Literature entry: speculative fiction and my quest for cyberpunk
As a reader, my tastes are inclined towards the sci-fi and fantasy genre. I have a few novels by murakami and gabriel garcia marquez ( but one could argue that murakami's geared towards magic realism ) as well as some other books recommended to me, but for the most part, I only read sci fi and fantasy. People may look down on that, but I don't really care. It's where I get my insights from. The genre speaks my language.
Now, not all sci fi books contain space operas (i.e. star wars). I'm not bashing the star wars novels, there are actually good ones out there, especially the original trilogy by Timothy Zahn (which reads like a better Tom Clancy novel). It's just that people have misconceptions about the genre. So now people use the term speculative fiction to try and differentiate further. Now I'm not an expert on categorizing literature. I'm just a guy with a blog (which I mostly use for useless rants and one line posts and song lyrics), but I'm an avid reader. I loved Isaac Asimov's foundation series because it dealt with human behavior and the tendencies of our culture. I treat Orson Scott Card's Ender's Game like my bible on leadership (not to be taken literally) and human relations. I would love to read more of Frank Herbert's Dune because of the amazing job he did of creating the culture of that alternate reality.
Suffice to say, I love the genre. I've just finished reading Stranger in a Srange Land by Robert Heinlein. Amazing work. It's meant to be read with an open mind because of... well, I'd rather not spoil people. I still haven't opened The Moon is a Harsh Mistress by Robert Heinlein, but I'm already looking for other books. Books by Ray Bradbury. The Clockwork Orange. More works by Phillip K. Dick (more on this later).
Of all the sci-fi/fantasy settings or genre types, cyberpunk has always been my favorite. It's very different from fantasy books which draw their inspiration mostly from old folk tales. Cyberpunk stories are usually a blend of new technology and deal with the problem of defining humanity. Examples include: Phillip K. Dick's Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep (which was the basis for the movie Blade Runner) and Battle Angel Alita (a Manga being adapted for the big screen by James Cameron).
I saw a compilation of Cyberpunk short stories in National Bookstore, but I had already bought books at the time. Maybe I'll go back for it.
Strange Machines
I actually found a website where I can download various books. Message me on YM! to get the link. I still prefer holding a book in my hand though. It's a nice feeling.
I'm posting a cyberpunk short story I did for creative writing class back during second year. It's mostly internal discourse, with not enough plot, and an action scene thrown in for the sake of trying to write an action scene. I don't think it deserved the uno it got though, but I'll post it anyway.
Last Hunt
The scribbles on the blackboard unnerve him.
Blueprints, that’s all they were, plans for a bipedal war machine, codename Hunter. Detailed specs about the armor and armament were on display, as well as plans for an overly-complicated ventilation system. These were the only things left intact in the room. The smell of ammonia and anesthetics linger in the air while blood stains along the walls hinted at the true purpose of the room.
Garrison stands there, surveying the blueprints for a moment. The mark was going to be difficult. The bulk of the machine, as well as the highly-developed artificial intelligence rumored to be installed were going to be particularly troublesome. He pushes his worries about the job from his mind; he would be well-compensated for this hunt.
He pulls a cigarette from his large tattered trench coat and lights up. Taking a few deep breaths, he steels himself for the coming confrontation. The doctor enters his thoughts like an insidious parasite. He bites down on the filter as he remembers. All the breathless nights spent hunting and working, just to pay off his medical bill. His hand unconsciously finds its way to his chest and feels the rhythm of the mechanized pumps work as it pushes the smoke out of his system. He drops the cigarette on the floor and grinds his heel into it.
“Motherfucker,” he mutters.
Hunter was the doctor’s perfect killing machine. Quick, powerful and intelligent, it served as an assassin-for-hire for the doctor’s clients. Rumors of its artificial intelligence were legendary, for it could make complicated decisions unlike any other machine. Eventually, it got too smart and broke off with the doctor.
He starts his pre-fight ritual, his litany, his rosary. He checks everything methodically, almost manically. He can’t afford any mistakes. He pulls out his carbine, still warm from the run-in with the defense system, and locks a fresh magazine into place. Slung across his hip is his SPAS 12 shotgun with one remaining explosive round. He unclips his pistol and pops a new clip in before holstering it. Flexing his joints to test their servomotors, he makes his way towards the mark.
He breaks down a wooden door with a few well-placed kicks and strides up the flight of stairs into the hangar. A looming figure stands with its back facing him, framed by the open hangar doors, waiting for him. Majestic and powerful, it seems like a handcrafted masterpiece rather than a weapon of destruction. It is seven feet tall, encased in chrome armor and equipped with a crescent white horn. Wisps of steam periodically creep their way out of its large exhaust pipes.
Garrison strides forward, making no effort to conceal himself. There was no point in hiding; Hunter was equipped with the latest holographic perception technology. The machine turns around slowly and watches his approach.
Garrison tenses up. His hands slide their way to his assault rifle, seeking its reassuring touch.
Hunter moves quicker, stomping across the room towards him, leaving cracked concrete in its wake. Garrison thinks about using the carbine, but opts for the lightweight handgun and sets it to burst. He fires short three-round bursts to slow down Hunter’s approach, but it crosses its gargantuan arms over its head to deflect the gunfire. He sprints to one of the hangar’s support beams and shoves himself hard, using the beam to change the direction of his movement. The maneuver works and it carries him well out of the machine’s path while its momentum carries it forward, straight into the wall.
The wall holds for a moment before Hunter’s impact and then explodes into thousands of miniscule fragments, peppering both man and machine with plaster and concrete.
It’s my chance!
Garrison whips out his carbine and fires round after solid round into the machine. Dust, debris and steam form a thick mist as he keeps up his onslaught. With the gun clicking emptily, he takes the chance to reload and survey the damage he has caused.
The air is forced out of him as a large backhanded blow flies out of the mist and lands against his armored abdomen. The impact knocks him off his feet and sends him sprawling against the ground. His chest collapses from the impact with a wet cracking sound. His internal system whirrs to life, trying its best to filter out cartilage and bone and blood from his lungs. He grabs his chest in agony and squirms uselessly on the ground while spitting out blood on the floor as the machine stomps closer, with bits of armor falling off its huge frame.
He claws his way across the ground inch by painful inch, trying to reach his rifle in time. Just when he thought he was close enough, Hunter’s hand grabs him by the skullcap and lifts him high into the air. Steam flows from its exhausts as it starts to apply enough force to start cracking his skull and he screams and screams as he can feel the pressure build. He brings up his pistol but Hunter’s free hand grabs his arm and crushes it, reducing his left arm to a bloody collection of metal, meat and cartilage. He gasps from the pain; pain so intense that he has to shut off all neural connections to his arm lest he die from shock. He clenches his eyes shut.
This is it. It’s over.
His system undergoes sensory overload as the routers are flooded with stimuli. He experiences a flash; then nothingness.
Unwelcome images run through his mind like a bullet train, tearing all the defenses he’s built up. Bleeding, broken and useless, feeling blood drain out of his body as the hover truck slams him off the Ferrocrete Bridge. Floating somewhere with blurry figures dancing against the glass as he struggles for consciousness. A question asked. A question!
“You’re lucky I found you. I’m the only one with the know-how to fix you up you know… It’s all up to you; do you still want to live?”
The figure bared its white fangs.
He nodded back then: Salvation, a contract, and then a curse.
Not this time, nothing more for me to sign.
Despairing, he lets his remaining arm fall slack. Then his eyes snap open when his arm brushes against something smooth and cold. The shotgun!
Blood pounding inside his ears, he swings it upward in one brutal motion and blasts the machine’s arm into a thousand pieces. The adrenalin rushing through his system numbs the impact of the floor as he dives for his carbine. He grips it tightly as he turns his sights on Hunter.
What he sees stops him like a heart attack. Blood and gore drip out the remnants of Hunter’s arm while it’s hunched over the ground, hand gripping the bloody stump. He remembers all the operations and all the sacrifices, just so he could pay off his debt. He swore an oath that he would never let the doctor make another monster like himself.
“Damn you,” he whispers. “You told me you never made another.”
Hunter’s eyes flash red as it throws its head back and unleashes an all-too human scream. It snaps its head towards Garrison while clutching the bloody remnants of its hand. It shambles forward slowly, footsteps cracking the concrete floor, as it lunges for Garrison’s throat.
I can’t do this.
Garrison nestles the carbine in the nook of his elbow and points it towards the shambling creature. His finger twitches.
He fires. The recoil jolts his arm and sends bullets flying everywhere, tearing through armor and flesh and bone. Tiny metal casings sing their symphony as they make contact with the ground.
Hunter’s faceplate shatters, revealing a face scarred with technological modifications. Patches of skin have been replaced by wires and metal implants. More machine than human, Hunter’s face serves as a grotesque reminder of the horrors he himself underwent.
But… I still want to live.
He leaps towards Hunter like a broken rag doll, limbs all askew, and jams the nozzle of the machine gun up into an opening between its jugular armor plates. Time slows down as Hunter brings back its hand to bear down on him, threatening to take his head off. Garrison screams in bloodlust as he pulls the trigger. Hunter’s head explodes in a grisly fountain of brain matter and technology, covering Garrison with blood and gore. Hunter’s large metal frame tumbles backward and hits the concrete with an empty clang.
Trailing blood, broken wires and machine parts, Garrison stumbles into a corner and stares into the remains of Hunter.
“I’m free,” he whispers.
His shoulders quiver and he hides his face in between his bloody hands.
Somewhere, someone leans back in his armchair and smiles contentedly. He drums his fingers against the desk as the events unfold in the monitor in front of him. Things went according to plan. He’d have the replacement soon enough.
I hope the LJ-Cut works.
EDIT: It works
P.S. If anybody could give me a copy of "Repent, Harlequin" said the Ticktockman by Harlan Ellison, I'd be extremely happy. Even a soft copy would do just fine. It's a short read anyway.
Now, not all sci fi books contain space operas (i.e. star wars). I'm not bashing the star wars novels, there are actually good ones out there, especially the original trilogy by Timothy Zahn (which reads like a better Tom Clancy novel). It's just that people have misconceptions about the genre. So now people use the term speculative fiction to try and differentiate further. Now I'm not an expert on categorizing literature. I'm just a guy with a blog (which I mostly use for useless rants and one line posts and song lyrics), but I'm an avid reader. I loved Isaac Asimov's foundation series because it dealt with human behavior and the tendencies of our culture. I treat Orson Scott Card's Ender's Game like my bible on leadership (not to be taken literally) and human relations. I would love to read more of Frank Herbert's Dune because of the amazing job he did of creating the culture of that alternate reality.
Suffice to say, I love the genre. I've just finished reading Stranger in a Srange Land by Robert Heinlein. Amazing work. It's meant to be read with an open mind because of... well, I'd rather not spoil people. I still haven't opened The Moon is a Harsh Mistress by Robert Heinlein, but I'm already looking for other books. Books by Ray Bradbury. The Clockwork Orange. More works by Phillip K. Dick (more on this later).
Of all the sci-fi/fantasy settings or genre types, cyberpunk has always been my favorite. It's very different from fantasy books which draw their inspiration mostly from old folk tales. Cyberpunk stories are usually a blend of new technology and deal with the problem of defining humanity. Examples include: Phillip K. Dick's Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep (which was the basis for the movie Blade Runner) and Battle Angel Alita (a Manga being adapted for the big screen by James Cameron).
I saw a compilation of Cyberpunk short stories in National Bookstore, but I had already bought books at the time. Maybe I'll go back for it.
Strange Machines
I actually found a website where I can download various books. Message me on YM! to get the link. I still prefer holding a book in my hand though. It's a nice feeling.
I'm posting a cyberpunk short story I did for creative writing class back during second year. It's mostly internal discourse, with not enough plot, and an action scene thrown in for the sake of trying to write an action scene. I don't think it deserved the uno it got though, but I'll post it anyway.
Last Hunt
The scribbles on the blackboard unnerve him.
Blueprints, that’s all they were, plans for a bipedal war machine, codename Hunter. Detailed specs about the armor and armament were on display, as well as plans for an overly-complicated ventilation system. These were the only things left intact in the room. The smell of ammonia and anesthetics linger in the air while blood stains along the walls hinted at the true purpose of the room.
Garrison stands there, surveying the blueprints for a moment. The mark was going to be difficult. The bulk of the machine, as well as the highly-developed artificial intelligence rumored to be installed were going to be particularly troublesome. He pushes his worries about the job from his mind; he would be well-compensated for this hunt.
He pulls a cigarette from his large tattered trench coat and lights up. Taking a few deep breaths, he steels himself for the coming confrontation. The doctor enters his thoughts like an insidious parasite. He bites down on the filter as he remembers. All the breathless nights spent hunting and working, just to pay off his medical bill. His hand unconsciously finds its way to his chest and feels the rhythm of the mechanized pumps work as it pushes the smoke out of his system. He drops the cigarette on the floor and grinds his heel into it.
“Motherfucker,” he mutters.
Hunter was the doctor’s perfect killing machine. Quick, powerful and intelligent, it served as an assassin-for-hire for the doctor’s clients. Rumors of its artificial intelligence were legendary, for it could make complicated decisions unlike any other machine. Eventually, it got too smart and broke off with the doctor.
He starts his pre-fight ritual, his litany, his rosary. He checks everything methodically, almost manically. He can’t afford any mistakes. He pulls out his carbine, still warm from the run-in with the defense system, and locks a fresh magazine into place. Slung across his hip is his SPAS 12 shotgun with one remaining explosive round. He unclips his pistol and pops a new clip in before holstering it. Flexing his joints to test their servomotors, he makes his way towards the mark.
He breaks down a wooden door with a few well-placed kicks and strides up the flight of stairs into the hangar. A looming figure stands with its back facing him, framed by the open hangar doors, waiting for him. Majestic and powerful, it seems like a handcrafted masterpiece rather than a weapon of destruction. It is seven feet tall, encased in chrome armor and equipped with a crescent white horn. Wisps of steam periodically creep their way out of its large exhaust pipes.
Garrison strides forward, making no effort to conceal himself. There was no point in hiding; Hunter was equipped with the latest holographic perception technology. The machine turns around slowly and watches his approach.
Garrison tenses up. His hands slide their way to his assault rifle, seeking its reassuring touch.
Hunter moves quicker, stomping across the room towards him, leaving cracked concrete in its wake. Garrison thinks about using the carbine, but opts for the lightweight handgun and sets it to burst. He fires short three-round bursts to slow down Hunter’s approach, but it crosses its gargantuan arms over its head to deflect the gunfire. He sprints to one of the hangar’s support beams and shoves himself hard, using the beam to change the direction of his movement. The maneuver works and it carries him well out of the machine’s path while its momentum carries it forward, straight into the wall.
The wall holds for a moment before Hunter’s impact and then explodes into thousands of miniscule fragments, peppering both man and machine with plaster and concrete.
It’s my chance!
Garrison whips out his carbine and fires round after solid round into the machine. Dust, debris and steam form a thick mist as he keeps up his onslaught. With the gun clicking emptily, he takes the chance to reload and survey the damage he has caused.
The air is forced out of him as a large backhanded blow flies out of the mist and lands against his armored abdomen. The impact knocks him off his feet and sends him sprawling against the ground. His chest collapses from the impact with a wet cracking sound. His internal system whirrs to life, trying its best to filter out cartilage and bone and blood from his lungs. He grabs his chest in agony and squirms uselessly on the ground while spitting out blood on the floor as the machine stomps closer, with bits of armor falling off its huge frame.
He claws his way across the ground inch by painful inch, trying to reach his rifle in time. Just when he thought he was close enough, Hunter’s hand grabs him by the skullcap and lifts him high into the air. Steam flows from its exhausts as it starts to apply enough force to start cracking his skull and he screams and screams as he can feel the pressure build. He brings up his pistol but Hunter’s free hand grabs his arm and crushes it, reducing his left arm to a bloody collection of metal, meat and cartilage. He gasps from the pain; pain so intense that he has to shut off all neural connections to his arm lest he die from shock. He clenches his eyes shut.
This is it. It’s over.
His system undergoes sensory overload as the routers are flooded with stimuli. He experiences a flash; then nothingness.
Unwelcome images run through his mind like a bullet train, tearing all the defenses he’s built up. Bleeding, broken and useless, feeling blood drain out of his body as the hover truck slams him off the Ferrocrete Bridge. Floating somewhere with blurry figures dancing against the glass as he struggles for consciousness. A question asked. A question!
“You’re lucky I found you. I’m the only one with the know-how to fix you up you know… It’s all up to you; do you still want to live?”
The figure bared its white fangs.
He nodded back then: Salvation, a contract, and then a curse.
Not this time, nothing more for me to sign.
Despairing, he lets his remaining arm fall slack. Then his eyes snap open when his arm brushes against something smooth and cold. The shotgun!
Blood pounding inside his ears, he swings it upward in one brutal motion and blasts the machine’s arm into a thousand pieces. The adrenalin rushing through his system numbs the impact of the floor as he dives for his carbine. He grips it tightly as he turns his sights on Hunter.
What he sees stops him like a heart attack. Blood and gore drip out the remnants of Hunter’s arm while it’s hunched over the ground, hand gripping the bloody stump. He remembers all the operations and all the sacrifices, just so he could pay off his debt. He swore an oath that he would never let the doctor make another monster like himself.
“Damn you,” he whispers. “You told me you never made another.”
Hunter’s eyes flash red as it throws its head back and unleashes an all-too human scream. It snaps its head towards Garrison while clutching the bloody remnants of its hand. It shambles forward slowly, footsteps cracking the concrete floor, as it lunges for Garrison’s throat.
I can’t do this.
Garrison nestles the carbine in the nook of his elbow and points it towards the shambling creature. His finger twitches.
He fires. The recoil jolts his arm and sends bullets flying everywhere, tearing through armor and flesh and bone. Tiny metal casings sing their symphony as they make contact with the ground.
Hunter’s faceplate shatters, revealing a face scarred with technological modifications. Patches of skin have been replaced by wires and metal implants. More machine than human, Hunter’s face serves as a grotesque reminder of the horrors he himself underwent.
But… I still want to live.
He leaps towards Hunter like a broken rag doll, limbs all askew, and jams the nozzle of the machine gun up into an opening between its jugular armor plates. Time slows down as Hunter brings back its hand to bear down on him, threatening to take his head off. Garrison screams in bloodlust as he pulls the trigger. Hunter’s head explodes in a grisly fountain of brain matter and technology, covering Garrison with blood and gore. Hunter’s large metal frame tumbles backward and hits the concrete with an empty clang.
Trailing blood, broken wires and machine parts, Garrison stumbles into a corner and stares into the remains of Hunter.
“I’m free,” he whispers.
His shoulders quiver and he hides his face in between his bloody hands.
Somewhere, someone leans back in his armchair and smiles contentedly. He drums his fingers against the desk as the events unfold in the monitor in front of him. Things went according to plan. He’d have the replacement soon enough.
I hope the LJ-Cut works.
EDIT: It works
P.S. If anybody could give me a copy of "Repent, Harlequin" said the Ticktockman by Harlan Ellison, I'd be extremely happy. Even a soft copy would do just fine. It's a short read anyway.