Category Archives: Fiction

Story concept: Dead man walking

I often sketch out stories in my head, just because it’s something I enjoy doing. Occasionally I turn them into shorts, but I’ve neither the patience nor the talent to really turn them into anything longer so most of the concepts just wither and die.

This seems like a shame, so I thought I might post some of them here as I come up with them. Feel free to take them and run with them if the idea grabs you, though I imagine that’s fairly unlikely as I suspect most people with the will to write are not short of ideas to write about.

Concept:

Protagonist is some sort of research into personal software assistance and/or cybernetics. He has a lot of software which is basically designed to emulate him in mundane tasks – dealing with phone calls, doing drudge research, etc. Over time, both with new software being written and the software developing better models of his behaviour, it gets to the point where the software can fake him to a very convincing degree. Additionally the more he relies on it the more it becomes an integrated part of his personality to the point where it’s difficult to tell exactly where he ends and the software begins (there’s probably no full mind-brain link so much as a very good wearable interface).

At some point he realises that he’s having to deal with a lot of boring face to face stuff while the software is automating a lot of things he’d rather be doing. He takes advantage of latest developments in cybernetic prosthetics for dealing with e.g. spine damage and enables it so that the software is actually fully capable of running his body while his mind wanders. Division blurs further.

Then he dies. Severe brain aneurysm or some such – leaves the body basically intact but brain dead.

…but the software is still happily running and, as per above, is quite capable of controlling the body. Moreover it basically behaves like him in most cases. So despite being brain dead, he is perfectly capable of carrying on as he always did in most circumstances. What does he do now?

Themes:

Social issues. Friends and family are going to be severely freaked out – it’s unlikely they had any idea how much of their interactions with protagonist were already just the software, and it will be very hard to figure out how they should treat him now
Legal issues. By all medical definitions our protagonist is legally brain dead and unable to make his own decisions. Except that he appears to be walking around, talking and carrying about his daily business
Personal issues. The protagonist is having a pretty serious identity crisis. Is he dead? Is he an upload? Is he an AI or merely a really good non-sentient fake? Additionally, he has to cope with the fact that he feels like he’s become stupid. The biological brain was the real creative problem solver – even the software that was designed to cope with doing research and problem solving was really there to do the drudge work while he sorted out the real thing

And that’s about as far as I’ve got with the concept. I like the idea, but I’m not sure how I’d flesh it out into a full story even if I wanted to.

Dark Lord

For thousands of years, the dark lord has ruled over the realm. Once every century the gods grant power to a chosen hero to challenge the dark lord and win our freedom.

At least, that’s how it’s used to be.

You see, the key there is “thousands of years” and “once every century”. That’s a good 20, 30 heroes who have challenged the dark lord and snuffed it. People were getting more than a little tired of the whole “generations of oppression by an immortal and unfathomable evil” thing. So about 40 years ago, a town official named Arin (better known to me as “dad”) had a bright idea. It ran sortof as follows: So, this dark lord. Pretty powerful, right? On the other hand… there are a lot of us. And we can build siege weapons.

Bloody warfare, much suffering, etc. Eventually confirmed that the fine print on “immortal” in “immortal and unfathomable evil” includes the phrase “As long as you don’t pack him in half a ton of black powder and set fire to it in a confined space”.

So, things are pretty good these days. It’s no utopia, but we’ve got a fairish system of government going, people are generally feeling less oppressed and life is looking up.

So you can imagine how surprised I was when a messenger of the gods arrived to tell me I was the chosen hero, to be gifted with the ability to inspire the hearts of men, near invincibility and awesome destructive power. And a cool sword.

I did try to tell him that there’d been a horrible cock-up and the dark lord was dead, but he was having none of it. Insisted he couldn’t possibly leave without granting me power. Oh well, if you’re going to twist my arm over it go on then.

So, here I am. Divine powers of leadership and warfare, and no dark lord to challenge me.

Muahahaha.

(This story is loosely stolen from an idea of Charles Stross’s)

Gates

I spent some time as a superintelligence once. It was weird. Eventually I got bored of it, trimmed myself down and stuffed myself back into a body.

I don’t remember a great deal about it – it’s hard to remember what it was like to be smarter than you are now – but every now and then I get flashes where I remember some fact or event.

For example, once I remembered how the travel gates work.

It turns out this was not a good thing. I ended up terrified of using them and couldn’t bring myself to leave the planet I was on at the time. I spent most of the next century drunk out of my mind and, when I finally sobered up, I resolved to do something about it, built myself a slowboat (you wouldn’t believe how much effort it takes to bootstrap a society from hunter gatherer to interstellar) and took a thousand year trip to find someone I trusted to help me edit my memories.

Anyway, mission accomplished, I got the knowledge expunged from my mind and happily returned to the life of a modern interstellar traveller, gating all around the galaxy. What a lark.

Thing is, there’s a problem with memory editing. You tend to edit out the reason you got your memory edited in the first place. And then you start burning up with curiousity. After a good few hundred years I finally couldn’t take it any more and just had to find out. And I did.

Want another drink? I think I’m going to be here a while.

Spam

I recieved the strangest message earlier.

“HOt SlutS will be begg1nG for your cock!!!”

Well, yes. I suppose they could be. But it would be a bit childish, don’t you think?

Anyway, I tracked it down to an old archive machine. It seems it had been purely in monitor mode, but through some bug or malice had started forwarding messages from its data source. Rather odd ones, but that in itself wasn’t so remarkable.

Still, it was curious, and I had a few minutes spare time, so I thought I’d investigate further.

It seems it was a very old archive machine, hooked up to the most marvelously archaic setup. A few million ancient computers scattered across the planet, all connected up together with fiber optics. They must have been decades old. I’d never seen the like.

It seemed mostly to be concerned with sending text like the above amongst itself. There were a couple common variations – something to do with “viagra” or “cialis” (perhaps they were the same thing?) appeared to be the most common theme, but “amateurs” featured frequently as well.

Each piece of text would be sent from one machine to many others. Sometimes it would stop there, sometimes it would be forwarded to another. Occasionally the same mail would be passed on to further recipients. More often it would simply sit there, eventually getting deleted.

It was all very peculiar. I couldn’t quite see the point of it to be honest. Clearly some sort of laboratory experiment someone left running and forgot about. I suppose it might be interesting to some people – there’s no accounting for taste.

Anyway, I took a backup of the whole thing and then shut it down.

It wouldn’t do to let this sort of thing get out of hand after all.

They called me mad

I haven’t written any fiction in ages, mostly because I kept dropping ideas as they were taking too long, so I’ve decided to start experimenting with microfiction as a format. Here’s the first of these.

They called me mad

I wake up on an operating table. I try to sit up, but I’m strapped down. Of course. Why is this never easy?

“Ah, Mr Michaels. You’re awake. Terribly sorry for the inconvenience, but we couldn’t have you interfering with the experiment. I’ll let you go as soon as we’re done here”.

I look at the speaker. An older man in a lab coat (why do they always wear lab coats? It’s not like they really need them. They’re always pristine white), fiddling around with some computer setup. My target.

There’s another table to my left. A dead woman on it – quite far gone. Well preserved, but withered and with a trace of decay. He’s further along than I’d hoped.

I strain against the bonds. No luck. I try to get to the knife in my hidden pocket, but it’s been taken. No way out but talking I guess.

“There’s still time to stop. I can guarantee you won’t be harmed.”

He looks genuinely puzzled.

“Why would I stop? Things are going so well”.

“What you’re doing is against nature! It will turn around and bite you if you don’t stop before it’s too late!”

“Do you live in a tree, Mr Michaels?”

“What?”

“Simple question. Do you live in a tree?”

“No. Why would I live in a tree?”

“Natural state of living for monkeys like ourselves. This modern housing, very unnatural.”

“That’s different”.

“Is it? Oh well, I suppose you’ve convinced me. I have seen the error of my ways and shall come quietly”.

“Really?”

“No, I’m afraid not. Anyway”, he said smiling brightly “all ready. We might as well begin”.

He presses a few buttons and a background humming noise I had hardly noticed raised in volume and pitch. My jaw dropped

“But how can you be ready? The storm isn’t for another two days!”

More bemused looks.

“Why would I need a storm? That sounds like a very unreliable way of working. I have a generator in the basement, and capacitors for storing the electric charge”.

I’m panicking now. I’d never let them get this close before. “Look, just stop! It’s all going to be horribly wrong!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Do you think I haven’t tested this? I’m a scientist Mr Michaels. There is a process for these things. They called me mad, but the one accusation they never leveled was that my methods were insufficiently rigorous”.

“But you’ve never tested it on a human. Never on a being with a soul!”

He laughs. Not a cackle, just an amused little chuckle. I’ve heard a lot of mad laughs. I’m practically a connoisseur of a good diabolical laugh. Believe me, this chuckle is a lot worse.

“Of course I’ve tested it on a human. Tell me, Mr Michaels, did you think people normally wake up feeling quite so well rested after being shot in the face?”

I remember. I had my gun out, pointing at him, when there was a loud bang and then blackness. Oh god, he actually did it.

The humming raises to a fever pitch. There’s a crack, as if of thunder, and a bright white light fills the room. The dead woman sits up, decay fading and color and flesh returning to her. She smiles.

“Now, Mr Michaels, would you care to join Alice and myself for tea?”