Read Solid State Rhyme: A Novelette (Mandate) Online
Authors: J.S. Harbour
Solid State Rhyme: A Novelette (Mandate)
Solid State Rhyme
J. S. Harbour
Solid State Rhyme
Daniel Grant is a quiet teenager with a penchant for mad science--computer science and robotics, that is. His "A-Life" project, based on a genetic algorithm he designed, wins first place in his secondary school technology competition. He keeps working on the project, obsessed with his "Bots." One night, the bots begin to multiply and evolve, and they discover the Internet.
At first, a new software virus is reported, hitting networks around the world. They invade government and corporate computers indiscriminately. But the "virus" behaves strangely--rather than causing harm, the bots improve computers, replacing error-prone human code with their own. In a dangerous world, the bots must learn to adapt in order to survive.
This is a
standalone
novella featuring some characters from the novel,
The Mandate of Earth
. The novel is not required reading in order to understand the events in this book. Both books stand on their own, with a loose tie-in.
A Juvenile / Young-Adult Novella
Solid State Rhyme
Copyright © 2015 J.S. Harbour
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written consent of the publisher, with exception to brief passages used for review purposes, and except where permitted by law.
Cover Art by Melody Simmons (ebookindiecovers.com).
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, planets, events and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Categories: Young Adult, Science Fiction, Cyberpunk
For Jeremiah
Contents
“Those who were seen dancing were thought
to be insane by those who could not hear the music.”
Author Unknown
South Cambridgeshire, UK
T-minus 12 years
“Well, well, what do we have here?” Daniel said, lifting his two-year old son from the floor and kissing him. He sat on the sofa with the toddler on his lap.
“Daddy book!” Andy said—giggling—with several sheets of paper torn out of an old longhand notebook, covered with Crayon scribbles.
Emma stood beside him, kneeling over to nuzzle their son. “Hungry, love?” his wife asked, rubbing his shoulders.
Daniel moaned, rolled his head from side to side. “Ah, that feels good, it's been a long day,” he said, reaching back to squeeze her hand.
“What have you been on about today?”
“Och, that's a
loaded
question,” he said, smiling at her, looking tired. “I'm not getting much of a bite with my proposals this season, and then an offer letter arrived by post today from a bloke in the States.”
Emma bit her lip, not sure what to say. She decided to try a simple supportive role. “Oh? But we thought surely here, if anywhere, you would have—”
“I
know
, I know, that's why we moved here. But, I'm just not seeing a return, a demand for this sort of automation here. International interest, sure, but I'm not one for travel. I just can't
sell
in person and get any work done.”
Emma pulled the frazzled notebook from the child's moist hands and opened it. “Dear, this looks like one o’ yours.”
“Eh?”
“Equations and diagrams for one of your robots, I expect.”
“Oh? Let's see it.”
She handed it to him, and he flipped it open in the middle. “What about the American?”
“What about him?” Daniel said.
“Don't be coy. Tell me about the proposal.”
Daniel grunted. “It was more than a proposal. It was a bloody offer on a silver platter.”
“Shush, dear! Not in front of Anthony!”
Daniel rolled his eyes while nodding.
“You don't sound happy about it?”
He looked up at her. “Sweetheart, this is our home, where we belong. I'm not happy because the offer was . . . .”
She nodded in expectation, “Was . . . what?”
“
Extraordinary
.”
“Oh,” she said in a barely audible whisper.
They sat quietly for several minutes, Emma too stunned to speak and her husband wanting nothing more than to stuff the word back into his mouth. She finally said, “You should go visit the American, see what he's on about. What's he called?”
“Jack Seerva.”
“Never heard o’ ‘im. Where is the place? New York? Boston?”
“Chicago,” Daniel said, hesitantly.
“Why, that’s deep in the mainland, love. Sure you want to take us that far in? Why, we would need
two
flights to visit our kin back ‘ere.”
“I’ve an uncle in those parts,” Daniel said, “bit south o’ Chicago. Uncle Callum. We could pay ‘im a visit while checking out the job. Well, jobs, dear. The offer includes you, love.”
“Me? What
on Earth
do they need with a materials scientist?”
“Are you kidding? It’s an aerospace company, after all. These Seerva chaps are all about family, from what I gather.”
“Oh, well, you didn’t
say that
,” she said, smiling hugely at him.
“So, does that mean you’re—“
“Aye, I’m interested. Don’t much like the idea of leaving, though.”
Wanting to change the subject, Daniel said, “You know, I haven't seen this notebook since secondary. Let's see the damages, my dear,” he said to little Andy, prying the torn pages from his grip. Upon inspecting them, his face broke into an enormous smile. “My God, Emma! I thought this was lost. It's
them
!”
“Them
whom
, dear?” she said, working through the grammar slowly.
He set Andy on the floor so he could use both hands, then inserted the three torn pages—what was left of them anyway—back into place. “Look at the date,
there
,” he said, pointing to the top of a page.
“My word! That was when we . . . .”
“
Met
.”
“Those are the . . .
things
?”
“Is that all you remember of the occasion?”
She knuckled him on the shoulder. “That was a silly school assignment
ten years
ago. We were just
kids.
”
“Troublemakers!” he said, laughing loudly.
She suddenly looked serious. “You could have gotten me into a
lot
o’ trouble. Both of us! We mightn't've got into university with a record.”
“All hearsay, dear. We
didn't
.”
Emma leafed through a few pages of the long-lost notebook. “I wonder where he found this. Must've got into one o’ the scrap boxes in the cupboard.”
“I have a mind to dig up the source code for these little fellas.”
“You mean,
run
them again? Oh, dear! Don't do it, Daniel!”
“More of an
it
than a
them . . .
just one algorithm . . . multiple instances running . . . new simulation . . . revised hardware . . . . Ah, I wonder what ever happened to them. . . .”
“Dear? Daniel?
Hello
? Um, right, then. I'll just get on with dinner.”
Daniel leaped from his twin bed in the still dark of night and headed for his desk, nearly tripping on a pile of books on his crowded bedroom floor. Daniel fumbled for the lamp switch and hastily woke up his computer, while running a hand through thin, unkempt, dark brown hair. Daniel’s favorite computer was a small black box, taking up an entire six inches of his desk. The screen woke as he tapped a key, shining brilliant blue light on his face. He squinted for a moment, waiting for his pupils to contract, and began typing away at the keyboard at blazing speed. It was rare to see a kid his age using a server-class development machine while everyone these days—especially teens—used cheap, powerful padds.
Daniel was a programmer and roboticist. While most kids his age played games and kept in touch with their padd, Daniel used a traditional keyboard and screen hooked up to the most powerful box he could get.
Daniel finished typing a few commands and then quickly plugged in the transceiver for his wireless headphones. This late on a school night, it was best not to let Mom know he was gaming. The animated blue background on his virtual desktop was suddenly replaced by a familiar scene. A wide smile spread across his narrow face, and he felt a chill run through his lanky body as the title screen for Armageddon appeared. The game resumed from his last position and his ears were once again filled with the melodic rhythm of the techno soundtrack. This was why he had awakened suddenly from a deep sleep. That strange dream had given him the clues he needed to solve the last treacherous level of the game, which had eluded him for days.
Daniel could barely contain the excitement coursing through his veins like electric adrenalin. His troops marched across the terrain and ravaged the enemy base camp. His subconscious mind had just solved this level of the game, moments ago, while he slept, and eagerly woke him in the dark with the solution. Daniel's troops fought the enemy ferociously, following his leadership. He paused in thought for a moment, and considered his own sanity. Was this an obsession?
Nah!
He quickly dismissed the stray thought.
Armageddon was an intense, noisy, realistic game. The game occupied his mind every day, claiming his free time at home and school. The gameplay was highly addictive, claiming both young and old players with fierce competitiveness. But wasn't that why it was so much fun? The game's developers, Wasteland Studios, weren't out to start a new cult like critics accused. They simply knew how to create fun games.
As his troops demolished the last remaining enemy building, Daniel cried out a victorious “Yes!” and instantly covered his mouth after the outburst. Moments later, he tore the headphones from his ears and shut off the screen, dropping the room into darkness. His heart pounded, and he swallowed to calm his breathing. It was the middle of the night, and that shout could easily have awakened the dead!
Daniel was sure someone in his family had heard him, so he quickly jumped back into bed. He waited for a sound—any sound—from the hallway. Sure enough, moments later, he could hear the creaking of the wood floor outside his bedroom door. He rolled over to face away from the door and pulled the blankets up to his chin, attempting his best pretend-to-be-asleep. He was really quite good at it. He couldn't tell who it was—Mom or Dad—who opened the door.
Oh no!
Daniel thought, heart pounding. His box was still on! All Mom or Dad had to do was press the power button on the screen and the game—
Daniel breathed a sigh of relief. He could tell it was Dad due to his asthma—in and out, heavy breaths. Daniel heard him walk back to the door and heard the door creak as Dad quietly pulled it shut and released the knob.
That was a close one!
Daniel trained his mind never to allow himself the luxury of an outburst again. This narrow escape cemented the thought, never to be forgotten. He remembered his success of only moments ago, and the warmth of his blankets and the softness of his pillow caressed his eager, young mind into a well-deserved, dreamless sleep.
*
Next morning, Daniel emerged from a deep, satisfying sleep to bright sunlight filling his room through the window. Mom must have opened the blinds to wake him, he realized. His jaw let out a slow, lazy yawn while his arms reached high. Daniel sat up at the edge of his bed, bleary eyed but content. For a moment, he wasn't sure where he was, and he hated that feeling. Strong disorientation, like the moment after materializing inside The Grid. It's how he
imagined
Flynn must have felt, at any rate. One could dream.
Ah-ha!
he laughed at the double entendre. It was his most recent hobby—finding layers of meaning in ordinary things.
It's like the real world is full of encryption!
The real problem was not Daniel's above-average intelligence. The problem was that he understood motivation—he couldn't be manipulated. Not by other kids, not by adults. Find the pattern behind a thing, and you'll see the true nature of the thing. Not just the shell, the outer facade. A padd is a facade of a computer, he thought cynically.
Finding the bathroom in such a mental state was like the first night back home after a weeklong camping trip, searching for the communal outhouse and tripping over the bed stand in the dark.
Come to think of it,
Daniel realized with a mild surprise,
I don't handle uncertainty well
.
When things weren't just the way they were supposed to, he tended to suffer from a bit of stress until the situation was remedied.
Daniel stood up from his bed and walked to the bathroom down the hall. The Grant residence was well furnished. Daniel knew his parents worked hard for the things they owned, but he had once wished they could spend more time together. Both of his parents—Alan and Rachel—were on call most days of the week. Even on their days off, Daniel remembered bitterly, they each tended to bring their work home, working in the study or the dining room or office on a project or using the so-called “family room” (silent sarcasm) researching some obscure subject.
Daniel stepped into the shower and turned the knobs, causing steam to rise immediately. Daniel could appreciate the sacrifices his parents made to retain their lifestyle. They bought him a new desktop setup—a top-of-the -line padd with dock, dual screens, and keyboard panel. His older brother, Tom, had a decent car, free of payments or insurance bills. Tom wasn't home often anymore, which was a disappointment for Daniel. They had been close when they were younger but now he spent all of his time playing for the local college. That was okay, though, as he often saw Tom's games—a weekly family affair during the on-season.
His younger sister, Jade, was stroke of a different color. Daniel figured she had the entire Barbie doll collection. What a ten-year old girl needed with upwards of a hundred dolls, Daniel couldn't imagine. It was rubbish and all she really needed was one or two plus a Ken and a Skipper.
Oh great, now I know their names
, Daniel moaned. He'd asked a few times why she needed so many of the same toy, and even his mom's explanation hadn't made sense to him. Must be a
girl thing
. Daniel didn't like obsessive behavior. Why did Mom have to show the collection to guests? It was pride, wasn't it? To make matters worse, Jade got away with anything, being the youngest
and
a girl.
Daniel stopped scrubbing his face with scented soap as he grasped a big revelation for his young mind. Mom was using Jade to collect dolls for herself! Daniel frowned at this new insight into his mother's psyche. He thought it over and weighed the possibility, then gave himself an affirmative. Yes, that's what she was doing, all right. There was nothing he could do about it—and the argument would upset Mom.
Daniel finished his washing and philosophy bathroom routine and headed to his room to dress. Friday-wear consisted of button-fly jeans torn at the ankles, solid-colored button-up shirt, plain black socks, and laced dress shoes. The shoes were a personal protest against minted kids in the suburbs around London. Who did those skivvies think they were, anyway? Daniel's family may be middle-upper, but they worked hard. Dad was the president of a consulting firm, and yet he still drove the old Aston Martin from his college years.
He scrounged around his room looking for his history and pre-calculus padds, stuffed them into his backpack and headed to the kitchen. He could smell the biscuits and gravy as soon as he left his room. Dad was cooking again, Daniel realized, cheerfully. It never failed—the recipe, that is. Alan had once made breakfast for the family when Mom was called in to work early. She loved to cook, so the kids had never tasted Dad's cooking. He had prepared biscuits and gravy, sausage links, and scrambled eggs, served American style—and scored an appropriate
grand slam
with the kids. A year later, Dad was still on breakfast duty.
Serves him right for being good at it! He might go on about slaving for the ungrateful, but everyone knows he enjoys it.
Busy as they were, the Grants worked hard to make a home for their kids, and Daniel was a well-adjusted teenager. Or so he led them to believe! He admired his parents and was proud of his family, but he thought they were more than a little barmy.
Alan and Rachel tried to encourage Daniel's interest in computers and robotics. But, Daniel had been difficult to understand, with complicated interests.
He
was complicated. Not intentionally distant, just
absorbed
in his studies and hobbies.
Rachel worried that Daniel's shyness. He was quiet and pragmatic. Would that lead to a lonely life? She was a bit too jittery for a woman with so few worries: healthy kids, good income, and pleasant marriage. Something in her past gave her an edge she no longer needed, causing her to make snap judgments. Rachel was a runner with a lean body who was nearly a vegetarian save for fish. Her hair was dark brown—nearly black—and she kept it short and put up.
Alan tried to broaden Daniel’s interests by introducing him to his legal business and taking him to special events. Alan was tall and seemed to have a perpetual tan whether he spent any time outdoors or not. Alan had passed his blonde genes to Jade, while Rachel had contributed to Daniel's dark brown hair. Alan took Daniel to the Grand Final two years ago, where they watched the Fax embarrass the upstart Dracs. Daniel was aware of such things but showed little interest.
“But a year is such a long time for a kid!” Rachel had reminded Alan.
Alan thought his bright son could ace a class while sleeping through it, but he still worried about Daniel's late night gaming. It was a frustrating challenge, trying to relate to his son's commitment to his computer—and on that issue, Daniel had never lost an argument. Alan regularly found himself bested by his son’s prediction: one day he would make a ton of money as a software engineer or systems analyst or roboticist. But that didn’t improve his dad's skepticism.
“But, Dad,” Daniel repeated often, “I'm not just playing games; I'm writing code, running experiments!”
Alan had finally resigned his attempts to take an active part in his son's hobby, since he was unable to “speak the language.”
Rachel, on the other hand, was more worried about her son.
“Alan, it's not about his computer . . . uh, time . . . but his
social
development, dear. As far as I know, Daniel has never had a girlfriend or even a crush.”
“What if you drive him away?” Alan chided.
“What if he grows up socially inadequate?” she said. “Dear,” she said, “your laid-back attitude will be the ruin of our kids. We
must
be more pro-active.”
“Dearest,” he replied, diplomatically, “Daniel is not much different than I was at his age. Remember—
I'm sure I mentioned this
—how I used to draft my family into mock trials in our living room? I ate, drank, and slept for the gavel!”
“Bollocks to your sappy childhood, Alan! I'm talking about today. Right now!” Rachel scowled, a bit upset with herself for the outburst. Before she could say more, Alan grabbed her by the waist and said, “Don't be so cheeky, dear. You were
not
my first girlfriend. I wouldn’t worry too much about—”
“Fit lad that you are, we don't know yet how our son will turn out!”
Alan sighed loudly. Assuming the discussion was over on an ambiguous note, Rachel said, “How can I not worry about my son?”
“One day, perhaps in college, he’ll meet a girl just like you . . . someone who will appreciate his eccentric nature, see his true self. And she'll love him.”
It was impossible for Rachel to keep a temper after such smooth talking. She shrugged away. “We need to set down some rules in this house. How do you expect Daniel to keep up his grades when he stays up so late on school nights?” She visibly flinched at the hollow threat, knowing how silly she sounded, even to herself. She bit her lip and frowned, arms crossed.
Alan peered around the corner into the kitchen from the hallway where they were talking. He whispered, “Honey, not so loud! You know very well that he's at the top of his class, across the board. If not number one then in the top five percent. He's not
challenged
by the traditional curriculum. I think it's great that he loves computers and robotics. I don't want to discourage him by interfering with
parenting
limits.”
