Posts Tagged ‘A.J. Hazard’

Grey Goo


2010
05.17

By A.J. Hazard

Debugging a malfunctioning, runaway nanobot swarm’s a bitch. Back in the day when everyone was afraid of the grey goo apocalypse, the code for these swarms was tighter than the stuff that controlled how the superpowers launched their nuclear missiles. But now? With Cassandra Nano Fabricators running at under $50,000 on eBay, every mom and pop shop with a team of horseshit Angolan coders on retainer thinks they can go into the clean-up business. This grand cock-up was just itching to happen.

Luckily the UN called in the Big Dog here.

Two robots the size of mosquito sperm unleashed on a benzene spill in the Azores. Only eat the benzene, how fucking hard is that? Once it’s gone, stop replicating and shutdown. This ain’t rocket science. Four hours later, the spill is history but the bots are still chowing down and multiplying faster than rabbits on Spanish Fly.

Nukes or EMPs might have worked early on when the cloud was more blob-shaped. But nanos seek out organic molecules, so there are now tendrils of the bastards reaching 75 miles under the surface. There’s old petroleum extraction code firing in there; you can see it happen in the debugger.

The main problem here is there’s no way to attach to the swarm as a whole. And since each bot only holds a fraction of the program controlling it, finding the correct entry point is difficult. There are tools to automate it, but they take time.

Plus these EU idiots keep blowing off their EMP cannons and royally fucking up my wireless connection into the thing.  It won’t work, you jerks!  And you’re only making them mad!  Seriously, it’s all just ones and zeroes, but it really looks like the sons-of-bitches get pissed off every time a chunk of them dies.

Why is there no global halt for these bugs?  Break, continue, step — how hard is that?  And what outsourced moron wrote this piece of shit debugger, anyway?  Or the underlying OS for that matter?  I mean, geez, a good old kill -9 would have had you back at the beach an hour ago, pounding back the brews and regaling the senoritas with tales of saving the effin’ world.

Then the ground rumbles.  The widget showing maximum swarm depth says some tendrils have started to penetrate the asthenosphere.  They’re in survival mode now, ingesting base elements to keep up their replication.  There’s not much time left.  Gotta concentrate, see the whole picture.  Ignore that the fate of mankind depends on you plowing through dead method calls and 500-line algorithms that any toddler could have written in 10.

And then it’s right there.  The one bad variable preventing shutdown of this nightmare comes into scope.  Is it really that simple?  It can’t be.  Screw it, you only live once.

set variable node->_gspeed  = -1
- signal lost -

Reach for Me


2010
04.27

By A.J. Hazard

A voice from behind, approaching:  “Excuse me.”

The boy’s freshman biology teacher had called it the Slayton Slump, a way of sitting in a chair that left his body only a few degrees from the horizontal.  Legs shot out, arms crossed, eyes shut; the boy had spent four years perfecting it.  He wanted to ignore the voice and try to sink down another couple degrees, but knowing that the table before him was empty, he instead tilted his head back and searched for the source.  “Yeah?”

“Hi.  Kevin, right?  Kevin Slayton?”  Blue eyes, hooded and cautious, unfamiliar at first.  A beat, then recognition.  A girl.  No, The Girl:  That night’s inevitable prom queen, Julie Adams.  Were those really the same eyes he had seen a thousand times dancing down the halls, first at Wilson Elementary and then at Garfield High?

Kevin found himself upright.  “Yeah?”  He ignored the crack in his voice, hoping it would be swallowed by the bass thump-thump-thumping from the dance floor.

“You’re not dancing.”  Prom dress?  Black, strapless, and showing just enough cleavage to keep things interesting.  Hair?  Not a one out of place.  Makeup?  Flawless.  For a moment, his brother’s hand-me-down suit felt like a set of dumbbells sitting on his shoulders.

 “So?”  He looked away.  Off in the corner stood a couple of guys he knew conspiring mischief.

 “Your date is dancing.”  Kevin turned, then scanned the dance floor.  The short, pudgy sophomore he had brought was dancing with one of his enemies.

 “So’s yours.”  Two couples over, Julie saw, was her boyfriend greedily mashing his crotch into the ass of her more-than-accommodating best friend.

 “I know.”  She looked past them.  Over by the entrance, two of her friends from cheerleading chatted up their calculus teacher.

 “And you’re not dancing either.”  God, she would have killed to have been in her favorite pair of sweats right then.  Or at least wearing a nice, old pair of gym shoes like the ones Kevin had on.

 She kept looking at his shoes.  “Well, I was wondering if you wanted to dance with me.”  A drop of sweat crawled down her side.  She smiled, hoping it wouldn’t draw attention to the heat growing in her cheeks.

 “I don’t dance.”  Julie tried to remember what Kevin had chosen to say in his yearbook write-ups.  Slacker 9-12.  Metal Head 9-12.  King of Porn 9-12.  French Club 10.  She had laughed when she first read it, but now … A memory of him from second grade and how he would shoot spitballs at the back of all the girls’ heads.

 Her body straightened.  Posture lessons from years ago flooded her thoughts.  Weight on balls of feet.  Feet kept apart at shoulder-width.  Shoulders upright.  Arms hanging naturally.  Chin slightly tucked.  Another smile. “OK.” 

Kevin stood, then moved for some spot away from her.  And as he passed, a soft voice, retreating:  “Excuse me.”