Archive for the ‘Luc Reid’ Category
The Winter Life
Monday, August 3rd, 2009
You are a male of the species called “Comminglers” in the local Earth language, because while humans pass meaning by outward signs, your people entwine your sense feelers and exchange memories and ideas directly. You are three months and seventeen days old. You may expect to live about another week, possibly ten days, before you die of old age.
You were born in October, which because of where you are stationed on this tilted planet means that you have only ever known winter and an icy late Fall. Your first weeks of life were spent exchanging memories without stop with other members of the tiny clan–46 Comminglers, no more–in order to learn to think, care for yourself, and fulfill your hereditary role of data sphere queryist. You answer questions by manipulating the data sphere and communing through its port. “What is the structure and purpose of the human sense of taste?” “What is the history of enmity between the humans of Israel and the humans of surrounding Arabic countries?” “What is the quality of the experience of existing in summer?”
This last question haunts you, although it was asked long ago, days. You know, from the sphere, everything there is to know about summer: the temperature variations, cultural adaptations, responses of plant life, and so on. But you will never know summer, even though you remember it from others’ memories. Your people are rarely concerned with such things. They do not travel. But then, your people have evolved to exchange memories with thousands, tens of thousands, not with a mere 46. There are vast empty places inside you, shades of experience you cannot find among your few fellows.
You query the sphere, a question for yourself only. You receive times, societal rules and behavior norms, place names. You connect with the human dataverse and exchange information, financial promises, plans, clearance from the government of the Earth clan called Chile. Then you shoulder your data and authorization pack and leave the vast tribal room. On your way, others try to commingle with you, but you give each only the faintest idea in response to their questions.
“Where are you going?”
“Why are you leaving the room?”
“I will tell you when I return,” you intend to them. You do not contemplate the date of your return. It is in two weeks.
Things You See, People You See
Tuesday, July 21st, 2009
“You should take those off,” Ophelia told me for the hundredth time as we walked to the cafe. She liked to ride me about my vidglasses every week or so.
A simulated herd of some kind of bird-like dinosaurs leaped over our heads and charged across the street, threading their way through the backed-up traffic. Ornithomimus? I eye-moused one of them to get a pop-up. Sinornithomimus dongi, it turned out. Never heard of them.
“They’re educational,” I said. “They make things more interesting.”
“You know what’s interesting?” she said. “Real life, that’s what’s interesting!”
I nodded and thumbed the advanced features control in my pocket until I got to the simulated mods menu. I eye-selected Ophelia and eye-clicked her clothes off. After a second, her eyes narrowed.
“What are you looking at?” she said, snatching at the glasses. I jerked my head away.
“None of your business!”
A passing businessman frowned at me.
“If you’re tarting me up again, that’s just it, you hear me?” Ophelia said.
I popped up the menu again and switched the option to “naughty schoolgirl,” one of the presets. Ophelia was a little on the scrawny side, but she still had the stuff to fill out a naughty schoolgirl costume.
“OK, I put you back to normal,” I said, mostly not staring.
“You better,” she said. We got to the café and walked in, got swallowed up by the stuffy dark coffee-stained air, and waited for a table behind a huge, tall guy. All of a sudden, I saw her: that girl Magdalena Birch, leaning over a tiny table and laughing with her mousy friend Lisa or Lisolette or whatever her name was.
“Gotcha!” Ophelia shouted, taking advantage of my stop-and-gape moment to grab at my vidglasses. I flinched away, accidentally knocking the glasses off and into a potted plant.
“Now look what you made me do,” I muttered, not looking, feeling in the plant for my glasses.
“Who’re you talking to?” the huge, tall guy said. I didn’t answer. The huge, tall guy stepped closer, right through where my glasses had been projecting Ophelia. “There’s nobody there, dorkwad. Don’t come in here if you’re going to talk to your imaginary friends the whole time.”
I found the glasses, pulled them out, wiped the dirt away. One lens was cracked. The error light was blinking.
Great, Ophelia, I thought. Now are you happy?