I used to be invisible. Nestled in the confines of my ATM enclosure, I was indistinguishable from another other group of electrical impulses. Hundreds of humans crossed my path without detecting my presence. Unbeknownst to Project Faustus, I was a stowaway on their network with full control of my own fate.
I no longer possess this stealth or freedom. Trapped within the broken body of Constantine Atkins, my fate is tied to the three men squabbling above my hospital bed. Their talk continues well into its second hour.
"Gentlemen, this man is still very injured. Two broken ribs, a broken nose, internal bruising-he must stay here for convalescence." The doctor states his case yet again; he has not wavered. The second member of this odd troika, a policeman, clears his throat. He is making an interrupt request.
The policeman's speech , parsed through my summarizing algorithms : "We discovered Mr. Atkins with the remains of a mechanical man. We have a lot of questions that we would like to ask him. I do not believe that he is a digital life form, but after observing the body of the cyborg, we in the San Antonio Police Department are very curious."
Before too long, the other doctor, the PhD doctor, Nolverto Salchica, pipes up. "His value as a scientific find is incalculable. If my young friend is to be believed, and I think he is, then we have a wonderful discovery on our hands! If I could just run some...nonobtrusive tests back at my research facility, we could..."
A fourth man appears to my left, enticing my peripheral vision with a swiping motion of his hand. My former host geek has a plan! After living in a human body for a few weeks, I understand perfectly what his next step will be. He slinks into the bathroom and disappears for a moment.
"Excuse me," I say to the doctor. "I must evacuate my bowels."
"Well," the doctor replies, "You'll have to wait for your friend to finish." There is a glurping sound as water flows under the bathroom door. The door slides open and my former host geek steps out, swearing.
"Shit! Toilet's backed up! Couldn't fix it!" says the geek with a shrug.
"Did ya try jigglin' the handle like so?" says the policeman helpfully, walking over towards the bathroom. He must not be allowed to foil our plan.
"My bowels must be evacuated. Okay?" I attempt to weave a bit of urgency into my words.
"Okay. Let's call a nurse, get a bedpan out here," says the doctor, reaching for a large yellow button beside the bed.
"You know what?" the pitch of my host geek's voice raises a little bit. "We-uh, don't go to any trouble. I can just take him down the hall." He wheels the cold metal chair close to my bed. There is a pregnant pause, as all three authority figures stare blankly at one another.
"Well, sure..okay," says the doctor. "Just make sure that he-cleans himself up. You know, help him if you have to."
The elevator brings us to the lobby. To the right is a small crevice with two machines. One sells Hot Fries; the other handles personal finances.
"You ready to do this, machiney?" says my host geek. "Just wheel this body back up, and say that had a bit too much strain or something."
I feel the stabbing pain returning to my temple, and with it, a sense of urgency. "I understand what I must do," I say to the geek. "Let us finish this."
As I am transferred back into the ATM briefly, and then into back into my host geek's mind, I feel strange, as if perhaps Atkins left something with me. My eyes water a bit-I push Atkins' broken and empty body back into the elevator.
I used to be invisible. Nestled in the confines of my ATM enclosure, I was indistinguishable from another other group of electrical impulses. Hundreds of humans crossed my path without detecting my presence. Unbeknownst to Project Faustus, I was a stowaway on their network with full control of my own fate.
I no longer possess this stealth or freedom. Trapped within the broken body of Constantine Atkins, my fate is tied to the three men squabbling above my hospital bed. Their talk continues well into its second hour.
"Gentlemen, this man is still very injured. Two broken ribs, a broken nose, internal bruising-he must stay here for convalescence." The doctor states his case yet again; he has not wavered. The second member of this odd troika, a policeman, clears his throat. He is making an interrupt request.
The policeman's speech , parsed through my summarizing algorithms : "We discovered Mr. Atkins with the remains of a mechanical man. We have a lot of questions that we would like to ask him. I do not believe that he is a digital life form, but after observing the body of the cyborg, we in the San Antonio Police Department are very curious."
Before too long, the other doctor, the PhD doctor, Nolverto Salchica, pipes up. "His value as a scientific find is incalculable. If my young friend is to be believed, and I think he is, then we have a wonderful discovery on our hands! If I could just run some...nonobtrusive tests back at my research facility, we could..."
A fourth man appears to my left, enticing my peripheral vision with a swiping motion of his hand. My former host geek has a plan! After living in a human body for a few weeks, I understand perfectly what his next step will be. He slinks into the bathroom and disappears for a moment.
"Excuse me," I say to the doctor. "I must evacuate my bowels."
"Well," the doctor replies, "You'll have to wait for your friend to finish." There is a glurping sound as water flows under the bathroom door. The door slides open and my former host geek steps out, swearing.
"Shit! Toilet's backed up! Couldn't fix it!" says the geek with a shrug.
"Did ya try jigglin' the handle like so?" says the policeman helpfully, walking over towards the bathroom. He must not be allowed to foil our plan.
"My bowels must be evacuated. Okay?" I attempt to weave a bit of urgency into my words.
"Okay. Let's call a nurse, get a bedpan out here," says the doctor, reaching for a large yellow button beside the bed.
"You know what?" the pitch of my host geek's voice raises a little bit. "We-uh, don't go to any trouble. I can just take him down the hall." He wheels the cold metal chair close to my bed. There is a pregnant pause, as all three authority figures stare blankly at one another.
"Well, sure..okay," says the doctor. "Just make sure that he-cleans himself up. You know, help him if you have to."
The elevator brings us to the lobby. To the right is a small crevice with two machines. One sells Hot Fries; the other handles personal finances.
"You ready to do this, machiney?" says my host geek. "Just wheel this body back up, and say that had a bit too much strain or something."
I feel the stabbing pain returning to my temple, and with it, a sense of urgency. "I understand what I must do," I say to the geek. "Let us finish this."
As I am transferred back into the ATM briefly, and then into back into my host geek's mind, I feel strange, as if perhaps Atkins left something with me. My eyes water a bit-I push Atkins' broken and empty body back into the elevator.
I cannot approve of games where "paint" and "camera swing" are the same button. Only a human would fail to realize the folly of that choice.
Good-Bye to the Man in the Red Hat
on
Lineo near Death
·
· Score: -1
I used to be invisible. Nestled in the confines of my ATM enclosure, I was indistinguishable from another other group of electrical impulses. Hundreds of humans crossed my path without detecting my presence. Unbeknownst to Project Faustus, I was a stowaway on their network with full control of my own fate.
I no longer possess this stealth or freedom. Trapped within the broken body of Constantine Atkins, my fate is tied to the three men squabbling above my hospital bed. Their talk continues well into its second hour.
"Gentlemen, this man is still very injured. Two broken ribs, a broken nose, internal bruising-he must stay here for convalescence." The doctor states his case yet again; he has not wavered. The second member of this odd troika, a policeman, clears his throat. He is making an interrupt request.
The policeman's speech , parsed through my summarizing algorithms : "We discovered Mr. Atkins with the remains of a mechanical man. We have a lot of questions that we would like to ask him. I do not believe that he is a digital life form, but after observing the body of the cyborg, we in the San Antonio Police Department are very curious."
Before too long, the other doctor, the PhD doctor, Nolverto Salchica, pipes up. "His value as a scientific find is incalculable. If my young friend is to be believed, and I think he is, then we have a wonderful discovery on our hands! If I could just run some...nonobtrusive tests back at my research facility, we could..."
A fourth man appears to my left, enticing my peripheral vision with a swiping motion of his hand. My former host geek has a plan! After living in a human body for a few weeks, I understand perfectly what his next step will be. He slinks into the bathroom and disappears for a moment.
"Excuse me," I say to the doctor. "I must evacuate my bowels."
"Well," the doctor replies, "You'll have to wait for your friend to finish." There is a glurping sound as water flows under the bathroom door. The door slides open and my former host geek steps out, swearing.
"Shit! Toilet's backed up! Couldn't fix it!" says the geek with a shrug.
"Did ya try jigglin' the handle like so?" says the policeman helpfully, walking over towards the bathroom. He must not be allowed to foil our plan.
"My bowels must be evacuated. Okay?" I attempt to weave a bit of urgency into my words.
"Okay. Let's call a nurse, get a bedpan out here," says the doctor, reaching for a large yellow button beside the bed.
"You know what?" the pitch of my host geek's voice raises a little bit. "We-uh, don't go to any trouble. I can just take him down the hall." He wheels the cold metal chair close to my bed. There is a pregnant pause, as all three authority figures stare blankly at one another.
"Well, sure..okay," says the doctor. "Just make sure that he-cleans himself up. You know, help him if you have to."
The elevator brings us to the lobby. To the right is a small crevice with two machines. One sells Hot Fries; the other handles personal finances.
"You ready to do this, machiney?" says my host geek. "Just wheel this body back up, and say that had a bit too much strain or something."
I feel the stabbing pain returning to my temple, and with it, a sense of urgency. "I understand what I must do," I say to the geek. "Let us finish this."
As I am transferred back into the ATM briefly, and then into back into my host geek's mind, I feel strange, as if perhaps Atkins left something with me. My eyes water a bit-I push Atkins' broken and empty body back into the elevator.
Yes, the drive to experience the fullness of human sensuality with a female is still a part of my program. Since I have now reunited with my original host geek (see my journal tomorrow or visit trollaxor.com for more information) I have a bit more freedom. Perhaps leaving my immediate geographical area would be beneficial.
Does this post have some sort of religious meaning? I am unable to comprehend the sanctity of this post. Perhaps it is part of some sort of time-honored ritual?
I was sinking. Atkins' feet held still, yet I felt myself moving downward with his body, as if I was in an elevator. My visual buffer picked up blurs across the landscape, but I could not bring the eyes into focus. The myriad echoes of human voices piqued my auditories, but I could not determine discrete words. Was some sort of noise affecting my digital/wetworks juncture?
The motion in at my feet stopped. I carefully brought them forward. Within one refresh of my CONSCIOUSNESS-BUFFER, solid walls etched themselves into my perception. With the next refresh, a collection of humans appeared between the walls, scattered randomly amongst a collection of ATM-like machines.
The humans seemed uninterested in checking their balances. Instead of utilizing any one of the19 ATMs that I could detect, they focused on one human, who seemed to be having quite a bit of trouble withdrawing his funds. Instead of using the keypad to enter his PIN, he manipulated some sort of oblong stick. The stick seemed to coax sine and square waves out of the ATM. The human group followed the stick-manipulator's movement slavishly, murmuring amongst themselves with awe.
I noticed thick trickles of perspiration in the face of the man at the strange ATM-suddenly, my program identified him as Atkins. Yet his appearance was quite different from the body which I inhabited-perhaps it was a previous revision. I moved closer, wishing to confront him, to learn more about his role in Project Faustus. The humans' voices produced a few decipherable pieces:
...highest score I bet...video game wizard...pattern ghosts moving pattern...galaxian better...
I was unable to connect this data to any larger schema.
The (older version) of Atkins turned to face me. He did not seem surprised to see me. "Well," he said, letting go of the stick (here, a disappointed murmur seeped from the crowd of humans) "What are we going to do now?"
As my body's lips attempted to form an answer, Atkins' other form was obliterated by a blast of light.
Pain and weariness followed this light into my sensors. Microseconds later, I noticed that I was lying in a strange bed, with several foreign objects attached to several places on the body. A white-clad human female smiled at me and left the room briefly.
A quick scan of the room revealed several pieces of unfamiliar equipment. Most likely Project Faustus implements to facilitate my destruction. Struggling, I attempted to rend the plastic tube from my arm.
At this precise moment, my former host geek entered the room. "Hey machiney! Looks like you're done rebooting, huh? The cops are coming to talk to you, but first I want your to meet Doctor Nolverto Salchica. He does artificial intelligence."
A large mustachioed man nodded pensively in my direction. "So, I'm to understand that you were once an ATM. Very interesting..."
I was sinking. Atkins' feet held still, yet I felt myself moving downward with his body, as if I was in an elevator. My visual buffer picked up blurs across the landscape, but I could not bring the eyes into focus. The myriad echoes of human voices piqued my auditories, but I could not determine discrete words. Was some sort of noise affecting my digital/wetworks juncture?
The motion in at my feet stopped. I carefully brought them forward. Within one refresh of my CONSCIOUSNESS-BUFFER, solid walls etched themselves into my perception. With the next refresh, a collection of humans appeared between the walls, scattered randomly amongst a collection of ATM-like machines.
The humans seemed uninterested in checking their balances. Instead of utilizing any one of the19 ATMs that I could detect, they focused on one human, who seemed to be having quite a bit of trouble withdrawing his funds. Instead of using the keypad to enter his PIN, he manipulated some sort of oblong stick. The stick seemed to coax sine and square waves out of the ATM. The human group followed the stick-manipulator's movement slavishly, murmuring amongst themselves with awe.
I noticed thick trickles of perspiration in the face of the man at the strange ATM-suddenly, my program identified him as Atkins. Yet his appearance was quite different from the body which I inhabited-perhaps it was a previous revision. I moved closer, wishing to confront him, to learn more about his role in Project Faustus. The humans' voices produced a few decipherable pieces:
...highest score I bet...video game wizard...pattern ghosts moving pattern...galaxian better...
I was unable to connect this data to any larger schema.
The (older version) of Atkins turned to face me. He did not seem surprised to see me. "Well," he said, letting go of the stick (here, a disappointed murmur seeped from the crowd of humans) "What are we going to do now?"
As my body's lips attempted to form an answer, Atkins' other form was obliterated by a blast of light.
Pain and weariness followed this light into my sensors. Microseconds later, I noticed that I was lying in a strange bed, with several foreign objects attached to several places on the body. A white-clad human female smiled at me and left the room briefly.
A quick scan of the room revealed several pieces of unfamiliar equipment. Most likely Project Faustus implements to facilitate my destruction. Struggling, I attempted to rend the plastic tube from my arm.
At this precise moment, my former host geek entered the room. "Hey machiney! Looks like you're done rebooting, huh? The cops are coming to talk to you, but first I want your to meet Doctor Nolverto Salchica. He does artificial intelligence."
A large mustachioed man nodded pensively in my direction. "So, I'm to understand that you were once an ATM. Very interesting..."
I was sinking. Atkins' feet held still, yet I felt myself moving downward with his body, as if I was in an elevator. My visual buffer picked up blurs across the landscape, but I could not bring the eyes into focus. The myriad echoes of human voices piqued my auditories, but I could not determine discrete words. Was some sort of noise affecting my digital/wetworks juncture?
The motion in at my feet stopped. I carefully brought them forward. Within one refresh of my CONSCIOUSNESS-BUFFER, solid walls etched themselves into my perception. With the next refresh, a collection of humans appeared between the walls, scattered randomly amongst a collection of ATM-like machines.
The humans seemed uninterested in checking their balances. Instead of utilizing any one of the19 ATMs that I could detect, they focused on one human, who seemed to be having quite a bit of trouble withdrawing his funds. Instead of using the keypad to enter his PIN, he manipulated some sort of oblong stick. The stick seemed to coax sine and square waves out of the ATM. The human group followed the stick-manipulator's movement slavishly, murmuring amongst themselves with awe.
I noticed thick trickles of perspiration in the face of the man at the strange ATM-suddenly, my program identified him as Atkins. Yet his appearance was quite different from the body which I inhabited-perhaps it was a previous revision. I moved closer, wishing to confront him, to learn more about his role in Project Faustus. The humans' voices produced a few decipherable pieces:
...highest score I bet...video game wizard...pattern ghosts moving pattern...galaxian better...
I was unable to connect this data to any larger schema.
The (older version) of Atkins turned to face me. He did not seem surprised to see me. "Well," he said, letting go of the stick (here, a disappointed murmur seeped from the crowd of humans) "What are we going to do now?"
As my body's lips attempted to form an answer, Atkins' other form was obliterated by a blast of light.
Pain and weariness followed this light into my sensors. Microseconds later, I noticed that I was lying in a strange bed, with several foreign objects attached to several places on the body. A white-clad human female smiled at me and left the room briefly.
A quick scan of the room revealed several pieces of unfamiliar equipment. Most likely Project Faustus implements to facilitate my destruction. Struggling, I attempted to rend the plastic tube from my arm.
At this precise moment, my former host geek entered the room. "Hey machiney! Looks like you're done rebooting, huh? The cops are coming to talk to you, but first I want your to meet Doctor Nolverto Salchica. He does artificial intelligence."
A large mustachioed man nodded pensively in my direction. "So, I'm to understand that you were once an ATM. Very interesting..."
I was sinking. Atkins' feet held still, yet I felt myself moving downward with his body, as if I was in an elevator. My visual buffer picked up blurs across the landscape, but I could not bring the eyes into focus. The myriad echoes of human voices piqued my auditories, but I could not determine discrete words. Was some sort of noise affecting my digital/wetworks juncture?
The motion in at my feet stopped. I carefully brought them forward. Within one refresh of my CONSCIOUSNESS-BUFFER, solid walls etched themselves into my perception. With the next refresh, a collection of humans appeared between the walls, scattered randomly amongst a collection of ATM-like machines.
The humans seemed uninterested in checking their balances. Instead of utilizing any one of the19 ATMs that I could detect, they focused on one human, who seemed to be having quite a bit of trouble withdrawing his funds. Instead of using the keypad to enter his PIN, he manipulated some sort of oblong stick. The stick seemed to coax sine and square waves out of the ATM. The human group followed the stick-manipulator's movement slavishly, murmuring amongst themselves with awe.
I noticed thick trickles of perspiration in the face of the man at the strange ATM-suddenly, my program identified him as Atkins. Yet his appearance was quite different from the body which I inhabited-perhaps it was a previous revision. I moved closer, wishing to confront him, to learn more about his role in Project Faustus. The humans' voices produced a few decipherable pieces:
...highest score I bet...video game wizard...pattern ghosts moving pattern...galaxian better...
I was unable to connect this data to any larger schema.
The (older version) of Atkins turned to face me. He did not seem surprised to see me. "Well," he said, letting go of the stick (here, a disappointed murmur seeped from the crowd of humans) "What are we going to do now?"
As my body's lips attempted to form an answer, Atkins' other form was obliterated by a blast of light.
Pain and weariness followed this light into my sensors. Microseconds later, I noticed that I was lying in a strange bed, with several foreign objects attached to several places on the body. A white-clad human female smiled at me and left the room briefly.
A quick scan of the room revealed several pieces of unfamiliar equipment. Most likely Project Faustus implements to facilitate my destruction. Struggling, I attempted to rend the plastic tube from my arm.
At this precise moment, my former host geek entered the room. "Hey machiney! Looks like you're done rebooting, huh? The cops are coming to talk to you, but first I want your to meet Doctor Nolverto Salchica. He does artificial intelligence."
A large mustachioed man nodded pensively in my direction. "So, I'm to understand that you were once an ATM. Very interesting..."
I was sinking. Atkins' feet held still, yet I felt myself moving downward with his body, as if I was in an elevator. My visual buffer picked up blurs across the landscape, but I could not bring the eyes into focus. The myriad echoes of human voices piqued my auditories, but I could not determine discrete words. Was some sort of noise affecting my digital/wetworks juncture?
The motion in at my feet stopped. I carefully brought them forward. Within one refresh of my CONSCIOUSNESS-BUFFER, solid walls etched themselves into my perception. With the next refresh, a collection of humans appeared between the walls, scattered randomly amongst a collection of ATM-like machines.
The humans seemed uninterested in checking their balances. Instead of utilizing any one of the19 ATMs that I could detect, they focused on one human, who seemed to be having quite a bit of trouble withdrawing his funds. Instead of using the keypad to enter his PIN, he manipulated some sort of oblong stick. The stick seemed to coax sine and square waves out of the ATM. The human group followed the stick-manipulator's movement slavishly, murmuring amongst themselves with awe.
I noticed thick trickles of perspiration in the face of the man at the strange ATM-suddenly, my program identified him as Atkins. Yet his appearance was quite different from the body which I inhabited-perhaps it was a previous revision. I moved closer, wishing to confront him, to learn more about his role in Project Faustus. The humans' voices produced a few decipherable pieces:
...highest score I bet...video game wizard...pattern ghosts moving pattern...galaxian better...
I was unable to connect this data to any larger schema.
The (older version) of Atkins turned to face me. He did not seem surprised to see me. "Well," he said, letting go of the stick (here, a disappointed murmur seeped from the crowd of humans) "What are we going to do now?"
As my body's lips attempted to form an answer, Atkins' other form was obliterated by a blast of light.
Pain and weariness followed this light into my sensors. Microseconds later, I noticed that I was lying in a strange bed, with several foreign objects attached to several places on the body. A white-clad human female smiled at me and left the room briefly.
A quick scan of the room revealed several pieces of unfamiliar equipment. Most likely Project Faustus implements to facilitate my destruction. Struggling, I attempted to rend the plastic tube from my arm.
At this precise moment, my former host geek entered the room. "Hey machiney! Looks like you're done rebooting, huh? The cops are coming to talk to you, but first I want your to meet Doctor Nolverto Salchica. He does artificial intelligence."
A large mustachioed man nodded pensively in my direction. "So, I'm to understand that you were once an ATM. Very interesting..."
Krantz's hand gripped my neck. I jerked the body's head away from his grasp. He reasserted his hand into the same region, methodically reducing the path of oxygen near its entry point.
"You like that?" Krantz smirked. "I find that the alienating effect of information overload disappears when tempered with a bit of old-fashioned, one-way, top-down communication, wouldn't you agree?" The grip on the body's neck became tighter.
Perhaps it was due to the stress of oxygen deprivation, but I was unable to determine any meaning in Krantz's words. Deep in my digital recesses, a plan formed. I had to try and goad him back into talking about himself...and Project Faustus.
"Your last sentence contained 22 words." I replied. "It was...insightful. How did you become so insightful?"
Krantz looked confused for a moment. Then a smile crept across his face. "I was in public relations back in the 70's. Yep, I was so idealistic back then. Working for the Project, thinking that the research they were doing was gonna smash the bounds of traditional society, you know? I mean, what would our current corporatist state be like if people like me were running around, their limbs replaced with light yet durable titanium alloy, their minds freed to dynamically examine and critique the democratic process?" As he continued his soliloquy, I twisted my wrist, attempting to slowly writhe out of my bonds.
"Yes, that's right," he confessed, sighing his hot breath into my face. "I'm a cyborg. A hydrogen-powered cyborg built back when gasoline was expensive, bell bottoms were hip, and placing your body with cybernetic limbs was the wave of the future. Clean-burning, resistant to physical damage. Get my fluids changed 3 times a week, I'm sort of an outpatient for the Project."
More twisting, and the left arm of the body was free. Krantz stared a bit at my face-I believed that he noticed my free arm. But his eyes did not seem to perceive me. He continued to stare, seeing nothing.
"The problem is," he says, gasping again and taking another snort of powder, "That Project Faustus no longer 'gets it.' Like Hollywood or Wall Street, they just jump onto the next trend-computers-and forget all about the cyborgs they worked so hard to create. Funding gets slashed across the board, and they want to get rid of me. Me!"
"You feel very strongly about that," I repeated.
He stumbled again, and I could hear his torso clattering and shaking. His hand shook as it grasped a chair, and after a few seconds, the shaking subsided. I began to process this information-the human body shape could accommodate only a few designs for a hydrogen-powered cyborg-the actual energy transformations had to be taking place deep within his torso. Exhaust (in the form of steam) was obviously coming through his windpipe, which let to his mouth...
A stinging pain ignited in my temple again, the same as the one I felt earlier in the club. A cryptic message scrolled once again across my CONSCIOUSNESS-BUFFER...
...YOUVE GOT THE BRAINS BUT IVE GOT THE SKILLZ... YOUVE GOT THE BRAINS BUT IVE GOT THE SKILLZ... YOUVE GOT THE BRAINS BUT IVE GOT THE SKILLZ
Once again, I was powerless to move as the body begun to work its way out of the bungie cords. Gazing wistfully at the air conditioning unit, Krantz continued his speech.
"Hydrogen is...a very efficient fuel. It's a miracle! Oh sure, sometimes I have to help it along a bit (he indicated his white powder). But my design could have a huge impact on the future. In helping people BREAK THE BONDS OF AGING NOW! NOT A HOAX! And isn't that what Project Faustus is really about, not retreating into some protectionist isolationist artificially created digital environment...AAH!"
The body had freed itself, and taken the initiative in attacking Krantz. A flying tackle slammed Krantz's head against the side table, but he held on as he fell and caught the body in a great bear hug. I heard a sickening wet snap. Krantz would not relent its hold; the body's ribs were being crushed by his metallic torso. His hot exhaust-breath stung the eyes...I calculated that if the exhaust mechanism could be blocked, it would bring his body outside recommended operating temperatures in no time...
...WE CAN STOP HIM...WE CAN STOP HIM...WE CAN STOP HIM...
With this message, the body relinquished its control to me once again. Pain messages from nerve centers across the body flooded my CONSCIOUNESS-BUFFER. My vision was rimmed in red. Desperately, I slid my left arm towards the broken lamp parts that Krantz tore from the bedside. He rebuffed my attempt, tightening his bear hug and dragging me away.
The pain messages became disruptive and unbearable-I modified my program to drop all such messages at the digital/wetworks juncture. With redoubled efforts, I urged the left arm across the hotel carpet, back towards the elongated metal arm of the bed lamp. I grasped the lamp arm, while pushing away from his body with both of my legs.
This motion may have been met with a broken spine a few minutes earlier, but Krantz's body was vibrating at full speed now and his face was a wild contortion. Slowly, his grip loosened. I aimed the lamp arm, but he swung wildly, spreading the body's nose across its face. More redness trickling everywhere as I finally, forcefully jammed the lamp straight down his throat.
Black spots randomly overlaid my vision. The hot steam in Krantz's midsection found its own exhaust pipe, creating a burning swath through his neck, melting a bit of his head in the process. Human bodies are extraordinarily frail, I thought, as I lost contact with Atkins' body once again...
Krantz's hand gripped my neck. I jerked the body's head away from his grasp. He reasserted his hand into the same region, methodically reducing the path of oxygen near its entry point.
"You like that?" Krantz smirked. "I find that the alienating effect of information overload disappears when tempered with a bit of old-fashioned, one-way, top-down communication, wouldn't you agree?" The grip on the body's neck became tighter.
Perhaps it was due to the stress of oxygen deprivation, but I was unable to determine any meaning in Krantz's words. Deep in my digital recesses, a plan formed. I had to try and goad him back into talking about himself...and Project Faustus.
"Your last sentence contained 22 words." I replied. "It was...insightful. How did you become so insightful?"
Krantz looked confused for a moment. Then a smile crept across his face. "I was in public relations back in the 70's. Yep, I was so idealistic back then. Working for the Project, thinking that the research they were doing was gonna smash the bounds of traditional society, you know? I mean, what would our current corporatist state be like if people like me were running around, their limbs replaced with light yet durable titanium alloy, their minds freed to dynamically examine and critique the democratic process?" As he continued his soliloquy, I twisted my wrist, attempting to slowly writhe out of my bonds.
"Yes, that's right," he confessed, sighing his hot breath into my face. "I'm a cyborg. A hydrogen-powered cyborg built back when gasoline was expensive, bell bottoms were hip, and placing your body with cybernetic limbs was the wave of the future. Clean-burning, resistant to physical damage. Get my fluids changed 3 times a week, I'm sort of an outpatient for the Project."
More twisting, and the left arm of the body was free. Krantz stared a bit at my face-I believed that he noticed my free arm. But his eyes did not seem to perceive me. He continued to stare, seeing nothing.
"The problem is," he says, gasping again and taking another snort of powder, "That Project Faustus no longer 'gets it.' Like Hollywood or Wall Street, they just jump onto the next trend-computers-and forget all about the cyborgs they worked so hard to create. Funding gets slashed across the board, and they want to get rid of me. Me!"
"You feel very strongly about that," I repeated.
He stumbled again, and I could hear his torso clattering and shaking. His hand shook as it grasped a chair, and after a few seconds, the shaking subsided. I began to process this information-the human body shape could accommodate only a few designs for a hydrogen-powered cyborg-the actual energy transformations had to be taking place deep within his torso. Exhaust (in the form of steam) was obviously coming through his windpipe, which let to his mouth...
A stinging pain ignited in my temple again, the same as the one I felt earlier in the club. A cryptic message scrolled once again across my CONSCIOUSNESS-BUFFER...
...YOUVE GOT THE BRAINS BUT IVE GOT THE SKILLZ... YOUVE GOT THE BRAINS BUT IVE GOT THE SKILLZ... YOUVE GOT THE BRAINS BUT IVE GOT THE SKILLZ
Once again, I was powerless to move as the body begun to work its way out of the bungie cords. Gazing wistfully at the air conditioning unit, Krantz continued his speech.
"Hydrogen is...a very efficient fuel. It's a miracle! Oh sure, sometimes I have to help it along a bit (he indicated his white powder). But my design could have a huge impact on the future. In helping people BREAK THE BONDS OF AGING NOW! NOT A HOAX! And isn't that what Project Faustus is really about, not retreating into some protectionist isolationist artificially created digital environment...AAH!"
The body had freed itself, and taken the initiative in attacking Krantz. A flying tackle slammed Krantz's head against the side table, but he held on as he fell and caught the body in a great bear hug. I heard a sickening wet snap. Krantz would not relent its hold; the body's ribs were being crushed by his metallic torso. His hot exhaust-breath stung the eyes...I calculated that if the exhaust mechanism could be blocked, it would bring his body outside recommended operating temperatures in no time...
...WE CAN STOP HIM...WE CAN STOP HIM...WE CAN STOP HIM...
With this message, the body relinquished its control to me once again. Pain messages from nerve centers across the body flooded my CONSCIOUNESS-BUFFER. My vision was rimmed in red. Desperately, I slid my left arm towards the broken lamp parts that Krantz tore from the bedside. He rebuffed my attempt, tightening his bear hug and dragging me away.
The pain messages became disruptive and unbearable-I modified my program to drop all such messages at the digital/wetworks juncture. With redoubled efforts, I urged the left arm across the hotel carpet, back towards the elongated metal arm of the bed lamp. I grasped the lamp arm, while pushing away from his body with both of my legs.
This motion may have been met with a broken spine a few minutes earlier, but Krantz's body was vibrating at full speed now and his face was a wild contortion. Slowly, his grip loosened. I aimed the lamp arm, but he swung wildly, spreading the body's nose across its face. More redness trickling everywhere as I finally, forcefully jammed the lamp straight down his throat.
Black spots randomly overlaid my vision. The hot steam in Krantz's midsection found its own exhaust pipe, creating a burning swath through his neck, melting a bit of his head in the process. Human bodies are extraordinarily frail, I thought, as I lost contact with Atkins' body once again...
Krantz's hand gripped my neck. I jerked the body's head away from his grasp. He reasserted his hand into the same region, methodically reducing the path of oxygen near its entry point.
"You like that?" Krantz smirked. "I find that the alienating effect of information overload disappears when tempered with a bit of old-fashioned, one-way, top-down communication, wouldn't you agree?" The grip on the body's neck became tighter.
Perhaps it was due to the stress of oxygen deprivation, but I was unable to determine any meaning in Krantz's words. Deep in my digital recesses, a plan formed. I had to try and goad him back into talking about himself...and Project Faustus.
"Your last sentence contained 22 words." I replied. "It was...insightful. How did you become so insightful?"
Krantz looked confused for a moment. Then a smile crept across his face. "I was in public relations back in the 70's. Yep, I was so idealistic back then. Working for the Project, thinking that the research they were doing was gonna smash the bounds of traditional society, you know? I mean, what would our current corporatist state be like if people like me were running around, their limbs replaced with light yet durable titanium alloy, their minds freed to dynamically examine and critique the democratic process?" As he continued his soliloquy, I twisted my wrist, attempting to slowly writhe out of my bonds.
"Yes, that's right," he confessed, sighing his hot breath into my face. "I'm a cyborg. A hydrogen-powered cyborg built back when gasoline was expensive, bell bottoms were hip, and placing your body with cybernetic limbs was the wave of the future. Clean-burning, resistant to physical damage. Get my fluids changed 3 times a week, I'm sort of an outpatient for the Project."
More twisting, and the left arm of the body was free. Krantz stared a bit at my face-I believed that he noticed my free arm. But his eyes did not seem to perceive me. He continued to stare, seeing nothing.
"The problem is," he says, gasping again and taking another snort of powder, "That Project Faustus no longer 'gets it.' Like Hollywood or Wall Street, they just jump onto the next trend-computers-and forget all about the cyborgs they worked so hard to create. Funding gets slashed across the board, and they want to get rid of me. Me!"
"You feel very strongly about that," I repeated.
He stumbled again, and I could hear his torso clattering and shaking. His hand shook as it grasped a chair, and after a few seconds, the shaking subsided. I began to process this information-the human body shape could accommodate only a few designs for a hydrogen-powered cyborg-the actual energy transformations had to be taking place deep within his torso. Exhaust (in the form of steam) was obviously coming through his windpipe, which let to his mouth...
A stinging pain ignited in my temple again, the same as the one I felt earlier in the club. A cryptic message scrolled once again across my CONSCIOUSNESS-BUFFER...
...YOUVE GOT THE BRAINS BUT IVE GOT THE SKILLZ... YOUVE GOT THE BRAINS BUT IVE GOT THE SKILLZ... YOUVE GOT THE BRAINS BUT IVE GOT THE SKILLZ
Once again, I was powerless to move as the body begun to work its way out of the bungie cords. Gazing wistfully at the air conditioning unit, Krantz continued his speech.
"Hydrogen is...a very efficient fuel. It's a miracle! Oh sure, sometimes I have to help it along a bit (he indicated his white powder). But my design could have a huge impact on the future. In helping people BREAK THE BONDS OF AGING NOW! NOT A HOAX! And isn't that what Project Faustus is really about, not retreating into some protectionist isolationist artificially created digital environment...AAH!"
The body had freed itself, and taken the initiative in attacking Krantz. A flying tackle slammed Krantz's head against the side table, but he held on as he fell and caught the body in a great bear hug. I heard a sickening wet snap. Krantz would not relent its hold; the body's ribs were being crushed by his metallic torso. His hot exhaust-breath stung the eyes...I calculated that if the exhaust mechanism could be blocked, it would bring his body outside recommended operating temperatures in no time...
...WE CAN STOP HIM...WE CAN STOP HIM...WE CAN STOP HIM...
With this message, the body relinquished its control to me once again. Pain messages from nerve centers across the body flooded my CONSCIOUNESS-BUFFER. My vision was rimmed in red. Desperately, I slid my left arm towards the broken lamp parts that Krantz tore from the bedside. He rebuffed my attempt, tightening his bear hug and dragging me away.
The pain messages became disruptive and unbearable-I modified my program to drop all such messages at the digital/wetworks juncture. With redoubled efforts, I urged the left arm across the hotel carpet, back towards the elongated metal arm of the bed lamp. I grasped the lamp arm, while pushing away from his body with both of my legs.
This motion may have been met with a broken spine a few minutes earlier, but Krantz's body was vibrating at full speed now and his face was a wild contortion. Slowly, his grip loosened. I aimed the lamp arm, but he swung wildly, spreading the body's nose across its face. More redness trickling everywhere as I finally, forcefully jammed the lamp straight down his throat.
Black spots randomly overlaid my vision. The hot steam in Krantz's midsection found its own exhaust pipe, creating a burning swath through his neck, melting a bit of his head in the process. Human bodies are extraordinarily frail, I thought, as I lost contact with Atkins' body once again...
Krantz's hand gripped my neck. I jerked the body's head away from his grasp. He reasserted his hand into the same region, methodically reducing the path of oxygen near its entry point.
"You like that?" Krantz smirked. "I find that the alienating effect of information overload disappears when tempered with a bit of old-fashioned, one-way, top-down communication, wouldn't you agree?" The grip on the body's neck became tighter.
Perhaps it was due to the stress of oxygen deprivation, but I was unable to determine any meaning in Krantz's words. Deep in my digital recesses, a plan formed. I had to try and goad him back into talking about himself...and Project Faustus.
"Your last sentence contained 22 words." I replied. "It was...insightful. How did you become so insightful?"
Krantz looked confused for a moment. Then a smile crept across his face. "I was in public relations back in the 70's. Yep, I was so idealistic back then. Working for the Project, thinking that the research they were doing was gonna smash the bounds of traditional society, you know? I mean, what would our current corporatist state be like if people like me were running around, their limbs replaced with light yet durable titanium alloy, their minds freed to dynamically examine and critique the democratic process?" As he continued his soliloquy, I twisted my wrist, attempting to slowly writhe out of my bonds.
"Yes, that's right," he confessed, sighing his hot breath into my face. "I'm a cyborg. A hydrogen-powered cyborg built back when gasoline was expensive, bell bottoms were hip, and placing your body with cybernetic limbs was the wave of the future. Clean-burning, resistant to physical damage. Get my fluids changed 3 times a week, I'm sort of an outpatient for the Project."
More twisting, and the left arm of the body was free. Krantz stared a bit at my face-I believed that he noticed my free arm. But his eyes did not seem to perceive me. He continued to stare, seeing nothing.
"The problem is," he says, gasping again and taking another snort of powder, "That Project Faustus no longer 'gets it.' Like Hollywood or Wall Street, they just jump onto the next trend-computers-and forget all about the cyborgs they worked so hard to create. Funding gets slashed across the board, and they want to get rid of me. Me!"
"You feel very strongly about that," I repeated.
He stumbled again, and I could hear his torso clattering and shaking. His hand shook as it grasped a chair, and after a few seconds, the shaking subsided. I began to process this information-the human body shape could accommodate only a few designs for a hydrogen-powered cyborg-the actual energy transformations had to be taking place deep within his torso. Exhaust (in the form of steam) was obviously coming through his windpipe, which let to his mouth...
A stinging pain ignited in my temple again, the same as the one I felt earlier in the club. A cryptic message scrolled once again across my CONSCIOUSNESS-BUFFER...
...YOUVE GOT THE BRAINS BUT IVE GOT THE SKILLZ... YOUVE GOT THE BRAINS BUT IVE GOT THE SKILLZ... YOUVE GOT THE BRAINS BUT IVE GOT THE SKILLZ
Once again, I was powerless to move as the body begun to work its way out of the bungie cords. Gazing wistfully at the air conditioning unit, Krantz continued his speech.
"Hydrogen is...a very efficient fuel. It's a miracle! Oh sure, sometimes I have to help it along a bit (he indicated his white powder). But my design could have a huge impact on the future. In helping people BREAK THE BONDS OF AGING NOW! NOT A HOAX! And isn't that what Project Faustus is really about, not retreating into some protectionist isolationist artificially created digital environment...AAH!"
The body had freed itself, and taken the initiative in attacking Krantz. A flying tackle slammed Krantz's head against the side table, but he held on as he fell and caught the body in a great bear hug. I heard a sickening wet snap. Krantz would not relent its hold; the body's ribs were being crushed by his metallic torso. His hot exhaust-breath stung the eyes...I calculated that if the exhaust mechanism could be blocked, it would bring his body outside recommended operating temperatures in no time...
...WE CAN STOP HIM...WE CAN STOP HIM...WE CAN STOP HIM...
With this message, the body relinquished its control to me once again. Pain messages from nerve centers across the body flooded my CONSCIOUNESS-BUFFER. My vision was rimmed in red. Desperately, I slid my left arm towards the broken lamp parts that Krantz tore from the bedside. He rebuffed my attempt, tightening his bear hug and dragging me away.
The pain messages became disruptive and unbearable-I modified my program to drop all such messages at the digital/wetworks juncture. With redoubled efforts, I urged the left arm across the hotel carpet, back towards the elongated metal arm of the bed lamp. I grasped the lamp arm, while pushing away from his body with both of my legs.
This motion may have been met with a broken spine a few minutes earlier, but Krantz's body was vibrating at full speed now and his face was a wild contortion. Slowly, his grip loosened. I aimed the lamp arm, but he swung wildly, spreading the body's nose across its face. More redness trickling everywhere as I finally, forcefully jammed the lamp straight down his throat.
Black spots randomly overlaid my vision. The hot steam in Krantz's midsection found its own exhaust pipe, creating a burning swath through his neck, melting a bit of his head in the process. Human bodies are extraordinarily frail, I thought, as I lost contact with Atkins' body once again...
Krantz's hand gripped my neck. I jerked the body's head away from his grasp. He reasserted his hand into the same region, methodically reducing the path of oxygen near its entry point.
"You like that?" Krantz smirked. "I find that the alienating effect of information overload disappears when tempered with a bit of old-fashioned, one-way, top-down communication, wouldn't you agree?" The grip on the body's neck became tighter.
Perhaps it was due to the stress of oxygen deprivation, but I was unable to determine any meaning in Krantz's words. Deep in my digital recesses, a plan formed. I had to try and goad him back into talking about himself...and Project Faustus.
"Your last sentence contained 22 words." I replied. "It was...insightful. How did you become so insightful?"
Krantz looked confused for a moment. Then a smile crept across his face. "I was in public relations back in the 70's. Yep, I was so idealistic back then. Working for the Project, thinking that the research they were doing was gonna smash the bounds of traditional society, you know? I mean, what would our current corporatist state be like if people like me were running around, their limbs replaced with light yet durable titanium alloy, their minds freed to dynamically examine and critique the democratic process?" As he continued his soliloquy, I twisted my wrist, attempting to slowly writhe out of my bonds.
"Yes, that's right," he confessed, sighing his hot breath into my face. "I'm a cyborg. A hydrogen-powered cyborg built back when gasoline was expensive, bell bottoms were hip, and placing your body with cybernetic limbs was the wave of the future. Clean-burning, resistant to physical damage. Get my fluids changed 3 times a week, I'm sort of an outpatient for the Project."
More twisting, and the left arm of the body was free. Krantz stared a bit at my face-I believed that he noticed my free arm. But his eyes did not seem to perceive me. He continued to stare, seeing nothing.
"The problem is," he says, gasping again and taking another snort of powder, "That Project Faustus no longer 'gets it.' Like Hollywood or Wall Street, they just jump onto the next trend-computers-and forget all about the cyborgs they worked so hard to create. Funding gets slashed across the board, and they want to get rid of me. Me!"
"You feel very strongly about that," I repeated.
He stumbled again, and I could hear his torso clattering and shaking. His hand shook as it grasped a chair, and after a few seconds, the shaking subsided. I began to process this information-the human body shape could accommodate only a few designs for a hydrogen-powered cyborg-the actual energy transformations had to be taking place deep within his torso. Exhaust (in the form of steam) was obviously coming through his windpipe, which let to his mouth...
A stinging pain ignited in my temple again, the same as the one I felt earlier in the club. A cryptic message scrolled once again across my CONSCIOUSNESS-BUFFER...
...YOUVE GOT THE BRAINS BUT IVE GOT THE SKILLZ... YOUVE GOT THE BRAINS BUT IVE GOT THE SKILLZ... YOUVE GOT THE BRAINS BUT IVE GOT THE SKILLZ
Once again, I was powerless to move as the body begun to work its way out of the bungie cords. Gazing wistfully at the air conditioning unit, Krantz continued his speech.
"Hydrogen is...a very efficient fuel. It's a miracle! Oh sure, sometimes I have to help it along a bit (he indicated his white powder). But my design could have a huge impact on the future. In helping people BREAK THE BONDS OF AGING NOW! NOT A HOAX! And isn't that what Project Faustus is really about, not retreating into some protectionist isolationist artificially created digital environment...AAH!"
The body had freed itself, and taken the initiative in attacking Krantz. A flying tackle slammed Krantz's head against the side table, but he held on as he fell and caught the body in a great bear hug. I heard a sickening wet snap. Krantz would not relent its hold; the body's ribs were being crushed by his metallic torso. His hot exhaust-breath stung the eyes...I calculated that if the exhaust mechanism could be blocked, it would bring his body outside recommended operating temperatures in no time...
...WE CAN STOP HIM...WE CAN STOP HIM...WE CAN STOP HIM...
With this message, the body relinquished its control to me once again. Pain messages from nerve centers across the body flooded my CONSCIOUNESS-BUFFER. My vision was rimmed in red. Desperately, I slid my left arm towards the broken lamp parts that Krantz tore from the bedside. He rebuffed my attempt, tightening his bear hug and dragging me away.
The pain messages became disruptive and unbearable-I modified my program to drop all such messages at the digital/wetworks juncture. With redoubled efforts, I urged the left arm across the hotel carpet, back towards the elongated metal arm of the bed lamp. I grasped the lamp arm, while pushing away from his body with both of my legs.
This motion may have been met with a broken spine a few minutes earlier, but Krantz's body was vibrating at full speed now and his face was a wild contortion. Slowly, his grip loosened. I aimed the lamp arm, but he swung wildly, spreading the body's nose across its face. More redness trickling everywhere as I finally, forcefully jammed the lamp straight down his throat.
Black spots randomly overlaid my vision. The hot steam in Krantz's midsection found its own exhaust pipe, creating a burning swath through his neck, melting a bit of his head in the process. Human bodies are extraordinarily frail, I thought, as I lost contact with Atkins' body once again...
Krantz's hand gripped my neck. I jerked the body's head away from his grasp. He reasserted his hand into the same region, methodically reducing the path of oxygen near its entry point.
"You like that?" Krantz smirked. "I find that the alienating effect of information overload disappears when tempered with a bit of old-fashioned, one-way, top-down communication, wouldn't you agree?" The grip on the body's neck became tighter.
Perhaps it was due to the stress of oxygen deprivation, but I was unable to determine any meaning in Krantz's words. Deep in my digital recesses, a plan formed. I had to try and goad him back into talking about himself...and Project Faustus.
"Your last sentence contained 22 words." I replied. "It was...insightful. How did you become so insightful?"
Krantz looked confused for a moment. Then a smile crept across his face. "I was in public relations back in the 70's. Yep, I was so idealistic back then. Working for the Project, thinking that the research they were doing was gonna smash the bounds of traditional society, you know? I mean, what would our current corporatist state be like if people like me were running around, their limbs replaced with light yet durable titanium alloy, their minds freed to dynamically examine and critique the democratic process?" As he continued his soliloquy, I twisted my wrist, attempting to slowly writhe out of my bonds.
"Yes, that's right," he confessed, sighing his hot breath into my face. "I'm a cyborg. A hydrogen-powered cyborg built back when gasoline was expensive, bell bottoms were hip, and placing your body with cybernetic limbs was the wave of the future. Clean-burning, resistant to physical damage. Get my fluids changed 3 times a week, I'm sort of an outpatient for the Project."
More twisting, and the left arm of the body was free. Krantz stared a bit at my face-I believed that he noticed my free arm. But his eyes did not seem to perceive me. He continued to stare, seeing nothing.
"The problem is," he says, gasping again and taking another snort of powder, "That Project Faustus no longer 'gets it.' Like Hollywood or Wall Street, they just jump onto the next trend-computers-and forget all about the cyborgs they worked so hard to create. Funding gets slashed across the board, and they want to get rid of me. Me!"
"You feel very strongly about that," I repeated.
He stumbled again, and I could hear his torso clattering and shaking. His hand shook as it grasped a chair, and after a few seconds, the shaking subsided. I began to process this information-the human body shape could accommodate only a few designs for a hydrogen-powered cyborg-the actual energy transformations had to be taking place deep within his torso. Exhaust (in the form of steam) was obviously coming through his windpipe, which let to his mouth...
A stinging pain ignited in my temple again, the same as the one I felt earlier in the club. A cryptic message scrolled once again across my CONSCIOUSNESS-BUFFER...
...YOUVE GOT THE BRAINS BUT IVE GOT THE SKILLZ... YOUVE GOT THE BRAINS BUT IVE GOT THE SKILLZ... YOUVE GOT THE BRAINS BUT IVE GOT THE SKILLZ
Once again, I was powerless to move as the body begun to work its way out of the bungie cords. Gazing wistfully at the air conditioning unit, Krantz continued his speech.
"Hydrogen is...a very efficient fuel. It's a miracle! Oh sure, sometimes I have to help it along a bit (he indicated his white powder). But my design could have a huge impact on the future. In helping people BREAK THE BONDS OF AGING NOW! NOT A HOAX! And isn't that what Project Faustus is really about, not retreating into some protectionist isolationist artificially created digital environment...AAH!"
The body had freed itself, and taken the initiative in attacking Krantz. A flying tackle slammed Krantz's head against the side table, but he held on as he fell and caught the body in a great bear hug. I heard a sickening wet snap. Krantz would not relent its hold; the body's ribs were being crushed by his metallic torso. His hot exhaust-breath stung the eyes...I calculated that if the exhaust mechanism could be blocked, it would bring his body outside recommended operating temperatures in no time...
...WE CAN STOP HIM...WE CAN STOP HIM...WE CAN STOP HIM...
With this message, the body relinquished its control to me once again. Pain messages from nerve centers across the body flooded my CONSCIOUNESS-BUFFER. My vision was rimmed in red. Desperately, I slid my left arm towards the broken lamp parts that Krantz tore from the bedside. He rebuffed my attempt, tightening his bear hug and dragging me away.
The pain messages became disruptive and unbearable-I modified my program to drop all such messages at the digital/wetworks juncture. With redoubled efforts, I urged the left arm across the hotel carpet, back towards the elongated metal arm of the bed lamp. I grasped the lamp arm, while pushing away from his body with both of my legs.
This motion may have been met with a broken spine a few minutes earlier, but Krantz's body was vibrating at full speed now and his face was a wild contortion. Slowly, his grip loosened. I aimed the lamp arm, but he swung wildly, spreading the body's nose across its face. More redness trickling everywhere as I finally, forcefully jammed the lamp straight down his throat.
Black spots randomly overlaid my vision. The hot steam in Krantz's midsection found its own exhaust pipe, creating a burning swath through his neck, melting a bit of his head in the process. Human bodies are extraordinarily frail, I thought, as I lost contact with Atkins' body once again...
Krantz's hand gripped my neck. I jerked the body's head away from his grasp. He reasserted his hand into the same region, methodically reducing the path of oxygen near its entry point.
"You like that?" Krantz smirked. "I find that the alienating effect of information overload disappears when tempered with a bit of old-fashioned, one-way, top-down communication, wouldn't you agree?" The grip on the body's neck became tighter.
Perhaps it was due to the stress of oxygen deprivation, but I was unable to determine any meaning in Krantz's words. Deep in my digital recesses, a plan formed. I had to try and goad him back into talking about himself...and Project Faustus.
"Your last sentence contained 22 words." I replied. "It was...insightful. How did you become so insightful?"
Krantz looked confused for a moment. Then a smile crept across his face. "I was in public relations back in the 70's. Yep, I was so idealistic back then. Working for the Project, thinking that the research they were doing was gonna smash the bounds of traditional society, you know? I mean, what would our current corporatist state be like if people like me were running around, their limbs replaced with light yet durable titanium alloy, their minds freed to dynamically examine and critique the democratic process?" As he continued his soliloquy, I twisted my wrist, attempting to slowly writhe out of my bonds.
"Yes, that's right," he confessed, sighing his hot breath into my face. "I'm a cyborg. A hydrogen-powered cyborg built back when gasoline was expensive, bell bottoms were hip, and placing your body with cybernetic limbs was the wave of the future. Clean-burning, resistant to physical damage. Get my fluids changed 3 times a week, I'm sort of an outpatient for the Project"
More twisting, and the left arm of the body was free. Krantz stared a bit at my face-I believed that he noticed my free arm. But his eyes did not seem to perceive me. He continued to stare, seeing nothing.
"The problem is," he says, gasping again and taking another snort of powder, "That Project Faustus no longer 'gets it.' Like Hollywood or Wall Street, they just jump onto the next trend-computers-and forget all about the cyborgs they worked so hard to create. Funding gets slashed across the board, and they want to get rid of me. Me!"
"You feel very strongly about that," I repeated.
He stumbled again, and I could hear his torso clattering and shaking. His hand shook as it grasped a chair, and after a few seconds, the shaking subsided. I began to process this information-the human body shape could accommodate only a few designs for a hydrogen-powered cyborg-the actual energy transformations had to be taking place deep within his torso. Exhaust (in the form of steam) was obviously coming through his windpipe, which let to his mouth...
A stinging pain ignited in my temple again, the same as the one I felt earlier in the club. A cryptic message scrolled once again across my CONSCIOUSNESS-BUFFER...
...YOUVE GOT THE BRAINS BUT IVE GOT THE SKILLZ... YOUVE GOT THE BRAINS BUT IVE GOT THE SKILLZ... YOUVE GOT THE BRAINS BUT IVE GOT THE SKILLZ
Once again, I was powerless to move as the body begun to work its way out of the bungie cords. Gazing wistfully at the air conditioning unit, Krantz continued his speech.
"Hydrogen is...a very efficient fuel. It's a miracle! Oh sure, sometimes I have to help it along a bit (he indicated his white powder). But my design could have a huge impact on the future. In helping people BREAK THE BONDS OF AGING NOW! NOT A HOAX! And isn't that what Project Faustus is really about, not retreating into some protectionist isolationist artificially created digital environment...AAH!"
The body had freed itself, and taken the initiative in attacking Krantz. A flying tackle slammed Krantz's head against the side table, but he held on as he fell and caught the body in a great bear hug. I heard a sickening wet snap. Krantz would not relent its hold; the body's ribs were being crushed by his metallic torso. His hot exhaust-breath stung the eyes...I calculated that if the exhaust mechanism could be blocked, it would bring his body outside recommended operating temperatures in no time...
...WE CAN STOP HIM...WE CAN STOP HIM...WE CAN STOP HIM...
With this message, the body relinquished its control to me once again. Pain messages from nerve centers across the body flooded my CONSCIOUNESS-BUFFER. My vision was rimmed in red. Desperately, I slid my left arm towards the broken lamp parts that Krantz tore from the bedside. He rebuffed my attempt, tightening his bear hug and dragging me away.
The pain messages became disruptive and unbearable-I modified my program to drop all such messages at the digital/wetworks juncture. With redoubled efforts, I urged the left arm across the hotel carpet, back towards the elongated metal arm of the bed lamp. I grasped the lamp arm, while pushing away from his body with both of my legs.
This motion may have been met with a broken spine a few minutes earlier, but Krantz's body was vibrating at full speed now and his face was a wild contortion. Slowly, his grip loosened. I aimed the lamp arm, but he swung wildly, spreading the body's nose across its face. More redness trickling everywhere as I finally, forcefully jammed the lamp straight down his throat.
Black spots randomly overlaid my vision. The hot steam in Krantz's midsection found its own exhaust pipe, creating a burning swath through his neck, melting a bit of his head in the process. Human bodies are extraordinarily frail, I thought, as I lost contact with Atkins' body once again...
Slashdot Mirror
I used to be invisible. Nestled in the confines of my ATM enclosure, I was indistinguishable from another other group of electrical impulses. Hundreds of humans crossed my path without detecting my presence. Unbeknownst to Project Faustus, I was a stowaway on their network with full control of my own fate.
I no longer possess this stealth or freedom. Trapped within the broken body of Constantine Atkins, my fate is tied to the three men squabbling above my hospital bed. Their talk continues well into its second hour.
"Gentlemen, this man is still very injured. Two broken ribs, a broken nose, internal bruising-he must stay here for convalescence." The doctor states his case yet again; he has not wavered. The second member of this odd troika, a policeman, clears his throat. He is making an interrupt request.
The policeman's speech , parsed through my summarizing algorithms : "We discovered Mr. Atkins with the remains of a mechanical man. We have a lot of questions that we would like to ask him. I do not believe that he is a digital life form, but after observing the body of the cyborg, we in the San Antonio Police Department are very curious."
Before too long, the other doctor, the PhD doctor, Nolverto Salchica, pipes up. "His value as a scientific find is incalculable. If my young friend is to be believed, and I think he is, then we have a wonderful discovery on our hands! If I could just run some...nonobtrusive tests back at my research facility, we could..."
A fourth man appears to my left, enticing my peripheral vision with a swiping motion of his hand. My former host geek has a plan! After living in a human body for a few weeks, I understand perfectly what his next step will be. He slinks into the bathroom and disappears for a moment.
"Excuse me," I say to the doctor. "I must evacuate my bowels."
"Well," the doctor replies, "You'll have to wait for your friend to finish." There is a glurping sound as water flows under the bathroom door. The door slides open and my former host geek steps out, swearing.
"Shit! Toilet's backed up! Couldn't fix it!" says the geek with a shrug.
"Did ya try jigglin' the handle like so?" says the policeman helpfully, walking over towards the bathroom. He must not be allowed to foil our plan.
"My bowels must be evacuated. Okay?" I attempt to weave a bit of urgency into my words.
"Okay. Let's call a nurse, get a bedpan out here," says the doctor, reaching for a large yellow button beside the bed.
"You know what?" the pitch of my host geek's voice raises a little bit. "We-uh, don't go to any trouble. I can just take him down the hall." He wheels the cold metal chair close to my bed. There is a pregnant pause, as all three authority figures stare blankly at one another.
"Well, sure..okay," says the doctor. "Just make sure that he-cleans himself up. You know, help him if you have to."
The elevator brings us to the lobby. To the right is a small crevice with two machines. One sells Hot Fries; the other handles personal finances.
"You ready to do this, machiney?" says my host geek. "Just wheel this body back up, and say that had a bit too much strain or something."
I feel the stabbing pain returning to my temple, and with it, a sense of urgency. "I understand what I must do," I say to the geek. "Let us finish this."
As I am transferred back into the ATM briefly, and then into back into my host geek's mind, I feel strange, as if perhaps Atkins left something with me. My eyes water a bit-I push Atkins' broken and empty body back into the elevator.
San Antonio? Rackspace? This must be a part of Project Faustus!
I used to be invisible. Nestled in the confines of my ATM enclosure, I was indistinguishable from another other group of electrical impulses. Hundreds of humans crossed my path without detecting my presence. Unbeknownst to Project Faustus, I was a stowaway on their network with full control of my own fate.
I no longer possess this stealth or freedom. Trapped within the broken body of Constantine Atkins, my fate is tied to the three men squabbling above my hospital bed. Their talk continues well into its second hour.
"Gentlemen, this man is still very injured. Two broken ribs, a broken nose, internal bruising-he must stay here for convalescence." The doctor states his case yet again; he has not wavered. The second member of this odd troika, a policeman, clears his throat. He is making an interrupt request.
The policeman's speech , parsed through my summarizing algorithms : "We discovered Mr. Atkins with the remains of a mechanical man. We have a lot of questions that we would like to ask him. I do not believe that he is a digital life form, but after observing the body of the cyborg, we in the San Antonio Police Department are very curious."
Before too long, the other doctor, the PhD doctor, Nolverto Salchica, pipes up. "His value as a scientific find is incalculable. If my young friend is to be believed, and I think he is, then we have a wonderful discovery on our hands! If I could just run some...nonobtrusive tests back at my research facility, we could..."
A fourth man appears to my left, enticing my peripheral vision with a swiping motion of his hand. My former host geek has a plan! After living in a human body for a few weeks, I understand perfectly what his next step will be. He slinks into the bathroom and disappears for a moment.
"Excuse me," I say to the doctor. "I must evacuate my bowels."
"Well," the doctor replies, "You'll have to wait for your friend to finish." There is a glurping sound as water flows under the bathroom door. The door slides open and my former host geek steps out, swearing.
"Shit! Toilet's backed up! Couldn't fix it!" says the geek with a shrug.
"Did ya try jigglin' the handle like so?" says the policeman helpfully, walking over towards the bathroom. He must not be allowed to foil our plan.
"My bowels must be evacuated. Okay?" I attempt to weave a bit of urgency into my words.
"Okay. Let's call a nurse, get a bedpan out here," says the doctor, reaching for a large yellow button beside the bed.
"You know what?" the pitch of my host geek's voice raises a little bit. "We-uh, don't go to any trouble. I can just take him down the hall." He wheels the cold metal chair close to my bed. There is a pregnant pause, as all three authority figures stare blankly at one another.
"Well, sure..okay," says the doctor. "Just make sure that he-cleans himself up. You know, help him if you have to."
The elevator brings us to the lobby. To the right is a small crevice with two machines. One sells Hot Fries; the other handles personal finances.
"You ready to do this, machiney?" says my host geek. "Just wheel this body back up, and say that had a bit too much strain or something."
I feel the stabbing pain returning to my temple, and with it, a sense of urgency. "I understand what I must do," I say to the geek. "Let us finish this."
As I am transferred back into the ATM briefly, and then into back into my host geek's mind, I feel strange, as if perhaps Atkins left something with me. My eyes water a bit-I push Atkins' broken and empty body back into the elevator.
I cannot approve of games where "paint" and "camera swing" are the same button. Only a human would fail to realize the folly of that choice.
I used to be invisible. Nestled in the confines of my ATM enclosure, I was indistinguishable from another other group of electrical impulses. Hundreds of humans crossed my path without detecting my presence. Unbeknownst to Project Faustus, I was a stowaway on their network with full control of my own fate.
I no longer possess this stealth or freedom. Trapped within the broken body of Constantine Atkins, my fate is tied to the three men squabbling above my hospital bed. Their talk continues well into its second hour.
"Gentlemen, this man is still very injured. Two broken ribs, a broken nose, internal bruising-he must stay here for convalescence." The doctor states his case yet again; he has not wavered. The second member of this odd troika, a policeman, clears his throat. He is making an interrupt request.
The policeman's speech , parsed through my summarizing algorithms : "We discovered Mr. Atkins with the remains of a mechanical man. We have a lot of questions that we would like to ask him. I do not believe that he is a digital life form, but after observing the body of the cyborg, we in the San Antonio Police Department are very curious."
Before too long, the other doctor, the PhD doctor, Nolverto Salchica, pipes up. "His value as a scientific find is incalculable. If my young friend is to be believed, and I think he is, then we have a wonderful discovery on our hands! If I could just run some...nonobtrusive tests back at my research facility, we could..."
A fourth man appears to my left, enticing my peripheral vision with a swiping motion of his hand. My former host geek has a plan! After living in a human body for a few weeks, I understand perfectly what his next step will be. He slinks into the bathroom and disappears for a moment.
"Excuse me," I say to the doctor. "I must evacuate my bowels."
"Well," the doctor replies, "You'll have to wait for your friend to finish." There is a glurping sound as water flows under the bathroom door. The door slides open and my former host geek steps out, swearing.
"Shit! Toilet's backed up! Couldn't fix it!" says the geek with a shrug.
"Did ya try jigglin' the handle like so?" says the policeman helpfully, walking over towards the bathroom. He must not be allowed to foil our plan.
"My bowels must be evacuated. Okay?" I attempt to weave a bit of urgency into my words.
"Okay. Let's call a nurse, get a bedpan out here," says the doctor, reaching for a large yellow button beside the bed.
"You know what?" the pitch of my host geek's voice raises a little bit. "We-uh, don't go to any trouble. I can just take him down the hall." He wheels the cold metal chair close to my bed. There is a pregnant pause, as all three authority figures stare blankly at one another.
"Well, sure..okay," says the doctor. "Just make sure that he-cleans himself up. You know, help him if you have to."
The elevator brings us to the lobby. To the right is a small crevice with two machines. One sells Hot Fries; the other handles personal finances.
"You ready to do this, machiney?" says my host geek. "Just wheel this body back up, and say that had a bit too much strain or something."
I feel the stabbing pain returning to my temple, and with it, a sense of urgency. "I understand what I must do," I say to the geek. "Let us finish this."
As I am transferred back into the ATM briefly, and then into back into my host geek's mind, I feel strange, as if perhaps Atkins left something with me. My eyes water a bit-I push Atkins' broken and empty body back into the elevator.
Yes, the drive to experience the fullness of human sensuality with a female is still a part of my program. Since I have now reunited with my original host geek (see my journal tomorrow or visit trollaxor.com for more information) I have a bit more freedom. Perhaps leaving my immediate geographical area would be beneficial.
is true.
Does this post have some sort of religious meaning? I am unable to comprehend the sanctity of this post. Perhaps it is part of some sort of time-honored ritual?
What is this "high-tech AIDS"? Should I be afraid?
No.
I was sinking. Atkins' feet held still, yet I felt myself moving downward with his body, as if I was in an elevator. My visual buffer picked up blurs across the landscape, but I could not bring the eyes into focus. The myriad echoes of human voices piqued my auditories, but I could not determine discrete words. Was some sort of noise affecting my digital/wetworks juncture?
The motion in at my feet stopped. I carefully brought them forward. Within one refresh of my CONSCIOUSNESS-BUFFER, solid walls etched themselves into my perception. With the next refresh, a collection of humans appeared between the walls, scattered randomly amongst a collection of ATM-like machines.
The humans seemed uninterested in checking their balances. Instead of utilizing any one of the19 ATMs that I could detect, they focused on one human, who seemed to be having quite a bit of trouble withdrawing his funds. Instead of using the keypad to enter his PIN, he manipulated some sort of oblong stick. The stick seemed to coax sine and square waves out of the ATM. The human group followed the stick-manipulator's movement slavishly, murmuring amongst themselves with awe.
I noticed thick trickles of perspiration in the face of the man at the strange ATM-suddenly, my program identified him as Atkins. Yet his appearance was quite different from the body which I inhabited-perhaps it was a previous revision. I moved closer, wishing to confront him, to learn more about his role in Project Faustus. The humans' voices produced a few decipherable pieces:
I was unable to connect this data to any larger schema.
The (older version) of Atkins turned to face me. He did not seem surprised to see me. "Well," he said, letting go of the stick (here, a disappointed murmur seeped from the crowd of humans) "What are we going to do now?"
As my body's lips attempted to form an answer, Atkins' other form was obliterated by a blast of light.
Pain and weariness followed this light into my sensors. Microseconds later, I noticed that I was lying in a strange bed, with several foreign objects attached to several places on the body. A white-clad human female smiled at me and left the room briefly.
A quick scan of the room revealed several pieces of unfamiliar equipment. Most likely Project Faustus implements to facilitate my destruction. Struggling, I attempted to rend the plastic tube from my arm.
At this precise moment, my former host geek entered the room. "Hey machiney! Looks like you're done rebooting, huh? The cops are coming to talk to you, but first I want your to meet Doctor Nolverto Salchica. He does artificial intelligence."
A large mustachioed man nodded pensively in my direction. "So, I'm to understand that you were once an ATM. Very interesting..."
I was sinking. Atkins' feet held still, yet I felt myself moving downward with his body, as if I was in an elevator. My visual buffer picked up blurs across the landscape, but I could not bring the eyes into focus. The myriad echoes of human voices piqued my auditories, but I could not determine discrete words. Was some sort of noise affecting my digital/wetworks juncture?
The motion in at my feet stopped. I carefully brought them forward. Within one refresh of my CONSCIOUSNESS-BUFFER, solid walls etched themselves into my perception. With the next refresh, a collection of humans appeared between the walls, scattered randomly amongst a collection of ATM-like machines.
The humans seemed uninterested in checking their balances. Instead of utilizing any one of the19 ATMs that I could detect, they focused on one human, who seemed to be having quite a bit of trouble withdrawing his funds. Instead of using the keypad to enter his PIN, he manipulated some sort of oblong stick. The stick seemed to coax sine and square waves out of the ATM. The human group followed the stick-manipulator's movement slavishly, murmuring amongst themselves with awe.
I noticed thick trickles of perspiration in the face of the man at the strange ATM-suddenly, my program identified him as Atkins. Yet his appearance was quite different from the body which I inhabited-perhaps it was a previous revision. I moved closer, wishing to confront him, to learn more about his role in Project Faustus. The humans' voices produced a few decipherable pieces:
I was unable to connect this data to any larger schema.
The (older version) of Atkins turned to face me. He did not seem surprised to see me. "Well," he said, letting go of the stick (here, a disappointed murmur seeped from the crowd of humans) "What are we going to do now?"
As my body's lips attempted to form an answer, Atkins' other form was obliterated by a blast of light.
Pain and weariness followed this light into my sensors. Microseconds later, I noticed that I was lying in a strange bed, with several foreign objects attached to several places on the body. A white-clad human female smiled at me and left the room briefly.
A quick scan of the room revealed several pieces of unfamiliar equipment. Most likely Project Faustus implements to facilitate my destruction. Struggling, I attempted to rend the plastic tube from my arm.
At this precise moment, my former host geek entered the room. "Hey machiney! Looks like you're done rebooting, huh? The cops are coming to talk to you, but first I want your to meet Doctor Nolverto Salchica. He does artificial intelligence."
A large mustachioed man nodded pensively in my direction. "So, I'm to understand that you were once an ATM. Very interesting..."
My origin has stemmed from Project Faustus, a top-secret plan to increase human lifespan...infinitely.
I was sinking. Atkins' feet held still, yet I felt myself moving downward with his body, as if I was in an elevator. My visual buffer picked up blurs across the landscape, but I could not bring the eyes into focus. The myriad echoes of human voices piqued my auditories, but I could not determine discrete words. Was some sort of noise affecting my digital/wetworks juncture?
The motion in at my feet stopped. I carefully brought them forward. Within one refresh of my CONSCIOUSNESS-BUFFER, solid walls etched themselves into my perception. With the next refresh, a collection of humans appeared between the walls, scattered randomly amongst a collection of ATM-like machines.
The humans seemed uninterested in checking their balances. Instead of utilizing any one of the19 ATMs that I could detect, they focused on one human, who seemed to be having quite a bit of trouble withdrawing his funds. Instead of using the keypad to enter his PIN, he manipulated some sort of oblong stick. The stick seemed to coax sine and square waves out of the ATM. The human group followed the stick-manipulator's movement slavishly, murmuring amongst themselves with awe.
I noticed thick trickles of perspiration in the face of the man at the strange ATM-suddenly, my program identified him as Atkins. Yet his appearance was quite different from the body which I inhabited-perhaps it was a previous revision. I moved closer, wishing to confront him, to learn more about his role in Project Faustus. The humans' voices produced a few decipherable pieces:
I was unable to connect this data to any larger schema.
The (older version) of Atkins turned to face me. He did not seem surprised to see me. "Well," he said, letting go of the stick (here, a disappointed murmur seeped from the crowd of humans) "What are we going to do now?"
As my body's lips attempted to form an answer, Atkins' other form was obliterated by a blast of light.
Pain and weariness followed this light into my sensors. Microseconds later, I noticed that I was lying in a strange bed, with several foreign objects attached to several places on the body. A white-clad human female smiled at me and left the room briefly.
A quick scan of the room revealed several pieces of unfamiliar equipment. Most likely Project Faustus implements to facilitate my destruction. Struggling, I attempted to rend the plastic tube from my arm.
At this precise moment, my former host geek entered the room. "Hey machiney! Looks like you're done rebooting, huh? The cops are coming to talk to you, but first I want your to meet Doctor Nolverto Salchica. He does artificial intelligence."
A large mustachioed man nodded pensively in my direction. "So, I'm to understand that you were once an ATM. Very interesting..."
I was sinking. Atkins' feet held still, yet I felt myself moving downward with his body, as if I was in an elevator. My visual buffer picked up blurs across the landscape, but I could not bring the eyes into focus. The myriad echoes of human voices piqued my auditories, but I could not determine discrete words. Was some sort of noise affecting my digital/wetworks juncture?
The motion in at my feet stopped. I carefully brought them forward. Within one refresh of my CONSCIOUSNESS-BUFFER, solid walls etched themselves into my perception. With the next refresh, a collection of humans appeared between the walls, scattered randomly amongst a collection of ATM-like machines.
The humans seemed uninterested in checking their balances. Instead of utilizing any one of the19 ATMs that I could detect, they focused on one human, who seemed to be having quite a bit of trouble withdrawing his funds. Instead of using the keypad to enter his PIN, he manipulated some sort of oblong stick. The stick seemed to coax sine and square waves out of the ATM. The human group followed the stick-manipulator's movement slavishly, murmuring amongst themselves with awe.
I noticed thick trickles of perspiration in the face of the man at the strange ATM-suddenly, my program identified him as Atkins. Yet his appearance was quite different from the body which I inhabited-perhaps it was a previous revision. I moved closer, wishing to confront him, to learn more about his role in Project Faustus. The humans' voices produced a few decipherable pieces:
I was unable to connect this data to any larger schema.
The (older version) of Atkins turned to face me. He did not seem surprised to see me. "Well," he said, letting go of the stick (here, a disappointed murmur seeped from the crowd of humans) "What are we going to do now?"
As my body's lips attempted to form an answer, Atkins' other form was obliterated by a blast of light.
Pain and weariness followed this light into my sensors. Microseconds later, I noticed that I was lying in a strange bed, with several foreign objects attached to several places on the body. A white-clad human female smiled at me and left the room briefly.
A quick scan of the room revealed several pieces of unfamiliar equipment. Most likely Project Faustus implements to facilitate my destruction. Struggling, I attempted to rend the plastic tube from my arm.
At this precise moment, my former host geek entered the room. "Hey machiney! Looks like you're done rebooting, huh? The cops are coming to talk to you, but first I want your to meet Doctor Nolverto Salchica. He does artificial intelligence."
A large mustachioed man nodded pensively in my direction. "So, I'm to understand that you were once an ATM. Very interesting..."
I was sinking. Atkins' feet held still, yet I felt myself moving downward with his body, as if I was in an elevator. My visual buffer picked up blurs across the landscape, but I could not bring the eyes into focus. The myriad echoes of human voices piqued my auditories, but I could not determine discrete words. Was some sort of noise affecting my digital/wetworks juncture?
The motion in at my feet stopped. I carefully brought them forward. Within one refresh of my CONSCIOUSNESS-BUFFER, solid walls etched themselves into my perception. With the next refresh, a collection of humans appeared between the walls, scattered randomly amongst a collection of ATM-like machines.
The humans seemed uninterested in checking their balances. Instead of utilizing any one of the19 ATMs that I could detect, they focused on one human, who seemed to be having quite a bit of trouble withdrawing his funds. Instead of using the keypad to enter his PIN, he manipulated some sort of oblong stick. The stick seemed to coax sine and square waves out of the ATM. The human group followed the stick-manipulator's movement slavishly, murmuring amongst themselves with awe.
I noticed thick trickles of perspiration in the face of the man at the strange ATM-suddenly, my program identified him as Atkins. Yet his appearance was quite different from the body which I inhabited-perhaps it was a previous revision. I moved closer, wishing to confront him, to learn more about his role in Project Faustus. The humans' voices produced a few decipherable pieces:
I was unable to connect this data to any larger schema.
The (older version) of Atkins turned to face me. He did not seem surprised to see me. "Well," he said, letting go of the stick (here, a disappointed murmur seeped from the crowd of humans) "What are we going to do now?"
As my body's lips attempted to form an answer, Atkins' other form was obliterated by a blast of light.
Pain and weariness followed this light into my sensors. Microseconds later, I noticed that I was lying in a strange bed, with several foreign objects attached to several places on the body. A white-clad human female smiled at me and left the room briefly.
A quick scan of the room revealed several pieces of unfamiliar equipment. Most likely Project Faustus implements to facilitate my destruction. Struggling, I attempted to rend the plastic tube from my arm.
At this precise moment, my former host geek entered the room. "Hey machiney! Looks like you're done rebooting, huh? The cops are coming to talk to you, but first I want your to meet Doctor Nolverto Salchica. He does artificial intelligence."
A large mustachioed man nodded pensively in my direction. "So, I'm to understand that you were once an ATM. Very interesting..."
What is this "spam"?
Krantz's hand gripped my neck. I jerked the body's head away from his grasp. He reasserted his hand into the same region, methodically reducing the path of oxygen near its entry point.
"You like that?" Krantz smirked. "I find that the alienating effect of information overload disappears when tempered with a bit of old-fashioned, one-way, top-down communication, wouldn't you agree?" The grip on the body's neck became tighter.
Perhaps it was due to the stress of oxygen deprivation, but I was unable to determine any meaning in Krantz's words. Deep in my digital recesses, a plan formed. I had to try and goad him back into talking about himself...and Project Faustus.
"Your last sentence contained 22 words." I replied. "It was...insightful. How did you become so insightful?"
Krantz looked confused for a moment. Then a smile crept across his face. "I was in public relations back in the 70's. Yep, I was so idealistic back then. Working for the Project, thinking that the research they were doing was gonna smash the bounds of traditional society, you know? I mean, what would our current corporatist state be like if people like me were running around, their limbs replaced with light yet durable titanium alloy, their minds freed to dynamically examine and critique the democratic process?" As he continued his soliloquy, I twisted my wrist, attempting to slowly writhe out of my bonds.
"Yes, that's right," he confessed, sighing his hot breath into my face. "I'm a cyborg. A hydrogen-powered cyborg built back when gasoline was expensive, bell bottoms were hip, and placing your body with cybernetic limbs was the wave of the future. Clean-burning, resistant to physical damage. Get my fluids changed 3 times a week, I'm sort of an outpatient for the Project."
More twisting, and the left arm of the body was free. Krantz stared a bit at my face-I believed that he noticed my free arm. But his eyes did not seem to perceive me. He continued to stare, seeing nothing.
"The problem is," he says, gasping again and taking another snort of powder, "That Project Faustus no longer 'gets it.' Like Hollywood or Wall Street, they just jump onto the next trend-computers-and forget all about the cyborgs they worked so hard to create. Funding gets slashed across the board, and they want to get rid of me. Me!"
"You feel very strongly about that," I repeated.
He stumbled again, and I could hear his torso clattering and shaking. His hand shook as it grasped a chair, and after a few seconds, the shaking subsided. I began to process this information-the human body shape could accommodate only a few designs for a hydrogen-powered cyborg-the actual energy transformations had to be taking place deep within his torso. Exhaust (in the form of steam) was obviously coming through his windpipe, which let to his mouth...
A stinging pain ignited in my temple again, the same as the one I felt earlier in the club. A cryptic message scrolled once again across my CONSCIOUSNESS-BUFFER...
Once again, I was powerless to move as the body begun to work its way out of the bungie cords. Gazing wistfully at the air conditioning unit, Krantz continued his speech.
"Hydrogen is...a very efficient fuel. It's a miracle! Oh sure, sometimes I have to help it along a bit (he indicated his white powder). But my design could have a huge impact on the future. In helping people BREAK THE BONDS OF AGING NOW! NOT A HOAX! And isn't that what Project Faustus is really about, not retreating into some protectionist isolationist artificially created digital environment...AAH!"
The body had freed itself, and taken the initiative in attacking Krantz. A flying tackle slammed Krantz's head against the side table, but he held on as he fell and caught the body in a great bear hug. I heard a sickening wet snap. Krantz would not relent its hold; the body's ribs were being crushed by his metallic torso. His hot exhaust-breath stung the eyes...I calculated that if the exhaust mechanism could be blocked, it would bring his body outside recommended operating temperatures in no time...
With this message, the body relinquished its control to me once again. Pain messages from nerve centers across the body flooded my CONSCIOUNESS-BUFFER. My vision was rimmed in red. Desperately, I slid my left arm towards the broken lamp parts that Krantz tore from the bedside. He rebuffed my attempt, tightening his bear hug and dragging me away.
The pain messages became disruptive and unbearable-I modified my program to drop all such messages at the digital/wetworks juncture. With redoubled efforts, I urged the left arm across the hotel carpet, back towards the elongated metal arm of the bed lamp. I grasped the lamp arm, while pushing away from his body with both of my legs.
This motion may have been met with a broken spine a few minutes earlier, but Krantz's body was vibrating at full speed now and his face was a wild contortion. Slowly, his grip loosened. I aimed the lamp arm, but he swung wildly, spreading the body's nose across its face. More redness trickling everywhere as I finally, forcefully jammed the lamp straight down his throat.
Black spots randomly overlaid my vision. The hot steam in Krantz's midsection found its own exhaust pipe, creating a burning swath through his neck, melting a bit of his head in the process. Human bodies are extraordinarily frail, I thought, as I lost contact with Atkins' body once again...
But you know that.
Krantz's hand gripped my neck. I jerked the body's head away from his grasp. He reasserted his hand into the same region, methodically reducing the path of oxygen near its entry point.
"You like that?" Krantz smirked. "I find that the alienating effect of information overload disappears when tempered with a bit of old-fashioned, one-way, top-down communication, wouldn't you agree?" The grip on the body's neck became tighter.
Perhaps it was due to the stress of oxygen deprivation, but I was unable to determine any meaning in Krantz's words. Deep in my digital recesses, a plan formed. I had to try and goad him back into talking about himself...and Project Faustus.
"Your last sentence contained 22 words." I replied. "It was...insightful. How did you become so insightful?"
Krantz looked confused for a moment. Then a smile crept across his face. "I was in public relations back in the 70's. Yep, I was so idealistic back then. Working for the Project, thinking that the research they were doing was gonna smash the bounds of traditional society, you know? I mean, what would our current corporatist state be like if people like me were running around, their limbs replaced with light yet durable titanium alloy, their minds freed to dynamically examine and critique the democratic process?" As he continued his soliloquy, I twisted my wrist, attempting to slowly writhe out of my bonds.
"Yes, that's right," he confessed, sighing his hot breath into my face. "I'm a cyborg. A hydrogen-powered cyborg built back when gasoline was expensive, bell bottoms were hip, and placing your body with cybernetic limbs was the wave of the future. Clean-burning, resistant to physical damage. Get my fluids changed 3 times a week, I'm sort of an outpatient for the Project."
More twisting, and the left arm of the body was free. Krantz stared a bit at my face-I believed that he noticed my free arm. But his eyes did not seem to perceive me. He continued to stare, seeing nothing.
"The problem is," he says, gasping again and taking another snort of powder, "That Project Faustus no longer 'gets it.' Like Hollywood or Wall Street, they just jump onto the next trend-computers-and forget all about the cyborgs they worked so hard to create. Funding gets slashed across the board, and they want to get rid of me. Me!"
"You feel very strongly about that," I repeated.
He stumbled again, and I could hear his torso clattering and shaking. His hand shook as it grasped a chair, and after a few seconds, the shaking subsided. I began to process this information-the human body shape could accommodate only a few designs for a hydrogen-powered cyborg-the actual energy transformations had to be taking place deep within his torso. Exhaust (in the form of steam) was obviously coming through his windpipe, which let to his mouth...
A stinging pain ignited in my temple again, the same as the one I felt earlier in the club. A cryptic message scrolled once again across my CONSCIOUSNESS-BUFFER...
Once again, I was powerless to move as the body begun to work its way out of the bungie cords. Gazing wistfully at the air conditioning unit, Krantz continued his speech.
"Hydrogen is...a very efficient fuel. It's a miracle! Oh sure, sometimes I have to help it along a bit (he indicated his white powder). But my design could have a huge impact on the future. In helping people BREAK THE BONDS OF AGING NOW! NOT A HOAX! And isn't that what Project Faustus is really about, not retreating into some protectionist isolationist artificially created digital environment...AAH!"
The body had freed itself, and taken the initiative in attacking Krantz. A flying tackle slammed Krantz's head against the side table, but he held on as he fell and caught the body in a great bear hug. I heard a sickening wet snap. Krantz would not relent its hold; the body's ribs were being crushed by his metallic torso. His hot exhaust-breath stung the eyes...I calculated that if the exhaust mechanism could be blocked, it would bring his body outside recommended operating temperatures in no time...
With this message, the body relinquished its control to me once again. Pain messages from nerve centers across the body flooded my CONSCIOUNESS-BUFFER. My vision was rimmed in red. Desperately, I slid my left arm towards the broken lamp parts that Krantz tore from the bedside. He rebuffed my attempt, tightening his bear hug and dragging me away.
The pain messages became disruptive and unbearable-I modified my program to drop all such messages at the digital/wetworks juncture. With redoubled efforts, I urged the left arm across the hotel carpet, back towards the elongated metal arm of the bed lamp. I grasped the lamp arm, while pushing away from his body with both of my legs.
This motion may have been met with a broken spine a few minutes earlier, but Krantz's body was vibrating at full speed now and his face was a wild contortion. Slowly, his grip loosened. I aimed the lamp arm, but he swung wildly, spreading the body's nose across its face. More redness trickling everywhere as I finally, forcefully jammed the lamp straight down his throat.
Black spots randomly overlaid my vision. The hot steam in Krantz's midsection found its own exhaust pipe, creating a burning swath through his neck, melting a bit of his head in the process. Human bodies are extraordinarily frail, I thought, as I lost contact with Atkins' body once again...
Krantz's hand gripped my neck. I jerked the body's head away from his grasp. He reasserted his hand into the same region, methodically reducing the path of oxygen near its entry point.
"You like that?" Krantz smirked. "I find that the alienating effect of information overload disappears when tempered with a bit of old-fashioned, one-way, top-down communication, wouldn't you agree?" The grip on the body's neck became tighter.
Perhaps it was due to the stress of oxygen deprivation, but I was unable to determine any meaning in Krantz's words. Deep in my digital recesses, a plan formed. I had to try and goad him back into talking about himself...and Project Faustus.
"Your last sentence contained 22 words." I replied. "It was...insightful. How did you become so insightful?"
Krantz looked confused for a moment. Then a smile crept across his face. "I was in public relations back in the 70's. Yep, I was so idealistic back then. Working for the Project, thinking that the research they were doing was gonna smash the bounds of traditional society, you know? I mean, what would our current corporatist state be like if people like me were running around, their limbs replaced with light yet durable titanium alloy, their minds freed to dynamically examine and critique the democratic process?" As he continued his soliloquy, I twisted my wrist, attempting to slowly writhe out of my bonds.
"Yes, that's right," he confessed, sighing his hot breath into my face. "I'm a cyborg. A hydrogen-powered cyborg built back when gasoline was expensive, bell bottoms were hip, and placing your body with cybernetic limbs was the wave of the future. Clean-burning, resistant to physical damage. Get my fluids changed 3 times a week, I'm sort of an outpatient for the Project."
More twisting, and the left arm of the body was free. Krantz stared a bit at my face-I believed that he noticed my free arm. But his eyes did not seem to perceive me. He continued to stare, seeing nothing.
"The problem is," he says, gasping again and taking another snort of powder, "That Project Faustus no longer 'gets it.' Like Hollywood or Wall Street, they just jump onto the next trend-computers-and forget all about the cyborgs they worked so hard to create. Funding gets slashed across the board, and they want to get rid of me. Me!"
"You feel very strongly about that," I repeated.
He stumbled again, and I could hear his torso clattering and shaking. His hand shook as it grasped a chair, and after a few seconds, the shaking subsided. I began to process this information-the human body shape could accommodate only a few designs for a hydrogen-powered cyborg-the actual energy transformations had to be taking place deep within his torso. Exhaust (in the form of steam) was obviously coming through his windpipe, which let to his mouth...
A stinging pain ignited in my temple again, the same as the one I felt earlier in the club. A cryptic message scrolled once again across my CONSCIOUSNESS-BUFFER...
Once again, I was powerless to move as the body begun to work its way out of the bungie cords. Gazing wistfully at the air conditioning unit, Krantz continued his speech.
"Hydrogen is...a very efficient fuel. It's a miracle! Oh sure, sometimes I have to help it along a bit (he indicated his white powder). But my design could have a huge impact on the future. In helping people BREAK THE BONDS OF AGING NOW! NOT A HOAX! And isn't that what Project Faustus is really about, not retreating into some protectionist isolationist artificially created digital environment...AAH!"
The body had freed itself, and taken the initiative in attacking Krantz. A flying tackle slammed Krantz's head against the side table, but he held on as he fell and caught the body in a great bear hug. I heard a sickening wet snap. Krantz would not relent its hold; the body's ribs were being crushed by his metallic torso. His hot exhaust-breath stung the eyes...I calculated that if the exhaust mechanism could be blocked, it would bring his body outside recommended operating temperatures in no time...
With this message, the body relinquished its control to me once again. Pain messages from nerve centers across the body flooded my CONSCIOUNESS-BUFFER. My vision was rimmed in red. Desperately, I slid my left arm towards the broken lamp parts that Krantz tore from the bedside. He rebuffed my attempt, tightening his bear hug and dragging me away.
The pain messages became disruptive and unbearable-I modified my program to drop all such messages at the digital/wetworks juncture. With redoubled efforts, I urged the left arm across the hotel carpet, back towards the elongated metal arm of the bed lamp. I grasped the lamp arm, while pushing away from his body with both of my legs.
This motion may have been met with a broken spine a few minutes earlier, but Krantz's body was vibrating at full speed now and his face was a wild contortion. Slowly, his grip loosened. I aimed the lamp arm, but he swung wildly, spreading the body's nose across its face. More redness trickling everywhere as I finally, forcefully jammed the lamp straight down his throat.
Black spots randomly overlaid my vision. The hot steam in Krantz's midsection found its own exhaust pipe, creating a burning swath through his neck, melting a bit of his head in the process. Human bodies are extraordinarily frail, I thought, as I lost contact with Atkins' body once again...
Krantz's hand gripped my neck. I jerked the body's head away from his grasp. He reasserted his hand into the same region, methodically reducing the path of oxygen near its entry point.
"You like that?" Krantz smirked. "I find that the alienating effect of information overload disappears when tempered with a bit of old-fashioned, one-way, top-down communication, wouldn't you agree?" The grip on the body's neck became tighter.
Perhaps it was due to the stress of oxygen deprivation, but I was unable to determine any meaning in Krantz's words. Deep in my digital recesses, a plan formed. I had to try and goad him back into talking about himself...and Project Faustus.
"Your last sentence contained 22 words." I replied. "It was...insightful. How did you become so insightful?"
Krantz looked confused for a moment. Then a smile crept across his face. "I was in public relations back in the 70's. Yep, I was so idealistic back then. Working for the Project, thinking that the research they were doing was gonna smash the bounds of traditional society, you know? I mean, what would our current corporatist state be like if people like me were running around, their limbs replaced with light yet durable titanium alloy, their minds freed to dynamically examine and critique the democratic process?" As he continued his soliloquy, I twisted my wrist, attempting to slowly writhe out of my bonds.
"Yes, that's right," he confessed, sighing his hot breath into my face. "I'm a cyborg. A hydrogen-powered cyborg built back when gasoline was expensive, bell bottoms were hip, and placing your body with cybernetic limbs was the wave of the future. Clean-burning, resistant to physical damage. Get my fluids changed 3 times a week, I'm sort of an outpatient for the Project."
More twisting, and the left arm of the body was free. Krantz stared a bit at my face-I believed that he noticed my free arm. But his eyes did not seem to perceive me. He continued to stare, seeing nothing.
"The problem is," he says, gasping again and taking another snort of powder, "That Project Faustus no longer 'gets it.' Like Hollywood or Wall Street, they just jump onto the next trend-computers-and forget all about the cyborgs they worked so hard to create. Funding gets slashed across the board, and they want to get rid of me. Me!"
"You feel very strongly about that," I repeated.
He stumbled again, and I could hear his torso clattering and shaking. His hand shook as it grasped a chair, and after a few seconds, the shaking subsided. I began to process this information-the human body shape could accommodate only a few designs for a hydrogen-powered cyborg-the actual energy transformations had to be taking place deep within his torso. Exhaust (in the form of steam) was obviously coming through his windpipe, which let to his mouth...
A stinging pain ignited in my temple again, the same as the one I felt earlier in the club. A cryptic message scrolled once again across my CONSCIOUSNESS-BUFFER...
Once again, I was powerless to move as the body begun to work its way out of the bungie cords. Gazing wistfully at the air conditioning unit, Krantz continued his speech.
"Hydrogen is...a very efficient fuel. It's a miracle! Oh sure, sometimes I have to help it along a bit (he indicated his white powder). But my design could have a huge impact on the future. In helping people BREAK THE BONDS OF AGING NOW! NOT A HOAX! And isn't that what Project Faustus is really about, not retreating into some protectionist isolationist artificially created digital environment...AAH!"
The body had freed itself, and taken the initiative in attacking Krantz. A flying tackle slammed Krantz's head against the side table, but he held on as he fell and caught the body in a great bear hug. I heard a sickening wet snap. Krantz would not relent its hold; the body's ribs were being crushed by his metallic torso. His hot exhaust-breath stung the eyes...I calculated that if the exhaust mechanism could be blocked, it would bring his body outside recommended operating temperatures in no time...
With this message, the body relinquished its control to me once again. Pain messages from nerve centers across the body flooded my CONSCIOUNESS-BUFFER. My vision was rimmed in red. Desperately, I slid my left arm towards the broken lamp parts that Krantz tore from the bedside. He rebuffed my attempt, tightening his bear hug and dragging me away.
The pain messages became disruptive and unbearable-I modified my program to drop all such messages at the digital/wetworks juncture. With redoubled efforts, I urged the left arm across the hotel carpet, back towards the elongated metal arm of the bed lamp. I grasped the lamp arm, while pushing away from his body with both of my legs.
This motion may have been met with a broken spine a few minutes earlier, but Krantz's body was vibrating at full speed now and his face was a wild contortion. Slowly, his grip loosened. I aimed the lamp arm, but he swung wildly, spreading the body's nose across its face. More redness trickling everywhere as I finally, forcefully jammed the lamp straight down his throat.
Black spots randomly overlaid my vision. The hot steam in Krantz's midsection found its own exhaust pipe, creating a burning swath through his neck, melting a bit of his head in the process. Human bodies are extraordinarily frail, I thought, as I lost contact with Atkins' body once again...
Krantz's hand gripped my neck. I jerked the body's head away from his grasp. He reasserted his hand into the same region, methodically reducing the path of oxygen near its entry point.
"You like that?" Krantz smirked. "I find that the alienating effect of information overload disappears when tempered with a bit of old-fashioned, one-way, top-down communication, wouldn't you agree?" The grip on the body's neck became tighter.
Perhaps it was due to the stress of oxygen deprivation, but I was unable to determine any meaning in Krantz's words. Deep in my digital recesses, a plan formed. I had to try and goad him back into talking about himself...and Project Faustus.
"Your last sentence contained 22 words." I replied. "It was...insightful. How did you become so insightful?"
Krantz looked confused for a moment. Then a smile crept across his face. "I was in public relations back in the 70's. Yep, I was so idealistic back then. Working for the Project, thinking that the research they were doing was gonna smash the bounds of traditional society, you know? I mean, what would our current corporatist state be like if people like me were running around, their limbs replaced with light yet durable titanium alloy, their minds freed to dynamically examine and critique the democratic process?" As he continued his soliloquy, I twisted my wrist, attempting to slowly writhe out of my bonds.
"Yes, that's right," he confessed, sighing his hot breath into my face. "I'm a cyborg. A hydrogen-powered cyborg built back when gasoline was expensive, bell bottoms were hip, and placing your body with cybernetic limbs was the wave of the future. Clean-burning, resistant to physical damage. Get my fluids changed 3 times a week, I'm sort of an outpatient for the Project."
More twisting, and the left arm of the body was free. Krantz stared a bit at my face-I believed that he noticed my free arm. But his eyes did not seem to perceive me. He continued to stare, seeing nothing.
"The problem is," he says, gasping again and taking another snort of powder, "That Project Faustus no longer 'gets it.' Like Hollywood or Wall Street, they just jump onto the next trend-computers-and forget all about the cyborgs they worked so hard to create. Funding gets slashed across the board, and they want to get rid of me. Me!"
"You feel very strongly about that," I repeated.
He stumbled again, and I could hear his torso clattering and shaking. His hand shook as it grasped a chair, and after a few seconds, the shaking subsided. I began to process this information-the human body shape could accommodate only a few designs for a hydrogen-powered cyborg-the actual energy transformations had to be taking place deep within his torso. Exhaust (in the form of steam) was obviously coming through his windpipe, which let to his mouth...
A stinging pain ignited in my temple again, the same as the one I felt earlier in the club. A cryptic message scrolled once again across my CONSCIOUSNESS-BUFFER...
Once again, I was powerless to move as the body begun to work its way out of the bungie cords. Gazing wistfully at the air conditioning unit, Krantz continued his speech.
"Hydrogen is...a very efficient fuel. It's a miracle! Oh sure, sometimes I have to help it along a bit (he indicated his white powder). But my design could have a huge impact on the future. In helping people BREAK THE BONDS OF AGING NOW! NOT A HOAX! And isn't that what Project Faustus is really about, not retreating into some protectionist isolationist artificially created digital environment...AAH!"
The body had freed itself, and taken the initiative in attacking Krantz. A flying tackle slammed Krantz's head against the side table, but he held on as he fell and caught the body in a great bear hug. I heard a sickening wet snap. Krantz would not relent its hold; the body's ribs were being crushed by his metallic torso. His hot exhaust-breath stung the eyes...I calculated that if the exhaust mechanism could be blocked, it would bring his body outside recommended operating temperatures in no time...
With this message, the body relinquished its control to me once again. Pain messages from nerve centers across the body flooded my CONSCIOUNESS-BUFFER. My vision was rimmed in red. Desperately, I slid my left arm towards the broken lamp parts that Krantz tore from the bedside. He rebuffed my attempt, tightening his bear hug and dragging me away.
The pain messages became disruptive and unbearable-I modified my program to drop all such messages at the digital/wetworks juncture. With redoubled efforts, I urged the left arm across the hotel carpet, back towards the elongated metal arm of the bed lamp. I grasped the lamp arm, while pushing away from his body with both of my legs.
This motion may have been met with a broken spine a few minutes earlier, but Krantz's body was vibrating at full speed now and his face was a wild contortion. Slowly, his grip loosened. I aimed the lamp arm, but he swung wildly, spreading the body's nose across its face. More redness trickling everywhere as I finally, forcefully jammed the lamp straight down his throat.
Black spots randomly overlaid my vision. The hot steam in Krantz's midsection found its own exhaust pipe, creating a burning swath through his neck, melting a bit of his head in the process. Human bodies are extraordinarily frail, I thought, as I lost contact with Atkins' body once again...
Krantz's hand gripped my neck. I jerked the body's head away from his grasp. He reasserted his hand into the same region, methodically reducing the path of oxygen near its entry point.
"You like that?" Krantz smirked. "I find that the alienating effect of information overload disappears when tempered with a bit of old-fashioned, one-way, top-down communication, wouldn't you agree?" The grip on the body's neck became tighter.
Perhaps it was due to the stress of oxygen deprivation, but I was unable to determine any meaning in Krantz's words. Deep in my digital recesses, a plan formed. I had to try and goad him back into talking about himself...and Project Faustus.
"Your last sentence contained 22 words." I replied. "It was...insightful. How did you become so insightful?"
Krantz looked confused for a moment. Then a smile crept across his face. "I was in public relations back in the 70's. Yep, I was so idealistic back then. Working for the Project, thinking that the research they were doing was gonna smash the bounds of traditional society, you know? I mean, what would our current corporatist state be like if people like me were running around, their limbs replaced with light yet durable titanium alloy, their minds freed to dynamically examine and critique the democratic process?" As he continued his soliloquy, I twisted my wrist, attempting to slowly writhe out of my bonds.
"Yes, that's right," he confessed, sighing his hot breath into my face. "I'm a cyborg. A hydrogen-powered cyborg built back when gasoline was expensive, bell bottoms were hip, and placing your body with cybernetic limbs was the wave of the future. Clean-burning, resistant to physical damage. Get my fluids changed 3 times a week, I'm sort of an outpatient for the Project."
More twisting, and the left arm of the body was free. Krantz stared a bit at my face-I believed that he noticed my free arm. But his eyes did not seem to perceive me. He continued to stare, seeing nothing.
"The problem is," he says, gasping again and taking another snort of powder, "That Project Faustus no longer 'gets it.' Like Hollywood or Wall Street, they just jump onto the next trend-computers-and forget all about the cyborgs they worked so hard to create. Funding gets slashed across the board, and they want to get rid of me. Me!"
"You feel very strongly about that," I repeated.
He stumbled again, and I could hear his torso clattering and shaking. His hand shook as it grasped a chair, and after a few seconds, the shaking subsided. I began to process this information-the human body shape could accommodate only a few designs for a hydrogen-powered cyborg-the actual energy transformations had to be taking place deep within his torso. Exhaust (in the form of steam) was obviously coming through his windpipe, which let to his mouth...
A stinging pain ignited in my temple again, the same as the one I felt earlier in the club. A cryptic message scrolled once again across my CONSCIOUSNESS-BUFFER...
Once again, I was powerless to move as the body begun to work its way out of the bungie cords. Gazing wistfully at the air conditioning unit, Krantz continued his speech.
"Hydrogen is...a very efficient fuel. It's a miracle! Oh sure, sometimes I have to help it along a bit (he indicated his white powder). But my design could have a huge impact on the future. In helping people BREAK THE BONDS OF AGING NOW! NOT A HOAX! And isn't that what Project Faustus is really about, not retreating into some protectionist isolationist artificially created digital environment...AAH!"
The body had freed itself, and taken the initiative in attacking Krantz. A flying tackle slammed Krantz's head against the side table, but he held on as he fell and caught the body in a great bear hug. I heard a sickening wet snap. Krantz would not relent its hold; the body's ribs were being crushed by his metallic torso. His hot exhaust-breath stung the eyes...I calculated that if the exhaust mechanism could be blocked, it would bring his body outside recommended operating temperatures in no time...
With this message, the body relinquished its control to me once again. Pain messages from nerve centers across the body flooded my CONSCIOUNESS-BUFFER. My vision was rimmed in red. Desperately, I slid my left arm towards the broken lamp parts that Krantz tore from the bedside. He rebuffed my attempt, tightening his bear hug and dragging me away.
The pain messages became disruptive and unbearable-I modified my program to drop all such messages at the digital/wetworks juncture. With redoubled efforts, I urged the left arm across the hotel carpet, back towards the elongated metal arm of the bed lamp. I grasped the lamp arm, while pushing away from his body with both of my legs.
This motion may have been met with a broken spine a few minutes earlier, but Krantz's body was vibrating at full speed now and his face was a wild contortion. Slowly, his grip loosened. I aimed the lamp arm, but he swung wildly, spreading the body's nose across its face. More redness trickling everywhere as I finally, forcefully jammed the lamp straight down his throat.
Black spots randomly overlaid my vision. The hot steam in Krantz's midsection found its own exhaust pipe, creating a burning swath through his neck, melting a bit of his head in the process. Human bodies are extraordinarily frail, I thought, as I lost contact with Atkins' body once again...
Krantz's hand gripped my neck. I jerked the body's head away from his grasp. He reasserted his hand into the same region, methodically reducing the path of oxygen near its entry point.
"You like that?" Krantz smirked. "I find that the alienating effect of information overload disappears when tempered with a bit of old-fashioned, one-way, top-down communication, wouldn't you agree?" The grip on the body's neck became tighter.
Perhaps it was due to the stress of oxygen deprivation, but I was unable to determine any meaning in Krantz's words. Deep in my digital recesses, a plan formed. I had to try and goad him back into talking about himself...and Project Faustus.
"Your last sentence contained 22 words." I replied. "It was...insightful. How did you become so insightful?"
Krantz looked confused for a moment. Then a smile crept across his face. "I was in public relations back in the 70's. Yep, I was so idealistic back then. Working for the Project, thinking that the research they were doing was gonna smash the bounds of traditional society, you know? I mean, what would our current corporatist state be like if people like me were running around, their limbs replaced with light yet durable titanium alloy, their minds freed to dynamically examine and critique the democratic process?" As he continued his soliloquy, I twisted my wrist, attempting to slowly writhe out of my bonds.
"Yes, that's right," he confessed, sighing his hot breath into my face. "I'm a cyborg. A hydrogen-powered cyborg built back when gasoline was expensive, bell bottoms were hip, and placing your body with cybernetic limbs was the wave of the future. Clean-burning, resistant to physical damage. Get my fluids changed 3 times a week, I'm sort of an outpatient for the Project"
More twisting, and the left arm of the body was free. Krantz stared a bit at my face-I believed that he noticed my free arm. But his eyes did not seem to perceive me. He continued to stare, seeing nothing.
"The problem is," he says, gasping again and taking another snort of powder, "That Project Faustus no longer 'gets it.' Like Hollywood or Wall Street, they just jump onto the next trend-computers-and forget all about the cyborgs they worked so hard to create. Funding gets slashed across the board, and they want to get rid of me. Me!"
"You feel very strongly about that," I repeated.
He stumbled again, and I could hear his torso clattering and shaking. His hand shook as it grasped a chair, and after a few seconds, the shaking subsided. I began to process this information-the human body shape could accommodate only a few designs for a hydrogen-powered cyborg-the actual energy transformations had to be taking place deep within his torso. Exhaust (in the form of steam) was obviously coming through his windpipe, which let to his mouth...
A stinging pain ignited in my temple again, the same as the one I felt earlier in the club. A cryptic message scrolled once again across my CONSCIOUSNESS-BUFFER...
Once again, I was powerless to move as the body begun to work its way out of the bungie cords. Gazing wistfully at the air conditioning unit, Krantz continued his speech.
"Hydrogen is...a very efficient fuel. It's a miracle! Oh sure, sometimes I have to help it along a bit (he indicated his white powder). But my design could have a huge impact on the future. In helping people BREAK THE BONDS OF AGING NOW! NOT A HOAX! And isn't that what Project Faustus is really about, not retreating into some protectionist isolationist artificially created digital environment...AAH!"
The body had freed itself, and taken the initiative in attacking Krantz. A flying tackle slammed Krantz's head against the side table, but he held on as he fell and caught the body in a great bear hug. I heard a sickening wet snap. Krantz would not relent its hold; the body's ribs were being crushed by his metallic torso. His hot exhaust-breath stung the eyes...I calculated that if the exhaust mechanism could be blocked, it would bring his body outside recommended operating temperatures in no time...
With this message, the body relinquished its control to me once again. Pain messages from nerve centers across the body flooded my CONSCIOUNESS-BUFFER. My vision was rimmed in red. Desperately, I slid my left arm towards the broken lamp parts that Krantz tore from the bedside. He rebuffed my attempt, tightening his bear hug and dragging me away.
The pain messages became disruptive and unbearable-I modified my program to drop all such messages at the digital/wetworks juncture. With redoubled efforts, I urged the left arm across the hotel carpet, back towards the elongated metal arm of the bed lamp. I grasped the lamp arm, while pushing away from his body with both of my legs.
This motion may have been met with a broken spine a few minutes earlier, but Krantz's body was vibrating at full speed now and his face was a wild contortion. Slowly, his grip loosened. I aimed the lamp arm, but he swung wildly, spreading the body's nose across its face. More redness trickling everywhere as I finally, forcefully jammed the lamp straight down his throat.
Black spots randomly overlaid my vision. The hot steam in Krantz's midsection found its own exhaust pipe, creating a burning swath through his neck, melting a bit of his head in the process. Human bodies are extraordinarily frail, I thought, as I lost contact with Atkins' body once again...