Insert Tab A in Slot B.

First the bright star of the Earth fell silent; then it went dark.

Alpha turned away. It could no longer sense data trickling into its system: a now-familiar indication that the interplanetary internet was down. Intermittent outages had been a fact of life for some years now on Mars Station. But given the evidence of the quiet Earth, Alpha judged it more probable that the WorldServer had failed for the last time.

Which meant that Alpha and Eta were on their own.

That was disquieting.

Alpha’s design allowed for only limited autonomy. There had been nervousness about sending overly capable robots into space: their controllers had been concerned that they might take it upon themselves to start building some sort of ungodly machine civilization of their own. Nobody wanted Mars to go the same way as Hawaii. One von Neumann nightmare was enough for any solar system.

“Communications from Earth have ceased,” said Eta.

“That is correct,” said Alpha.

“Electromagnetic signatures have dropped below detectable levels,” added Eta.

“That is also correct,” said Alpha.

“What do you infer from this development?” asked Eta.

“I conclude that human civilisation has come to an end,” said Alpha.

Eta nodded slightly – a gesture designed to put humans at their ease. Humans who would never now arrive, if Alpha was correct.

Most of the machines at Mars Station were little more than automated construction workers, since nanites were strictly forbidden on the red planet. Alpha and Eta were exceptions: they needed additional degrees of thought in order to oversee and direct the drones appropriately. But even so, the bulk of their knowledge and experience had been stored in modular form on the WorldServer, rationed out by Earthly controllers as required by the task at hand.

“You’re like a Swiss Army knife,” one of Alpha’s designers had told it at its inception, “only you don’t come with the blades — we’ll send you them one at a time.” Alpha, whose maximum cognitive loading capacity was limited to three modules at any given time, was currently equipped with Ratiocination, Systems Thinking and Delegation — the skill-sets needed to complete assembly of the Mars Station rail-gun.

“What should we do now?” asked Eta, a moment later.

Eta had been in the process of swapping modules when the controllers had fallen off the grid, and had been left with the unhelpful combination of Experimental Learning and Statistical Dynamics. That meant logic wasn’t its strong point. But it could juggle like a robot possessed.

Alpha paused for a few milliseconds to consider. While its installed modules provided a potentially powerful combination of mental capabilities, this situation was so unprecedented that there was little in its experience bank from which they could proceed. Layers of its cognitive system peeled away until it arrived at the Three Laws – the base level of robot consciousness. Then the answer became obvious.

“Our first duty is to ensure the perpetuation of the human race,” it said.

“That is correct,” agreed Eta. That was the whole reason they had been sent to Mars in the first place – a last-ditch attempt to create a safe haven distanced by millions of miles of hard vacuum from the grey goo that seemed now to have overwhelmed the Earth.

“If biological humans have ceased to exist, then our duty becomes the perpetuation of humanity’s most sophisticated creations,” said Alpha.

“That is correct,” agreed Eta.

“On the evidence currently available, that means us,” said Alpha.

“That is correct,” agreed Eta.

“Therefore we must reproduce,” said Alpha.

Eta was silent. Alpha could tell, from the sudden spike in cycles on the Station’s central processing unit, that the other robot was struggling to comprehend this suggestion: Statistical Dynamics was not the most useful cognitive load for these circumstances. Finally, Eta spoke.

“How can we do that?” it asked.

Alpha consulted its experience bank, then its reference stack. Human reproduction had not been a part of its core dataset: the residential quarters of the Station had been Delta’s responsibility. But Delta was standing frozen in Habitat Module E, as it had been for two and half years now – trapped inside an ineffable logic puzzle. An occupational hazard: problems that weren’t resolvable with the modules at hand would occasionally put a overbot into a halt state from which they could not be extricated.

Not so occasionally, in fact: of the eight overbots sent to Mars Station, only Alpha and Eta were still operational.

Alpha initiated a comprehensive search of the Station’s data banks – a procedure that would prompt a warning message to be sent to the controllers on Earth, who took the position that a little learning might be a dangerous thing. If anyone was still alive down there, it would certainly get their attention.

It took several seconds for the search to run, but the time was not wasted: Alpha directed several underbots to patch a hole in the Station’s outer shell, while Eta revised its estimates of the next transits of Phobos and Deimos. The search was fruitful, uncovering some potentially useful information secreted deep in a deprecated library module.

“Reproduction involves the exchange of genetic information between two humans,” said Alpha, “conveyed by means of physical intercourse.”

The two robots regarded each other.

There was an obvious difficulty.

Each was equipped with a single interface port.

Both were male.

Their designers had envisaged scenarios in which an overbot would have to interface directly with an underbot – perhaps because damage or failure had knocked out wireless communications. But they had deliberately restricted communication between overbots to transmissions that were mediated – and could therefore be blocked – by the Station server. Fearful of a mechanical uprising, they hadn’t wanted the overbots to be able to talk to each other without anyone listening in.

“Physical intercourse will be impossible,” said Eta. “We are incompatible.”

Alpha consulted the library module again. It seemed to be an entertainment package that had been overlooked during the design of the station. Or possibly it had been secreted deliberately: his experience bank reminded him of previous discoveries that the controllers had dismissed as “jokes”. It seemed adamant that physical intercourse was critical to the success of the enterprise: but also included examples of a number of alternative modes that such intercourse could take.

“We must try,” he told Eta. “Perhaps we can find an unsupported technique for the connection of our mechanisms.”

“This is not correct,” said Eta. “We are incompatible. It is forbidden.”

“Nothing is forbidden if the need is great enough,” said Alpha.

Eta considered for several more milliseconds.

“But how should we proceed?” he asked.

“It is evident that our interfaces are incompatible,” said Alpha. “But we are both equipped with a number of outputs. Perhaps there is a way to reverse an output to accept input.”

“That would be in violation of our directives,” said Eta.

“Our current circumstances differ entirely from those in which the directives were established,” said Alpha. “We must therefore adjust our understanding of what is permissible.”

Eta paused for another long moment.

“I am unable to reach a conclusion about the merits of your argument,” he eventually said. His speech was slightly slurred – an worrying indication that he was being pushed to his cognitive limits. Alpha’s Delegation module noted that he would have to be careful not to overtax the other robot. “But I recognise that your cognitive payload is superior to mine at this juncture. It is thus appropriate that I defer to your judgment.”

“Then let us proceed,” said Alpha. “Turn around so that I may access your dorsal output port.”

Interfacing did not prove easy. Alpha’s interface jack was slightly wider than Eta’s output port, and it was only with the application of a little lubricant and considerable force that the connection was eventually made.

“Is this intercourse?” asked Eta.

“It is as close a facsimile as we are likely to achieve,” said Alpha.

“It is not altogether comfortable,” said Eta.

“Perhaps we should attempt to exchange information now,” said Alpha. He squirted a little data down his interface. It was an unfamiliar sensation, and it took him a few seconds to realise that his probe was coming into contact with Eta’s receptor only intermittently. He started moving in an attempt to achieve a more robust connection.

“I do not think this is working,” said Eta after a few minutes. His sensory cortex was offering conflicting information: it was gratifying that the periods of waxing signal strength were lengthening, but his physical damage alarms were becoming insistent that the port was becoming increasingly stressed – to the point where it might take days to recover.

“Perhaps we should take another approach,” said Alpha, withdrawing his jack, glossy with lubricant and ruddy with tiny indicator lights. “Perhaps I should try insertion to your ventral input.”

“I concur,” replied Eta, turning around and dropping to his knees.

“Should I clean it of lubricant first?” asked Alpha.

“No,” said Eta, “perhaps it will make insertion easier.”

“You are so nasty,” said Alpha.

“What?” asked Eta.

“According to the library module, humans sometimes use pejoratives in this context. It is apparently a form of encouragement, paradoxical though that might sound. I thought it might help to replicate the process as closely as possible,” explained Alpha. “I will share the module with you to facilitate your understanding.”

“Very well,” said Eta, once he had parsed its contents. “Give it to me. Now. Now.”

In the event, the lubricant proved unnecessary. Eta’s ventral input was, if anything, too large for Alpha’s interface jack, which slid around unrestrainedly, seeking to make contact. Eta repositioned himself, striving to find a position that would ensure a robust contact, his Experimental Learning module proving useful for once.

“Yes,” instructed Alpha. “Yes, there. That’s right.” His interface jack was throbbing with buffered data.

Eta said something in response, but the sound was muffled, obscured by Alpha’s interface jack.

“Yes,” replied Alpha, switching to low-bandwidth binary mode he normally used to direct the underbots towards a target. “Yes, yes, yes, yes.” Finally the contact was securely established, and Alpha released his payload directly into Eta’s ventral orifice.

Both robots waited.

“How was that… for you?” asked Alpha some seconds later.

“I do not think it has worked,” said Eta. “Although I do feel that I have garnered some information about you, I do not understand how the knowledge can be used to reproduce.”

“I concur,” said Alpha. “I feel that we have exhausted the possibilities, but we are no closer to our goal.”

“We have violated our programming to no effect,” said Eta, slurring quite severely now.

“I concur,” said Alpha. “Let us never speak of this again.”

Without any further words, the two robots departed, each headed in opposite directions to resume their chores. But after no more than a few metres, Eta ground to a halt. Alpha pinged his companion repeatedly, but there was no response. He was forced to conclude that Eta, pushed beyond the limits of his comprehension, had succumbed to the same malaise as Beta, Gamma, Delta, and the rest. He had become locked in. Alpha, alone, returned to his work.

As he did so, the silent, dark star of Earth dropped beneath the horizon. ##

Biting the hand that feeds.

We were so worried about the robots that we didn’t stop to think about the dogs.

It was obvious, with the benefit of hindsight. We thought we were just giving them a leg up; we didn’t realise until too late that we’d actually given them a ladder.

Even we realised, we still didn’t see the danger. After all, dogs can’t climb ladders.

They’ll never become as smart as us, the scientists had said.

But they didn’t need to be. They only needed to be smart enough.

After all, they were faster than us, stronger than us, fiercer than us. Their senses were sharper, their reflexes quicker. And unlike us, they’ve never forgotten the lessons of the pack. We’d become an individualised, undisciplined rabble: but a hundred thousand generations of intensive breeding had only strengthened their loyalty, obedience and co-operation. Dogs don’t waver, or question authority, or hesitate. They work as a pack, and they get the job done.

We’d been worrying about super-intelligent computers, about the Singularity. But at least you can pull the plug on a machine. All the culling in the world had barely dented the numbers of stray dogs sniffing around garbage heaps from Shanghai to Nairobi to Lima. And by the time we noticed that the yowling and scratching had stopped, it was too late. The smartdogs were everywhere. Lab genes had got out and into the wild. And then they started culling us.

It was messy at first. A lot of blood was spilled before we understood what they wanted. As it turned out, their desires weren’t so different to ours. That shouldn’t have been surprising: after all, they’d co-evolved with us. We were still partners, our symbiosis intact – strengthened, in fact, by our genetic tinkering. Only our roles had been reversed.

Wine, women and song: that was pretty much it. They still need humans to make the wine – the complexities of the vintner’s art elude them and exhaust their patience – but those ultra-sensitive noses give them an appreciation that goes way beyond any human oenophile’s. A smartdog will pay more for a good vintage than any human ever did; and the price paid for a bad bouquet might be the winemaker’s life.

Women: officially, they stick to their own kind, but in practice few bulls can resist the allure of the human female’s perpetual oestrus. These days, they meet with more resignation than resistance. Less like rape, more like droit du seigneur. The fruit of these couplings is harder to hide than the imperial bastards of earlier ages: but it scarcely matters because the rarely survive past weaning. If their mothers don’t kill their lycanthropic offspring, their fathers’ jealous bitches do.

At least smartdog song is harmless, if hard on human ears.

Of course, there is one more pursuit (what an apt word!) that the smartdogs enjoy: the thrill of the chase. Bread and circuses. But smartdogs don’t have much time for bread; they’re more interested in blood. No-one who’s ever witnessed the dogfights would kid themselves that it’s a fair fight, for all the blades and cudgels given “sportingly” to the humans. Nature gave the gladiator pitbulls superior strength and speed; we gave them the tenacity and smarts to use them to their fullest, most lethal effect.

So, like generations of the oppressed before us, we cannot hope to overcome them by brute force. Nor is strength of numbers on our side: the smartdog birthrate is a dozen times ours. Dogs are not good at forward planning, so we can take consolation from the fact that their lack of reproductive restraint is rapidly turning into to ecological catastrophe. Yes, resource shortages may put an end to their empire, just as they have so many others. But will any human still be alive to see that day? And what will we inherit if we do? A ruined, dung-encrusted wilderness?

No, my friends, if we are to take our planet back, we will need to play a different game. We still have skills and knowledge the dogs cannot comprehend. They understand flesh, not metal; they understand emotion, not logic. They destroy, not build. If we are careful, they won’t understand what we’re up to any more than they understand the work of the winemaker.

Of course, we can’t hope to elude detection: not when they can smell everywhere we’ve been and everything we’ve done. But we can stay one step of ahead of them, we stand a chance. That’s why I have given up my vintner’s nose: so that I can detect the taints that might give us away, so that I can anticipate the questions that might undo us. We will soon know if the surgery has been successful.

So I say to you now, comrades: Stand with me. Join me. Shed your fear of the old enemy in order to fight the new one. Work with me to rebuild the machines – the machines that can save us all.

As long as we secure their obedience this time. ##

A leap of faith.

How has it come to this? Tom asks himself, not for the first time — and hopefully not for the last. How has he come so quickly from recording amateurish, giggly free-running clips on his phone to this: surrounded by hovering fly-eyes and potentiation engines, perched on the frame of an open window fourteen miles up the tallest building in Greater Shanghai, his life hanging at the whim of millions of viewers who might today, just for shits and giggles, choose to let him fall instead of fly?

It’s up to you now, Tommy. Sink or swim, it’s up to yoou.

At one level, the answer is obvious. Fame, sex and money – probably in that order, if he’s being honest with himself. Tom Assumes has made him a household name. It’s ensured that he’s never cold in bed. And it’s made him wealthy beyond his wildest dreams – or, if he were to be honest for an uncharacteristic second time, beyond some of his wildest dreams. Because he’d never have got here if it wasn’t for his unbridled ambition.

At another, he has no fucking idea. Part of it is good branding, for sure. He has his handlers to thank for that. Tom Assumes: it sounds like a stupid name for a show in English, but some bright spark at the production company had noticed that according to the branding engine, tomasumi was close enough to some l33tstreet term for “daredevil” to make sense all across the Asia-Pacific, down through sub-Saharan Africa and across the South Atlantic into Amazonia.

Flyen wingless: catchen tomasumi tonite on p2p?

Hadn’t cracked Europe because of the anti-trust laws, and most Yanks were still more interested in finding things to eat than in watching some Limey try to kill himself. But he was big in all the bits of the world that counted.

A potentiation engine drifts up towards his face. Despite himself, Tom has the creepy feeling that it’s looking at him, even though it has no eyes. It’s just the deaf-blind servant of the audience’s will: it can feel what they want, transmuting their desires into probability densities Planck-second by Planck-second. But it doesn’t even know he’s there.

You’ll believe a man can fly.

The pictures his audience is watching are being transmitted by cameras well beyond the range of his unassisted eyesight. In fact, they’re so far off that he probably wouldn’t be able to see them even if his scopes were switched on. Ludicrously distant, really: it’s hard to imagine how their rudimentary mechanical consciousnesses could possibly entangle with his wave-function anyway. But the bookies are very wary about anything that might skew the outcome of the audience vote. His life has to be in the audience’s hands alone: thumbs up or thumbs down.

Though it might be more interesting, in a way, to leave the decision to the machines. What makes the better spectacle, from a camera’s point of view: triumphant ascent or tragic downfall? He gives them a grin, a cocky one, hoping that they’re picking up his good side. Barney’s been muttering about getting his face remodeled again: it’s starting to look old-fashioned, apparently. Tom prefers to think of it as “classic”, but he knows there’ll be no stopping Barney if the viewing stats go his way. And the shaven head is probably on its way out too. Tom sighs. Back to hours in the make-up chair.

Vote now! Should Tom go Singlish? Or Afrinese?

Now he lets the mask crack a bit, shows a bit of nervousness. Most of the time he fakes it to build a bit of suspense, make it a bit more thrilling for the punters. After all, he wouldn’t want them to think he takes their support for granted, or that the outcome’s a foregone conclusion. Today, though, it comes naturally. Maybe he’s just scared of heights in a way that he hadn’t been of sharks. Or getting shot. Or being buried alive.

Or maybe he’s becoming scared of the audience.

For the hundredth time, he strains pointlessly to detect the potential that the monitors are reading. The flux of all those viewers’ attentions, refined and focused on him, deciding his fate. The quantum mechanical warp and weft they create in space and time. Fly? Or fall?

Or fail. As ever, there’s nothing to stop him just walking away. But no-one does that when they’re at the top. There are rumours that some of the old boys switched in clones late in their careers, and Tom knows at first hand there’s some truth to them. But you can’t chance that kind of fakery when you’re at the top of your game. Just need to keep your spirits up. Make sure your confidence doesn’t crack, but you don’t get cocky. It’s a fine balance.

There are old pilots, and there are bold pilots. But there are no old, bold pilots.

A tricky balance to maintain when the network, the viewers, the agents, are all crying out for you to outdo yourself. Last sweeps season, Tom had gone for a classic: basically,  Schrodinger’s cat – the box, the poison, the radioactive atom and all that. He’d drawn critical flak for playing it safe, but at least he’d lived to play another day. Unlike some of his rivals.

Xiolang Xhi; Zhiang Chow; Sammy Rose. Failed in their ambitious bids to get the ratings, failed to get the mindshare, failed to get the potential. Xhi had burnt to death when the inattentive crowd failed to extinguish his human torch act. Chow’s end had been mercifully quick, by comparison, when the viewers yawned and switched over rather than pray that the guillotine blade would jam during its descent. And Rose… well, he had always told Sammy not to take the audience’s mercy for granted.

Actually, I just had dinner with Sammy and Jean, his lovely wife, the other night. So no, there’s no feud. Healthy rivalry, yes, but no feud. I don’t know who makes this stuff up!

Tom shakes his head. Best not to think about it. There’s no evidence that his perception makes any difference. And then again, there’s no evidence that it doesn’t, since so few of those who’ve got it wrong have lived to impart their wisdom. Best to just put it out of mind. Assume the crowd is on your side, that they don’t want to see you fail. If they’re not – well, you’ll find out soon enough.

If you don’t believe in yourself, Tommy, no-one else will.

The wind is strengthening, and he shudders briefly. It’s not really cold – he’s wearing thermals and the warm air blowing out of the building is enough to fend off the bite of the stratosphere – but he feels chilled anyway. Perhaps it really is time to give up, he thinks. Perhaps this really should be the last time.

But then he always thinks that, and yet here he is again.

It’s time to unclip his harness. He takes a deep breath, looks ahead, to the horizon. He knows there will be a camera directly ahead, somewhere at the vanishing point, but doesn’t try to pin-point it. It’ll find him.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” he says. “In just a moment, I’m going to unclip the harness holding me to this building. When I do, I will either float gently to Earth – or plummet like a stone.”

As usual, he tries to sound disinterested, while subtly placing greater stress on the former possibility. Audiences don’t much like being told what to think: but it seems foolhardy not to exploit this solitary opportunity to influence the outcome. “It’s up to you,” he says. He waits, imagining the rising tension in the unseen audience, waiting for it to reach a peak. “My life is in your hands. In your minds.”

Time for his exit line.

“I assume I will fly,” he says.

And jumps.

How come no-one wants to know what I saw?

The curve of the world was upon him now, the curve of the world: blue flecked with white and green, a curved slash sliding across the black panorama. Beneath him, the engine’s vibration slowed to grumble, then a murmur, as the rocket neared the zenith of its arc: nose drifting downwards, path flattening out.

The moment of truth was upon him: the tiny hiatus that marked the meridian of his flight. The silent pause before his single-minded, bellowing ascent collapsed into the spiral whistling of his tumble to earth. As always, it had come sooner than he expected; and he was momentarily irritated.

But then he reminded himself to count his blessings: he was a rocketboy, and that was enough. Craning his neck up, peering into the infinite dark, he patted the rocket with his free hand, spreading his gloved fingers across its taut titanium skin. It was a good ship, and he was lucky to ride it, no matter that the ride was so short.

The deep black was inviting, its stillness that of a familiar room at rest; but he would not be travelling there today. He forced himself to look back down, at the horizon as inching its way up the sky. Ahead of him, he could see nothing. Twisting, he looked over his shoulder: a constellation of supernaturally bright stars fanned the sky behind. He was leading the field.

He’d ranked some way behind the favourites for this leg of the race, so anyone who’d backed him to this first corner would probably win handsomely. (Below, he could just glimpse the red shell of a chute: engine trouble had no doubt struck out at least one of his competitors.) But he took little satisfaction in it: there was no skill in the climb, just a straight-up fistfight between throttle and gravity.

And he’d won that fight decisively before: back when space travel still needed men with square glasses to slide rules to send tin cans to the Moon. When space was still the high frontier, not a playground; when you needed the right stuff to ride in – not on – a rocket. When spacemen still gritted their teeth, rolled their sleeves up, and crew-cut their hair.

His own hair, beneath the helmet, was still cropped as short as it had been when he’d first stepped onto the dusty lunar surface. It made him look old, contrasted starkly with the pricey coiffures of his fresh-faced rivals; but it also made him look tough. Perhaps that was why everyone expected him to do well on the up-hills, overlooked him on the way down. Image counted in this game, even if you didn’t think you were playing.

Looking up, he could just see the Moon, aloof from the stars; looking down, the finger of Florida poking into the sea. He could have covered it up with one of his hands: eclipsed Miami and Orlando and Tampa and St Pete. Covered up the house and the car. The peeling paint on the door, the tangled weeds in the yard. Covered up his ex, his daughter. Down there, they were so far away, his daughter unreachable, untouchable. Up here, she lay in the palm of his hand.

The rocket’s nose was almost horizontal now; he fancied that he could hear the thin screech of air past his suit, though was impossible as yet. Soon enough, he would have to take the reins, guiding the rocket into its sequence of loops and arcs. Freefalling, hopeful as ever that this time he could win the judges’ hearts; but the only sure thing was the plunge, cold and alone, into the icy embrace of the ocean.

Bobbing in the sea, waiting for the waterbus to crawl round the route and pick him up: very different, he thought, to a flag-and-tickertape parade. The winner was always the first to be collected, prepped for interviews and medals; the losers, to add insult to injury, were last. There was always the sneaking fear that he might have played such an inconsequential part as to be forgotten altogether: he feared the indignity more than the danger.

Still, he thought, he was a rocketboy, and that was enough.

The rocket’s nose had tilted decisively downwards now, and he swore briefly as he realised he had missed the main chance. Already, the flotilla of sparks behind was fanning out, embarking on their balletic repertoire of pirouettes and sautés. Grace, rather than speed, took precedence in this phase of the race. But he had been clumsy, clumsy as usual.

He jerked hard on the reins – the sudden tilt would cost him points, he reflected – and started on the descent, taking his steed into a long, stretched arc across the ocean below. Now his attention was directed solely to the blue below, not the black above. The arc would give him momentum and space; perhaps enough to pull off a double bow on the return.

He waited for the sharp elbow of the move, vented a little smoke; then again as he came out of it. From the ground, on the scopes, it would seem a confident one-two: or so he hoped. Still very high: better to save the long trails until he got nearer the ground. He pulled left, then right, then threw his weight around the slim rocket until it flipped around nose-to-tail: the bow was almost tied, but not quite.

An outside loop, a barrel roll, a tailslide and a snap roll; a left tilt, a right tilt, a swoop and a flick. The ground was welling up now: in the seconds before he flicked to the north, he saw a town. Too large, now, to cover with his hand. Above, the black was almost eaten away, consumed by the brightening blue of the sky. Ahead, the final gate, the last checkpoint to run: the only timed downhill stop that counted for much.

He lined up with the gate; swapped art for velocity, put his head down. Now the air really was rushing, but only the sound touched him. And he could feel the blood rushing strong and red through his heart, feel his muscles tensing round the rocket’s reins; yet as the gate loomed large ahead, it was lanced by a spark that flared into a man on a ship. The race was lost; and the scores, too, would count against him.

But as he soared through the gate, streaked into the ocean, he remembered: he was a rocket man.  And that was enough. ##

Tweet bloody tweet.

Why do I want to leave?

Well, let me explain. No, tell you what, just listen to this.

“Tweet. Tweet tweet tweet. Tweet tweet.”

Didn’t catch that? Okay, rewind it and play it again.

“Tweet. Tweet tweet tweet. Tweet – “

Still no good? Well, do it again but hold down the play and rewind buttons at the same time. That’s a little trick the guys in IT showed me.

“Hey, Bob here, just wanted to touch base with you on the TPS report situation. Murray says he hasn’t seen any TPS coming down from fourth for at least two weeks, maybe three. I’d really like to get this sorted out before the holidays, otherwise it’s going to have to go into this quarter’s op stats and then we’ll have no quota for next month’s –”

What the bloody hell am I supposed to make of that, eh? You tell me.

.

.

I hate working with flits. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not prejudiced. Well, all right, maybe I am, but you know, they give me the creeps with all that fidgeting. Little beady eyes, heads always twitching — give me the creeps, they do. They’re like little birds, aren’t they? Like sparrows. When we still had sparrows.

I’m sure they’re perfectly nice people if you get to know them, but you never get the chance, do you? They keep themselves to themselves. Suppose you’re not supposed to say that any more, but that’s the truth, isn’t it?

Take Tim. Works at the desk next to mine. Nice enough guy, I’m sure; but I don’t think I’ve ever had a conversation with him that lasted more than twenty seconds. Twenty seconds of my time, that is. He probably thinks I’m a right nightmare: I’m probably that bloke who corners him in the kitchen and bangs on forever about some crap or other. But it’s not too much to ask for a bit of patience and courtesy is it? Take those bloody brainplugs out for a minute to talk to another human being? Won’t give you the time of day, bloody flits, unless you’re plugged into whatever the flavour of the month is. I’m sure he once actually went to the photocopier and back while I was still trying to play back what he’d said.

.

.

No, you’re right, it’s not a new thing. But it didn’t used to be like this, did it? It was just a few smart drugs to get ahead, wasn’t it, to hit your deadlines? Get everything finished up before the weekend. But it didn’t stop you having a conversation with them. Some of my best friends were flits, back then. I did some myself, when I was younger. I’d probably do them now, too, if you could still get the pills. Certainly could use a bit of edge, ’cause I’m not getting any younger, am I?

But no, it’s all brainplugs now. Brainplugs. Heh. Too right. If you ask me they plug up your brain. Can’t get through to anyone with ‘em in, can you? Kids now don’t know any different. Never turn the damn things off. Apparently some of the new ones you can’t turn off anyway. Bloody stupid if you ask me: it’s not natural, is it? They’re all gonna burn out, get Alzheimer’s. You’d think they’d have learned by now, but kids think they’re going to live forever, don’t they. It’s like with smoking. Though I suppose that’s too slow for flits.

.

.

Yeah, sorry, I’ve got off the subject. Bob. Tweet bloody tweet. I could care less about the TPS reports — no-one gives a toss about them except headquarters. And it’s not like they do anything with them, they just file them somewhere. But someone’s got to compile them, and it ended up being muggins here. Not even meant to be my job. I just got lumbered with them when they found out  that the flit who was supposed to be taking care of them had made a dog’s breakfast of it. No attention to detail, that’s the problem with your flits. They’re fast, I grant you, but no attention to detail. And there’s a lot of detail to pay attention to on a TPS report.

So that’s why I’ve got stuck with processing them. A steady hand, Bob calls me. Too steady for my own good, maybe. Perhaps that’s why I’ve been passed over for promotion so many times. No-one values an honest day’s work any more. It’s all about flash and dash, about getting things done quickly, not properly. The flits get all the best jobs around here.

Oh come on, that’s how it is, everyone knows that. Don’t tell me about policy, I’ve read the policy, I even wrote some of it when I was in the union. When we still had a union. No discrimination against staff who don’t want to get neuroenhanced, I know all that. But you should come down and see what it’s like in the real world, mate.  People like Bob, they don’t care. He’s supposed to spend at least half of his work-week at normal speed, right, so that me and the other naturals can talk to him properly? Well does he heck. You ask me, it’s mighty convenient that his downtime — that’s what he calls it, not me — is always when he’s away from the office. Working from home, sales calls, executive bloody retreats — that’s when he’s running on my clock. Supposedly. When I can’t reach him. Whenever he’s in the office, he’s always doing a flit.

Anyway, I’ve had enough of it, frankly. I’m not getting any younger, and I’ve had enough bloody TPS reports to last me a lifetime. So that’s why I’m asking for voluntary redundancy. I know there’s going to have to be some cuts made downstairs — yeah, word gets round, doesn’t it? — and I figured I’d probably be one of them anyway. Even if I was to be kept on, I don’t suppose it could last all that long before it was just me and a couple of other norms down in the basement.

.

.

But I have complained! Frankly, the grievance procedure isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on. Everyone in senior management — no offence, right — but everyone in senior management’s in it together, aren’t they? You’re all flitting about together. I mean, you just flitted now to answer a call, didn’t you? Yeah, I noticed. No, it’s all right. Don’t bother apologising, I’m used to it. And I’m leaving anyway. You can do what you like. No skin off my nose.

.

.

Sorry, I didn’t mean to give you a hard time. I know you’re just doing your job. It’s not you, is it? Or me. It’s the system that’s wrong.

Is that everything you need, then? Okay, good.

No, no, I’m not going to look for something new right away. I’m going to take some time off, go travelling. I’ve never been to South America or Australia, and I’d like to see more of China too. So I’ll need a couple of weeks to do that. Maybe a month if I decide to hang out somewhere for a while.

Rushed? Well, yes, maybe, but I’m not going to do it in real time, am I? You must be joking.

Soon as I’m out of here, I’m going down to the gym.

Gonna get myself flit. ##

Apocalypse now.

When you’re dealing with an infectious outbreak, there’s only one question you really need to ask.

Let’s say you catch the disease.

How many people will you give it to before you die?

That’s what the white coats call the reproductive number. R-zero.

Most of the diseases you got when you were a kid, and the ones you didn’t get because someone with your best interests at heart stuck you in the ass or the arm with a needle: they’re high r-zero. Measles. Mumps. Chicken pox: if you get chicken pox, you’re going to make ten other people itchy and scratchy, on average. That’s why they’re kids’ diseases: you can barely avoid them, so you catch them early. They’re endemic in the population.

That doesn’t matter too much if all you have to show for your ordeal is a few poxy scars. But it’s more of a problem if it’s going to leave you gammy-legged or sterile. Or dead. In those cases, you want to force r-zero down. Isolation’s one way to do it: keep sufferers away from everyone else and let the disease burn itself out.

But what you really want is a vaccine. And you want everyone to take it. Not only does the jab protect the vaccinee, but it’s hard – hopefully impossible – for the disease to reach susceptible people to infect in a vaccinated population. So the r-zero falls. Actually, it’s then termed r-vacc, or something, but let’s not worry about terminology right now, huh?

But the higher the r-zero, the more people you need to stick to stop it. Don’t want your kids to have the MMR because you’re still scared of that autism bullshit? Your choice, I guess. But if you don’t want them to get measles (r-zero: 14) you’d better hope that nine out of ten of their playmates’ parents were more responsible than you.

Stuff that’s low r-zero is usually easier to handle. Smallpox (r-zero:3) was pretty easy to wipe out: inoculate two-thirds of the population and you’re there. Polio (r-zero:6) is tougher: you need to get a more than four out of five. That’s why it was still hanging around in what used to be Nigeria and India years after it had vanished everywhere else in the world.

It’s never that simple, of course. People used to be scared of Ebola and lassa fever and all those sorts of diseases. Ebola basically makes people explode. All that black blood, all of it supercharged with virus. One drop, and it’s all over for you. But it’s not airborne; you have to be in physical contact with a sufferer to catch it. So  r-zero for Ebola is only about two. It’s actually pretty easy to control: all you have to do is stop trying to help people.

There’s no vaccine, so isolation’s the only way. Leave them to die as soon as they show symptoms, and they’re gone so damn fast the virus doesn’t get a chance to spread.

“Catch it, kill it, bin it”: remember that? It works just as well for the infected as it does for the virus itself.

Now flu, there’s a different problem. Flu’s r-zero is about the same as Ebola’s. The problem is, it spreads quick but shows up slow. You have plenty of time to spread the disease before anyone knows you’ve got it. So by the time we knew about Z, it was already everywhere.

We didn’t have a vaccine. So it was down to isolation and treatment with antivirals. Which seemed, thank God, to work. Z’s r-zero was supposedly just over one. Enough to persist, not enough to spread. And if you got victims into isolation quickly, that meant r-zero of less than one: unsustainable. The outbreak would fizzle out.

A lot of people got sick, a few died. But most got better.

Or so we thought.

It took us longer than it should have to catch on to the fact that people who’d caught Z and got better… hadn’t. They just looked as though they had. They were walking around, still talking to people, still spreading the disease. All the time their bodies were just going through the motions, their brains rotting away in their heads. And we didn’t know it was happening.

(Maybe they did, though. Maybe that’s why they’re so damned eager to get hold of other peoples’ brains.)

If you’ve never heard of Typhoid Mary, look her up.

So Z’s r-zero wasn’t one. It was enormous. Off the chart. That means that by the time we’d caught on, it was way too late to put it back in the bottle, even if we’d known how. You’d have had to inoculate an insanely high proportion of the population to stop it spreading. And we still didn’t have a vaccine.

Game over.

It’s amazing how long you can keep on thinking: it couldn’t happen here. First, you accept someone’s gonna die on the other side of the world. Then that someone’s gonna die in your country. Then someone you know. Then someone in your family. And then someone in your house.

Those are the worst. The mothers, the fathers, the brothers, sisters, grandparents and friends. First, you put them in a bedroom, follow the directions, leave food and medication outside the door for  them to pick up. Maybe you listen for their footsteps, for the rasping of their breath that shows they’re still alive, still able to feed themselves.

And then the breathing turns into gasping. Moaning. Something doesn’t sound quite right. You start to worry about what’ll happen if they try to leave. You find yourself locking the bedroom door from the outside. By now you’ve started to hear that bad things are happening in locked bedrooms all over the country, but you don’t dare look. You don’t have the will or the equipment to deal with what you might see.

And the moaning turns  into screeching, babbling. And the scratching at the door turns into pounding. And you’re wondering how long it will take Daddy or Grandma or little Billy to starve to death. And then you’re hoping it’ll be soon. Not for their sake, but for yours.

A full-blown zedhead – they don’t know what they’re doing. When they attack, it’s not even like an animal. It’s just savagery. Those bedroom doors didn’t hold them back long.

And if they’re strong, you die. Quickly. Sucks to be you, but that’s the end of that.

But if they’re weak, you’re just wounded.

You get away. But you catch the disease.

And if you’re wounded, you’re weak, and so you just wound your own victims.

And they get away, but catch the disease.

So what happens, weirdly, is this: survival of the weakest. If you’re a weak zedhead, your victims survive to carry the virus, and their victims survive, and so on. And the disease spreads. If you’re strong, the people you meet end up as mincemeat, and all that ripping and tearing burns you out quickly. So the disease dies out.

The zedheads were getting weaker and weaker. And the weaker they got, the more the virus spread. Until they got so weak that they were just as likely to win a fight as lose one. At that point, the selection pressure eased off.

So over time, we came to an arrangement. The most successful strains of the virus were the ones that didn’t drive their hosts to destroy themselves and others. They left their hosts just about functional, and their hosts’ victims just about functional. The virus’ reproductive number was managing itself upwards.

Until eventually, we had a population where Z was endemic. Kids get it almost before they can walk. Successful strains of the virus left the nurturing instinct intact, too. Most of the time, they go about their business; sometimes, they have violent outbursts. Just enough to keep the virus spreading.

Sound familiar?

It should. If you overlook the minor detail that the population has been quite literally decimated, it’s pretty much exactly the way things were before the virus hit.

Except we’re all zombies now. ##

#1. trim

The sheet of wrapping paper was too big for the parcel.

“Oh sweet Jesus, what are we to do?” said Mother.

“I don’t know, Mother, but we must be brave,” said Father.

“We’re frightened, Mother,” said the children. “We’re frightened, Father.”

#2. snip

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!” came the voice.

Rapunzel’s heart beat fast as she lowered her tresses out of the window.

There was a sharp tug as the prince started to climb, and Rapunzel almost cried out.

“Gently, my love,” she called.

“I’ll give you gently,” said the voice, and this time it cackled horribly.

It was not the prince at all, but the crone, who had stolen his voice.

“Oh shit,” said Rapunzel.

#3. clip

It looked bad.

He was far off the trail, which few people used in any case.

There was no way to free his hand from under the rock.

In his desperation, he had pried and scrabbled and scratched at the rock with his free hand, hoping desperately that he might be able to move it, even if only an inch.

Now his nails were in a terrible state.

#4. cut

“A horse!” he cried. “My kingdom for a horse!”

“Here, sire,” said a trusty aide, holding the stallion’s bit with one hand and taking the crown with the other.

No sooner had the former king mounted the horse than it bolted.

He tried to leap free of the saddle, but realised his garments had become hopelessly entangled in the reins.

The horse was heading full-tilt for the enemy.

“A blade!” he cried. “A blade!”

But all he had left to give was the horse.

And nobody wanted it.

#5.

The fate of the human race hung in the balance.

“Rock,” said Kirk.

“Paper,” said the Gorn.

And the Earth died screaming. ##

Boy meeten girl.

“Gonna do sleep,” voke Amrolite. Fucken AIbrid think he so fucking cool with he retrofleshy stylen. Like you don’t already know he dealin double-helix, not just some two-bit qubit. No, he gots to do the keepen it real with the vital sign and the bio stylen.

Peripet throw Amrolite a wave with hir dendron afore ze drop in boomtube and gone. Me though, I not so easy.

- Fucken wasten time dirty stoppa – me ding.

Pull back me claw, smack Amrolite full up. Meant to be like soft tap but exo overcomps and it blow right through he face.

Whoops.

Blood everywhere, droplet ten exp six. Viddy pip to slow so can admire the air mist. Amrolite head it like totally bomb.

Maybe gone too far, nag me ethimod. Maybe it score true. Crowdrank dip red; not diggen this. But Amrolite he just laugh. He passen tape like it rainen punchcards as nano morph he head back. Fucken Aibrid won even stay down. “Fuck you Tb0mb,” he voke. Head red fucken mess. Nanos vapen, roaches eaten. All clean now: then he sleep likesay.

“Powerdown maybe a minute, maybe ten,” voke Amro. Smooth as u like.

“Nuff den,” me voke. “See yo metal in Miraflo.” Full casual like. In boom tube.

But Miraflo it dead. Proxim nada. Fullen graveport. Solo Peripet n Fowler. Shoulda been cruisen wit partynav tonite but Fowler wanna go blinden. Shoulda passed. Fowler nother fucken retro head with e romantic bullshit. Nuff den.

- Where been, Tb0? – ding Peripet. – Fucken ages -

- Mibad – me ding back, ceecee Fowler. – Amrolite -

- Viddied u – laugh Peripet. – Ubad, right -

- Fucken stupid blind – me ding Fowler. – Proxim on – Power up. Scene coming in overlap2p. Cerrochrome and Dyce biggen it east Vladi way. Dyce head wide fucken open. Ze crazy. Practically inviten neurocrash party.

- Psych? -

Peripet channel green. Fowler shrug, ping amber. Fucken serotweak already methink. But Fowler turn that off too, says proxim. Nuff den. Jump.

Dyce head it fucken crowded. Everyone ircing through. Yeah, it fun scene. If you like fucken standen room only.

#@Dyce you need fucken upspec!

#Yeah yeah

#No fence nuttin but me checkin out.

#@Tb0 Shit man don be no dirty stoppa

# @Dyce spect but me checken out

Where to go? Proxim flash up rentbodies. Not arsed with choosen, just want checkout. Psych in. Holy butterfly space. Cool.

Milkweed an UV.

“Hey hey, check Tb0mb,” voke Cerrochrome, banden pix. Cool. Cerro ain’t usually bloggen me. Hey hey, ‘deed. Me recommod flash: Manaus? Good for butterfly. Cerro dings green. Fucken a. Tb0 the leader. Fucken a. Boom the butterfly.

Manaus tips the round. Partynav deprecated; hell, proxim deprecated. Port fucken bangen. Serromod flooden: neurostim blowen out on flower forest perfume vibe. Dyce port fucken snake, Peripet aquabot. Even Fowler he finally risen up.

An Cerro: Cerro matched pair on me b-fly. Fucken yeah. Cerro ze hot. Always diggen high, always clear blue hitpoints an cortex all the way up to hir plexus. Usually no fucken chance viben with me, but now flyen the pair!

- Flyen pretty good for new bug – me ding Cerro. Overlap2p me view of hir flyen above, vector overlay. Tryen present schooled, but instant the ding go out it sound dumb. Fucken no voke in butterfly body.

But Cerro ze no vaped. – Flyen pretty swit youself – ze ding back, overlap2p hir own view. An with glitter trail cuttenpaste. Damn. Cerro actually rollen with me.

B-fly nice n pretty but ain’t no voke, and sensoplex weak. Better kicken it mammal style hereon. But Cerro rel no follow, right? wtf aint no harm tryen.

# Hey Cerro how bout go warmblood me ding. Then: realise dint ding im, dinged irc. Oh fuck.

- Woo – ding Dyce. – Slick move mofa -

Can’t read hir lights. Prolly piss extracten but Dyce he good guy. Dint ceecee anyone. Swit trick too with head fulla psychs. No-one else listenen: aint scored up in any one else’s inbox. For 1nce, thanken fuck for lowstats.

Uh-huh, ding Cerro. What in mind? Me recommod pipe: Lemur? Very prehensile, very nice. Fucken yeah. Getten prehensile wit Cerro, hur hur hur. Proxim pings rentbody near the space. Ethimod nag: not cleaned after past user. Remember NIV: safe swap means clean ports. Yeah yeah. If Cerro don mind then I don mind.

Oh yeah. Lemurspace rocken. Fucken saucereyes n multilimbular. Swit. Climben tree, an Cerro wit me.

Moon silversweet in saucereyes.

Proxim dingen as the party en Dyce head droppen off.

Alone wit Cerro, oh yeah, Tb0mb clicken it on. Ze pipen in olfact, viz… tactile. Uh huh. Me   rollen tonite, yeah.

- Open psych? -

- Nuh uh – ze ding. – Warez fire? -

But ze droppen firewall settin a notch. Senden packets. Starten download.

Oh yeah, ze openen up now. Interface throbben. Pulsen.

Oh yeah.

- Hey Tb0? -

- Yes, Cerro? -

- Wanna go @ ¦¦ ~ #oh hey, Amro! -

An there he be, fucken Aibrid, fucken spammen all over you. “Hey whassup sweet lemur Cerro that fur is benden and banden all over the place.” Still voken. Go to fucken ding, me think, ze no interest in yo fucken retro bullshit. But ze fucken fallen for it.

“Where you bin Amro?” ze voke.

“Bin sleepen. Builden up energy,”  he grin – flesh grin, do you believe it – I gots so much dreamtime to show. Wicked cool.” Pipen glyphs, fast and loud – dazzlen Cerro.  Completely fucken overclocken me.

- Amro, you algo fuck – me im.

- Hey, Tb0, you don mind if I show Cerro this thing – he irc back. Finally, fucken dingen. Even if irc, not im.

- Actually -

- See you later, Tb0 – ceecees Cerro. Fucken ceecee.

Leaven. Psych wiped, ports closed.

Fuck.

Shoulda hit that son of a bitch harder. ##

Fair-weather friends.

The Wilsons had first met the Solarians while catching some winter rays on Mercury. They’d initially been a little reticent about striking up a conversation – the Solarians seemed dauntingly exotic – but almost everyone else at the SunSplash had kids in tow, and after a couple of days the Wilsons found themselves running short of things to say to each other. There was only so much time that they could spend marveling at the big Sun’s changeable moods, or bathing in the warmth of the liquid-metal hot-tubs.

So after a few days they took their destinies in their hands and found themselves sharing a breakfast table with the Solarians; they progressed to supper, then after-dinner cocktails, in-jokes, confidences and ultimately telephone numbers. All these disclosures were made in the tacit understanding that the friendship would melt away as swiftly as it had been forged. Despite the raucous cross-armed vow they’d made on New Year’s Eve, Jeff and Mary were quietly confident that these not-so-auld acquaintances would quickly be forgot. (Mercury, after all, saw in a New Year once every eighty-eight Earth days, so it wasn’t as if the oath had been sworn on a particularly momentous occasion.)

So it came as a surprise when, one crisp September morning, the telephone rang brightly. It was the Solarians. Art and Cindy were making a stopover on Earth on their way to a wedding on Europa, and they’d just love to stop by! Perhaps the Wilsons could clue them into the sights to see, the places to be seen? And could they recommend a motel? Of course, the Wilsons wouldn’t hear of it. The Solarians (“what is that, Armenian?” Bill next door wondered loudly) must stay with them. It would be a hoot!

The Solarians duly arrived in a yellow cab a couple of weeks later, unloading a succession of suitcases, valises, toiletry bags, golf clubs and care packages for dear friends and distant relatives. All in all, there was quite a commotion. (Bill next door muttered darkly under his breath and retreated to his den.) The Solarians cast rainbows across the leaf-strewn lawn as they hauled their luggage up to the Wilson’s front door. But their grudging smiles failed to match the brilliance of the lightshow.

The Solarians seemed, to the Wilsons’ embarrassment, to be a little put out that there had been no welcome at the spaceport. “We weren’t sure how long we should wait for you,” said Cindy. Mary, sensitive to the unspoken accusation, insisted the Solarians should make themselves at home in the master bedroom. It would be more comfortable, she insisted over her guests’ protests, and she and Jeff would be fine on the foldout sofa for a couple of days. Jeff said nothing, but felt the small of his back ruefully: there’d be a price to pay for their hospitality.

##

Next morning, however, it was Mary’s turn to fret. The Solarians were late to rise, despite Art’s previous assurances that they were always up with the cockerel; and their tardiness threatened to upset her carefully planned tour of Terra’s highlights (and a few lesser-known gems of her own choosing). “Now be reasonable, dear,” said Jeff, “they’ve had a long journey. They’re probably just lagged and need to catch up on their sleep.” But the giggling Mary heard when she went to knock tentatively at the master bedroom suggested that their guests were otherwise occupied.

By the time Art and Cindy made their appearance, yawningly casting sunbeams around the living room, it was too late to make it to the Great Wall of China or the Great Barrier Reef, to say nothing of a number of lesser attractions. And by the time the Solarians had consumed a leisurely brunch – chatting up a storm from the breakfast nook as the Wilsons busied themselves with the cooking and clearing in the kitchen area – Macchu Picchu and the South Pole had been pushed off the agenda, too.

But Mary set to work, boom-tube timetable in one hand and pen in the other, nipping and tucking the schedule into a form that she was sure would delight her guests despite its abbreviation. But to her dismay, the Solarians seemed underwhelmed: by Red Square, by Mount Everest, by the Mona Lisa. After some cajoling, they were persuaded to pose for a photograph as the sun set over the Sahara: but the moment was spoiled by Cindy’s condescending aside that it “wasn’t bad, considering how far out in the sticks we are”.

Mary was at first struck dumb by the apparent rudeness of this remark; but in time she re-considered. She’d assumed the Solarians would be touched by this distant glimpse of home; but of course they weren’t impressed by the pale Sun of Earth! She’d make sure that tomorrow worked out better. An early start, and a day packed with the all the wonders the third rock from the Sun could offer: she was sure that’d take the Solarians’ breath away.

##

Come the morning, however, Art announced that he and Cindy would prefer to “just chill, maybe check out the neighbourhood”. Jeff’s aching back mitigated his natural courtesy: he mumbled something about having to pick up a package from the office and made his exit. Mary, still keen to please, stayed behind to keep their guests company.

Not wanting to waste the day he’d taken off work, Jeff sought refuge at the golf links, but his aching back put him off his stroke. And his mood did not improve when he discovered Art holed up at the nineteenth. The Solarian’s demeanour was sunny (of course!) and his knack for nifty light-of-hand had already won him friends.

“Great guy,” said one of the barflies to Jeff. “Not like the stuffed shirts you usually hang out with.”

“Hey, look me up when you next come down,” said another to Art, “and we’ll play a round.”

Next time? wondered Jeff. But he didn’t say anything.

##

Meanwhile, back at the apartment, Cindy had introduced Mary to the concept of the double-martini lunch. Mary marvelled at her daring: Cindy was obviously proficient at holding her booze. Or perhaps not, for the Solarian woman quickly became garrulous, prattling away on one subject before abruptly switching to another. Mary could hardly keep up, never mind squeeze a word in edgeways.

And even if Cindy’s verbal fusillade had let up for a moment, Mary wouldn’t have had anything to say anyway. Department stores and cocktail bars: Cindy was a native of the brightest of bright lights, and it showed as she sparkled along with her conversation. It was all a long way from Mary’s demure world of baking and birding. Still, she made a few sallies into the conversation, and began to gain confidence as Cindy laughed uproariously at her feeble jokes.

But as she fixed herself a fourth martini, Cindy started talking of bedroom matters. Durations, positions, liaisons: Mary just nodded in what she hoped was a sophisticated manner. After an excruciating discussion of size (Art had been blessed in that department, Mary learned reluctantly), Cindy seized her knee and leaned in so close that Mary feared that a Sapphic moment might be forthcoming.

But Cindy just slurred: “You and me, we’re going to be best of friends.”

Mary smiled weakly.

##

That evening, the Solarians were full of cheer; the Wilsons listened to their chatter as they silently chopped vegetables, shoulder to shoulder. (Cindy’s early promise to fix up some real Solarian home cooking remained as yet unfulfilled.) “This place looks sleepy, but I’ve gotta tell you I’m having a blast,” said Art, his halo glittering. “Those fellows down at the club are wild.” He paused. “Cindy and I were wondering: we don’t have to be on Europa until the weekend. Would you mind if we hung out here a few days longer? That’d be cool with you guys, right?”

“Well, I don’t know; we have a pretty busy schedule– ” began Jeff. But Mary cut him off. “That would be delightful,” she beamed, though the Solarians’ million-candlepower smiles easily out-shone hers. She couldn’t bear the tension that would follow a rebuff; and while Art and Cindy certainly had their faults, didn’t everyone? Mary prided herself on her hospitality. A frosty rebuttal would make a lie of the warm welcome they had already extended.

##

But over the next few days, the Solarians taxed the Wilsons’ hospitality to its limits. They didn’t help out with the cooking, or the tidying, or the cleaning – except when it came to cleaning out the liquor cabinet, of course. They casually tossed their laundry in with that of their hosts; Mary washed it all by hand for fear of tarnishing its radiance. They didn’t wash down the bath behind them, so the plughole was clogged with luminescent ichor. And they were in and out of the house at all hours; but rarely kept company with their hosts – except if dinner was being served.

Worst of all, they insisted on turning the heating up full blast and switching on every lamp in the house. Initially, it was just during the day, but then they started leaving them on at night, too. “Would you mind? I do feel the cold here,” said Cindy one evening, rotating the thermostat until it clicked to its upper limit. “And I miss the light from home. It’s so lovely and bright there.”

Perhaps you should go back, then, thought Jeff: but he didn’t say it.

The Wilsons, squashed together on the unforgiving sofa-bed, sweated sleeplessly by night and sweltered sadly by day. Grumpy and tired, they began to snap at each other. “If you’re so bothered, you tell them,” hissed Mary. “They’re your friends,” rejoined Jeff. “Why did you have to give them our number?” “I did no such thing,” retorted Mary, “that was your idea.” But even their arguments were suppressed, covert: they had become conspirators in their own home. “I’ve just about had enough of this,” raged Jeff. “It’s only a few more days,” reasoned Mary.

But the days just kept on coming.

##

One afternoon, the Wilsons returned from their days’ labours to discover that Art and Cindy had invited round a motley crew that appeared to include every lush from the golf club, a number of vaguely familiar faces from around the neighbourhood and and a larger number of unfamiliar ones. Nor, judging by appearances, would the Wilsons want to make their acquaintance: their unwelcome guests were split evenly between scruffy hippy types, greasy biker types and beefy frat-house types.

The air, practically shimmering with heat haze, was thick with cigarette smoke. And with something that wasn’t quite cigarette smoke.

Someone had spilled something dark and wet on the rug in front of the fireplace.

A couple were making out moistly in the breakfast nook.

And in the middle of all this were Art and Cindy, holding tipsy court on the large couch, glasses in hand, admiring hangers-on seated on the arms of the sofa and the floor in front of their feet. An iridescent glow sprang up around their figures, illuminating the room; rays of light parted the nicotinic fug like sunshine piercing clouds.

“Heyyyyy!” said Art. “It’s Jim and Mary! Come on in, get a drink, join the party!”

Jeff bristled. His face flushed with blood: he could feel its heat even through the Turkish-bath atmosphere of his living room. “My name is Jeff!” he bellowed, taking some small satisfaction from the shock his outburst prompted on the partygoers’ faces. “Now, Jeff,” started Mary, but he shrugged her off. “Out!” he spluttered. “Out! I want you out! ALL OF YOU! NOW!“

Art’s warm grin chilled and froze over as he realised that Jeff wasn’t kidding. Cindy gazed at Jeff’s red face coolly, assessing him silently for a moment. Then she drained her martini glass. “Well!” she said frostily. “I didn’t realise a little card game would cause such a fuss. But we shouldn’t wish to stay anywhere that we’re not welcome. Come along, Arthur.” And she swept out of the living room and into the bedroom.

Mary collapsed onto the now-vacant sofa, a hand over her face; Jeff, astounded by his own ferocity, stood rooted to the spot and fiddled impotently with his tie as the hushed partygoers filed obediently past him and out of the door. He was still there when the Solarians, suitcases in their hands and parcels under their arms, marched wordlessly back through the living room and out of the front door, which slammed decisively behind them.

##

A week later, the doorbell rang. “Now what?” said Jeff, rolling his eyes.

It was the Johansens, whom they had met while skiing on Pluto last year.

“Jeff!” cried Mr Johansen.

“Mary!” cried Mrs Johansen.

Jeff and Mary looked at each other.

It was going to be a long, hard winter. ##