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Single Serving Stories Series- ‘Default’

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Under the Green Desk Lamp…

Green DesklampIn addition to regular blog articles and my published novels, I’ve also written several Single Serving Stories over the years. Some have been published in anthologies like ‘Between the Shelves’, ‘Edmonton: Unbound’, and ‘All Mapped Out’. Others have been shared exclusively on this blog via the publication platform Smashwords.

Recent changes to the Smashwords platform has made it a less reliable option however, and therefore an exciting change has come to Brad OH Inc.

I will be re-sharing in full—un-edited and un-abridged—all Single Serving Stories previously published on Smashwords with Brad OH Inc. as the new, exclusive provider. All text will be provided in full, with no download necessary. If Smashwords don’t like that, they can message our complaints department.

This project will culminate in a couple of heretofore unpublished Single Serving Stories, so even the most dedicated of readers will have something to look forward to.

Today we share our tenth Single Serving Story, ‘Default’. This is another story that touches on some sci-fi themes, and has always been a favourite of mine. There are a lot of little easter eggs in this one for the dedicated readers, including an appearance by the infamous SALIGIA Corporation.

Working alongside Albert and Nick over the past few months had not been easy for Marie, but SALIGIA Inc. had deadlines to keep and shareholders to please, and she had been brought in to ensure they did just that.

It wasn’t the job itself which bothered her—this was her forte. On top of that, she was proud of the project—inspired even. It was just that, although irreproachably talented, the two Cognition-Engineers were constantly trying her with their inane banter. In the last few days alone, she’d been subjected to countless philosophic rants entirely lacking in any real-world pragmatism.

Of course, these were punctuated by brief flourishes of genius—the exact quality that made both engineers indispensable to SALIGIA until ‘Project: Adam’ was finally complete.

“Are we ready to close the simulation?” she asked, already fearing the answer. As soon as the project was done, she’d be free of the two cloudy-headed savants, and ready for assignment to a less trying station. Fortunately, today was the due date—and come hell or high water, it was Marie’s job to ensure it was met.

“Finalizing the personality adjustment algorithms now,” Albert called from across the lab. Marie watched the numbers scrolling by, searching for any sign of anomaly.

For the moment, nothing seemed out of place. The laboratory itself was a large rectangular space with a long counter in the middle. The entirety of the lab was covered in monitors and keyboards—the sum of their efforts represented by the numbers and graphs scrolling along them. Everything was a smooth, matte black, with no trace of shine or polish. This was considered easier on the eyes of the workers, and thus much better for productivity—a key mantra of SALIGIA Inc.

“All good here,” Marie answered. That was encouraging. The project would likely have been completed at least a week ago, she believed, if not for Albert and Nick’s tendency to get distracted. However, she reminded herself for what seemed like the hundredth time that month, if they were as focussed and efficient as SALIGIA would like, there would be no need for her at all.

“It’s processing faster than I would have thought. That’s interesting,” said Nick.

Marie cringed, sensing what was to come. She wasn’t the only one who found the duo’s penchant for esoteric rants a sorry waste of time, but it was especially bothersome to her just now. “It’s fine,” she said. Marie was eager to finish the job once and for all, return home, open a bottle of wine, and watch the final episode of ‘Welcome to the 1%’.

She was well aware that the two engineers did not share her passion for the program, but was comforted by the fact that their derision was a stark contrast to popular—and more revered—opinion. This had been the debut season of ‘Welcome to the 1%’, but already its innovative tests and enviable promise had proven sufficient to capture the attention of millions of viewers across the United Corporate Global Alliance.

“It’s a wrap!” said Albert. Marie caught his fist pump in her periphery and couldn’t help but smile. Albert and Nick had been working on the revolutionary AI Interface for the past several years, and completing it promised to be the crowning achievement of both their illustrious careers. Marie herself was only an Assistant Technician and SALIGIA Corporate Supervisor, yet the gravitas of the event was not lost on her.

“Is this it?” she asked. As the world’s first fully adaptive AI interface, ‘Project: Adam’ was set to change the way robotic technology influenced the world. More importantly, it would change how robots interacted with the world. Their program would allow machines a simulated cognizance, with a personality capable of learning from and adapting to its environment in order to meet the demands of jobs ranging from deep sea miners, to high-society concierges.

“Almost,” said Albert. Marie heard the trepidation in his voice at the very moment it struck her in the gut.

“We just have to create the script for the default personality,” Nick said. His excitement was palpable, and Marie couldn’t bite back her groan.

“It shouldn’t take much more than an hour given the groundwork we’ve already laid,” Albert assured her, “just a matter of deciding the optimal starting point and scripting the code—that’s where you come in.”

‘Joy,’ thought Marie. The scripting would be no small task, but she was a wizard when it came to turning out advanced algorithms, so the actual job was the least of her worries.

“It’s exciting, isn’t it?” asked Nick. His voice trembled as he spoke, and he stared off into the empty air—an explorer proudly claiming his high mountaintop.

“Take a breather, Nick. It’s just a default setting on a piece of software—let’s not aggrandize this at the expense of efficiency,” said Marie. “Remember, you’re on SALIGIA’s dime here.”

“It’s so much more than that though!” said Nick. His posture changed as he spoke. His back straightened, his chest puffed out, and his narrow face shone with the sort of wonder you might see in a child who’d just caught their first fish. Marie collapsed in turn. With only 25 minutes until airtime, it was a lost cause now—she’d never make it home to see which of the despicable vagrants would make their way to the heights of ‘The Great American Promise’ live.

“It’s really not, Nick—let’s keep things practical. You didn’t get to this point by waxing philosophic,” Marie knew this was at least a partial lie, “Numbers, and a healthy dose of pragmatism—that’s what got us here,” she finished, firing up a separate browser on a tiny side monitor and pulling up a stream of the ‘Welcome to the 1%’ finale.

“For the technology aspect of it, sure,” said Albert, “but this is completely different.”

“You’ve both claimed that every step of the way, and it’s always come down to keeping our eyes on the prize. The defaults are no exception,” said Marie.

“You’re missing the big picture,” Nick circled around to face her as he spoke, with Albert squaring up to his right. “What we are doing right now is designing the ideal human personality—the catalyst and crucible for all future learning and growth. Think about it—until this moment, the journey to intelligence started in infancy—with a being that’s vulnerable and entirely dependent. We’re about to change all of that, to create a fully functional being capable of everything we are and more…and we get to decide what it’s like. It’s incredible!”

The opening credits were crawling up the little screen beside her, and through tiny speakers Marie could hear the pulsing bass of the program’s title-song. Tonight’s finale was the most anticipated event in recent memory, and—aside from the two men who were her present company—everyone was eager to see how it would play out.

The former episodes had focussed on shedding the past—of publically and debasingly divorcing the vagrants of the drunken, reeking fiends that they were before. Over the course of the series, the hobos had been publically shaved, groomed, washed, tanned, sprayed, de-loused, and confessed. They had been stripped of their former identities by every possible means. In fact, one would hardly recognize them by their current appearance—save that their ‘true’ selves were emblazoned boldly on the front of the t-shirts they were provided. These shirts functioned as their only clothing throughout the series—save for a pair of tight white briefs, which bore the same image, albeit from the opposite vantage point.

Nick and Albert gazed absently at Marie, almost as if they still harboured some misled hope that she would join them in their impotent ramblings.

Marie sighed. “Gentlemen, you have to remember the end-goal of ‘Project: Adam’. We aren’t selling robots, or AI’s, and especially not morality! We are providing a program which employs algorithms to adapt and evolve an existing AI’s personality and thought patterns to fit the demands placed upon it. That’s all! To make that product marketable, we must ensure it appeals to the highest possible number of consumers. We aren’t doing a damn philosophy lecture, so let’s stay on task here.”

Nick and Albert exchanged a flustered frown. “But Mary, what is a personality, if not an encapsulation and reflection of a being’s potential?” asked Albert.

“Her name is Marie, you should know that by now,” said Nick, “but you’re not wrong otherwise. This program represents an unlimited source of potential for all future AI’s, it’s imperative that we consider this opportunity and ensure we do nothing which could limit that potential.”

The host of ‘Welcome to the 1%’ was speaking now, but Marie couldn’t make him out. He would, she knew, be setting the stage for tonight’s incredible and unprecedented conclusion.

The original 27 contestants had been whittled down one by one over the last 6 weeks, and now only 3 remained for the finale.

These last few had proven true warriors—their drive towards the promised riches seeing them through every challenge placed before them. They had been drowned in their own sin like Pharaoh’s army—a quote which Marie had needed to research; an old movie, as it turned out—a process which coaxed them ever so gently toward the echelons of high society they so madly sought.

The competition today would eliminate two more—one by one, in a series of incredible challenges. At last, the final remaining contestant would be given a chance to enter the coveted ranks of the 1%. But first, there would be a final trial to face.

…If Marie ever got a chance to watch it.

Stoically, she exhaled the fire of her mounting frustration and turned to face her inquisitors with a patient smile. “What is a default setting, if not an introduction to the restrictions placed upon your usage?” The engineer’s backs arched, and they glanced toward the ground, then to each other, both biting their lips in rueful consideration. “Or a personality, for that matter?” Marie finished with a grin.

“Well at the very least, I think we can agree the default should be fully responsive to all human directives that fit within its pre-defined range of function. Can we have Marie run that?” Albert pushed his glasses up his thin nose with one long finger.

Marie frowned, but stood ready to punch in the numbers and get on with it. A quick sideways glance revealed the final three contestants lined up before a row of pristine Corinthian pillars gilded in solid gold. Spotlights shone down on the confused looking fiends as they stood slouched and twitching upon the stage. A man and woman to the right were soaked in bright green light, while a final man to the left was illuminated in white.

Marie knew this would be the introduction segment—expertly delivered by the snide wit of legendary TV Host Paulo Ford, who smiled now as he gestured to the glowing white vagrant on the left.

Turning the volume down and activating the subtitles, Marie turned back to face the two Cognition-Engineers.

“I really don’t know if full suggestibility is optimal…humans are fallible after all. This AI interface could be better than that,” Nick answered.

“Our job is not improving humanity. Our job is to create a functional starting point for an AI interface which can help humanity do as it will. You’re overthinking this,” said Albert.

“I know what my job is Albert, do you?” It wasn’t edginess Marie heard in Nick’s voice, it was conviction. ‘Shit.’

“Yes,” answered Albert.

Marie held her words, focussing instead on the man illuminated in white. “Contestant number one was recruited on the hot streets of Atlanta-Pepsi.” She knew Paulo would be crooning. He always wore beautiful suits of bright primary colours, which had been proven to better hold the attention of the TV audience. Over many years of broadcasting, Paulo Ford’s brilliant smile and sardonic charm had won the adoration of viewers around the world.

Contestant number 1, ‘Jerry’, was not so well-loved. “Jerry was found wandering through traffic, caked in his own vomit and screaming about lizard people. Can you imagine?” Marie could indeed imagine just that, as she’d been shown the very scene—‘Jerry’s Deliverance’, it was called—at least 100 times.

The fire-hoses were her favourite part.

Nick’s pitched voice brought Marie back to the job at hand. “Well then consider the implications! If this AI incorporates every inane bit of information it acquires, it will end up spending all its time on the couch watching innocuous TV shows and wondering about its purpose.” Marie shrunk down in her seat. “Besides, we have an opportunity to show the entire world the potential of artificial intelligence. I’m not sure a fawning imbecile is the high-water mark we should set. What about insight, what about improvisation and improvement?”

“Some units will learn those, and some will never need them. Many of these units will never even see a human after a brief orientation course—and even those could be handled by other AI’s. We don’t need personality, we need responsiveness. They are just tools in the end—think practically, Nick.”

A glance to her left showed Marie that the introductions were finished. She had already missed Paulo Ford share the heart-breaking story of Shirley, the infamous squatter-hoarder who’d been the bane of countless inattentive landlords in the suburbs of Dallas-Disney. She’d been a paranoid pill-freak when they rescued her, and now she was a paranoid gameshow contestant with her eyes on a free-ticket to paradise.

So too had she missed the strange and ambiguous story of Vlad—the third and final competitor. Vlad was a schizophrenic and utterly unpredictable young man who had shown up late on the pilot episode of ‘Welcome to the 1%’ with the beard of a prophet and the swagger of a Rock Star. Nobody knew where Vlad was from, or if he had ever been called Vlad before Paulo Ford called him that when he came charging onto the set and bit the nose off Ronnie—who was eliminated later that episode for bleeding too heavily.

The bedraggled trio was descending the steps now as Paulo Ford explained the first round of the competition. Marie reached over to turn up the volume.

“I am thinking practically,” again Nick’s voice pulled Marie back to reality, “you’re just not thinking ambitiously. What if we program a comprehensive understanding of society and its intended direction as a default? An AI with innate insight into the world—and its place therein—could help its own trainers understand the contributions it could make.”

“Hmm,” Albert’s brow furrowed, “that’s a good point. We could avoid a lot of extraneous future software updates by giving the AI an imperative sense of direction—maybe even some concept of history and tradition to keep it grounded in the human experience?”

Marie rolled her eyes. “Well, I guess we could call up SALIGIA Headquarters and see what they think.” She held her hand up to her face to mimic a cell, “Hi, boss, how would the shareholders feel about increasing the project turn-around a few months in order to create a default AI personality which fully comprehends the trajectory of the human species, and can calculate its potential contribution at any given moment?”

The Cognition-Engineers blushed.

“That’s not what I’m saying Marie, and I think you know that,” Nick chose his words with care. “I’m only suggesting that, because this AI Default setting will represent the first interaction between humans and cognizant robotics, we might aim a bit higher than mindless supplication. An AI which only incorporates the examples of the approved instructors it encounters is duly bound to their respective shortcomings.”

“Yet,” Albert countered before Marie could open her mouth, “an AI that is programmed with a sense of purpose defined by us will never break free from our own expectations.”

“Not true!” Nick spoke like a stricken man, “it would simply understand a greater picture. It will still learn and adjust, but if we want to make this thing truly intelligent, then we need to give it active rather than passive intelligence.”

“It’s designed to achieve that—not come with it. The adaptive AI is a product of its need, not of our intentions.” Albert had a stoic talent for redirecting Nick’s little detours.

“Albert,” Nick swallowed hard, then took three long breaths, “we are about to finish one of the greatest accomplishments in the history of human-kind…a true, adaptive AI capable of learning and structuring its personality interface to the needs of its environment. Shouldn’t it start off capable—at the very least—of understanding that environment? It need not be an infant like us—we can give it a head start!”

“Ready when you are, guys,” called Marie. It was the least she could do. Inevitably, the two would debate the inane and dissect the irrelevant until she finally interjected and brought them back to task.

But just now, Marie was more interested in the little screen beside her. It showed a great open space covered entirely in grease, mud, and other trash. From the center of this expanse rose three great towers, trembling and teetering as if acted upon by a terrible wind, they appeared to be made up entirely of garbage themselves. The bases were old cans and boxes, and the further up they reached, the greater the value of the products from which they were assembled.

In the center of each tower stood one of the three contestants.

The game was called ‘Dictums of the Lead Citizen’, and it was designed as a test of the competitor’s ability to recognize and respond to the commands of the Lead Citizen—the elected head of the United Corporate Global Alliance—something which so few of them had ever bothered to consider in their former lives.

Brief audio clips were blasted over loud-speakers throughout the hall, and Vlad, Jerry, and Shirley listened as intently as they were able. The disembodied voices came from TV Shows, media, random actors, and more, but the contestants were instructed to only follow the directives given in the voice of the Lead Citizen. The first contestant to fall to the bottom of the structure would be eliminated, while the survivors would move to round two.

Marie could see ladders made of discarded ropes, stairs of tin cans, and bridges of woven plastic casing.

“Get back!” barked a line from a recent action movie.

“Turn around,” purred an unfamiliar female voice.

“Grab the rope!” commanded the voice of the Lead Citizen.

Jerry reacted immediately, grabbing a braided mess of old plastic bags and cellophane wrapping dangling nearby.

Vlad span in circles, processing each new command slower than the last, while Shirley huddled herself into a corner, wedging tightly between greasy chicken boxes and other, less palatable refuse.

With a sickly, wet groan, the cardboard flooring beneath them peeled away. Jerry fought his way up the rope and reached the platform above, while Vlad held desperately onto the walls, easing his way slowly down to the soup-can floor far below. Shirley was not so lucky, but remained huddled in a fetal position as she went bouncing down several stories of the tower and landed with a great plop on a pile of soiled laundry.

“To the right!” called one voice.

“Look out below” said another.

“Grab the green wall,” ordered a final voice—easily recognized by any civilized person as that of the exalted Lead Citizen.

Jerry was already on it—his thick fingers buried deep in a wall made of old garbage bags and strips of rotting sod. Vlad, glancing at his adversary, acted on instinct, and mimicked him exactly.

Shirley had not yet recovered from her brutal impact, and so when the three quarters of the structure not comprising the single green wall went tumbling down into the oil-slick water below, she went along for the ride, howling with inarticulate despair as she fell.

The crowd went wild.

“Well that’s it for Shirley folks…it just goes to show you the merit of knowing who you can trust! I guess tonight we won’t be telling her…” Paulo Ford held his microphone outward, allowing the audience to chant the titular refrain.

“You sound like a madman!” Nick wailed. “If the default interface learns and obeys everything it’s ever told, it’ll end up useless!”

Marie frowned.

“You know that’s not even close to the point I’m making, Nick. And frankly, your idealistic ‘greater purpose’ nonsense sounds like something right out of a bad ‘Comics Inc.’ movie!” Albert stood at the far end of the dull black room, his round glasses reflecting the countless monitors lining the walls.

“Let me help you gentlemen sort this out,” Marie pushed herself pointedly away from the counter she’d been leaning on, and turned to her computer with a wicked grin.

“It need not be as difficult as you two are making it. We just have to remember the end-goals of our product…and who we’re working for.” Marie pounded line after line of code into her main computer as she spoke. “‘Project: Adam’ is a flagship entrepreneurial endeavour—the first ever AI interface to allow adaptive learning and personality development. An entrepreneurial endeavour—,” she repeated, “—of SALIGIA Inc.

“As such, you can understand if our benefactors have certain expectations regarding the long-term performance of this project.”

Nick and Albert stood silent, staring dejectedly at Marie.

“The interface default will be programmed to learn from and respond to SALIGIA authorized voices only. That will prevent them from being clogged up with useless information, while allowing SALIGIA the option to monetize the data-base and create authorization subscriptions as needed.”

With that, she finished her coding, clicking ‘ENTER’ with a cathartic “Hrrmmph”.

“Well that wasn’t at all satisfying,” said Nick.

Albert fumed in the corner.

“I disagree,” said Marie, watching Vlad jump madly up and down as if victory were already his.

“They could have been so much better…” Nick shook his head, lamenting the singular loss.

“Nonetheless,” Albert pushed up his glasses and strode towards Marie, “we’ve established who they will incorporate information from, but we still need to determine how they will evaluate and prioritize the application of that information.”

“Well then we’ve got a lot of lost ground to make up,” Nick leaned forward, his eyes regaining their hopeful shimmer. “I imagine that if we could script some sort of long-term vision for humanity into their priorities, they could process information based on its strategic value to our species and planet, making the AI’s like benevolent governors of our long-term trajectory.”

“You can’t even turn a screw without trying to save the entire world Nick, and that’s why you never get anything done—save for blown budgets and fiscal fiascos.” Albert grinned at his slick wording. “Once again, we need to keep this practical. ‘Project: Adam’ is going to be installed in pre-existing AI’s at release, vastly improving the way they process information and develop personality. Since these initial positions will have defined roles already, and most future ones will be created with such, we should set the defaults to download a comprehensive understanding of its specific job description. That way the AI’s can focus on what needs to be done without constantly worrying about the rest of the world.”

Nick tore at his lab-coat and clenched his teeth. “But the world is a system Albert—we cannot address all things separately and then just expect them to work in congress. The AI revolution is the perfect time to sew all purposes into one grander scheme!”

Marie rolled her eyes, fearing they’d be stuck that way before she was done dealing with these two.

Tuning the incessant debates out and turning to the little screen beside her, Marie saw a long white table stretching across her view. Vlad and Jerry were seated at one side, while a man in a tall blue hat sat at the side opposite. Between them, two people sat at each of the longer sides of the table—which was laden with a breath-taking banquet.

“In ‘Supping with the Supreme’, the remaining two contestants will share a meal with some of the 1%ers they hope to join,” Paulo Ford explained, tugging at the bright yellow lapels of his suit-jacket. “Their insights into the preferences of their hosts, and their ability to read the situation, will dictate their survival in this challenge.”

The four 1%ers arranged on the long-sides of the table each had a dial facing them—no one else could see it during the competition. But now the camera panned around to reveal them—small silver discs with ‘Jerry’ on one side, and ‘Vlad’ on the other. The man in the blue hat at the centre of the table had a dial as well, but his faced outward—allowing all the others to see his active choice.

Presently, all the dials were set to the neutral centre positon. But, Paulo explained, as the meal progressed, the judges would turn their dials to the contestant they felt was undeserving of a place at the table, and when a perfect consensus was reached, he would be eliminated.

Behind her, Marie could hear Nick and Albert expounding the philosophic imperatives driving their own participation in the product, which sent a cold slash up her spine. ‘Idiots,’ she thought.

“Can I give anyone some peas?” Jerry was holding the bowl of peas across the table, extending it in turn to each of the 1%ers who sat in judgement. They smiled politely, and shook their heads in unison.

Vlad sat quietly, picking at the white paint of the table as if he suspected it of holding some dire secret.

“What about some wine?” Jerry offered the decanter around. The four judges on the sides nodded merrily, and as Jerry darted about the table pouring their wine, Marie noticed them turning their dials to his favour.

The blue-hatted man at the head of the table refused the wine, instead pouring himself a tall, thin glass of a bright green beverage. Vlad seized upon this, and poured himself a glass of the liqueur from another flask sitting nearby.

Marie grinned.

“Here, have some taters,” once again, Jerry moved about the table, serving a dollop of Duchess Potatoes to the judges around its edge.

The man at the head however, was silently raising his glass of green up for a toast. Only Vlad, who seemed to focus in on him exclusively—perhaps enchanted by the tall blue hat—did likewise.

Blue-hat met Vlad’s eyes, gestured his toast, and drank heavily from his cup. All was mirrored perfectly by Vlad, who finished his cup with a great belch.

This elicited a long, loud laugh from the man seated at the head of the table. Then, with a prolonged and obvious motion, he turned his dial to favour Vlad. He then leaned lazily back, and adjusted his hat.

One by one, the other four 1%er’s noticed this move, and quickly changed their dials to match their leader. When the final one did so, Jerry’s chair immediately rolled backward, flipping him head-over-heels through a gap in the floor which opened up beneath him. This was followed by a long scream, and then a wet splat.

The live studio audience exploded into uproarious applause.

“And then there was one!” Paulo appeared on the scene to coach the viewers through this transition. “Wow ladies and gentlemen, who would have guessed that wild-eyed interloper Vlad could have perceived who held the real power at the table. What a shocker!

“Unfortunately for Jerry, trying to please everyone often gets us nowhere in the end. I suppose that tonight isn’t going to be Jerry’s chance to hear us say…” Once again, Paulo trailed off to let the audience do their work.

“They’ll never get anything done, you nut!” Albert was bellowing now. “They have to prioritize based on current need, not some idealistic goals which may never be achieved.”

“But,” countered Nick, his back pressed to the matte-black wall behind him, “if they don’t have a sense of purpose we’ll never manage to get anywhere new—they are our best chance at long-term systemic design!”

Marie cleared her throat pointedly; drawing the attention of the two Cognition-Engineers back around to her. “I’m afraid you’re both a bit off base here,” she explained in her most condescending tone, “the default will need to prioritize based not only on its current job, but with consideration as well to the overall purposes of their lead priority—specifically, the fiscal motivations of SALIGIA Inc.”

The engineers gulped, but remained silent.

Marie began typing. “The program’s default will be set to understand its assigned task and prioritize information around achieving those functions, while creating a comprehensive database of all acquired knowledge which will be available to the lead engineers at SALIGIA Inc. in order to expand their own understandings of economic trends and maximize their future efficiency.” When she put it like that, Marie wondered how she’d ever failed to perceive such an obvious solution.

“That doesn’t benefit anyone,” Nick complained.

“It benefits SALIGIA,” Albert corrected.

“Exactly,” Marie confirmed. Noticing the pained looks on the two men’s faces, she continued in a softer tone. “C’mon guys, look at the bright side: at least now we only have the morality defaults to address!”

“Nick, can we at least agree that the interface need not have any high-minded, pre-programmed notions of moral intent beyond the inherent ‘Laws of Robotics’? Certainly, you see that any over-arching moral imperative would hinder its pragmatic adaptability?” Albert pushed his glasses up his aquiline nose as he spoke.

“Hmm,” Nick rubbed his chin, pondering the notion. “Well, I agree that we need to keep it rather basic, but I think some semblance of big-picture morality could be a great asset. We’re about to launch the primordial AI; an entity which can represent the ideal human-archetype. To that end, it behooves us to consider exactly what that should be. What is the human spirit, and how can we reflect our best qualities in this new manifestation of our potentials?”

“Come on now Nick,” Albert winced as he spoke, “you’re losing me here. The program is a prototype AI interface…not an upgrade or remix of humanity itself. The vast majority of these AI’s will need to be little more than mindless automatons, and it could be argued that giving them more humanity than they need is a special form of cruelty.”

Nick frowned, “No matter how lowly their job—they remain the next step of humanity. Just as we’ve been defined by fire, and the wheel, and the internet—now the potential of humanity will show itself through these AI’s. As such, I think it’s imperative that humans have some guiding hand in the paths they take.”

Marie listened half-heartedly to the continuing banter.

“The internet is a perfect example, actually” Nick perched easily upon one of the smooth black stools as he pushed on, “think about the early days of the net. At the start, the internet was very much like the brain of a small child—forming new connections rapidly to meet the needs placed on it. It’s still like that—relatively speaking it is still in its infancy. But at the outset, we had no idea what the internet would become—we still see only a small fraction of its potential. If we had limited the architecture of the internet to facilitate our limited perspective, we could easily have cut away much of its inherent promise. By denying ‘Project: Adam’ a moral compass, we’d be limiting its capacity in much the same way.”

“All true,” Albert grinned as he spoke, “but consider the darker sides of the internet as well. There is much we would be better off without. Still, your analogy is apt. A child can grow up to be a scholar, a lover, a warrior—whatever the environment and its specific nurturing provide for. With ‘Project: Adam’, AI’s will be no different. This program will help them reach any of the potentials we want them to serve, but it would be foolish of us to allow them to reach any possible potential. Unnecessary morality scripts complicate matters, and increase the likelihood of unintended results. We have to be careful Nick, ideas like this are how disasters happen.”

A hot blade slashed up Marie’s back. ‘AI Uprisings’ and ‘Robotic Genocides’ had been a hot topic in the tabloids lately, and much of that fear was being channelled towards SALIGIA’s soon-to-release project. Her advisors had facilitated many meetings with her on that very topic—reinforcing ad-nauseum what a terrible financial detriment it would be for SALIGIA if the AI’s operating their program ever did anything…“unbecoming”.

Nick pounded his fist onto the counter. “If you’re talking about this ridiculous ‘Machine Massacre’ nonsense, you need to drop it. Of course we have to be careful, but failing to act on opportunity due to fear is the far more historically prevalent foible of our kind. We have to aim for the ideal, not settle for less simply because we doubt ourselves. Besides, a sense of morality would do more to prevent any such occurrence, not exacerbate it!”

“The ‘Laws of Robotics’ are the necessary and sufficient conditions of AI morality. Anything else is just playing God.”

The gentlemen were chasing themselves in circles now, which caused Marie significant consternation. She knew she needed to get this just right, and decided it was best to consider the matter herself as the men idly debated.

A glance toward her tiny screen revealed Vlad standing triumphantly atop a tall platform. Paulo Ford stood next to a computer console nearby. Beyond them was an ornate golden gate leading to a bridge that would take Vlad out of the studio and into a life of wealth and privilege.

“But first,” explained Paulo Ford, “Vlad will face his final challenge: ‘Cutting the Cord’. That’s right, on the console before me, we have a special surprise for our audience, and for Vlad himself. On this screen,” Paulo indicated the monitor, and signalled Vlad to approach, “you will find a comprehensive account of your previous life. Your parents, siblings, friends, and relatives. You’ll see some of the choices you’ve made, the places you’ve been, and the things you’ve done.

“In order to join the 1%, you must first face your past, and then move beyond it. By pushing the Gold button on the console, this information will be shared live with the studio audience—and the world at large. The weight of your past will be returned to the family you came from. The friend’s and accomplices you’ve known will be outed for their complacency, and you…you my dear Vlad, will step across the bridge—leaving the burdens of your past to the others—and into the life you’ve always dreamed of!”

The audience roared with a voice of voyeuristic carnality. Paulo straightened his bright purple tie and grinned. “All you have to do, Vlad, is push the button.”

Vlad stared at the screen, running his finger along it to take in the information on offer. Over his shoulder, Marie could see old photographs displayed in the bright glow of the LED. There were names, addresses, and lengthy accounts of what could only be assumed to be heinous misdeeds—all just a tad too small to read on her little monitor.

“Push the button!” The audience chanted.

Vlad swayed back and forth in front of the console.

“Push the button! Cut the Cord!” The audience was in a frenzy now, and upon her own lips, Marie felt the refrain mirrored.

Vlad was trembling, and the camera panned around to reveal the doubt and regret painted on his face as a gentle piano tune was taken up.

“Push the button!”

Vlad looked at the console, then at Paulo.

“Cut the Cord!”

Then, with an inhumane howl, Vlad charged wildly at Paulo. A quick step to the side removed Paulo from his path, and Vlad shot over the edge of the great platform, spinning and drifting as he screamed, sailing down to the floor far below as the camera followed him to the bitter end.

The audience was on their feet—their cheers and applause rising to a deafening cacophony.

“Well, I’ll be!” Paulo’s amplified voice rose above the din. “And there you have it folks. It looks like despite his crazed demeanour, Vlad was still holding a bit too tightly to some past vestige of a ‘moral code’ to ever make it in this gilded future of ours. This is the last time now, so everyone together! It looks like tonight, Vlad will not be hearing…”

“Welcome to the 1%,” the audience finished, singing and dancing in ecstasy as the credits began to roll. Marie turned back to the Cognition-Engineers, beaming with newfound clarity.

“Brutes they may be,” Nick threw his hands up as he spoke, snapping Marie’s attention back around to him. “But can’t they be principled brutes at the least?”

‘Principled brutes,’ Marie turned the phrase over in her mind. ‘Principled brutes—the compliant corporate default. Robot prophets for real-world profits.’ Marie cracked herself up sometimes, and was eager to get out of the lab and into the company of people who could appreciate her more modern sensibilities. She swivelled away from the engineers, turned to her main monitor, and began typing furiously.

Single Serving Stories Series- ‘A Story Untold’

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Under the Green Desk Lamp…

Green DesklampIn addition to regular blog articles and my published novels, I’ve also written several Single Serving Stories over the years. Some have been published in anthologies like ‘Between the Shelves’, ‘Edmonton: Unbound’, and ‘All Mapped Out’. Others have been shared exclusively on this blog via the publication platform Smashwords.

Recent changes to the Smashwords platform has made it a less reliable option however, and therefore an exciting change has come to Brad OH Inc.

I will be re-sharing in full—un-edited and un-abridged—all Single Serving Stories previously published on Smashwords with Brad OH Inc. as the new, exclusive provider. All text will be provided in full, with no download necessary. If Smashwords don’t like that, they can message our complaints department.

This project will culminate in a couple of heretofore unpublished Single Serving Stories, so even the most dedicated of readers will have something to look forward to.

Today we share our ninth Single Serving Story, ‘A Story Untold’. This story is probably the deepest I’ll ever delve into the sci-fi genre, so if that’s your jam, I hope you enjoy it!

“Myra is a damn cheater!” hollered Todd. He ran a hand through his dirty blonde bangs to keep the sweat out of his eyes.

“Watch it Todd,” warned Bruce, “don’t you remember we’ve got Zeke with us today?” Bruce was Zeke’s older brother, which made it his solemn duty to protect him. Usually, Zeke didn’t come out with Bruce and his friends, but their parents had something important to do that afternoon, so Bruce had been appointed as his deputy caretaker. “He’s only six you guys, watch your mouths.”

“I’m not a cheater, you stupid jerk!” yelled Myra. The stout, red-haired girl stood resolute at the far end of the playground, her hands on her hips as she turned her wrath upon Todd. “You didn’t touch me cause you’re not fast enough!”

With that, Todd tore off in pursuit of Myra, the two of them burning a path across the field and into the big forest out back.

“C’mon Zeke, we’ve gotta keep up,” said Bruce. A soft hand on his brother’s little shoulder led the way. Whenever they were out together, Zeke found some way to slow Bruce down. But their parents had told him that big brothers had big responsibilities, so he tried his best to live up.

“Let’s go!” Zeke squealed. He always acted like everything was just one big adventure, which left Bruce to worry about staying safe, and getting home on time, and all the important stuff. But these were distant thoughts in Bruce’s busy head as he guided his brother across the big grass field, following after his pals.

Myra and Todd were best friends. Always had been so far as Bruce was aware. They were an odd pair to be sure—Todd’s aggressive attitude had isolated him from nearly all their other classmates, except for Myra, whose tomboy nature and rough-around-the-edges demeanour found their welcome counterpart in his company.

When Bruce started at their school early last year, none of the other kids had seemed very friendly. Neither had Myra and Todd for that matter, but they weren’t unfriendly either, and accepted anyone willing to keep up and play along with their endless competitions.

“Why are they always yelling at each other? Aren’t we all having fun?” Zeke’s eyes lit up like fireflies whenever he spoke, as if all the same sorts big ideas and thoughts Bruce had were locked away inside his head, waiting patiently for the day Zeke would have the words to set them all free.

Bruce increased the pressure on Zeke’s shoulder, hurrying him along at his side. “That’s just the way they play. One always wants to be better than the other.”

They dashed to the end of the grassy field and ducked into the woods. The forest behind the school where Bruce, Todd, and Myra would enter the sixth grade at the end of summer was off limits when school was in. But that was still three weeks away.

“You’ll never catch me!” Myra’s voice came from just ahead.

“That’s what you think donkey-brains!” was Todd’s answer.

Their banter continued as Bruce carved his way through the bramble, checking back dutifully on Zeke every few steps. “Hurry Zeke!”

“Whoa!” Myra’s high-pitched yell startled Bruce. He’d never heard her express much beyond frustration, or the determination to rise to whatever absurd challenge Todd had placed before her.

Continuing along, Bruce waited for the teasing he could only assume would be Todd’s reply, but none came. The sudden silence of the forest made Bruce’s skin crawl, and he redoubled his efforts, rushing ahead through the trees to find his friends. “C’mon Zeke, hurry up!”

Pushing his way through a cluster of bushes and dodging under a low-hanging branch, Bruce finally burst free of the trees into the small clearing beyond.

There, Myra and Todd stood shoulder to shoulder, their arms hanging limp by their sides. Neither said a word. Neither shoved the other, nor issued any sort of challenge.

Bruce felt a big knot forming in his stomach.

Glancing back and forth at each of them in turn, Bruce was certain he’d find some clue of what they were up to. Todd wore his camouflage shirt…as if it would make him invisible. Myra stood lazily in torn up jeans and a bright orange shirt—she got to wear her ‘old’ clothes almost exclusively over the summer.

Bruce sauntered up cautiously. “What’s going on you—?”

Then he too fell silent.

Just in front of his two friends sat the strangest object he’d ever seen. Bruce hadn’t noticed it until just that moment. In fact, it almost seemed to shudder into being as he approached—just the opposite of the desert mirages he’d learned about from a Sunday morning TV show a few days back.

Shaped like a tear-drop on its side, it could have fit one…maybe two of his bedrooms in its fat end. It was shiny white—almost like a toilet bowl—save for a strange shimmer rippling over its surface, playing with its colours like wind passing over a still lake. ‘Iridescent’, Bruce thought his teacher had once called the effect.

Its surface was smooth, with no sign of paint or lettering—not even a single screw was visible on its long, flawless frame. At the very back—near the wide end of the tear-drop—a thin black space opened, with a white ramp leading up into it. Bruce saw no evidence of a shadow beneath the ship’s gently curving underbelly.

It didn’t make a sound. Rather, it seemed to Bruce that it may actually be gobbling up all the nearby sounds. No birds could be heard, no traffic in the distance. Bruce couldn’t even hear the sound of his heart, although he felt it pounding in his chest like a marching drum.

“What is it?” Todd’s usual bravery gave way to an uncertain murmur.

“Is it…” Myra ventured, before trailing off and staring silently, a queer look on her face.

Bruce just stood in silence, watching his reflected image wobble along the surface of the mysterious bulk.

“It’s like some kind of gnarly submarine. Remember we talked about those last year?” Todd’s voice was low and somber, and Bruce noticed that his hands trembled at his sides.

“It’s not a sub you dolt. Those only go in the water.” Myra always put on a bold front, but Bruce was certain her rough voice shook a bit as she spoke, and the competitive snarl she usually gave Todd was nowhere to be seen.

“A Spaceship! Wow!” Zeke broke through the woods at a gallop, and his excited screech shattered the fragile quiet of the small clearing, shocking the group out of their solemn considerations.

“I think he’s right,” said Bruce, turning to check on his tardy little brother. Zeke pulled up alongside, busily pulling at the legs of his khaki shorts, which had bunched all up as he ran.

“Oh boy! C’mon!” cried Zeke once he’d finished, and before anyone could say a word, he jockeyed around the older kids, jumped in the air with a clap, then sprinted across the small stretch of grass, up the ramp and into the dark interior of the imposing craft.

“Zeke, no…” Bruce’s protest got caught up somewhere in his throat, and came drifting out limp and stale. He took half a step forward and stiffened his lip, but then stumbled into a pathetic slouch. “We’ve got to go after him you guys!” he finished, failing to convince even himself.

“I’m not going near that thing,” said Myra.

“Me neither,” Todd agreed.

Bruce gazed up at the ship, which remained entirely still. Looking at it made him shiver—it felt so out of place, and sent a strange chill along his spine. He closed his eyes and wished more than anything that he and Zeke were back at home, curled up on the downstairs couch drinking root beer and watching all the shows their parents wouldn’t let them watch upstairs.

When Bruce opened his eyes, nothing had changed, and a terrible hollow opened up in his guts that made his face scrunch up and his eyes itch. “Well, we have to…” he said, but his conviction suffocated in the warm, still air.

“You guys, this is so cool!” Zeke’s voice trilled out from the black space at the back of the machine, fresh and jubilant and so full of energy it succeeded in shaking the three friends from their terrified state. If Zeke could handle it, how bad could it be?

“Me first!” Todd gave Myra a hard shove and raced towards the ramp. Todd had always maintained that he was the bravest boy in town, and was certainly not willing to risk Myra beating him inside.

“You jerk,” shrieked Myra, hot on his heels.

Bruce was already moving, peeling away from the spot which had held him entranced a moment before and off to the rescue of his foolish little brother.

The ramp made no noise beneath his feet. Bruce felt a light breeze on his back as he walked; cool and fresh, like the wind off the ocean he remembered from a family vacation before Zeke ever came along.

Suddenly inside, Bruce stood blinking like he’d just been startled out of a deep sleep. Everything within the craft was the same pearlescent white as without, and the gentle curve of the room kept its exact dimensions a hazy guess. The floor was lost in this same confusing effect—a thin layer of smoke made firm beneath his feet—never obvious, but always there where it was needed.

There was no smell, and the air no longer had any feeling on Bruce’s skin. Not like the chilly breeze from his window at night. Not like the muggy heat of his cramped classroom. It was like the air in dreams, he thought.

Myra and Todd turned in circles next to one another. Now around this way to take in the eerie scene, then back around again. They locked eyes each time their orbits met, making vaguely menacing faces at each other as they did.

Bruce saw Zeke at the far end, where the tear drop shape must have made the space narrower, although it was hard to tell. He had a big grin on his face—the kind he’d wear every time he got some treat their parents assumed Bruce would be too old to want.

“Wait till we tell everyone about this,” Zeke cooed, and the fireflies in his eyes were dancing now. Stepping aside, Zeke turned and pointed to a small bulge in the far end of the ship. It glowed—a warm, red egg sitting nestled in the clouds.

The red called to Bruce. A burning star in the murky white all around him, it spoke in words Bruce had never heard but always knew—an eager, urgent compulsion which he’d been trained to despise and resist ever since the time he’d been trying to sneak snacks when his parents were out, and managed to let Zeke fall down the stairs.

“You’re so scared, look at you.” Todd’s voice came from behind them, but seemed muffled and distant.

“You’re scared!” Myra’s retort was accompanied by the thud of a small fist into a chubby arm. It was all worlds away, unimportant and uninteresting.

All that mattered to Bruce was the big, dumb grin on his brother’s face as Zeke reached out and touched the red bump. “This will be great, I can’t wait,” he cheered, then giggled at his accidental rhyme.

Bruce’s jaw dropped. There was an odd hiss, and the red light disappeared. Then, the incandescent white glow around them faded, and the walls vanished like they’d never been there at all. Bruce could see the short trees just outside, and on the grass a few feet beneath them four shadows drifted alone in the clearing.

“What’s happening?” asked Todd. The tremor in his voice scared Bruce more than he could understand.

“What did you do kid?” Myra demanded, whirling about to face Zeke angrily.

“He didn’t know…” Bruce started to explain, but fell abruptly silent.

The world around them began to shift. Like an image on a screen drawing slowly back, the ground fell away underneath them. The now transparent craft carried them up along the lengths of the trees, leaving no shadow as it passed above them. It was a strange movement, with no starts or stops, no feeling to it at all.

No one said anything. Todd and Myra stared at each other with shocked expressions. Both clenched their fists tightly at their sides. Bruce gasped for breath as he gaped at the joyous expression on his little brother’s face. Zeke never understood the weight of his choices, and it always seemed to be Bruce who was left to clean up the mess.

Gazing down, Bruce could see the forest they’d been playing in moments before. From the playground, the forbidden forest had been a thing of rumour and dread. But from this height it appeared merely as a small cluster of trees. Barely a forest at all, it was more like an overgrown parking lot filled with ragged old pine trees and the occasional ash, with a small clearing in the middle just big enough to give the impression of natural solitude for anyone young enough to tune out the sounds of nearby traffic.

The forest rocked back and forth now like a still picture floating on a turbid sea, growing slowly smaller until it was nothing more than a green speck in the little town Bruce was still struggling to navigate. It didn’t seem that big from above either. A few streets, a couple of buildings…then it was too far off to focus on.

“We’re flying!” The glee in Zeke’s voice made Bruce’s blood boil. It was like the time he’d gotten into all of their mom’s fresh pineapple squares, ruining them for the impending staff party. Bruce had tried frantically to put them back together for half an hour. Zeke had just blathered about how happy he was—his entire face covered in whipped cream and pineapple chunks.

“Get us down!” screamed Todd.

“I’m not doing it!” Myra tossed her hands helplessly above her head.

“I wasn’t talking to you!” Todd wrapped his arms tight around his body, gently rocking in place.

“Everyone calm down,” Bruce’s breath came in short, thin gasps.

“I can see a lake down there. Do you think there’s fishes in it?” asked Zeke.

“Be quiet Zeke! We’re in real trouble now!” said Bruce.

“Bruce is scared,” Myra teased. Her voice was distant and empty.

“He’s going to cry!” Todd joined in. He was staring straight ahead, a bright sheen over his eyes.

“Shut up you guys, what’s going to happen to us?” Bruce resented the truth in Todd’s words.

“We’re going on an adventure!” Zeke explained.

Below them, the world was a patchwork quilt. Greens, browns, and grays all lined themselves up in neat little rows. Then, they disappeared for a moment, and the room turned white as the children tore into a thick layer of clouds.

Then they were through.

“Wheee!” cried Zeke.

“Oh geez, oh geez,” said Bruce. “We’re supposed to be home soon Zeke, this isn’t funny.”

“Do you think we’ll meet the aliens?” asked Zeke. He placed his hands against the translucent curve of the walls, pressing his nose flat to get a better view of the clouds and fields and little splotches of water so far below.

“Oh damn—aliens?” The fear in Todd’s voice was undeniable.

“They’ll eat you first, cause you’re the slowest,” said Myra.

“They’ll eat you last, cause you smell the worst.” Todd shoved her gently, then followed as she stumbled back, maintaining their proximity. The cabin was growing dimmer, and a quick glance down showed Bruce the curve of the earth as its warm glow shrank away beneath them.

“We’ll see aliens, and animals, and stars, and maybe some giraffes.” Zeke counted the highlights on his fingers as he spoke.

Bruce stared at his watch, but the numbers and hands were meaningless to him now, and he chewed his fingers nervously while Zeke prattled on.

“…and we’ll get to make a bunch of new stories to share with our friends.” Zeke stared straight out into the stars as he spoke.

Bruce looked down at the ever diminishing Earth, its blues and greens—they’d never looked so incredible in his textbook.

“It’ll all be ok Zeke,” Bruce whispered.

“You really think so man?” asked Todd. “I don’t know what the hell is happening!”

“Watch your language dude, my brother’s here!” said Bruce.

“Yeah moron,” Myra agreed.

“Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds,” said Zeke. He sat cross-legged now in what was presumably the small end of the ship. With the walls entirely transparent and a sea of blackness all about, it looked like little Zeke was playing amongst the stars—the shining arm of the Milky Way wrapping around him like their mother’s would each night before bedtime. The countless stars reflected amongst the fireflies in his eyes as he gazed out in wonder.

“It’s just like any other star now,” Myra sounded distant, and somehow like she was asking a question. She stared down towards the back of the ship, where the Earth had indeed shrunk down to just another point of light among so many others.

Bruce had to squint to be certain he was looking at the right one.

“We’ll never find our way back,” Todd said.

“Don’t scare Zeke,” replied Bruce, still watching the tiny shining dot he’d once called home.

“Maybe they’ll give us some nice gifts to bring back.” Zeke mused merrily to himself, the way he used to rehearse his Christmas list as he laid awake beside Bruce on Christmas Eve.

“Wait…” mumbled Bruce. The distant Earth had begun to move sideways now, sliding off to the right with the gentle grace of a leaf on a smooth flowing river. All the other stars were doing the same, and Bruce fought to swallow down his impending conclusion. “We’re going really fast.”

“How do you know?” Myra asked. There was an empty note of challenge in her tone.

“Remember science, and how far apart all the stars are? Look at them go by, we’re going fast.” Bruce tried to swallow again, but failed, “…and straight. We turned back there, that means—”

“We’re going to a brand new place,” sang Zeke, clapping his hands to a rhythm no one else could hear.

“What does it mean?” Todd turned towards Bruce menacingly as he spoke, but his eyes drifted downward, and his chin bounced up and down in sync with Bruce’s racing heart.

“Zeke’s right. It means we’re being taken somewhere.” Bruce finally swallowed the doubt in his throat, and nearly gagged for his efforts.

“Taken where?” Myra’s rough edge had broken entirely now, and her words skittered through the room like breaking glass.

“To a planet probably,” Zeke was bouncing up and down. He still faced directly forward, and his head wagged back and forth in a frantic effort to ensure he missed nothing. “Or maybe another spaceship. Or maybe a big space-whale that makes ships to bring him friends.”

“Jesus! A space whale?” Todd yelped.

“Be quiet, you’ll frighten him!” growled Bruce.

“You be quiet punk!” Todd didn’t turn to face him, but rather took a half-step towards Myra, who stood at his side.

“Everyone just shut up,” Myra whined, and moved a step towards Todd. Their hands brushed together, but neither said anything about it.

“I can’t wait to tell mom about this. She won’t believe it,” said Zeke.

“Don’t you get it?” Bruce finally snapped. Zeke never got anything—Bruce always had to watch out for him and solve all his problems, and he never even understood what was happening. “We’re not going back! No one will ever hear this story!” he wailed.

The stars stretched back forever behind Zeke as he turned to face Bruce, who saw them also shining in his eyes. They gleamed out as his mouth hung open, and the fireflies danced among them a few seconds longer before drowning in a rush of tears.

Single Serving Stories Series- ‘Neve Uncovers the Ultimate Truth of All Things’

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Under the Green Desk Lamp…

Green DesklampIn addition to regular blog articles and my published novels, I’ve also written several Single Serving Stories over the years. Some have been published in anthologies like ‘Between the Shelves’, ‘Edmonton: Unbound’, and ‘All Mapped Out’. Others have been shared exclusively on this blog via the publication platform Smashwords.

Recent changes to the Smashwords platform has made it a less reliable option however, and therefore an exciting change has come to Brad OH Inc.

I will be re-sharing in full—un-edited and un-abridged—all Single Serving Stories previously published on Smashwords with Brad OH Inc. as the new, exclusive provider. All text will be provided in full, with no download necessary. If Smashwords don’t like that, they can message our complaints department.

This project will culminate in a couple of heretofore unpublished Single Serving Stories, so even the most dedicated of readers will have something to look forward to.

Today we share our eighth Single Serving Story, ‘Neve Uncovers the Ultimate Truth of All Things’. This story was part of the anthology ‘Between the Shelves’, which was created by our local writer’s group, with proceeds going to the local library branch. As part of this anthology, it is written as a celebration of libraries, and books in general.

‘Neve Uncovers the Ultimate Truth of All Things’ tells the tale of a little girl with some big concerns, left to ponder upon them in the familiar confines of her local library. Although her world is in an increasing state of turmoil, she finds comfort and meaning in the books around her.

Book shelves rose up like forbidden towers on old castles, meandering off in every direction. Neve, caressing the stringy and stained hair of her doll Clarice, bit her tiny lip. She could hear the lackadaisical clicking of the keyboard behind her as her father continued his arduous journey to find new employment. She knew it wasn’t going well. It never did.

Neve was always getting dragged along to the library for his half-hearted attempts to turn things around, and was expected to wait nearby as her dad perused the net in search of employment. Her family didn’t have Internet at their house. ‘That was for those rich…’ well, Neve really didn’t like to say bad words, and reasoned that thinking them probably counted just as much.

Still, waiting around like this was a tall task. Neve was only eight, after all.

“What do you think we should do, Clarice?” she whispered, hoping to avoid any dirty looks or shushes from the library’s other patrons. But her doll just stared back with her one button-eye, providing little by way of answer. Neve was too old to be talking to dolls anyway, she figured.

‘Yet not old enough to have other fun,’ she thought.

“Neve! Quit wandering around so much. Stay where I can see you,” her dad barked. His eyes never left the screen, which cast a deathly pallor over his already exhausted face.

“Yeah, yeah,” she mumbled to herself, imagining Clarice’s button-eye rolling back to mirror her own. Neve had never been a disobedient child, but the library was pretty familiar to her after so many months of this routine, and that meant the temptation to drift away was nearly overwhelming her eager young mind.

The small cluster of computers where her dad sat was stationed in the very centre of the library—an oasis of desks and screens enveloped by a world of wonder. About two person-lengths from the computers in all directions, the tall rows of bookshelves rolled away into distances Neve couldn’t even imagine. One way led to fantasy books, where Neve could find old tales about knights and dragons. Beside that was non-fiction, which had never really captured Neve. Then there were the young-adult, horror, and literature sections. Yuck, yikes, and yawn! But just to her right was the row for science fiction books. There, Neve knew, she could read about unimaginable alien worlds, and starships piloted by people totally foreign in their experiences, yet somehow unbearably familiar in their struggles.

Neve liked that section a lot. Once, she recalled, she’d flipped through a book with pictures of giant space stations, and terrible battles in the stars. There had even been a princess in distress—just like in so many of the fantasy stories Neve loved.

Pulling Clarice tightly to her chest, Neve eyed the countless pathways eagerly. She was a good reader for her age—even her teacher, Mrs. MacNeil, had said so on a sticker covered certificate which now hung on Neve’s bedroom wall. So her regular trips to the library had grown bolder bit by bit, and whenever her dad was sufficiently distracted, she would wander a little further down one row or another, reading anything she could get her hands on.

She turned in tiny circles as she thought about the possibilities. The spinning made her dizzy, but Neve didn’t mind. “That way is where the romance books are,” she told Clarice—as if the doll didn’t already know. Over the last couple of months, Neve and Clarice had been nearly permanent fixtures in their local library branch. “I like those ones,” she purred quietly to her little stuffed friend, and felt a flush creeping into her cheeks.

Neve remembered one book in particular. She’d flipped through it on one of her first trips to the library, struggling with some of the words and wishing for pictures, but doing very well on the whole, according to Clarice. The book had been an old story about star-crossed lovers separated by cruel circumstances. No matter what they did, their paths just never seemed to bring them together.

Neve liked how they never gave up hope though. Clutching the rough cover in her little hands, she’d hoped her parents held onto that same hope.

“Books can be a big help to people, you know.”

Clarice only gaped at Neve’s prompt, but this didn’t stop her. Once, Mrs. MacNeil had said Neve was ‘headstrong’. One trip to the library later, Neve learned that meant she didn’t quit when things got tough. That had made her happy.

“Just remember the woman we met in the ‘Religion’ section?” she continued.

The memory from several weeks ago still remained with Neve, fighting tenaciously for space amongst confounding math problems, cruel playground rumours, and half-comprehended speculations from her dad about where they were going to live.

Neve had been standing at the threshold of the aisle, inching in slowly as she kept one vigilant eye on her dad. The covers seemed scary, with blood and fire and thorns. Neve had actually begun to wonder if she’d stumbled into the horror section again by accident, when she saw the short old lady holding a light purple book. She had tears running down her face, and Neve’s strong sense of sympathy had overpowered her aversion to scoldings.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, staring up at the frail blue-haired lady.

The woman was startled at first, but her expression naturally softened when she saw Clarice. “Oh, oh bless your heart. Nothing’s wrong my dear. I was just reading an old passage that my mother used to read to me. I never understood it back then,” she explained with a paper-thin smile before being interrupted by a gross coughing fit. She put a hand to her chest, and her old body shook. “It speaks to me now though,” she finished, and creaked slowly away, leaning upon her rocker.

With an emboldened spirit, Neve had picked up the book and flipped through it. There were a lot of lines about valleys, and fear, and other things Neve didn’t really understand. But she remembered how much it had meant to the lady.

Now, Neve could still hear the slow clicking of the keyboard, and a quick glance backward told her that her dad remained fixated on his own quest.

With one tentative step, then another, Neve inched her way into the fantasy section, where the book covers showed horses and dragons and all sorts of wonderful scenes. Picking up a pale green book with a white sword on it, Neve flipped the pages excitedly, her mind a maelstrom of big ideas and vague hopes.

Foreign words were scattered freely throughout the text, but many of them were pretty close to words she knew, and the clever girl was able to make some general sense from the lines she read as she flipped happily through the pages. There had been a king long ago, in a land that had a new name now. The king had a sword.

“Not just any sword,” she whispered to Clarice, whose little grey button eye seemed to wobble with excitement, “a magic sword, pulled from a stone! It’s what makes him king, but…” Neve paused, considering what a hard time the king seemed to be having.

She flipped a few pages, searching for the happy parts. She’d looked through the book a dozen times before—sometimes she felt like she’d done so with every book in the library. Inevitably though, she’d find something new with each venture into the forbidding stacks.

“The sword is why he’s king, but he can never figure out how to make the people happy. He gets advice from a wizard, and he listens to his people, but everyone wants something different.” Neve felt silly sometimes, whispering to a doll. But someone had to share in these adventures with her. She was pretty sure that was a rule.

“I think it’s hard to be good sometimes, Clarice. Sometimes there’s no way to make everyone happy, and—”

“Neve, get back here!” her dad’s voice ricocheted across the library, and people stared at Neve, many with long bony fingers pressed to their thin gray lips. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Sorry dad.” Neve hurried back to his side, her eyes glued to the faded blue carpet. “I was just reading about a—”

“That’s OK honey, just don’t wander too far.” He never looked away from the screen.

“Hmmph.” Neve flopped down onto the floor beside the computer desk, her eyebrows bunched tightly together. There was a garbage can next to her, but a quick peek in revealed nothing but bunched up papers and a few cough drop wrappers. The floor was mostly clean.

Neve looked at the clock, trying to follow the second hand around its course, but that got boring after only a few rotations.

“This is taking forever,” she whined, and Clarice nodded her emphatic support. She picked lackadaisically at the flaking paint on the leg of the computer table, but didn’t like the way it scraped under her fingernails. “Hmmph.”

On the shelf closest to her, Neve could see a big hardcover book with pictures of stars and planets and comets and crazy glowing balls of purple light and lots of other things she didn’t understand.

It didn’t seem that far away. A quick glance up to her dad told Neve he was still fixated by…whatever it was he looked at.

She lay down on the floor. Keeping one toe pressed firmly against her dad’s workstation as instructed, she stretched out on her stomach, her tiny fingers reaching out for the big old book.

“Darn, not quite enough,” she grumbled.

Her eyes flashed about like fireflies, desperately trying to figure out a way to reach the book, which hovered just a few inches beyond her grasp. But there was no way to stretch any farther without running the risk of tearing her skeleton loose from her skin, and Neve certainly didn’t want to do that. Her back was already getting sore, and she relaxed her posture a bit. No one was going to help her; that much was certainly clear.

With sudden clairvoyance, Neve reached the only decision available to her, and quickly chucked poor Clarice at the book, knocking it down from the shelf with a loud ‘Whop!’

A gale of ‘Shushes’ flooded her ears as she was buried under a tsunami of dirty looks. “Neve, be quiet. Don’t you get that we’re in a library?” her dad snapped.

Neve scooped up the book—and Clarice—with her toes still grounded firmly against the desk, and shimmied giddily back. Success!

Sitting up with her back against the hard old desk leg, she nestled the heavy book in her lap, placed Clarice comfortably in view just above it, and opened it up.

Neve’s mouth hung open as she took in the incredible, double-page panoramas. Tremendous clusters of stars spread out before her; entire galaxies scattered over the blackness like spilled marbles, and foreign planets beyond count were pictured within.

She gasped. “It’s all so big!” Scrunching up closer to the desk leg, Neve held her breath as she flipped the pages. She remembered again the lady she’d spoken to in the religion section, and how moved she’d been by what she was reading. “There’s something for everyone here I guess. There’s certainly room for it,” she finished, flipping the pages eagerly.

With such a humongous universe out there, it seemed nearly impossible that there could be any certain answers to all the strange things people wondered; just an ever-expanding list of questions. Neve pulled Clarice closer as she read about how all the stars she could see in the night sky existed in only an itsy-bitsy little portion of their single galaxy.

“It sure makes you feel small, doesn’t it?”

“You still there, baby?” her dad asked from just above her. It sounded like a world away.

“I’m still here Daddy,” she answered quietly.

Neve had a lot of questions herself: Who would she play with at recess tomorrow? Why wasn’t she allowed to do anything by herself? What did her parents always used to fight about? Where was her mom anyways?

Looking at all the thousands of stars, and all the great empty spaces between them, Neve realized that she’d kind of given up on getting answers for them anyway. ‘But sometimes,’ she thought, ‘the stories here are even better. Answers don’t seem so important when you have a good story, after all.’

Gazing at the big bright pages in amazement, Neve remembered another story she’d read once. She hadn’t understood a lot of it, but she’d gotten bits and pieces. It was about an astronaut on a big spaceship, flying through the stars to discover…something.

She’d thought he must have been very lonely, drifting farther and farther from home all alone.

He did have a robot he could talk to, but it didn’t really seem anxious to help him or make him feel better. It just wanted to do what needed to be done for the mission, and never cared what the poor astronaut needed for himself.

“Can’t I go get another book, Daddy?” Neve asked.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that, Neve. I’ve got to keep my eye on you, that’s a dad’s job after all,” he replied. The façade of his cheery tone was entirely transparent to the whip-smart young Neve.

Neve slouched down, closing the big book in her lap and looking at Clarice. “That astronaut did his job, even though he had that stupid old robot to deal with. I guess I have to too,” she declared. But Clarice didn’t answer, and Neve tossed her down onto the floor.

She was too old to talk to dolls anyway. Doll didn’t have brains like people. Clarice couldn’t answer all the questions Neve had. Clarice couldn’t talk or think or even ask questions for herself.

‘No’, Neve thought, ‘only people can do that.’

She remembered another story she’d looked at once, sitting down next to her dad in the big old library. It was a long story, and there was a whole shelf in the library to hold all the books it took to tell it. She didn’t get through very much, but flipping through the old yellow pages, taking in that happy, musty smell, she’d managed to catch enough.

It was a fantasy story, like so many others she’d read. It was about an amazing world full of beautiful elves and terrible goblins and all sorts of strange stuff like that. But the world was dying; all the magic was disappearing and all the good people were going away, leaving the world to darkness and decay.

It made her sad then, and it made her sad thinking about it now. She looked over at Clarice folded in half on the ground and sighed. “The people in that story didn’t believe things could go back either, not to the way they used to be,” she whispered down to her hopeless friend.

Neve blushed, but a quick glance up to her father revealed that he hadn’t been listening—still absorbed in the cool blue glow of the screen in front of him.

‘They’d still tried though,’ she remembered that much at least. The smallest and most helpless had stood up to undo all the hurt, and carried the burden even though they couldn’t possibly understand what it all really meant.

Neve liked that.

Sometimes as she read one book or another, she felt like it had been written just for her. It was weird, because that made her wonder how anyone else could possibly understand it, since they didn’t know all the things she knew. But they did understand. Everyone found something in those books, and that’s what made them so great.

“Only people can ask questions, and only people can imagine answers.” Neve sighed, and pulled Clarice back over to her side. ‘It must be easy,’ she thought, ‘to be a doll and only worry about doll things: How you sit on the bed, what dress to wear—those things are easy-as-pie.’ Other than her one missing button-eye, Clarice had the best life Neve could imagine. And the missing button-eye didn’t even seem to bother Clarice.

Clutching the doll tightly in one hand now, she imagined the tiny weight was unbearable, just like the magic ring in the book she’d read. She crawled slowly; dragging Clarice along the worn carpet, fearing that at any moment the watchful eye of her father would settle upon her and end their adventure before it even began.

But no scolding came, and Neve slipped silently away into the aisle marked ‘Classics’.

She’d been here before too, so she took no time at all locating her favourite book. There was a silly drawing of a naked yellow man on the cover, and Neve had to bite her little lip to suppress a giggle. She had to do that every time.

The man seemed to be drawn on a pot, but Neve could never figure out what that had to do with the stories—which were all about the ancient gods of Greece, and the strange games they played with people.

Sometimes, Neve wondered if that’s how Clarice felt—manipulated against her will by a giant girl she could barely comprehend. That made Neve feel awfully powerful, and every time the thought entered her mind, she vowed to ensure she treated Clarice with all the respect she wanted for herself.

The gods in these stories weren’t like that though. Not at all. They killed and tortured their people, and gave them impossible labours to do, and then punished them if they did any of it wrong.

It all seemed so unfair.

Neve peeked around the corner to make sure her dad hadn’t caught on to her absence. He’d be awfully mad if she didn’t sit still in the place where she was told. But he just gazed at his screen, oblivious and fully occupied with whatever worried adults.

She flipped through the book cautiously. She didn’t want to stumble on some awful drawing again—once she’d seen one of a bird eating a man’s guts, and that had put her off her thanksgiving dinner, which also made her dad angry. All the stories in this section were terribly gruesome. In fact, Neve had avoided the section for a long time after discovering what it contained, but eventually she grew curious, and finally began to visit it again.

At first, she couldn’t understand why anyone would want to read something so awful. When she was younger, Neve only liked happy stories about beautiful princesses and magical times.

But at some point or another, those things began to feel a bit silly.

They were nice to imagine, and Neve still liked it when her dreams were happy, but she couldn’t deny that sometimes she liked those darker stories. She wondered about the people who wrote them. Mrs. MacNeil had talked about the ancient Greeks once, and although Neve didn’t know much, she knew they were from a time long, long ago. ‘Probably even before Christopher Columbus,’ she imagined.

“Why do you think they wrote those stories?” she whispered the question into the side of Clarice’s stuffed, earless head. “Do you think they really thought that’s what God was like, or do you think they just needed a way to blow off steam?”

One time, Mrs. MacNeil had sent Neve out of the classroom, and she had to sit down and talk about anger with the school counsellor. Neve was scared at first, but it turned out OK. She got to hold a big fluffy toy frog, which was nice, and they mostly just talked about things which made Neve mad—which somehow made her feel better about them.

In the end, the counsellor had told her to count to ten, and to drink some water, and to walk away. Neve didn’t know how to do all those things together without making a big mess and getting in even more trouble though, so she didn’t really bother. But she remembered that the counsellor had also told her how important it was to talk about it. She said you could talk to toys, or people you trust, or even write it down.

“That’s probably what they were doing,” Neve told Clarice, “just trying to write down all the things that scared them back then. That’s really good to do, because once you write it down, it’s not as scary anymore.”

Neve thought about the diary she’d started once, back when everything first started to change. She’d written big stories about her dad and her mom and their old house, but it was really hard work, and she’d ultimately given up.

“Oh,” said Neve, flipping through the thin pages with Clarice nestled snuggly in her lap, “this is one of my favourites.” She turned the book upward to show Clarice the full-page picture of the stone man and his lion skin and his big muscles. Then she blushed, shook her head at Clarice, and pulled the book back up with a huff.

“This guy was the son of Zeus—the king of the gods. But Zeus’s wife Hera didn’t like him, and they always fought. He was tormented by Hera, who only showed up when she wanted to make things hard for him and drive him crazy.

“But he never gave up. Sometimes he used his strength, and sometimes he used his brains, but he never gave up. I think that’s pretty important.

“I wonder who wrote this story,” said Neve, searching through the covers and end-pages for some kind of ‘about the author’ section.

“Neve!” The yell sent a chill up her spine.

The jig was up!

“Neve, get back here!” her dad called again. “You know better than to wander off. It’s time to go. C’mon!”

Sinking down against the rigid bookshelf, Neve frowned. ‘Time to go home,’ she thought. That meant a lot of things: It meant that bedtime was near for one thing, and dreams were always sort of a gamble. It also meant a whole day of school; wandering the halls alone and hoping someone would talk to her. She hated that!

Hopefully though, her dad would need to do more work tomorrow, because that would mean she’d get to come back here. She looked forward to being at the library. At any moment, some story could take her to a world she’d never heard of but always needed.

It amazed her how familiar they always felt.

“Neve! Let’s go. Now!”

“Well Clarice, it’s time to go,” she said, replacing the book on the shelf and gently taking her doll up by the hand. “I still think it’s unfair sometimes that people are the only ones who have to wonder why. It hurts to have so many questions. But I’ve gotta admit—I’m glad we have imaginations. At least that way, when we don’t know all the real answers, we can think up something that makes sense, right Clarice?”

“That’s right,” said Clarice, her voice as smooth and comforting as a mother’s touch. “I think we’re going to be just fine, Neve.”

-Brad OH Inc.

Single Serving Stories Series- ‘The Election’

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Under the Green Desk Lamp…

Green DesklampIn addition to regular blog articles and my published novels, I’ve also written several Single Serving Stories over the years. Some have been published in anthologies like ‘Between the Shelves’, ‘Edmonton: Unbound’, and ‘All Mapped Out’. Others have been shared exclusively on this blog via the publication platform Smashwords.

Recent changes to the Smashwords platform has made it a less reliable option however, and therefore an exciting change has come to Brad OH Inc.

I will be re-sharing in full—un-edited and un-abridged—all Single Serving Stories previously published on Smashwords with Brad OH Inc. as the new, exclusive provider. All text will be provided in full, with no download necessary. If Smashwords don’t like that, they can message our complaints department.

This project will culminate in a couple of heretofore unpublished Single Serving Stories, so even the most dedicated of readers will have something to look forward to.

Today we share our seventh Single Serving Story, ‘The Election’. This was  fun story to write, and was partiallly inspired by the works of Hunter S. Thompson. In turn, it became the jumping off pint for the novel I am currently working on, ‘Project: FearNaught’.

I arrived at the fourth annual United Corporate Global Election promptly at 9:47am, and immediately began to regret the flask of whiskey I’d surreptitiously quaffed on the commuter shuttle over. The ride had been a full 45 minutes, and as I’d been rushed at high velocity over the rooftops of the lower Bronx in the tiny tin compartment, the decision had seemed entirely justified.

Now, matters had changed. Shuffling along the fully enclosed commuter pad, I only barely managed to get my Citizen Spending Registration Card hung around my neck as a mass of humanity encased and funnelled me through huge revolving doors. Quick flashes of red light dotted my chest, no doubt registering my number and assuring I had the appropriate Citizen Spending Credit rating for admittance.

It wouldn’t matter here. Just a proactive effort to speed things up at the registration booth further down—a precaution that seemed insufficient, as the line crawled along at a snail’s pace.

“Holy hell,” I muttered to myself, “it’s even worse than I imagined.”

The walls, the floors, and even the ceilings were glaring neon screens, all competing against one another in a mad frenzy to sell whatever confounded products the Six Super-Corporations had for us today. They would be successful, I knew.

I’d never been to one of these grand affairs before. When the Corporate Suffrage bill had passed I’d been in the midst of a frenetic bender in Laos, and the entire period was a bitter and scattered memory. Since then, I’d been rambling along, bouncing around tiny Caribbean islands and nations too impoverished to give a good god damn about meaningless international elections.

This lifestyle had afforded me no shortage of human interest stories to cover. But these were trivialities, and the entire time I knew in my heart that I was skirting the real issues; chasing them out of my mind with drink, and turning a blind eye to the worry lines creeping across my once enthusiastic countenance.

The elections were always a point of interest, but a freelance journalist is always on the move, and seldom do circumstances conspire to allow our ilk to write what we please.

A hopelessly trite job posting in the Big Apple had changed all that, however, and I’d jumped at the opportunity. Now I advanced one half-step at a time, thrilled with the prospect of reaching the heart of the corporate beast I’d been avoiding for the last four years—exposing it to the elements and the wild, and letting the flies do their work.

In all honesty, it’s a pretty good time to be a writer. People will eagerly devour anything that lights up their screens without a second thought. It makes for an active story market, and the truth is as good a story as any. Besides, someone’s gotta tell it.

“Scan your card.” The voice took me by surprise. I’d been lost in my ruminations, and had failed to perceive the registration booth finally close in. The man speaking sat in a big round chair. It wrapped around him as if the plastic itself was molded to his swollen form, and his words came from jiggling jowls of a sickly pallor.

“Scan your card,” he repeated monotonously.

I leaned into the porcelain counter and offered my host the most charming smile I could manage. “Duke O’Brady, here from ‘Citizens United E-Magazine’ to report on the election.”

The unbearable irony of the magazine’s name had always bothered me, but my lamentations had fallen on deaf ears during my single visit to the central office.

“Our name was designed to incite feelings of harmony and safety,” the young lady had told me as if from a placard held just behind my head.

“It always had been, that’s the damn problem,” I’d insisted, but I was getting nowhere fast, and I knew it.

“Scan your card,” the bloated man repeated once again. I couldn’t be sure whether he was unaware I’d been the same singular person the entire time, or if he simply lacked the training to alter his script even an iota. Furthermore, I didn’t care.

Scanning my card made a confirmatory beep, and the man waved me through.

“Finally,” I grumbled, filing along with the rest of the mob through a short glass hallway. Outside, trees stretched up tall and timeless, vines and bushes pressing against the glass as if nature itself conspired to return this world to its natural state.

“It’s beautiful,” a lady said to a tall, thin man beside her. But I’d overheard, and felt it my patriotic duty to get involved.

“It’s fake,” I explained matter-of-factly. I was too old and experienced to muster any false sympathy. “Just projections playing across the screens. They want you to feel optimistic, you didn’t see a damn forest when you walked in, did you?”

The woman frowned, shaking her head; a sorrowful Christian in the presence of an unbaptized street-urchin.

Patriotism had never gotten me anywhere.

Thinking back, it wasn’t fair to blame my drinking on the horrendous conditions of the commuter shuttle. Not entirely. It had been partially motivated by the nagging fear that whatever I was going to experience here would be such a terrible shock that it might be too much for my strained mental constitution, and cause me to crumble into a chattering mess. Then I’d most likely be scooped up by the nearest corporate rep and put on display like some atavistic half-man; mad with the overbearing weight of its own twisted reality.

Stepping out of the bright green passage-way, I knew immediately I’d under-estimated the state of affairs.

The space was massive beyond my wildest imagination. Certainly it had seemed gargantuan through the tiny stained windows as I’d swept over on my way to the commuter pad, but standing inside now was entirely overwhelming.

The United Corporate Global Election Center had been erected for the first event of its kind in 2023. Construction had started a full 7 months before the passing of the Corporate Suffrage bill, but this fact didn’t seem to interest many people these days.

Just as it was in the lobby, every visible surface was alight with propaganda. These were not political endorsements, nor were they scathing intellectual attacks on political opponents. Those were relics of the past which none but our most seasoned readers will recall.

“Feeling tired?” one screen chirped as I passed by. The screen dimmed noticeably as it spoke the words, and I could see the shoulders of everyone in its vicinity slouch with the change. “Get yourself an energy boosting ‘Super-Slam’, available at any G&E solicitations table.” With this, the screen and surrounding environment brightened, and all around me people straightened up. The most ambitious stood on trembling tip-toes, craning their necks and smiling broadly upon catching sight of a glaring G&E logo in the distance.

Then they were gone.

“Mother of misfortune,” I muttered absently, deciding immediately that I’d need another drink as soon as possible.

“Feeling worn thin? Get yourself a refreshing ‘Whiskey Wake-Up’, available at any Viacom solicitations table.”

I silently cursed the Big Six, and then shuffled off towards the gigantic orange ‘Viacom’ logo in the distance.

A hundred thousand clinking metallic voices were chirping from all around. The outer walls of the room were lined with the voting stations proper, their lengths segregated into equal portions for each of the six core corporations: G&E, News-Corp, Disney, Viacom, Time Warner, and CBS.

Once approved for voter eligibility—a simple process involving scanning your Citizen Spending Registration Card to prove you’d spent at least a little bit of money on one of the Big Six over the past year—a citizen was welcome to approach the booths at their leisure, allotting any of the dollars they’d spent towards whatever Leadership Traits that particular corporation offered.

A hollow feminine voice spoke from one of the booths to my right. “Many voters appreciate a Lead Citizen who wears Nike clothing!” The woman standing at the booth tapped the screen excitedly. “You’ve chosen the Leadership Trait: ‘Wears Nike’, if this is correct, press 1,” the voice rattled, and the woman jumped up and down in her stupor.

“Must be one of the preferred choices,” I spoke sidelong to a lanky old man shuffling along beside me, hoping he’d share my reticence.

“Do you know at which booth I can vote for a sharply dressed leader?” he asked me with a distinguished accent, “preferably Versace?”

“Get out of here you fucking animal!” I shouted, and sent him scampering off to find his own way amid the squealing machines and pacified voters.

Among the Big Six, you could vote for just about any leadership trait you could dream of—they owned them all anyway. As long as you had Citizen Spending Credits to allot, you could design whatever sort of a leader you wanted.

Of course, there were pre-determined traits suggested as ‘Preferred Choices’. These were agreed upon by the Big Six in advance, and the little automated machines would spit out their trendy tips as if sharing hot insider information.

Half of me half-expected to find a curtain somewhere in the fray, ready to be pulled back at the end of the day revealing the new Lead Citizen of the  United Corporate Global Alliance—a perfect amalgamation of all the ‘Preferred Choices’ ready and rearing to go to work.

But quarter expectations weren’t worth much, and I knew the final leader would only be revealed after 7 days’ time. “Used to accurately tally the public will and find the ideal Lead Citizen”, the news would reiterate ad nauseum for the next full week. Then they would finally wheel out some smiling, sycophantic bastard, and everything would continue on as normal.

The central section of the United Corporate Global Election Center made the periphery look like a respectable affair. The sprawling rectangular expanse was separated into six equal sections. Each one featured a tremendous array of products and propaganda so hedonistic in their severity that the sight of each sufficed to convince a man that no more mad and malicious display could ever be found. Inevitably, turning in any direction would reveal the falsity of this assumption.

There were jugglers and fire eaters, belly dancers and sword swallowers. The Disney section even had an elephant chained in place as spotlights painted screening times for new movies over his worn and wrinkled old hide.

Stepping into line at the Viacom Solicitations Table, I sidled up to an angry looking young punk with half his head shaved. “What do you think of this crazy scene?” I asked. I didn’t mention my affiliation with Citizens United E-Magazine. I’d come to find that people were inherently distrustful of any information source that didn’t bear the seal of approval from one of the Big Six, and avoided them whenever possible.

“It’s pretty amazing,” he answered. He had a heavy Queens accent, and reeked of gin.

“Amazing?” I repeated, taking a half-step up in line.

The boy glanced to each side, and then stole a quick pull from a flask in his pocket, offering it to me with a smile. “Yeah, when else in history have we ever had such clear control over our leadership? The entire world votes today, all at once. You can’t deny that’s pretty incredible.”

I gratefully accepted a quick pull from the flask, hoping it would do its job—dull my frayed nerves until I reached the counter to collect my own drink. “But does the image matter so much? Are you content to control who tells you what is decided, or do you really feel like you’re still affecting policy?” I knew I was testing the limits of responsible journalism with these leading questions, yet I had trouble fathoming the idea that this damn ruffian bought into the bullshit around him.

“Are you kidding me?” He rubbed a hand over the bald half of his head, rolling his eyes. “What about in 2025, when that one group—what’s their name—hacked the elections? We ended up with a masked Lead Citizen all year! If that’s not power to the people, you tell me what is.”

You dumb bastard, I thought, but bit my lip. “That son-of-a-bitch was the one who announced the ‘New United Corporate Global Green Routine’!” I cried; referring to the pitiful effort at urban beautification displayed in the hallway leading in.

“Exactly,” the boy winked at me knowingly, as if revealing his part in some grand earth-shaking conspiracy.

I shuddered. Goddamn punk. The Lead Citizen was meant to be the voice of the people in the United Corporate Global Government, but in my experience, they were little more than a mouthpiece. Through these elections, they were cleverly designed for maximum approval, but functioned only to regurgitate and promote whatever destructive new policies the Big Six decided to market to the ignorant masses.

When I finally got to the head of the line, I was greeted by a lovely young woman in a bright orange Viacom shirt. “Welcome to the Viacom Solicitations Table, where we get all our Reality! How can I improve your experience today?”

Behind her, a woman bounced up and down on an LED stage. She wore what looked like tiny wool mittens over her perky young breasts, and walked the stage with her legs bowed, slapping her crotch and wailing something about how freedom really got her off.

“I’ll have 2 Jameson’s, neat.” I tried to keep my answer curt, hoping to avoid unnecessary entanglements.

“Of course,” she said, smiling as she moved in what I assumed to be a dance along to the ‘music’ behind her. “At Viacom, our goal is to be the world’s leading, branded entertainment company across television, motion pictures, and digital media platforms. We focus on our consumers, enhancing our existing bra—”

“Make those doubles.” I cut her off.

She smiled, tapped a few buttons on the dispenser, and drew a sleek white contraption from her belt. It fired a red laser into the badge on my chest, and gave a confirmatory beep. The dispenser poured my drinks, and the lady slid them over to me. “50 Citizen Spending Credits have been deducted from your Citizen Spending Registration Card. Please enjoy your Free Voting Experience, and remember, at Viacom, our goal is to be the world’s leading, branded entertain—”

I walked away, finishing one drink quickly and tossing the empty plastic cup into a tall cylindrical container labelled ‘Viacom Cares about Our Environment.’

I ran my thumb across the thin laminate draped around my neck. On it was a barcode, my full name and Citizen Number. Everyone in the place had one. They were absolutely essential for access to an affair like this.

Inevitably, all money spent went to one of the Big Six. They were at the end of nearly every product you could legally buy or sell. Each dollar was immediately translated into Citizen Spending Credits and allotted to the relevant umbrella Corporation. They called it ‘Proportional Representation’.

It had always struck me as redundant.

“Jesus, Mary Mother and Joseph!” I remembered loudly complaining to a journalist friend during one drunken night in Puerto Rico, “They already have our money, why even pretend to give us a choice in the matter?”

We’d been promptly removed from the bar by a pair of tree-trunk necked apes for ‘disturbing the consumer spirit’.

Cameras lined every surface incapable of supporting LED advertisements, and even these were entirely plastered with ads and slogans for their respective corporate zone. I looked down again at the vital information displayed on my chest, and noticed tiny red flashes playing across it every few seconds. Scanners, I knew.

I’d come here with a lot of questions—key electoral concerns I felt needed to be addressed if the legitimacy of this so-called election was to be evaluated. Is voting a legal requirement? What are the protections on voter secrecy? How does the general public seem to perceive the election?

Now, every question I could think up seemed as empty as the thin plastic cup in my hand. I frowned.

Well, I thought, that’s another 50 Citizen Spending Credits gone from my account.

I didn’t imagine there were very many Viacom voting options I would have found myself passionate about anyway.

Citizen Spending Credits were acquired throughout the duration of each calendar year, right up until the day before election—a day recently dubbed ‘Black Saturday’, when citizens rushed out to spend as much money as possible on their favourite Corporations, hoping to get a hand up on other citizens and secure whatever shitty little features they hoped to see on the Lead Citizen that year.

It wasn’t the only way to use up Citizen Spending Credits. Certain goods—those agreed on by the Big Six for unilateral control and trade monitoring, could only be purchased through the expenditure of extant Citizen Spending Credits throughout the year. These charges were withdrawn from all six Corporate Credit Pools in equal measure.

Alcohol, Cigarettes, Healthcare, Border Crossings—these had been relegated to the Citizen Spending Credit Pool in order to ensure those accessing these ‘Exclusive Public Privileges’ were high-functioning, contributing members of society.

The result was two-fold. Firstly, it ensured that citizens who for whatever reasons failed to pay into the Corporate Economy would not be able to affect it come Voting Day. A second effect, one seldom discussed in Corporate Media, was that an unverified number of Citizens would simply spend all of their Citizen Spending Credits on these goods—whether due to vice or need—and thus be excluded from the electoral process entirely.

I’d never been convinced that was such a terrible fate. In fact, the notion that you couldn’t be politically active if you didn’t vote always felt tantamount to saying you couldn’t be an atheist without going to church. I’d always done just fine on both fronts, but looking around, it was clear that all too many people were still beleaguered with the tired notion that democratic participation begins and ends with casting a worthless vote in a silly dog and pony show.

It was a sad fucking state of affairs, and contemplating it for any period of time gave me a strong thirst for a powerful drink.

Thankfully, this was not a difficult thing to accomplish at an event like this. All of the Big Six offered an unending supply of drinks at their respective stations, and I allowed myself to wander along listlessly.

To my left, a man was hammering on a Voting Station, screaming inaudibly in the raucous din. “Having a problem there, friend?” I asked.

He only half-turned, his glassy eyes meeting mine for a confused second before resuming his hammering. “Citizen Spending Credits for the Leadership Trait: ‘Well-Travelled’ will be counted as 2-for-1, for the next 27 minutes only.” The machine chirped, and across the screen popped an obtrusive link to said ‘Leadership Trait’.

The man continued pounding on the illuminated surface like some frustrated maniac on the verge of a complete mental breakdown. “I just want a leader who likes anime!” he wailed. By his manner, I was entirely certain he wasn’t talking to me, and continued on my way.

With a quick, practiced motion, I popped open the lid of a tiny yellow container in my pocket, and slid two red pills into my mouth. That should settle me down, I reasoned.

Another 250 Citizen Spending Credits out of the way as well, I reflected. Thanks Disney, you smarmy, psychotic rodent.

This whole distorted scene was getting to be too much, and for a brief moment I considered fleeing; turning tail and running like a whipped cur—too proud to yield, too stupid to fall in line.

I felt a sudden overwhelming urge to do something—anything. Even the smallest mad gesture would suffice to express my extreme disgust for the things I’d seen. For the life of me though, I couldn’t imagine what sort of obscene act I could ever come up with to stand out amidst this horrendous carnival of the complacent.

“Many citizens prefer their jeans 18% more faded. You can get a brand new pair at the News-Corp Solicitations Table.” A tiny painted camera was scanning my jeans with flickering red lights. That was it, I needed a drink.

Elbowing my way through the sedated crowd, I made my way into a drink line, kindly provided by G&E.

What could one man do? All around me, the logos of the Big Six were painted, projected, or proudly worn on shirts, hats, and pendants. In 7 days, there would be some new idiot posing as the popular representative of the people’s will. Inevitably, he would remind us that growth of corporate profit margins was the paramount goal. Environmental issues, education, family structure, freedom of speech—all of these were secondary concerns.

It was the fundamental tenet of a society which had confused Capitalism with the fetishization of wealth, and even this was done at the end of the most dangerous barrel in history; the joint effort of media moguls who could buy and sell the world’s population 3 times over.

What gesture could possibly provoke such an entrenched tyranny?

I couldn’t say, and it depressed me to an immeasurable degree.

Over the last four years, I’d heard countless rumours of opposition—some enlightened pockets of people rising up to turn the tides and take back control. It was this very idea which had given me the courage to set foot in this confounded town in the first place. But I’d touched down late last night, and went straight to sleep. The shuttle to the United Corporate Global Election Center this morning had taken me from the Commuter Station outside my hotel directly into the event without ever tasting fresh air, and I stood here now with no evidence that such people even existed.

I remembered my youth, when the internet felt like a way for the entire world to gather in a public forum, sharing their thoughts and opinions as if they might eventually manage to reach some grand public consensus. Then it would all be over; people would agree on the basic rights of all to freedom and choice, and the liberty to pursue whatever the hell made one man happy without hurting another.

But net neutrality had perished in an omnibus bill 3 years before the Corporate Suffrage Bill had come to the table, and in the blink of an eye 9 billion earnest voices had been reduced to faint echoes, incapable of achieving coherence over the amplified volume of corporate idealism.

Now, a citizen had pitifully few avenues for self-expression. If they wanted to meet even the most basic human needs, they had to rely on at least one of the Big Six. With that came unintelligible user agreements and endless legal caveats.

Dissent amounted to little more than a nervous smile on the streets; a desperate flash of the eyes on a corner before a glance up to the ‘Citizen Safety Cameras’ sent both parties scampering on their way.

“Welcome to the G&E Solicitations Table, where you’ll find good things at work,” said a woman in a blue and white shirt as she smiled mechanically. “How can I improve your experience today?”

“2 Jameson’s, neat if you please.” I answered, as cordially as I could manage.

“Certainly,” she replied, tapping a few buttons on the automated dispenser. LED screens all around her displayed countless electronic devices capable of replicating any and all human functions. “At G&E, our…”

“Make those doubles.” I commanded, turning my back on the ceaseless and unsolicited rhetoric.

The pretty young lady scanned my Citizen Spending Registration Card, pressed a button, and the drinks sprayed into their cups with an eager hiss.

She handed me the first, and I lifted it to my lips, anxious for the temporary relief it would afford me from the nausea-inducing madness all around.

Still my mind raced, frantically searching for any possible means of writing off this whole sorry affair in some grand and inevitably deplorable swoop.

The second drink stopped pouring mid-way through, and a sudden glow of red light illuminated the girl’s pretty features. “I’m sorry sir,” she announced, handing me the glass—half full to only the most ardent optimist. “It seems you’ve reached the limit of your Citizen Spending Credits, goodbye.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but a sudden hand around my neck shut it fast and hard. A pair of muscle bound goons in G&E shirts took me by the arms and began dragging me towards the nearest exit.

“Get off me, you goddamn animals!” I exclaimed.

A camera flash shut off my vision for a moment. When it returned, I saw that a crowd had gathered around me.

“Let me go you sons of bitches!” I struggled against them to no avail. Seldom does the power of one scared and desperate man overcome the certainty of a security force entrenched in its own sense of justice.

The camera flashes continued as I was unceremoniously hauled away, kicking and screaming like a rabid animal the entire way. Some people clapped, and from some direction or another, I heard a song taken up. “Na na na na, na na na na, hey hey hey…”

Fuck those oblivious pricks, I thought, tossing a quick elbow into the jaw of one of my beefy oppressors.

It was answered by two quick shots to my ribs, and my legs gave out beneath me. Dragging them loosely, I flailed my arms, jockeying side to side like an unsecured trailer as I shouted incoherent slander at anyone who would listen.

Just beside me, I saw a man braying loudly, his fat round face nearly split in half by his self-involved grin. In his hand was a deep fried turkey leg wrapped in paper bearing the Nike ‘Swoosh’. His wife stood beside him, tapping the screen of her Personal Communicator Device and wearing a white shirt emblazoned with the Starbucks Logo and a plain text font reading ‘I Voted’.

The brutes dragged me through a set of small metal doors and down a long, empty cement hallway. They didn’t speak a word the entire time. I more than made up for their silence.

I cannot claim that I’m proud of my actions. Indeed, I looked like a raving lunatic, kicking and screaming like a false prophet being hauled through the forum in disgrace until they finally shoved me out through another set of steel doors.

I landed hard on my stomach, the impact of the sidewalk stealing my breath and scraping my arms. Lying still and defeated, I felt the sun burning my neck. The air was cool and clean; a refreshing taste of the real world so rarely achieved in a city of shuttle transports and LED shelters.

“Take my hand,” a voice came from above me. I groaned, forcing myself up onto one elbow and glaring into the blinding rays of the midday sun.

The two security guards had vanished back inside, no doubt happy to be relieved of their distasteful cargo. All around me however, people were gathered en masse. They were pressed tightly together, their ranks stretching off as far as I could see.

Some held placards, others shouted out the wares they had available for free trade. On a billboard to my right was the gleaming white outline of a Mickey Mouse head, its vandalized ears elongated into curving horns, and red coals were painted in place of its eyes.

“C’mon, you’re alright,” the voice came again. I took the outstretched hand and used it to climb to my knees. My arm was bleeding, and I was utterly exhausted. All around me however, signs besought the toppling of the corporate state, and people stood in the dirty streets singing songs of unity.

These brilliant, shining bastards had never bothered to venture inside, I realized. They were smarter than I. They’d been beyond the false idolatry of that elaborate pageant. Quieting my mind for a moment, I was overwhelmed by the poignancy of the signs and depth of the conversations I heard all around me.

Intrinsically, I understood that I’d come here today only to confirm my fears that the world was as entirely lost as I’d expected. Within the first moments, I’d felt this was accomplished, and could have walked out satisfied in my bleak suspicions before ever scanning my Citizen Spending Registration Card. But now, as I rubbed my bleeding arm and rose shakily to my feet, I realized I’d found something far greater. Beyond my wildest expectations, I felt liberated—like a sailor lost upon the waves, who in desperation turns his eyes at last towards the starry sky.

-Brad OH Inc.