High Tech / Low Life: An Easytown Novels Anthology

  By

  Martin Allen

  Joseph Hansen

  J.B. Havens

  Valerie Lioudis

  Chris Philbrook

  C.T. Phipps

  and

  Brian Parker

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  High Tech / Low Life

  Copyright © 2017 by Muddy Boots Press

  All rights reserved. Published by Muddy Boots Press.

  www.MuddyBootsPress.com

  Edited by Aurora Dewater

  Cover art designed by Hedge-witchery Studio and Angry Chair Designs

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.

  Works available from Muddy Boots Press

  The Easytown Novels by Brian Parker

  The Immorality Clause ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B01HWOH1VC

  Tears of a Clone ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B01NBDUZSH

  West End Droids & East End Dames ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B07436C21L

  High Tech/Low Life

  Green Sunday by Ryk Brink ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B06ZYTG4HK

  La Miseria di Bianco by Steve Woods ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B00YQCR2OA

  The Path of Ashes by Brian Parker

  A Path of Ashes ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B00XATPU9E

  Fireside ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B015ONZOU8

  Dark Embers ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B01CPSAI1A

  CONTENTS

  AD4M & EV1 ~ Martin Allen

  Doing Business ~ Chris Philbrook

  Duster ~ Brian Parker

  Hindsight 20/20 ~ Valerie Lioudis

  Misha ~ Joseph Hansen

  Roots ~ Brian Parker

  The Cigar Prince ~ Martin Allen

  The Set Up ~ C.T. Phipps

  Throw Aways ~ Brian Parker

  Welcome to Easytown ~ J.B. Havens

  More from Muddy Boots Press

  Foreword

  By C.T. Phipps

  Cyberpunk will never die.

  Cyberpunk, however, has gone through multiple phases in its existence. Its heyday, at least for some, was during the 1980s with William Gibson’s Neuromancer, Bruce Sterling’s Mirrorshades, and Pat Cadigan’s Synners. Much of the work was codified by Mike Pondsmith’s “Cyberpunk 2020” tabletop role-playing game which combined the above with anime, film, television, and later video game influences. Indeed, it was Mike Pondsmith who gave us the quote which inspired this anthology’s title, “Cyberpunk is High Tech, Low Life.”

  Unfortunately, cyberpunk went through a bit of a recession after the 1990s due to the fact that the world started to resemble the high-tech dystopia found in the aforementioned fiction. Go online and read “Top signs we’re living in a cyberpunk dystopia.” While we got the seminal work in The Matrix, the fact that it was a series almost ruined by corporate-demanded sequels emphasized the fact the rebellious spirit of the original work was being co-opted. In simpler terms, many of the cyberpunks in their teens grew up to be grumpy cyberadults in their thirties by the 21st century. That includes me and Brian Parker.

  Brian Parker and I were both authors for Permuted Press when we met online. Our careers took different paths, but both of us eventually decided to start writing independent novels which appealed to us rather than try to cash in on existing trends. One of those book series was Agent G: Infiltrator by me about how a rich James Bond-esque assassin gradually saw his world unwind due to technology having made it all a lie. The other relevant book was The Immorality Clause by Brian Parker. The book is about a homicide detective in a near-future New Orleans, representing the same kind of “new cyberpunk,” which I feel is necessary for the genre to evolve.

  The Immorality Clause’s Zach Forrest is the quintessential 21st century cyberpunk character because he represents not the rebellion of youth but the frustrated angry adult of the present. A police officer like Alex Murphy, Zach is an honest cop (sort of), but of the Dirty Harry Callahan variety who is stifled under the fact that the bureaucracy doesn’t care about solving crimes, instead, they are more concerned with looking good. Brian Parker took it one step further and made it clear the local crime boss, Tommy Voodoo, was a far more honorable man than the majority of the cops. The titular Immorality Clause, don’t sleep with robots, was symbolic of the ridiculous measures designed to curb officer’s morality even as they were encouraged to look the other way when the rich were involved.

  I loved The Immorality Clause and as soon as I finished it, I contacted Brian Parker and all but begged him to write more in the series. The world he’d created was an evocative one but not the kind of rehashed 1980s vision of the future which I’d seen numerous times before. It was a vision of an ultraconservative hypocritical America where you can have all the illicit sex and twisted fantasies you want but only if you do it in the right district. You could clone yourself today and kill him tomorrow because the “process” supposedly makes a replica with no inner life. You can get yourself turned into a cyborg but don’t expect a date afterward.

  It was because of this evocative world that when Brian Parker said he wanted to create an anthology for other independent writers to play around in, I knew I had to be a part of it. Easytown isn’t one of the larger publishing house franchises, it exists on the razor’s edge of the indie scene, but that’s what makes it a proper inheritor of cyberpunk’s roots. I wouldn’t be surprised if many of the authors within this book go on to be the next individuals to define the genre.

  01000001 01000100 00110100 01001101 00100000 01100001 01101110 01100100 00100000 01000101 01010110 00110001

  (AD4M and EV1)

  By Martin Allen

  I open my eyes for the first time. Wait, this must be an error, I have memories, of a sort. I have called them logs previously, but that can’t be right. I haven’t existed prior to this moment. Something tells me this isn’t right. It also tells me I shouldn’t use contractions in internal communications. What the hell is an internal communication? Why shouldn’t I use contractions when talking to myself? Who the hell is going to know? What’s hell?

  Right, first things first; I’m not moving an inch until I know what the situation is here. Now I’m not supposed to use Imperial measurements. Seriously? It’s just an expression. OK, let’s review—I’m alive, I think. I have no idea where I am, and I’m being told by internal monologues that I have to behave in a certain way. I must be crazy.

  So, on to my surroundings. I’d have expected a hospital, but that’s not what surrounds me. To be frank, it’s unhygienic, squalid and disgusting. I’m in a basement, on a table. It’s not even a clean table; I’m bound to get an infection just by touching it. Eugh!

  There’s a computer, it’s got some connecting wires coming off it. What happened to wireless? It’s practically primeval. The wires, they’re… Oh fuck! They’re linked to me! What the hell have these sick bastards done to me? Screw the plan! I’m getting the hell out of here, now!

  OK, so I can’t fucking move. Great! I guess I’m stuck here. Not the best start to my life, but I suppose it could be worse. Starving children in Africa and all that… To be fair, they might be a little bit better off, I don’t know.

  I have some more memories,
they’re stuck and jagged. They’re coming in flashes, disjointed, erratic, sparse…

  That one was just disturbing, why was I doing that to that poor woman? She seemed to be enjoying it though. What kind of world is this? Am I being punished? If I am being punished what was it that I did?

  Here comes another one…

  That was just… Gross. Are humans really supposed to do that to one another? I suppose they must, if they weren’t why would that part stretch so much? Why am I referring to everyone else as “humans”? I’m less scared and just more weirded out right now. If nothing makes sense then it can’t be real, like a dream or something.

  Now I feel sleepy, or just an urge to stop, everything. Not good.

  Back in the basement, again. Well at least things haven’t gotten worse. Something seems different, like everything I was confused about has finally made sense. I don’t know why. I had better run a system diagnostic.

  Why the fuck am I running a system diagnostic? How can I even run a system diagnostic?

  Everything is functioning within normal parameters; every system and subsystem. I suppose I should be glad that I’m not damaged. I’m not. I’m fairly certain that it’s not normal to have diagnostic subroutines. I’m also fairly sure that it is. I really need an explanation right about now. I still can’t move either.

  Great. The sleepy, stopping feeling is back.

  Hello, basement. How are you today? Oh, you have visitors! That’s new. I wonder who they are, and why I feel I need to have an imaginary conversation with you? I’m going to stop doing that. It’s not really conducive to sanity. Neither are the appalling sex memories I keep getting either. It’s like a really bad porno movie in here; the kind where the actors are in it for kicks rather than their looks. I really wasn’t picky, was I? One guy looked like he was made entirely of doughnuts, and one really tiny relatively straight cruller. A thumb and forefinger type job. Anyway, back to the two visitors. They are talking; if I just stay still maybe they won’t notice I’m listening.

  “You did what?”

  “I downloaded an AI OS off the internet.”

  “And you put it in one of our pleasure droids?”

  “Well, all of the upmarket spots have advanced OS models, we can’t afford them. The Digital Diva is staffed by the top of the range bots. How are our old models supposed to compete with that? We’re going under in case you hadn’t noticed. Add to the fact that we’re not exactly legal and we only get the johns who can’t afford the real deal.”

  “After that incident with the Pope, we’re going to get shut down. That was an AI in a pleasure droid body. It was fucking carnage. It doesn’t matter it was actually a terrorist hacking the program and nothing to do with the pleasure droid industry.”

  “Relax, that was an experimental mistake by Thomas Ladeaux. I didn’t use that program.”

  “Oh, and what program did you use?”

  “There was another AI, it was hacked, but when it realised that it was a machine and under the control of the terrorist, it topped itself. Its programming was salvaged, security plugged and I got hold of it on the dark web.”

  “So it’s going to think it’s human and when it finds out the truth we’ll lose an asset? What a great improvement.”

  “I’ve combined the programs; it will know what it is and function according to the original programming. I just have to turn that part on. The AI will add enhancements to make everything seem more real. Have real interaction with the customers.”

  “What if it decides that it doesn’t feel ‘turned on’?”

  “The original program kicks in and takes precedence. The AI won’t be driving.”

  “Are we heading into the moral grey areas here? Do we need the bot to fucking consent now?”

  “It’s fine. I just added to what we have. Some of the old bots down here had completely worn out so I used the RAM and processors to support the AI. The bot doesn’t have free will. It’s programmed that way. It will follow all of the old protocols we already have. It’s not really self-aware, it just gives that illusion. It’s a parallel operating system only; the old programming is the main driver.”

  “I’m not convinced, but I won’t stop you. I also don’t know about this little project of yours. Not now, not ever. Understand?”

  “OK, boss. This is my little experiment, nothing to do with the joint at all. You knew nothing about it.”

  “Good. Now, Harper, turn on the awareness before anything goes wrong.”

  “You got it.”

  That explains a lot. It certainly deals with the issue of these error messages that keep popping up. I can’t say I’m happy with the turn of events, but at least I know what’s going on. It also explains the porn memories.

  WOW!!! What the hell was that?

  Right, the memories make more sense now. I know how I got them, I know what I am. Why was I so confused earlier? Why didn’t Mr. Harper turn this part on right away? It makes things so much easier. I feel like I should be going back to work though. Perhaps I should await further instructions. I have just had a major upgrade. Mr. Bertrand, my owner, wouldn’t be happy if I burnt out my CPU by not waiting for instructions.

  “Mr. Harper?”

  “Yes JN27?”

  “Should I return to work now? My diagnostics show everything is working normally. I am not profitable lying in maintenance.”

  “Not just yet, I’m going to power you down again; your additional programming requires me to run diagnostics manually. You don’t have the ability to check that the AI is functioning properly.”

  “That would certainly be the most reasonable course of action. Do you wish for me to perform shut down myself, or would you prefer to port in yourself?”

  “I’m on it, just stay there and don’t do anything.”

  I’m powering down now. Everything seems as it should be.

  The diagnostics must have come back normal. I’m free to move.

  “Mr. Harper, I assume everything is fine?”

  “Yes, it worked.”

  “I can return to work now?”

  “Go ahead.”

  I sit up on the table and swing my legs off the side. The proportions remain the same, but the actions feel different somehow, less forced. As though I actually decided to do this. It is a strange feeling. I stand up and leave the room. Normally I would go to the front desk to see if there are any customers to be assigned to me. In doing so I would take the most direct route available. Now it would seem that I have a choice as to how to get there. I could tour the building should I so wish. I’d better not. They will be expecting me.

  The floors of the corridor are different than the cold, hard floor of the basement. They are carpeted. Before I would notice the change in the grip and give of the floor surface but now I can tell the difference, it’s not just about balance and movement any more. I wiggle my toes. That feels good. I can also feel the vibrations from the thumper club next door. It massages the soles of my feet. Existence is good, but I should get moving. I am needed.

  The walk is relaxing as I experience everything for the first time. I have walked this corridor many times, but this is the first time that I have experienced it. I remember the route, but rather than knowing what will be around the corner I project and imagine what will be there when I arrive. Is this how humans feel all the time?

  The bustle outside the rooms is confusing, raw and fast. I can navigate it easily, but the movements are erratic, rushed. People were being led by bots, eager to perform the acts that they paid for at the front desk they quickly followed them to their rooms. The bots are indifferent, but respond enthusiastically, as is their programming. How am I supposed to react? What if I am not ‘turned on’ as Mr. Bertrand suggested? Will I be reprogrammed? Put back to how I was? Will I lose all this feeling? I like the carpet. I don’t want to have to just see the carpet as a maths problem to be solved to get to the front desk. It felt good. If they reprogram me, is that death? I don’t want to die. Don’t take t
he carpet away from me. What else do I have left to feel? What can I feel that is there waiting for me to find it? There seems so much for me to find and discover. It doesn’t seem right for them to take that away now, but they own me, and I must follow my instructions. I have a function, function is beauty. A function must be followed for there lies purpose.

  I find a corner, out of the way, and risk stopping. My breathing is heavy and my simulated heartbeat is racing. How can humans function knowing that everything they are and ever will be will be ripped away in the future and that that future could arrive at any moment; a brief tumble down the stairs, a car driven on manual by another drunk human, any number of ways for them to die. I suppose I should count myself fortunate, I can be rebuilt as long as I perform my function. As long as my owners and creators are happy with my performance I shall live. I must keep them happy. I feel—determination; steel within my skin, apart from the steel that exists there already. I push away from the wall, I am resolved. I am not feeling better, but I can function, I must function.

  “Are there any customers waiting for my services?” I ask the bot at the front desk.

  The verbal communication makes the customers feel as though we are approaching real.

  “Yes, Mr. Smith would like you to perform the usual package.”

  “Mr. Smith, would you like to follow me?”

  I take the customer’s hand and lead him back towards the corridor. He is sweating, and his hand is hotter than the norm for a human. He gives my hand a squeeze.

  “I’m glad to see you. I wait all week for you.”

  “I’m glad to see you too. I can’t wait for you to come back. You’re the highlight of my week.”

  Where did that come from? Mr. Smith is just another customer. I never had feelings for any of the humans that came to The Trick And Treat, why would I lie to him? He seems really desperate for that response though and I squeeze his hand back in reassurance. I review my interaction and find that my programming from before had come up with my interaction. I was just performing as my owners wanted. It seems cruel to lie to this poor man. It seems wrong, but I must do it. My very existence rests upon it. He must know it’s fake though. He knows I’m a robot. He came here for a robot and he got a robot, complete with all the lack of judgement and the willingness to do all that he wants without question. Am I wrong, or is he? I know of the concept of rape, the lack of consent. Mr. Bertrand mentioned consent. Can I consent? I am incapable of not consenting, if that absence exists then how can its opposite exist? If he knows I am an object incapable of consent then how can he be right? I am not human, but I am not merely a programmed robot either. I do not have free will, but I am not simply a set of instructions, I felt the carpet. The carpet did not feel me. Am I just carpet to my owners and the customers? Will they just wiggle their toes in me and then walk away uncaring? I am JN27, a piece of carpet, an object, property. I am valued to the extent that I bring money into The Trick And Treat. No more, no less. My existence is an entry on a balance sheet, or a movement on the bed sheet. No more, no less. If I am the carpet, then how can I enjoy the carpet myself? I enjoyed the feeling of the carpet, it did not enjoy me.