@Edent Revenge of the Mutant Algorithms. 4. The Guerilla Information team.

A story of retaliation against the overzealous surveillance state we live in today, where all politicians and policemen are subject to round-the-clock, in-your-face surveillance whose data are ...

1a/5

https://shkspr.mobi/blog/2024/11/revenge-of-the-mutant-algorithms-the-guerilla-information-team/

#NaNoWriMo #RevengeOfTheMutantAlgorithms #SciFi #WritingMonth #books #book @bookstodon #scifi #scifireading #reading #fiction

I've decided that the accumulation of reviews of on-line serializations I've done for Mastodon now constitutes a sufficient body of work that it deserves its own web site. Also, posterity, just in case....

https://rdmp.org/serials

#reading #readinglog #scifireading @bookstodon

#konbiniidol #thevoid #sistersofrail #naleensshadow #revengeofthemutantalgorithms @NaraMoore @jxself @Ratchman @Edent

@Edent Revenge of the Mutant Algorithms: 2, The Myth of the Fall of Icarus.

Alternative ending to the ridiculous story of Icarus, equally ludicrous. Icarusʼ maiden flight was successful, and he uses the new-found technology to launch an army of winged naked ladies against the gorping forces of King Minos, only to be thwarted by a cunning plan of Minosʼ Archimedes.

1/3

https://shkspr.mobi/blog/2024/11/revenge-of-the-mutant-algorithms-the-myth-of-the-fall-of-icarus/

#NaNoWriMo
#RevengeOfTheMutantAlgorithms
#SciFi
#WritingMonth #reading @bookstodon

Eight Characters In Search Of A Plot

These are little biographies of characters who tried to inveigle their way into stories that were inappropriate for them. Perhaps they'll graduate to full stories one day. For now, regretfully, they are stuck in the Writer's Waiting Room leafing through dusty magazines until inspiration strikes. Who knows, maybe one will become your new favourite.

I first started breastfeeding cats when I was 27.

mRNA vaccines were the miracle of the 21st Century. Every disease eventually found itself crushed under their scientific weight. COVID? Eliminated! Zika? Zapped! Rabies? A distant memory! There was nothing that wonderstuff couldn't achieve. If your body wasn't producing insulin, mRNA could reprogram your organs. The world changed. Mostly for good, but sometimes for the strange. When you no longer need to worry about getting food poisoning, your dining habits change and it becomes socially acceptable to rummage in bins like a fox. No more STDs meant a new summer (and autumn, winter, spring, and summer again) of love. You could be as risky as you like while exploring the world and never catch so much as a cold.

And if, due to some unanticipated 3rd or 4th order effect of a seemingly benign social change, there was a surfeit of kittens and a shortage of cats… well, science offered me a way to help those poor little animals. How could I refuse?

The neovaccine rewrote my code for the betterment of stray cats everywhere. Rather than let them starve, the shelter paid me to suckle them. Not directly, of course! Sharp claws and pointed teeth were incompatible with tender human flesh. So a few times a day, I discreetly went to the nursing room and pumped out a few litres of the white-stuff. My genetically enhanced body produced the perfect mix of nutrients for a growing kitten. I was the nursemaid to a legion of pretty-kitties! What I hadn't realised was how addictive my lactations were…

David's parents wanted only the best for him, they said, that's why they had him fitted with cochlear implants a week shy of his 7th birthday. He wasn't deaf, sadly, but they didn't want him to fall behind all the other children. The world is increasingly competitive, they reasoned. Why not give him all the advantages that deaf kids got? After all, hearing children deserve support too!

Perfect pitch would help if he ever decided to be a professional musician. High frequency detection could prevent him from missing a distant fire alarm. There were rumours that some deaf kids had exam answers beamed to their implants from bribed school staff. Now David could hear the full spectrum of sound, and was able to selectively target his hearing, it would only be a matter of time before he would surpass the other children.

Unspoken between his parents was the knowledge that the implants looked deeply cool. Multicoloured patches, flashing LEDs, hair cut away in the same style as their favourite actor. David wasn't a fashion accessory to them, of course, he was a perfect little boy. But one who could do with a little improvement.

Humans have always tried to conquer the Earth's most remote areas. The world had moved on from insulating people in whale blubber, or kitting them out with synthetic clothing. At the frozen extreme of the world was a research station which housed a lonely tribe of experimental humans. All of them had elected to undergo a series of procedures to allow them to thrive in perpetual winter. The mission, so it was hoped, would allow future humans to survive the inclement weather on Mars and beyond. What nobler cause was there than to sacrifice your bodily autonomy for the future of humanity?

Alicia didn't mind the way she looked. Her body's endocrine systems had been totally upgraded and she was able to frolic naked in the ice-storm without feeling the cold. Ordinarily, she might have felt a little self-conscious, but the tight curls of thick brown hair covering her skin helped her to retain body-heat and preserve her modesty. Where once her flesh would have been frozen, now she was warm beneath her personal furry blanket. Bella was less happy. She'd opted for a different way to keep warm. She stood out in the blizzard wearing a puffy overall which clung tight to her body, on her lower-back sat a literal bum-bag. A gruesome tangle of pipes and mechanical valves plugged into her body. Her gut microbes had been replaced with a newer, more powerful strain. They diligently digested every morsel she ate and, with great efficiency, produced hundreds of litres of methane. The cyborg gizmo literally sucked the farts out of her and burned them for warmth.

Carla's mutant upgrade had not been the success the scientists had hoped for. While the others played in the snow, Carla slept. Her enormous bulk took three specially reinforced bunks to contain, and the air filtration system in her room had needed to be upgraded twice. Carla spent the months before the journey eating. She ate on the ship which took them up to the frozen north. After a team of a dozen Huskies had dragged her corpulent form to the research base, she ate them. Before she got a chance to munch down on the camp's extensive food stores, she slipped into a hibernating coma and needed to be fork-lifted onto the beds. That's how she'd spent the last few months; sleeping and dreaming. Her metabolism slowed to near death and energy reserves were drawn from the unending rolls of fat. The brainwave monitors on her head told the scientists that the hibernation was a success - but none of them knew that, when she awoke, she would still be ravenous.

Debbie - oh poor Debbie - was not having a good time at the research station. She was cold all the time. It was a chill deep in her bones that couldn't be cured. Every muscle in her body ached from incessant shivering. The coldness made the food taste so bland that her appetite had plummeted, which caused her to lose weight, which made her colder. A cruel joke of a negative reinforcement loop. The frostbite gnawed at her extremities, and the lack of vitamin D was causing her mood to downshift drastically. Debbie was beginning to suspect that her upgrades had been mere placebos, and that she was in the control group.

Ellard was, he was sad to say, an Insurance Loss Adjuster. Total mood killer at parties and guaranteed 100% swipe lefts on the apps. The only time someone engaged him in conversation about his work was to berate him about how some bastard Loss Adjuster from their insurance company had completely screwed them over. Ellard got it, he really did, no one likes the guy who tells you that you aren't getting what you hoped for. What most people didn't understand was just how hard he fought for them. A large part of his work was determining just how much at fault each party was. Today's case was no different.

"And I'm saying, the car wouldn't have been destroyed if it had been parked properly!"

"Well, that may be true," said Ellard hesitantly, "but you must admit, even if it had been parked closer to the curb, the meteor may still have hit it."

"Oh! So now I'm supposed to check every street before saving the city from falling space debris?"

"That's not what I'm saying. But the insurance company would prefer it if you and the others would take more care with how you defend us."

"More care?! That's ridiculous. Give me one example of where I haven't had the utmost care for the citizens?"

"Well, for example, last week you were battling some Mutant Space Pirates. You picked up their leader's hover-cruiser and lobbed it into a newly built skyscraper, shattering every window on the building."

"That was necessary and proportionate to the mission."

"A crowd of witnesses heard you say 'have a smashing time' just before you threw it."

"So?"

"The insurance company feels that was premeditated and, therefore, not an accident. Similarly, Wonder-Girl's deposition states that you and MegaKid were skimming those meteors along 7th avenue."

"That sneaky… Even if we were letting off a little steam, that car was illegally parked. There was no justification for them to be in that handicapped bay! In many ways, I was doing the city a favour!"

Ellard sighed. The CCTV had shown the car wasn't displaying its blue badge, you didn't need super-vision to see that, but it didn't feel right to have insurance premiums being pushed up because of a few super-egos.

Fiona's app knew she was in love before she had the chance to say it. She started upgrading herself after the heart attack on her 27th birthday. She inoculated herself against alcohol first of all. A couple of injections in the thigh each month and she no longer got any satisfaction from being drunk. She'd always pretended those fancy beers were delicious but, shorn of their psychoactive compounds, they tasted as bitter and disgusting as the first time she'd snuck a Budwiser from her step-father's stash.

Cocktails with the girls was still fun, even though the alcohol-free versions were just as expensive, but she noticed a few of her friends coming back from the bathroom with post-nasal drip. They seemed quite excited and chatty, but Fiona felt a rising dred. The next day she had a bout of hypnotherapy and a nasal filter installed. It caught germs, dust, and anything that wasn't designed to be inhaled. Her sense of smell was slightly dulled, but her moral superiority was given a massive boost.

The doctors were still concerned about her heart, so they installed a monitoring device. It came with a little app which joined a cluster of other little apps in a remote folder on Fiona's phone. She turned her hearing down when she was in a club, increased the filtration rate if she was talking to a smoker, and clicked the appetite suppression button when she walked past the dirty kebab van. A dozen apps to control her mood, metabolism, and various mucous levels.

No one reads the update notes on apps, do they? Fiona's heart app silently opted her into a data collection programme. It monitored her heart for unusual signs and - ooops! - sold the data on to advertisers. The first time she laid eyes on Sally, her heart-rate beat a tango that swapped her advertising preferences from "party gal" to "romantic fool".

Thanks for reading

I'd love your feedback on this story. Did you like the style of writing? Was the plot interesting? Did you guess the twist? Please stick a note in the comments to motivate me 😃

Hungry for more? You can read:

• 2024's "Revenge Of The Mutant Algorithms"
• 2023's "Tales of the Algorithm"

#RevengeOfTheMutantAlgorithms

🆕 blog! “Eight Characters In Search Of A Plot”

These are little biographies of characters who tried to inveigle their way into stories that were inappropriate for them. Perhaps they'll graduate to full stories one day. For now, regretfully, they are stuck in the Writer's Waiting Room leafing through dusty magazines until inspiration strikes. Who knows, maybe one will …

👀 Read more: https://shkspr.mobi/blog/2024/11/eight-characters-in-search-of-a-plot/
⸻
#RevengeOfTheMutantAlgorithms

Pyramid Song

[Content Note: death, colonialism, racist views, the dog dies.]

Carter was dying - that much was clear. Although he didn't believe in "the curse" it seems his body did. He was once a dynamic presence on the world stage and was now reduced to little more than a quivering jelly.

He wasn't the first to be hit by the so-called curse. The wrath of the ancient Egyptians was a persistent rumour - mostly set about by those who found themselves infected by one of the overly-friendly locals. Unexplained rashes and a lingering malady were the common symptoms of the explorers' pox; but this was different. Something in his bones told Carter that Anubis had been angered and was seeking his revenge.

No! Utter poppycock! Anubis didn't guard the dead and Osiris wasn't lying in wait for grave-robbers. He'd been too long among the savages that he was starting to believe their heathen faith. He coughed blood. This wasn't malaria and no amount of gin and tonics would cure him. Besides, it was hardly robbery. Those tombs had been locked under the desert for millennia! The world deserved to see the precious treasures in a befitting setting like the Imperial Museum in London. The people of this land had evidently forgotten their history, and it was up to great men like Carter to revive it. Another clump of hair fell out.

There was a lingering feeling though. Something was stalking him. "Boy!" he called out.

The savage boy in the corner of the room continued to waft the stale air around the room. His dull and thoughtless eye affixed to the ceiling as he muttered his prayers.

"Boy! I say"

The child lazily wandered over. Barely spoke any English, the poor thing. A street urchin, no doubt stealing money from Carter's purse when he slept.

"Boy! Go find housekeeper. HOUSE KEEPER. Tell her to bring me my correspondence. Letters. Post. Understand? POST."

The boy repeated the word "post" and left the room. This was intolerable. Carter had discovered the greatest trove of wonders and yet his letters went unanswered. Was the mail in this country really so unreliable or were there more sinister forces at work? Tish! Superstition plucking at his brain again.

The boy returned, a single envelope in his filthy hand. Carter greedily snatched it from the child and ripped it open. It was from England! At last, someone had heard his good news. The letter's border was tinged with black. It wasn't a letter of praise and commendation, it was a letter of grief. The sentimental old fool of a steward had written to say Carter's dog had died. It awoke in the middle of the night howling, nothing could be done to calm it, barking madly at invisible foes, growling at the sky. Until, with a whimper, it collapsed and died. The letter was dated the day after Carter had opened the tomb.

He felt his heart beat quicker. Icy tendrils ran over his diseased body. Based on the time difference, his beloved old dog had died at the moment Carter punctured the pyramid's inner sanctum.

Carter tried to picture the moment of discovery. His memories were hazy now, as though some unrelenting external force were squeezing his mind between its serpentine fingers. Think man! Think!

They were in the middle of nowhere. A barren desert for as far as the eye could see. The camels had revolted about a mile back so Carter's band of explorers pressed on by foot. There were no birds in the sky, no chattering insects, no life whatsoever. Carter consulted his compass and set off at a brisk pace, ignoring the moaning of the shiftless natives carrying his kit. The map had been obtained with a small fortune and no end of bargaining with the duplicitous curator of what passed for Cairo's museum.

Spikes. That's what the pyramids were. The ultimate in hostile architecture. A brazen warning to all not to approach. They were thorns sticking out of the land, preventing people from plucking their treasures. Carter was made of sterner stuff than the cowards who had tried to hide these treasures. As he walked through what the locals referred to as "The Valley of Death", Carter felt no fear; only excitement and the lust for glory. His certainty in the righteousness of his faith, and of the power in pistol at his side, gave him hope and courage. To be the first civilised man to enter the tomb of kings was to write his name in history. He glanced at the map. Here was the sharpest thorn of all. A wicked and evil protrusion designed to repulse and repel. Carter summoned the largest man of his retinue and instructed him to dig.

The tents swayed in the winds. The desert nights were long and full of the whispers of the ancient gods. The men continued to dig while Carter slept. His dreams were troubled. He saw an eagle fall from the sky, screaming as it reached the ground. A thousand painted savages ran as it exploded, engulfing them in flame. In the middle of the forest, a windmill was spinning. Faster and faster. The blades were a blur and the tower began to shudder. The land around the windmill began to wither and die as it sank spinning into the ground. An Indian elephant stamped it down, leaving its foot behind. A woman, almost naked but for a few strips of cloth, danced in front of him. She stood on a crossroad, one way led to a castle, the other to the sea. Her smile was wide and her eyes were empty. It was her skin boiling away which jolted Carter awake.

The entrance to the tomb had been found.

In the dead of night the nearly-full moon scattered stray beams almost as an afterthought. Carter was surrounded by flaming torches, the sweat was lashing off of him, his jaw strained with impatience at the navvy's attempts to crack open the door. Overcome with frustration, he pushed the man aside and grasped the iron crowbar. The metal was cool to the touch, almost like ice. Carter heaved his bulk against it and the stone came tumbling down. The dank and musty air which had been trapped inside for untold centuries came rushing out with a howl.

"It is merely the difference in pressure!" he yelled at the retreating mob. "The resonance of the air against the stone is making that infernal noise."

The superstitious fools wouldn't be swayed. They cowered behind the tents and left Carter to his fate.

Carter's torch illuminated the corridor. The hieroglyphs came to life and performed their rituals for the first time since they were painted by ancient artisans. A trick of the light, of course. They were merely dancing in the flicker of the fire. Occult carvings made by a race of noble savages, sophisticated for such primitive people. A visual representation of what their unevolved minds were trying to communicate. Hieroglyphics were an active field of study, but one which Carter studiously ignored. He didn't want his brain filled up with childish scrawlings. Nevertheless, he bent to inspect their fine detail.

Danger! Death! Warning! Run! Terror! Even without the aid of translation, Carter could interpret the signs. You don't show a man being eaten by a crocodile unless you want to send a warning. Every panel was covered in beautiful paintings depicting the horrors which would befall anyone disturbing the sanctity of this place. The gods were shown emanating rays of light from their bodies, striking down those who dared enter. Curiously, when Carter stared at the gods for too long, he saw stars in his eyes. Probably just the dust being kicked up. He strode on, deeper.

The closer he got to the centre of the tomb, the larger and more gruesome the warnings became. He tripped on the decaying bones of more than one skeleton left, no doubt, to frighted naïve grave robbers. The bones were lumpy and misshapen giving them an almost unhuman aspect. Further proof that they were guarding something valuable and significant. You don't hide a building in the middle of nowhere and then destroy all evidence of it unless it contains a powerful secret. Carter entered the final chamber and marvelled. A treasure trove that would make him rich and ensure his place in the history books. He started to catalogue what he had discovered.

And now he lay dying. The secrets of the tomb had been revealed and sent back to England for safe keeping. Well, mostly. A small golden nugget was kept in his breast pocket. A curious rock hidden deep within a sarcophagus, nestled in several protective layers of cloth and metal. It was warm to the touch and glowed faintly in the dark. A powerful talisman that Carter hid away for his own private collection. Not everything needed to be examined by experts. His reminiscence was disturbed by a loud knocking on the door accompanied by raised voices babbling in the incomprehensible Egyptian tongue.

"Boy! Door!" Carter hacked up another wodge of bloody phlegm and wiped it with his skeletal hand.

A heavyset gentleman wearing a fez entered, followed closely by a slimmer man. They had the bearing of undertakers and the complexion of sun-baked clay. Ghouls, no doubt, come to prey on him.

"What do you two want?" Carter attempted to snarl, but it came out as a whisper.

"Effendi!" The larger one said, "You asked for the finest translators in the land. I am Rajul Qui, and this is my assistant Shajarat Alghari."

The thinner of the men smiled weakly but didn't speak. Carter looked on impassively. Was this how he would die? Surrounded by fools and ignorant savages. Rajul continued, "We have translated several sections of the hieroglyphics you sketched. Your skills as an artist are beyond comparison and a testament to your refined education. Would care for us to read to you the English meaning of the panels?" Carter nodded glumly. There was no curse. This translation would be a waste of money. What could it possibly tell him?

Shajarat Alghari plucked a crumpled sheet of paper from his inside pocket and wasted a moment unfolding it. He coughed nervously and read aloud in a reedy voice.

"This place is not a place of honour…"

Thanks for reading

I'd love your feedback on this story. Did you like the style of writing? Was the plot interesting? Did you guess the twist? Please stick a note in the comments to motivate me 😃

Hungry for more? You can read:

• 2024's "Revenge Of The Mutant Algorithms"
• 2023's "Tales of the Algorithm"

#NaNoWriMo #RevengeOfTheMutantAlgorithms #WritingMonth

🆕 blog! “Pyramid Song”

[Content Note: death, colonialism, racist views, the dog dies.] Carter was dying - that much was clear. Although he didn't believe in "the curse" it seems his body did. He was once a dynamic presence on the world stage and was now reduced to little more than a quivering jelly. He wasn't the first to […]

👀 Read more: https://shkspr.mobi/blog/2024/11/pyramid-song/
⸻
#NaNoWriMo #RevengeOfTheMutantAlgorithms #WritingMonth