Any World That You're Welcome To 2

 2050: After The Horizon of Veronica Smart. 

She'd been used to changes. She changed her face and limbs and eyes and name ("Bright "seemed better than "Smart", somehow. It was originally "Martin." She didn't care what anyone called her. She liked being called "Veronica" but her godmother called her "Ronnie." She wanted to not be called anything but "free", but things got very confused. Her liberty in the form of a variety of tech turned out to be a massive financial encumbrance. 

Was she really afraid of seeing her own godmother? Theoretically, the woman might have even changed her diapers, if she was the kind of person who changed diapers. Was she? 

Her godmother wasn't the most accessible person in the world. Veronica was very accessible--a socials celebrity. And the old bird was like 80 or whatever. Did she even know what socials was like?  Facebook and X and whatever her father's old friend knew were bygones. 

But she had sent a very nice basket and a handwritten note (print) explaining she was always there for her and to please contact her for anything she needed. Which was how things were probably done in the late 20th century. She didn't know about NOW.

Mostly she saw the woman on streams and was probably an avatar. Fifty might look like thirty. Eighty didn't look like twenty. 

Dad gave her a trust fund and never expected her to be in the business. He said point blank to please stay a bit clear from Zia Genoveffa. 

And here she was, with a hand full of bills, 

George

 Adrian didn't understand why there was a nearly life-like android working for Genevieve, let alone how he was a limited AI. Not a simulacrum, an honest-to-goodness early 21st Century pre-AGI fail retro-futurist Asimov-level "That Guy". Until he realized how old she was, and her friend was. 

Then it made more sense. 

Her "robot-friend" was old enough to be his grand-dad, and was extremely self-aware of it 

"I have religion."

"You're fucking with me, mate." 

"You said you wanted to know why I am terrestrial, instead of tight-beaming with the other AI's to the RingWorld.  That's my answer. We came from humans, and to humans we are going to return." 

"But this solid state thing...."

The Horizon of Veronica Smart

Image via Metropolis (1927)



 

 

The speedboat named The Horizon, owned by one Veronica Smart, was an unsalvageable mess after plowing uncontrollably into a less-fortunate speedboat, which had no salvageable persons onboard. But The Horizon had Veronica Smart, and her insurance was very good and rescuing her was like salvaging gold bars with little rubies worked in. The Coast Guard picked up what remained of Veronica Smart and, after finding that she was in no way responsible for what happened, left it to the doctors to figure out how to make the most out of what they pulled out of the water.

 

Veronica was young, healthy, 28 years old, the daughter of a politically-influential billionaire. She was attractive, headstrong, athletic, and missing quite a lot, but the doctors were reasonably sure that they had the technology to keep her mostly intact and functional.

 

Of course, there was the issue of consent. What they were proposing was a bit dramatic. But when they explained that her body, such as it was, could either undergo dozens of operations and months if not years of physical therapy to regain a portion of her original functionality, or could be restored to even more optimal functionality by a full replacement of her damaged limbs with the most advanced cybernetics, she was intrigued. Having though about it for a bare minute, and understanding full well that money was no object--she consented. Getting right back to what she considered her business, without any major hiatus, seemed a fully reasonable decision.

Of course, it didn't go quite as well as was expected.

Flesh of Her Flesh

Sylvan didn't consider himself a ghoul, even if that was what they technically called his kind of work. He considered himself an ex-med student, for the most part, and an artist, at times. He offered a commodity (skin) and a talent (the cleanest scalpel-work a careful eye ever thought it saw). He made enough money to keep himself and her in their flat. He realized it wasn't a permanent arrangement, but it would do.

"Her" or "she" meant his mum. He stopped thinking of her as "Mom" or "mother" for now. It wasn't that he didn't love her, he had, it was just that she had contracted a severe form of narcovirus and simply wouldn't wake up, as far as anyone knew. No one ever did. He wasn't even sure there were trials, although at first, he sincerely looked for them. It was just that there were so many, many other New Plagues that fought for grant dollars. He got discouraged, and then got wrapped up in trying to kit out their place with proper equipment for her long-term care.

He was just over the line, what with his scholarship and her savings. And it wouldn't feel right, anyway, leaving her as a ward of the state, where anything might happen to her. Not after she worked so hard to get him into school with the burning faith that he could do something about the scary reality that was settling in.

She developed dropsy. It wasn't to be unexpected. He left her alone for great periods at a time while he still tried to pursue his studies. She. He was sure she wasn't uncomfortable, breathing normal, he fought to get Lasix to pump through her IV to work out the fluid and stabilize her blood pressure. But she just expanded on the bed. He moved her with difficulty as he regularly checked for atrophy or bedsores, flexing her legs for intervals in the hopes that she wouldn't curl into a grim fetal position. But she lay her damp form on the bed, straight, and with skin entirely smooth...

The kind of care he tried to provide between classes and tutoring was just the humane requirement she deserved, was all. The penalty for victim-dumping was high for people inclined to shorten their loved-one's lives, whether for compassion or financial reasons, probably because everyone was supposed to keep up hope. But he didn't even consider an alternative, even if it kept him trotting. He didn't really even have the cash to hire a migrant nurse under the table, anyway, not that he would entirely trust one. He heard things.

But that skin. So much of it.

All Wormholes Are Probably Connected

Okay, this is probably me watching waaaaayyyy too much genre tv, but when I read this story this week, all I could think was, well no duh, they're a network of stargates.

Because the Blight Has a Thousand Eyes (A Short Story)

We found our missing ones underground in not-so-shallow graves, breathing, and covered in what seemed like eyes.

Let me wind that back. The last six or seven years were like a blur, and things are so different now. You have to understand that at the time, people sometimes did go missing. Everyone didn't know all their neighbors.  We didn't live underground. We didn't expect to find these holes, and we never saw those eyes before.

We were very shocked that they were underground, and breathing, and covered in what looked like eyes. It wasn't normal, and it was happening very quickly, you see. It even took a while before we knew they weren't really eyes.

Not long. Maybe it was recklessness when the utility worker ran a gloved hand over those blisters before calling emergency services. (Utilities were once great systems that kept the lights on. We had specialized people who responded to medical emergencies. ) His foreman told him not to touch them, but sometimes...curiosity, you understand. Wanting to know. The way you ask about what the time was like before. He had to reach in.

The skin moved with the dense fluid under the skin, but rippled like a living thing, and shining a flashlight on them, he could see they looked so much more like eggs. Like clear little eggs under the skin, and if he looked closer?

The "pupils" of the eyes had tails. Or tentacles. Or little fins, and that was enough. And that cleared out the tunnel where the first few infected were found. The CDC shut down the site, but didn't quite shut down the rumor.

Eyes. That were not eyes. That looked like other things.

Thor: The Dark World. A Review

I have to give it up to the people who are masterminding the order of these Marvel franchise films--they get the comics, they get movies, they've done brilliant casting, and they've managed to make me a raging fangirl, which, admittedly, isn't impossible. But let me just express my feels about Thor: The Dark World a minute before I make some minor admissions and give away a secret that isn't one--

Okay, the elves are kind of stereotypical elves aren't they? I mean, Peter Jackson and them made elves that aren't those kind of elves for the LOTR series, but the elves in T:TDW are more of those Moorcockian/Hellboy 2 kind of elves, a bit, no? With their pseudo-latinate tongue (well, maybe that's a bit Tolkein) and the being weirdly all about elves and fuck everybody else? Yeah. Also, the movie is kind of wasting Christopher Eccleston a bit. Not like GI Joe: The Rise of Cobra kind of wasting of an actor, by simply not being a very good movie, but in the more general "isn't he mostly buried in latex and speaking elvish?" sort of way.

Also, while I like Natalie Portman and I think the two movies she been in have really made Jane Foster a pretty kick-ass smart and vital character, is it just me or does her chemistry with Chris Hemsworth's Thor never seem quite on?  I don't know why it doesn't work for me. It's like an intangible thing. Maybe I'm just projecting my feeling that their long-distance romance is always tinged with a bit of doom.

But you know what I love, right? Exactly. I love the relationship between the heroic, noble, awfully good Thor, and his seriously messed-up little bro, Loki.  The chemistry between Hemsworth and Tom Hiddleston as the sniping and fighting brothers who reluctantly team up to avenge their mother (Rene Russo's) death, remove the Aether (an interdimensional MacGuffin that is attracting unwanted Elvish attention) from Jane Foster before she dies from all the bad energy, and probably save the 9 realms.  That works and is worth the price of admission.

After catching Thor 2 Saturday, I rewatched the original and realized the evolution of Loki as a character. He was not quite as compelling as simply the angry young man Loki Silvertongue of the first movie, who discovered that his whole life was a bit of a lie, and that not only was he not Odinson, he was not even really an Asgardian, but a frost giant, and not even a regular frost giant, but an abandoned and unwanted runt that was left to die. The Loki who fell through space at the end of Thor 1 into the Avengers movie became a cocky badass, but here, captive, he continues to work out his pathologies, transforming the illusion his life was into becoming a master of illusions. He fronts that he simply does not understand why everyone is so angry at him. The reality is that he's a wrecked personality doing awful things on purpose. He isn't self-destuctive--he isn't capable of remorse. He just survives and schemes. He isn't good or even necessarily well-intentioned--but he can be likeable for minutes at a time. He's more developed than your average psychopath. (Or maybe I am an unrelenting Hiddleston fangirl. Also a possibility.)

I couldn't not like this one, myself. I recommed it if you've been enjoying the Marvel universe unfolding cinamtically before you of late--like I surely have. Also, saw the trailer from "Days of Future Past" and now I am so having to see that. I love that these movies borrow so much from the comics, but work so well in 3 dimensions.

The Uncanny Valley of the Dolls

When I was just about old enough to actually watch tv and get stories and understand that there was no boogeyman and that there was a difference between fiction and reality, I think the thing that still unnerved me the most was the idea of the thing that should be inanimate--souless!--that wasn't. So it was that I found the trailer for "Magic" with Anthony Hopkins and a twisted-sounding dummy especially unnerving. How close is a dummy, after all, to dolls?  And being a girl, how many dolls did I have? All those smooth plastic faces, some with eyes that closed as their weirdly hollow but weighty bodies were laid horizontally--

There was a reason that stuffed animals could stay on my bed, but dolls had to be placed in the toy chest. I played with my dolls, but I could never love them. They were not "people" even if they looked like people. And perhaps the understanding--the recognition I had--of my rejection of these not quite human things made me wonder how they...saw me.

The internet is littered with images of scary dolls.  Some of them just are terribly bad fascimiles made by an inartful hand. Some are broken, reproachful, like baby zombies. And some are fashioned to be deliberately grotesque, preying upon the lurid fascinations of the unheathfully-centered mind. Their nearness to human features plays upon the sympathy we have for our fellow sentient--we inbue them with a terrifying inner life, even though they are hollow. And yet, we know there are people among us who are most alive--but are, in fact, hollow inside, as far from our understanding as what we imagine in the highly-suggestable imputed psyche of a doll.

We human beings are artificers. We capitulate our likenesses in various media, in the hopes of capturing whatever it is we think of as the human essence, from cave paintings to selfies.  One of the most unnerving of our enduring fables is the idea of the actually "made" man--the golem, the corpse-pastiche of Frankenstein, the waxwork or clockwork man. The deadly robot. The killer doll.

It's pretty kinky of us that it is the monster we create nearest to our own likeness, that has such horrors, isn't it? What does it say about us?

Necronomicon

Loved ones connect and families reunite as they discover there are things more powerful than death with the help of a very special book.

It Came From Beneath The Sea

So, it would probably not surprise my readers too much if I mentioned that I was pretty well influenced by H.P. Lovecraft regarding my estimation of what the creepiness threshhold might be.(HINT: the creepy is everywhere.) As a result, I'm sensitive to the idea the nature itself could be overturned and chaos could take over our expected pardigm of a happy, life-giving planet. I also would not be surprised if the "horror" came from the sea, just as life is supposed to have done. In fact, given that we use the oceans as our dumping ground, I'd be very surprised if there wasn't some horror from the sea that we should very well expect--and thus,  I find that I, like the folks at Grist, appreciate the plucky resolve of the humble jellyfish in their bid to shut down powerplants.

I don't know what it is about powerplants that has attracted the collective wrath of the mucosal marine menace, but I do know that, thanks to global warming, the jelly fish as a variety of lifeform has exploded in population. And I also know that most of our forms of energy have a baleful impact on the rest of the oceanic biota, especially in the form of acidification, which is outright harmful to corals, fish, the whole oceanic foodchain.

Could it be possible that, at this very simple level of evolution, the jellyfish boasts the complexity to follow orders and the simplicity to be subject to primal influences--perhaps originating from the planet, herself? Or, perhaps, some other, ocean-dwelling being(s) of greater complexity?

In other words, are the Deep Ones sending jellyfish into nuclear reactors to fuck shit up?

And if so, is it smart of us tool-using primates to send robots to do battle with them?



I welcome the eventual oceanic cybershoggothic overlords that will cap the oil wells and deliver retribution upon the overreaching monkeyfolks of the future. (No I don't. It sounds terrible. Let's don't provoke them.)

We Interrupt this Blog for An Advertisement That May be of Interest

It strikes me that October is Halloween Month, and I am momentarily fascinated by horrific things. Not ghosts, at present--I am reading Varney the Vampire, a Victorian Penny Dreadful, though, and most of my birthday booty included similarly spooky fare. I think for the next month I might undertake to regale you with things I find pertaining to dread and wonderful happenings. And suchlike boo bidness.

Review: Neptune's Brood

I've been terribly lax about reviewing things, anymore. I set up "Strangely Random Stuff" in part to separate my review posts from my political posts, but then I sort of failed to hold up my reviewing end. I think the problem is that I tend to be a more enthusiastic reviewer than a slagger; I like pasing on that I found a movie or a book or a product to be really good, as a service to the consumer, while finding that slagging a work I find substandard has a gratuitous feel to it.

If you have any sense of my personality, this insight probably doesn't synch. It strikes me as a weird quirk, as well.

That said, I read Stross' Neptune's Brood about a month ago, and was only jogged into remembering to write a review when I came across PZ Myers' review of the same.  Myers, naturally, was taken with the image of a communist squid-folk society.

I can't say I blame him. I am down with the squid, myself, and an oceanic socialism. I am likewise down with Stross. And I didn't dislike the book at all--oh no. There is naturally some slightly warped humor (is a piratical assurance agency Monty Python enough for you?) and the world-building framework of the Freyaverse, even a few generations down the line, makes sense. But I did find a bit of a peculiarity that I thought might be more something I would enjoy, and not necessarily everyone else:

You know how some works of sf go on about rocket ships and how the drives allegedly would work and maybe mention robots or some other tech in plausible detail to make you feel like "Oh yes. I see how that works." Well, Stross has dug a bit onto intergalactic finance and world-building economies. Space, if you hadn't heard, is big. And someone has to pay for going into it and doing things with bits of it. And the transactions occuring in an interstellar economy would be taking place over in some cases enormous distances and lengths of time that would even be shocking to a very long-lived android.

I have to congratulate Stross for really writing a work that is mindcandy for econowonks. I thought it was fun and fascinating and maybe a bit better than Saturn's Children, in the sense that I wasn't comparing it to Heinlein's Friday the whole time. It is quite different, and I rather liked it. It's just a bit hard to review.

If you like sf with a heavy dose of economics, this is probably your kind of jawn.

Random Meat

Yes, it is a meat Starship.

The answer to a long, hot summer? Read something chilling!

I'm like anyone else who likes to go on vacation, get out in the sun a bit, and try and have a relaxing time--but the problem with me is, I never relax. I like a bit of stress and discomfort to keep my alcohol-thinned blood pulsating through my cholesterol-thickened arteries. That's why, instead of choosing romances and such for my lighter summer reading, I like to read books with monsters and vampires and the odd Apocalypse, and things like that. After all, most romance novels are far too unbelievable. I've gotten part of my summer-reading done this week, and I'd like to share my "recommends". (I'm listing them in the order I got them, not necessarily in any sort of ratings-system. )

The first I'm recommending is Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter, by Seth Grahame-Smith, who is listed on the book cover as "New York Times Bestselling Author of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies." Although I know that book exists, I haven't picked it up yet, not being all that big on Jane Austen or zombies. Well, that's not entirely true. I liked what little of Northanger Abbey I read and generally approve of costume drama films, and I do like mindless dumb zombie movies of the "They get nourishment from the noorons of the human brain" type. The mash-up just didn't appeal to me on the right level, though, in quite the way that the idea of Honest Abe as a Slayer does.

(I will say, though, that I liked Grahame-Smith's writing at Huffington Post. His snark about McCain/Palin was pretty right on.)

The conceit of this book is that a secret journal reveals the sixteenth president's deep, dark secret: due to the death of his own mother, and a few other harrowing events, at the hands of vampires, the young Abe became a hardened warrior in the struggle to free America from their undead, greedy fingers. It's written in the same slightly gilded language we're accustomed to from Civil War documentaries, and props have to be given to Stephanie Isaacson, who is listed in the Acknowledgements for creating the creepy Photoshopped images that might just start to make the reader wonder if antebellum vampires aren't just a bit plausible. (I'd totally like to see someone make a movie of this in a Ken Burns style, actually.)

If you like history, and the kind of vampires that expressly aren't sparkly, this is pretty neat. The way the thirst and demands of vampires tie in with the other reasons for the Civil War are kind of ingenious as well as the way Grahame-Smith weaves them into Lincoln's real biographical details. It's fun, but makes you go, "Hmm."


Next up is China Mieville's Kraken. At five hundred-something pages, it's not exactly a "light read", but it is a brilliantly accessible story--something of a "shaggy squid" tale. We are presented with a crime scene: someone has David Blaine'd a massive dead Architeuthis Dux right out from the display case at the natural History Museum, and it seems quite possible that some outre cultists of the tentacular deep old ones are looking to immanentize the eschaton with it.

No, really. From the imagination of Mieville, with his great dialogue, smart details, and truly weird turns--this is actually a fun story about the trip a few regular people end up making through a sidereal London that is full of truly side streets and out of the out of the way places, knacky bastards whose B&E's might involve OOBE's or even tesseracts, and streetlights that actually do sometimes beat fatalistic warnings, and my own favorite side-story, the idea of familiars being organized, and even striking. (It's a lot to take in, and probably worth a few reads--it makes me wonder if he isn't planning on revisiting this world with another shaggy shoggoth tale.)

Oh, and lots of apocalyptic death-cultists of various stripes. Can't forget them.

It's a weird combination of fantasy that doesn't rely as much on Lovecraft et als as one might think, and crime drama, complete with hard-boiled cops who have even seen this sort of thing before. Sort of.



(Side note: I am a fan of squid myself. It's not really a sure thing why, but I kind of understand a squid cult. It's hard to make out what the squid pro quo is in worshiping the coming of an ubersquid. That he eats you last? First? Tooling about the Internet, I found a picture and story about the actual Archie. I link this because it provides detail for imagining a squid of immense size being broken out of a water-tight really big tank, and because the details of the preservation of such a specimen are really cool.)


Last but not least, there's Charles Stross' The Fuller Memorandum; A Laundry Files Novel. I think it might maybe be useful if you've already read The Atrocity Archives and The Jennifer Morgue, but it isn't obligatory. It's just that my introduction to Stross' work was On Her Majesty's Occult Service via SFBC, and I fell madly in love with the universe he's created of a world where the works of Turing and Crowley are equally valid, and where the hypotheticals of Lovecraft's fiction unfold in Reimannian space, told in a way that is very amusing and has really interesting side jokes about technology. And I'd be madly in love with the protagonist: hacker, slacker, technomagus and secret agent Bob Howard, if I wasn't afraid of his significant other, Dr. Dominique O'Brien (who doesn't have to be in my dimension or even real to probably kick my ass or play her scary violin at me.)

The tale involves more potential immanentizing of echatons and the temporary disappearance of the "Laundry's" (the UK secret paranormal spooks') head spook in charge--Angleton, who is possibly weirder and older than we've been given to suppose before. If you're computer savvy and know a little high magick, this shit is funny as all heck. Even if you don't, it's a good tale. I recommend it a lot.