Saturday, June 11, 2016


The pavement had broken his fall, and his body into countless pieces. What little blood remained in him, seeped out onto that smooth polished black metal surface. With the last of the light entering his brain, he saw the honeycomb of light blue titanium-ceramic alloy holding the steel-ceramic substrate together. When she held him for the last time, with those Ultrachrome arms, he knew she loved him; even though she was mad at him.

He knew that no cops would stop her, no guards judges or juries. They wouldn’t even care, they wouldn’t come down here from their clean blockclave streets. He had been fighting, with her that day over what seemed like a little thing. He knew the savings were going to be used for the procedure for him; implantation of an artificial womb to carry their child for the nine months before birth. He had agreed to the procedure, she had nothing left except the cells in her head, not enough blood to feed the baby as it grew.

Before she replaced her abdomen and internal organs she had saved her eggs, kept them in some cryostore at great expense in case the day may come. She had paid for his dna mapping and original dna reversal culture injections, so that he had perfect human dna again like she did. After that day, he had withered shrinking in size from the freak he was, to the man he was just before the fall. But he was forty percent human flesh. The last of that flesh, was being examined now, by men and women wearing orange filthy overalls with a big black DV logo on the back front.

It was a little thing, but to him he just wanted to try it, he had never had it before and neither had she. It was such a rare thing, and ancient pleasure from halcyon days. He had simulated it before, warm hot liquid bitter taste, sweet if added, creamy texture. But it had always been a disappointment the simulated and even the 1% versions were not the same. It was on his list, it was his right as a human, and they could just save up again for the procedure, time was something they had plenty of.

He remembered feeling excited when the blab kid mumbled the words of where they were selling it, he ran all the way up, up and up across gantries, through ducts, up an elevator, onto a maglev, on a scooter. The trip had cost him twenty credits, he could buy ten synths for that. But he wanted the real thing, the hot joy.  The place was a plaza, from end to end black blue uniformed men an women their mirror shades reflecting the faces of the dirty people waving credit chips or wads of script at them, they would only take Toy Toy script or credit that was the deal. One cup per person, no sharing no take away. 

He waved his chip over the reader four-thousand credits flashed in a microsecond on the screen and he was admitted through the armed group. He sat on a plastic seat, small slightly un-comfortable tempor foam cradling his big butt. The woman approached him, she was small about five feet high, she had a tray with pink and orange strip lighting around the rim, in the center of the tray a ceramic cup, with sun flowers painted on it, being cradled by the saucer, hot steam but not too hot heaved itself off the liquid; he went all out got Capo-Chino Real-Italian, hot frothy milk with a dusting of chocolate one sugar and two shots. He felt alive that day, the real thing; hitting his brain.In the past he had all manner of synth experience but this was real. Grown in green houses on Tharsis by the Starelk Corporation. Milk grown in green houses too in real cows, by Brazilian Hugo's Steak House and Beef.

Not even genetically modified cows; cows they made them from DNA found in the Smithsonian. Pure, real, grown with soil of substrate cultivated from Columbia or Peru. Real, in a world where he could have anything but simple real pleasure. The hot liquid languished on his tongue the fats breaking down being tasted by his enhanced senses. The bitter taste had different components, light acid tastes, some sort of dirt like taste, and something else he didn’t recognized he would find out a word for it later. 

There were different grades of the bitter and acid, different effects of the milk. Real was not homogenic, real was mixed compounds. He could never get this taste from a simulated experience or even drink it from a 1% coffee machine the product Starelk normally sold. Real is real and fake is fake, and he knew he could tell the difference.

After thirty minutes he had finished, the waitress came over. You want some more? Yes he said, she swiped his card, three-thousand long black coming right up. He tasted that all the full flavor no sugar no milk, tasted the subtle acid and bitter. Thirty minutes later she was back, You want some more? I shouldn’t but I will Grande Latte one sugar. four-thousand-five-hundred. Big coffee big glass; hot liquid, different taste different milk, caramel from the sugar, real sugar imported from Australia on ships that are guarded by ninjas. All too short, that half hour was over. You want some more? She was like a pusher but this wasn’t any synthcoke this was real-coffee hot and wholesome grown on Mars at great expense. I got no money left. She handed him a card, Starelk loves its customers, we are the mother to all lovers of coffee. Enjoy this gift, one-thousand cups of 1%, free of charge please carry card at all time in case you feel the NEED for coffee.

When he told her, he was sure her red shiny eyes were growing nano machine produced tear ducts for her, but no tears, just a scream HOW COULD YOU, How could you do that. He mumbled i can be father later. Those strong arms lifted him up over the railing like his one hundred and fifty kilograms of bulk was nothing; he said he loved her and they could save up again, it may take one year or ten depending on the jobs. He was thrown three meters away from the balcony and tumble sixty meters to the pavement. Shattering his metal and silocone and plastic components like shards of glass. 

Friday, April 1, 2016


The inhaler wheezed like a dying horse as Ginzsby entered the crowded emergency ward. Freaks, creeps mutants and scum were lined up; waiting to be triaged or bleeding out. The riot had ended with the BG Company agreeing to treat all members of the block ward for free. Berkley Genomics was the biggest heath and genetics corporation in the solar system. They appeared as white knights but underneath, they were sharks taking what they could.

Jeffersons plague was nothing more than a predicted reaction from humans from earth, to the permanent settlement on New Mars. A debilitating disease that wasted the infected and eventually killed them.

The BG Company announced a cure about five days ago, already out of supplies, time and patience the blockers (dwellers of the blocks) had decided to take the cure, that’s where we came in; the Red Dragons. We held positions between the riot and the clinics on levels 310 to 298, a big territory held by a score more gangs. Armed with mono swords, heavy SMGs and occasional RPG we were more than a match for most gangs. Secure in our positions we went around the “job” of extorting, terrorising and running the show until they came and turned most of us into charcoal. Hailing from old Earth, hired goons with hired haircuts; speaking a variety of arcane and forgotten languages like Swedish, German and French none of them speaking Martian street chat.

Armed with lethal weapons like plasma flame throwers, micro missiles, robot wolves and drones. They cut a swath through us all the way to that clinic warehouse. Then those creeps began launching missiles and grenades as if they were children with fireworks for the first 4th of July. The promptly destroyed the supply of Jefferson’s cure, burning the warehouses to the ground.

Like ghosts those black clad mercenaries methodically moved through our turf. Fighting was fierce, we won some they won more; and in the end they got what they came for. That’s why I’m here in the hospital, with my finger in this guy’s belly wound. “Now Hanz, tell me what the fuck you were doing”

Wednesday, April 13, 2011


Some Important Breakthroughs.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Recovery Procedure

“He arsed it up!” Shouted Foley at Dank orange and green dreads waiving in the air with the briskness of her statement, coal black wrinkled skin shining with a slippery membrane.

“Customer knew the risks; everyone is told don’t Junk yourself too often or you end up being Junked. We just have to begin recovery procedures; he then has to pay for the alterations again.”

Dank calmly drank dark rum out of an old Blackmore’s coffee cup, his white hair seemed natural and his good looks could either be Junked in or natural. Dank slowly bushed the ash from Foley’s cigarette of his khaki pants and stood up only coming up to the bottom of obsidian giant’s breasts.

“That’s balls, and you know it why don’t we just squirt the shit right in there and alter the main template. That way, we can get them to try stuff and roll back to where they last saved their template.” She waived salami sized hands at Dank, the calm almost dead expression in his eyes told her he was not in the slightest bit intimidated by her.

“That’s a great idea, why haven’t I thought of that being the genius who made the technology you would think I would have. Grow up Foley, and sit down”

Foley slumped in the couch, a hurt expression in her deep red eyes.

“We keep their original code for a very specific reason; a species is defined by its ability to bread with other members of its species. The original code is what allows that to happen; it’s the template for our human species. If we squirt into the templates, people will drift the separation will be almost total within two generations. It’s also been shown that culturally we tend to become conservative every 2nd or 3rd generation, and this swing leads to a great shedding of new thinking and values and a return to grass roots. Such a swing is getting likely now; we have seen the movements of people like the naturals; return of the faiths etc. The truth is your client is going to want to reproduce at some point and to do so we have to assist them as their genetic code is so radically different from that of whomever their partner is that a union could only happen with created material derived from the template.”

Dank began to pace behind his desk and picked up an old pipe, and began sucking on it as if he was some scientist in an old movie.

“Why can’t we have two templates for each client? I mean we could get them to pay for more storage isn’t it all just data?” She shouted still angry that her requests were rejected, and defiant that he had made her sit down.

“There is a component which is just data, however a complete copy of all genetic material is kept on every human world, the cost to replicate that and the time to replicate altered versions is too prohibitive. We physically send the original template to each planet.”

“So what’s the recovery procedure; I have never done one and this client is a VIP” Foley started to get up but then thought better of it.

“VIP, you client is the owner of an advertising company that spans one world. Sure maybe on that world he is rich but he is hardly important. The fact that he is now some sort hard cartilaginous mass sprouting copper hairs, made of real copper I might add and oozing a strange viscous green mucous suggests to me that you have not been recording all alterations, and this is maybe his one hundredth or more. There is a reason we record each alteration and send it back to planetary HQ.”

Dank put the pipe down on the shelf and played with some of the items there. His rumpled shirt made him look like some sort of painter from the impressionist period mixed with a sardonic Jazz musician from the 1970’s. The delusions of reality had faded from his ancient frame replaced by a calm grace that only came with complete understanding of human frailty.

“He will have to be reverted to this point here, just when he got his gills, new liver and mucous and he will have to stay that way.” Risking anything else will mean that we would lose his mind; his genes can be Junked to that point but no further.

“That’s like only thirty procedures, he will be ruined everyone will call him norm. That’s fashion from five years ago when water sports were in.”

Dank swept his hair back and calmly sat at his desk he punched in a few key strokes on his ancient computer. “That’s all I can do for him. Genetics is not fashion, it’s who we are it’s a fundamental.”

He gazed at the giant sitting on his couch, his clear grey eyes studying the upgrades she had, maybe close to fifty Junking sessions.

“Foley, you do another unlisted procedure ill strip you of all your upgrades. Now please leave my office and get this paper work done, he is likely to die in a few days if we don’t recover.”

Sunday, August 15, 2010

Election time, lets not go back to the past lets go back to the future

Back to the Future; where we are going we don't need pants.

Tenuous at best.

My good mate GAK posted a tweet showing a snap of an awesome Delorean and that got me to thinking. We know the 80's is back in many ways most in pop culture (monocles like me think those people missed out by skipping right to PMoD). What about the things that really made the 80's awesome. I'm talking cold-war and nuclear Armageddon, is that why my generation spends so much time playing games in imaginary worlds and striving for imaginary things or is that simply because we internalized the awesomeness of the 80's and want to acquire virtual awesome things. Back to the Future had this awesome car, the Delorean a car which now represents what all manufactured goods should be, sort of work, last forever and epic vision. In Back to the Future, they have to fix the fuck-ups in the timeline; maybe there are points when things could go one way or the other. I thought Keven 07 was one such point; how disappointed I am in his colleagues.

History repeats, much like onions and history is multi layered too much like onions. Nothing happens without cause, even in our tiny backwater nation of Australia we get to make history.

This is the first election, where I as a voter feel there is no choice or option. So what happens out of this election, should either be the beginning of a new order or the final testing of the 2 party system.

A bold statement indeed, so what does that mean?

1: Monocle wearing Tony you know what you are getting. I would vote for libs if the leader were Malcolm Turnbul. I still may do, I'm finding it hard to engage though not for lack of information; however the consequences will never be the same. I don't know if it will be bad or not.

2: Labour party is as bad as a Labour party can get, and really showed that a lepard cannot change its spots regardless of how much RNA recombination it goes through. This assassination is the very core of their party. They did it before, and will do it again. With fear of your position how can you get anything done.

3: Greens have a good leader, however the groundswell doesn't appear to be there or is it? People who I never thought would vote green are. I think that this could be the year for them, they have some good people not just Bob Brown.

I think that the Nationals, should do a deal with the Greens somehow; hell bring the libs along for the ride if they could.

It could work, I would love to see the weird wrannger child of Barnaby and Brown and Joe. National policies that involve the national interest. One reason I don't like politicians is because they have huge egos and don't really understand anything other than politics. I understand that governance and transparency are important, but that gets you nowhere if you have no big idea.

What is the big idea of this election, please tell me because I don't want to go backwards.

Tuesday, June 29, 2010


Its been awhile since I have posted anything, but this is an interesting article. In summary a UN report states that US dollar is an increasingly unstable currency and should be replaced by something else. The article has some scary stats for 2050.

Take a read

Tuesday, January 12, 2010