---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue of cc&d (v228) (the January 2012 Issue You can also order this 5.5" x 8.5" issue as an ISSN# paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Cultural Touchstone (a cc&d 2012 collection book)		get the 336 page January-April 2012 cc&d magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Order this writing in the book After the Apocalypse (prose edition) (the 2012 prose collection book)		get this poem collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Double

Richard E Marion

    Footsteps. High arches gliding across gleaming hardwood floors, redefining physics and momentum.
    Patricia returned from the balcony. She seated, turned and rolled back into her spot in the Tempur-Pedic Mattress. Double-E, who existed entirely in dreams and wakefulness seamlessly intertwined, shifted his attention.
    Rub my arm... she didn’t have to say it, Double-E knew the polite imperative. It was standard operating procedure. The arm-rub restored circulation and warmth to her fragile yet enduring structure.
    Double-E obliged gratefully, it eased him into daytime awareness. There was work, meaningful work, to be accomplished that day.
    He rose and went into the galley. First things first. Breakfast for the two was whole wheat and peanut butter. Patricia was always awarded the finest sandwich as determined by artistry and build quality. The metrics were uniformity and packaging: which meant no peanut butter oozing out... anywhere.
    Then he laid out vitamins, fish oil, a banana, and a nutrition bar for his partner. Double drank a tall glass of filtered water, and entered the office.
    The office was ten stories overlooking the Atlantic. Beneath steel piers below rested a pair of Maybach 57’s, Performance Tuned, hers Candy Red, his Pale Earl Gray.
    The penthouse window was cracked open just enough to hear the ocean, which was 500 feet down. There would be time later that day to pay more attention to the sky and cloud effects.
    Double-E could smell “frye dough” as the local vendor called it, mingling with the scents of Atlantic plant and animal life. Patricia enjoyed “frye dough,” but eating it every day would kill her, so she didn’t.
    Double-E performed the daily maintenance on one of their computers, defending against hackers, phishers, and Microsoft. It resembled a sleek laptop. Actually, it was a high-end ultra-custom industrial machine.
    Those PC’s were literally bullet-proof... well, bullet-resistant. Double once had a copy of that exact machine take a 357 SIG handgun round on his behalf.
    Today’s enigma was what Double called the ET Phone. It had to be one. The origin was unknown. When it’s a mystery, it’s Double’s. That item had arrived FedEx, from a fictitious address.
    It resembled his own Cell, except not entirely beat to hell. The thing was slightly larger, but still small in his hand - which was plenty large, less than flesh, more like iron sculpture.

#

    Double-E, whose legal name was Edward George Evans, hadn’t asked for the job. Mark Sterling gave it to him.
    Not too long ago Edward was sitting, studying, surfing at his PC, wearing down a circle in the hardwood flooring. Business in the New Century had mutated into red ink for corporations, gray areas for workers, and black holes for resumes.
    If you didn’t work for the government or government motors, you were in trouble now. It would be trouble for them later... they were just too dumb to know.
    Edward sensed a change in the air, swiveled in his chair, and seated there at the blue settee to his left was Mark Sterling.
    Mark had been a Test Engineer when Edward had temp’d at one of the world’s major semiconductor manufacturers. A year ago, this mysterious visit would have disturbed Edward, but not anymore.
    “Remember the Die and Wafer demo for the Teradyne MicroFlex Tester, Double-E?”
    “I told you don’t call me Double-E you A-Hole...” Edward was always calm, including during spirit visitations.
    “I was hung over... drinking back then... clean-room gown, booties, and that mask was freaking me out,” Edward stated simply.
    “The latex gloves?” asked Mark.
    “Is that what it was? Those gloves were two sizes too small.”
    “A month later, you were changing. A lot. Silicon-Silk Electronics, Bioresorbable, Implantable. They were in the gloves. Now they are in you.”
    Edward thought. “Oh. So?”
    “You’re getting really strong, really smart. You are turning into something different. Unique.”
    “No shit, Jack.”
    “It’s Mark, moron.”

#

    Now, back in his room, Double studied the ET Phone. Mark Sterling had sent it for sure. Double-E considered himself a Designer, an Artist, rather than an Engineer - but Sterling was a Real Engineer. From another solar system.
    “Mission: Impossible” was a TV show from the late 60’s. The main character, Jim Phelps, always got his “assignments” from a tape-player (no iPhones then) which self-destructed right after it finished talking.
    “Double was hoping the ET Phone wouldn’t speak, then burn him and his home down.
    It was very perfect, not a commercial product. A display about one and a half inches square with 20 keys on its face, apparently machined from actual metal. The keys didn’t move when touched.
    No ports for accessories or even for charging. Nuclear powered, perhaps? Double didn’t know what to with it. But it looked very nice, stylish.
    It beeped once.
    “Edward here,” said Double-E, using his official identity.
    “Look at the PC,” said Mark Sterling.
    The Drudge Report was refreshing its main page.
     Japan’s Fukushima Nuclear Plant had now scored a perfect 7, right up there with Chernobyl on the disaster scale. Despite the mixed messages and weaseling - the air, soil, plants, seawater and tapwater were poisoned.
    Mark went on, “The name of the Nuclear Plant, the first four letters are f-u-k-u...
    “Check the next headline.” Drudge flashed red on white for a tenth of a second.
    RISE OF NEW WORLD POWER [WITHOUT USA]
    Double speculated. Was this an oxymoron, or irony?
    “Time to go play Super Hero, Double-E,” said Mark.
    “Do I get to kill an Evil-Doer?” asked Double.
    “Your call... a question,” Mark soothed.
    “IAEA-TECDOC-1383, what is it?”
    “A document on Nuclear Safety?” Double knew context.
    “Correct. How many times is ‘earth’ or ‘quake’ or ‘natural’ mentioned?”
    “Double-Zero,” replied Double-E.
    “One more thing, Double.” “What?”
    “Pick up that damn ET Phone, moron! Now go!”
    Double-E realized he had never touched the phone at all. Mark had finished.

#

    Did Mark Sterling even exist? Why was Edward spacing out? What was the assignment? Where was the cash?
    Patricia came in the office. “There’s new money in the account. Lots.”

#

    Double, who had always been a quick thinker, researched. The core of the Nuclear Problem wasn’t technology, or lack of it. It was anticipation, preparation, and quality control. Was there any hope? Any fix?
    Not yet, but Double was an optimist. And... Double was a Post Human, Hybrid Super Hero, freshly coined.
    Ordinary folks were so politically correct, so green, they would hesitate to eliminate a bug, or assassinate a mote of dust. Double was less politics, more pragmatism. The past is the past, but the future was negotiable.

#

     Ernest P. Rense was a Nuclear Engineer who had owned a significant part of the image-processing start-up business that Edward worked at in the late 80’s. Back then Ernie was shy, studious, yet polite in a detached way.
    Now, Mister Rense was a high-profile advisor for a Billion-Dollar Project, the Boilen Nuclear Facility on the Northern Maine Coastline.
    Double called. “Ernie, Edward Evans... PCB transmission lines in Peabody... Well, thank you... PCB, not lately... Security, Executive Protection... It’s local. Just promoted to Super Hero.”
    Ernie laughed. He sounded tired. Edward Evans kept it up.
    “Up your way on Thursday. Kona Coffee... 15:00 OK... Thanks!”

#

    Security at Boilen Nuclear Facility made the TSA look like Sesame Street. These people were smart, methodical, and in shape, not to mention well armed. Double figured a Billion Dollars went a long way towards buying staff superior to common rent-a-cops. Then, he was in.
    Ernie looked older. Double had some connections who knew about that DWI last August and the recent Ex-Wife, expensive. Also Double had kept a few secrets for Ernie back in Massachusetts.
    Certainly that’s why Ernie allowed Edward Evans in at all that day.
    Ernie gave Edward the Nickel Tour of the Billion Dollar Project. It was 15:30 and twenty five minutes of that consisted of getting through Security. Double knew leaving would be quicker and easier.
    Said Ernie, “Containment is everything. The Japs are freaking out; earthquakes weren’t accounted for in their Spec. Real-time processing and redundancy were grossly underestimated.”
    Double knew that the guy, once started, would talk forever if he let him. He gave Ernie a little more rope. This was a different Ernie. Not the guileless geek Ernie, but a polished political pundit.
     They were at the Reactor Containment Area, still being completed. It was shaped like a giant concrete can with a hemispherical lid, and resembled the same structure in Seabrook, New Hampshire, which had held so far.
    Ernie continued, “At night the concrete pouring surrounds the rebar framework. I designed the Software. The pouring is automated, and stops at 06:00 the next morning. Then Quality Assurance checks the progress. The procedure is fast, cost-effective, and safe.
    “Next we will be installing the Adaptive Data Acquisition and Control Hardware, to keep the kettle from boiling over at Boilen.”
    Ernie seemed proud of his pun. “I’m working on that Software today, after the Kona Coffee.”
    Double asked, “The Containment Software isn’t finished?”
    “I got behind on the Pouring Software, but I’m catching up. There’s a deadline prior to the 2012 Election.”
    “Oh,” said Double, and thought: catching up... deadline... election?

#

    “Ernie, this guy Mark, we worked at NWODI, he wanted to show you this.” Double handed him one of the two flash drives that had passed security.
    While Ernie inserted it, Double-E removed the tiny Ceramic knife blade from the second USB Drive and nicked Ernie on the cheek with it.
    “I’m bleeding, you cut me! I’m dying!” Ernie wailed. What a chickenshit.
    “You cut yourself shaving, it’s a facial wound, not an artery, retard,” Double-E, Super Hero, clarified as he attached strong titanium cable to the handcuffs and emptied Ernie’s pockets.
    “The first flash drive has a video feed for Security so you won’t be disturbed while studying politics. This is enough cable, don’t hurt yourself trying to break it, to reach to the top of the rebar, more or less.
    “I’ll be back on Saturday, I’ve already authorized myself. That same flash drive will keep the concrete going another day continuously.
    “The Quality Assurance folks have been granted Friday, tomorrow, off to enjoy the weather. I’ll be back Saturday...
    “Unless I forget, unless the cable’s too short. Be careful, Bye.”

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...