Altered States: A Cyberpunk Sci-Fi Anthology Read online

  Contents

  About our Editors

  Titles Released

  Title Verso

  Introduction

  Mech

  Last Human

  Annabella's Children

  Living In The Singularity

  Cotner's Bot

  Midnight Pearls Blue

  Better Than Everything

  Ex Machina

  Island

  Meerga

  To Sleep, Perchance

  The Walk

  The Electrified Ants

  Extremum

  Attention Whore

  Unholy Grail

  Extra Credit

  Afterword

  ABOUT OUR EDITORS

  ROY C. BOOTH is a published author, comedian, poet, journalist, essayist, optioned screenwriter, and an internationally awarded playwright with 57 plays published to date (Samuel French, Heuer, et al) with 800+ productions in 29 countries and in ten languages. A graduate of Pillager High School, Booth also has an AA degree from Central Lakes College (Brainerd, MN, and he is a hall of fame inductee in both schools), and a BA in English/Speech-Theatre and an MA in English with a Creative Writing Emphasis from Bemidji State University. Booth resides in Downtown Bemidji, Minnesota with his wife and three sons (writers all) where he has also owned/managed Roy's Comics & Games since 1992. An impartial list of his publications may be found at www.amazon.com/author/roycbooth.

  JORGE SALGADO-REYES is a Chilean and British sci-fi/cyberpunk author, private investigator, and photographer. Salgado-Reyes founded Indie Authors Press in June 2011 when he saw that the publishing industry continued to evolve away from the established gatekeepers. Born in Temuco, Chile, Salgado-Reyes left his country of birth at age seven in 1975 with his family, driven into exile by the Pinochet dictatorship. Salgado-Reyes is currently working towards his BA (Honors) in English Literature and Creative Writing and spends time in both the United Kingdom and Chile. A list of his publications may be found at www.amazon.com/Jorge-Salgado-Reyes/e/B009G0CTPO.

  TITLES RELEASED BY INDIE AUTHORS PRESS

  Learning About Love, a collection of poems by Myriam Reyes Pena (Kindle & paperback), published 6/29/2011

  British Process Servers Guide by Stuart Withers, Helen Withers, & Jorge Salgado-Reyes (hardcover), published 11/27/2011

  A Forest of Dreams, a fantasy anthology, edited by Roy C. Booth (Kindle & paperback), published 9/6/2014

  Spooky Halloween Drabbles 2014 (Kindle), published 10/15/2014

  Forthcoming titles can be found on www.salgado-reyes.com.

  ALTERED STATES

  a cyberpunk sci-fi anthology

  Copyright in the individual stories belongs to the writers or their heirs or executors.

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living, dead or not yet born, is coincidental.

  A catalog record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978-0-9571130-3-9

  Electronic Edition

  It is the policy of Indie Authors Press to use paper that is natural, renewable, and recyclable and made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  INDIE AUTHORS PRESS

  London | Chile | USA

  SALGADO-REYES.COM

  INTRODUCTION

  Paul Levinson

  Cyberpunk—the lean, cool, often sarcastic vision of a dystopian future in the grip of some kind of information technology—arose in the 1980s with novels such as William Gibson’s Neuromancer and movies such as Ridley Scott’s Bladerunner, itself an adaptation of a novel published a decade-and-a-half earlier, by one of the proto-cyberpunk masters, Philip K. Dick.

  I actually don’t agree with most of these exhilaratingly dyspeptic visions—indeed, I’m known in my scholarly writing as a truculent champion of digital media, an image I carefully cultivate. But that never stopped me from immensely enjoying cyberpunk—no more than my view that time travel is all but impossible has prevented me from loving time travel as a reader, viewer, and writer. Indeed, it may well be that the state of near-impossibility is some kind of pre-requisite for top-notch science fiction, which makes the nearly impossible seem possible, even likely, via sheer craft and verve. Then again, some cyberpunk sails by describing tech as plausible as tomorrow.

  Take, for example, the stories in this anthology. We get angry houses that will shoot you if you trespass, every single consumable product knowing who bought it, and all manner of cyber-bio mixes that fulfill Freud’s thesis that libido and thanatos—sex and death—are the two factors that most motivate human life, whether via attraction, avoidance, or the two at the same time. The proximity of digital life to our original flesh-and-blood selves is the landscape of most of these stories. Would humans enjoy sex with an android? Of course! Could we fall in love with one? Why not? Could a robot produce great art? In cyberpunk science fiction, the answer to all of these questions is a resounding Yes. If you believe that answer, the story has worked its magic.

  The departure point for all of these stories is the inextricable imperfection of human existence. We get sick, physically and mentally, we mess up, we go bankrupt, we die. That part of cyberpunk—the heart of cyberpunk—is undeniable truth, and has been a defining feature of human life since millennia before the first computer was invented. It’s a theme picked up in many a mainstream work of fiction, about a dysfunctional family, about humans against the machines of society. But in cyberpunk, and despite its dystopic complexion, the hero or heroine or protagonist has a fighting chance. And if the endings of such battles are not usually happy, and indeed can be vexing, the contests and antagonists themselves can be a pleasure to read.

  Many of the characters in Altered States live on Earth, others on planets close and far, or in alternate universes altogether. They hail from cities, suburbs, countrysides, outer space or no place at all, in futures near and distant. All are in some kind of duress, under some kind of pressure, because of information technology, unless information tech is coming to the rescue. Their actions are criminal, daring, unethical, and of the highest ethical quality. Their stories are told in prose that runs like poetry, and on occasion in poetry proper.

  Most of the stories in this anthology have been recently published in other, sundry places; a few are older; some are here in print or on the screen for the first time. Taken together, do they herald a new day for the cyberpunk age? As another titan of the first cyberpunk era, John Varley, once wrote: “Press Enter—and see what awaits you.”

  —Paul Levinson, New York City, October 2014

  MECH

  C.J. Cherryh

  Originally published in Futurecrime 1992, Davis Publications.

  Cold night in Dallas Metro Complex, late shift supper while the cruiser autoed the beltway, rain fracturing the city lights on the windshield.

  “Chili cheeseburger with mustard,” Dave said, and passed it to Sheila—Sheila had the wheel, he had the trackers, and traffic was half way sane for Dallas after dark, nobody even cruising off the autos, at least in their sector. He bit into a chili and cheese without, washed a
bite down with a soft drink, and scanned the blips for the odd lane-runner. A domestic quarrel and a card snitch were their only two working calls: Manny and Lupe had the domestic, and the computer lab had the card trace.

  So naturally they were two bites into the c&c, hadn’t even touched the fries, when the mech-level call came slithering in, sweet-voiced: “Possible assault in progress, Metro 2, #R-29, The Arlington, you’ve got the warrant, 34, see the manager.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Dave muttered. Sheila said something else, succinctly, off mike, and punched in a chilied thumb. The cruiser had already started its lane changes, with Exit 3 lit up on the windshield, at .82 k away. Sheila got a couple more bites and a sip of soft drink down before she shoved the burger and drink cup at him. She took the wheel as the autos dumped them onto Mason Drive, on a manual-only and most deserted street.

  It didn’t look like an assault kind of neighborhood, big reflective windows in a tower complex. It was offices and residences, one of the poshest Complexes in big D, real high rent district. You could say that was why a mech unit got pulled in off the Ringroad, instead of the dispatcher sending in the b&w line troops. You could make a second guess it was because the city wanted more people to move into the Complexes and a low crime rep was the major sales pitch. Or you could even guess some city councilman lived in The Arlington.

  But that wasn’t for a mere mech unit to question. Dave got his helmet out of the locker under his feet, put it on while Sheila was taking them into the curbside lane, plugged into the collar unit that was already plugged to the tactile, put the gloves on, and put the visor down, in the interest of checkout time—

  “Greet The Public,” Sheila said with a saccharine and nasty smirk—meaning Department Po-li-cy said visors up when you were Meeting the Man: people didn’t greatly like to talk to visors and armor.

  “Yeah, yeah.” He finished the checks. He had a street map on the HUD, the location of 29-R sector on the overall building shape, the relative position of the cruiser as it nosed down the ramp into The Arlington’s garage. “Inside view, here, shit, I’m not getting it, have you got Library on it?”

  “I’ll get it. Get. Go”

  He opened the door, bailed out onto the concrete curb. Car treads had tracked the rain in, neon and dead white glows glistened on the down ramp behind them. High and mighty Arlington Complex was gray concrete and smoked glass in its utilitarian gut. And he headed for the glass doors, visor up, the way Sheila said, fiber cameras on, so Sheila could track: Sheila herself was worthless with the mech, she had proven that by taking a shot from a dealer, so that her right leg was plex and cable below the knee, but as a keyman she was ace and she had access with an A with the guys Downtown.

  She said, in his left ear, “Man’s in the hall, name’s Rozman, reports screaming on 48, a man running down the fire stairs—”

  “Mr. Rozman,” he said, meeting the man just past the doors. “Understand you have a disturbance.”

  “Ms. Lopez, she’s the next door neighbor, she’s hiding in her bedroom, she said there was screaming. We had an intruder on the fire stairs—”

  “Man or woman’s voice in the apartment?”

  “Woman.”

  “What’s our address?”

  “4899.”

  “Minors on premises?”

  “Single woman. Name’s Emilia Nolan. Lives alone. A quiet type…no loud parties, no complaints from the neighbors…”

  Rozman was a clear-headed source. He unclipped a remote, thumbed it on and handed it to the man. “You keep answering questions. You know what this is?”

  “It’s a remote.”

  “—Sheila, put a phone-alert on Ms. Lopez and the rest of the neighbors, police on the way up, just stay inside and keep behind furniture until she gets word from us.” He was already going for the elevators. “Mr. Rozman. Do you log entry/exists?”

  On his right-ear mike: “On the street and the tunnels and the garage, the fire stairs…”

  “Any exceptions?”

  “No—Yes. The service doors. But those are manual key…only maintenance has that.”

  “Key that log to the dispatcher. Just put the d-card in the phone and dial 9999.” The Exception to the log was already entered, miked-in from his pickup. “And talk to your security people about those service doors. That’s city code. Sir.” He was polite on autopilot. His attention was on Sheila at the moment, from the other ear, saying they were prepping interior schemas to his helmet view. “Mr. Rozman. Which elevator?” There was a bank of six.

  “Elevator B. Second one on your left. That goes to 48s…”

  He used his fireman’s key on the elevator call, and put his visor down. The hall and the elevator doors disappeared behind a wire-schema of the hall and doors, all red and gold and green lines on black, and shifting as the mid-tier elevator grounded itself. He didn’t look down as he got in; you didn’t look down on a wire-view if you wanted your stomach steady. He sent the car up, watched the floors flash past, transparenced, heard a stream of checks from Sheila confirming the phone-alarm in action, residents being warned through the phone company—

  “Lopez is a cardiac case,” Sheila said, “hospital’s got a cruiser on alert, still no answer out of 4899. Lopez says it’s quiet now.”

  “You got a line on Lopez, calm her down.” Presence-sniffer readout was a steady blue, but you got that in passageways, lot of traffic, everything blurred unless you had a specific to track: It was smelling for stress, and wasn’t getting it here. “Rozman, any other elevators to 48?”

  “Yeah, C and D.”

  “Can you get off anywhere from a higher floor?”

  “Yes, sir, you can. Any elevator, if you are going down…”

  Elevator stopped and the door opened. Solid floor across the threshold, with the scan set for anomalies against the wire-schema. Couple of potted palms popped out against the VR. Target door was highlighted gold. Audio kept hyping until he could hear the scuff of random movements from other apartments. “Real quiet,” he said to Sheila. And stood there a moment while the sniffer worked, filling in tracks. You could see the swirl in the air currents where the vent was. You could see stress showing up soft red.

  “Copy that,” Sheila said. “Warrant´s clear to go in.”

  He put himself on no-exhaust, used the fire-key again, stayed to the threshold. The air inside showed redder. So did the walls, on heat-view, but this was spatter. Lot of spatter.

  No sound of breathing. No heartbeat inside the apartment.

  He de-amped and walked in. A mech couldn’t disturb a Scene—sniffer couldn’t pick up a presence on itself, ditto on the Cyloprene of his mech rig, and while the rig was no-exhaust and he was on internal air. It couldn’t sniff him, but feet could still smudge the spatters. He watched where he stepped, real-visual now, and discovered the body, a woman, fully dressed, sprawled face-up by the bar, next to the bedroom, hole dead center between the astonished eyes.

  “Quick and clean for her,” he said. “Helluva mess on the walls.”

  “Lab’s on its way,” Sheila said, alternate thought track. “I’m on you, D-D, just stand still a sec.”

  The sniffer was working up a profile, via Sheila’s relays Downtown. He stood still, scanning over the body. “Woman about thirty, good-looking, plain dresser…”

  Emilia Francis Nolan, age 34, flashed up on the HUD. Canadian citizen, Martian registry, chief information officer Mars Transport Company.

  Thin, pale woman. Dark hair. Corporate style on the clothes. Canadian immigrant to Mars, returned to Earth on a Canadian passport. “Door was locked,” he said.

  “I noticed that,” Sheila said.

  Sniffer was developing two scents, the victim’s and a second one. AMMONIA, the indicator said.

  “Mild ammonia.”

  “Old fashioned stuff,” he said. “Amateur.” The sniffer was already sepping it out as the number three track. Ammonia wouldn’t overload a modern sniffer. It was just one more clue to trace; and the tr
acks were coming clear now: Nolan’s was everywhere, Baruque, the sniffer said—expensive perfume, persistent as hell. The ammonia had to be number two’s notion. And you didn’t carry a vial of it for social occasions.

  But why in hell was there a live-in smell?

  “Male,” Sheila commented, meaning the number two track. “Lover’s spat?”

  “POSSeL-Q the manager didn’t know about, maybe, lover’s quarrel, clothes aren’t mussed. Rape’s not a high likely here.” Stress in both tracks. The whole place stank of it.

  “Going for the live one, Sheel. Hype it. Put out a phone alert, upstairs and down, have ComA take over Rozman’s remote, I don’t need him but he’s still a resource.”

  Out of the door, into the wire-schema of the hall. The sniffer had it good this time: the stress trail showed up clear and bright for the fire-door, and it matched the number two track, no question. “Forty-eight damn floors,” he muttered: no good to take the elevator. You got professional killers or you got crazies or drugheads in a place like this, fenced in with its security locks, and you didn’t know what any one of the three was going to do, or what floor they were going to do it on. He went through the fire-door and started down on foot, following the scent, down and down and down…

  “We got further on Norton,” Sheila said. “Assigned here eight months ago, real company climber, top grad, schooled on Mars, no live-ins on any MarsCorp record we can get to, but that guy was real strong in there. I’m saying he was somebody Norton didn’t want her social circle to meet.

  He ran steps and breathed, ran steps and breathed, restricted air, Sheila has a brain for figuring people, you didn’t even have to ask her. A presence trail arrived into the stairwell, bright blue mingling with the red. “Got another track here,” he found breath to say.