Fiction: Security Breach

Arvid8 sat in the security room watching the monitors. The half-starved population outside the gates knew about Lord Grazorius’s food storehouse; Arvid8 looked for criminals who had slipped past the guards. Peasants could be tricky.

He was also vigilant for smaller intruders. Mice still plagued humanity in the late 22nd century. There hadn’t been any trouble since the Great Raid when more than ninety mice made off with an astonishing amount of food. Lord Grazorius had been furious, and security had installed hundreds of additional traps.

Arvid8 heard a motion alarm. He switched the view to the holographic tank, recreating the scene life size in his office.

A single mouse crept toward a box of food. The trap sitting by the box caught the mouse’s attention. As it should, Arvid8 thought as he magnified the view.

The trap’s enclosure was almost invisible. The mouse walked straight in and a little door folded down, sealing the opening. The mouse walked onto the platform and grabbed the bait. As the trigger tripped, the powerful spring propelled the titanium hammer onto the mouse’s back.

The hammer bent around the rodent.

Arvid8 gasped as he watched the unharmed mouse eat its prize. Then it backed out from under the hammer and one back leg kicked the trap’s door open. The mouse skittered out and looked directly into the hidden camera, making Arvid8 feel uneasy.

The mouse leaped to the box of foodstuffs, and its powerful jaws made short work of one corner of the steel box. Arvid8 dispatched a hunter-killer robot, but the mouse fled with its loot.

Arvid8 cleared the holoimage and turned to his hardwired communicator.

“Security Control, this is Security 2, Arvid8.”

“Go ahead, Security 2.”

“I need a probe team in here, armed and with extra robots for perimeter security. And tell Lord Grazorius the mice have evolved again.”

Pen to Paper: Banned Books and Unfunded Studies

This week, we’ll look at a couple of important stories from the news.

This is Banned Books Week. It started Saturday and continues through this coming Saturday.

There’s never a season when someone somewhere doesn’t think, “I know better than everyone else. I certainly haven’t read this book, and I don’t think anyone should read it either.” There are all sorts of mindsets that can lead to this disease: “God (by whatever name) hates this book”; “I hate this book”; “We have to protect the public’s morals”; “Think of the children.”

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Fiction: Wisdom

Philippe arrived at the Mountain of Wisdom, eager to climb it and meet the Wisest of the Wise, who lived near the summit, and learn the great lessons of life.

The peace of his surroundings was interrupted by a pounding sound, and he went to investigate.

He found five men, four of them obviously native to the area, erecting a sign. The fifth man looked up and saw Philippe and walked toward him.

“Greetings, friend,” the fifth man said. “I am Karl. You have come to meet with the Wisest of the Wise?”

“Indeed I have, Karl. I am Philippe. I have walked the pilgrim trail from my beloved France to meet with her.”

Karl looked down a moment, apparently trying to compose himself.

“I deeply regret, Philippe, that I will always be known as the last person to talk with her.”

“Then … she is…?”

Karl nodded. “Yes. The aged one now sleeps forever.” He drew a deep breath. “I climbed the mountain, just as you came to do. I found her at death’s open door. She spoke only briefly. I have had this sign made in the village below to tell other pilgrims of her death and to record her last words to humanity.”

Philippe, his mind crying out against fate, permitted Karl to lead him over to the sign. It was written in several languages. Philippe read the French version: “The Wisest of the Wise, as all do, has died. Her final words were, ‘Do not make a shrine of my dying place. Seek the truth of life in your own way.’”

Tears ran down Philippe’s face. He knelt on the ground and sobbed unashamedly as the other men looked on. Then he abruptly pulled himself together and stood.

“My sorrow is nothing,” he declared. “I must go and fulfill her instructions. She left great wisdom, and I must follow it.” He embraced Karl and kissed him on each cheek and then went back the way he came.

The sign maker and his men followed at a discreet distance, leaving Karl alone to contemplate the mountain.

And thus it was that none ever after climbed the Mountain of Wisdom to speak with the Wisest of the Wise, who lived until she died without another visitor.

Karl took the wisdom she had given him and twisted it to build a vast financial empire. He became one of the world’s great plutocrats and died at a greatly advanced age, rich, powerful, and gleefully unrepentant.

Pen to Paper: Pen Names

Thanks to the Internet, “nom” is now a verb, and “nom de plume” is straight English for what a lolcat does to a big feather. Q.E.D.

In literary circles, however, a nom de plume is still a pen name. Authors have long used pseudonyms and we know many writers primarily or only by the fictitious names they adopted.

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Fiction: Outstanding in Their Fields

The oblong little spacecraft overtook the truck on the road and landed gently in front of it, scarcely disturbing the gravel. The driver of the truck, a Blazer from the previous decade, slowed and stopped and stared.

A hatch opened on the side of the spaceship and an extraterrestrial, all four-foot-five of him, stepped down to the ground, his iridescent green scales shining in the afternoon sun. He approached the truck’s driver, a stocky man wearing a brand-new seed cap.

“Good soil to you,” the alien said. He held a small, round device from which the English words flowed; nothing about his mouth seemed capable of producing those sounds.

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