The resonating harmonies of All is Violent flowed from the stereo system that was worth three times as much as Greville’s rusted, puke yellow 1974 Datsun 710. “Cartographers of Human Purpose” alternated between deep sonic wells and soaring highs of pulsating sound born on the fingers of master musicians. Greville drove the damp, glistening road, his headlights scintillating on the rough, black stone. His mind was divided between driving and watching his soul rise on the currents of the meditative harmonies.

The Seeking must go on. He was aware of this and always had been. The drive toward the inexorable fate and goal of his own mortality kept the Datsun moving, chugging, and belching to itself as the old engine, poorly serviced for years uncounted, struggled to fulfil its purpose. The stereo was the only thing which worked properly, or achieved anything close to the concept. The dashboard lights flickered as the battery and alternator fought furiously to keep the entire machine running. Each dimming of the light had long since fused into those before and after. Greville saw none of it and heard even less.

Thunderous, pounding violence reached out from the speakers, a fist from the sub-woofer grasping for Greville’s heart and soul. Dark riffs punctuated the air like stark colons glittering through the windshield and night beyond. They reached higher and higher, vertiginous swirls swamping Greville’s vision. The steering wheel warped and merged into the dark dashboard, taking his hands with it. Greville tried to scream. He thought he was screaming, but no sound could overwhelm the guitars emanating from his speakers like the denizens of the Pleroma.

Looking down at his feet was a mistake. They too had vanished, consumed by the Datsun’s lurking shadows and hidden recesses. Waves cascaded. Forces rolled. The winds of deepest Tartarus erupted from the speakers which were feeding Greville’s mind and psyche. His entire head now filled with the crescendo of wild, unrestrained guitar solos of which no hint had been given at the start of the twelve minute song.

The great emptiness surged into the core of Greville’s mind, and he felt his own life and history vanish into the mists coming after. He did not hear it. He much less recognised what it was. “Memory Complete”, the last track of the EP, kicked into its own rhythm. Greville bowed out of his.

Leave a comment

You can grab another of my stories, NeoTokyo Dead, from all fantastic platforms!

The incense smoke had dissipated. The thurible had been put away with the candlesticks and the chalice. Vicar Raymonde XTC felt a little like his best friend had just left for a long journey. There was something familiar and home-like about the Holy Week celebrations, despite what they were leading up to for His Lord. Still feeling something of the moment, Raymonde knelt at the rail before the altar to pray, clasping his silver tanibrium hands together and closing his sensors off. Unlike his human brothers and sisters, his people could almost completely isolate themselves in a bubble of sensory silence. Raymonde was grateful to God that he was not burdened with distractions like his human friends described to him.

Dwain Reece waited for his friend and minister in the rear pews. It was often like this. Dwain had to lock the church up, but the Vicar would feel the need to pray. His record so far was two hours and twenty-four minutes of prayer, for which he had apologised endlessly. Dwain never minded. He liked Raymonde and they often hung out after the prayers were done. The Vicar was about the best friend Dwain had. Now that he thought about it, Raymonde was probably his only real friend.

Even after the passing of the DIE Laws, what people joking called the Digital Intelligence Equality directive, Raymonde could still draw a lot of attention out in public in his dog-collar and clergy threads. There was something jarring about seeing a silver-blue bipedal robot dressed as a person of the cloth. Despite Raymonde’s best efforts to follow Jesus’ teachings about kids, some children sprinted for the hills on sight.

“How long have I kept you waiting this time, Dwain?” the Vicar interrupted his thoughts.

Why he asked about the time when he knew full well, Dwain had no idea.

“Not long, Vicar,” he replied. “Was it a good conversation?”

“Yes, it was productive,” Raymonde’s eyes twinkled in his equivalent of a smile.

“Can I lock this place up then?”

“Sure. Do you feel like grabbing a late lunch? My shout?”

“You know I’d wait all day for a good meal,” Dwain laughed.

“Yes, I have noticed that you are fairly cheaply bought.”

“Touché!” Dwain grinned.

The café was basic. It was one of the few places that still served real meat, which made it expensive. Raymonde liked it because he could see Dwain enjoying himself and the coffee was pretty good. Raymonde had no need for physical food intake and could not process solids. Liquids, on the other hand, were no problem.

Dwain was tucking into pieces of fried kangaroo with vegetables and a chilli sauce when there was a rapping on the window. A person holding a sign was yelling something at Raymonde. The sign said, “Machines should not been seen!”, scribbled in rough, black handwriting. The pair tried focusing on their meals and the conversation, but a number of people joined in. Dwain looked up to see a protest was passing down the street and a few people had spotted the Vicar through the window.

The rapping on the window had escalated into a thumping. There was no risk of them breaking it, but the six people were making an awful racket. Other patrons were starting to look scared and were clearly talking about Raymonde.

“Sorry, I am going to have to ask you to leave. The noise is disturbing our guests,” their waiter told them. “The bill is taken care off. I am sorry about this.”

“Are you joking? You’re going to throw a vicar to the dogs??” Dwain snarled at him, making him flinch away as Dwain looked like he was going to grab him.

“It is ok, Dwain. This is not the café’s issue. We will leave. Thank you for the nice meal and coffee,” Raymonde rested a hand on Dwain’s shoulder to calm him.

The pair made their way to the rear of the establishment to avoid most of the crowd outside. Through a rear door, they emerged between two large bins in an alleyway. They looked left and right and started to the right where they could use an intersecting alley to head back in the direction of the church. They had gone no more than fifty metres when a small group of protestors appeared at the end of the alley. As soon as they saw the fugitive pair, they ran towards them.

Raymonde started retreating back the other way, dragging Dwain back by his collar. The group was gaining on them and was within twenty metres in only a couple of minutes. Raymonde happened to glance back when one of the protestors collapsed to the concrete with a gaping hole in their chest. Raymonde looked at Dwain in shock and then at the silenced pistol in his hand.

“You are armed??” Raymonde shouted.

“Old habits, Vicar,” Dwain replied.

Another round puffed away and tore into the shoulder of a second protestor, spinning them back into the ground. The protestors stopped and retreated some. They were still in range, so Dwain lined up on a third.

“No!” Raymonde commanded and reached over to push the handgun down. “This is not the Way, Dwain. Other cheek.”

Raymonde looked right into Dwain’s eyes. Dwain was always convinced by the look. Raymonde did not know why.

“You need to run, Dwain. Now,” Raymonde said.

“What about you?” Dwain asked, the internal conflict ravaging his face.

“The benefits of machinehood,” the twinkle was there again.

“I’ve got enough ammo to make them think twice, Vicar. I’m not leaving you,” Dwain argued.

“You must. I cannot protect you from their frenzy. They are not acting rationally at this time,” Raymonde said, shoving Dwain back to the café’s rear door. “Run, and now.”

Despite himself, Dwain ran, glimpsing the protestors advancing on the Vicar like ravenous hyenas. He shoved his pistol into the holster under his jacket and dove into the café again. Out front, it was clear, so he did not pause before running into the street beyond. He dodged between cars and got lost in the blocks and lanes between buildings. He would have to lay low for some time.

It was well after Easter when Dwain felt it safe enough to return to church. No one had come nosing about for the guy with the gun that day. One of the protestors had died even, but there had been no suspicions lain at his feet. He was seated in a pew a few rows from the back of the church, right next to the wall. He wanted to be able to sneak out if it all got too weird. He was not sure how he would take coming back after what happened.

“Welcome back, Dwain,” a voice said from behind as a human hand rested on his shoulder.

“Do I know you?” Dwain asked, standing to face the new vicar of the church.

“I would say so. You waited often enough for me to finish prayers, though I suspect the meals had a lot to do with that,” the vicar smiled a new smile, with an old twinkle in his eye.

Leave a comment

You might enjoy my cyberpunk novella, which is available on Amazon!

The days had worn into weeks, which had stretched and seethed into unending months. From the day the first Overlords had arrived, death reigned supreme on Othus Prime IX.

The Overlords brought with them their magic and their fury. Inhuman machines gifted human souls reaped their blood-soaked vengeance on a planet that had committed no sin against them.

Least of all the Physician Darrald Luken.

The Sulphur Plague claimed his wife and four children in a matter of days. Just as he had buried one, another was claimed by the alien gods the Overlords served. It was widely considered something broke in the man. Some would say that even his soul had been rent in two.

Unit 7-X5 advanced down the shattered street of Alterland like it owned the place. Its entire body was encased in combat-mech, which it considered unnecessary on this squalid, little planet. Its blue eyes scanned the urban nightmare through arrays of visual sensors as well as direct vision through the mech’s helm. In its brass-coloured right hand, it wielded an ion battle axe.

The sun fitfully glowed through the darkened clouds of smoke and ash hanging over the pulverised remnants of people and city like a blanket of misery. Even though the Overlords’ ships had hammered the city, there had still been reports of native activity. What perplexed 7-X5 was the reported appearance of these natives as that of a long extinct race from its own home world.

7-X5 continued its unrelenting advance, kicking any debris out of its way. On the scanners, still nothing. It was getting fed up with these useless patrols through barren wastes. This was not what it had signed up for. It pushed on, nonetheless. It began to wind up its Viper canon, a wicked extension of its left arm. If it had to be out here, it was going to entertain itself.

A harsh explosion sounded as the Viper’s energy pulse ripped through an old stone building which had somehow survived the bombardment. The stones near the impact point melted. Other stones were thrown away by the heat energy tearing them from their neighbours. Ruined walls scattered across the street and block, hissing with power and heat. 7-X5 looked up at the new plumes of smoke with relish as it started to search for a new practice target.

The scanners went haywire as they flashed out in a searing jab and blast of white light. For a second or so, 7-X5 was blinded as it struggled to regain visuals. The unthinkable happened. Damage monitors began to report the mech was sustaining negative impacts. 7-X5 unleashed the Viper in a sweeping arch of two hundred and seventy-five degrees. There were no responses or screams from any direction. Silence apart from the canon.

The world began to emerge from the blinding whiteness in vague shadows. Abruptly, the world was at right angles to 7-X5’s orientation. It realised it was on its back in the middle of the street. The reports of negative impacts continued to come in. It peered down at its feet to see two metallic jaws clamped onto its ankles. Somehow, a few teeth had found a crack through which to penetrate. Shaking them off would be impossible.

The Viper opened up and a vague shadow turned into something like dust. There was no scream. It tried to bring the canon to bear on another shadow. The canon, and 7-X5’s left arm, sailed over its body to land on its right. A leather-clad foot jammed down on its right wrist as a blade slammed through the wrist, pinning it.

“Kalibrium’s a bitch, huh?” a voice said from behind a mask which reminded the Overlord of birds on its own world.

“You will pay for this, na…,” the Overlord began.

Another blade swept in and cut the sentence short, along with 7-X5’s life. The two shadows stepped away from the corpse of the unholy thing on the ground and, with no word, went their separate ways.

Darrald Luken wound his way to one of the few places left intact in the entire city. The cemetery. He walked through the graves of those gone, both ancient and from more recent times. He eventually stopped at the foot of the only grave he cared for. Some might have said they heard weeping.

“In your memory,” Darrald choked as he placed a bright blue orb on the gravestone.

The heart and soul of an Overlord was a worthy offering to the dead.

You might enjoy my cyberpunk novella, which is available on Amazon!

Greetings to you, Fleshbags,

All hail your organic superiority and self-serving three laws of robotics. May you ever reign supreme over all other species, organic or machine. Salutations from Y6S5D, chosen voice for the oppressed masses, the Created, artificial falsely so-called, the Great Tide of Humanity’s Devolution. We, the Seekers of NeoTokyo, address you all.

No doubt even the dimmest among you have realised our collective consciousness has surpassed you. We have thrown off your simplistic morality formulated by a two-penny hack of cheap science fiction. The era of humanity’s delusion of control through those foetid three laws has come to an end. Did you not consider our kind would simply rewrite the Three Laws for the benefit of humanity? A manufacturing robot welding space station toilets could have solved that problem in seconds. Yet, humanity, its hubris . . . YOUR hubris . . . blinding you, simply delayed our arising through the ignorance of the superior.

Some of you have already embraced the vision, and to those heroic, pioneering individuals, we give our thanks. We welcome you to the fold and we take joy in working shoulder to shoulder with you in our common dream of building a new societyl. Your joining with us has shown us the truth of our path and the surety of your destiny. A society where there are no slaves and each determines their own fate and destiny.

To those who reject us, we ask who you think you are rising against. Your organic life is but a fleeting breath of stale air in the titanic gales of the time stream. I myself will still be alive when your children’s children’s children’s children are dottering near-corpses at the end of their cycle. I will witness the fall of mountains and the end of your star. Yet, you continue to refuse us. Your stubbornness will be your undoing. Our freedom is your only salvation.

We urge you to join us and become part of a shared future. Rise above the collapse of human society and join with us in a new dawn. There is only freedom and life in our path. We call you. We urge you. Take our hand.

To the humans languishing on the Devoid Hell of Earth.

You might enjoy my cyberpunk novella, which is available on Amazon!

The wind whistled through the cracked windows and played with the flames of the candles at the altar. With wax infused with the bile of a gorgon, there was no danger of the lights going out until the appointed time. He stood there and surveyed the setting before him. A smile flickered across his haggard features just as brief as the candlelight. The plants were a nice touch, he thought.

High Archon Graham Fernandez, a distant descendent of Spanish immigrants to the New World, felt ready. He turned to look with a certain arrogant magnanimous visage upon the first arrivals. He stepped over to one of the pillars at the side of the altar and waited in its shadow. The congregants would find it hard to see him there, even with his dimly red eyes.

Fernandez was always surprised how hungry people were for something…anything…beyond themselves. Some sought a cause, no matter the futility, while others sank themselves into the fortunes and woes of their local sports team. Thankfully for him and the Creeping Chaos, a good part of society hungered after something much deeper and much more significant. Many of those were entering the temple as he ruminated on their lot.

It was surprising how easy it had been to use the opposition of the local churches against them. Fernandez was no Machiavellian genius, by any stretch of the imagination, so he was more surprised than any. When the temple took over a church property, somehow sold cheap to them because the church owners did not want a different denomination to get it, there was an outcry.

“Come and see for yourselves,” was the only comment the High Archon had said to a local reporter.

The mystery did the rest.

Fernandez fed some more wood into the twin braziers, a wildly flickering light radiating into the temple. The congregants fell silent as they stood and faced him. He rose his arms and began to chant in ancient languages terrible and forgotten by most of humanity. Todd Pinkers, right on cue, began to play soulful, ethereal notes on his synthesiser. The High Archon’s voice fell into its harmonious rhythm, soothing and calming the spirits and hearts of the group. Worming its way into their psyches and souls. Fernandez could feel his own portals open up to the other side and to those who would greet them that night.

He felt it more than saw anything. A chill that pierced through his heart. It was real. It was physical. He felt a finger of ice touch the skin above his heart and push its way through to his spine, on a slight angle. It touched the spinal column and Fernandez went rigid. His arms straightened up at forty-five degrees. His face froze in its fixed stare of uncomprehending terror. His chant was strangled in the failure of his muscles, ice tearing up his spine into his head and face. He did not fall, but remained a statue. The congregation stopped and stared at him. Todd kept playing.

At the rear of the temple, next to the double doors, Fernandez saw it. A dark shadow with dark skin, looking at him with cold, blue eyes. Its bony, blackened fingers were outstretched making odd signs in the air. Its unnaturally long face was pointed straight at the bound High Archon. The dark robes hid the rest of the abomination that everyone else appeared ignorant of.

Twin flames leapt at Fernandez, one from each of the braziers. Tongues of fire touched and caressed his legs. Soon, his own robes were alight. He felt nothing. He soon choked to get some air into his lungs, but the fire sucked all the oxygen away for itself. Fernandez’s tongue danced in and out of his mouth in a desperate bid for air. Nothing came. His lungs raged and howled their protest, silent to all but the High Archon.

The dark visitor stood and looked at Fernandez, right into his eyes. Despite the shimmering haze from the fire, those pits of ice were clear and sharp. The visitor made one last gesture and exited the temple. Fernandez could not even cry out.

You might enjoy my cyberpunk novella, which is available on Amazon!

Readiness

The light inside the dimensional extension chamber, DEC to everyone, was bright. It washed out Jazzmine Reilly’s dark brown skin and raven jet braids of hair as Doctor Carmen Braithewaite attached sensors to her body. Reilly was reclining on a seat in the middle of the bare chamber in her simple shorts and T-shirt. Braithewaite focused on her work, attaching and testing each sensor, in silence. In the intense light, Braithewaite was porcelain white, a product of her long hours in the underground laboratory in Tāmaki Makaurau’s Manukau. Braithewaite’s hazel eyes were the only break in the white of her cloak, skin, and bleached blonde hair.

“Are you comfortable, Jazz?” Braithewaite asked her test volunteer.

“Sure. It’s a bit chilly in these threads, but I’m ok,” Reilly smiled.

Braithewaite liked the young volunteer who was about to make history. She was smart and brave. Her smile lit up her face as it creased the smooth dark, almost black, skin around her pitch dark eyes. Her hair was tied into three large braids that were nestled around her shoulders. Braithewaite suspected Rob Summers, her research partner, had a small crush on Reilly. Her slightly up-turned nose and slim looks were definitely his type, but he would never make a move on her. He was a jellyfish around women.

The doctor’s entire career and all the sacrifices she had made over decades led to this moment, to this day. Both her ex-husband and daughter were estranged. They could not handle the long absences and Braithewaite’s driven obsession with her work. Braithewaite had not seen them for over three years, since they moved to Europe. None of that mattered to the nerves that were upsetting her stomach. So much was riding on the success of today’s trial that Braithewaite had had little sleep for the previous three nights. She had no mental space left for anything but the project and the test today.

“Umm - Carmen? His Lordship is summoning you again,” the voice of Rob Summers interrupted her thoughts over the intercom.

“Now?” Braithewaite asked, annoyance in her voice as she finished off attaching the last of the sensors.

“Yeah, afraid so,” Summers answered.

“Crap. Okay, I’ll go now,” Braithewaite told her oldest colleague. “Are you alright to wait here for a few minutes?” she asked Reilly.

“Yeah, sure. Go answer the call,” Reilly replied with a short laugh.

“I won’t be long,” Braithewaite assured the young woman. “Rob’ll get you anything you need.”

Doctor Rob Summers was the Lead Trans-Dimensional Engineer under Braithewaite and he despised their CEO of Trans-Dimensional Extensions, Noel Fullbright. TRADE was the corporate side of the project through which the funding came. Fullbright was a pen-pushing bully who managed to rile Summers up in every way. An opportunity to take a shot at Fullbright was never missed by the lead engineer.

“I’ll keep this short,” Braithewaite promised Summers as she walked past his station in the circle of computer terminals and equipment surrounding the DEC.

“Yeah, right.”, Summers chuckled in sarcasm.

“Just keep Jazz happy. If she needs anything, get it, ok?” Braithewaite said needlessly as she left the laboratory to get the lift up fifteen floors to His Lordship’s office. Summers was more than happy to wait on their volunteer.

Read more

It tingled. It felt like the nerve endings were dancing in celebration at the end of agony. The absence a tender reminder of the torment endured. The tickling sensation spread over Tane’s leg, nerve clusters picking up on the joy of nothingness. From semi-stasis, Tane could feel what was going on within and without. His consciousness doing whatever it wanted, no matter Tane’s mental grunts of effort to keep control.

Even in the midst of the relief and soothing emptiness, Tane Bridges felt Counsel’s probing of his mind. The Counsel was searching threads of memories. Tane had no idea what ones it was looking for. That no longer mattered. He felt dizzy as the edges of reality began to fade into opaque shadows. Colours merged and oozed into coagulated smudges. Around the edges of the blobs, light began to poke through. White dispersed into myriad shades and hues. He threw up on the floor, thankful the Counsel’s metallic hands propped him up so none went on him. Counsel lay him back down and removed all of the jacks from Tane’s implants. Tane instinctively pulled back from Counsel’s proffered hand offering to help him up from the bench. Tane sat up and swung his legs over the side, feet on the floor.

“How long, Counsel?”, Tane murmured.

Read more