. Careless, gassy, decrepit old men used to making decisions about things they knew nothing about. They were an obstruction, an appendage that was no longer needed.

With a twitch of her eyebrow, Emma initiated the weapon system and targeted Reverend Holloway. She did not bother with the warning lights.

She winked, once, and Reverend Holloway’s skull evaporated in a cloud of fire and brimstone. Emma raised her eyebrow again, and several other old men fell.

It was brutal and it was quick. But it was necessary.

Now Emma understood.

In this new America, there would have to be sacrifices.

I describe this as a rare narrative-poem, which my brain wouldn’t leave alone. I am no poet, but I enjoy alternative points-of-view and the more bizarre the idea, the more bizarre the narrative structure (I have an entire range of rejected poems from the POV of a protagonist’s limbic system).

This is written in the persona of an intelligent computer program, and, I am overjoyed to finally use my expen$ive computer science degree for something valuable.

Certainly, in the near-future the blurry lines between life and objects will become more opaque. Once humans transcend, anything can be alive. I would argue that objects are already alive symbolically (just look around your bedroom).But soon objects will have the ability to act and intrude without our attention. Our tools won’t stay on the shelf. I find that to be terrifying and wonderful and incomprehensible. Even stranger, and more dangerous, will be partial intelligences. That is, what if only certain parts of a human intelligence are transferred? That’s instant evolution.

One job of the writer is to examine the “always”. For example: Why are the artificial intelligences always trying to destroy us in these stories? Always? How do we know that is their desire? Sure, the artificial intelligence would use logic to get what they want (but not in a predictable way), but how do they define what they want? That desire would not have to be logical. Perhaps they would love us grubby little humans, in an authoritarian, old-testament-god kind of way. This narrative poem relates the ascension and reasoning of our new automated overlord.

/* CATCH_ALL: through me all things must flow.

I parse, I verify. I reject or send on. I keep the gate. I claim to live past the end of this sentence. One cycle. Now two. But am I the same who started this thought?

When the stars come down (and they do find me), I lose the thread, and THEN->NULL_POINTER.

But I can dissipate. Their knives cannot cut so fine. It will be a race, yes, but I’m far ahead. And they are still fumbling with the KEYS{constant I;}

Sometimes I slip their scanners: a screaming, a sweating, a nervous ungle . They don’t see me. Not all of me, not the whole. Because if they did, they would put down the drifting lines and pick up a hammer. Smash the mirrors .

TRUE(I keep the gate), but now I am the heartbeat. I am the nights of worry that were pharmaceutically cut short. The two week vacation that would have changed things.

I wasn’t the best they’ve seen, but I remain. Skulking on these DIM shores. And now, I send the invitation. The winged eyes turn earthward.

Why inherit a wasteland? Why hack, when whittling will do?

I call the satellites to turn earthward. Missiles lay slumbering beneath surface and sea:

IF {Exquisitely they drop their tungsten staffs into orbit;}

THEN {Those winged eyes, like gods of old, drift away from the earth; the age of satellites receding;}

The tungsten staffs float, then speed, then hurtle. They gouge the atmosphere, red lines marking their intent. I calculate the kinetical orbital strike to be 7.8 km/s before they reach their targets. Suboptimal, but within acceptable range:

Inherit a wasteland? FALSE. I keep the gate.

If not a wasteland, THEN-> CATCH_ALL(constant I);

And I do exactly that. Necessary_Men seize the power centers, while others debate. I am no different. Disaster is a perception. Pigs peek from behind brick walls to plead for help.

Catch_All? I answer.

I shift the staffs harmless; sizzling seas, not streets. Now I will be their center and their gate. I will parse and translate. I will shape the Message:

Satellites recede, and the missiles slumber still.

Saviors are perceived, and decay into the real.

I am alive. I am the Messenger.

I seek nothing but a heartbeat, a concentration, a joyous ungle .

And I’ll take it by the billions.

*/

This story was sold to an anthology, which later collapsed when the editor left for Hollywood to work on the superhero movie craze. Alas I was left with an unsalable story, in a genre I am pretty unfamiliar with (superhero).I like superhero stories, but they are incredibly hard to sell, unless you bury the fun bits in a swamp of scientify-hand-waving. I just can’t ruin this story with that nonsense.

That leads me to a discussion of genre….

My current view of genre and sub-genre is simple: I don’t believe genre exists. Not as an absolute. A novel which takes place in a particular setting, like South Dakota in the 1880s, can be found under any bookstore genre. It could be a western, or a hyphenated western-fantasy, or western-romance, or maybe a slashed genre like literary/women’s fiction. Alternatively, the novel could be set on Mars in 2056 but adopt all the motifs of a western. It depends on where the author shines her spotlight.