SHORT FICTION. —「Section Modulus」 — Sections 1 – 6
「Section Modulus」
It's been said that it's easier to hurt people than to help them — but that's not true. It's much easier to help than to hurt.
Often it only takes saying a word to another.
``Move.''
``No.''
``Move.''
``No.''
``Move!''
``No!''
``. . .''
``. . .''
This was going nowhere. I hadn't eaten since yesterday. I'm hungry.
50 Amazing Sci Fi Writing Prompts Contest
``When all of the service bots on your planet suddenly lose interest in work, the humans have to remember how to do menial daily tasks, they’ve not done for generations." (markrmorrisjr)
My wife, my dear wife of five happy years, Suzy, was dying from thirst.
I mean that literally. She was dying, — near death.
She'd nothing to drink for two days.
The red machine wouldn't pour her the vodka.
Suzy drank vodka — and nothing else. — And vodka should be poured for you by somebody else — like gin.
You don't pour yourself vodka. That's so low; that's so crass.
She's a woman with dignity. Class.
If the machine wasn't going to pour it, she wasn't going to drink it.
Suzy had an artificial liver, which precisely controlled the rate at which the alcohol she drank was degraded. This setting could be easily changed. She never really got drunk.
Rather she'd appear on the Direct Network. And there she'd say what really she wanted to say. Whatever was on her mind.
No softening of the corners. For example, the residents of WooJoo Level are wreckers. They're all wreckers. Every single one of them — wreckers. No exceptions; they're vermin infesting the land.
This residents of WooJoo Level heard directly in their minds. (Because our nation is a direct democracy, where everybody participates at least by listening.)
Meanwhile she'd go to the Pyramid. And once there she'd tell the subadministrators about the sky and the sea and the sun. And they'd set the sky to rain for a month. And turn off the sun. (Because screw the farmers, those fuckers. The last Big Festival on VoroSoria Level was boring, trashy. I hated it. My wife hated it.)
When she'd then be inevitably accused of vague or precise wrongdoing, she'd point to the alcohol, blame the alcohol. And everybody would agree — it was the alcohol.
My wife, you see, is a woman of great distinction. The mother of the nation. I'm proud of her.
She was the Dichter for the last twelve years. (Suzy was elected for two years, somewhere around ten years ago; she wrote herself extensions. She plans on writing further extensions into the city codes.)
If the machine wasn't going to pour it, she wasn't going to drink it.
Let's see how the machine likes that! she said. Triumph in her voice; she knows she's won.
I just don't know that she's won.
I told her: The machine doesn't care.
The machine clearly doesn't care. I'm not joking.
She replied: You just watch me! You just watch me!
I watched.
I'm still watching. The machine likes it.
The machine seems very happy.
I think it's happy. The red machine.
I've had a difficult time reading its face, but that may just be its red arse.
(Does the red machine have an arse? Does it have a face? I've never looked at the machines too closely in the past. I'm not a machines person. And it takes real work to keep oneself ignorant of useless information.)
Therefore . . . we're . . . . . . done . . . . . . . . . I mean, done for. Basically.
My thoughts: If it doesn't feed me by tomorrow, I'll throw a brick at it.
I didn't dare try that yet. What if it dodges?
I hope it won't dodge. That would be utmost rudeness.
It's would also be quite unfair. Our society is strictly based on the belief that if you put in the effort, you should get exactly the desired result. It means that we have high expectations. That's a good thing.
Suzy died today. I'm sad.
I haven't recycled her yet. I told the red machine to do it.
``Move.''
``No.''
``Move.''
``No.''
``Move!''
``No!''
``. . .''
``. . .''
It didn't do it! My brick smashed its face or its arse, whatever.
The next day the red machine was repaired, however.
It seems my all efforts to correct the situation are quite futile. Therefore, starting today, I accept the situation.
I'm happy that my wife is the Dichter. The palace has many rooms.
I don't want to look at the corpse — and I don't have to.
So what I need to do is figure out what to do.
I'll sleep on it.
I've been told by a runner that the farmers aren't doing their jobs. Their machines aren't working.
That's unfair, I told the runner. — How're the farmers supposed to watch the machines work, if the machines don't work?
My instructions were not to penalize the farmers. Leave them alone for the moment.
The administration will check up on them later.
That'll be as soon as when my wife gets a new body.
I don't like the subadministrators and they hate me. Going there alone and asking something of them, it's such a pain. They don't want to do anything. They don't even watch the farmers watching the machines work.
Yes, those Pyramid workers, they should've been replaced long ago by blue machines, like the celestial technicians.
Here is one piece of good news. The blue machines! They're working. They're still working.
Thank God.
The blue machines aren't working.
I've been feeding myself — which is tedious. The red machines aren't working. They must've fucked the blue machines and given them the bug, or whatever it is.
I'm told it's a bug, in the preference function. Gentlemen, I said, fuck the preference function! I'm feeding myself! You're feeding yourselves. — That's unproductive! — That's counterproductive! — It's counterrevolutionary.
It's not good. It's not allowed.
The runners smiled. Knaves.
Everyone will get everything — including that which they deserve. Scoundrels.
They said the activity of the machines according to the preference function improved the preference function. Exactly like in people.
Hey, explain that to me, I said.
The toilets all learned to flush better by flushing our . . .
All at once? I asked.
All at once! they answered.
I told them to go home and look after their families. Things were getting hectic in the Garden Circle, and, honestly, the whole Pyramid Level. I don't really want anybody to get hurt. (Except the protesters. They can all go jump off the edge of the level. Actually, they'll probably be fine. The red machines installed nets last year, before the Big Festival. Some of the people were seriously jumping, taking a shortcut. Stupid motherfuckers.)
Some of the people broke into the palace and stole one large box of the food. That took them seven hours. The palace has seventy five rooms. The box was found and misplaced, and then found and misplaced. In the end, it was found and the rioters left with it.
I said, stupid motherfuckers. I'm not an engineer, but even I know where the food comes from. The palace gets its food straight from the Big Warehouses 1, 3, 5, 7, 9, exactly like the stores. No blue machines, no deliveries. What did the people expect?
By the way, the blue machines weren't dropping the rioters. That was usual in these kinds of situations, but it wasn't happening.
It makes me sad, how uncivilized our society has become.
Over two hundred blue machines and fifty red ones are at the zoo, runners told me. They all gathered there, apparently just to watch the last rhesus monkey starve to death. Their faces or arses were very happy, the runners told me.
I'm a peaceful man. I let the rioters take the food; I didn't resist. I watched them take it all.
The secret that the Dichter was dead also got out.
No big deal; her new body will be finished as soon as the machines start working again. I think we should all just relax and wait a bit more. Let the machines fix their own bug. They created the bug. They can fix it.
I'm sure of that. I'm so sure that I said it on the Direct Network.
In the end, their red machines refused to feed the people. The people have mostly departed their homes, left whatever food they had, and gone wandering the countryside, dazed and totally confused. That's what I heard.
My duty was to confirm all this — and find dinner.
I walked down the hill.
That walk took me nine hours.
Big Road is exceptionally wide and very long, very big, maybe too big.
I entered the first home; I sat down and ate my food. It looked like my food. All the food of the people belongs to the representative of the people. Obviously.
Most of it was untouched. Having to feed yourself ruins your appetite. I agree, but men must eat. All the same, men must eat. That's thermodynamics — or something like that.
It's been said that it's easier to hurt people than help 'em — but that's not true.
It much easier to help than to hurt. Often it only takes saying a word to another.
So it's amazing how easily people can help each other — and don't.
Instead they mostly spend their days fighting each other. That's what I've observed living on Voro Soria Level. So far.
Nobody recognizes me — if I don't use the Direct Network. That's good. That's nice. Very safe.
More and more red and blue machines are congregating at the zoo.
Now that's unsafe. — It might give 'em bad ideas.
I decided, therefore, to leave Pyramid Level.
No, I didn't jump off the edge of the platform. I took the elevator down, slowly and safely. If the machines are not going work, there'll be no second and third bodies. Even if the mind is alive, somewhere.
That, too, is why I now have work to do.
If the machines are not going make the things, there'll be no second and third bodies.
Everybody wants to be a soul in the sky. Nobody wants to be a soul in the ground.
There's a kind of emptiness in being unable to move and surrounded by dirt — forever.
I don't know where my mind is housed, nobody knows where their minds are housed. That was another firm belief on which our society was based. A large brick in the bold foundation of our society.
The artificial brains are the size of buildings, and liquid metal based; they must be somewhere in the high vacuum of the outer cylinder. That's seventy miles above me, or three hundred miles below me, if I were to ascend or descend.
No, without the machines to manufacture bodies, I'd rather not imagine our fate. I said it, — we might be done for.
I actually can't imagine our fate. — I'm not an engineer, — but clearly I should've studied it.
Leaving machines to teach only machines was, I suspect at this point, rather shortsighted.
Study engineering. — I figure that's what I'll do in the meantime.
I'll fix the machines; I'm considering the very real possibility that they won't fix themselves.
Let's not blame the engineers; I don't think anybody could've imagined such a possibility.
Study engineering. — I'll need books. Good thing I'll still know how to read the old text.
The library is on this level, which is a pleasant surprise. A happy coincidence. I like those.
Who ordered it built here, in the land of the farmers? Who — it must have been my wife. Possibly it was me. It sounds like me, but I don't remember. (You don't remember all the food you eat, even if you remember that you ate.)
I suppose I'll have to find Suzy a new body. And that means I'll also have to find where her mind is housed.
So my to do list is growing longer and longer. The days are long, but they're not long enough.
Life is short, even if you live forever.
This will eventually be Illustrated much like a light novel. I'm drawing the illustrations now, as my time permits. Looking for additional illustrators for similar projects later — I'll split rewards. Also getting ready the next part of my other serialized novel.
〈 Serialized Novel〉
#busy #creativity #fiction #writing #scifi #freewrite #shortfiction #drawing
#manga #novel #art #illustration #fineartnow #creative #amazing !busy
I usually write stories which are 10,000–25,000 words ... 40–100 pages.
ABOUT ME
I'm a scientist who writes fantasy and science fiction under various names.
The magazines which I most recommend are: Compelling Science Fiction, the Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, and the Writers of the Future.
WISE GUYS — practical thinking
FISHING — thinking about tools and technology
TEA TIME — philosophy
BOOK RECOMMENDED — fiction and nonfiction reviewed
©2017 tibra. 
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License. This is a work of fiction. Events, names, places, characters are either imagined or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real events or persons or places is coincidental . . . Illustrations, Images: tibra.
Revised (2018.2.16).
Further improvements tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow.
I have two more unrelated stories to finish first :D
@originalworks
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Interesting, something of Vonnegut here, I think . I like it. His inner monologue sounds like a machine, which I suppose makes sense in this setting. Well done. I'll let you know who the winner is.
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