The following is a short story I wrote for my English class during my junior year of high school. In the wake of Gibson and Dick and the like, it's my attempt at a futuristic view of the world. One day, maybe I'll finish it...


By Adam Woodworth


Bright flashes of intensely high colors in three-deminsional patterns screamed by Gall's eyes. He was making the jump from the Islands of Glabou to Hell's Ocean in cyberspace. The jump completed, and he was standing on a small and flat island of rock, elevated hundreds of meters above the endless sea of fire below. Hundreds of thousands of other islands, randomly scattered, and all at different elevations, reached on endlessly above the fire. Gall jerked his head down to look at his right foot. A flame from the sea had reached his island and was lapping at his heel. Something grumbled below. Before he could look back up a geyser of fire exploded from the ocean floor. It engulfed the island he was standing on in extreme heat. The redness of the flames blinded his eyes, as the feeling of being burned alive flashed through his nervous system.

``What a feeling,'' Gall said, in a cool, rough voice as he jacked-out of cyberspace, and gently peeled the dermatrodes from his skin and removed the virtual reality goggles from his head. His eyes swam as they adjusted to the vertical sunlight shining in through the quadriglass window. The stark mosaic of yellow light playing across the alpine white plastiform shell of the terminal gradually came into focus.

Gall shook his head slightly, feeling the momentary post nausea that inevitably follows jack-out, and looked around his cold and dark one room apartment. All four walls, the ceiling, and the floor were all made of thick steel plates, riveted together like some uniform patchwork. The only furnishings were a foam rubber mat and a small steel desk, with just enough room for a terminal on top of it.

His eyes eventually came to rest on the pulsing green phosphlourescent readout of his digital clock. 15:47:36.

``Shit!'' He grabbed his small canvas bag, containing his few belongings, and double checked his tickets tucked neatly along the side of the bag, next to his socks.

He jumped out of his seat and quickly exited his room and ran down the hall, heading for the only free teleport console on the platform.

``Destination, please,'' an artificial voice from the console asked.

``InterTrans Center,'' Gall replied, and then felt his body freeze for a split-second, while the scanner flashed.

He stepped off onto the concord, and paused to catch his breath. He squinted as he stared at the gleaming light reflecting off the steel panels of a nameless 300 story rack, one of many that rises into the Manhattan skyline. From this distance he couldn't tell if it was the one he lived in or not.

He regained his consciousness, and passed a middle-aged couple dressed in fine clothing and gold jewelry heading for the intercontinental platform on his way to the attendant windows.

``I missed my flight. I want a refund.'' ``No refunds,'' the attendant said back. She was a short, frail looking female, well into her hundreds. Her silver name-tag clinked against her amber necklace.

``What?'' ``No refunds.'' Her robotic arms gestured the statement. ``But,'' he reached into his bag, ``I have my tickets and ID.'' ``No refunds.''

Gall violently threw his open right hand at her neck. All he felt was air.

``Interactive holographic communication,'' a short, scrubby looking guard said, who Gall then realized had been barely 5 meters away the whole time.

He touched the guard on the shoulder as he walked by, nodding as if in agreement. Real.



Gall gazed at the arrival/departure console, as if mesmerized by the scrolling green text. DEPARTURE: HOVERCRAFT 29 - BAY 72 - IN 15 MINUTES.

``Escussa me, sir.'' The Yenhuanian's voice startled him.

Gall looked up. The Yenhuanian's slanted eyelids emphasized his smile. He was in his early twenties. His moussed short black hair stood straight up, and shone under the neon light from the holographic ad for Sensúan Coffee above the console. ``Sorry,'' Gall said, as the Yenhuanian stepped into the same spot he had just been standing on.

The oriental hybrid placed his finger on the console. DEPARTURE: HOVERCRAFT 29 - BAY 72 - IN 15 MINUTES. The two thin rectangular memory and sensual enhancement slots just behind his left ear were exposed as he tilted his head.



``How can I help you, sir?'' The Zoletian's voice varied in tone as he spoke. He smiled as he brushed his hand across the table, the long nails scraping against the metallic counter. The alien's brown-yellow toned skin reflected the fluorescent white light from the hanging lamp above the counter -- the only light source in the small and gloomy hardware shop. The protruding forhead and large grin gave him a look of craziness.

``I need two cards. Primitives, size A. Zero resistance.'' ``Planning on shorting a system, are ya, sir?'' The Zoletian's eyes widened. ``Just shut up and give me the cards. And a six centimeter connector cable.'' ``Yes, sir, of course.'' Gall searched his pockets for money, and found some spare coins and threw them on the counter. ``Keep the change.'' ``Thank you, sir.'' The Zoletian's eyes widened, and his grin became a smirk.

Gall stepped out of the shop, pocketed the hardware, and headed back down the commercial area of the InterTrans Center.



He was down to bay sixty four when he saw the Yenhuanian sitting on the suspended cushioned seat of a hoverstool. His back was to Gall, his head lowered and hands moving about in front of his black leather military boots, that came to just below his kneecap, obviously retying the laces.

Gall stepped to the side of the corridor and leaned against the wall. Pulling the cards and cable out of his pocket, he slid the blue plastic locking connector clip on one end of the cable into the small input port of one card card, and the grey one into the output port of the other card. Size A cards were small, less than a centimeter in width, and three centimeters long, no thicker than ten sheets of note paper. These particular ones were completely blank except for the ports and a micro-thin copper strip that connected the ports to the chip that would interface with the Yenhuanian's installed nervous architecture.

Gripping the hardware in his right hand, Gall casually approached the bent over oriental.

``You wanna really enjoy that hovercraft ride?''

The Yenhuanian looked up and grinned. ``Shuwa. Whash you haff?

``Xaphyline Four, newest crap on the market,'' Gall said, handing him the connected cards. ``It's all in those chips, disguised to look like harmless mem cards. Ya know, to ward of authority. Slot it, free trial.''

``Thanz,'' he said, and slid the cards into their slots. His body jerked violently, his right foot kicking Gall in the shin. His eyes still open, he fell off the hoverstool and crashed down on to the carpeted concrete floor. The act was like a reaction that someone would have using multiple betaphenethylamine derms, and passerbyers paid it no attention.