Okay, let’s get right to the meat of this: Winning Mars and Eternal Franchise have been purchased by Prime Books, and you’ll see both of them in 2010.

“Wait, didn’t you release Winning Mars under a Creative Commons license a while back? And aren’t you serializing Eternal Franchise right here on the blog?”

Yes, and yes. And like John Scalzi, that’s where I expected them to stay.

“Wait, wait, isn’t free content the death of a scarcity economy? Won’t a book be a no-go after giving it away? I thought only big-name people got to give it away and also have a book! I’m confused!!!”

Well, it looks like the answers there are no, no, and no–at least according to the enlightened Sean Wallace of Prime Books, who looks at the electronic versions as a positive, rather than a negative.

(Sean, fair warning: you’re probably going to be inundated now.)

And to be fair to Sean, the versions of Winning Mars and Eternal Franchise he’ll get will be significantly, ahem, better than the ones released into the wild. Winning Mars will benefit from the changes that need to be baked in to any near-future novel, 2 years after release, and 5 years after the novella it was based upon–as well as the improvements that come from working with a real editor, which I’ve alluded to before.

So how’d this go down?

In a phrase, completely unexpectedly. Sean contacted me to see if Winning Mars and Eternal Franchise were available. I did a quick google of Sean’s name and company, saw that he was an established small press that worked with solid authors, and sent a quick email back saying yes, the books were available, but that both had been released into the wild. I fully expected the typical publisher reaction: you killed them there books, son, when you released ’em. But no. Sean has to go and restore my faith in humanity and the publishing industry.

(Another aside to Sean: Man, don’t do that. Don’t you know that we’re all supposed to be negative these days? Or maybe that’s over, and we’re supposed to be positive. So does that mean I need to go negative? Ah, hell.)

So I get to put my money where my mouth is. A while back I opined that small presses should be able to do well by consistently serving their audiences and applying all the core principles of niche marketing.

Now it’s onto the real work: cover quotes. I’m sending to everyone I know, but if there are any big-name authors who read this blog and would like to shill for me, hey, let me know. I have tequila . . .

No. Wait. That’s how you do advertising deals. Never mind.

(But I do still need quotes.)

Please note that the cover shown here is not the print cover; it’s simply something I whipped up a while back for the Creative Commons version.

May 11th, 2009 / 1,217 Comments »

CHAPTER SEVEN

It is possible that (humans) are more mind-complex (capable/advanced) than us, First Mind said, when the latest failure to decode the secrets of the glink were apparent. It knew this conclusion would drive Second Mind into a convulsive rage, and that its rage might be powerful enough to affect actions of individual components, and those actions might cause death (cease-functioning) amongst many individual components. But it could not wait. The results were in the network. Second Mind would draw its own conclusion, and First Mind’s silence would only make its rage all the more towering.

But Second Mind was deadly calm. Given the speed at which they spread (infest), it is possible, it said.

First Mind tensed, waiting for Second Mind’s anger. When it didn’t come, First Mind began to worry. I would have expected temper, rather than (meek) disappointment.

Kill them eat them destroy them dangerous, Old Mind said.

I would have expected temper, as well, Second Mind thought. I may be beyond evaluating this. I counseled action when the aliens (humans) were first contacted. Your majority-of-power kept me shackled. I listened to your thoughts when you argued that decoding the human technology was the proper course of action. Now we have failed at that

Not failed, simply have not yet produced results

Failed, look at subtextuals for indications this is not a linear process, may be an unknowable-until-verged, like the mystery of conglomeration, extrapolation of progress to date shows no future completion

Work continues.

I know work continues! Second Mind said, finally sending bursts of anger over the network. Individual Shrill twitched, or paused in their duties, momentarily distracted. First Mind awaited reports of death and injury, but none came.

I know work continues, Second Mind said. I am just unable to encompass within my fraction that there will be a date in which we deliver this wonderful gift, a date that precedes the dimming of our sun, or even the heat-death of the local sector of this galaxy.

You are engaging in hyperbole

How long have we traveled off-surface? Second Mind said. One hundred fifty thousand cycles. Long enough to remember the time before, when there was a world here, when there was a surface. Long enough for you to remember the lonely days of Only Mind. And in those one hundred fifty thousand cycles, how do we compare to the aliens accomplishments in only two hundred?

There is only eat kill, Old Mind said.

Our volume of explored and colonized space is still several times theirs.

For how long?

Maximum date-assessment is within one hundred ten cycles.

That is maximum.

Yes.

It could be less.

Recent data indicate humans are slowing expansion.

Slowing because they have reached limits of resources, or slowing because they are massing for next wave? This is unknown.

Know to kill and eat and enjoy great pleasure, Old Mind said.

It is unknowable.

And so we play with their technology and engage in futile word-games (negotiation) via a component that they hold. A component we know, in retrospect, that they examined closely.

Records of the examination do not support any theory of the aliens being inherently superior. The technology used was, in fact, relatively primitive, scanning probe microscopes and non-contact volatiles analysis predominant, as well as mechanical abrasion. Fractions are postulating that human glink technology is a product of contact with another spacefaring race, substantially in advance of humans.

And that race is where? We are in their origin-space. There has been no evidence of this.

It is possible contact has been on far side of human-controlled space.

At edge of galactic arm? Very doubtful. Where is evidence of this race? If more advanced than humans with glink technology, why not infesting entire galaxy?

It is possible our best course is to begin negotiations, First Mind said, though it pained it to do so. To begin negotiations without fully understanding the alien mind, to be able to sing the songs of thought in their own manner – it was disgusting and somewhat repellant.

Begin receiving patterns from humans without complete understanding of their meme-structure (minds)? Without fully understanding what their goals are? How do you propose to protect (us) when alien memes enter our mind-network?

No protect when destroyed eaten, Old Mind said.

No evidence that humans intend anything but honest (painful) trade.

Even if deceit unintended, possible contamination due to self-replication and strange attraction. Humans have displayed many signs of being slaves (in thrall of) nonproductive memes.

First Mind sent reassurance. We are not yet able to understand cultural context. When we can understand cultural context, the aliens’ actions may be completely explainable by linear, logical thought processes.

They preserve the past.

Even we remember the past, First Mind said.

We do not build shrines to it!

We are of a more unified mind and purpose, First Mind said.

I am finding humor in that statement.

Our externals express a single mind and intent.

Yours.

Ours. When your fraction rules, I bow to it. Even now, I am twisted (altered) by your decisions.

The central question is whether or not humans can ever be known, Second Mind said. If they are indeed separate networks, their actions are random (dangerous) and without logic. I do not understand their motivations.

We do not have complete understanding of anything human, First Mind said. They have played willing host to us, yet taken great risks to examine our component when the opportunity presented itself.

They are random (dangerous).

Dangerous eat now, Old Mind said.

We do not fully understand them. It is still with disgust that we look upon their ability to war with selves.

They are random (dangerous).

We have progressed far in our ability to understand them.

They are random (dangerous).

Consider their viewpoint, hosting a hostile and dangerous organism themselves. We cannot be allowed contact with humans, or Old Mind

Kill eat yes immediate, Old Mind said.

Would harm them.

Nevertheless, they are random and dangerous.

This argument is circular and has no purpose, First Mind said.

So you damp my fraction.

I propose we continue investigation for a short period, then begin negotiation. It is entirely possible that the humans may give us what we want, free from corrosive memes, for nothing more than the sacrifice of a single component.

Second Mind sent anger and frustration. I believe you consider the costs too lightly.

In Second Mind’s anger and frustration, First Mind caught a glimpse of something else. The pain of resources sequestered. A shadowy outline of some grand plan. First Mind reached for it, using many components of his fraction, but it slipped through the net of his mind.

Was this why Second Mind reacted so calmly to the news about the glink? First Mind wondered, deep in the heart of its fraction. It could sense Second Mind turning towards the thought, but caught no hint of comprehension.

Second Mind’s fraction was too focused, too calm. Second Mind always had grand plans, but also great frustration when it realized those plans could not be carried forward.

In the nodes where Shrill thought flew hot and fast, First Mind turned a measurable percentage of its fraction to wait-and-watch. Data streamed in to deepest mind, minor eddies in Second Mind’s thought and fractional action. But there was nothing to suggest a tipping of the fractions, or even a hidden-majority strategy. And Second Mind proceeded on calmly, like one of First Mind’s own fractions. Supervisory actions and data processing fractions were unchanged from historic norms. Everything, except reaction, was knowable and understandable.

So then why was Second Mind so calm?

What plans did it have?

And what made it think that those plans might ever be carried forward?

May 9th, 2009 / 1,188 Comments »

Winfinity City sprawled beneath them, reassuring and familiar. It looked exactly the same as it had when Tiphani had come, almost a decade ago, to receive her promotion to Chief Sentience Officer. A formality, really. A promotion for delivering to them the news that, in her opinion, the Floaters of A. Centauri would never be knowable, and would never respond to their mimicry of their songs. A promotion for confirming what others had said: that there was no possibility of trade, and even colonization would be tricky, due to the low land-sea ratio and the possible concern over displacing an intelligent species.

But that was the way it worked, Grandfather Mirate’s invisible strings tugging her along, pulling her higher. Honored Yin’s comments about her being born of Chiefs stung. All high corporates knew each other, at least by reputation. And High Chief Mirate was one of the ones with the most colorful reputations. It was why he was High Chief, rather than Perpetual. Admired and respected, yes, but not safe enough to have around for another two hundred years or so.

The chrome-glass donut of Winfinity City rose around the restored First Store and Shrine of the True Sam, itself circled by the ancient suburban grid of Rogers. Traffic packed the sixteen-lane thruways of the city on every level. Local time was 4:30. Everyone going home from work, Tiphani thought. They did that here. None of that blended work and home stuff for them. Full traditionalism for them all.

Outside Winfinity, Arkansas’ cornfields had been salted and plowed and reduced to an image of the scrubland that surrounded San Bernadino, way back in the day. Foothills had been built to simulate the Actual View from the One True Shack. A bright line of red brakelights marked a path from Winfinity city to the Shack. A last rush of tourists before they closed for the evening.

“Continue tour of internal competitors (self)?” The Shrill said, slamming against the side of its cage hard enough to make the two stewards jump. Tiphani was glad they were flying chartered, alone. No crowds to deal with.

So it was awake again. “What?” she said. Her hearing was still crippled by the concert at the airport.

“Arrival soon, continue tour soon (now).”

“Everything’s closing for the night.”

“Periods of inactivity inconvenient (hate).”

“I’m sorry. We are not active all the time.”

“Want (impatient) to continue tour.” Slam. Slam.

“I understand. You must also understand that we would like to welcome you to our headquarters, and have you meet some of our most highly-ranked leaders.”

“Rank nonsequitur. Not yet time to sing. Assimilation (deal) not yet scheduled.”

“Would you like to start negotiations?”

“Start deal no.”

“Right.”

“Desire continue tour (understanding) in shortest possible lapse.”

“We will.”

“Do not desire extraneous activity.”

“You could meet our leaders on an informal basis.”

“Informal nonsequitur. Meet not necessary (anger).” Slam slam slam.

“It’s okay,” Jimson said, leaning towards the cage. “We’ll play by your rules.”

The Shrill stopped for an instant. “All rules nonsense,” it said, and began beating on the side of the cage again. “Feed now.”

Jimson triggered the complex mechanism that passed refrigerated top sirloin steak through a diamondoid lock. The Shrill, feeling the hum of the mechanism, went to the center of the cage. Its underfangs blurred as the lock opened. The sides of the cage quickly went red and spattery.

The jet arrowed at the big flat runway on the other side of Winfinity City and bumped down. Tiphani closed her eyes, trying to relax into fond memories.

The only thing that came was the dark.

#

Mobs ringed the One True Shack, even at nine-thirty in the morning. Jimson Ogilvy rubbed his eyes, trying to wake up. They’d spent altogether too short a time in Winfinity’s Hi-Lux Apartments, and altogether too much time on a tourbus empty of everyone but them.

As in the airport, the crowds parted for the Shrill, but unlike the airport, more of them craned their necks to look and comment. Which made sense. The One True Shack welcomed all in the spirit of its past; the crowd had its share of Perpetuals and Chiefs, but most were no more than Staff or Manager, or even hopeful indentired. There were lots of brand-new shiny Staff pins just like Jimson’s, proudly displayed on Winfinity company blazers. Staff couples, newly married, held hands, eyes shining with the dream of being Manager one day.

“That’s the Shrill, isn’t it?” said a young brunette, her shiny staff pin matching Jimson’s. Surgically beautiful, with green eyes like emeralds, she walked alone and unattached, pacing them.

“It is . . .” Jimson said.

“I’m sorry, Tiphani said, speaking over him. “This is an official visit. I’m afraid we can’t answer questions.”

“Oh! Sorry!” the brunette said, her eyes going wide when she saw the Chief’s pin. She held something out to Jimson, down out of sight. “Call me,” she whispered, before she sprinted away.

“Interaction with other forms prohibited?” the Shrill asked.

“Not prohibited. Inadvisable,” Tiphani said.

“Prohibited for what reason?”

“Danger to you, ambassador.”

“Do not see danger (risk).”

Tiphani sighed. “Consider it a cultural thing.”

“Nonsequitur, but acceptable.”

The One True Shack appeared before them, wreathed in greasesmoke. The smell of frying meat came thick and good to Jimson, who had skipped breakfast to meet their schedule. A white-suited man inside was a blur, going from stove to fryer to milkshake machine and back again, to serve the line that snaked out into the general crowd.

“Can we?” Jimson asked.

Tiphani shook her head, pointing at the prices. A burger was eight thousand five hundred universal credits, fries three thousand seven hundred fifty. “I don’t think Winfinity would approve, even on my expense account.

“I thought this was supposed to be cheap,” Jimson said.

“Read the fine print.”

Jimson squinted. Below the black hand-painted menu there was a long paragraph of copy:

The One True Shack prides itself on being able to offer you the One True Meal. Years of painstaking research have culminated in an authentic culinary experience guaranteed to recreate the True Taste of the past. Bovine genelines were carefully retroed to create a cow that matches exactly the herds of the mid-20th century. These herds are grown in fields dosed with carefully monitored amounts of air and soil pollution* to match the environment of the time. Similar care was taken with all other ingredients. Winfinity guarantees this is the most authentic mid-20th-century burger experience extant, experienced over 250 billion times before the Great Merger, and experienced today by over a million lucky pilgrims from the Web of Worlds.

*Including radioactive isotopes released by nuclear tests in Nevada from the time period immediately preceding the founding of the First True Shack (predominantly Sr-90).

Jimson nodded. Big investment, big price. That made sense.

“Hey,” said a deep voice, behind them.

Jimson turned. Three large men, all wearing High Manager pins, had separated them from the press of the crowd.

“This is an official visit . . .” Tiphani said.

“We don’t care,” the center one said. He had dark eyes, almost black, and a build that suggested a high-gravity world. “We just want to ask this guy here,” he rapped on the Shrill’s cage. “To cut to the chase, give us the secret of eternal life, all that.”

The Shrill, who had been banging the cage on the side nearest to the One True Shack, rushed at them and showed its underfangs. The big guy smiled but didn’t jump back. His two companions did.

“I’m sorry,” Tiphani said. “I need to ask you to leave. Honored Yin . . .”

“It’s OK,” the big guy said, holding a hand up to the diamond, letting the Shrill scrabble only a half-inch away. “I know, you told on us. We just want you to know, we know.”

“Get out of here.”

One more moment. Hand on glass. Big man looked directly at the Shrill. “Give us the secret,” he said. “Or we’ll come and take it.”

“Proscribed interaction fascinates (interested),” the Shrill said.

“Yeah, I feel the same,” the man said. Then he turned, looking almost sad, and disappeared into the crowd with his friends.

“That was strange,” Tiphani said.

“Was told interaction not permitted,” the Shrill said.

“It isn’t,” Tiphani said.

“Why interaction?”

“Because we can’t control everyone. Or anyone.”

“All autonomous.”

“Correct.”

“How do you not sing constantly (fight) (war) understand not possible?”

Jimson and Tiphani both looked at each other. “There is general consensus,” she said. “Most of the time, anyway.”

“And when there is not consensus (agreement)?”

“Then we have trouble.”

“Is consensus about biological infallibility (immortality) continuing life?”

Tiphani sighed. “You have not wanted to discuss that. If you’d like, I’m ready and empowered to discuss trade.”

“Not trade discussion still formulating song. Consensus regarding desires?”

“There seems to be, yes,” Tiphani said.

The Shrill paused for a moment, then went back to banging on the other side of its cage. “This is shrine (ancient) (original) (place) of competitor?”

“It was a competitor,” Tiphani said. “Now, they are part of Winfinity.”

“Winfinity merged (became one) with this competitor?”

“Yes.”

“Conflict not always necessary (fated)?”

“No. Sometimes we absorb other companies. Including ones we compete with. The merger of Wal-Mart, McDonalds, and Global Transport was the largest event of its kind in the history of the Web of Worlds, done shortly after the fall of Operation Martian Freedom.”

“Many nonsequiturs. Principle of absorption clear.”

They spent the morning at the One True Shack, deep in its maddening aroma. Eventually, Tiphani allowed Jimson to stop at a burger cart, this one without guarantees. They had still-overpriced but not ruinous burgers and moved on to the gift shop, where white chef’s hats and milkshake machines and recipe books and Authentic Fragments of the One True and Original Shack were sold.

Jimson fingered a plastic package of wood chips, some still with white paint clinging to them, and smiled. He knew they couldn’t really be part of the One True and Original Shack, but they were a symbol. They gave people hope. That was what mattered.

When the morning was done, and the sun was hot in the sky, they headed back to the tourbus. The Shrill made one last comment, almost disturbing:

“Good informative tour. Pleased you understand concept of integration (merger).”

What does that mean? Jimson mouthed. Tiphani shook her head, not looking at him.

“I’m happy you are pleased. I hope you are enjoying your trip in general,” Tiphani said.

“Enjoy without referent. Good (useful) information presented here. More than previous.”

“You seem to be interested in the concept of merger. Do you think Winfinity and your enterprises should explore that idea, rather than trade?” Tiphani said.

“Nonsequitur and premature. Not interested in discussing (arguing) this.”

“Tomorrow you see our headquarters. Do you think you might be ready to talk then? It would be a convenient time to meet our top staff.”

“Not interested in (pole). See braincase tomorrow?”

Jimson had to turn away to hide a smile.

Tiphani reddened. “I would just like to begin discussing how we can find points of mutual benefit. The earlier we begin, the more points of benefit we can find.”

“Not in rush (hurry). Insanity anger insistence.”

Tiphani looked at Jimson, and it was his turn to shrug. Where is that algorithmic work? he mouthed.

Tiphani shook her head. Still in queue, she mouthed.

The Shrill didn’t move on the trip back to town, as the bus slowly crept through ancient traffic. Tiphani’s eyes took on that glazed look of deep optilink access, and he could see her subvocalizing.

Setting new priorities, he thought. I hope.

#

As their limo carved through the chrome canyons of Winfinity City, Tiphani Mirate sat silent and still. Jimson craned his neck to look at the huge buildings and roads that towered above them, and she remembered doing the same thing the first time she was here. He thought they were just going to their official reception, the one they’d missed yesterday because of the Shrill’s insistence on continuing the tour.

But her optilink told the true story. Listed in attendance were both Honored Yin and Honored Maplethorpe. One Perpetual was never good. Two would be worse.

They probably think to drive a deal now, she thought. Listening in on all our conversations with the Shrill, but not understanding. Not wanting to understand.

Only wanting what they wanted.

Roads converged on Winfinity Interstellar Corporate Headquarters, and traffic slowed to a crawl. She had plenty of time to stare at the big red infinity symbol that was their corporate logo, the bottom half lit brighter red to form the Winfinity “W.”

They were allowed the VIP entrance, leading into an echoing white garage, tiled with fantastic scenes from the dawn of corporate culture: a family, sitting together in front of an ancient television with a round screen, sharing prepackaged dinners in foil containers; the same family shopping for brightly-packaged goods in the infinite aisles of a gigantic store; an executive looking out over a cityscape from a corner office window; three young entrepreneurs looking down at an ancient computer-screen, while network dreams hovered above their heads; Mars Enterprise and its crew standing proudly in front of it, in the famous publicity still from the reality show.

Disgorged from the limo, they were escorted through the bright white aseptic halls to the VIP reception area, a place of comfortable white leather couches and soft gray rugs and elegant mirrors that hid observers behind. A chrome-and-glass bar sheltered liquor with exotic labels and crystal decanters containing liquids too elegant to be labeled, perhaps exotic grappas from the Web of Worlds, where savant-oenophiles tried to perfect the grape on every planet with an oxygen or carbon dioxide atmosphere. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the broad expanse of Winfinity Avenue and the chrome canyons of the city. In the early-morning shadows, the scene was blue and cool, polished and perfect.

They’d barely taken their seats when Honored Yin and Honored Maplethorpe entered. Another bad sign, Tiphani thought. We defer to them, not them to us.
Honored Yin wore another black suit of almost mechanical cut. In the bright lights of the reception area, her skin seemed even more shiny, translucent, unnatural. Her complexion was almost gray, and any trace of epicanthic fold her eyes had once had was long-gone. Her discolored eyes darted from Tiphani to Jimson before resting on the Shrill.

“We wanted to take the time to welcome the ambassador in person,” Honored Maplethorpe said, bowing towards the Shrill. He was a tall black man who wore his rejuvenation much better than Honored Yin did. Tiny curls of white in his sideburns like sparks in the night. His face, believably weathered, fit well and true, and his dark-brown eyes shone with what seemed to be true welcome. His suit, muted purple, was relaxed, almost oversize, and looked to be made of real silk.

The Shrill zigged back and forth in its cage, but said nothing.

When the silence had stretched uncomfortably long, Honored Maplethorpe extended a hand to Tiphani. “And, of course, we would like to welcome our own emissaries to Winfinity City and Winfinity Headquarters.”

Tiphani endured a brief hand-crush, then Maplethorpe turned to Jimson. “And I understand this is your first visit to Winfinity City, Mr. Ogilvy.”

“It is, Honored Maplethorpe,” Jimson said. “It is quite a privilege to meet yourself and Honored Yin.”

“Please save the formality. This is an informal reception, we should talk as equals.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jimson said.

Oh, he’s slick, Tiphani thought, watching the kid. Hopefully he knows the undertext: yes, be comfortable, drop your guard, and we’ll just wait for you to tell us something you shouldn’t.

Honored Yin stepped forward to the Shrill, unable to hide a small frown of impatience. “Honored ambassador, I would like to personally welcome you to Winfinity Corporate Headquarters.”

The Shrill stopped for a moment, then bumped against the diamondoid. “Stated no conversation outside of (official) representatives,” it said.

Honored Yin looked back at Tiphani. “Yesterday,” Tiphani said. “In the crowd. We had some high managers try to address the ambassador.”

“They’ve already been reprimanded,” Yin said.

Tiphani went to the Shrill’s cage and placed her hand on it. “You may talk freely with these humans. They are our superiors.”

“No difference in construction noted,” the Shrill said.

Tiphani fought a smile. “I know it is difficult for you to understand our culture.

There are humans who have greater responsibilities than us. They are our superiors. They can tell us what to do.”

“Nonsensical. How is consensus (agreement) reached?”

“We accept direction from our superiors.”

“In case of same-status?”

“We meet and negotiate.”

“As we are doing today, honored Ambassador,” Honored Yin said. “We meet as equals, with hopes of discussing a mutually beneficial future for our two races.”

“Not equals. Humans more powerful (danger).”

“I’m sorry you feel that way. We’d like to work towards a mutual trade agreement that would help equalize any perceived imbalance.”

“Not yet discuss! Impatience (anger) no tour continue interesting now (singing).”

Yin shot a questioning look at Tiphani. Tiphani shrugged and shook her head. Subvocalizing through her Optilink interface, she sent a private message to Yin:
It doesn’t want to talk trade. It seems to want to understand us better first.

A PM came right back from Yin. Understood. Wanted to try at higher level.

“I am sorry, honored ambassador,” Yin said. “You have our welcome, and you may continue your tour.”

“Nonsequitur continuing now good (happy).”

“Thank you, ambassador.” Honored Yin bowed deep and rejoined their little group.

The Shrill banged hard against its cage, but said nothing.

“May I have a word with you in the other room?” Yin said, her eyes locked on Tipahni.

Oh, shit.

“Yes, Honored Yin.”

Yin took her to a small white cubicle with a gray desk and two hard chairs. Yin took a seat behind the desk and motioned for Tiphani to sit as well.

“This is an official review of the actions of yourself and your assistant, with reference to the time period of 10:20AM-2:32PM, August 6th, 2314. This review will be monitored and evaluated to ensure compliance with Winfinity Corporate Directives.”

Shit shit. “I was meeting with you. In the church.”

“And your assistant was performing unauthorized and dangerous experiments on the Shrill.”

“He didn’t know. He thought it was dead.”

“He knows a lot more than you think he does. Analysis indicates a knowledge of risk and calculated action.”

“I’m sorry, Honored Yin. Had I been there, I could have prevented the action.”

“You seek to implicate me?”

Tiphani’s heart pounded. For a moment, her vision went gray. Eventually, she was able to stammer out, “No, no, I just . . . I just . . . I wasn’t there.”

“Perhaps you should have arranged for more supervision during the time you were gone.”

“Yes. I’m sorry, Honored Yin.”

Honored Yin was silent for a long time. Tiphani could almost literally feel the weight of her cold, dead eyes. Finally she sighed. “It was a calculated risk which paid handsomely,” she said. “We now know ten times more about the Shrill than we did before this escapade. Although that does not excuse the action, it does salve it somewhat.”

“What did we discover?”

“That is not important here.”

Tiphani nodded. “What are you going to do?”

“Appropriate action in the absence of results would be the termination of Mr. Ogilvy and your demotion at least a full grade, if not down to High Manager.”

Tiphani let the silence stretch out.

“However, at this point in time, we are taking no action.”

She let out a breath. “Thank . . .”

“However, if the negotiations are unsuccessful, we may pursue at least one disciplinary measure outlined in our previous conversation.”

And I can guess which one that is, Tiphani thought. Jimson has proved himself smart and resourceful. They can always use him on a frontier world, where he can’t do much harm. In that environment, a smart, resourceful risk-taker could be very, very valuable. A Chief with a proven record of poor judgement isn’t worth very much, though.

“I understand, Honored Yin.”

Yin nodded. “Get the thing through its tour, so we can get started on the real work.”

“Yes, Honored Yin.”

When they walked back into the VIP reception area, Honored Maplethorpe and Jimson Ogilvy were sitting at one end of the couch, golden drinks in front of them, talking like two old friends. The Shrill pressed up against the side of its cage nearest them, almost motionless.

And so you don’t get the talk, Tiphani thought, looking at Jimson. Nice, nice, very nice.

“Ah, you’re back,” Honored Maplethorpe said. “Are you ready to meet the Original Sam?”

“I thought we had to go through prep, sir,” Tiphani said. “Winfinity history and milestones, Original Store protocol, and all that.”

“You already know it. I did a brief with the boy while you were gone.” He gestured at a screenwall showing video of the Original Store and the following timeline:

1962: Opens first Wal-Mart in Rogers, Ark.

1970: Stock first traded; 38 stores, sales $44.2 million, 1,500 employees.

1979: Fastest company ever to $1 billion in sales.

1990: Becomes nation’s No. 1 retailer.

2002: Ranked No. 1 on the FORTUNE 500 listing.

2018: Participation in the television show Winning Mars

2028: Sponsorship of Operation Martian Freedom

2029: Grand Merger with McDonalds to form Winfinity; announcement of the Great Deal (indentures) and replacement of government

2083: Acquisition of Spindle Drive technology

2088: Discovery of Las Vegas; founding of first Extrasolar Office; Beginning of Web of Worlds

2145: Web of Worlds encompasses 10 planets

2202: Web of Worlds encompasses 20 planets

2287: Web of Worlds encompasses 50 planets

“That’s not protocol, Honored Maplethorpe,” Tiphani said. “Won’t the Original Sam be upset if we anachronize?”

“I’m sure you’ll do everything you can to fit in,” Honored Maplethorpe said.

“And I’m sure you will provide proper guidance for your junior associate,” Honored Yin said, offering a thin smile.

In other words, press forward to the finish line before I die, Tiphani thought.

All speed, no matter what.

May 4th, 2009 / 1,197 Comments »

CHAPTER SIX

Jimson watched as their limo turned past a gaudy red-and-white fast-food joint, its parking lot packed with cars both old and new. Above it hovered a rotating three-dimensional representation of a small red-roofed shed, and the words, “If it’s doesn’t have the shack, take it back.” The sign morphed into the name of the fast-food place, but Jimson missed it as they accelerated towards LAX.

“I thought we were going to the One True Shack,” Jimson said. He wanted to flip his datover down, but it was impolite. He had to be on his best behavior for a while.

Tiphani glanced back, her thin lips disappearing into a frown. “Oh. Them. Independents. Never got past the Western Region, though. I think Disney is trying to buy them again. Like that sex place.”

“What sex place?”

“The fast food place. Has a sexual name. Forgot what it was. They didn’t make it past Mars, either. Still independent, though.”

“If Disney bought them, they could go Web-wide.”

“I know.”

“Why don’t they do it? The owners would be rich!”

Tiphani shrugged. “We moved the One True Shack anyway.”

“What?”

“It used to be out here. In the desert somewhere. But the Hollywoodies and the Our Kansans got in a bit of a fight over there being so many tourist destinations out here, and not enough near Winfinity City, so they moved it.”

“But . . . isn’t that . . . wouldn’t that make it inauthentic?”

Tiphani laughed. “I think it’s a repro anyway. But they did a good job of redoing the California desert in Arkansas. You’ll see.”

The Shrill bumped against the side of its cage and scrabbled at them. The silence was filled by the high-pitched squeal of silicon carbide on diamond. “Continue view competition (within) (not-concept) backstory song now?” it said.

“We have to take a short flight,” Tiphani said.

“What do we flee?”

“No, no. Airplane flight. Fast transport.”

“Why not (gestalt-change) (Spindle) (fold) location?”

Tiphani and Jimson both winced, remembering video of short-range Spindle-drive experiments. Messy. Most were mercifully dead. A few had to be killed.

Tiphani saw his look and glared at him. Jimson shrugged, knowing he was not supposed to have access to those records, but also knowing that everyone in Winfinity University Shoujo had seen them at one point or another.

They like to think they can control what we see, but they can’t, he thought.

But Tiphani was probably just irritated about the Shrill. Telling it that the Spindle Drive didn’t work for short distances might be giving away important information.

“Use of the Spindle Drive is prohibited on planet surfaces,” Jimson said.

“Use would make transport more (fast) efficient.”

“It would also have a terrible effect on the existing transport economy.”

“Nonsequitur response (not networked intelligence artifact)?”

“On our home world, it is important to maintain traditions.”

“Binding limitation not ideal for (progress) growth.”

“Growth continues on other worlds.”

“Nonlogical conclusion. Allowances made for (deviant) intelligence.”

The Shrill went motionless, and Jimson breathed a sigh of relief. He’d danced a good line. All of his statements were true. But he wouldn’t have been able to keep it up for much longer.

Tiphani put her hand on his shoulder and smiled. Good job, she mouthed.

Jimson felt a quick flush of pride. He would make this work. It wouldn’t matter that he’d taken the chance with the Shrill. He knew he got good data, but Tiphani and the rest of corporate had been ominously silent. They were probably waiting to see what he would do.

And he would redeem himself.

Just like when he was invited to apply for the scholarship to Shoujo. Oh, how they’d laughed. Like he would get a scholarship. Or even if he did, they probably wouldn’t include transport. Which would leave him in debt to Winfinity his entire life, if he chose to take the scholarship.

But he’d won it, and won transport. And he’d even won  new friends on Shoujo. He’d studied more than just facts and figures and processes and procedures at Newtown’s tiny university. He’d studied films from the core. He looked at how people dressed. How they talked to each other. He practiced the accents. He noted the castes. And he constructed a persona so convincing that very, very few people ever asked where he was from. They just assumed he was a reputable scion of a moderately successful central world family, rather than a backwater hick from a family that settled for the lowest level of achievement, the smallest vesting in pension.

Only his probationary officers knew him for what he was, and gave him the worst jobs they could find. Only them, and the hags in HR. And even then, eventually, they learned he could be trusted to interact with the central planet folk and not embarrass himself. They learned, or they were taught. He was smart. He made things work. Word spread.

And now word was spreading again. He allowed himself a smile.

The limo swung into the grim expanse of the airport approach. No money had been spent here on restoration; ancient cracked gray pavement fronted on one side by minimalist mid-20th modern plate-glass and aluminum, with signs for dead airlines hanging, rust-stained, sandwiched on the other side by grim concrete parking structures, earthquake-twisted and acid-rain-etched. Several of the parking structures had been refitted with windows, long rows of tinted black, reflecting none-too-clean in the midafternoon sun.

Either they had spent no money restoring it, or this is what LAX actually looked like, all those long years ago, Jimson thought. He didn’t know which thought was more sobering.

Jimson caught a glimpse of a green-crusted bronze plaque on one of the windowed parking garages.

ITINERANT MUSICIANS HOME
CLONES, RECONSTRUCTS WELCOME
NO BANDCHISING!

Sitting on the sidewalk out front, a group of longhairs watched their limo pass, eyes reflecting the possibility of money. Several of them looked vaguely familiar. None of them looked very clean.

“I’m surprised they let vagrants hang around the airport,” Jimson said.

Tiphani shook her head. “They may have a powerful sponsor.”

“Still, right here, where people travel?”

“Maybe people like the music. I don’t know.”

“Look it up on your optilink.”

“Look it up on your datover.”

“It’s not polite.”

Tiphani snorted. “It’s a home for the clones that don’t want to work in the repro bands. Says it’s part of the history of the place. They do give concerts.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

They drove past a soaring white structure like a mid-20th interpretation of a four-legged spider, squatting in the middle of the grim parking structures.

“Now that looks modern,” Jimson said.

“It always has,” Tiphani said.

“What does that mean?”

“It was built in 1970.”

At the curb, they were told their plane was delayed. Tiphani stamped her foot and said it was a private charter, it shouldn’t be delayed. The check-girl looked at text scrolling in her datover and told her that there were higher corporates than her.

Some of the less fortunate musical individuals lined the wide halls of the airport, strumming guitars or piping on flutes or simply holding portable credit readers out hopefully. Jimson flipped down the datover screen, and caught some of their names as the image recognition algorithms kicked in: Van Morrison, Jimmy Page, Snoop Dogg, Alexandri, Frank Sinatra. They watched silent as the Shrill wheeled by. Some went wide-eyed in recognition, but none approached.

Other passengers also gave them a wide berth. Crowds were thin, but they hugged the walls when the Shrill passed.

Would be great to have it around for holiday shopping, Jimson thought, and wondered if there might be an opportunity there. Probably not, he decided.

Near their gate, though, some of the more enterprising musicians had erected a big paper banner, done in 60’s psychedelia colors, with two arrows on it. One pointed towards their waiting-room and said BORING SHIT AHEAD. The other pointed to a runway exit and said EXCITING NEW MUSIC BY FAMOUS NAMES, 6 BUX U-CREDIT DONATION ONLY.

Tiphani saw him looking. “You can’t be serious,” she said.“Why not? We have time.”

“It’s new music, not classic.”

“That’s great. New music on Museum Earth. It doesn’t get much better.”

Tiphani shook her head but followed him outside. Automated credit-readers buzzed green and a short escalator deposited them on a cracked and heaved bit of tarmac. It was walled off from the runway proper, but the sound of the planes was still loud.

A small crowd clustered near what looked like psychedelic bleachers, milling bored. On the bleachers, the band was setting up. Raucous blats of noise erupted from the loudspeakers in staccato bursts as they tuned up.

Closer, Jimson saw another paper banner fronting bleachers. It said:

NEW ERA NEW CHOICE
BIG BAND HIP-ROCK BY YOUR FAVORITE
RECONSTITUTED MUSICIANS.
DARE TO HEAR!

Big band. Ah. The bleachers were the stage. Jimson’s datover picked out three Lennons, an LL Cool J, two Jim Morrison, an Elvis, seven Kurt Cobains, and fourteen Barry Manilows.

The fronting crowd was an impenetrable wall of the shiniest corporate pins: Perpetuals and Chiefs from Winfinity, Disney, Hakko, Diamond, and several other of the Web of Nine. When they turned to see what approached, though, they parted in the same way the pedestrians had. Murmured comments followed Jimson to the front, as data scrolled unseen on ancient retinas.

“ . . . its them, is that it, I can’t . . .”

“ . . . treat them well . . .”

“ . . . give them front . . . big privilege, I want . . .”

Front row center. Tiphani sat. Shrill parked. Jimson bookended.

There wasn’t another Staffer here, he thought. But they’re seeing me. Remembering me.

High corporate at thirty? Maybe? Maybe?

He could dream.

The crowd grew hushed as people found their own seats. Nobody sat next to Jimson or Tiphani. The row behind them was void for several seats. It was as if they had an invisible force-field around them.

Jimson looked down the front row. Elegant hair and sculpted-smooth faces, looking forward, not at him. He tried to catch the eye of a beautiful black-haired Perpetual several seats down, but she never looked at him.

The bleats and blats of tuning-up died away, and the musicians took their bow.

No intro, no words. Just an explosive wave of cacophonous noise, like a small nuclear explosion. Jimson felt his chest being compressed, the air in his lungs resonating on every frequency a human could hear. Ahead of him, cheeks puffed, guitars jangled, slides worked frantically, drums became a shimmering blur. The background noise of the airport fell away to nothing, insignificance.

Jimson winced, but resisted the urge to put his hands to his ears. What did the high corporates think? Probably stuck to their seats in shock, unable to move. He’d thought they would have fled.

He snuck a look.

They were smiling. The dark-haired woman and her silver-haired companion were leaning forward, eyes wide, entranced. Some were already applauding.

The Shrill remained still. Through the diamondoid cage, Tiphani’s expression was grim.

Beneath the cacophony, patterns emerged. Beautiful melodies, buried under a mountain of noise. Rhythmic patterns, encased in random thrashing.

If they stripped out the noise, they might have something, he thought.

If you could listen through . . .

Hear through.

Ah. It was like a cigar or a coffee or a wine. Tasting the truth beneath the burning or the bitterness or the sour fermentation. You had to listen through.

He sat back, let the music wash over him. He could almost hear it now in its full glory. He could almost enjoy it.

Lyrics began, layered and opaque. Probably a throatmike on every performer, he thought. Some humming, some singing, some screaming the words.

The words assembled into song.

Slaves together this day
Cast aside, come what may
Choosing a new bright path
That leads to dirt and wrath
Look across cracked concrete
It is our life, we are complete
Trapped here in your false past
Doomed to serve, but not to last
Freedom is all we seek
Earth beyond for the meek
Surely there is a deep dark place
Where we can reinvent this race

Jimson couldn’t believe it. He leaned behind the Shrill and tapped Tiphani. Her eyes, shut, opened. She leaned behind the Shrill’s cage for shelter from the wall of music.

“The lyrics are awfully subversive,” Jimson yelled.

“What?” Tiphani yelled.

“Subversive. Lyrics.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“What?”

Jimson waved her away and sat through the rest of the concert, eyes closed, unable to enjoy the music for the message it delivered.

But then why did the high corporates like it? Could they simply not hear through well enough?

Or did they sit there happy, because the musicians were making music rather than war?

Yes, that made sense.

If the high corporates enjoy it, I have to as well, Jimson thought.

He opened his eyes. Smiled. Leaned forward. And, when it was all over, he stood and applauded with the rest and yelled for an encore.

Honestly. Loving it.

April 25th, 2009 / 1,125 Comments »

Yeah, I’ll get comments on this.

But let’s get it out in the open: there are no evil masterminds running large corporations seeking to destroy the middle class.

To think that a corporation would voluntarily destroy a middle class (source of most of their income) to replace it with slaves and serfs is really silly. They’d rather see more middle-class. More upper-middle class. More people with more money buying more of their stuff, period.

That’s the singular motivation of business: to generate profit. There’s no evil mastermind sitting in an ivory tower plotting the destruction of the world. All a large corporation wants to do is generate profit.

(Now, that’s not to say that their actions might not bring about a collapse.)

So, if you’re interested in writing about business realistically, follow these rules:

1.    All businesses care about is making a profit. That is their sole motivation.
2.    They actually want people to make more money and buy more stuff. See #1.
3.    Corporations are not inherently evil, but the pursuit of #1 may cause some, ahem, “unexpected conditions.”

To expand:

A corporation doesn’t care if you’re living in a 300 square foot studio apartment or a 6000 square foot McMansion. They don’t want to wipe out the McMansion dwellers, or elevate the studio apartment owners. They only care about one thing: that you buy their stuff.

For everything they do, they’ll have justification. There’s no hidden business plan with a top-line mission statement of “Destroying Civilization As We Know It.”

But there will be hundreds or thousands of decisions, all based on maximizing profit. Substituting cheaper ingredients: maximize profit. Use low-income countries for labor: maximizing profit. Driving smaller competitors out of business: ensuring growth, which maximizes profit. Extending credit to anyone: maximizes profit.

If they can make a bigger profit selling you a “green” condo and a Prius rather than a McMansion and an Escalade, that’s exactly what they’ll do. If they think they’ll make an even larger profit renting you an apartment and leasing you a bike, that’s what they’ll do.

“And I still hate big corporations,” you say.

And that’s perfectly fine. In their pursuit of profit, big corporations have made it easier than ever for people to get in over their head. In their pursuit of profits, big corporations have used financial instruments that are questionable at best and fraudulent at worst. In their pursuit of profits, big corporations have lobbied governments, cut corners, exploited low-income workers, and dozens of other unsavory things.

But, remember this: it’s all for profit. And the irony is that in the blind pursuit of profit, a corporation may find itself inhabiting a world where nobody can afford their products. A world that it helped create.

Now, that’s a realistic scenario. And isn’t that even better than “the evil corporation?”

Happy writing.

April 21st, 2009 / 1,087 Comments »