(a sequel to Ryugyong Hotel)
North Korea's zombie army lurched ponderously across the fields. An entire country of undead bodies walked unheeding of fear, frontiers, and minefields, driven south by its unending hunger and the ripe promise of South Korea.
Capitalist, hedonist South Korea, with its fetish for remote-controlled robotics and its decadent multitudes of hypercompetitive gamers.
The battle took days, and the Army made tens of millions just in entrance fees.
.finis.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Monday, March 26, 2007
Hell
Peptide-based artificial neural networks replicate very well human reflexes and reactions, but they are expensive to make and impossible to reset.
You've been here before. It ends in pain. As soon as the thought forms wordless in our mind, the world charges at you and you crash against it, arms crossed in front of your face in a futile attempt at protection. You die in sudden, agonizing pain.
You wake up knowing that you've been here before, and that it ends in pain. It does.
And again.
And again.
The crash test dummies are the most realistic ever used, a triumph of engineering, but companies can't use them to test what happens to people who aren't using their safety belts.
They always try to get away from the car.
.finis.
You've been here before. It ends in pain. As soon as the thought forms wordless in our mind, the world charges at you and you crash against it, arms crossed in front of your face in a futile attempt at protection. You die in sudden, agonizing pain.
You wake up knowing that you've been here before, and that it ends in pain. It does.
And again.
And again.
The crash test dummies are the most realistic ever used, a triumph of engineering, but companies can't use them to test what happens to people who aren't using their safety belts.
They always try to get away from the car.
.finis.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Exit, Pursued by a Dream
Guilt could be a heavy burden, even unmerited. He was having nightmares every night, forced to listen to a voice he had loved more than life narrate to him horrible deeds he hadn't committed.
He had hoped the comedy would distract him, but when the actors followed the script of his troubled dreams, he had no choice but to run away in anguished fear for his own sanity.
He didn't see the horrified triumph in Hamlet's loved features.
Nor did either of them hear the evil laugh of his brother's malicious ghost.
.finis.
He had hoped the comedy would distract him, but when the actors followed the script of his troubled dreams, he had no choice but to run away in anguished fear for his own sanity.
He didn't see the horrified triumph in Hamlet's loved features.
Nor did either of them hear the evil laugh of his brother's malicious ghost.
.finis.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Ceremony
"And do you promise to love, honor, and cherish your wife until death do you part?"
"I do."
"Sorry, the reading wasn't clear." The minister adjusted the brain scanner. "I'll repeat the question."
.finis.
"I do."
"Sorry, the reading wasn't clear." The minister adjusted the brain scanner. "I'll repeat the question."
.finis.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Ryugyong Hotel
You drive along the dust-covered fields, your eyes hurt by the dawn's grey light. For all you know, yours is the only functioning car in all of North Korea. At least satellites think so, and it has been months since anybody dared take a look. Too many spies never came back, and the airports have been closed longer than that.
All there is left is gruff, sparse radio contact ("Do not come. You are not welcome."), refused aid, and people walking slowly through the barren landscape, looking as you pass with dead eyes. You put a hand over the bag in the passenger's seat. You have a hunch, but it's not yet time.
Kim Jong-Il is surprisingly easy to find. He's in Pyongyang, of course, but not in any official palace. He's at the Ryugyong Hotel.
It makes more sense than you want to think about.
You'd think he'd be harder to reach. But you just enter the city -yours, again, is the only car- and drive to the black mountain sitting there like a blight. Not running over any of the thin pedestrians is the only thing that slows you down. Not even the guards, who only look at you with uninterested eyes as you leave your car, bag in hand, and enter the echoing building.
Jong-Il is playing pool by himself in one of the tables. He looks thinner than what was suggested by past intel.
"Want to play?", he says in no language in particular. Those are the first spoken words you've heard since entering North Korea.
You open your bag and put on your thermal vision goggles. Jong-Il's heat signature is perfectly normal.
You gasp in surprise. It's not what you expected.
You hear behind a shuffling of feet, and turn around to see the slow, grey outlines of the zombie guards.
"I'm the last one," says the man behind your back. Then something hits you in the back of your head. It's not the first time you've been hit by a pool cue.
But you've never woken up so hungry.
.finis.
Near-compulsory wikipedia link: Ryugyong Hotel
All there is left is gruff, sparse radio contact ("Do not come. You are not welcome."), refused aid, and people walking slowly through the barren landscape, looking as you pass with dead eyes. You put a hand over the bag in the passenger's seat. You have a hunch, but it's not yet time.
Kim Jong-Il is surprisingly easy to find. He's in Pyongyang, of course, but not in any official palace. He's at the Ryugyong Hotel.
It makes more sense than you want to think about.
You'd think he'd be harder to reach. But you just enter the city -yours, again, is the only car- and drive to the black mountain sitting there like a blight. Not running over any of the thin pedestrians is the only thing that slows you down. Not even the guards, who only look at you with uninterested eyes as you leave your car, bag in hand, and enter the echoing building.
Jong-Il is playing pool by himself in one of the tables. He looks thinner than what was suggested by past intel.
"Want to play?", he says in no language in particular. Those are the first spoken words you've heard since entering North Korea.
You open your bag and put on your thermal vision goggles. Jong-Il's heat signature is perfectly normal.
You gasp in surprise. It's not what you expected.
You hear behind a shuffling of feet, and turn around to see the slow, grey outlines of the zombie guards.
"I'm the last one," says the man behind your back. Then something hits you in the back of your head. It's not the first time you've been hit by a pool cue.
But you've never woken up so hungry.
.finis.
Near-compulsory wikipedia link: Ryugyong Hotel
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Urban
Monday morning, rush hour, a New York subway. It felt oddly familiar to Julio. Driving a minitank through the maze of Baghdad, neural implants jacked directly into the vehicle's systems, had felt just as clausthrophobic, crowded, and lonely.
Coming down from the train and back to the street was worse. He didn't feel exposed; unlike many of his comrades, he had never been trapped by the paranoid delusions so prevalent among the last batch of veterans.
He just felt restless. Eager to start his week's work.
The itching between his shoulder blades -where the tank's systems would have alerted him of an EM sniper's laser lock- was just restlessness.
His darting eyes were taking in the city and its people out of love. He loved the city more than most, better than most.
A loud yelp at his back merely startled him. Nothing more. It was just a delivery girl falling from her roller skates, and his reflexive finger movements -sensors and weapons, lock and fire- were just harmless reflexes. He no longer was a tank, microcannons at his fingertip and an angel satellite guarding over his shoulders.
He was a civilian. He was fine with that.
Some of his former unit members might be now under treatment, the ones he knew about at least, unable to adjust to war and flesh, but not him. He was fine, he had a job. He had the world's best job.
He was jittery, yes, but his boss didn't mind. She had told him, in fact, that he was the best possible man for the job. Even shielded him from the Health Board's preaching morons and their fake psych reviews.
After entering a nondescript office in a nondescript government building, Julio connected his implants to the city's feed. A few thousand cameras filtered themselves to a hundred neural networks, and those to Julio's jacked-up brain.
He saw through New York's eyes now.
He was New York.
Watching.
He felt himself relax for the first time since Friday.
.finis.
Coming down from the train and back to the street was worse. He didn't feel exposed; unlike many of his comrades, he had never been trapped by the paranoid delusions so prevalent among the last batch of veterans.
He just felt restless. Eager to start his week's work.
The itching between his shoulder blades -where the tank's systems would have alerted him of an EM sniper's laser lock- was just restlessness.
His darting eyes were taking in the city and its people out of love. He loved the city more than most, better than most.
A loud yelp at his back merely startled him. Nothing more. It was just a delivery girl falling from her roller skates, and his reflexive finger movements -sensors and weapons, lock and fire- were just harmless reflexes. He no longer was a tank, microcannons at his fingertip and an angel satellite guarding over his shoulders.
He was a civilian. He was fine with that.
Some of his former unit members might be now under treatment, the ones he knew about at least, unable to adjust to war and flesh, but not him. He was fine, he had a job. He had the world's best job.
He was jittery, yes, but his boss didn't mind. She had told him, in fact, that he was the best possible man for the job. Even shielded him from the Health Board's preaching morons and their fake psych reviews.
After entering a nondescript office in a nondescript government building, Julio connected his implants to the city's feed. A few thousand cameras filtered themselves to a hundred neural networks, and those to Julio's jacked-up brain.
He saw through New York's eyes now.
He was New York.
Watching.
He felt himself relax for the first time since Friday.
.finis.
Friday, March 16, 2007
3 AM, Anywhere
He looked like he was older than he looked like, if you know what I mean. Sad as hell, too, but used to it. I refilled his coffee and gave him an extra donut.
"On the house."
"Thanks," he said.
I shrugged. He was the last customer of the night or the first of the morning, depending on how you looked at it. I didn't care either way, I just run the damn place while the owner was out there cruising for hookers. A good part of town for that.
"You looking for action?," I asked. It wasn't my thing, but I knew everybody around.
"No." For the way he said it, you could tell he hadn't been laid in forever, and had even gotten used to it. Weird, that, 'cause he was good looking. Classy, you know? And then he went and added "Hard to, when everybody around is your grand-grand-grand-something-daughter."
Creep.
"Never mind me," he said. "Just old age talking." He looked through the counter. "Could I trouble you for that apple?," he said, leaving a few coins over the counter and smiling like he had just said something very funny to himself and maybe God.
"Sure." If I didn't serve creeps, I'd have no business during my entire shift.
"Thanks." He took a bite out of the apple and looked at it. "Had forgotten how they taste like."
"Really?"
"Not since my father kicked me out. My fault, really." He was chewing it slowly.
"Sorry to hear that. I guess life sucks for everybody, right?"
"That's actually my fault, too. Sorry."
I didn't understand what he was saying, so I left him alone eating his apple. He looked tired, like he had all the sins of the world on his shoulders.
.finis.
"On the house."
"Thanks," he said.
I shrugged. He was the last customer of the night or the first of the morning, depending on how you looked at it. I didn't care either way, I just run the damn place while the owner was out there cruising for hookers. A good part of town for that.
"You looking for action?," I asked. It wasn't my thing, but I knew everybody around.
"No." For the way he said it, you could tell he hadn't been laid in forever, and had even gotten used to it. Weird, that, 'cause he was good looking. Classy, you know? And then he went and added "Hard to, when everybody around is your grand-grand-grand-something-daughter."
Creep.
"Never mind me," he said. "Just old age talking." He looked through the counter. "Could I trouble you for that apple?," he said, leaving a few coins over the counter and smiling like he had just said something very funny to himself and maybe God.
"Sure." If I didn't serve creeps, I'd have no business during my entire shift.
"Thanks." He took a bite out of the apple and looked at it. "Had forgotten how they taste like."
"Really?"
"Not since my father kicked me out. My fault, really." He was chewing it slowly.
"Sorry to hear that. I guess life sucks for everybody, right?"
"That's actually my fault, too. Sorry."
I didn't understand what he was saying, so I left him alone eating his apple. He looked tired, like he had all the sins of the world on his shoulders.
.finis.
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