Professor Jack Sanger
Subscribe to The Moment by Email

Archives

November 2006 December 2006 January 2007 February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007 June 2007 July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 October 2007 November 2007 December 2007 January 2008 February 2008 March 2008 April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 July 2008 August 2008 September 2008 October 2008 November 2008 December 2008 January 2009 February 2009 March 2009 April 2009 May 2009 June 2009 July 2009 August 2009 September 2009 October 2009 November 2009 December 2009 January 2010 February 2010 March 2010 April 2010 May 2010 June 2010 July 2010 August 2010 September 2010 October 2010 November 2010 December 2010 January 2011 February 2011 March 2011 April 2011 May 2011 February 2012 March 2012 April 2012 May 2012 June 2012 July 2012 August 2012 September 2012 October 2012 November 2012 December 2012 January 2013 February 2013 March 2013 April 2013 May 2013 June 2013 July 2013 August 2013 September 2013 November 2013 December 2013 January 2014 March 2014


Powered by Blogger
The Moment
Friday, July 20, 2012

Sci Fi Fo Fum, here comes the blood of a future man

Writing a short sci fi novella this last month was a pleasure. (Sex: Future Imperfecti). Pure imagination. No research save for the years of reading that no doubt helped to shape it. Twist ending. Voila. Here’s a snippet, taken after a rather visceral opening, an account of a player’s death in a game simulation:

He was recovering fast. As always, he could not recall the mental trauma just before death though he knew it had been intense. Even with players like him the psyche needed careful protection. There were concoctions that could replay it from his memory again but unlike many of his friends he never dwelt on the past, it was the transiency of pain that appealed. “Fantastic!” he laughed. “Phenomenal! Outrageous! Worth a month’s pay.”
“That’s what Mortality costs,” said ABZ-, admiringly. “You certainly know what to spend your allotment on.” They lay side by side on the bed of air in the vaulted chamber, their fashionable loose fitting white bachelor robes floating around them.  A-Prime107’s apartment was chic and hi-tech in the extreme. There was not one retro appliance or stick of furniture or soft furnishing anywhere to be seen. He loved the air-press islands that, on his voice-activating command, would provide bodyfit shapes on which he could recline, wherever and whenever he felt like it. He loved the shell’s capacity to become any colour he desired, currently the palest blue, as well as the opaque or transparent modifications that came as basic. At this moment they lay on minutely rippling air which massaged A-Prime’s aching physique. A-Prime tended to have the shell of the chamber on mirror-translucent, maintaining privacy while allowing him to look across the urban wrapping, ninety percent of which was silvered bubble like his own.
“It takes it out of you, doesn’t it?” reflected ABZ-, “The body suffers from the mind’s torture.”
“I’m ok. I got on to level 7.”
“Arghh! That’s no-go! You are a freak. That’s why you have a Prime rating!” ABZ- had never gone further than basic, level 1 on the death programs before feeling sick. Indeed, he was worried that they sent back info to the authorities if anyone got as far as A-Prime was doing. Everyone knew that there were built-in detectors. Every game could be looped back to Central.

It’ll be out in a month or so, when my editor has put down his scalpel, needle and thread.

All my output at: www.chronometerpublications.me

Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment


<< Home