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Category:
Science Fiction
Publisher: Sortmind Press
ISBN-10: 1771154667
Type: Fiction
Pages: 300
Copyright: December 2020
ISBN-13: 9781771154666
Price: $3.99 (eBook)
When the solar system adopts the buggy SolGrid telepathic network designed by former Space Force officer Patrick James, Jack Commer’s charismatic but impudent son Jonathan James instigates a rebellion against fascist brainwashing.
When the solar system adopts the buggy SolGrid telepathic network designed by former Space Force officer Patrick James, Jack Commer’s charismatic but impudent son Jonathan James instigates a rebellion against fascist brainwashing. His followers include his lover Suzette Borman, a hard-bitten nightclub owner who’s been rejuvenated to look nineteen; Patrick’s girlfriend Jackie Vespertine, emissary to aliens in the Iota Persei system; Pat’s SolGrid partner Sanders Hirte, a former bar bouncer; and Jonathan James’ dog Trotter, bonded to him years ago in Alpha Centauri as warrior brother.
Smitten with the voluptuous Suzette and finally admitting that his dysfunctional SolGrid is paralyzing Sol culture, Pat accepts a place in the Rebellion. But he’s stunned when Jonathan James storms an orbiting museum and not only steals Typhoon II, Jack Commer’s ancient 2030’s spaceship, but also kidnaps Z’B, Emperor of the Martians. As Jack pursues Jonathan James he begins to understand that his son’s pirate crew is staging an armed rebellion against Sol.
Excerpt
A wild lurch and the saucer was upside down. Amav focused on the backup attitude system and yanked the control stick to flip the craft upright. Thank God she and Jack had wanted the sport model saucer with manual controls; she could never have pulled off these maneuvers by tapping console squares. Hit after hit of hard sulfuric Venusian atmosphere rocked the ship.
“Damn! Is all contact with Sat One gone?”
“Correct. Compensating with onboard sensors. Attempting to pick up beacon from Garr/thahg Castle.”
“Am I still on course for Lakshmi?”
The ship hesitated. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Sensor probes of surface indicate flight path more or less on course for the Castle. There is much signal noise. Concerning your theory of Martian origin of this noise, may this ship recommend that you consult SolGrid for an answer?”
“What? Is SolGrid still online?”
“SolGrid is online. As you are no doubt aware, but may have momentarily forgotten in your current stressful state, SolGrid is independent of SolNet.”
“Oh, of course!” Amav shuddered. Like Jack and Joe, she’d dipped into SolGrid just once in December and had been appalled by a couple seconds of contact with everything. She’d also seen in those few seconds how many USSF secrets she happened to know were leaking out. Some of the security cleanup after SolGrid came online was for concepts pulled out of her own mind.
Of course, try as she might to forget, December wasn’t the first time Amav had known Grid consciousness. She could barely force herself to recall last July, and her insolent son’s demented attempt to restore the Alpha Centaurian Grid and name himself Emperor. But for half an hour Amav had known the full ancient Centaurian horror of it. She’d tried to tell herself and everyone else, including Jack, that she didn’t remember much, or that she’d succumbed against her will, but that was pure self-delusion, for she recalled every humiliating detail. Deep down she’d chosen to follow her own son’s command to seduce her old friend Phil Sperry, just so JJC and his cohort Clopt could record some idiotic human sexual code for their nasty software. She’d spent months trying to convince herself that she’d simply been temporarily brainwashed, but for half an hour last July she’d readily ridden uncontrollable lust for poor Phil, oblivious to Jack who’d been so seriously injured that he might have died right next to his frenzied nude wife straddling Phil, begging him to bang her brains out. Yeah, it hadn’t gone anywhere near intercourse, but so what? The shame of it was more than enough.
So in December she’d dared herself to sample SolGrid to prove she could handle it, that July had just been an aberration impossible to repeat. In a way the experience had been beneficial, because it was obvious that this SolGrid software was different. There was no sense of brainwashing; you always knew you could come out. But it was hard to admit that the flavor of being inside SolGrid was the same as last July, with the identical temptation of possibly deciding after all to refuse to leave such paradise.
What really scared her was that the Technique, as it was called, for entering SolGrid seemed at first as complicated as learning a new programming language. But after the first rough steps of alien logic, the SolGrid software proceeded to teach you how to memorize the rest of the Technique. The entire process took three seconds. And once you had the Technique, you never forgot it. Millions of Sol citizens now used SolGrid daily, but where were their minds after three and a half months of use? How could anyone, especially a genius like Patrick James, contend that SolGrid offered an enlightened new way of sharing intimacy with billions of people? That it would make the present SolNet digital network look like Neanderthal cave drawings?
Jack had told her that although he still remembered the Technique, he wasn’t sure he could call it up so quickly, in contrast to Amav who worried just how fast she could. When Jack said he wanted to start meditating, she was afraid it might inadvertently lead him into the Technique. But he’d assured her that, as far as his limited experiments showed, meditation and SolGrid were mutually exclusive mental states.
Amav thought she should take up meditation herself, if only to ward off the irrational fear that she might slip into the Technique in a moment of anger or stress.
And remain in that brave new Grid, saturated in overwhelming, unfocused erotic fantasy, forever.
Something like a boulder slammed the front right of the saucer. Again the ship spun madly, and this time Amav found she couldn’t get the thrusters to stop the whirling.
“Ship! Where am I? How high?”
“Altitude 5.67 miles. Atmospheric buffeting has thrown the ship off course. Sensors offline. Engine offline. Attitude thrusters offline. Environmental controls offline.”
“What?”
“I must say good luck to you, pilot Amav. All internal systems aboard this ship will cease functioning in ten seconds. I recommend you install Venus Suit Five on your person before the lights go out. Approximate projected site of ground impact fifty-five miles southeast of Lakshmi Planum. Goodbye. Ship AI interface now offline.”
Amav wasted one of the seconds staring at the dimming colors on her console displays. Then she found herself ripping open a locker and jerking out the Five Venus suit, the one for highest pressure rating.
She pulled the suit on as everything went dark. The inertial dampers failed and she was hurled against the saucer wall as centrifugal forces built in the flailing, tumbling craft. The helmet rolled away but she dragged herself along the wall and felt for it in the black chaos, snagged it and clamped it on.
The Technique unfolded effortlessly.
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