There is, in the comfortable land of milk and honey, small trouble brewing.
Domestic.
A complaint of modern, civil nature, minor in comparison to mass unemployment but significant in its implication toward perceived levels of home improvement excellence.
More as it develops.
Is it getting warm in here?
SNAP!
The rat trap clamped its plastic claws shut in the crawlspace of Lee’s home.
Back on Earth, Lee returned to his favourite hideout, away from curious onlookers, far from paparazzi and their pesky drones — his home, his cabin in the woods.
Half-asleep, he looked up at the stars, but it was not the white, sparkling dots that woke him from a late evening nap.
A tiny black shape, outlined by stars, galaxies and planets, grew bigger, as if…
As if a spider was dropping from the ceiling.
It was.
Lee ran through the mental map of his head, the unexplained red bumps and festering sores of the past two days quickly coming into focus.
* * * * *
Guin straightened her posture, reaching for the perfect core dance position.
Her dance instructor, a teacher of teachers, Plantainyifan, made Guin adjust her position by sucking in her stomach a quarter-inch more, turning and tilting her head an eighth of an inch back and to the right.
“There! Now hold your position for five minutes! When I return, I want to see you have not moved. If so, then we will start this all over again until you get it right!”
Guin sighed by letting a single cubic centimeter of air puff out of her nose.
* * * * *
Rolenmec completed repairs on the replicator.
Meant to simulate the physical quirks and habits of Earth-based humans, the electromechanical products of the replicator, known in the trade as “Daft Drafts,” acted on behalf of their original counterparts, carrying out tasks and taking adventures that the Earth-based humans desired but did not want to increase biochemical damage from space travel and extended living periods on Mars’ surface.
* * * * *
Lee watched as the spider dropped to a futon armrest.
The spider’s eyes reflected the flame of a coffee-scented candle Lee had lit for smells he could not get on Mars.
An object like a ninth leg stuck out from the spider’s body.
Lee realised the spider was not natural-born. The ninth “leg” was an antenna. This was a land-based drone, designed to use web-like strands to move between distant objects, avoiding even the tiniest whirring sound of a flying drone.
Lee ran a systems check of his body, a habit he had dropped two days ago for no explainable reason after returning to his home planet. Sure enough, he detected foreign objects in his skin and blood, objects which had attached themselves to many internal body parts.
He kept a few strips of artificial skin in case of emergency cuts. Reaching into his pants pocket, he applied a strip of skin to his forehead and pulled the bedcover over his head, exposing only a small area in the center of the artificial skin.
Thirty seconds later, Lee felt the spider insert its “jaws” into his artificial skin. Lee closed the bedcover around the spider and flicked it into a beer bottle on the end table beside him, pressing a coaster over the beer bottle opening as he carried it to his closet laboratory.
* * * * *
Guin felt sore but relieved after the six-hour dance training session.
Having cracked her ribs too many times to remember, often in line with the 11 times she’d had a head concussion, dancing either made her rib cage hurt or feel better.
Today, she felt better, thanks in large part to her friend, fellow dance instructor, and personal masseuse, Bai.
Bai had been working with Guin for a few years, showing her the way African dance movement flowed right into the Western dance techniques Guin had learned as a child.
Guin grew up on a farm, playing with cows and breaking in horses, in addition to her boxing matches, offroad races and skydiving shows that kept her upper body in shape and her reflexes heightened for quick, athletic weekend ballet performances.
She married her sweetheart soon after high school, presumably “until death do us part,” but, six years later, Guin found herself in a lawyer’s office, revising a divorce agreement over custody of a dog.
Not just any dog.
Not natural-born, anyway.
Her dog and the dog’s sister were identical clones.
Although she had cloned the dog herself while at a veterinarian’s office — the vet a friend of Guin’s father, both of whom had taken Klingon language classes together and spoke the language fluently, a passion not passed on to Guin — Guin’s soon-to-be ex-husband had grown fond of the dog and wanted to take custody even though the dog had been cloned a year before he and Guin were married.
* * * * *
Lee placed the artificial skin patch under a microscope and zoomed in on the area where the spider had inserted a few foreign objects.
Lee spoke out loud. “Self replicators?”
He watched as the objects reproduced themselves, splitting apart like single-cell organisms, but instead of identical copies, the next “generation” seemed to be specialized for attachment to specific chemical signatures.
That at least explained why the objects in his body seemed to congregate at certain points and in only a few organs.
* * * * *
Rolenmec scanned the latest batch of Earthian profiles, amazed at how commonplace most of the tasks and adventures that were requested by timid Earth-based humans afraid to take the long trip here.
Why did no one want to conquer the planet or make Mars a jumping off place for points unknown, one’s replicated body nearly indestructible, able to travel light-years with little maintenance required?
One profile caught Rolenmec’s eyes.
To protect Rolenmec from knowing whether a replicated body he met on Mars was one he had replicated himself, the names of the Earth-based humans was not part of their profiles.
Surely, though, Rolenmec would know this “person” when he met it.
It was no person at all. The profile requested that the body shape be that of a spider, a spider that was to return to Earth with a batch of life science experiments.
The spider’s sole function was to “bite” people, insert a few microorganisms that contained code which caused their reproductive offspring to spread through their host and turn into a large broadcast antenna, sending signals from a source not mentioned in the Earth-based human’s profile.
“Now that’s what I call a real dream!”
Rolenmec activated the profile and started the replicator.
* * * * *
Guin noticed her dog had been acting strange lately. She compared her dog to the dog’s sister and noted an infection had caused the dog’s joints to swell.
She took the dog to the vet because Guin did not recognize the genetic code of the infection.
The vet, too, was perplexed.
* * * * *
Lee felt a strange sensation.
It was as if he had suddenly received all the memories Guin had lost after a bad wreck in a Mars dune buggy race a few years ago.
Arguments, pain, years of childhood dance lessons, horseback rides on Earth, schoolwork, love, migraine headaches…
His thoughts were overwhelmed by new thoughts not his own.
He walked into his office and sat down as the central nervous system mapping station.
* * * * *
Rolenmec felt dizzy.
He put his left hand to the wall and slid to the floor, stopping himself with his right hand, which looked red and puffy.
He ought to remember what he was just doing but he couldn’t.
The…the replicator? Was it still on?
A spider flung itself out of the replicator and landed on the wall above Rolenmec, followed by another.
Rolenmec’s head swam. Were the spiders heading for the lab hallway? How many were there?
* * * * *
Guin’s dog playfully bit the vet on the wrist, jumped up and down, its tail wagging, and bit Guin’s little finger.
The vet shrugged her shoulders as if to say the dog was just overexcited. “I’ve taken a blood sample and will let the ISSA Net analyse it overnight. You should have the results before you wake up tomorrow.”
Guin and the vet absentmindedly wiped drops of blood from their new wounds.
Guin took the dog for a walk and then returned to her flat in the main Mars compound.
* * * * *
Lee sent a mental image directly to Guin’s thoughts across the ISSA Net emergency message channel, reserved for important interplanetary communications.
“What was the last memory you remember before the wreck? What is the first memory you remember making after the wreck? Must know immediately but I think I can give you the answer already. Don’t open your regular message inbox until after you’ve responded to this one. See if I’m right.”
Lee returned to the futon and fell into a deep dream state. He wouldn’t wake up for the next four days.
* * * * *
As soon as Guin saw Lee’s message in her thoughts, she recorded a response and sent it back. She waited a few hours for Lee to answer but received nothing, not even the normal acknowledgement.
Feeling tired, Guin lay down with her two dogs and took a nap. She wouldn’t wake up for the next 3.893 Martian sols.
* * * * *
Acting like an automaton, Rolenmec stood up, walked down the hallway and opened a door into the life science lab. Several spiders followed him.
A few did not.
Instead, they headed toward the sleeping habitation rooms that specifically contained personal pets.
* * * * *
Lee woke up, having forgotten all the items on his daily to-do list.
Guin’s memories flowed through him as if they were his now. He could not tell the difference nor was self-aware enough to know that he couldn’t tell the difference.
* * * * *
Guin woke up, her first thought that she needed to take her dog with her to work.
* * * * *
The veterinarian tried to reach Guin for four sols. Meanwhile, she noted that the microorganisms the ISSA Net had isolated from the dog’s blood were remarkably able to modify their genetic code much faster than could be explained by natural evolution.
The vet sent a request on the vet hotline for crowdthink.
While waiting for a reply, the vet went from cage to cage biting the pets in her animal hospital, unaware she was doing so.
How do we award, reward, reinforce and otherwise encourage our behaviour?
There is beauty and there is the beautiful.
A scar across one’s face may lend one an air of distinction but we see in the mirror only an ugly scrape across our once unblemished visage.
Perception vs. reality.
At mid-life, I see my skin and its many changes due to sun/UV damage, knife cuts, wrinkles, blood donation needle entry points, and cat scratches.
None of these external marks on my body have affected my ability to drive a motorcar.
With age, however, my reaction times have slowed.
Therefore, my driving capabilities are diminished from the time, a year or so after getting my driver’s licence over 30 years ago, when I was best able to speed dangerously fast on backcountry, twisty roads, racing other kids in their late teens and early twenties.
There is, in other words, a time and place where our health, both mental and physical, is and isn’t detrimental to our sharing highways with other drivers of multitonne killing machines.
Yesterday, while dining with my wife at Nick’s Restaurant, a young man of 18 years crashed through vehicles at a traffic light and then proceeded 1.5 miles to the next intersection where he crashed into several more vehicles, killing a ten-year old child in one of them.
According to comments by readers on a local news company’s website, the driver is “Very sweet kid, good student and athlete!” and “an amazing kid and a close friend of mine he is diabetic”.
Yet, here we are looking at a dead child and many injured people because of one driver.
Should people with known medical conditions, which could endanger others — epilepsy, diabetes, old age related reaction times, etc. — be kept from driving, much the way aeroplane pilots lose their licences due to findings in medical examinations?
What is the threshold we’re willing to set that puts the best qualified people behind the wheel of a vehicle?
We already set age cutoffs.
Another reader commented, “How do you pass out from low blood sugar and keep driving? I know the family of the little girl who died. I am absolutely heartbroken for them. Praying for all involved.”
We could look at statistics which point out the benefits of a road system that sets a relatively low qualification threshold for driving a vehicle has increased our economic output higher than the detrimental effect of death/injury by many magnitudes much like we can say that the economic costs (gains?) of our “war on terror” is magnitudinally higher than the economic loss of dead/maimed military.
A ten-year old girl didn’t wake up to see the sunrise this morning or eat breakfast with her family.
Why?
Because an 18-year old boy drove when he shouldn’t’ve.
Perhaps cars and trucks of the future, before they’re all autonomously-controlled, will use technology that could have prevented yesterday’s tragedy.
Perhaps…
Let’s hope so.
The life of your ten-year young child may depend on it.
For those who are interested, here are the original pictures from the May 1962 copy of Boys’ Life:
For me, the latest news is still an uneasy thought to accept. Knowing now what I didn’t know then, that there were gay boys in my school, one who knew he was gay at 12…he used to tickle me and giggle because tickling caused me to get an erection. He never touched my erection but he did admit getting a thrill tickling me, which I avoided getting tickled by him even more after his admission.
He was in Boy Scouts with me. We earned more than one merit badge together, both of us interested in nature, studying birds and wildlife habitats, taking notes and sharing with other Boy Scouts.
I admit I was attracted to his intellect but I was not sexually attracted to him.
He went on to earn academic honours at CalTech as well as achieved business accolades.
I sit here and look at my Boy Scout achievements, including the milestone of Eagle Scout:
I guess the Boy Scouts of America have adjusted to a changing United States of America.
What will the troop leaders face now that openly-gay Scouts are officially accepted?
Will they have to worry not only about boys getting knife cuts while whittling and third-degree burns from roasting marshmallows but also listen carefully at night to make sure a curious gay boy will not make a pass at a fellow tentmate?
Will a tickler of the 1970s attempt a kiss, instead, in the 2010s?
My wife and I have briefly discussed this issue — when we did, my scalp felt on fire, which told me this is important for me to consider further.
How do I separate the code of honour I upheld as a Boy Scout — reconciling that the fact that homosexuality is a physical/mental wiring issue rather than a[n] [im]moral act against the fact that boys become sexually active in their early teens, some more active than others — from the genetic code that children are born with?
It is not a simple matter that I can easily and simply dismiss.
Are all openly-gay boys effeminate?
If so, will they and their parents push for sewing/fashion and home decorating Boy Scout merit badges?
Regardless of gender preference/attraction, Boy Scouts is about learning new skills, including wilderness survival but also skills in the civilised world, such as computers and citizenship.
I have always been willing to hold discordant views in my thoughts and these definitely clash: I accept gays and lesbians as friends even though a part of me sees anything but a heterosexual relationship as unnatural, a sign that nature has a way of putting the brakes on overpopulation.
However, building rockets and exploring the cosmos is an unnatural act of sorts in my thoughts yet I want our species to create networks of beings/technology that branch out from the solar system and into the neighbouring sections of our galaxy.
Unnatural is a word to describe a condition of one or more sets of states of energy in flux.
I will think more about this and hope to record here my thoughts on the matter.
Until next time, my wife and I will continue to share our lives together, including a tour of Air Force One a couple of years ago.
Au revoir!
Objects from an epigrammatic life:
Thanks to our host at Wolf Mountain Winery, we learned that some of the best Arabica seeds are used in Community Coffee.
Thanks to Samantha at Walmart.
But an extra special thanks to my wife and Fay for making a dinner of country ham, pole beans, mashed potatoes, biscuits and strawberries.
What does an M.D., his wife and friends do when it’s pouring rain outside? Watch episodes of Doc Martin, of course!
When I was a kid, my parents’ house had those sliding wooden doors that recessed into doorframes.
You had to manually slide the door out by hand, though.
Of course, as an adult, my wife and I installed the “Star Trek” style doors in our house.
Whenever I go to friends’ houses, it’s so strange to wave my hand in the air or walk up to a door and it not open/close automatically.
I blame the “Star Trek” franchise for spoiling me and hating my technologically-challenged friends!
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