tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28051719046137863662024-03-13T02:17:05.970-07:00S.J. Magill's BlogS.J. Magillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08738013241493095548noreply@blogger.comBlogger59125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2805171904613786366.post-78111062550494449422016-09-11T12:55:00.004-07:002016-09-11T12:57:11.402-07:00Intergalactic Law Web Serial Episode 13: The Captain<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">A young woman wearing a pant-suit and high heels - who had been telling everyone all morning how exceedingly uncomfortable she was in the outfit and how she couldn’t wait to get back into her lab coat and tennis shoes - rushed into the room from the side door behind Laura Mulholland. She whispered something rapidly, and wetly, into Dr Mulholland’s ear that made Laura’s eyes widen. She cleared her throat.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Um, ladies and gentlemen, please stand for the ship’s captain.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing stood automatically, as he was used to doing in a court setting for the judge. This time was different however, he’d never laid eyes on the ship’s captain before; he had never even spoken to anyone who had laid eyes on the captain before. Laura had turned to face the back of the room in anticipation of the captain’s arrival. Her hands were clasped behind her back and Bing could see them trembling slightly. She had spoken about the captain often, even back on Earth, where he had been universally regarded as the smartest man alive.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Two men in lab coats with gold trim around the lapels entered the room and stood at either side of the door; the captain’s closest colleagues/advisors/friends. Bing recognised them both as well respected scientists in their own right. The ship’s internal news system reported on the lives and works of the brilliant minds on board the Sir Isaac Newton with the same fervour as newspapers at home reported on the relationship statuses of actors.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The captain’s wheelchair rolled through the door and the room snapped to attention with the uniformity of a military barracks. The ‘wheelchair’ as it was called for a lack of a better description was about the size of a mechanical street-sweeper. At the front the captain could be seen, barely, sitting upright in a plexiglass tube in a state of near-hibernation. On the outside of the tube, in front of the captain’s actual face, was a holographic projection of the great scientist’s head, smiling warmly as he rolled up to the judge’s table. Bing leaned slightly to the side to look around the hologram at the captain’s real head. The rumours appeared to be true. Bathed in pale blue light inside the tube, the captain himself appeared to be in a vegetative state. He was wearing a plastic clean-suit which covered everything up to the neck and kept the captain’s body practically sterilised so that no-one would have to open the plexiglass tube and thereby expose him to the risk of foreign contaminants. He was drooling slightly into his bushy beard - although the hologram of his head was clean shaven - and his eyes were only opened a fraction. None of that was of any particular interest compared to the fact that the back half of the captain’s head had been removed and was connected to the headrest of the wheelchair by ten thousand hair-like wires.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><i>So the rumours were true, </i>thought Bing, <i>the man is a cyborg. </i>Bing had often thought, and expressed at parties when the subject came up, that he felt cyborgs should be like the Terminator, or at very least Robocop. This opinion tended to result in confused looks as to whether Bing was joking or not and Laura would try to cover her embarrassment by laughing. Of course no scientist would agree that there was any other good reason for linking oneself to a machine than to increase one’s thinking ability. That was exactly what the captain had done. His ‘wheelchair’ was a means to make the captain mobile whilst his brain was linked to the supercomputer, which weighed nearly a ton. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Good morning everyone,” said the holographic projection of the captain’s face, who was smiling chirpily. Bing realised that his mouth was gaping open and shut it quickly. He saw Bill Symington do the same.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I’ve decided to come along and personally oversee these proceedings from the beginning, as I’ve made the decision that I will be acting as judge in this case,” the captain continued. “I gather that Dr Rutherford’s representative has plead not guilty. Is that correct Dr…”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“It’s um, Mulholland, your honour, <i>Mr </i>Mulholland.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I… see. And for the prosecution we have?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Mr Symington, your honour.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The captain’s lips pursed. “Am I to take it that neither of you have PhD’s in the field of law?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Both lawyers shook their heads sheepishly. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Hmmm, but I’m correct in saying that a murder trial is one of the most advanced pieces of work that a lawyer can undertake?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing looked at Symington, who was looking right back at him, and was looking just as concerned as Bing felt. “Yes, your honour, that is correct,” said Symington.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Is it appropriate then that the representatives in this case are so lowly qualified?” The captain looked at each of them in turn. Bing found himself staring at the desk, his cheeks burning red. He cleared his throat. “Your honour, it is perfectly normal for lawyers conducting court cases, even in relation to matters of high importance, to be without doctorates.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The captain pursed his lips again. “Hmmm, I’m not entirely sure that I am comfortable with the idea, but whilst you were speaking I connected to the ship’s data core and read a few dozen articles on the subject. I concur that you are correct. Alright. The not-guilty plea has been tendered and recorded by the court. We shall reconvene tomorrow morning for parties to address me on a timetable. I wish to start the trial in two weeks if possible.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing’s throat closed entirely and beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. <i>Two fucking weeks? </i>He glanced in Symington’s direction. He was sitting down and typing furiously on his laptop.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Your honour,” said Bing’s mouth automatically. His brain hadn’t been consulted before he started talking, and was now working furiously to reword the sentence ‘and how the fuck do you expect me to be prepared for a fucking murder trial in two weeks?’ into something a bit more diplomatic. “I’m concerned that the timescale might be a bit tight.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The holographic head seemed to grow larger in Bing’s mind. “No, Mr Mulholland, I don’t think so. Two weeks.”</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Court rise,” screamed the captain’s two minders in unison. The court stood, and the minders followed behind the captain as his vehicle wheeled out the door.</span></div>
S.J. Magillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08738013241493095548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2805171904613786366.post-80884475913869990122016-08-07T11:57:00.002-07:002016-08-07T12:00:02.284-07:00Intergalactic Law Episode 12: Plea<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Dr Rutherford’s plea hearing was scheduled for 10am in the Galileo Academy of Sciences building. At 9:25 Alpha still hadn’t returned to the office with the cup of coffee that Bing had sent her to fetch hours ago. As he threw the main office door open to rush into a cab, Alpha limped across the road, clearly fresh from some form of fracas, her body and limbs scuffed. She held out a paper cup which had been bashed out of shape, and which was only a third full.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Do I want to know?” Asked Bing, taking the cup out of her trembling limb.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I don’t think so. It might be best if I’m assigned to tasks that keep me out of sight of the coffee shop for a while. They have robots too, and they’re very mean.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing rolled his eyes and slipped into the cab. He told the computer where to take him, and exactly how damn soon he needed to be there. The engine whirred into life, and the car began to move infuriatingly slowly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Alpha could see Bing massaging his temples as the car glided down the street. She pushed at the office door with her right hand, which was still trembling, and wasn’t strong enough to make the door open. She shoved her shoulder against it and limped inside. Her stolen pet chameleon was pretending to be a leaf on the office plant in the waiting room. She slumped into a chair next to it, facing Honda’s desk.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“What took you so long?” Asked Honda, barely looking away from his computer screen.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Alpha didn’t answer him and continued to stare at the floor.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“What’s wrong with your arm and leg?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>She looked down at them. Her thin metal shin of her left leg was slightly bent, and the bolt holding the two parts of her arm together at the elbow had become loose.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Come over here.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>With a great deal of suspicion, Alpha approached the desk. Honda extended himself so that he could examine her damage closely with the big black eye on top of his gripper. In almost a single fluid motion he latched onto the loose bolt and rapidly rotated it, returning it to factory-standard tightness. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Put your leg on the desk.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>She extended her arm a few times and it was literally as good as new. With a newfound trust for Honda, she put her busted leg onto his desk. The former assembly-line robot gingerly gripped her shin where it had been bent and pinched it until it was once again perfectly straight. Alpha carefully tested her full weight on it. It was as if she had never been injured at all.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Honda I… thank you. I really apprec-“</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Get back to work, bitch,” he said, returning to his computer screen.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Bing arrived at the hearing room with less than a minute to spare. They were using a boardroom for this preliminary hearing. William Symington was already seated on the far side of the table. There wouldn’t be a judge today, because the choice of judge in this case would surely be a point of contention. There would be a clerk, probably someone chosen from the crew completely at random, to minute today’s hearing, but no-one was in that seat at the head of the table yet. Various members of the security staff were present.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Bing, so glad you could make it,” Symington shouted across the room, much louder than was really necessary, drawing titters from the security men in the room.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I was held up,” he said, not adding <i>you insufferably prick, </i>but hoping that his tone had conveyed it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Symington had a stack of neatly filled binders on the table beside him, labelled and tabbed. Siting on the chair across from him, reserved for Bing, was a box of papers which looked like they had been thrown up in the air then stuffed into the box.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“This should be a quick one, shouldn’t it Bing? I take it your man is pleading guilty and then we’ll set a hearing for sentencing in four weeks. Meantime you and I can get together at Sarti’s restaurant to iron out all the little details, my treat of course,” he said, with a little chuckle at the end.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“It’s <i>not</i> guilty today. And speaking of ‘little details’, I’ve not had much opportunity to speak to my client in the circumstances, but I want to have a debate about whether the charge should be murder or manslaughter.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Symington’s face turned half a shade pinker, but with an almost inhuman amount of willpower, he stifled it and returned his face to its usual golden pallor. He ran his fingers through his slicked-back grey hair and nodded thoughtfully. “It’s a interesting point you make Bing. I agree that it’s worth a discussion.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><i>Is it? From the video footage, Rutherford is guilty as all hell. Does Symington know something that I don’t?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></i>At that moment Rutherford was brought in, cuffed to Ivan Gunderson, who was snarling at Bing. Gunderson seemed to take it as a personal affront when Bing defended people who Gunderson considered to be guilty beyond a shadow of a doubt - which incidentally was <i>everyone </i>who Bing defended in criminal cases. He knew Gunderson would get over it before long, but right now there was no point trying to speak to him, it would just be needlessly unpleasant. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The door closest to the head of the table opened and Laura Mulholland walked through it. Everyone stood for her. Laura’s makeup looked as if it had been hastily re-done. Bing could tell she had recently been tearful. She took the clerk’s seat and gestured for everyone to sit.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Good morning gentlemen, for those of you who do not know me, I am Dr Laura Stane, and I am acting as clerk to the court in this case.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><i>She hasn’t used her maiden name in years, </i>thought Bing. He leaned towards her and motioned for Symington to join them. “Laura, if this is too tough for you, neither of us would object to someone else being assigned.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Laura shot him a furious glance. “Thank you, Mr Mulholland, but I’m fine. It is my civic duty to assist the ship’s justice system when called upon to do so. And since I have no decision-making function, there is no conflict of interest for me to perform this role. If, on the other hand, <i>you </i>would be uncomfortable with me acting as clerk to this case, well that’s another matter.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Symington raised an eyebrow and a small smirk crept across his face.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing leaned back in his chair. “Shall we begin?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Calling the case: The Captain of the Sir Isaac Newton against Dr Frank Rutherford.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Ivan Gunderson hoisted Rutherford to his feet.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Are you Dr Frank Rutherford?” Laura asked the man in handcuffs, who nodded. “Please sit down.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Gunderson had him back in his seat quicker than the ship’s gravity could get him there.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: helvetica;">Bing stood. “Madam Clerk, I appear with the accused. Mr Symington appears for the prosecution. My client pleads not guilty to the charge against him.”</span>S.J. Magillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08738013241493095548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2805171904613786366.post-72870780522301744282016-07-30T01:09:00.005-07:002016-07-30T01:10:51.425-07:00Intergalactic Law Episode 11: Preparation<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">“Robots! I need you. We’ve got a case. A big one,” said Bing, tossing his coat onto the waiting room seats.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Morning Mr Mulholland, would you like me to get you a coffee?” said Alpha. Bing noticed that the lens on her CCTV camera head was cracked. He didn’t ask. Nor did he ask why Honda had been unplugged and was currently slumped across his desk. Bing reached under the desk and plugged in the giant robotic arm.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Get away from that plug you bitch, I’ll cut you, I swear! Oh, Bing, you’re in early.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing raised an eyebrow at Honda, who looked about as sheepish as a former assmebly-line robot with no face could possibly look.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Alpha, coffee please. The shop might not be open yet. Go over there and bang on the door until someone answers.” Alpha nodded and jogged out the door. “Honda, rearrange all of my appointments, and print out anything related to murder in the ship’s code of conduct, the jurisdiction plan that Symington and I drafted, and check the ship’s databanks for the definitions of murder, and manslaughter, from the UK, USA, South Africa, India, and China.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Right away boss,” said Honda. The arm shot forward to the desk-tidy and knocked it onto the floor. Honda tutted. Bing watched as the lumbering robot reached over the desk and tried to pick up a pen, pencil, battery, or screw from the floor with his great three-‘fingered’ claw. Everything was just out of reach and the robot began to whimper. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing sighed, and tossed a pen onto the desk as he passed by on the way to his office. As he shut the door he heard Honda exclaim ‘a-ha!’, and begin to tap furiously at the keyboard, one key at a time.</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing kept the light off and slumped into his chair. He contemplated taking a swig of vodka, but resisted. Alpha couldn’t come quickly enough with the coffee. At one time, back on Earth, Bing had had a successful practice, which included a criminal department. He had acted for some very bad people, including murderers before. Part of what joining the crew of the Isaac Newton had meant to Bing was leaving that type of client behind. Laura had thought so too. He had been tempted to burst into tears, as she had, on hearing the news that someone aboard the ship had committed murder, but had held himself together, at least while he was in front of Laura. Now that he was alone, and in the dark, he found his heart rate quicken, his breath shorten, and his cheeks burn. For a few minutes he allowed the confused and conflicting feelings which he had been stifling to bubble to the surface. When he felt his watch vibrate as the first email from Honda came through, he pushed everything back down inside and got to work.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The first thing Honda sent him was an email to confirm that there was nothing in the ship’s code about murder. Clearly it wasn’t just he and his wife that had had high hopes that the crew would refrain from murdering one another.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The second thing was another short email from Honda. One of the first orders of business for himself and William Symington, the other lawyer on the ship, had been to decide things like how private disputes would be settled, how disputes against the ship’s administration would be handled, and how criminal trials would be dealt with. There was nothing about murder specifically, but Honda had helpfully sent him the guidelines about what Symington and Bing had agreed they’d do when there was a contentious legal point. Bing’s initial thoughts for a defence was that he could argue manslaughter, instead of murder. Bing and Symington were the only two legally trained people on the ship, so whoever judged any legal cases had to have the law explained to them in an understandable way; as much as possible, the science crew liked having everything explained to them in formulas. The two lawyers would have to debate it between themselves how it would be explained to the judge what the difference between the two killing crimes was so a judgement could be made. They key difference between the two, in every jurisdiction, seemed to be intention. Bing didn’t expect it to come to much, but he was open to the idea of trying to persuade a judge that Dr Rutherford had simply meant to cut the victim’s tie off, as sort of a practical joke, and accidentally almost cut his head off instead. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: helvetica;">He would come up with something better later.</span>S.J. Magillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08738013241493095548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2805171904613786366.post-88383551447311553312016-07-23T04:21:00.004-07:002016-07-23T04:26:33.542-07:00Intergalactic Law Episode 10: Intergalactic Murder<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Bing Mulholland watched the clip on the monitor for roughly the twentieth time. Two men in lab coats stood arguing with each other, each pointing fingers into the other’s face. The argument progressed to a shoving match, with lots of cursing. Eventually one of the scientists decided he’d had enough. He produced a vibro-scalpel and with an effortless motion he slit the other scientist’s throat, almost to the spine. Blood sprayed and splattered everywhere, and within seconds the victim, like a sack of pudding, dropped to the floor. The slasher dropped the knife and turned to run. He slipped in the blood and fell to the tiles. He pulled himself to his feet, cursed loudly and made good his escape.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The clip automatically began to play again, but Bing shut it off. Across the table from him sat the slasher from the video, Dr Frank Rutherford. He sat shaking his head indignantly and exhaled angrily through his nostrils.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“So,” began Bing, “you’re <i>sure </i>you want to plead not guilty?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The quantum chemist sighed. He was wearing a janitor’s jumpsuit which he had been given after his clothing had been taken into evidence. The scientist had bags under his eyes. Despite being the middle of the night, Bing was wide awake. All lawyers who deal with criminal cases have a special gland buried deep in their brain that that releases a natural amphetamine-like chemical to jumpstart their brains when they receive a call in the middle of the night and the word ‘murder’ is mentioned. This gland is not controlled by any sense of morality, justice or inclination to assist one’s fellow man, but the desire for money. For a criminal lawyer, a murder case is the holy grail of profitability. It is another little-known fact that lawyers are a form of supernatural creature; their early ancestors were village-pillaging, gold-hoarding dragons. Much like the common drug-dealer, the lawyer requires a stream of money to keep it from going insane. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Yes <i>Mr. </i>Mulholland. I am pleading not guilty.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing knew that the emphasis on the ‘Mr’ was intended to be condescending.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Ok. That’s fine. There will be a hearing in a few hours. If you don’t mind I’d like to call our meeting to a close at this stage to allow me to prepare. The only issue for the hearing is your plea, which we’ve established. Try to get some sleep and I’ll come see you again before the hearing.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The scientist sighed again, but nodded. Dr Rutherford moved like a thin, dead tree wafting in the wind, ready to break. His arms almost seemed too weak to lift themselves under the additional weight of the handcuffs on his wrists. The guard took him to his cell and left the door open.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Before Bing was ready to leave, he watched the video of the crime one more time. Rutherford and the victim were having an argument. Of course the two scientists would never consider it an argument; they would call it an enthusiastic debate over competing theorems. Rutherford became increasingly animated, more animated than Bing would have thought him capable of being given how thin he was, but the footage was crystal clear. Rutherford turned away, walked a few paces to a drawer, and removed a vibroscalpel. The vibroscalpel had a thick cylindrical handle, like a torch, and a five-inch triangular blade, which was only half an inch wide, and less than a millimetre thick at its base. Rutherford, without another word, marched back to the victim and waved the vibroscalpel at his throat. It wasn’t an overtly violent action, but it didn’t need to be. The victim’s throat opened and pint after pint of blood spilled out onto the floor. The victim collapsed and hit the ground with a splash. He twitched for a minute or so before going completely limp. Rutherford, his client, the one insisting he would be pleading not guilty, stood over his now deceased colleague, surveying his handywork. For a second, Bing imagined he saw a smile creep across Rutherford’s face.</span></div>
<i style="font-family: helvetica;">I need a fucking coffee, </i><span style="font-family: helvetica;">thought Bing.</span><br />
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S.J. Magillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08738013241493095548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2805171904613786366.post-78955778119583956122016-07-16T03:55:00.002-07:002016-07-16T04:03:53.129-07:00Intergalactic Law Episode 9: The Call<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Laura opened the door to him with a smile, which quickly faded when she smelled the reek of vodka from him. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I see you started early,” she said.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing felt his cheeks turn pink. Laura giggled and stepped aside to let him in.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing’s chest had tightened when he thought that she was upset with him showing up already semi drunk, but it loosened at the sound of her giggle. He had feared for a second that she might have regretted inviting him over and was about to close the door in his face. He stepped into the house and, as he had suspected, it was exactly as he remembered it. The first thing that everyone saw when they entered the house was a stencilled quote on the wall facing the door: ‘<i>There is no such uncertainty as a sure thing - Robert Burns.’ </i>Bing had always hated that quote.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Laura closed the door. Bing heard something behind him drop softly and turned around to see that Laura’s dress was now on the floor. <i>Wrong as usual, Burns, </i>he thought as his lips met his wife’s.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Bing and Dr Mulholland lay breathless in bed. He watched his wife’s chest rise and fall quickly. She caught his eye and smiled. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“That was great Bing, thanks for coming by tonight.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Of course,” he said. Laura leaned over the edge of the bed and tossed Bing’s trousers at him. They landed limply across his lap.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You should probably get going, I have to be at the lab early tomorrow.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing stared at his trousers in disbelief, and waited for Laura to laugh and tell him it was all a joke. It never happened. She had stepped out of bed, pulled her dressing gown on and stepped into the bathroom. Bing stood up to follow her but was stopped by a buzzing coming from his trouser pocket. Light flooded into the dark bedroom from the bathroom, he could see Laura in the mirror. She was brushing her short hair, but wasn’t paying attention to what she was doing, she was watching Bing. Bing could also see himself in the mirror. He wasn’t a tall man, and didn’t get to the gym very often. In his mind he looked like a pig standing on its hind legs when he was naked. He ignored his buzzing phone for now, pulled on his shirt and stepped into the bathroom.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Laura, I…”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>She turned towards him. He’d never considered her to have much of a poker face, especially since he’d known her for so many years. But right now he couldn’t tell what she was thinking. The buzzing in his trouser pocket stopped briefly, then started again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I had honestly thought that when you invited me here this evening that you wanted to-“ he paused, not quite sure how to put his thoughts to her. <i>Dammit man, you’re a lawyer, words are supposed to be what you’re good at! </i>he chastised himself. Laura’s face remained expresionless, almost inquisitive, like a curious owl. <i>Is she torturing me on purpose? Is she really going to make me come right out and say it?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></i>His phone continued to buzz in his pocket. It was only his imagination, but he could swear that it was getting louder.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I thought you might be open to the idea of me moving back in.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Her face did a little movement, as if trying to express every possible feeling at once, but succeeding at none of them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Oh, I see, well I would need to think very seriously about that.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Of course, I better get that call,” he said, scurrying back into the darkened bedroom. <i>Stupid, stupid, stupid Bing! </i>He was glad that his wife couldn’t see how red his face had turned in the dark.</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Bing Mulholland here,” he said. It was Ivan Gunderson. He was worked up, more so than usual. He half-listened to the ranting policeman while watching Laura, who had gone back to brushing her hair. She wasn’t watching him anymore, focusing only on her hair. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Wait, say that again Ivan,” said Bing. He hadn’t been listening properly and thought that he had heard Ivan say something. But that particular something was bad. Very bad. He wanted to make sure he hadn’t misheard.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>He hadn’t. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Laura finally turned around again when she heard the sound of Bing’s phone hitting the floor. She stepped into the bedroom to find Bing sitting on the edge of the bed, his face deathly pale. </span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Bing, what is it?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>His gaze met hers. Something had happened. Something no-one had anticipated that the inhabitants of the Isaac Newton would ever have to deal with. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Theres been a murder.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Laura’s eyes widened. “Who?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“A scientist. I… I can’t even remember the name. Gunderson just said it to me a minute ago.”</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Christ. Have they caught someone?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>He nodded, and began to button up his shirt. He caught a glimpse of Laura’s face and saw that there was a tear in her eye. “I knew it. I fucking knew it. I said from the beginning that Copernicus was a stupid idea. This ship was supposed to take us away from the mistakes of the past, but we’ve not escaped anything, have we? We’ve just brought the problems of old Earth with us.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing was fully dressed. “I need to get to the station. The accused wants to speak with me.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>She nodded. “Of course.” She kissed him on the lips and hugged him. “Call me tomorrow?”</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing nodded and left. He hadn’t told her the extra piece of information that he had; it would have been too hard for her to hear that the alleged murderer hadn’t been one of the blue collar crew. It was a fellow scientist. </span><br />
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Be sure to tune in next week for episode 10: Intergalactic Murder.</div>
S.J. Magillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08738013241493095548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2805171904613786366.post-84046826662062129242016-07-09T05:30:00.003-07:002016-07-09T05:30:33.613-07:00Intergalactic Law Episode 8: Stress<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Bing’s lunch consisted of vodka. His afternoon headache was normally manageable, but as it turns out having two robots working for him was an extremely stressful prospect. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Alpha had returned from retrieving his morning coffee to find that Honda had put her stolen pet chameleon into the paper recycling bin. She had lunged across the desk at Honda and thumped him repeatedly with a stapler. Honda had tossed her across the room with ease, smashing open the door to the stationary cupboard. Alpha had jumped up and ran towards the robot, screaming and brandishing a set of scissors found in the wreckage of the cupboard. The huge robotic arm slammed her to the floor and pinned her there, but Alpha answered by stabbing the scissors ferociously at Honda’s eye lens. Bing, acutely aware of how powerful both these machines were, tried to separate them with a broom handle and some harsh language. He knocked the scissors from Alpha’s hand and pried her out of Honda’s grasp. The robots stared at one another icily. Without breaking the stare-lock, Alpha stepped over to the waste paper bin and gingerly picked up the chameleon, who was perched on the rim, fairly oblivious to what had been going on around him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“There there little doggy,” she said, stroking the chameleon, “mummy’s here.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing considered the eventuality that none of this was actually happening and he had just gone mad. Before Alpha had come into his life, he had never seen or heard of a robot having such a genuine-appearing connection to a living being like this. He had heard stories about robots struggling with artificial emotions, and he saw it every day in Honda, but there was something very different about her. True to his word, he had contacted the administrator of Alpha Bio Labs to discuss what Alpha had done, and negotiate what was to happen next. Bing intended to ask about Alpha’s programming, why she was the way she was.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>He had sent Alpha to retrieve another coffee, since the first cup had been lost in the battle between her and Honda, and assured her that he would keep her ‘doggy’ safe. The rest of Alpha’s tasks had been outwith the office that day too, and Bing’s clients just had to ignore the fact that throughout their meetings with him there was a small green chameleon slowly and carefully walking across the desk. After the last client left at 12 noon on the dot, Bing had hit the vodka.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing had no end to his list of reasons to drink today, but the top thing on his list was not his unusually quarrelsome robot employees, it was the enigmatic invitation from his ex-wife.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>He had not spoken directly to Dr Laura Mulholland since he walked out of the house. The communication had been through her lawyer William Symington. There was also the occasional, and deeply regrettable, drunken email sent to her. His stomach was in knots. He had dumped, and been dumped, before, but this was his first marriage, and by extension his first <i>failed </i>marriage.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><i>But is it failed? </i>Bing wondered. They had certainly gone through a rough patch, and Laura seemed to have gone for the nuclear option of divorce very quickly. It occurred to Bing that she might be having second thoughts. By his third vodka he was sure of it. <i>I was the one who left, even although the whole mess was her fault. She served divorce papers on me to get a rise out of me, she never intended to go through with it. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing was feeling better as the day progressed. He did very little actual work in the afternoon, he couldn’t even begin to think about it. His mind was focused on the evening ahead of him. He left early and hailed a cab to take him to his old house, the house he had once been very happy in, and after tonight, expected he would be very happy in again. And moreover, he could leave behind his shitty little office in Copernicus and return to his old practice in Galileo.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The whole ride over he played out various scenarios in his head about how this evening would go, and how he would approach it. He initially thought about playing it all aloof; after all, she was the one who had extended the invitation. She’d blinked first, and she would likely be trying very hard to smooth things over this evening. He wondered how far she would have went. Maybe dinner would be waiting for him, to bring back memories of when the house was his home too. Laura’s cooking quality was variable. She had a brilliant mind, and Bing loved the way that it worked, but she had a total inability to concentrate on any one thing for more than a minute or so, which led to many an overcooked dinner. Every time she put down a plate of mush that vaguely resembled the spaghetti it had once been, they both began to eat it and pretended to enjoy it, but before long they would both be crying with laughter.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Then again, he didn’t want to play it <i>too </i>cool. He wasn’t certain, but he was pretty sure that he wanted things to go back the way they were, and he wanted her to know it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The cab stopped outside Bing’s former matrimonial home. He opened the door before the automated message from the speaker had finished telling him to have a wonderful evening. The creak of the wooden gate at the end of the path brought back memories of the first time they entered the house. They were both exhausted from the days they had spent travelling from Earth to the Isaac Newton by shuttle. They had been dropped off at this house by a cab that night too. The house looked exactly the same. They were so tired that night that their brains weren’t functioning at full speed. They were sure there had been some mistake. The house was a mansion, several times the size of the house they’d had in the suburbs of Glasgow in Scotland where they had lived. They hadn’t even bothered to take a full tour of their new house that night, which was fully furnished for them arriving. The computer which chose and ordered their furniture and decorations had had a profile of them which, judging by the decor they had ended up with, seemed to have painted a picture of a pair of nationalist fanatics. Every piece of upholstery was a different style of tartan. There were pictures of highland cows in every room. Stencilled quotes from Robert Burns adorned several of the walls. And the living room rug was a giant saltire. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing was smiling at the memories of the ridiculously decorated house, which he imagined remained the same as it had always been: there were no furniture stores on the ship, and no-one had been particularly keen to trade a leather couch for one that looked like a reject from a bagpipe factory. He stopped at the front door and re-tucked his shirt into his trousers and checked his breath. <i>Been better, </i>he thought, <i>I’ll use some mouthwash when I go to the bathroom. </i>He rang the doorbell and waited for his wife to answer.</span></div>
S.J. Magillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08738013241493095548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2805171904613786366.post-22333785483647275702016-07-02T03:05:00.003-07:002016-07-02T03:05:47.687-07:00Intergalactic Law episode 7: Honda<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><i>What the hell is she doing here? </i>Thought Bing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Alpha was standing on the pavement directly outside Bing’s office door waiting for it to open. It was difficult to tell with a robot whose face was a CCTV camera, but Bing was under the impression that she seemed nervous.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing remained in the alleyway. He had purchased his coffee from the back door of the cafe across the street from his office. He had never been a fan of the stimulant-free infusions that the cafe sold over the counter. The technician hired to clean the gunk out of the dispensing nozzles had an entrepreneurial streak and had rigged one of the machines to make a drink which tasted nothing like coffee, but had the wakening qualities of a jet of steam to the nether regions. He sold this from the alleyway door to the cafe. Most mornings the alleyway was filled with a mob of bleary eyed workers. It occurred to Bing that with his monopoly on stimulant drinks, the gunk-cleaner was probably one of the most powerful men on the ship.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Alpha’s hands clutched at the strap of her handbag as she looked up and down the street. Bing sighed, and trudged out of the alleyway. The robot’s lens locked onto him and she straightened up. Although she wasn’t wearing any clothes over her thin metal frame, she made a motion as if smoothing out creases from her top.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Mr Mulholland. I need to speak to you.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing said nothing, but eyed her suspiciously. He walked around her and unlocked the office door. Alpha followed him inside.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Morning Bing,” said Honda, the receptionist. Honda was a robotic arm which had previously been part of a construction line for a large car company. He watched silently as the other robot followed the lawyer in. Honda picked up a pencil in his pincer-like grip and used it to tap some keys on the computer keyboard in front of him. Bing felt his wristwatch buzz and saw from the screen that he had received an email.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>From: Honda</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i></i></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Subject: Other Robot</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Body: Who is that other robot?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing sighed again. “We’ll discuss this later, Honda. Alpha, come with me.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Above Honda’s pincer was a black hemispherical lens. He watched Bing and the other robot, Alpha he’d heard Bing call her, go into his office and shut the door. The robot looked down at where he was attached to the floor with large bolts. The other robot moved with ease, just like a human. Honda knew what was happening here: the other robot was his replacement. His boss had clearly grown tired of Honda’s inability to move around, and his lack of dual hands. Honda felt himself beginning to overheat. He picked up the pencil again and typed into the computer’s search engine: “can robots have panic attacks?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“What can I do for you Alpha?” asked Bing, aware that his watch had buzzed again with another incoming email. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Well, Mr Mulholland, I have gotten myself into some trouble.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I see. Why don’t you tell me about it.” He subtly checked his email. It was Honda again:</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i></i></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>From: Honda</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Subject: Other Robot (2)</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Body: Am I fired? Is it because I don’t have legs or hands?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing flicked the email closed. He had grown used to the fact that his receptionist had all the self-esteem of an unpopular teenager, although why he had been programmed this way remained a mystery to him. He ignored the buzzing of several subsequent emails being received and tried to focus on Alpha.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Do you remember when you came to the labs yesterday, and we went into Enclosure A, and there was the doggy?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing remembered a somewhat different version of that story, but he nodded. He was equal parts interested and fearful of where this story was going.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Alpha opened her bag and very gingerly removed the chameleon that she had encountered the day before. “I, um, I went back and I took the doggy. My boss was mad. He wanted me to have my memory wiped, so I ran away.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing had wondered when this day might arrive. Robots back on earth were nothing like the ones on the Isaac Newton. The artificial intelligence of even the most menial of the ship’s robots, such as his brooding receptionist, who was continuing to send emails to Bing’s watch, was quite astounding. Bing and William Symington had had a discussion several months ago, accompanied by some fine wine, about what would happen if a robot broke the law. On one hand the robot is property it has no rights and strictly speaking the robot’s owner should be held liable for any criminal wrongdoing. On the other hand, a robot has a mind of its own (albeit an artificial one) and, as Alpha had shown, is capable of committing crimes of its own volition.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“What will happen to me, Mr Mulholland?” asked Alpha, gingerly running a finger down the chameleon’s back. The lizard seemed entirely content sitting on Alpha’s arm.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“To be honest, I don’t know. You might be the first robot to have taken it upon yourself to commit a crime.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I’m not a criminal. They weren’t being nice to the doggy.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Of course,” said Bing, gently. “I could make a call to the Alpha Bio Labs administrator and see if we can sort something out. Ok?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Thank you Mr Mulholland,” she said, sounding relieved.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing paused for a moment, but concluded that there was probably no simple way of raising the subject of money. “You realise that as a client of the firm you will have to pay for my services?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Yes, that had occurred to me. I don’t have any money, and I can’t go back to the lab. Maybe I could work for you to pay for my services?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>From the other side of the wall there was the sound of an eavesdropping robot knocking over something heavy out of shock.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing sighed. “Fine.” <i>As if one mental robot isn’t enough, </i>he thought.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Fantastic, what should I do first?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Go to the alleyway across the street and get me a coffee from the guy at the back of the cafe.” Bing handed her some money from his wallet. He opened the office door for her, but went out first.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Honda, this is Alpha. She’s going to be working with us for a while.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Honda’s pincer snapped shut involuntarily, crushing the pencil he’d been holding. The robot quickly swept it into the bin, hoping that no-one had noticed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Nice to meet you Honda. I’m going to get Mr Mulholland some coffee. Can I leave my doggy with you?” She sat the chameleon on the desk in front of Honda and skipped out the door. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Honda waited until the door swung shut behind her before saying anything. “Am I fired Bing?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“No, Honda, you’re not fired. Alpha is a client and will be working for me to pay off her bill.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Ok, next question: what the hell is this thing?” said the robot peering at the chameleon with its big round lens. The chameleon’s eye moved to look at Honda, who recoiled in horror. “I hate it.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing sighed and retreated to his office. “Has anyone called?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Ivan Gunderson phoned and said he wants to speak to you about prosecuting the scientists at Alpha Bio Labs. He sounded impatient.” Honda picked up a pencil and used it to nudge the chameleon towards the edge of the table.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A small fly buzzed onto the table.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Ah, good morning Reginald, how are you this morning?” Said Honda to the fly. Honda had spent much of the previous day trying to catch the fly, who had entered the office uninvited. After several hours of chasing the tiny beast, Honda had realised that it meant no harm and was most likely lost. Once he stopped trying to kill it, he considered that it was quite nice to have another living thing in the office when Bing wasn’t around.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The chameleon turned towards the fly, and with a flick of its tongue swept the insect into its mouth.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Honda looked on in disbelief. His emotion simulator had never acted in this way before. He found that the instructions coming out of it were overpowering his normal protocols. He lifted the chameleon by the tail, and dropped it in the paper bin.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> “Ah, better,” said the robot.</span></div>
S.J. Magillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08738013241493095548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2805171904613786366.post-64049304429601985022016-06-25T02:48:00.002-07:002016-06-25T02:50:56.607-07:00Intergalactic Law Episode 6: Exhaustion<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">The light emitters that floated in the centre of the cylindrical living space of the ship, like a trio of miniature suns, were very slowly dimming into their night-mode. The whole ship was bathed in an orange glow. Ebbington Mulholland sat on the steps of the Galileo General Hospital smoking a black market cigarette, ignoring the sneers of the hospital staff and visitors that passed him by. He had given the news to Dr and Mrs Dorrit that he had found out what had attacked Dr Dorrit and who was culpable. In all likelihood there would be an enquiry into the whole thing before the Council of Scientists. Depending on the outcome of that hearing, Bing would be able to follow up with a lawsuit for damages. The Dorrits had thanked him for his efforts and been happy to make payment of his retainer immediately. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A cab pulled up at the kerb in front of him. He stumped out his cigarette and stepped inside. The car was driverless. A scanner had already identified Bing and had all his details from the ship’s central computer.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Home,” was all Bing had to say, and the cab’s computer driver was on its way. As tempting as it was to sleep the whole journey away, he had to check his emails. He pressed a button on his wristwatch and a hologram interface appeared floating in front of him. He selected his emails, and to his delight there were only three.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The first two were from his robot receptionist, Honda. Honda was a robotic arm that had previously been employed by a car manufacturer. The first email from the robot was to tell Bing that there was a fly in the office and he didn’t know what to do. The second was Honda following up to tell Bing that everything was ok, because he and the fly were now friends.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Honda made Bing’s head hurt. He didn’t know who had programmed the robot, but he had vowed to find the bastard and have him committed to some form of institution. Honda’s redeeming features were that he had been cheap to purchase, and had once saved Bing’s life. Because of that combination of factors, Bing couldn’t bring himself to replace Honda with something more competent.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The last email was one that Bing hadn’t expected. The sender was Dr Laura Mulholland. Bing wondered if he should leave that one for the morning, when he would be more mentally agile. His curiosity overpowered him. He opened the email to find out what the woman who was divorcing him wanted. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><i>Hi Bing, I hope you’re well. Would you be interested in coming by the house tomorrow night for a few drinks?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Laura</i></span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></i>Bing turned off the hologram and stared out the window. The cab was driving up a ramp onto one of the ship-length highways. Unlike the circumferential highways, these ones were equipped with magnetic boosters that propelled vehicles along it at tremendous speeds to make the journey from one end of the ship last minutes instead of hours. Bing was momentarily pressed back into his seat by the rapid acceleration of the vehicle. The whole ship became a blur. Things popped into and out of view in rapid succession, and Bing’s brain could barely make sense of any of it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>He closed his eyes and tried not to think. Only three months ago he and Laura had been happy. Then Bing had found out that she had been unfaithful to him and had walked out. He had gone to live at a hotel and booked himself in for a week to think things over. His next move had not been clear cut in his head. He wasn’t sure if he was going to return home, but five days after leaving, a messenger appeared at his hotel room door with a letter from the office of William Symington, the ship’s other lawyer. Laura had begun divorce proceedings. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Many things had gone through him that night: thoughts, feelings, and alcohol. The alcohol had been a cheap, grain alcohol, but it was all that Bing could acquire at that late hour. The sale of alcohol - as with most other recreational stimulants and depressants - was prohibited on the ship. However, manufacturing alcohol for one’s own use (and maybe very quietly selling a little on the side) was overlooked. Laura and her friends operated a small vineyard in their spare time, and their wine was very highly regarded. It had been one of her scientist friends with whom she owned the vineyard that she had been unfaithful with. The night he received the divorce papers, Bing had drank excessive amounts to rid himself of the image of Laura and Dr Gunther Prost writing vigorously in a vat of grapes; the green fruit being mashed by their naked buttocks thrusting back and forth. He had drained the entire bottle of grain booze and passed out. Judging by the monumental hangover the following day (which continued to the day after that as well) he was lucky he could only obtain a single bottle.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing hadn’t spoken to Laura directly since the day he left. He had corresponded, and had meetings, with Symington about the divorce though. Bing and Symington had been good friends since working together on the ship. He was a much different lawyer than Bing. Whereas back on Earth Bing had been a criminal defence lawyer with a limited amount of civil experience, Symington had been a high-flying commercial lawyer, specialising (and earning a fortune in) hostile takeover negotiations. As the only two lawyers on the ship they had been instrumental in establishing a form of court system that also fit in with the ethos of the Council of Scientists who, in every sense of the word, ruled the ship. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Despite the fact that in every dispute Bing and Symington would be on opposing sides, outside of the courtroom they were very good friends. That changed in Bing’s mind the day he received the divorce letter from Symington’s office.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>He remembered vividly the confrontation, and Symington’s justification for his actions:</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Come on now Bing, this was inevitably going to happen. I’m the only other lawyer on the ship. She can’t very well be represented by you, so she <i>had </i>to come to me.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In hindsight, Bing knew that Symington was right. That was just the way it was on this ship. Unfortunately, at the time he had stormed into Symington’s office, the wounds were still too fresh, and he had responded by calling the other lawyer a ‘backstabbing arsehole’, kicked over a potted plant, and slammed the door on his way out.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The cab had reached the end of the highway and was slowing. It took a direct route to the elevator at this end of the ship, which would take him from the industrial complex on this side of the cylinder to the city of Copernicus 180 degrees around the axis. Bing looked up through the cab’s skylight at Copernicus on the other side of the ship. When he’d had this view of Galileo earlier today, the city had reminded him of a bejewelled crown. Copernicus on the other hand reminded him of a crusty scab.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The divorce proceedings so far were not going in Bing’s favour. He and Symington had established what law from various jurisdictions on Earth would apply on the ship. When it came to divorce the presumption was that there would be a 50/50 split of marital assets. But in practice that hadn’t really worked out in Bing’s favour. The home, furniture and cars shared by Bing and Laura had in fact not been their property. It belonged to the Academy of Science; Bing and Laura had the use of it by virtue of Laura’s position as a senior scientist aboard the ship, so Bing had no claim on any of it. Bing was entitled to half the contents of their small joint savings account, and that was it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As it turned out, the Academy of Science owned all of the houses and apartments on the ship. The ones in Galileo could not be rented, but had to be assigned by that Academy. Bing had applied for accommodation in Galileo but had been refused. He had gone to the accommodations office to complain. It was only open one day per week because no administrator had been hired specifically to deal with accommodations, or any other administrative matter really. Each scientist, in addition to their scientific duties, was expected to devote a few hours a week to one aspect of the administration of running the city of Galileo.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing had arrived at the office to find the sign on the door:</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Office of Dr G Prost</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Head of Botanical Engineering and Accommodations Officer</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> Bing immediately felt his blood boil and his fists clench. He looked through the window to the office to get a look at this Dr Prost. He was nearly seven feet tall, muscular, tanned, had wavy blonde hair, and a chin that could be used as an anvil. He was chatting with two young female lab assistants, who were wearing short skirts, short lab coats and high heels. They seemed to be hanging on his every word and laughing hysterically at his jokes. Bing turned quickly away before doing something that he might regret.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>After further inquiry, there appeared to be only one place on the ship with rentable accommodation: Copernicus.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Copernicus was an afterthought of a city. The ship had been designed to house the greatest minds of Earth on a voyage from the crumbling remains of the birthplace of the human species, to a new home far away. Of course, as with every set-up of this type, there were a number of people whose talents lay in other, much more profitable areas than science, who had managed to buy their way onboard. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Despite the greatest of intentions, it became clear that the ship couldn’t run with the science crew alone. There were also jobs that, despite great advancements in robotics, humans were able to do better. A second, blue-collar, crew was hastily added to the ship, and the city of Copernicus was retrofitted to house them. This move, incidentally, was the reason why the scientists had created positions for two lawyers, due to the high number of disputes anticipated among the blue-collar crew. William Symington was headhunted for a position aboard the ship. The intention of the Council of Scientists had been to employ a second lawyer much the same as Symington, however, Bing had been guaranteed a place aboard the ship by virtue of his marriage to Laura. He was appointed as the ship’s second lawyer, because he was going to be there anyway.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The cab shot through the elevator tube and landed in central Copernicus. The buildings were grey concrete, and all seemed to be slightly tilted, like rows of twigs stuck into some mud with only a medium amount of care. The city was mostly silent at this time of night. The ever-present background noise of ambulances and ship’s security vehicles somewhere off in the distance was the only noise that could be heard. As the cab drove along the empty streets Bing saw the occasional homeless person. From the dark alleyways between the buildings there were the low rattlings of people or things interfering with the trash bins. Bing hoped that the free-range landsharks hadn’t made it this far without being caught and/or killed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The cab parked in front of Bing’s apartment building. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“<i>Forty six credits have been deducted from your account. We hope you have had a pleasant journey.”</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></i>Bing remained seated. He looked at the front door of the building. There was a code-entry system. No doorman. The elevator would take him to his empty apartment where he would sleep and get up to go to work the next morning with his robot receptionist. He would work all day, and then return home, watch some TV, go to bed, and do it all over again. </span></div>
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: helvetica; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">He brought up the email from Laura again and re-read it. He clicked ‘Reply’ and typed the words ‘OK’.</span><br />
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S.J. Magillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08738013241493095548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2805171904613786366.post-76804652153350744182016-06-18T07:18:00.001-07:002016-06-18T07:18:58.493-07:00The Setting for Intergalactic Law<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
For those who are wondering about the setting for Intergalactic Law, the ship, The Isaac Newton, is inspired by Arthur C Clarke's Rama. Rendevouz with Rama was one of the first sci-fi books I read. I was pretty young at the time, and I don't know if the story made much of an impression on me, but the setting of a giant cylindrical ship certainly did.</div>
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Below is a fantastic image inspired by Rama, and is very close to what I picture the interior of the Isaac Newton to be like.</div>
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<a href="http://www.dododreams.com/images/Rama/ramaview.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.dododreams.com/images/Rama/ramaview.jpg" height="360" width="640" /></a></div>
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Credit for the above image goes to the original artist at <a href="http://www.dododreams.com/writings/2006/09/09/rama-%E2%80%94-ttt-9-september/" target="_blank">http://www.dododreams.com/writings/2006/09/09/rama-—-ttt-9-september/</a>S.J. Magillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08738013241493095548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2805171904613786366.post-82052564317498684082016-06-18T03:43:00.005-07:002016-06-18T03:43:41.601-07:00Intergalactic Law Episode 5: Interrogation<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(68, 68, 68); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #444444; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">A single corridor ran the entire circumference of the Alpha Bio Labs main building with signposts at regular intervals to each of the enclosures. <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing marched in the direction of Enclosure E with Alpha in tow. The robot kept falling behind, stopping from time to time and staring at the floor.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Alpha, what is it? We need to get moving."</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"It's nothing, well... no, nothing."</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing sighed and clenched his eyes. "Come on, out with it, tell me what's wrong."</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"It's just... the doggie back there. He was nice. I'd like to have a doggie, but I don't think I'm allowed."</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"There's no law against a robot owning a dog. You can buy one as long as you take care of it," he said, totally sidestepping the fact that the creature she had been petting before had not been a dog. He would leave that particular awkward conversation for the pet store owner.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Alpha’s posture straightened, and her voice lost its ‘child who dropped her ice cream cone’ quality. She was much happier to keep up with Bing as he continued along the corridor. The door to Enclosure E was much the same as had been the door to Enclosure A. Alpha approached it to be scanned, but the light atop the scanner remained red. She stepped back and tried again, but it was no use. Bing hammered loudly on the door with his fist.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">"Don't move dirt bag!" Whispered Ivan Gunderson to the scientist in enclosure A, whilst jamming the barrel of his gun into the small of the man's back. He had gotten bored of waiting for Bing to text him to make his entrance, and it had been twenty whole minutes. Anything could happen in twenty minutes, especially the kind of thing that required the presence of a man with a big gun and the skill to use it. The fact that the radio in the partrol car was broken had had nothing to do with his decision at all.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The scientist yelped a little and thrust his hands into the air. "Who are you? How did you get in here? Are you with the tour?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Stop talking!" Ivan surveyed the interior of the enclosure and noted the groups of lions and jackals sleeping under the trees. "You're in a whole heap of trouble pal. One of your pets has mauled one of the ship's citizens. You'll be lucky if they don't toss you out of an airlock for this."</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The scientist began to whimper.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Don't you have anything to say for yourself? Murderer."</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"You told me to stop talking."</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Well... start talking. Tell me what I want to know. Then stop talking again."</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"What do you want to know?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"My partner, well, not my official partner, but the person I'm working with for the specific purpose of this investigation, came into this building twenty minutes ago and never came back out. What happened to him? Feed him to the lions too?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"N-no. I haven't fed anyone to anything. A man came through here about ten minutes ago. He was asking a lot of questions. Is that him?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"What'd he look like?” Demanded Gunderson, forcing the gun even harder into the scientist’s right kidney.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Short guy. Not a lot of hair. Well dressed and well spoken. Late forties? I'm quite a skilled artist, I could draw you a picture if you want." </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Gunderson spun him around and pressed the gun into his chest. "This isn't arts and crafts class. Tell me where he went or so help me..."</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The scientist waited for Gunderson to finish the sentence, but when it became clear that he had no intention of doing so he told the chief that the well-spoken man who had been here previously left after the scientist had mentioned Enclosure E, and that's where he was likely going next. Gunderson holstered his weapon, leaving the scientists with the parting words: <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Don't you dare leave this room. I'll be back with more questions for you later.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The doors to Enclosure E clicked and slid open. Standing inside was a dishevelled scientist wearing a long, buttoned-up lab coat, and quite possibly nothing else. His hairy legs stuck out the bottom of the coat and he had no shoes on; Bing readied himself to avert his eyes at a moment’s notice should this turn into a flashing incident. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Whaddaya want?” said the scientist, who appeared to be in the grey area between drunk and hungover.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing took a moment to consider the form of his response, “I’m coming in to take a look around, the robot will explain why,” he said, stepping past the scientist, who offered no resistance.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The scientist turned to Alpha: “well? What’s the explanation?” The relative brightness of the corridor was causing him significant discomfort.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“He’s taking a tour of the facility.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I didn’t know we did tours.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>While the robot and the drunk scientist carried on their thrilling conversation, Bing scouted the enclosure. Enclosure E had a narrow, glass walkway that ran from the door of the room to some form of control tower in the middle. The room was very dim; the fabric walls and ceiling were either very dark blue or black, and much thicker in this enclosure than in Enclosure A. Bing could only make out the general shapes of things in the twilight. He looked down at the enclosure floor about three metres below him. The vegetation had been allowed to grow thick, like an overgrown and weed-blighted hedge maze. A giant water tank ran all the way around the outside of the enclosure, like a walk-through tunnel found in aquariums, but with the water on the inside. He could see large, torpedo-like shapes gliding eerily through the water.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The door to the control tower was unlocked and Bing let himself in. There was an overpowering chemical smell which hit Bing like an ocean of ice cold expresso. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant at first, but after a few seconds Bing developed a sharp headache; his brain began to feel hot, and for a moment he had the nagging feeling that all the computers in the room were judging him. He threw the door wide open to let some fresh air in, which definitely helped. Inside the room were a pair of scientists - Bing assumed, although they might have been homeless stowaways judging by their appearance and smell. They paid Bing no attention, and continued to stare at their monitors, which showed a feed of somewhere green and sunny. To the left was a poster-sized diagram, a blueprint, but the design was of something biological that made Bing want to wet himself a little.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Magnificent, isn’t it?” said a scientist from a dark corner of the room that Bing hadn’t noticed before.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Not the word I would use. What the hell is it?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The scientist grinned at Bing like a crazy man about to stab and rob him. “We call it Selachimorpha Terrenum.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing ventured into the dusty corridors of his memory where he kept the remnants of knowledge from his high-school latin classes. He’d heard these words before, but never together. “Land shark?” he asked the scientist.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A broadening of the scientist’s grin was the response. Bing looked back to the blueprint. The beast had the body of a shark, and four legs from some sort of lizard. Annotations seemed to suggest that in addition to its gills, the landshark also had lungs, and was no less toothy than its seaborne counterpart.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“This is a gag, right? You haven’t actually created one of these creatures?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“One? Of course not, don’t be silly. What a waste of our scientific genius and resources that would be. We have twelve or so.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing’s brain shuddered. At that point he noticed Ivan Gunderson standing in the doorway. The security chief’s eyes flicked down momentarily to a tiny device pinned to his chest, like half of a black pearl. Bing noted the camera, and hoped that the chief had remembered to turn the microphone on this time. He turned back to the scientist: “What do you mean ‘or so’?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“The creatures are hard to keep track of. They also breed quite a lot. And we can’t be expected to monitor them twenty four hours a day, can we?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Well, yes you can. The other enclosures seem to be doing ok to monitor their animals. Why can’t you?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Oh, of course we can monitor the animals we have in the enclosure. That bit’s easy. It’s the free range landsharks that we have trouble keeping track of.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing had heard many combinations of words in his life that shook him to his very core. “You’re fired,” “I think I’m pregnant,” and “I want a divorce” were just some examples. But in the context that they lived on a giant spaceship, the words “free range landsharks”, as it turned out, was the most unsettling thing Bing had ever heard. He turned to Gunderson, who was fiddling with the buttons on his tazer trying to see if it could be set to a higher power setting than ‘maximum’. Bing knew he had limited time to finish his questioning before Gunderson decided he’d heard enough.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“So where exactly do your landsharks range?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Mainly in the Einstein Recreational Area, but we can’t say for certain. Some come and go. We saw one with a car tyre in its mouth once. Goodness knows where he got that.” He chuckled to himself. Bing felt a little bit of <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>vomit creeping up his throat. The scientist’s chuckle abruptly stopped as the prongs from Ivan Gunderson’s tazer delivered thousands of volts of electricity into his abdomen. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing took that as his cue to exit. He closed the door behind him when he left to let Ivan Gunderson get on with his police work in peace. The scientist he’d left speaking to Alpha was lying handcuffed on the floor. A large red mark on his neck suggested that he’d been pistol whipped by an unidentified assailant. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It occurred to Bing that under normal circumstances he would be offering to sue the ship’s police force on behalf of the scientists. On this occasion however, he decided that he could live with Chief Gunderson’s actions. Alpha herself was nowhere to be seen.</span></div>
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S.J. Magillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08738013241493095548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2805171904613786366.post-12457622983271110152016-06-11T01:18:00.003-07:002016-06-11T01:18:37.177-07:00Intergalactic Law Web Serial Part 4: Investigation<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">4 INVESTIGATION</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Alpha moved with all the urgency and enthusiasm of a moody teenager. She led Bing through several cement-block service corridors lined with gently humming pipes until they reached some sort of workshop. On the tables were deactivated robots similar in appearance to Alpha in various states of deconstruction.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“That’s the night receptionist,” she said, motioning to a robot on a workbench. Its CCTV camera head was in pieces. “He was left with his personality function turned on for two months without resetting himself. None of us suspected that anything was wrong. He did his reception duty at night, returned to his charging station during the day, then one day he threw himself off the roof. Poor bastard. It’s a serious concern among us robots: our personality functions were designed by humans to emulate your ridiculous and unpredictable system of emotions. Apparently that makes us susceptible to mental illness as well.” Bing stared wide-eyed at the suicide victim on the table. Alpha wiped a non-existent tear from her lens and moved on.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>She led Bing through a metal door at the opposite end of the workshop into a room filled with rows of robot charging stations, organised in the same efficient layout as the chairs in reception. Halfway up the middle row she stopped. “This is my charging station. This is where I spend my evenings. On weekends I go into Galileo and buy beauty supplies to ensure that I’m presentable at my work.” She stood silently for a few moments watching Bing. Bing looked from Alpha to the charging station, and then back to Alpha, unsure what the pause was for.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“It’s a very nice charging station,” he said.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Thank you. Well that concludes the tour, I hope you’ve enjoyed it.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Wait, what do you mean that concludes the tour?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I’ve showed you all the parts of the facility that I’m aware of.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“No you haven’t. You passed by dozens of doors that you never took me through. And there’s the five huge outbuildings. I want to see inside those.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I’ve never been into those, I don’t know anything about them. Maybe you should get someone else to show you those parts of the facility.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“No Aplha, I’d like you to show me.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>She sighed audibly. “Fine, let’s go.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It was clear that she had no idea where she was going. Despite the signposting on walls, Alpha always ended up leading Bing back the charging stations, and seemed genuinely surprised every single time. Bing eventually took her by the arm and followed the signs for ‘Animal Enclosure A’. Where appropriate he manhandled her in front of security scanners to release door locks. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The door to Animal Enclosure A was a set of chrome sliding doors. The security scanner above the doors blinked from red to green as Bing encouraged Alpha forward. The doors slid aside and a rush of hot, dry air came over them. </span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Inside the great plastic sheeted building was a huge expanse of burning hot red sand; a microcosm of the Serengeti desert. Bing and Alpha stepped onto a viewing platform a few metres above ground level. Over he barrier, just below them, was a great watering hole. Elephants, zebra, warthogs, rhinos, ostriches, and a dozen varieties of antelope-type creatures were drinking around the edges. Crocodiles and hippos basked lazily in the middle of the pond under the glare of the bright heat-lamps on the ceiling. Off to the far right was a great tree with a small pride of very fat lions underneath it. They were paying no attention to the other animals at the watering hole, but instead were sitting - as if trained - and staring intently at a boulder with a metal shutter on it. A red light above the shutter blinked and the lions’ tails began to wag excitedly. The shutter lifted and a slab of dripping meat fell out of it. The lions groaned as they lifted themselves to their feet and began to tear strips off of the meat. Bing noticed a group of, also obese, jackals waiting behind the boulder for their turn to feast. Towards the back of the great greenhouse was a thin forest of giant trees. Bing could just make out some apes frolicking in the shade, and a group of giraffes lazily picked leaves from the upper branches of the trees. Beyond the trees, too far for Bing to make out any detail, was an area with lots of large, flat rocks.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Alpha’s concentration was immediately grasped by a chameleon the size of a fist sitting on the handrail. She crouched next to it and stared at it silently. Also on the viewing platform was a man dressed in khaki shorts and a lab coat carrying a clipboard.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Excuse me,” said Bing, “I was wondering if I could ask a few questions.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Of… course,” said the main, initially chirpy, but then unsure as he turned to look at Bing. “I’m not sure I know you. Dr?”</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“It’s Mr. Mr Mulholland. Bing Mulholland. I’m taking a tour of the facility.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I wasn’t aware we did tours.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“We do apparently,” said Alpha, still entranced by the chameleon.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Oh. Alright then. Ask away.”</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“It’s a wonderful facility you have here. How any animals do you have?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The scientist smiled and his chest swelled with pride. Bing momentarily clenched his eyes shut to stop them from rolling. “We have two hundred and fifty three animals, four hundred and eight birds, and countless insects.”</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Very exact numbers. Do you count them personally?”</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I’m responsible for monitoring the numbers, but the actual counting is done by drones. It’s a bit of a redundant system actually, all the animals are microchipped at birth, but the drones are a double check.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing noticed over the man’s shoulder that the pride of lions had become exhausted from the effort of eating their food, and were snoozing under the tree. The pot-bellied jackals were now having their turn. Bing was beginning to think this had been a waste of time. An octogenarian with a zimmer frame could outrun these fat animals. Unless Dr Dorrit had covered himself in steak sauce and propped himself against the feeding boulder, it was highly unlikely that any of the animals at this facility were the culprits. “I hope you don’t mind me saying, but your carnivores don’t seem like great hunters,” said Bing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The man turned to face them. “Yes, you are correct. The original plan was to have as natural a set up as possible. Unfortunately, while this facility tries to recreate the plains of Africa as closely as possible, we would need the whole area of the ship to make it work. This space is just far too small for the hunter/hunted dynamic to work properly.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The scientist cleared his throat nervously. “Well, everyone was aware that these large cats and dogs are excellent hunters, but we didn’t anticipate how quickly they would be able to adapt their hunting techniques to these enclosures. Three lions and four jackals herded all the other animals into the far corner of the enclosure. It was awful, it took me weeks to hose the entrails off the walls. Do you have any idea how high a lion can toss a mouthful of entrails? Honestly, it was almost on the ceiling.” The man was becoming quite worked-up.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing raised a hand to stop him. “I think I get the picture. So now all the hunters are fed pre-killed food?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“It’s a bit more complicated than that. Technically the lump of flesh that we’re feeding them is a living organism. Something bodged together by the genetics lab. The lions wouldn’t eat anything pre-killed. Although it’s turned out for the best. Strictly speaking the animal created is a giant, living, breathing fillet steak. For a fraction of the cost, it’s just like the real thing.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing didn’t ask how the scientist knew it was ‘just like the real thing’, deciding to urgently pursue a different line of questioning - although he did consider slipping this man his card for any ethics committee hearings that he might have to attend in the future. Bing heard Alpha gasp with wonder as the chameleon caught a large fly with a flick of its sticky tongue.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“So is that the same in all your enclosures? The carnivores are… discouraged from hunting?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“As far as I know.”</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“As far as you know?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“As I said, there was a change of feeding policy. Any changes of policy must be voted on. There was a small group of scientists within the facility who were dead against it. They said it was unnatural and would make studying the animals’ natural behaviours impossible. It came down to a balance of loss of life and loss of scientific knowledge. As loathed as we were to lose an opportunity for study, the majority of us came down on the side of protecting the animals.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“So what happened with the dissenting scientists.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Oh they kicked up an awful fuss. Eventually we came to a compromise: we allowed them to have Enclosure E to do whatever research they wanted and washed our hands of them. I don’t know what they do in there, and I don’t want to know.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Thank you doctor, you’ve been very informative,” said Bing, shaking the scientist’s hand. “Come on Alpha, let’s move this tour along.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Alpha huffed at having to leave her new chameleon friend. She patted it on the head. “Nice doggie,” she said to it, and followed Bing. </span></div>
S.J. Magillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08738013241493095548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2805171904613786366.post-28082913516566337552016-06-05T10:11:00.003-07:002016-06-05T10:11:48.692-07:00A Small RequestDear Readers,<br />
<br />
Many of you have downloaded my books over the years, there are literally <i>dozens</i> of you! However, although I've had good feedback in person, by email, on forums and on Reddit, I don't have many reviews on Amazon and Smashwords.<br />
<br />
If anyone has downloaded one of my books and enjoyed it, I would be eternally grateful to you for leaving a brief review of it on whichever site you purchased it from.<br />
<br />
Gaining traction as an author is very difficult, and even more so when new readers can't tell if they would enjoy my work or not because there are no reviews from others who have read it. So if you are enjoying what I'm doing: let the world know.<br />
<br />
I look forward to hearing from you.<br />
<br />
SteveS.J. Magillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08738013241493095548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2805171904613786366.post-73690285769528448742016-06-03T15:22:00.003-07:002016-06-03T15:22:36.465-07:00Intergalactic Law Web Serial Part 3: Infiltration<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The Alpha Bio Labs main building was made of a grey-blue metal that made it look as congruent to the scenery around it as a swimwear store in the middle of the desert. Flanking the entrance were two of the vast annexes attached to the main block. Each of them was about the size of a soccer stadium. The walls were constructed of the same opaque plastic fabric as the roof. Bing approached it and pressed his ear to the wall, which was pulled so taught that it barely moved under force. If the lawyer listened closely he could hear low snuffling noises and barely audible growls. The fabric sheeting was sealed at the joins and where it met the floor. There was no space for an ant to escape, never mind for a prying eye to see in. Bing headed towards the entrance, leaving Gunderson in the car and told him to wait for a blank text message on his wrist phone. That was the signal for him to make his entrance.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Inside the lobby Bing’s nostrils were met with a hospital-like smell. The cleansers used by the cleaning robots were strong enough to kill any germ, virus, dog, cat, primate or bear that had the misfortune to be on the floor when they started cleaning. The waiting area could be described as ‘functional’ if one was trying to be kind. The chairs were plastic and looked cheap and uncomfortable. They were arranged in perfectly aligned rows to maximise space. There were no artworks, televisions, or magazine racks to be seen as one might expect in the waiting area of a large facility such as this. On the opposite side of the room from the entrance was a plastic reception desk. Behind it was a robot with a CCTV camera for a head and thin, twig-like metal limbs. It was sitting to attention, like a broom standing perfectly balanced on its end.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Hello, I’d like to speak to a manager,” said Bing. He hadn’t really considered what ‘pretense’ he was going to use to get a meeting with someone who he could interrogate about the attack on Dr Dorrit, but he knew he would think of something.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The robot had made no response. On its chest was a touchpad screen with text and some option buttons:</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">Welcome to Alpha Bio Labs</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">My Name is Alpha</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">Please select your preferred mode of communication:</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">1. Data entry by way of an external programming device</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">2. Oral programming language (please select language)</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">3. Oral conversation (please select language)</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing sighed audibly and chose option 3, and then chose English, on the basis that he knew nothing of programming, or indeed <i>any</i> other language. The lawyer had come across this type of question when interacting with robots many times before. He couldn’t prove it, but he was highly suspicious that this question was designed to test the intelligence of the person wishing to speak to the robot, and that someone was judging him for having to have a conversation with the machine rather than programming it to give him answers. Another question appeared on the touch screen:</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">Activate artificial personality and communication-assist mode?</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">1. Yes</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">2. No</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><i>Another trick question, </i>thought Bing. He chose no.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Welcome to Alpha Bio Labs. My name is Alpha. Please state your query,” said the robot through a monotone voice synthesiser.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I want to speak to a manager.”</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Syntax error. Please restate your query in the correct syntax.”</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing raised an eyebrow at the machine. Its CCTV head was locked onto him. It was very difficult to tell if the robot was being sarcastic or not. He tried again:</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Manager. I wish to speak to one.”</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The robot did not respond.</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Ma-na-ger.”</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>No response. Bing closed his eyes and counted to ten, taking deep breaths as he did so. He opened his eyes, tapped the ‘back’ button on the robot’s chest touchpad, and selected the option for the artificial personality and communication-assist mode.</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The robot slouched and began to touch buttons on the desk in front of it. The computer screen and telephone system sprang to life. From a drawer under the desk it retrieved a little bottle of nail varnish. The robot unscrewed the bottle top and began applying the varnish to the top inch of its metal fingers. Its voice had changed from the monotone synthesised voice to that of a young sounding female. She was humming and tune to herself while ignoring Bing and concentrating completely on applying the nail varnish.</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Excuse me,” he said, patience wearing thin, “I’d like to speak to a manager.”</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Which manager?” said the robot without looking at Bing.</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Ideally the managing director of this facility, but I will settle for the operations manager.”</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Do you have an appointment?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“No.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Do you know the <i>name</i> of the individual you wish to speak to?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“No.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Hmmm, I don’t think you’ll be able to speak to anyone today. But leave me your name and number and I’ll get someone to call you.” Without looking away from her freshly painted fingertips, she tossed a clipboard onto the reception in front of Bing. He watched as she held her painted fingers in front of her lens; her voicebox made a noise that sounded as if she was blowing on the nail varnish to dry it, despite the fact that she didn’t have a mouth with which to do so. She inspected the still-wet varnish and repeated the blowing charade. The varnish had begun to run down her finger. She tutted loudly and removed a pack of cotton pads and acetone from the drawer. As she unscrewed the top of the bottle she aimed her lens at Bing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Was there anything else?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing was becoming seriously irritated by the robot.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Listen, I really need to speak to someone. Today. It’s an urgent matter.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing could see Alpha’s lens moving behind the glass. He felt her zooming in close to his face and scrutinizing him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Fine,” she said with a sigh, “ your name?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Ebbington Mulholland.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>She tapped at her keyboard. “You’re a lawyer?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Did you just search for me on the ship’s directory?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>She didn’t answer.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Yes, I’m a lawyer.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Hmm, no, I don’t think that anyone will be able to speak to you today. Good day, sir, and thank you for visiting Alpha Bio Labs.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Listen, this is extrem-“</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>He was cut off by Alpha putting up her index finger to him to shush him while she answered the phone. He noted that her telephone demeanour was infinitely more pleasant than her demeanour dealing with him so far had been. She finished her conversation and noticed that Bing was still standing there. She sighed and stood up, “listen Mr Mulholland. You should leave now. Someone will call you to arrange an appointment. You cannot speak to a manager today.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing was quite taken aback by this. In all his years of being a lawyer, he had never come across a receptionist so efficient. Human or robot. He was actually somewhat jealous that he didn’t have a robot receptionist of his own like this. He did have a robot receptionist but it was a little… odd. That was besides the point. He had come here to find information, and he wanted to find it himself, without Ivan Gunderson coming in with his bull in a china shop routine. He would have vastly preferred to speak to a manager and tease the information out of him, but all was not lost.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Alright then. I understand the managers are busy, but maybe you can help me: I’d like a tour of this facility.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Alpha recoiled slightly. “You want what?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“A tour.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“We don’t do tours of this facility.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I think you’ll find that you do. Under regulation 432.1.1.2 of the ship’s Scientific Undertakings Code, all scientific undertakings must provide a tour to any person or persons who request them. Of course, there is the provision that you only have to provide one tour per day, but since you didn’t seem to be aware that you even provided tours, I take it that you haven’t provided a tour yet today.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Alpha tapped her fingers to the bottom of her lens. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“It just so happens that Ivan Gunderson, the ship’s chief of security, is right outside. He was the one who drove me here. I would hate to have to go out to him and say that I’m being refused a tour in violation of ship regulations.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Alpha snapped back into her chair and began rapidly tapping at her keyboard. She lifted the phone and pressed ‘0’. Bing heard a series of clicks from whoever was on the other end of the phone, Alpha responded with a string of panicked-sounding whistling noises of different lengths and frequencies. There was a further brief exchange of clicks and whistles. She put the phone down and stood facing Bing.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Mr Mulholland, would you like to come this way?”</span></div>
S.J. Magillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08738013241493095548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2805171904613786366.post-76705510851979877742016-05-28T07:17:00.003-07:002016-05-28T08:49:15.237-07:00Intergalactic Law Web Serial Episode 2: Ivan<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ivan Gunderson was quite something to behold. Never before had Bing seen power go to a man’s head in such a disproportionate way. As they headed for the hospital main exit, Ivan loudly shouted ‘excuse me, official police business’ at every doctor, nurse, and orderly who crossed his path. Patients in wheelchairs and rolling beds alike were pushed out of his way when it became clear he had no intention of walking around them. As the hospital staff tried their hardest to clear the way for the ship’s chief of security, Gunderson huffed and checked his watch with the drama of a Shakespearian actor.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing didn’t apologise on behalf of Gunderson, even although he felt that he should, for fear of being linked in the minds of the hospital staff as a close associate of the chief’s. <i>Things like that get remembered, and who knows when my life might depend on these people…</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></i>The lawyer followed the security chief at a cautious distance until they were outside. As one who knew anything about Ivan would expect: his hovercar was parked blocking the hospital’s ambulance bay. Several ambulances had to park in the street about a minute away from the emergency room entrance. An ambulance crew rushed past them carrying a stretcher with some unfortunate soul moaning in pain on top of it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“In you get Mulholland.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing entered the car, reluctantly, very aware of the numerous little crowds of people having hushed conversations and shaking their heads. As he dreaded, he heard from somewhere in one of the crowds:</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Isn’t that professor Mulholland’s husband?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Ex-husband you mean.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing’s left eye twitched and he slammed the car door shut.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The sirens began to blare, and chief Gunderson shot out of the ambulance bay at the vehicle’s top speed. He was following signs towards the circumferential highway. It was the main road that ran to the opposite side of the cylinder, but it occurred to Bing that it would probably take them two hours to get there on the highway, even accounting for Gunderson’s borderline psychotic driving habits.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Oh, you’re taking the highway? That’s alright. It gives you such a great view of the whole ship, and we’ll have such a long time to take it all in. The elevator is much quicker of course, but it just isn’t the same.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>He watched Gunderson’s lips curl and tighten as he silently cursed himself for not thinking of taking the elevator. He swerved across several lanes of high-speed traffic, lights and sirens still blaring, and pointed the car directly towards the elevator.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Sorry Mulholland, but you’ll have to sightsee some other time, we don’t have time for that today.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The chief veered through stop signs, intersections, and crosswalks without slowing. At the enormous pedestrian mall around the elevator, Gunderson began hollering through the vehicle’s loudspeaker system for people to get out of the way.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The elevator was a giant crystal tube with walls a foot thick linking the city of Galileo on one side of the cylinder to the Einstein Recreational Area on the opposite side across the diameter of the ship. From afar however, the elevator appeared to be an impossibly thin glass capillary tube which should be collapsing under its own weight. Along the whole length of the tube were millions of circular silver electromagnet discs. The chief bullied his way to the front of the elevator queue, ignoring the derisive honks of other motorists. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The car shuddered as it entered the elevator and the electromagnets took hold. The car slowly began to rise into the air. The higher they rose the faster their speed became until they were traveling so fast that Bing could no longer make out the electromagnets as they sped by. His internal organs seemed desperate to cling to the surface of the cylinder they had just left for a few moments, then, as they entered the gravitational no-man’s land in the centre of the cylinder, his insides didn’t know whether they should be feeling immense joy, or sheer terror. In the end, each organ made its own mind up and acted accordingly. The car did a slow somersault as they passed the midway point and began to descend. Bing’s brain decided that it had quite liked that motion and decided to replay it for Bing over and over again. Gravity resumed its hold and the lawyer’s insides barged past each other to return to their starting positions. The car landed with an unsatisfying, slow descent towards the surface of the cylinder. There was no judder or bump to signify that their journey had ended, they simply stopped descending about a foot from the surface. While Bing was obviously thrilled that they hadn’t smashed into the ship’s hull at hundreds of miles per hour, he always felt that the end of the elevator journey was a total anticlimax.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As the elevator barrier lifted, Ivan Gunderson showed the signs marked ‘exit slowly’ how little authority they actually had. Several miles above them, the buildings of Galileo reached towards them like millions of tines on an overly-elaborate crown which twinkled in the artificial sunlight. In the centre was the giant glass spire of the Galileo Academy of Sciences, home of the Council of Scientists. Through the sunroof Bing could make out some of the larger parks and plazas of the city, of which there were many. His ex wife, who was a much better authority than he on such things, used to go on about how they were beautiful enough to rival those of any capital city on Earth. He stopped looking at them.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>On either side of the road that Ivan was currently tearing along, green hills, forests, lakes and great plains of grass seemed to stretch out for miles and then rose up at a gentle gradient. The mysterious point where the internal surface of the ship became more vertical than horizontal always made Bing’s brain a little confused. The vast green was criss-crossed with roads and marked here and there with little collections of buildings conducting experiments which were better done outwith the hustle and bustle of the city. Eventually the green met with the suburbs of Galileo above them.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Gunderson was travelling in the direction of the opposite end of the ship, but their destination was much closer than that. Bing could see it about a mile ahead of them on their left, about an eighth of a turn around the circumference. The building complex was like a great flower. The road was the stem, leading up to the main building, which was surrounded by five giant petal-like strictures. The roofs were made of some form of plastic fabric sheeting that was slightly opaque as to let in sunlight, but obscuring whatever was within. As they neared the building, the car matched its orientation.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Gunderson, have you had any thoughts about how this is going to go?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I’m going to go in and ask them if all of their animals are accounted for.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing nodded. “Hmmm, alright. It’s a direct approach. But don’t you think that might put them on the defensive? Maybe make them more inclined to hide something?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Gunderson gave him a few confused glances and sideways looks. His fingers danced nervously on the steering wheel. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> “You’re right. Maybe you should go in first with some pretense. Feel them out a bit. Their guards are more likely to be down if it’s not a cop that’s questioning them. What do you think?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“The good cop, bad cop routine. Brilliant idea Ivan.”</span></span></div>
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: "helvetica"; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: large;">Ivan Gunderson smiled to himself, quite proud of the plan he’d come up with.</span>S.J. Magillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08738013241493095548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2805171904613786366.post-85438864034801679432016-05-21T14:11:00.000-07:002016-07-16T13:43:14.124-07:00Intergalactic Law Web SerialDear Readers,<br />
<br />
As part of a bold new experiment I'm introducing a new serial set in the same 'world' as my short story Intergalactic Law. Ebbington 'Bing' Mulholland is a lawyer on a giant space ark. The ark, the Isaac Newton, has two cities: Galileo, where the science crew live, and Copernicus, which is home to the crew of support staff, and Mr Mulholland himself. So, without further ado, let us begin with part 1:<br />
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1. Instruction<br />
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<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Bing sat next to the mauled scientist’s hospital bed. Dr Richard Dorrit had lost both arms, his right leg from the mid-shin down, an ear and the tip of his nose. He was in an induced coma and hooked up to an array of machines like 10-foot tall white marble tombstones, each standing silently. Tiny lights flashed occasionally. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“How did this happen?” Bing asked the dismembered man’s wife.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Something in the woods got him. We were hiking in the Einstein Memorial Recreation Area.“ She pointed out the window. Galileo General Hospital rose above all the other buildings in this district of the city. Bing could see down the whole length of the cylindrical living space of the ship. Bing had been told the exact measurements of the ship at one point, but hadn’t bothered to commit them to memory. Everytime he caught a view of the ship such as this, his mind had to search for the correct adjectives to describe how big the living space of the Sir Isaac Newton really was. On this day, his brain went for ‘really, massively, fucking gargantuan’. The other city on the ship, Copernicus, was just a dark grey patch at the other end of the cylinder. The woman was pointing at a spot 180 degrees around the cylinder. Einstein Park took up a full quarter of the ship’s inner surface. It was a hilly area of mainly light green grassy open plains, but there were deep green patches of forest, and dark green lakes. The hills were impressive, and were equipped with snow machines at their peaks to make them seem taller and allow for winter mountain sports. The lakes, however, were limited by the thickness of the ship’s hull. If a reasonably tall man were to wade in to the deepest point, his armpits would be perfectly dry.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“We were monitoring the bird populations in the forest, and something attacked us from the side. Something big.”</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“What did it look like?”</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“It was big, and grey. I thought it might have been a hippo, but it was so fast, and nimble, and too streamlined. The main thing I remember was its big, black, glassy eye staring at me as it tore Richard apart.”</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Are there hippos on the ship?” Asked Bing. He’d lived on the Isaac Newton for two years, and had never heard of there being any hippos.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Yes, the ship was designed to be an ‘ark’ of sorts after all. I'm aware that one of the labs has a large populations of animals for observation and experiment.”</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><i>Interesting, </i>thought Bing. He heard a door open behind them. Through it walked Ivan Gunderson, the chief of security aboard the ship. His uniform was crumpled and the top button was undone. Bing had called him several hours ago to attend urgently. Despite Bing explaining to him in several different ways that Dr Dorrit had suffered life-threatening injuries from a violent attack by an unknown source, Gunderson couldn’t see how this was anything to do with him. Ultimately he had agreed to attend. </span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bing needed him there because if any lawsuit was going to get off the ground he would have to do quite a bit of investigating to figure out who to sue. Since he was none too popular with the scientific community, and they had worked out that they didn’t <i>need </i>to speak to him, Bing found it helpful to team up with Gunderson from time to time. While the chief of security was equally unpopular, he had authority that Bing lacked. Also, although he didn’t realise it, he was quite open to following any suggestion Bing made, as long as Bing made it seem like the idea had been Gunderson’s in the first place.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Well, I’m here. What seems to be the issue?” Gunderson asked the room at large. He walked over to inspect the victim somewhat indifferently, like an antique dealer inspecting an expensive chair that he was very interested in, but didn’t want to pay a lot of money for. </span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Chief Gunderson, this is Rosie Dorrit, the wife of Dr Richard Dorrit, with whom I see you have already become acquainted.”</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“How do you do,” said the chief, without looking up from Dr Dorrit. “This was some sort of animal attack.”</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><i>Nothing gets past you, does it? </i>Thought Bing. “I was just discussing with Mrs Dorrit here that I wasn’t aware of there being any animals on the ship that could cause this kind of injury.” Bing nudged the woman with his elbow and nodded to her.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Yes, and I was saying to Mr Mulholland that there is in fact a large animal population on board the ship for study and potential breeding. That must be where the beast came from.”</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Well, it’s obvious that we should go speak to the persons in charge of this animal facility to find out what they have to say about it.”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">“Excellent idea Ivan,” said Bing.</span><br />
<div>
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
S.J. Magillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08738013241493095548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2805171904613786366.post-90447725295061293402016-05-09T12:18:00.001-07:002016-05-09T12:18:19.751-07:00FREE STUFF OMFG!!!Intergalactic Law will be free on Amazon from 10th til 14th May 2016. Please download, read, enjoy, leave an honest (but 4/5 star) review, and then download everything else I've ever written (optional).<br />
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SteveS.J. Magillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08738013241493095548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2805171904613786366.post-91239058987606403382016-04-03T03:15:00.002-07:002016-04-03T03:15:36.583-07:00New Short StoryI've entered the exciting world of science fiction writing. Intergalactic Law is a short story about a lawyer on a space ark taking the best and the brightest of the human race from the ruins of Earth to Earth 2.0 somewhere among the stars.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGLLp45UIGH-iI14eHbDse72DEeTQzNVWl5FQJOdt9AoVzAlqvkbnPcSHEzyeUfcIyt7HQVq_vuHUochje_Hj0Lw_tYfPKcLxUiFhdoynnBr0lQg-N41qn3_67YOlX4cwIZG2b-vo4RapF/s1600/Intergallactic+law1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGLLp45UIGH-iI14eHbDse72DEeTQzNVWl5FQJOdt9AoVzAlqvkbnPcSHEzyeUfcIyt7HQVq_vuHUochje_Hj0Lw_tYfPKcLxUiFhdoynnBr0lQg-N41qn3_67YOlX4cwIZG2b-vo4RapF/s640/Intergallactic+law1.jpg" width="491" /></a></div>
<br />S.J. Magillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08738013241493095548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2805171904613786366.post-40157852356543933652016-03-16T14:22:00.000-07:002016-03-16T14:22:07.333-07:00Happiness is...This post might be a bit existential and philosophical for some. If that sounds like something you'd hate (sure sounds like something I'd hate, but here I am), here is a <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Werechicken-A-Terra-Novel-ebook/dp/B00IGYRZVE/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1395483229&sr=8-1&keywords=the+werechicken" target="_blank">nifty escape route.</a> On you go, no-one would blame you...<br />
<br />
For those who have stuck around, good for you, let's have a heart to heart.<br />
<br />
This is a post about happiness, and what makes a person happy. Me specifically, because I'm not really bothered about whether anyone else is happy to be honest...<br />
<br />
I write because it makes me happy. It's relaxing, fun, and it lets me get some stuff out of my brain that really shouldn't stay in there for too long.<br />
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Writing isn't a walk in the park. It's a challenge to sit one's arse down evening after evening and craft a novel. And then there's editing. I edit because I have to. Editing doesn't make me happy. But it's all part of the process to creating a piece of work.<br />
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So what else? The following list is not exhaustive, and I intend to expand on some of the points in separate blog posts.<br />
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Family. I have my awesome fiancee, who makes me happy every day, and in six weeks we will be married. We don't have any children, but we do have a fur baby, Dot, our 2 year old pug.<br />
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Climbing. I have a passion for climbing stuff. Much like writing, it's not easy, but topping a difficult route produces such a great sense of achievement.<br />
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Video games. Aside from writing and climbing this is the main thing I do to de-stress. Getting lost in the world of Fallout or The Witcher makes all of life's problems disappear for a little while.<br />
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Movies, TV, and books. Much like video games, other media also allows me to get lost in another world for a sense of contentment.<br />
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Money. Being a lawyer, y'all might understand that I have a certain fondness, bordering on a fetish, for money. Some say it's the route of all evil (not really something that bothers me), but having money allows people to have and do all sorts of things that broke folks just can't get. There is also the financial security element. Being in too much debt makes me nervous, which is counterproductive to being happy.<br />
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My job makes me happy from time to time. Whenever I am able to do something well, win or lose, I'm definitely filled with a sense of achievement, which is an undeniably good feeling.<br />
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Let's pause at this point for a moment: money essentially buys all of the things that make me happy (apart from my future-wife, but life is much less stressful when we aren't struggling to pay our bills, so it definitely enhances our home life). However, what do I do for money: work. Work can be enjoyable, but can also be stressful. Not every case goes my way. Some clients are massive pains in the arse. I have periods when I feel like I'm in a hole and don't even know how to begin getting myself out. So while work can be a source of happiness, it can also be a source of stress. In fact, it is probably the biggest source of stress in my life and the lives of everyone with a job.<br />
<br />
So what's the point of this post? Being happy in life is important to me and everyone else. It would make sense to eliminate sources of unhappiness. But my main source of unhappiness is my job, which is the source of my money, which facilitates my happiness.<br />
<br />
Well isn't that just fucking brilliant...<br />
<br />
I'm nothing if not practical, so let's try to find a solution to this problem. I highly doubt there is such a thing as a job that doesn't have its downsides. Even if I did have a job which was less stressful, and required shorter hours, it would likely pay less, and less money = less capacity to do things that make me happy.<br />
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I could find some sources of happiness that require less money. Indeed there is a whole frugality movement online, led by this <a href="http://www.mrmoneymustache.com/" target="_blank">majestically moustached gentleman,</a> but screw him and his hippie ways. I haven't been in a Starbucks in years since I started reading his blog, but I like the small comforts that remain too much to just give them up.<br />
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I think it would be fair to summarise my problem thusly: my job is stressful, but I need money.<br />
<br />
Perhaps you're anticipating the conclusion to this article to be that I should pack in my job to become a full time writer and earn a living from that, but you would be wrong. Being dependent on my hobby for my income would ruin it, and would make it just as great a source of stress, if not greater, than my current job. So that's out.<br />
<br />
My current working plan to develop some systems of investment that produce enough wealth that I no-longer have to work have a timescale of 20+ years. While that's a painfully long timescale, unfortunately it's all I've really got. 20 years of reasonable happiness, peppered with the dreadful misery of work, is a lot of goddamn years. I don't <i>think </i>I have any millionaire relatives at death's door, and I don't play the lottery, so it looks like the 20 year plan is where it's at.<br />
<br />
Fuck that.<br />
<br />
Here begins my epic blog journey of trying to achieve fabulous wealth, and with it fabulous happiness, combined with fabulously low levels of work. How am I going to achieve it? Not a clue.<br />
<br />
Kind regards,<br />
<br />
Steve<br />
<br />
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<br />S.J. Magillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08738013241493095548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2805171904613786366.post-13555710963041796942016-01-14T14:44:00.001-08:002016-01-14T14:44:24.577-08:00New Year's Resolution: Publish!Following on from some thoughts I blogged about last year (or maybe I didn't, I can't remember, I'm busy dammit!) I'm going to make a real stab at publishing Worm: Demon Attorney at Law in 2016.<br />
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<b>The Road So Far... </b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2X_2IdybTV0" target="_blank">(mood music)</a><br />
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You'll see from my sidebar that I've self-published a novel, a smattering of novellas, and a handful of short stories. I'm proud of all of them, if only because the earlier ones let me see how far I've come.<br />
<br />
But what about the stuff you don't see?<br />
<br />
Well, there's some MUCH earlier stuff, from way before The Werechicken was even half a thought in my head. This will never see the light of day, and I can't believe I haven't burned it already. Moving swiftly on.<br />
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After The Werechicken was written, I decided to improve my writing chops with the short stories and novellas. Most I felt good enough to put my name to them and make them buyable/downloadable.<br />
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Others (that don't appear on the bar to the right) were ok, but I felt they didn't quite work. I might have started them, but they just didn't hold my attention. Most were short stories that started off as good ideas, but a single good idea can't make a full story.<br />
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One that I'm struggling with just now is the follow-up to Worm: Demon Attorney at Law, which is provisionally titled Worm and the Case of Agatha Wilson versus Death. I feel like it is founded on a good idea: some rich old bat doesn't fancy the idea of death, so hires our loveable demonic lawyer to take out and enforce a magical restraining order against Death himself. Solid idea, but turning that funny little idea into a full story isn't always easy.<br />
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It <i>does </i>work sometimes. The Werechicken started out as a superhero origin story along the lines of: <i>what if a young man discovered that he had a super power, but that power was crap?</i><br />
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Since we're on the subject: there is a sequel to The Werechicken written on my computer, but will take some serious re-working before I can put it out there. I had a grand vision for The Werechicken's saga, but perhaps it was too grand. I think that the charm of The Werechicken came from putting the titular character into situations where I could torture him and we could all have a good laugh. So why I thought that it would work as epic fantasy I will never know.<br />
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<b>Now...</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Worm: Demon Attorney at Law isn't just the 90k words or so that make it up. It's the product of almost 4 years of writing practice, research, and maturing as a writer. I might have felt like I was ready 2 years ago to have something traditionally published, but looking back I don't think my work was quite good enough. I feel like I'm at that stage now though.<br />
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I have my 3 chapters polished to perfection, my synopsis, my covering letter, and also a CV of my previous works. I've made a spreadsheet based on the agents I think are the best fit for me from the Writers and Artists Yearbook, and columns for me to update once I've submitted and heard back. So all that is left is to pull the trigger.<br />
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Hold my beer, I'm going in!<br />
<br />
Steve<br />
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<br />S.J. Magillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08738013241493095548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2805171904613786366.post-69625301177380085152015-11-21T03:09:00.001-08:002015-12-16T13:00:43.394-08:00Open Letter to Ardon Legal Community 2Dear Lawyers,<br />
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I've been having a bit of difficulty with several of the judges in Ardon Municipal Court and wonder if anyone can assist me.<br />
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The judges, who shall remain unnamed, are possibly the most obstinate, foul tempered group of old arses that I have had the misfortune to meet in all 200 years of my demonic life- and keep in mind that I've been summoned before the Archdemons themselves (long story).<br />
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It seems that these judges are incapable of allowing me to finish a sentence without interjecting with their own opinion about what the law should be; how they think the rules about questioning witnesses should be followed; or why I am not observing correct court etiquette. Bearing in mind that I've been out of the legal game for a while now, I don't ever recall judges being so bloody pernickety about these matters. When I last practised law, the common procedure was to let the lawyers have turns applying the thumbscrews and hot pokers for as long as was necessary. Yes, I know there are more rules to courts now, and some consider the methods I'm used to as '<i>outdated'</i>, but I think there's something to be said for just letting us lawyers get on with our jobs.<br />
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Anyway, now that I've gotten that off my chest, I'm holding a coffee morning at my office on Monday of next week with a view to starting a committee to replace the 'witness stand' - which has become commonplace in most courts - with the more traditional torture-rack or iron-maiden, which in my view are court traditions that were cast aside too easily. In my opinion, back when these were the norm, judges could be much more assured that witness testimony was accurate.<br />
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I hope to meet some like-minded people at the coffee morning. Although for the sake of clarity, this is a coffee <i>morning</i>, so no vampires.<br />
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Yours,<br />
<br />
Worm<br />
Principal Lawyer<br />
Ardon Legal Clinic<br />
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<br />S.J. Magillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08738013241493095548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2805171904613786366.post-55896076591306306982015-10-19T13:20:00.000-07:002015-10-19T13:20:06.514-07:00An Open Letter to the Legal Community of Ardon<br />
Dear Lawyers,<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I know that not all of you will know me. I am a fairly new addition to the Ardon legal community. My name is Worm and I run the Ardon legal clinic - the office is next to the whore tent down by the river that I think some of you frequent.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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There are a few things that I wish to say in this letter. </div>
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Firstly, some of you may have noticed, and others may not have, but I am a demon. Rest assured that I am not in the business of cheating anyone out of their soul, or taking it from them by force (not any more at least). I simply wish to be a productive citizen of Ardon, and an active member of the legal sphere.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Secondly, it has been a while since I was last in practice. Although I have gained a second, more up-to-date, law degree at the Law Societies insistence, I may from time to time fall into some old habits which are not in line with modern practice. I'm sure that word has gotten around of my minor gaffe in court last week when I asked Judge Sinclair for permission to flog a witness for not answering my questions as fully as I might have liked. <i>Mea culpa. </i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
Thidly, and finally, although I am enjoying my time at the Ardon Legal Clinic, I feel it might be time for a change of pace. I am seeking to enhance my skills by undertaking a legal apprenticeship. I feel I would be an asset to any firm. My negotiation skills are top notch, and I have... unique methods for ensuring that people stick to their word. If anyone is interested, send me a letter, or drop in for a social call.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Yours sincerely,</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Worm</div>
S.J. Magillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08738013241493095548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2805171904613786366.post-37358155060813427162015-10-06T09:27:00.001-07:002015-10-19T13:06:42.130-07:00An Unwell WriterI'm poorly. Not blaming anyone in particular, but the receptionist at my office had a cold last week, and it's a small office. God-dammit Demi...<br />
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Anyway, as much as I would normally relish having some extra time in the house to allow me to write, it's been difficult to adopt the correct mindset. Writing is a fun activity, but it's challenging and requires some brain power. Right now every time I try to use my brain it begins to overheat and I need to go for a nap.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.expresschemist.co.uk/pics/products/2246/0/lemsip-max-cold-and-flu-8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.expresschemist.co.uk/pics/products/2246/0/lemsip-max-cold-and-flu-8.jpg" height="295" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My best friend right now.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My lawyering day-job is also non-compatible with having a cold. I was supposed to start quite a high-level trial today, but thankfully a witness didn't appear, the trial couldn't go ahead (woohoo!), and I got to 'work from home' in the afternoon.<br />
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This is a bit of a rambly post, which might be something to do with the painkillers, so I think I'll quit while I'm ahead.<br />
<br />
Steve<br />
<br />
EDIT: I haven't had time to update in a while, but just to let you know I survived and am feeling much better now.<br />
<br />
<br />S.J. Magillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08738013241493095548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2805171904613786366.post-42086778777267837462015-10-04T06:45:00.001-07:002015-10-04T06:45:18.147-07:00Stuff I'm DoingLook at me, posting more than once a quarter. How serious about being a writer am I?!<br />
<br />
So, here's what's been going on:<br />
<br />
1. Worm Short Story Series<br />
<br />
The Demon Attorney<br />
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Worm has set up a small law practice in a shack. His normal clientele are the local scum and his fees are paid by the city's Legal Aid Trust. However, an extremely high-brow client comes through his door and Worm finds himself dusting off his private-rate cost list.<br />
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I've emailed this first part to a few magazines, but can't remember which ones... bugger.<br />
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The second part sees Worm's posh client interviewed by a pair of, less than competent, but intimidating all the same, detectives. The pressure causes the client to do something he will live to regret.<br />
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The third part is a work in progress, and will probably be the bulk of the story.<br />
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2. Standalone Worm Short Story<br />
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A wizard professor from the University of Magical Studies studying a primitive civilisation finds himself in trouble with the University's disciplinary tribunal after using his magical abilities to trick the civilization into believing that he is a God, and letting them treat him as such. His union pays for a lawyer to guide him through the tribunal process. Guess who he gets...<br />
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3. Sci Fi Short Story<br />
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A change of scenery entirely. The Hercules is an ark-type spacecraft leaving Earth with the best and brightest of humanity. The only problem is not a single one of them knows how to cook a meal on a stove or operate an iron. Thousands of support staff are required, and one of them is a small-time criminal lawyer, who finds it difficult to relate to the ultra-intelligent scientists who feel that the spaceship is rightfully theirs.<br />
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<br />S.J. Magillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08738013241493095548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2805171904613786366.post-46626326636719688042015-09-24T15:00:00.001-07:002015-09-24T15:00:10.807-07:00Is All Traditional Publishing Vanity Publishing?The above question occurred to me in the context of examining the pros and cons of the main publishing options for Worm: Demon Attorney at Law. Ruling out actual 'vanity' publishing (because I have no money), the two main options are self publish right now, or take the longer route of traditional publishing and all that brings.<br />
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So which should I choose and why? It really boils down to what I want from my choice of publisher, and by extension my 'career' as a writer.<br />
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Money: neither option provides much of that at first, so it's not really a consideration.<br />
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Support: as a new writer, there probably won't be much in the way of support for advertisement and editing services. There are still some perks to having a trad publisher in terms of producing a run of physical books, and y'know, publishing them. Chalk up one for tradition.<br />
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Formats: with ebook and print on demand services, a self-publisher can have the same product available online as a traditionally published writer. It's a draw.<br />
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Timing: I can self-publish right now if I want to. Right this second. For a traditional deal I estimate that it might be up to two years before I could even hope to have a book out (if it happens at all with this work). That's a definite point in favour of self-publishing.<br />
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Contractual obligations: with self-publishing I don't have to answer to anyone (apart from the blogdog - see below). With a traditional deal there's bullshit like deadlines and responsibilities to blog, tweet, and Facebook about my damn book. Maybe I feel like blogging, maybe I don't. I don't want to be forced into taking my focus away from writing when I barely have enough time for that anyway. 2 points in the self-publishing corner.<br />
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So far I've got to say it's a very tough fight to call. In practical terms, a self-publisher can have everything a traditionally published author can have. And, since 50 Shades of Grey, there is precedent for a self-published author to become a massive success - although let's be clear, the success of that book was all in the shock value as opposed to artistic merit. I could go on, but 'shock value' as a marketing technique is beyond the scope of this post. Let's get back to the comparison of traditional publishing versus selfing it.<br />
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Vanity: now we're getting somewhere. I have self-published 9 works of various lengths, but I have a real difficulty calling myself a 'writer'. Maybe it's just me, but unless I have a traditional publishing deal, or something published in a magazine, I don't think I'm a real writer.<br />
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Should that matter? No. Does it though? Kinda.<br />
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Maybe it's this whole new self-publishing phenomenon which has made 'writer' a meaningless title. Previously one had no option but to grovel to the big publishing houses to attain the status of writer. Now, any idiot with an internet connection can throw some words onto a page, click publish, and call themselves a writer (and occasionally: become a massive success (see the erotica section of the Kindle bookstore)).<br />
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So what? If I'm happy with my work, I've put in the effort, and I'm putting out a professional product, should it matter that others don't? No. Does it though? Kinda.<br />
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And as I alluded to earlier, although I can have a physical product printed up, I can't hang around for hours in a bookstore next to my book, leaving a copy open to the 'picture of the author' page.<br />
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"Did I write this? Why yes, yes I did."<br />
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Without the negotiation clout of a publishing house, a selfer will probably never see their book in a book-store.<br />
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So, to sum up: before taking vanity into consideration, there's no clear winner in the war of tradition versus newfangled self-publishing. However, the latter comes without the coveted gloating rights of having been approved by someone 'in the biz', invested in, and put into print. And when there appears to be so little money to be made from this career/ calling/ hobby, maybe that's all we can get from it...<br />
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Hmm, that was a bit more melancholy than I had intended. I'm going to go play with the blogdog to cheer myself up.<br />
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S.J.S.J. Magillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08738013241493095548noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2805171904613786366.post-15043847750140810872015-09-22T13:41:00.001-07:002015-09-22T13:42:02.561-07:00The Blogdog<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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