nervous normalpeople +/- building careers +/- building houses – civilizations – families… breeders-breeders linear thinkers obsessed with time. reason-not-rhyme -/-
animals live threaded in spacetime’s warp n’ woof -/ never stand outside and criticize like cro- magnon cro-mutants-always whining how things oughta be different -/- striving to MAKE things different + and they call us auties mental?-!
one theory says auties are throwbacks – visual visceral skittish reactive +/- Temple said it’s no blame or maim to be closer to mother-mammal-nature!/+ Neanderthals probly lived embedded like us + allied with cobblies the way men use dogs +!
do they live again +/- in us? normal(mutant)people slew the poor thals-will cro-mags do same to us?/? by “curing the autism plague” + when nature seems to say “make more auties, not less!” +?
who did the grunt coding that made the internets?+ built software empires?+ aspies and borderlines did… then normals thronged to the games + the virtworlds + OUR worlds +/+ and we true-auties are all over the nets and webs!/+ emerging from our prisons-rissons-frissons-missions-permissions-stopit stopit stop stop stop stop-
it was the electric hum. poormom left open the door of my candle-lit room -/- i glimpsed a lightbulb in the hall + + + fifty-cycle flicker – (world should switch to DC)… that flicker traps me in here…
my realhands flutter / realvoice squawks + + + in the “real” world I’m helpless + moan and slap the window -/- poormom must pry my jaw to give medicine I need to stay alive +/- while I thrash and she gets older -/+ poormom
but hand-flutters matter! words/meanings flow + my-ai translates + sending a bright-feathered bird-avatar roaming the virtcityscape + unafraid of cars bars or guitars + graceful + a me that’s far more real than this ungainly + fluttering stork-woman +!+ but there’s a price-hard black ice.
– i sense a disturbance + + + something’s coming + + +
cobblies are nervous too
some are getting out of town
KINDNESS OF STRANGERS The world still shook and harsh straps tugged his battered body. That much was the same. It had been going on for a very long time.
Only now, as Hacker drifted toward consciousness, he gradually realized-the rhythm of abuse had changed. Instead of a punishing, pounding beat, this swaying motion seemed almost restful, if you ignored the pain. It took him back to childhood, when his family would escape civilization on their trimaran wingsail yacht, steering its stiff, upright airfoil through gusts that would topple most wind-driven vessels.
“Idiots!” His father would grumble, each time he veered the agile craft to avoid colliding with some day-tripper, who didn’t grasp the concept of right-of-way. “Used to be, the only ones out here were people like us, raised for this sort of thing. Now, with nine billion damn tourists crowding everywhere, there’s no solitude!”
“The price of prosperity, dear,” his mother would reply, more soft-heartedly. “At least everyone’s getting enough to eat. There’s no more talk of revolution.”
“For now. Till the next bust-cycle turns them radical again. Anyway, look at the top result of this prosperity surge. A mad craze for hobbies! Everyone’s got to be an expert at something. The best at something! I tell you it was better when people had to struggle to survive.”
“Except for people like us?”
“Exactly,” Father had answered, ignoring his wife’s arch tone. “Look how far we must go nowadays, to have somewhere to ourselves.”
The old man’s faith in rugged self-reliance extended to the name he insisted on giving their son. Hacker also inherited-along with twelve billion New Dollars-the same quest. To do whatever it took to find someplace all his own.
And now… after fifteen minutes of a very expensive ride… plus God knows how long drifting unconscious… here I am. On my own.
At sea, yet again.
That much was obvious, even though his eardrums were still clamped, and it took considerable effort just to get one eyelid open. Squinting, as blurry vision gradually returned, Hacker grew dimly aware of a number of things- like the fact that all the expensive ailectronics in his expensive capsule seemed to be stone-cold dead. A failure that somebody was sure going to pay for! It meant there was no way to answer his first question-How much time has passed?
He knew it was a lot. Too much.
He also saw-through barely separating eyelids-that crystal waters surrounded the bubble canopy of his suborbital space pod, which rocked and swayed, more than half tilted over. It’s not supposed to do that. I should be floating upright… nose up out of water… till the recovery team…
A glance to the left explained much. Ocean surrounded the phalloid-shaped craft, but part of its charred heat shield was snagged on a reef of coral branches, speckled with bright fish and undulating vegetation. Nearby, he saw the parasail chute that had softened final impact. Only now, caught by ocean currents, the chute blossomed open and shut, rhythmically tugging Hacker’s little sanctuary.
And with each surge, the crystalline canopy plunged closer to a craggy coral outcrop. Soon, it struck hard and Hacker winced. He did not hear the bang, of course, or any other sound. Not directly. But impact heaved him hard against the chest straps and made the sono-implant in his jaw throb.
Fumbling with half-numb hands, he managed to release the harness catch, only to fall over the left-hand instrument panel, cringing in pain. That awful reentry would leave him bruised for weeks. And yet…
Yet, I’ll have the best story to tell. No one will ever match it!
That thought made him feel a bit better. As did another realization, coming out of order and demonstrating that he must still be in shock.
Oh… and I’m alive. I survived.
Hacker decided. Maybe he wouldn’t take everything, when he sued whoever caused this screwup. Providing the pickup boats came soon, that is.
Only-a terrible thought struck him-what if the failures were system- wide? What if they also affected the beacons and emergency transponders?
Then maybe nobody knew where he was.
The bubble nose struck coral again, rattling his bones. Another time and he realized a hard truth. That materials designed to withstand the dynamic loads of launch and reentry might not be equally durable against sharp impacts. With the next harsh bang, an ominous crack began to spread.
Standard doctrine was to “stay put and wait for pickup.” But to hell with that! This was rapidly becoming a death trap.
