wildcat

It's taking me forever to finish reading Charles Stross's Accelerando, a post-cyberpunk job made up of interconnected short stories following a single family line's fortunes before, during, and after the human race achieves a technological singularity. I've been reading the thing for nearly a week already. I have a Marquez book to read. I have two Kirby omnibuses to spelunk into. But I'm still reading Accelerando, which may have lost track of its own point about fifty pages ago. In the earlier sections I was gripped by the characters and their awkward relationships with one another while being interested in the science. As we rush on, they start to sound more and more like blank spokesmodels for Stross's ideas about post-singularity economic models and technology. Economic systems form a backbone for the novel, but earlier on it's kept in check by the characters.

They do come back though, the characters. Manfred Macx is resurrected in several forms over the course of the later sections. Why? Because he's a pervasive character and he genuinely interested me by being a positive character who still managed to be fucked up (much like his second wife, Annette). Later on, all that starts to fade and characters become mouthpieces while Stross begins to fall into Clarke's Trap, where the Idea is Hero and outweighs the narrative itself.

Another pervert suit operation, poisoning the city's precious, precious water supply. Drive them crazy with dangerous narcotic hallucinogens, sending a few of them tumbling off roofs in drug-addled situationist nightmares. Did it really mean anything, though, or was he just going through the psychopathic motions? Would he get enough of a giggle from it, would he guffaw, or was he just aiming to spread mayhem and death because that's what's expected of him? Maybe he just pulled on the scaly green tights that evening because he thought he had to, regardless of the awkward crotch bunching and uncomfortable way they clung to his hips. And he pulled them on knowing, really, how the night was going to end.

Red feather boa rustled in the breeze while he worked away at the trigger mechanism for the last poison-tank. Designed to drain directly into the reservoir at the appointed hour, which he'd probably set for midnight. Dramatic purposes. He brushed the long boa out of his face and fussed with the wiring. Almost impossible to do cleanly with the stupid gloves on. The poison would mix evenly into the water for the appropriate effects thanks to the schools of mechano-fish he'd dump in earlier.

She was going to come, of course. His opponent. He'd left enough clues, as was part of their dance. She was a smart woman, she'd follow the trail, she'd track him down, and then they'd have to deal with each other. She'd coming stalking from the skies in that sexy little jetpack number of hers.

His mask itched, and he worked a finger underneath to scratch at the blob of spirit gum holding it on. He could have been spending the evening guzzling martinis and yelling at his henchmen while assembling giant robot duplicates of himself back at the warehouse. Not programming finicky triggers that she'd just smash anyway, no matter the cost. Only they were caught in this ridiculous routine and he had a megalomania to feed...

Here she came. He didn't have to look up; there was the thrum of engines and the stink of gasoline. He couldn't help the cold sweat. She'd dump him in jail almost immediately, and he'd have to escape again. At least a month spent calculating prison guard shifts and amassing secret weapons. "The old poisoned water supply bit?" She scraped something off the heel of her boot and circled him. "It is a classic, I admit." He hated himself for it, but he was going to be bloodied by morning and smiling with a fat lip all day. He prepared something suitably evil to say.

© Ben Rawluk, 2008, all rights reserved.

Returned about an hour ago from seeing the Andy Warhol exhibit at the art gallery; the initial encounter was Elvis Presley brandishing a gun at me ("Before I was shot, I always thought that I was more half-there than all-there - I always suspected that I was watching TV instead of living life. Right when I was being shot and ever since, I knew that I was watching television." - Andy) while superimposed over himself. Oh, Elvis. Last of the great robot cowboys. I suppose it's odd of me, having a preference of Chairman Mao portrait? There's one with peachy lips that looks like an aging drag queen has just taken off his wig to run a country.



And Marilyn. Actually, between Warhol's silkscreen portraits of her and watching Mars Attacks the other night, I keep bouncing back and forth between Marilyn and the creepy Martian spy-escort who seduced Martin Short.



I keep imagining, mostly because I'm still stuck on the idea of android doubles, hive-minded Warhol Monrobots shifting, as if on roller-skates, over textured carpeting -- each one with a different colour scheme, communicating with gestures and hip movements. I imagine high-society Factory parties in the futur nouveau, Andy Warhol with his 3D silkscreen printer building robots mid-celebration to mingle and shuffle strangely between party guests. Imagine having your portrait done at a party and then the portrait can circulate by the drinks table, maybe intercept your wife while you duck into the washrooms with a turquoise-haired Edie Sedgewick silkscreen to have a tryst before the meta-narcotics wear off. Imagine four colour-coded Conrad Blacks arguing with an equal assortment of Queen Elizabeth 2s through mime. Is that Andy Warhol you've been following for the past half-hour, always a few steps behind, in between the Mick Jaggers and Jackie Os, is that Andy? Or is that a self-portrait? Is that Andy's paid double, or is it Andy in body paint?

"Kk," said Elvis Presley in his Spaghetti Western outfit. "I've been so lonely, baby." He shivered for a moment, and then fell silent; after that, his head came right off and slopped to the floor. Within ten seconds, Elvis Presley smelled of mulched paper and pencil shavings. Andy-Grigori Warhol-Rasputin 9 stared at the ugly mess, kicked it once with his boot, and turned to examine the 3D printer that dominated the studio. He'd been shot three times—once, by a militant feminist named Valerie and once by a Russian nobleman—beaten, poisoned, castrated, chucked in a river... and all he got was a square studio laboratory. They wouldn't let him see his daughter, Maria; she was supposedly travelling with the circus still. Somewhere in the Baltics. Andy-Grigori thumped the machine firmly on the side before sprawling out on the uncomfortable cot they'd fashioned him with; all his behaviours felt preprogrammed and unrealistic, but that wasn't a terribly unusual feeling.

The Marilyn Monrobots stood unevenly, four of them, in the corner. He hated them a little bit but of all the silkscreens, they'd lasted the longest; each one in a different colour scheme, shoulders almost touching, waving their hands in slow, disjointed gestures. Silkscreens did not, as a rule, speak. He could have probably done something about that. Why had the Marilyns lasted so long? Edie had dissolved after a paltry two minutes, as had Anastasia. The self-portraits went after an hour, each of them, after shadowing him around the studio and getting into the paint. The Marilyns, though, the Marilyns stayed together and didn't decompose. They each wore an Andy Warhol promotional T-shirt he'd fabricated with the printer, and Rasputin baseball caps.

Presently, the door at the far end of the studio opened. "This is Russia's greatest love-machine?" A schlub of a man in a sharkskin suit stood with his hands held behind his back, sneering into Andy-Grigori's space. The Marilyns turned, as one, to stare back. If he'd been smart, he would have replicated them with machine-gun breasts. Won his freedom that way. Beside the schlub stood Andy-Grigori's hostess, a woman wrought in perfect copper. Woman was something of a misnomer. If it weren't for the imprisonment, he might have liked Galatea, though. "More successful than the Pynchon-Feynman atrocity, I hope." The schlub was terribly nasal. Andy-Grigori fought back the urge to shrink into the corner.

Galatea betrayed no emotion when the "atrocity" was mentioned. She had perfect posture, and Andy-Grigori felt the familiar flush of his own hunched shoulders and bedraggled white hair, his long black beard. "Number 9," she said, after a moment—like a well-timed tour guide voiceover. "Number 9 exhibits better cohesion and integration than the previous eight. He/they exhibit none of the flaws like gunshot stigmata, psychosomatic castration, or DIY plastic surgery, that cropped up in earlier models." He'd once aked Galatea to sit for him, to let him commit her portrait to the machine. She'd laughed, haughtily, a pre-designed laugh. She was born mass-produced, she'd said. Didn't need to experience it any further. "He exhibits the hoped for characteristics of doubled genius, you'll be happy to hear."

"Edie was the real genius," said Andy-Grigori without thinking about it. He stood, jumbled up, clutching himself, watching the schlub watch him, the Marilyns rolling up behind Andy-Grigori like a posse, saying nothing but being present.

"Andy-Grigori," Galatea motioned to him, first, then to the schlub. "This is Mister Bendix. He is one of the project's benefactors." Was Bendix a man of God, he wondered? They didn't seem to have God anymore. Or everything was God. Bendix ran a hand through greased black hair, and Andy-Grigori fought the impulse to reach up and grasp at his own wig. Mimicry was a passing flaw in his design, he couldn't help it, though Galatea had remarked more than once that it was probably appropriate.

Bendix huffed, bit at his fingernails—as he pulled them from his mouth the nails were already growing back to their preferred length, time-lapsed, and Andy-Grigori immediately wanted to replicate himself a movie camera, one of the old Super8 deals. By then Bendix's eyes wandered back to the Marilyns flanking Andy-Grigori. "Christina Aguilera, isn't it? Charming." Oh, he could have slapped him. Bloody peasant. Bloody wretched nobleman, bloody-bloody-bloody—Andy-Grigori slapped the side of his head and reset. "And he's confined to these quarters, I'm to understand? No outside intervention beyond yourself, Galatea? He hasn't been given access to too much outside media, for example?"

"Only a light consumer-advocate blend recommended by my employers, Mister Bendix—Board-approved, of course." He and Galatea had spoken once of being superstars, but she didn't seem to understand the concept, and had regarded Marilyn Monroe like the Mona Lisa. Though, to be honest, maybe he had, too. She'd tilted her head when he hit himself a moment ago, and was probably recording all the minute details of his nervous system right now. She did that. He would have loved to have the opportunity. Maybe he was demonstrating a new flaw that would require a new version be brought out. Edie. He missed Edie, even if he couldn't quite remember all of their moments together, Sienna Miller surreptiously spliced in. "There are the typical recall problems, of course. Much it depends on extrapolation of known neurology."

Bendix hovered for a moment and then wandered around Andy-Grigori and the Marilyns to run a finger over the 3D printer. "There was no mention of Future Shock in your report to the Board, Galatea. He's adjusted to the new technology?"

"He/they were bred with specific adjustments made to ensure smoothness of development in our new world. He/they even predicted the existence of time-butterflies based on the minimal information I gave him about jump stations and his own origins. Rasputin was a mystic, after all. He had no problems understanding." Strange to hear Galatea modulate her tone like that; she didn't bother with him, knowing full well that her artificial nature meant nothing to him, was a comfort in many ways. A reminder of the good old days. But she was very complex, and knew exactly how to modulate her voice to impart control over people she had to deal with. He knew offhandedly that Galatea did not particularly like the Board.

"Excellent," said Bendix while he stepped over and ran a hand down magenta-haired dayglo-green Marilyn's orange ballgown. She turned to face him, always in silent communication with her sisters. "I believe it's time we moved him along and cleared out this space for something new. I want him hooked up into a deep-culture tank, I believe he's ready for immersion into the network. Box one of these Christina-drones and fire it off to the—"

"Marilyn." Andy-Grigori cleared his throat. He was at least a foot taller than Bendix. Why, he wondered, was Bendix such a schlub? Galatea had explained that genetics were so much easier to manipulate now. "Her name is Marilyn."

"...museum," concluded Bendix without bothering to look at him. He snorted once, and then returned his squirtsome attentions to Galatea. "Everything else can be pulped and converted to building materials for the Swedish Overlords."

© Ben Rawluk, 2008, all rights reserved.

It occurs to me today, on Father's Day, that the old man forgot to give me his new number when he moved to William's Lake. So, in the interests of pinging the universe for response, a call out to the old Paterfamilias (as Clooney said, in O Brother Where Art Thou?). Happy Father's Day.

Miss Evans looks like a good girl, sure, like Shirley Maclaine's lost youth, but she's stalking nuns. She's standing on the other side of the street, watching them, watching the sisters from down Saint Ann's way, clustering together and gibbering at each other from under their whimples. Miss Evans, who looks like a Nineteen Sixties typing pool girl, she's got them dead in her sights. "Brides of Christ are standing out in front of Hamish's Butcher Shop on East Twenty-Second," she said into the phone pressed to her ear. She doesn't think she needs technical support, not Miss Evans, but she takes it anyway because it cuts down on the boss giving her shit. She hates it when he gives her shit. She can hear Carmine breathing on the other end of the line, and decides to remind him he exists. "Carmine, if you're going to make phone sex noises during an assignment, can you at least dirty talk a little? All the breathing makes me forget I don't."

Which is true; the mad scientist back in Delhi had her hermetically sealed. She doesn't even eat anymore. It surprised Miss Evans, exactly how little she misses either activity. Carmine finally snorts and speaks into the phone. "Sorry, Evans. Trying to fill out dental coverage forms and monitor your creepy operation at the same time. Did I ever tell you I went to Catholic school?"

"No. But I've read your files." Miss Evans feels it necessary to read up on her partners. She knew, for example, that he lived in perpetual existential crisis and as a result was very good at undercover work. Have to respect that, she's terrible at infiltration, even if she doesn't want to hear him having an episode over the phone, muttering about dear, sweet Gus or that fuck-up, Jackie-the-Chin.

"Well, Sister Mary Katherine would have tanned your ass for following them around."

"No, she wouldn't have." Traffic's starting to pick up, approaching rush hour.

"I don't even know what name I'm supposed to fill in," he says after about thirty seconds of nuns gesturing at each other and pedestrians stepping off the curb to go around them. Standard routine, based on witnesses, is half-hour of hanging out in front of Hamish's like a bunch of hoodlums before they walk back to Saint Ann's for afternoon calisthenics. Nuns probably don't normally do calisthenics, do they?

Miss Evans smooths out her knee-length skirt and opens the newspaper she's been keeping under her arm, scanning listlessly and pretending like she's not watching the nuns. Everybody watches the nuns, it's not like she's obvious. "At least you've got first names to keep track of, kiddo. They took mine away from me." It was a different time then, and practically all Carmine has is names, at this point.

The scuffing in her ear suggests Carmine has stopped to adjust himself, twist around in his chair, crack his neck muscles. He has very predictable patterns of unrest. "Dental benefits are shitty, anyway. Four hundred bucks coverage per year? Heaven help me if I need a root canal." Ha. This whole operation cost twenty bucks, maybe, and the cost of the newspaper. And then he remembers what he's supposed to be doing. "What are they up to now?"

"Nothing yet." Across the street, the sisters continue to make unnatural conversation in a dialect that certainly wasn't English, Italian, Latin, or any other recognizable language. They've spoken their own weird tongue for as far back as eighty years, according to independent sources. And occasionally they "find" dead bodies in back alleyways, like those five runaways last week -- there's quite the lengthy article about it in the paper, right next to two columns worth of talk about the fifth sneaker to wash up at the docks with a foot still inside. The nuns clutch their crucifixes and praise God in pig-latin. "The youngest is about eighty if she's a day, Carmine. I know they eat people's livers and the local kids say they have shark-teeth behind their people-teeth, but what's choking a ninety-five-year-old with her own rosary beads going to do for my C.V.?"

© Ben Rawluk, 2008, all rights reserved.

It didn't move like Harry's husband. It looked like him, sure, if a little more abstract. Less like a person and more the idea of a person. It moved awkwardly -- not stiffly, more jaggedly. It hadn't worked out yet, exactly how to smile, and Harry was grateful for that. He wasn't sure how he would have taken the thing smiling at him while he ate his Nutella on toast at the little kitchen table that his husband built not six years ago. During his refurnishing craze. But the thing did speak, managing a voice that approximated his husband's old one. "Are you still hungry, hon? I can make you some eggs." Like that. Like nothing at all. He waved the thing off while he rinsed off the plate and put it in the dishwasher. They used to argue about how often Harry left dishes lying around like it was beneath him to put them in the washer. He made an effort to straighten that habit out.

On the way out, Harry stopped and placed a chaste kiss on the thing's cheek, more out of habit than anything deeper. The thing was not his husband, but he was expected to go through the charade. They'd only been going through the motions for six months now -- according to most studies it might take as long as a year before things felt like normal again. Ha. The very notion. The thing waved at him from the front door and then shut it once he was in the driver's seat with the keys in the ignition. He had to sit through seven hours of work plus an hour's lunch. The thing didn't work. His husband worked, before, at a publishing firm downtown. His husband had been ostensibly good at his job, but the thing felt no need to continue his work.

What did the thing do while he was off at work? The topic never came up at dinner, when the thing was more interested in Harry's day, what had come up at the office. The thing kept the house clean and cooked -- a kind of barter, he supposed -- so he wasn't expected to complain. Even when the thing made strange, "exotic" things for supper, Maybe the thing went and met up with other things during the day, stockpiling more seed-pods and negotiating with the people in power.

He tried not to think about it.

Harry tried to make it through traffic without running into anybody while his mother droned on over the speaker-phone, wondering when they were coming for dinner next. She seemed to get along with the thing just fine, even referred to it by his husband's name like it was his husband and not a thing. "I'll have to check our schedules and confirm with him," he said, changing lanes with barely a pause to look over his shoulder at his blind spot. "I'm on my way to work, Mum, I'll have to call you back later." She told him she loved him and he said the same, hitting the end-call button on the steering wheel.

The office was typical, boring, repetitive. Everybody wandered around with the same haggard, dismal look upon their faces, though some were better at emoting than others. Everybody had a thing at home. Single adult stats were way, way down. Breeding -- inter-breeding -- was suddenly very important, like it was wartime, and maybe war was coming. The government was very careful about what information was available regarding the naturalization programs or what was going on outside the country.

They hadn't wanted children, not really. Talked about it, sure, and his husband had been adamant that they adopt if they wanted one. He didn't really want to think about the thing breeding with him. But all the posters said FOR THE GOOD OF THE NATION, although most people looked a little confused about which nation was under discussion, these days. Harry stopped by Accounting on his way upstairs to flirt with Kenneth, who looked good in spite of the orange tie his thing had picked out for him. Harmless flirting kept him going some days, because at least Kenneth could make a full range of facial expressions and had normal body language and it sounded good when he laughed. Not like the thing's hollow chuckle. After that, he made it the two floors up and ran into Jane coming out of the women's washroom. They made lunch plans. Nice to have a meal with a person. Jane referred to the thing back at her apartment by her boyfriend's name, Jack, because they'd made it to a year and a half now. She wasn't very convincing, but it was prescribed by relationship therapists.

© Ben Rawluk, 2008, all rights reserved.

1. I have seen too many creepy, creepy children in the library. It's not even noon but the Children of the Corn are up and demanding their fucked up Saturday morning cartoons. Too bad it's Friday and they'll have to make do with eating their parents' brains.

2. I do not like when people leave teddy-bear order forms in the printer, particularly when the order forms include the options "dressed bear" and "undressed bear." I do not want to think about the teddy-murder porn you're making with stop-motion animation in the basement. The lighting by the water heater is inadequate down there.