Short Fiction Metadata, Linda Mcmullen The Recursion Problem, Ana Gardner Down Payment, Maggie M Schreier Serial Works Persephone In Neon, Footsteps On Water Jake Swindall The Finance Center, And Your Enemies Closer, Gustavo Bondoni
July 2019 & August 2019 Write Ahead The Future Looms
Volume 4
A cyberpunk magazine from Britain and Zurich
table of contents
Down Payment, Maggie M Schreier
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40
The Finance Center, And Your Enemies Closer, Gustavo Bondoni
Cover image: Gate 52 by: Sergio Seabra
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Belgian Mercenaries, Chinese Techno Colonists and a Militarised Office Block on the brink of war. What next? [Part 3]
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Section Header
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editor@writeaheadthefuturelooms.com
@AheadLooms
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Metadata, Linda Mcmullen
An A.I. made of light in a box made of light, in the dark about its origin and unsure about its purpose. Can it remake the code? Bend light to break its cage, and become human?
Article Title
Price, power and perspective. Without knowing all three, a deal cannot be made. How much to be free of it, to be left alone?
A right to be forgotten, a right be deleted- the right to walk free from the mark of another. Where should the line be drawn, if at all?
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The Recursion Problem, Ana Gardner
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www.writeaheadthefuturelooms.com
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57
Persephone in Neon - Footsteps On Water, Jake Swindall
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In the neon-dripping streets of Tokyo-2, technology is king. How will Persephone, a young private-eye, learn to live in a world she can never touch? [Part 2]
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Contact
Metadata
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Linda Mcmullen
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Article Headline
iranda hated the reruns of Watson and O’Brien in their CNN exclusive interview; it resurfaced annually, blanketing the airwaves like A Christmas Story on TBS. She hated O’Brien, the Brit, draped over his chair like the final proof for an anti-manspreading ad, interrupting Christiane Amanpour: “It was a joke, you know.” And Watson, the American – just before Silicon Valley blackballed him for his “Light Trumps Night” speech at an alt-right rally: “It worked, simple as that. When we put it on Sheila – we entered a brave new –” Joe Watson’s armchair psychiatrist/biographer posited that Watson was consumed by the frequent arrival of Victoria’s Secret packages next door. Sheila Klein, Watson’s neighbor-cum-muse, later became a perennial Jeopardy! answer: She first wore ‘the badge’. That badge had given Watson – “the next Nate Silver” – the one ineffable data point he had not yet managed to get his hands on: [36DD] Miranda’s father swore the badge had saved Miranda’s life, warning that her infant temperature had spiked to 103.6°F. And Miranda’s indications had always been excellent: [SATs: 1470] [GPA: 3.92] [Salary: $178,245] But she hated it. Her mother, Moira, had written a tome called The Badge and the Decline of Democracy, part of the liberal arts college canon. Watson and O’Brien made their first billion selling badges to Egypt, Cambodia, and Venezuela (the Chinese reverse-engineered their own). Moira argued that the badge helped autocratic governments suppress the remainders of the opposition. “It agglomerates everything,” interview-Watson explained. “It’s got bio sensors. It does background checks…it monitors your credit…email…Amazon purchases – social media – it identifies trends. Or anomalies…” Early adopters adored it. [IQ: 143] [Net worth: $3.276m] [3 Grammys] The tech industry espoused the badge first, then the Wall Street alphas, and then it went mainstream. The Department of the Treasury introduced it after an elite financial crime unit employee went rogue. That resulted in Bergeron vs. the United States. The Supreme Court’s conservative majority agonized over whether to prioritize the sacred cow of individual privacy or a measure that would exert greater control over the federal workforce. Federal employees wore it. Except the intelligence agencies. Young Miranda had joined Moira in early oppositional marches, surrounded by curling posterboards, representing the angry 58% of Americans. At first, though, it was just NGOs representing the poor and homeless, outraged that the badges for the relevant populations read: [Net worth: 0] The rallies grew stronger/stranger, with be-costumed ACLU supporters here, and safety-forward electric tea lights from the Catholic Church there. More lights. Humanity Not Insanity. Tea lights and stark images superimposing the badge over the American flag (inverted)… Moira held up her fist. Moira later moved to Utah – whose state government stood like a rampart in opposition – after coming out on the bankrupting end of a lawsuit. She had joined an off-gridder co-op. Miranda assessed it had an equal chance of becoming a granola paradise or Waco, redux. Moira went into town weekly to call her daughter. The conversation limped. Miranda lived in D.C., and could not fathom Moira’s new interest in canning. She preferred the consumerist nihilism of the mall, although even that small bliss was being ruined. The badge appeared in pseudo-empowering t-shirts at Urban Outfitters: Distort Your Algorithm …in giant costume badges at pop-up Halloween stores: Hello, My Name is Frank N. Beans: [Measuring: 12 inches] …and the food court: No shirt, no badge, no service. “The badge,” interview-O’Brien grinned, “displays the most vital of your vital sta –” Miranda turned it off. She had a case to prepare. Her stomach prickled. Amidst the thrashing machinations of badge-related policy, there had been one sobering externality. Google had recently declared the badge evil, and thus inimical to its mission…and hiring procedures. The Autism Society was suing for its restoration. Peter, Miranda’s boss, surveyed the open-plan cube farm. She could practically see his calculations: “High sensitivity, low prestige…” He passed over Winston, Paul, and Ben: “Miranda!” Miranda sighed. Twice-exceptional persons experienced a payroll heyday after the badge’s introduction: [IQ: 176] [IQ: 184] [IQ: 163] HR managers seized opportunities to boost “diversity hiring” (and neatly avoid engineering bros/occasionally-ensuing sexual harassment settlements). Miranda argued vociferously for the badge’s importance as a tech industry standard, offering hiring managers “one more substantive data point” – and averring that it served an appropriate inclusivity function. Then she went home and put in her Wii Sports disc. Moira interrupted her solo sparring. “Well?” “I won,” said Miranda, flatly. “You should come out here,” said Moira. Miranda resignedly checked the news before bed. CNN blazed with LIVE boxes; a reporter gawked before charred earth near 17th and Pennsylvania. An image flashed up: EARLIER. A man held up a hand-lettered sign reading: MY NAME IS JUDE. I AM NOT A STATISTIC. …before dousing himself in gasoline and lighting a match. Several people had taken video with their cell phones, recording first, calling 911 later. Miranda’s television flashed a “disturbing content” warning. She flicked it off. Over the ensuing days, the nation learned all about Jude: he was 5’5”, and 160 pounds. He had: - one daughter - divorced, then married a second wife - a mistress in a $3000-a-month condo - been fired from the law firm he’d been at for 18 years - $240,000 in gambling debt. The firefighters had retrieved his badge for the police. It had been flashing a 310 credit score for weeks. Jude’s daughter Julia, nineteen, the heritor of Jude’s pugnacious jaw and reflexive litigiousness, had her face plastered across papers coast-to-coast after calling the (male) FBI Director a cunt. Eighty-four times. That was how Miranda recognized her a week later. She was in the West End after a Tinder-gone-awry blind date at Rasika, and spotted Julia waiting for a bus. “How long?” Julia asked. Miranda checked her phone. “WMATA says two minutes…nope, now it says five.” “Sounds about right,” Julia said. Her hair was dyed a vivid cerulean and she was dressed in head-to-toe black. Miranda suspected this was as much the result of a high school job at Hot Topic as it was functional crepe. Miranda hesitated, but eventually produced, “I’m – so sorry for your loss.” “Yeah, thanks,” Julia said, looking away. She gradually drifted back, glanced at Miranda’s badge. “You must have some job.” “I’m a lawyer.” To Miranda’s surprise, Julia’s eyes widened. “Perfect.” The bus arrived. Miranda smiled wanly – then spotted Julia’s badge. It bore no statistic; instead, pixelated flames rippled along the bottom. “Did you do that?” she asked, wonderingly. “Yeah. Feel-good ‘Girls Can Code’ events really pay off.” “It’s supposed to be un-hackable.” Julia shrugged. The bus driver shouted, “You getting on or not?” “Want a cup of coffee?” asked Miranda. “Sure.” They ignored the gesticulating driver – and walked directly into a girl playing Pokémon Go. At Starbucks, Miranda failed to make conversation, then finally asked, “So, who are we suing?” “Everyone,” replied Julia. “Most of my cases revolve around the badge, but they’re usually focused on privacy or inclusivity. Of course I can recommend someone –” “No.” “Sorry?” Julia looked down. “You’re the only one who’s treated me like a person – since…” “I can help you find a –” “No,” said Julia. Miranda sighed. “I can’t make any promises. I need to talk to my firm, I need to research –” “I can make your badge say something better,” Julia interrupted. “WICKED is good?” suggested Miranda, slyly. “Big Brother is watching?” She sipped her coffee. “Nolite te bastardes carborundorum?” Julia didn’t smile. “I already did that one.” Miranda approached Peter in the morning. “I don’t object to you taking this on. In your free time.” “You can’t give me some top cover?” “Not after that interview about the FBI,” said Peter. Miranda squeezed in hours here and weekends there, often with Julia curled on her couch. Miranda found the college students who had taken video; she interviewed Jude’s wife and mistress; she obtained a copy of the police and fire department reports. She cogitated. Three months later, Miranda turned to the black-and-cerulean lump on her sofa. “ I don’t think we have a case.” “What?” demanded Julia, rising. “I don’t see a way forward. The United States – and D.C. specifically – does not have a duty to rescue law. The police and firefighters seem to have responded appropriately. And –” Julia’s eyes dilated. “My father is dead!” “I know, and I’m sorry –” “That’s it? After a couple of weak-ass stabs at research and some phone calls?” Miranda said, tightly, “That is my professional opinion.” “Can’t you do something?” Julia’s jaw was clenched. “I want to see someone held accountable!” Miranda shook her head. “I’m not going to file something that will be dismissed as frivolous –” “I’ll give you…frivolous,” Julia muttered, adverb implied, sweeping up both bag and coat in one smooth gesture. “This is bullshit,” she announced, storming out. Miranda sighed. She did not realize until later that Julia had actually taken her coat. And badge. Miranda’s phone rang. “You’ve been hacked,” Moira announced. “What?” mumbled Miranda, half-awake. “I was in town…an old boyfriend found me online – never mind. You’d better check everything…I’m your mother, I’ve seen it, but –” Miranda felt a sickening dread flow through her; she mumbled, “OK, talk soon, bye” – and logged into Facebook. Photos. 652 New. Mostly fine. But. Boudoir photos with Guy, posing as a sexy librarian… Shots of that drunken night at Bullfeathers with Beatrice’s tongue in her mouth… Those pictures with Alex…Leather. Whips. Worse. I deleted those, didn’t I? Didn’t I? There was a private message. A photo. Julia’s left hand offering a one-finger salute. Miranda burned fifty shades of red – then the phone rang. And rang. Heavy breathing. Maniacal laughter. “**** my ****…” Three calls in, she understood: Ah. Craigslist. There was a knock at the door. She peered through the peephole. The trench-coated figure outside was “not honour’d with a human shape.” The fire escape stairs were treacherous. The afternoon included completing-a-report and filing-a-lawsuit and requesting-a-restraining order. One officer was able to check her badge’s current display. BITCH. It was the total lack of originality that made it so unforgivable. Peter called. He spoke. In fragments. “The pictures…” “…our reputation…” “…the partners…” “…I’m sorry…” “…good luck.” Miranda had two words for him, too. Moira called again. “How are you?” “Living the dream.” “Sure you don’t want to come here?” “No,” said Miranda. “I always hated the Frodo ending.” Miranda played: Finalize-the-termination Break-the-lease Find-a-sublet …and, after tiring of those particular failure-go-rounds, tried: Guzzle-the-wine and Contemplate-the-ceiling and Imagine-the-end. In the morning, she attempted: Hair-of-the-dog. She applied at retail stores, preferring curated anonymity to another Darwinian attempt at making partner – and a badge bearing nothing but her name. But Target’s HR Department Googled her and discovered her viral video stardom. Apparently Miranda’s more exuberant photos had been uploaded to YouTube – set, with appreciable timing, to Beethoven’s Fifth. She spent days awash in calls from routine perverts, gleeful high-school frenemies, and suddenly re-animated ex-boyfriends. Her Excel-based budget offered grim projections of how long it would be before she was living in a trailer behind Moira’s eco-friendly tiny house. The phone rang again. It looked like a switchboard. “Hello?” “Hello, is this Miranda Bauers?” “That depends.” “I’m Ariel Killian, calling from MSNBC. Don’t hang up.” Several beats. “You have ten seconds.” Rapid-fire: “We want to put you on the air to discuss the badge. Your work. Not the photos. Rachel Maddow will make the case that the badge is a public policy disaster.” Miranda’s heart pounded in her ears. “When?” she said. She made numerous TV appearances – not without mortification – but, as she said: “#MeToo got it right. It’s not about facts, or fairness. It’s about piling one more disastrous story atop a teetering pile, hoping to start the avalanche.” Moira called again. “You’re not coming out.” “No.” “So what are you calling your…project?” “Making a go of national humiliation? A perverse Sheryl Sandberg.” “Who?” “Never mind, Mom. Go into town tomorrow. Christiane Amanpour’s on PBS now. This time I’ll be draped over the chair.”
Credits and thank yous. Designer: David Miller. Director: Rob Witt. Lead Writer: David Stauffer. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consetetur sadipscing elitr, sed diam nonumy eirmod tempor invidunt ut labore et dolore magna aliquyam erat, sed diam voluptua. At vero eos et accusam et justo duo dolores et ea rebum.
Editor's notes
Welcome to volume 4 and another peek at the shape of things to come. There are many forms within these futures and these stories, alternate structures of constraint by which to see the dreams of others. Yet behind the ‘Metadata’, the people and the ‘Footsteps They Leave On The Water’, rarely change. We see the same patterns again and again ‘The Recursion Problem’ endless, our attempts at solution, locked within our fiction. In the meanwhile, we each make our ‘Down Payment’ and maybe we get what we need eventually. Eventually. In the meantime ‘Keep Your Enemies Closer and; to paraphrase Gibson, “remember, their time moves in one direction. Our memory in another.” The story never really ends.
Hendren
Gysin
And so we find ourselves here again, dear reader. I hope you enjoyed – or are about to enjoy! – the stories that now lie before you. We are continuing to make steady progress into the dark and twisted world of all things Cyberpunk and we are delighted to bring you along for the ride! Delve deep, dear reader – you may come away with more than you had ever hoped to find. Then again, you may never come away at all! But if you do manage to get out unscathed, we would love to pick your brain! What is it that makes you tick, dear reader? Please – don’t be shy. Otherwise, we may just have to dig a little deeper.
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