Attack of the Minidroidz

This is my entry for Bruce Bethke's Friday Challenge for 7/25/08.

RESTRICTED INFORMATION
Official transcript
Subject: David Leland, Software Tester III
Case #: 20220707-02
Viral code found in consciousness transfers
Interviewer: Rainer Schtupp, Investigator XI

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---- Transcript Begins ----

Schtupp: The law says I have to record this.

Leland: [sighs] Whatever. I save all your asses and this is the thanks I get.

Schtupp: Why don't you start from the beginning? What happened on the afternoon of July 7, 2022?

[Wooden chair sliding. Footsteps]

Leland: Ok. We'd been working on an upgrade to the old Model 2 CTR's. I was coming back from lunch--

Schtupp: Excuse me. CTR's?

Leland: I believe you know what a CTR is, Agent Schtupp.

Schtupp: That is irrelevant, Mr. Leland. Our audience won't know. We must be thorough.

[Papers rustling]

Leland: Fine. It stands for Consciousness Transfer Receptacle. It's the storage module that houses the subject's memories and sense of presence. It connects onto the back of a Minidroid.

Schtupp: Thank you. You were returning from lunch?

Leland: Yeah. I found my boss and three other engineers-- it was Xing, Ericsson, and Wu--they were crowded around the workbench in the back of the lab. I asked them what was going on. They told me that one of the Minidroidz had gone berserk and was staggering around San Antonio, bumping into things. It was speaking gibberish, stringing random words into nonsensical phrases.

[Scribbling on paper]

Schtupp: And did you contact the Archives Center for the identity associated with the serial number?

Leland: I did. Fellow named Hasim Al Bhand from Detroit. He was a recent transfer, just reached mandatory age this past May.

Schtupp: Was his family notified?

Leland: Of course not. We followed federal protocol, down to the freaking letter. Lot of BS if you ask me.

Schtupp: I didn't. Please go on.

[Chair creaks]

Leland: The next day, it was my turn on Tech Support. I got a call that it was happening to two more of the Minidroidz, this time both were in Houston. And both were new transfers, within the last couple of months. By day number three, there were malfunctions all over Texas, in every Minidroid cell. We couldn't even log all the calls.

Schtupp: Yes, well, I do have a record of those calls if you'd like to see them.

[Sarcastic laugh]

Leland: Of course you do. Mama hears all. It wasn't long after that, the malfunctioning Minidroidz turned violent and started wandering outside of the Texas borders. [pause] which I'm sure you realize is illegal.

Schtupp: Mr. Leland, what, in your opinion, happened to the Minidroidz?

Leland: I used Google Earth Now to locate the first one that had gone all wacky. Then I forced a WIFI core dump onto one of our main servers here in Dallas. Long story short, someone introduced a virus into the code.

Schtupp: And I assume that it would take a certain special skill set to do something like that? Someone with intimate knowledge of the Minidroidz systems?

Leland: I don't much like where you're going with this. But yes. They'd have to be present at the time of transfer. [pause] ..and not distracted by the sounds of protest against the mandatory transfers.

Schtupp: Mr. Leland, I appreciate that you do not approve of your government's solution to the crisis of overpopulation, but...

Leland: Solution? Is that what we're calling it? Agent Schtupp, sir, every day, all over the world, tens of thousands of 42 year-old men and women have their bodies harvested for parts and their brains x-copied into a 24-inch tall white robot with a black Daewoo-Hyundai logo on the chest. And if that ain't enough, they get shipped--exiled, actually--to the newly created puppet nation of Texas. If it weren't for the millions of digitized facial images on the LCD's, you wouldn't be able to tell them apart.

Schtupp: We are not here to debate the morality of what happens in this lab. If you're so opposed to it, then why do you participate? This new race of beings is running on an OS you helped to troubleshoot. And it was you who spotted the virus. Convenient.

Leland: You think I did it?

Schtupp: Until I know better, all five living residents of Texas are suspects. Now, please continue with the story.

Leland: Where was I? Oh yeah, Minidroidz going all Chuckie on everyone. I never would have guessed they could wield a knife like that. Once they broke through the containment field---

Schtupp: And the containment field is?

Leland: Right. The containment field is a long line of receivers that detect a Minidroid's RFID tags and shuts it down if it tries to cross.

Schtupp: Go on.

Leland: Well, you know the rest. It was all over the news sites. The hordes of Minidroids hacked and slashed their way across to the East Coast, then headed north. They were well on their way to the Pentagon. Your Mama's military couldn't stop them. There were just too damned many. That was when I found the virus in the core dump and was able to work with the other engineers to patch it. We forced a WIFI OS security update and did a reboot on everyone.

Schtupp: Right, you rebooted 12 million people.

Leland: They didn't notice. I can put the code back in if you like.

Schtupp: Always the smart-arse. You asked me earlier if I thought you did it. The truth is, I know you didn't. You see, we've cross-reference the rest of the serial numbers. It wasn't all the Minidroidz who went berserk, just a select percentage. And here are the names.

[Paper rustles]

Leland: These are all Muslim names.

Schtupp: You noticed.

Leland: It was another terrorist attack.

Schtupp: Yes. The first on American soil since 9/11.

Leland: Why are you interrogating me, then?

Schtupp: I'm interviewing you because we can't afford to offend the three billion Muslims on the planet. You, Mr. Leland, are going to take the blame, the next Timothy McVeigh. We couldn't hope for a better scapegoat. You're on record with your endless anti-government dronings--always the malcontent. And with the help of Patriot Act IV, you'll simply disappear into any number of cages set up around the world. Don't worry, you won't be tortured. At least, not officially.

[Pistol cocking]

Leland: Son of a bitch. Don't shoot me!

[Door crashes]

Unidentified synthetic voice: ALLAH ACKBAR!!

[Explosion]


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Global Crisis Alert!

Time. There never seems to be enough of it to spend with our friends, family and children. Time is our most precious commodity. But its in danger.

Hi, I'm Don Henley.

You may be aware that a cow's flatulence contributes to the global warming crisis by increasing the levels of poisonous greenhouse gases in the atmosphere, but did you know that these animals steal precious seconds of your time every day? And that the problem is getting worse every year?

You may ask, "How can they do that? Bessie would never do anything to harm us." You'd be wrong. You see, it's a little-known fact that 89% (some experts say more) of bovines have a preference to face East before passing wind.

Every single day, literally millions of cows release seven stomachs' worth of pent-up gas to the West which slightly, but detectably increases the speed of the Earth's rotation. Just in the last twenty-four hours, you have lost .002 seconds of your day because you insist on eating a Whopper in your air-conditioned SUV.

Don't believe me? They say a picture's worth a thousand words.

This diagram shows the ugly truth about Bovine Global Rotation Acceleration and it's grave consequences for our planet and our children.

As you can see, time is short, and getting shorter. So, come on, Desperado, come down from your fences before it's too late. Meat is murder. Stop killing time. Peace.

Author's note: The choice of Don Henley to deliver this global crisis news parody was not an arbitrary one. Rather, it is in retaliation for his using the long-awaited new Eagles album as yet another platform for his lefty politics. I'd tell Don not to choke on my sixteen bucks, but he has probably already donated it to PETA.

Billboard Widget

Giving it a try.

Friday Challenge 6/27/08

This is my entry for Bruce Bethke's Friday Challenge for 6/27/08.


Even after all these years, they've never been able to make it rain often enough on the Martian farms. Fortunately for us, the fine entrepreneurs of Waltonsville (named after the founder of it's largest investor, Sam Walton) saw to it that irrigation brought enough water to sustain the few genetically altered crops that would grow in the red-brown soil. John Harley had promised the the land owner that his enterprise would take great pains to avoid trampling the still-tender seedlings, but I had my doubts.

As I pulled my sandhopper through the open gates, I spotted the surprise that John had mentioned to me on the TXTer. At the far end of the gravel road I could see the lights of a ferris wheel, a merry-go-round, and numerous snack booths, no doubt offering such tempting delicacies as fried wirerat on a stick and pickled cactus wedges.

A carnival? It would be frowned upon by the Peacekeepers as a lawsuit magnet, but hardly a good reason for swearing me to secrecy.

Still a couple of hundred meters out, I pulled the sandhopper to the side of the road and stepped into the painfully dry Martian air. Calliope music drifted over the dunes and echoed among the rocks. I may have caught a whiff of cotton candy, but then, I have a good imagination.

"Joe Essex, you've seen my secret. Now you must die."

I suppose the voice over the loudspeaker was meant to startle me, but John had been my friend for a lot of years. Nothing surprised me any more. I just shook my head and made my way toward the festivities at a trot.

As I neared the ticket gate, John greeted me with a smile and a jarring handshake.

"How the hell are ya, Joe? Haven't seen you in while."

"Yeah, shop keeps me busy as hell. Sand and gears don't mix, ya know."

He shook his head. "Nah, I wouldn't know about such things."

I nodded toward the gate. "So this is your big secret? The one that would have you shoveling shit if they knew?"

John grinned again. "Yeah. And no. Come on inside."

We strolled through the gate, past the empty ticket booth and onto the main grounds. As we made our way past the merry-go-round and on toward a small rollercoaster, something began to strike me as odd.

"What the hell, John? Everything looks kind of flimsy." I grabbed the handrail on the rollercoaster walkway and shook it for emphasis. "This place seems a little dangerous."

"I was wondering how long it would take you to pick up on that." He paused, somewhat triumphantly, then slapped me on the shoulder and pointed toward a large tent at the center of the grounds. "The carnival ain't real. It's a front!"

"You sellin' drugs?"

John laughed at that. "You know me better than that, hoss. Take a look." He gestured to the tent, then crossed his arms, obviously quite pleased with himself.

As I neared the structure, I could hear noises inside, growling and slamming. Then there were voices. Someone sounded pissed. I hesitated for just a moment, but I could feel John's eyes on me. I dared not wait too long. It took just a second to steel myself and reach for the tent flap.

The inside of the tent seemed dark at first. But when my eyes adjusted, I could see what looked like a boxing ring at the center of a huge set of bleachers. Two huge men circled one another inside with a look of undiluted hatred. Then one picked up the other and slammed him hard. Not boxing, I thought.

"Pro Wrestling." For the first time in years, John Harley startled me. "Pro wrestling on Mars."

I turned and looked hard at him. "And right under the nose of the United Nations."

"Nah." He slapped me on the shoulder again. "Right up their nose."

Friday Challenge for 6/6/08

This is my entry for Bruce Bethke's Friday Challenge for 6/6/08.

He's just a young boy out of school
Livin' his world like he wants to
They're makin' laws, but they don't understand
Turns a boy in to a fightin' man
They won't take me
They won't break me
--Journey, Escape, 1981

"Schools Out"
by snowdog

"Uh, excuse me. Could you tell me where..." the skinny kid fumbled with his books and class schedule. "Do you know where Room C315 is?"

Confusion. My brain struggled to make sense of the situation. A lost freshman on campus was nothing new, not on the first day of school. The thing is, today was supposed to be the first day of Summer break. What was I doing here? The nervous newbie squirmed under my senior stare.

"That's C-hall, it's that way," I said, pointing absently in some random direction.

"Thanks!"

The kid rushed down the main hall in hopes of making his remedial English class in time. I knew he wouldn't. Mrs. Eland would give him The Look.

I couldn't understand it. Yesterday the hallways had been buzzing with students and teachers looking forward to two and half months of sun and sand. A Coke and smile. Summer always seems too short, but usually I remember at least some of it.

The bell rang, announcing that I and about two hundred or so freshmen were late for class. I had no idea where I was supposed to be. Wait. There was a schedule in my hand. Phys Ed? First hour? Aww, man. It was going to be a long Winter.

As I made my way toward the gym, something stirred in my mind, a dream of sorts. No, a memory. I was on the bus, on the way home from the last day of school. It was a rowdy trip, as they all were. Our bus driver wasn't exactly a strict disciplinarian.

"Hey, ya'll calm down back there." Merv mumbled into the mirror with a poorly-executed look of concern. We paused our mischief briefly until his gaze returned to the sun-heated road ahead, toward that reflective pond in the distance that you never reach.

"Okay," I said, dropping my voice a little this time. "Go for it!"

The kid I had in a headlock--Greg was his name--squirmed helplessly as the huge black football player across the aisle grabbed his Fruit-of-the-Looms® and yanked hard. I put my hand over the kid's mouth to stifle the scream. Merv didn't look up, so Anthony gave one more hard pull, nearly wrenching him out of my grip.

It was mirth all around.


Except now I was standing in the gym with a group of fellow Seniors on the first day of school. By this point in our careers, we all knew the drill. Coach would appear from his office nestled in the locker room and remind us who's boss. Buzz cut. Closely-trimmed beard. A five foot seven inch leader of men named Coach Branch. He ordered us to take a seat.

My friend Joey flopped next to me on the bleachers as we pretended to listen about how things would be different this year. Nonsense would not be tolerated. Lawsuits were pending.

"Something weird's going on," I muttered.

"Yeah?" Joey leaned back and carefully slipped the can of Skoal® from his permanently ring-impressed back pocket. He offered me some and laughed at my morning-sick expression. "Branch doesn't look any weirder than last year."

"No, not that. Look..." I glanced around cautiously. "Summer Break just started yesterday. Why are we here?"

Joey nearly lost his dip he when blurted out "WHAT?"

"Hey! Mullins!" Coach shouted irritably. "Anything you want to share?"

"No sir."

Coach Branch rolled his eyes. "Joe, what's in your mouth?"

"Nuttin, sir!"

"Get down here, now!"


And then I was on the bus again, in the back seats that the football player and I owned. From the few times that my parents had let me drive to school, I knew that the trip down the winding country road took eight minutes at seventy miles per hour. Even with stops, Merv could come damned close to that time. I grabbed the seat as a left-hand curve nearly put me into the window.

"Man, I can't wait," Anthony smiled. "Last day on this freakin' death trap. Ever!"

"Lucky bastard! I wish I was a Senior."

Anthony looked at his watch. "You will be in about five minutes."

"YEAH!" I agreed. To celebrate, I twisted my class ring around backward in my hand and slapped Greg on the back of the head one more time as a Junior.



"Man, that f***in' hurt!" Joey said, rubbing his ass. "Five swats! And he took the can! A full can!"

He was standing on my toes as I did sit-ups. This was to see how badly we had all gotten out of shape over the Summer. Coach didn't laugh when I told him that you have to be in shape to get out of it. Not a problem that I had.

"Not...exactly...a first.... offense." I spouted between reps.

"Nineteen... Twenty..." Joey laughed as I collapsed into a panting heap of sweaty gray cotton.

"No, I'm serious, Joey," I gasped staring up at the pulleys and cables that controlled the basketball goals. "I don't remember Summer Break. It's like I was just here yesterday."

"That's gotta suck," he drawled. "I was at the lake almost every day. Caught this huge-ass bass. Must'a been ten pounds."

"Liar."

"Hey, Jeannie took pictures this time!"

In an effort worthy of Atlas himself, I squeezed out another sit-up before the whistle blew. Then I got to my feet so we could swap positions.

"You don't remember anything, huh? Hope it don't have anything to do with this." He poked me hard in forehead.

"OWW!" It hurt a lot more than it should have.


Greg grabbed the back of his head and gave me a nasty look. He was a nice kid and he knew my bullying was good-natured, so he usually just laughed it off. Not this time. He scowled and moved to another seat.

No matter. My stop was next. Merv banked the bus around the last 's' curve and brought the big yellow sardine can to an abrupt halt.

I gathered my notebooks, textbooks, and yearbook. Home at last! Nothing but two and a half months of loafing bliss ahead! I stood and worked my way toward the front, gathering speed as I went.

"Have a nice Summer," Merv mumbled as I neared the first row.

"Woo HOO!" I shouted in glee as I grabbed the pole and swung down to the door. As it turns out, I jumped just a tad too high and slammed my forehead into the upper door frame.

Next thing I recall, I was staggering on the ground, books and papers scattered at my feet, holding my forehead. Merv laughed and closed the doors. Then he was gone.


Now I was back in the gym, still touching my head where Joey had poked me. My fingers came to rest on the adhesive bandage.

"Oh, yeah."

Update: Fix some typos with Bane's help.

Friday Challenge 5/23/08

This is my entry for Bruce Bethke's Friday Challenge for 5/23/08

A Rock Down Under
(to the tune of Men At Work's "Down Under")

Trav'ling to a place called Washington
A place where only outlaws have guns
I met strange lady, she made me nervous
Said, ya'll come in and vote for us.
She said

Did you crawl from a rock down under?
You're the one I must win over
Can't you see my thighs of thunder?
Bush has torn this land asunder

Listened to a man called Obama
Someone said sounds like Osama
I said do you speak-a my language?
'Cos you make less sense than a cabbage.
He said

I crawled from a rock down under
Where lies do flow and lobbyists plunder
Better go before I blunder
Bush has torn this place asunder

Sittin' in a bar on K Street
Thinkin' about something to eat
Then McCain, he walked up to me
I said go away all three of you can bite me.
I said

Ya'll crawled from this rock down under
Where money talks and Kennedy chunders
Don't you see, you drag us under?
And yes, Bush has torn this land asunder.

Crawlin' out from a rock down under
Where lies do flow and lobbyists plunder
Better go before you blunder
Bush has torn this place asunder

Friday Challenge 5/16/08

This is my entry for Bruce Bethke's Friday Challenge for 5/16/08.


Houston was the first target of Rasberry's "crazy red ants". For weeks, millions of the tiny insects swarmed into anything electric or electonic in search of information. Johnson Space Center was where the signal originated, and the ants had made short work of the place. But the extended colony soon learned that their goal lay elsewhere. Although their casualties numbered in the hundreds of thousands, a handful of them had managed to board an evac helicopter heading Northeast to their ultimate destination: Glenn Research Center in Cleveland.

That's where Jeremy Schnapps (Systems Analyst 4) found them, milling about in his climate-controlled server room having apparently worked their way down the baseboard and under the door. With a short flurry of words his mother had told him never to say, he dashed to the racks of expensive Unix-based servers and started smashing under his boot the lines of near microscopic red ants making their way toward the locked metal grill door.

"And where did you little buggers come from?" he asked one that had somehow managed to crawl onto his wrist. "You guys are supposed to be in Houston according Ms. Couric."

Even as he watched, another long column of insects formed and began to reach for the nearest server. He swatted them away again with a particularly acidic curse and reached for the wall phone.

"Hey, it's me! Look, I need you get building maintenance down here. We've got some little pests." He stomped on a newly forming line for emphasis.

The surviving ants--that is to say, almost all of them--couldn't quite make out the words of the female on the other end of the phone, but they suspected it would be in their best interest to put an end to the conversation. Fortunately, a stapled wire extended upward from the baseboard. It would provide good cover.

"I don't care if they're busy. This is important!"

Another parade branched off at mid-wall and the leader laid a trail of pheromones along the far side of the doorway, enroute behind the server rack.

"Son of a--!" Schnapps shouted as he noticed several of the insects enter the phone's chassis. He ripped the plastic casing away and saw that twenty or so of the pests had already made it inside. The acrid smell of burning ant wafted from the device.

"No, not you, Susan." He pulled the receiver away and blew into into the wall unit. When he put the phone back to his ear, there was nothing to hear.

"Hello? Hello, Susan?" Like a scared movie character, he tried every button on the phone, but nothing changed the fact that it was stone cold dead. And he knew the security lock's motion sensor would be out even before he spotted the ants crawling in and out of it. He was trapped.

As a last ditch effort, he sat down at his desktop machine to tap out a quick email to the building's superintendent.

Hello, please help me. I'm trapped in the server room! Beware, CRAZY RED ANTS!

When Jeremy reached for the glowing red optical mouse to hit the send button, he saw a single insect slide under it and into the crimson light of the LED. He moved the mouse and squashed it with his fist, but another crawled from the underside of the desk and immediately replaced his comrade.

Underneath the mouse, the shadow of the crazy ant shifted left and right, forward and back until it found the perfect spot. Then Jeremy could only stare in disbelief as the pointer began to move around the screen, tentatively at first. More ants showed up and slipped inside the plastic casing of the mouse, no doubt to work the buttons.

After a few minutes of experimentation, the they were able to move the pointer to the start button and open Notepad. A moment later, the on-screen keyboard appeared and mankind's first direct communication from an ant colony read:

Pasty human... you will now open the clean room to the northwest and allow us entrance!!!!

With a loud clunk, the security latch on the door disengaged and in walked Susan Smithers, (Administrative Assistant).

"Oh, Jeremy," she wailed, "the ants are everywhere! Even in the coffee! We're doomed!"

"Now, Susan. No need to panic. We just-"

At that moment, Susan noticed the insect message. Her eyes got wide. She brought her hands up. She took a deep breath. And she let out the most blood curdling B-movie scream!

"Susan, please!

"I- I'm sorry!" She pointed at the screen. "They're typing!"

"Yes, I know." He turned and sat down at the machine. Letter by letter, the message continued.

Failure to comply will result in death, fatso!!!!

"Can you hear me?" Jeremy asked.

Please direct your foul human breath toward the mouse.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, leaning closer. "What do you want from us?"

We want into your clean room now!!! Or our children will feed on your jowls!!!

"What business do you have in there?"

We are from the planet you call Mars. Your rovers are poor quality. We are here to put an end to your inferior technology before you bring it and your watery bodies on our planet.

"Poor quality? Those things are still roaming around on Mars!"

Only because we repaired them. Three times. Spirit caught fire once. Poor quality!!!

Jeremy felt a warm head rush from all the excitement. His heart started to race at the thought that Earth was under attack from Mars!

"Why are you doing this?" Susan asked. "We only want to live in peace!"

We know of your peace, suspicious-smelling female. We are not impressed!!!

"We won't comply!" Jeremy shouted and started to stand. A wave of dizziness knocked him back into his chair. He felt itchy.

"Jeremy! They're all over your pants!"

Jermey looked down to see that there was a line of crazy ants running up his trouser leg from the floor and leading to... his insulin pump! And they were all carrying tiny white specks.

"My God!" Susan screamed, "They're bringing sugar from the break room and dumping it into your insulin!"

It was all Jeremy could do to keep from blacking out.

"You... little.. bastards," he sputtered.

Let us in, sweet tooth, or you die!!!

Summoning all of his strength, Jeremy reached for an empty diet cola bottle that had been sitting on the desk for seven months. He turned to Susan.

"Do you have a lighter?"

She handed him the small Bic and stepped back as Jeremy struggled to his feet. Making sure all the ants in the room could see what he was doing, he ignited the mouth of the bottle and held it high. Black smoke curled into the air toward the white ceiling tiles. He knew the fire alarm would sound shortly. He would have to act fast before the sprinklers kicked on.

What are you doing, lard breath???

With that, the first drop of melted, fiery plastic left the bottle with a ZIP and fell to the floor. It narrowly missed the line of ants running up his shoe. ZIP! ZIP! Plastic rained down like napalm onto the insects below!

Stop it! You will die!!

ZIP! ZIP! ZIP! Ant bodies were piling up on the floor and desk. The air was filled with the smell of burning thorax.

Die human!! You will die!!

Susan moved the mouse aside and squashed the insectoid typist with her thumb. "Not today!" she said.

ZIP! ZIP! ZIP!

It took several minutes, but the attack was driven back. The fire alarms sounded, starting the sprinkler system. Jeremy and Susan kissed deeply beneath a shower of foul-smelling water.