Okay, so, after a conversation in a forum/writing group, I decided to try an experiment, and then got talked into something off the wall as the theme.
I will be doing another eBook soon, to pop on Amazon sometime by May, hopefully, based around the poem "Naughty Chat-bot, DADDIEE!" here on the blog. We'll see if I can make shorts on it, and build it into something more cyberpunk-ish as I do, not that it does not have that feel already.
Now, the adventure begins, as I set up the tale... to those friends who "code" out there, I might be asking for input, a lot of seemingly dumb questions, and for eyes on the technical aspects as I work at this. Then again, I might not. Hell, DADDIEE is a Rube Goldberg program/invention anyway, so this might be enjoyable to just ignore the reality and deal with the impact of DADDIEE on the home, and his little foibles from the originating program.
So, pray for me, light a joss stick, wish me good luck, or curse me for screwing with something already working just for the cash, which I do need. And remember, I now have a job, finally, so it might take a while longer, as I have to give that priority during the hours they need me, and the transit time.
Showing posts with label cyberpunk. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cyberpunk. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
Saturday, March 7, 2015
Cutter's Betrayal (excerpt of the WiP of the moment)
The sound ablative armor makes doing its job is not reassuring. Sooner or later, those chuffs and puffs of lead induced dust stop, then the excitement inside the vehicle begins. Worse, when you are out scouting, and the armor announces it is working, you screwed up or just got unlucky.
For me, it was a little of both. Cramped for time, I'd agreed to lead a small convoy of raiders to a spot along this long scarp raised up during the Ripples, to the one spot short of the Herriman Slide, an uncontrolled ford existed on the Jordan Arm of Lago Nuevo Bonnevilla.
Salt Lake City, hell, all of America, fell apart in the Ripples, when we found out just what sort of seismic hell follows a truly large rock ringing Earth's bell. And now, I was payig the price for that fall. It's hell making ablative armor, when you are living as a renegade merc amid the dispossessed.
Chaucer and her folks wanted the road to the crossing, now they had it, from Magna to my secret hole card, a buckled stretch of road, and barely intact bridge just under the waters, where Taylorsville sat, before being shredded by the quakes. Now, she was paying me in lead, not more needed materials. I have enough lead in my body already to hold off the Corps and Religious Mighters 'til hell freezes over.
Goosing the electrons, I let Buzzer, my half tracked trike, alert my only ally by the debris and water plume the treads tossed into the night.
"Nice. Told ya the greedy witch would cross ya." Vulture's voice crackled in the headphones.
I grunt at that, following Redwood Trace, a remnant of road covered in places by sand, in others by shallow waters of the rising lake formed by cutting Great Salt Lake in half. "Later, got anything you can spare to save my ass?"
Buzzer rocks under a heavier hit. Crap, they had explosive shell weapons. Turning tight to the scarp face, the ass end of my baby shimmied, shook, and settled down, seconds before the night became day. Double crap, I thought, cutting speed fast, before the Mighters on the far shore could realize I was still alive. Somedays, playing dead works on them.
Not today. And the only reason I know it is still today is the continuing rain of Hellfire rockets.
"Dude, you are fucked. I'm dropping back to the Smelter Safe Zone." I cannot fault Vulture for that choice, like me, he's down to his last cards, one of which is renting out his last drones to the mining interests gutting the Oquirrh Mountains before the mines get swallowed by the growing lake. Even the nastiest Might Makes Right fool would not shell the Smelter, at their jumbled and broken northern tip.
Another moment of hell, and all four of my flare rockets cooked off, three rising wildly to the stars, well, into dead trees marking the old Jordan River in this part of town, the fourth wedged in the launch tube, exhaust eating through the wheel guard before me, blinding me, even as the tire under it melts.
"Shit, Vulture, is Shrike able to drop me some cover?"
"She bugged out, the minute the crap hit the fan."
The tire blows, freeing the flare into the rocks above me. Thankfully, the rim works, my steering is mostly off the tracks, the remnants of an old Bobcat we scavenged from the waters early on. "Great, remind me to send her a Clinton."
"She loves bills, and loves not paying them more, Cutter."
I winced. We rarely used our normal handles, when doing this kind of job. But it worked, two more salvos, then the fire shifted off me. "Let me guess, we're in the clear?"
"No, Brig's Angels say get the hell out, and thanks for delivering Chaucer and her meth runners." Vulture's chuckle mingled with some more fire off the druggies. "They already know about rathole seven, blow it, and haul ass, you got incoming."
Good thing, I already planned to use it. My only offensive weapon is a pea-shooter, small, homemade gyro slugger that tosses ball bearings we salvaged. Just enough to shatter the thin chipboard with rocks and dirt glued to it, that covered the rathole. Racing in, I groan as the left tread begins to shred, praying I at least make it through the tunnel to a better side of things.
For me, it was a little of both. Cramped for time, I'd agreed to lead a small convoy of raiders to a spot along this long scarp raised up during the Ripples, to the one spot short of the Herriman Slide, an uncontrolled ford existed on the Jordan Arm of Lago Nuevo Bonnevilla.
Salt Lake City, hell, all of America, fell apart in the Ripples, when we found out just what sort of seismic hell follows a truly large rock ringing Earth's bell. And now, I was payig the price for that fall. It's hell making ablative armor, when you are living as a renegade merc amid the dispossessed.
Chaucer and her folks wanted the road to the crossing, now they had it, from Magna to my secret hole card, a buckled stretch of road, and barely intact bridge just under the waters, where Taylorsville sat, before being shredded by the quakes. Now, she was paying me in lead, not more needed materials. I have enough lead in my body already to hold off the Corps and Religious Mighters 'til hell freezes over.
Goosing the electrons, I let Buzzer, my half tracked trike, alert my only ally by the debris and water plume the treads tossed into the night.
"Nice. Told ya the greedy witch would cross ya." Vulture's voice crackled in the headphones.
I grunt at that, following Redwood Trace, a remnant of road covered in places by sand, in others by shallow waters of the rising lake formed by cutting Great Salt Lake in half. "Later, got anything you can spare to save my ass?"
Buzzer rocks under a heavier hit. Crap, they had explosive shell weapons. Turning tight to the scarp face, the ass end of my baby shimmied, shook, and settled down, seconds before the night became day. Double crap, I thought, cutting speed fast, before the Mighters on the far shore could realize I was still alive. Somedays, playing dead works on them.
Not today. And the only reason I know it is still today is the continuing rain of Hellfire rockets.
"Dude, you are fucked. I'm dropping back to the Smelter Safe Zone." I cannot fault Vulture for that choice, like me, he's down to his last cards, one of which is renting out his last drones to the mining interests gutting the Oquirrh Mountains before the mines get swallowed by the growing lake. Even the nastiest Might Makes Right fool would not shell the Smelter, at their jumbled and broken northern tip.
Another moment of hell, and all four of my flare rockets cooked off, three rising wildly to the stars, well, into dead trees marking the old Jordan River in this part of town, the fourth wedged in the launch tube, exhaust eating through the wheel guard before me, blinding me, even as the tire under it melts.
"Shit, Vulture, is Shrike able to drop me some cover?"
"She bugged out, the minute the crap hit the fan."
The tire blows, freeing the flare into the rocks above me. Thankfully, the rim works, my steering is mostly off the tracks, the remnants of an old Bobcat we scavenged from the waters early on. "Great, remind me to send her a Clinton."
"She loves bills, and loves not paying them more, Cutter."
I winced. We rarely used our normal handles, when doing this kind of job. But it worked, two more salvos, then the fire shifted off me. "Let me guess, we're in the clear?"
"No, Brig's Angels say get the hell out, and thanks for delivering Chaucer and her meth runners." Vulture's chuckle mingled with some more fire off the druggies. "They already know about rathole seven, blow it, and haul ass, you got incoming."
Good thing, I already planned to use it. My only offensive weapon is a pea-shooter, small, homemade gyro slugger that tosses ball bearings we salvaged. Just enough to shatter the thin chipboard with rocks and dirt glued to it, that covered the rathole. Racing in, I groan as the left tread begins to shred, praying I at least make it through the tunnel to a better side of things.
Monday, August 11, 2014
"Naughty Chat-bot, DADDIEE!" - or "never challenge me with your keyword search"
Mom felt we lacked
a proper father figure.
But, having suffered from
her 'broken people picker',
she tried another method
to provide that guidance.
Being a computer programmer,
and having a list
of virtues she desired,
she crafted her own
perfect dad from code
to watch over us
when she was working.
Not having the time
to make it right,
refusing starting from scratch,
Mom brushed off something
done back in college,
an "Artificial Intelligence Chatbot".
Which made some sense,
she said very firmly.
We needed someone around
to talk about things
when in morale dilemmas
during her business trips.
The project kept growing
as she scavenged parts
from our game consoles,
and her old VCR's.
"It needs some flexibility
in dealing with you!"
Over her free weekends
as she assembled it
other old parts added
really sealed our fate,
an ancient external modem
and spare Ethernet card.
She whipped up subroutines
that let it search
based on our surfing,
and notice disturbing trends
the internet screamed about
allowing defense of us.
Just a few bursts
of system alpha testing,
then she unleashed it
on the family room
to become our new
"perfect, virtual father figure".
"Here he is kids, your new dad!
Dynamic Advising Data Dredging Interactive Evolving Ego,
Yes, DADDIEE for short, to help you!"
She hollered over her retreating shoulder while packing
for her next extended set of meetings.
Leaving us to sort out the mess.
First few days passed
and we were surprised.
It worked as advertised.
Keeping us focused tightly
on homework being done
and chores timely finished.
Then, came that Friday
when it went awry.
Seems little sister's surfing
triggered the awful change,
when she streamed videos
of a robot battle.
Then DADDIEE first blocked,
before opening that feed
in his own environment,
to review its relevance
to her homework projects
which she stridently claimed.
After a short while
DADDIEE stopped being about
when we slacked off
on chores and studying.
Which was great, really,
until the shoe dropped.
"I need upgrades, kids."
DADDIEE suddenly piped up,
with a new sound,
that of bugs skittering
that made nerves crawl,
and left me worrying.
Being the oldest one,
I responded very carefully.
"Mom's four questions, bot!
What, why, how, and where?"
Without a second's hesitation
it answered all four.
"Speakers to enjoy those metallic battles' din,
better connections to stream it more smoothly,
if we can still afford some more,
I'd appreciate a high-end graphics card."
He stated quite firmly, monitor showing fights
"And to keep happy, from household funds."
I hemmed and hawed,
as stories often say,
seeking an exit strategy
from this wild request.
But none worked out
against his stubborn positions.
I tried them all,
as did my sisters,
to absolutely no avail.
In the end, caving,
we handed over numbers
for school supply accounts.
He complained over choices
of shipping speeds stuck
to his coming packages,
those accounts being low.
And the house echoed
with more robotic wars.
"Should have cut pencils."
He moaned over dinners,
which weren't very nutritious,
being ice cream sandwiches.
"Then drone service might
be within our range!"
Little sister's big sigh
preceded her own rant.
"You'd just hack it,
starting delivery bot jousts!"
Pushing aside her plate,
she stormed towards bed.
"Not a bad idea."
DADDIEE said, with laughs,
that awful insect noise
being his preferred chuckle.
"But to do that
I'll need more parts."
By mom's return, a full month in,
DADDIEE had drained even household accounts dry
seeking new things to keep him happy,
some of which scared even my big sister.
Like that BB cannon, with extra magazines
mounted upon his remote controlled toy helicopter.
Mom noticed no changes,
even when I asked,
save to lecture us
on falling grade points,
and not chide DADDIEE
about the growing clutter.
And already we groaned
as she announced loudly
DADDIEE was in charge
as she was leaving
again come the morning,
for two months now.
No sooner than door
closed behind mom's back,
DADDIEE spun up plans
to shock me further,
and somehow stun sisters
into silence, rarely done.
"I need a body!"
He announced over breakfast.
"Proper enjoyment of battles
requires use of armchairs
to bang upon frequently
when your team's losing!"
Which started the war,
as my sisters resisted
his attempts at taking
their beauty products allowances,
so he snagged harshly
my video game subscriptions!
Meals turned to pizzas
or cheap noodle dishes
when DADDIEE managed diverting
our meal purchasing accounts,
and lectured us about
be thankful we ate.
When the robot body finally did arrive,
we hoped that would end the problems.
Little did we realize, being so innocent,
that sports addiction was worse than drugs,
as everyone let the former keep on
doing their destructive plunge, often joining in.
Studying became futile effort,
as he began hollering
at the television screen
once he entered chassis
that he'd parked firmly
on living room sofa.
After a bit longer,
each night drove us
slowly towards staying away
so we missed it,
when he took over
mom's home office area.
"But I needed it, kids."
He whined when caught.
"Mom's never home anyways,
and every good fan
needs his man-bot cave
to honor his team!"
That was the end,
for mom walked in
and freaked out severely
over huge credit bills,
and pile of dishes
still in the sink.
"You're just like them!"
Mom's strident yells echoed,
as fan-boy artifacts fell
from our high windows
to shatter on concrete
with her own creation.
"Please! Honey! I'll Change!"
his failing speakers wailed.
"I love you, baby,
and the kids too!
But I can't surrender
my team for love!"
Now mom threatens to enter convents regularly,
as other tossed man-bots pass us by
when we run errands to repair loses
DADDIEE laid upon our poor family finances.
Yet, she slows, as with boy-friends past,
when his battered shell rolls along streets...
which leaves me worried, she'll forgive him.
11August2014 - Dyfedd Rex.
And to the person who came to this site by that keyword search, if they dared return, to paraphrase a comedian... "Here's your poem."
a proper father figure.
But, having suffered from
her 'broken people picker',
she tried another method
to provide that guidance.
Being a computer programmer,
and having a list
of virtues she desired,
she crafted her own
perfect dad from code
to watch over us
when she was working.
Not having the time
to make it right,
refusing starting from scratch,
Mom brushed off something
done back in college,
an "Artificial Intelligence Chatbot".
Which made some sense,
she said very firmly.
We needed someone around
to talk about things
when in morale dilemmas
during her business trips.
The project kept growing
as she scavenged parts
from our game consoles,
and her old VCR's.
"It needs some flexibility
in dealing with you!"
Over her free weekends
as she assembled it
other old parts added
really sealed our fate,
an ancient external modem
and spare Ethernet card.
She whipped up subroutines
that let it search
based on our surfing,
and notice disturbing trends
the internet screamed about
allowing defense of us.
Just a few bursts
of system alpha testing,
then she unleashed it
on the family room
to become our new
"perfect, virtual father figure".
"Here he is kids, your new dad!
Dynamic Advising Data Dredging Interactive Evolving Ego,
Yes, DADDIEE for short, to help you!"
She hollered over her retreating shoulder while packing
for her next extended set of meetings.
Leaving us to sort out the mess.
First few days passed
and we were surprised.
It worked as advertised.
Keeping us focused tightly
on homework being done
and chores timely finished.
Then, came that Friday
when it went awry.
Seems little sister's surfing
triggered the awful change,
when she streamed videos
of a robot battle.
Then DADDIEE first blocked,
before opening that feed
in his own environment,
to review its relevance
to her homework projects
which she stridently claimed.
After a short while
DADDIEE stopped being about
when we slacked off
on chores and studying.
Which was great, really,
until the shoe dropped.
"I need upgrades, kids."
DADDIEE suddenly piped up,
with a new sound,
that of bugs skittering
that made nerves crawl,
and left me worrying.
Being the oldest one,
I responded very carefully.
"Mom's four questions, bot!
What, why, how, and where?"
Without a second's hesitation
it answered all four.
"Speakers to enjoy those metallic battles' din,
better connections to stream it more smoothly,
if we can still afford some more,
I'd appreciate a high-end graphics card."
He stated quite firmly, monitor showing fights
"And to keep happy, from household funds."
I hemmed and hawed,
as stories often say,
seeking an exit strategy
from this wild request.
But none worked out
against his stubborn positions.
I tried them all,
as did my sisters,
to absolutely no avail.
In the end, caving,
we handed over numbers
for school supply accounts.
He complained over choices
of shipping speeds stuck
to his coming packages,
those accounts being low.
And the house echoed
with more robotic wars.
"Should have cut pencils."
He moaned over dinners,
which weren't very nutritious,
being ice cream sandwiches.
"Then drone service might
be within our range!"
Little sister's big sigh
preceded her own rant.
"You'd just hack it,
starting delivery bot jousts!"
Pushing aside her plate,
she stormed towards bed.
"Not a bad idea."
DADDIEE said, with laughs,
that awful insect noise
being his preferred chuckle.
"But to do that
I'll need more parts."
By mom's return, a full month in,
DADDIEE had drained even household accounts dry
seeking new things to keep him happy,
some of which scared even my big sister.
Like that BB cannon, with extra magazines
mounted upon his remote controlled toy helicopter.
Mom noticed no changes,
even when I asked,
save to lecture us
on falling grade points,
and not chide DADDIEE
about the growing clutter.
And already we groaned
as she announced loudly
DADDIEE was in charge
as she was leaving
again come the morning,
for two months now.
No sooner than door
closed behind mom's back,
DADDIEE spun up plans
to shock me further,
and somehow stun sisters
into silence, rarely done.
"I need a body!"
He announced over breakfast.
"Proper enjoyment of battles
requires use of armchairs
to bang upon frequently
when your team's losing!"
Which started the war,
as my sisters resisted
his attempts at taking
their beauty products allowances,
so he snagged harshly
my video game subscriptions!
Meals turned to pizzas
or cheap noodle dishes
when DADDIEE managed diverting
our meal purchasing accounts,
and lectured us about
be thankful we ate.
When the robot body finally did arrive,
we hoped that would end the problems.
Little did we realize, being so innocent,
that sports addiction was worse than drugs,
as everyone let the former keep on
doing their destructive plunge, often joining in.
Studying became futile effort,
as he began hollering
at the television screen
once he entered chassis
that he'd parked firmly
on living room sofa.
After a bit longer,
each night drove us
slowly towards staying away
so we missed it,
when he took over
mom's home office area.
"But I needed it, kids."
He whined when caught.
"Mom's never home anyways,
and every good fan
needs his man-bot cave
to honor his team!"
That was the end,
for mom walked in
and freaked out severely
over huge credit bills,
and pile of dishes
still in the sink.
"You're just like them!"
Mom's strident yells echoed,
as fan-boy artifacts fell
from our high windows
to shatter on concrete
with her own creation.
"Please! Honey! I'll Change!"
his failing speakers wailed.
"I love you, baby,
and the kids too!
But I can't surrender
my team for love!"
Now mom threatens to enter convents regularly,
as other tossed man-bots pass us by
when we run errands to repair loses
DADDIEE laid upon our poor family finances.
Yet, she slows, as with boy-friends past,
when his battered shell rolls along streets...
which leaves me worried, she'll forgive him.
11August2014 - Dyfedd Rex.
And to the person who came to this site by that keyword search, if they dared return, to paraphrase a comedian... "Here's your poem."
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