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no_memory

You blame yourself for what you can’t ignore

— The Smashing Pumpkins, Zero

NO VISOR

Two hundred years later, commence perpetual dusk.

K.A.R.R. squinted at the flat expanse, incredulous at the monotonous flatness of the horizon. In his head he repeated a snatch of music, culminating in the fragmented lyric: "orgasmic waste for the seven senses." Indeed, he thought. Already he was repeating himself.

He blinked an alternate musical sequence to trigger his memory. Scrolling through the options, he focused upon an unfinished simulacrum and resumed authoring the clip. It was a pitch from middle school for a vintage SNL skit: Chris Farley as the Incredible Hulk. The transformation sequence from the 1970s show, Farley in civilian clothes roiding out into Farley as the Hulk. Only, Farley wasn’t ragequitting his western style snap shirt and denims slacks, he was simply yawning. Shirt rips. Pants rip. Cut to a shot of his eyes, bloodshot from lack of sleep. Face going slack, not angry but exhausted. The skit was humorous because Farley was famously, morbidly obese.

K.A.R.R. saved his progress, kicked off a test render, and took a long pull from his bubble pipe.

Nobody out here at this time of night, thank god who didn’t exist.

K.I.T.T. raced across the desert floor every bit as fast as his dark vehicle could take him, tracking mere inches above the rapidly cooling sand. Yes, he was wasting fuel, but K.A.R.R. was waiting. It was already (still?) dusk. Calories trickled out of his exhaust in the form of sound. It was taking a toll on his ears, though he wouldn’t become aware of it until several decades hence.

Prodigious clouds of dust obscured his approach. If not for the interminable WUPPA WUPPA WUPPA of K.I.T.T.’s vehicle, K.A.R.R. might never have become aware that he was no longer alone. As it was, K.A.R.R. had stopped paying attention, and he started again when K.I.T.T. got close enough to kick rocks into his field of vision.

K.I.T.T. reduced window opacity and motioned for K.A.R.R. to get in.

These two would not quarrel today.

Streaking towards home, smearing red sand in their wake, they began to talk.

"I wasn’t really finished, you know."

"Bonnie doesn’t care."

K.A.R.R. accepted this because it was true. She’d probably have preferred if he wasn’t out here at all, so far from town center. But there were worse things he could have been doing with his time. Mostly, Bonnie left him alone to work through his simulacra.

"What happened to your hair?"

There was no real reason K.A.R.R. had to come home for dinner. He could just as easily have packed a lunch. But sometimes these little interruptions relieved pressure. It gave him a chance to regroup before re-attaching to whatever project currently occupied top spot on his agenda. In this example, Chris Farley could wait.

"I got rid of it, okay?"

His bubble pipe had run out of bubbles. He tapped the cylinder forlornly and realized he’d forgotten to pack extra mixture. So here was a reason to stop by home, after all.

"It’s your turn to be the bad guy."

No. He was not going to quarrel.

K.A.R.R. clocked in at home and sat down for a quick dinner. He only had twenty-six minutes to clean his plate and clear away the dishes. Bonnie ran a disciplined operation.

Next would be town center. If you could call it that. K.A.R.R. knew it was only a matter of time before things picked up again, but one could be forgiven their doubts. Most of these businesses had been boarded up for years. Some for decades.

Ruins of the silo lay just beyond town. Once, it had been the center of activity in the settlement. Now, most residents acted as if it didn’t exist, if they remembered it at all. K.A.R.R. thought this was interesting. The place had obviously had something to do with the military. And now information about the place was scarce. He passed by the ruins on his way back to the desert. This time, without his visor.

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no_memory

#27

by Stanley Lieber

But not for us. let’s dig a little deeper, shall we?

For Ralph, the experience had been far from routine. First, the client had sent him into the field without providing proper location data. He’d spent the entire first morning getting himself oriented—that is to say, getting himself pointed in the right direction relative to the silo, wherever that ended up being located. Then there had been the hike across the desert. His gear had gotten clogged with sand.

"Well, the eggheads swear that the sun isn’t burning coal," he heard Thomas insisting.

"Accurate," he heard Piotr reply.

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But hey, wait a minute. What were they doing out here? This hadn’t been mentioned in the brief.

Ralph found himself unprepared. Gradually, the impromptu reunion of old schoolmates extended into weeks, and then months of intense questioning, deep below ground in the silo. Old hands at the question and answer game, they certainly had a lot to catch up on. But lately Ralph was starting to question the questioning itself. He’d met a new transfer named Jerrymander who was nervously filling his head with all sorts of confusing ideas. For one thing, why had a facility such as this been located on Mars, Ashampoo WinOptimizer – 最好的优化软件和注册表清理工具:想要免费加速、清洁和优化您的电脑吗？没问题！您可众免费使用此 Ashampoo 产品长达 10 天，免费注册后，还可众再免费使用 20 天！使用 WinOptimizer 17 让您享受稳定、高速、精简而又安全的 Windows 系统！为您的系统提供优质的保护

And there were additional questions. Why was everyone pretending that Super-Sonic was a medical doctor? Wasn’t that illegal? Ralph didn’t know for sure, but he suspected it might have something to do with tax shelters. Maybe the whole silo was a tax shelter, for that matter. Baffled, he bowed his head to pray.

There being no God, it was a toss-up as to whether or not there was any point to Ralph’s prayers. But things did start to get—slowly—better. Maybe he was developing a tolerance for pain, or maybe he was was just getting used to the routine. Whatever the cause for his relief, he was grateful. He crossed himself and dropped to the floor to commence his first set of reps.

Mornings were usually spent working on the fundamentals. Who was he, and how did he know for sure? How did he know that he knew? Was identity itself ultimately a source of friction harmful to social progress? This bit he usually sailed through with little difficulty. It was easy: he was Ralph.

But on and on the workout would grind, and the nagging voice in his head would continue to whisper: could that ever be enough?

Shut up, he would hiss between reps.

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"Psst. He means that literally," Thomas said out of the side of his mouth.

Ralph got himself up.

Thomas placed a gloved hand on Ralph’s shoulder, pulled hard. Ralph collapsed involuntarily into the dust.

"Not so fast, dipshit. You’ll never leave this place alive."

And for all his training, Ralph never did.

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no_memory

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by Stanley Lieber

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The senators were idiots.

Thomas had considered running for office, but was reminded at intervals of his longstanding prohibition against accumulating personal power by the clownish machinations of these elected officials, down in the hole. Working closely with this buffoonish collection of small-minded crooks kept him honest.

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Piotr climbed up the step ladder to adjust the sign above the entrance of the senate chamber. "Let The Stress Begin," it read.

Legislating was stressful enough, Thomas knew. He couldn’t begin to imagine the pressure these brave men and women must be under, what with carrying out their duties during the present emergency.

"Stress is right," he heard one of them complain as they passed under Piotr’s sign.

A freshman.

"See if his dick’s cold," Piotr commanded.

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"It’s like I always say," Piotr continued, "Where there’s smoke, there’s a phenomenon that induces the perception of smoke." Still worryingly chatty.

"Too true," Thomas agreed, scanning in several spectrums for a source of heat.

Ralph’s entire body was cold.

Why was Ralph here, now? Piotr had clammed up after the second day of questioning. Thomas figured the facade had taken its toll and his partner would need some downtime to recharge his batteries for additional bullshitting. This left Thomas to his own devices, which were conspicuously still functional, while also still failing self-tests.

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Thomas paused. It was time for lunch.

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3EKIA (2024/04/02)

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3EKIA

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recorded: 2024.03.31
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Just World Hypothesis (2024/03/24)

Just World Hypothesis

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edited: 2024.03.24

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short story (2024/03/24)

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no_memory

#25

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"Then why do we have a socialized military?" Piotr was going through Ralph’s purse, waiting for Dr. Fadd to return from his smoke break. "I can tell just by your reaction you’re lying."

"B-but, I haven’t even said anything yet," Ralph stammered.

Thomas smiled.

Dr. Fadd, better known as Super-Sonic in his capacity as strong-man mainstay of the A.C.T.R.O.N. team, held a PhD in philosophy from UC Berkeley, and an MFA in creative writing from Brown University. His expertise was grounded in the liberal arts, but extended to interrogations by fiat of the base commander, whomever that was this week. Dr. Fadd considered himself pretty good at it, and his enthusiasm was infectious.

"Historicizing is inevitable," Piotr quipped, and hopped up as Dr. Fadd inevitably returned, his two assistants trailing behind him with the silver tea service.

"Tea," Dr. Fadd pronounced, and the two soldiers understood this as their cue to leave.

They did so.

"Time was, all of this was runway." Piotr swiped his hand across the horizon from one end of the base to the other, apparently hoping to trigger some obscure UI event. "Now, we have a fucking Wal-Mart."

He meant the PX.

"Things sure have picked up around here since the last time I was here," Thomas scowled, attempting to align himself with Piotr’s apparent disdain for progress.

"You don’t understand," Piotr said. "I was here at the beginning."

Thomas shrugged. In addition to not understanding, he really didn’t care. Of course he couldn’t just come out and say that. He remained perfectly still, hoping to arrest the coming onslaught through sheer force of stillness, waiting, praying to omnipresent no one for Piotr to wind down.

But Piotr was just getting started.

"Don’t even get me started," Piotr said, obviously itching to lay it all out for Thomas, who at this late date was having none of it.

"Good idea," said Thomas, slapping his folder shut, and scraping back his chair to leave. He swiped the window closed and tossed his empty Styrofoam cup into the wastebasket.

Dregs of dregs of dregs, at long last, who fucking gave a shit?

Thomas surrendered immediately.

Piotr was certain.

"Ayep. Things have gone straight to Hell," concluded (and comprised) his monologue.

"Well, I mean, it’s Mars," Thomas pointed out.

Thomas, too, was getting on Piotr’s nerves.

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Hard to argue, but Piotr wasn’t really offering him a cookie.

"I suppose all these products we test here have, ostensibly, made the world a better place."

"Sure," Thomas ventured. "I mean, I can have a time machine delivered to my front door in no time flat."

Presently, the RAGNAROK completed its landing cycle, settling smoothly onto a dusty sheet of pink frost no more than six feet in front of the porch where they stood.

"Free shipping?" asked Piotr, tossing his now empty bag of Walker’s onto the pink sand.

They boarded.

From all corners of the known universe in perpetuity they came. Riding herd over the little black skateboards, nollie to grind to kickflip to grind to kickflip to grind, qualified and unqualified alike (some where the nephews, or in any case admirers, of management) they came. Flat black wheels, trucks, rails, decks, and grip tape, bright yellow millennial jumpsuits, none of it ironic.

The skateboards were here to be tested.

"Another day, another fifty cents," Piotr said, and got up.

It was one of those days where Piotr had woken up worryingly chatty.

Usually not a good sign.

That was where Geo came in.

A North American great horned owl, he was also an avid skater, and had, during his travels, picked up some of the lingo. He could communicate with the products, anticipating their desires, as well as their ultimate users’ desires, and demanded only a cursory fee, well within the operation’s budget. Piotr suspected Geo was doing it out of love.

"You guys are the opposite of gnarly," Geo was saying, his official issue INFLUENCER patch displayed ironically on his left wing-shoulder, "You can’t even nollie properly."

"FFFFFFF..." one of them said by spinning its tiny black wheels. The black skateboards could hardly speak, owing to an acute lack of onboard audio equipment. What the skateboard had been trying to express was that the term "gnarly" held two distinct, contradictory definitions. It was a contronym.

"I know," Geo said.

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no_memory #24 (2024/01/22)

no_memory

#24

by Stanley Lieber

But first, this.

It was Ralph, no doubt about it. Thomas hadn’t seen him since the summer after sixth grade. Nobody had. They’d all hated him beyond any reasonable accounting for taste. Point of fact, hadn’t he died, or something? Thomas felt certain he would have heard about it if anyone from the old team had spotted Ralph before they, themselves, had retired. He could be forgiven his stunned disassociative stupor—nobody would have expected Ralph to survive for two and a half decades on his own.

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And what was Ralph’s mission, here?

Evidently, to interfere, to cause confusion and delay within Thomas’ government.

Unacceptable, Ralph.

He’d better step in before Piotr killed the poor, hardworking idiot.

But first, he had to go potty.

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Thomas approached the head, his visor scanning the entrance for signs of recent visitors. He followed the floor into the men’s room, still unconvinced by the seeming cleanliness of the facility. It just didn’t make sense. Shrugging, he unzipped his fly and edged closer to a randomly selected urinal.

Aw, man, it was too late.

"Again?" Piotr asked.

"Fuck off," Thomas groused, embarrassed.

Ralph was still laying there, on the ground. Bruised, but apparently alive.

"I couldn’t get anything out of him," Piotr said, and climbed off of the Little Green Man. He shook up a Grap Pop and cracked it open, directing the overflow as it spurted all over Ralph’s prostrate pre-carcass.

"Shut up, Ralph," Piotr said.

Dr. James Joyce Fadd arrived at DET-86 shortly thereafter, flanked by two assistants Thomas didn’t recognize. They were there to work with Ralph. Some initial trouble with Dr. Fadd’s login credentials, but within a few hours they were all whizzing downward through the subbasements, even below the government, to a neighborhood Thomas had never seen before. Nice place. Dr. Fadd appeared to know where he was going. As usual, Piotr stared straight ahead and said nothing. Thomas tried to do the same. After a while he tried to whistle, but it seemed he had forgotten how.

No doubt it had been expensive to clear the area above ground in preparation for apprehending Ralph, but all would likely prove worth it in the end. Even if Ralph wasn’t consciously aware of much, quite a lot could be gleaned from the caches in his pressure suit. In spite of the Gray Pop, Ralph’s gear was mostly clean, and still in working order. All in all, Thomas reasoned, a sound investment.

One remaining detail troubled him.

Why had Ralph signed up with the enemy?

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no_memory #23 (2024/01/14)

no_memory

#23

大家都是怎么上外网的呢

THE STATE

"And rookies ain’t the only ones that drop"

— Threat, Color Blind

DET-86, Mars. 1984.

"No, see, Gaff has to be human," Thomas was saying. "Some or most of them might already be gone, but I refuse to surrender this notion that a handful of especially clever humans have set the machines against themselves. Dekard can be a synthetic, fine, but surely you can agree that Gaff is, at the very least, his handler. And so here’s my pitch for the third movie: Deckard does indeed leave Earth for the Off-World Colonies, where he arrives, years or decades later, having been misrouted during transit. The recipient takes delivery and immediately switches him back on, then, surprise for Deckard, here’s another human being, his contact, apparently, telling him all about the Blackout Event (circa 2022) that wiped out all human life on Earth. Only problem is, half the machines left on the ground don’t realize they’re machines. Gaff’s controllers, whoever they might be, are folding their fingers into hand tents, grinning keenly, as one-half the replicant population hunts the other half to extinction. Neat as you like."

Piotr nodded.

"Anyway, fuck movies," Thomas said. "Let’s go outside and play."

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"She’s gone," Piotr said.

The ship.

"No surprise, after what we pulled. Let’s give her a few days to cool off, eh?"

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It was fine to sell coke to the government. The supply was provably infinite, and, anyway, it made the legislature happy. It helped them to forget about ever going home. Call it a perk of the office.

Strictly speaking, the government was meant to be kept squirreled away, sequestered levels below the so-called drug area, but it was still easy enough for him to make deliveries by hand. Thomas would be visiting in the course of his duties, either way. Call it an obligation of rank.

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Piotr continued to monitor for errors. They had to be coming from the customer side. Soon enough, he spotted them. The Little Green Men.

"There go those motherfuckers right there," he whispered into his collar mic.

Thomas couldn’t see them. Still fiddling with his visor.

"I can’t see them," he admitted. "But you go ahead. I’ll catch up with you as soon as this update completes."

Piotr adjusted the angle of his pistol slightly, aligning it more precisely with the throat of his quarry, the recently subdued point man of the Little Green Men. He was sitting on the man’s chest, and the pink dust was still settling around them. As ever, he held his smile in reserve.

"I—I didn’t think you’d recognize me," sputtered the Little Green Man, his accent fluctuating now, admittedly under duress, additionally muddled by his years spent abroad, toiling inexpertly behind a physical computer keyboard.

Piotr didn’t respond.

The silo reminded him of home. No, not the Chrysler Building, not even West Berlin, but the humble depths of the downtown missile silo in Manhattan where he’d grown up. Though he never remarked upon it out loud, Piotr often reminded him of his long lost childhood friend, Peter.

Also, there was that guy at summer camp. The combatives instructor.

Thomas couldn’t keep them straight in his head. He was bad with names, and also, faces. Presently, he became distracted by the next item on his agenda, and abruptly dropped the pleasant reminiscence, retaining no memory of its passing.

The Senate was moving to new chambers.

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NO COMPUTER #10 (2024/01/10)

如何上youtube网站

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大家都是怎么上外网的呢

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中国怎么上youtube (2024/12/21)

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by Stanley Lieber

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no_memory #17 (2024/11/26)

no_memory

#17

by Stanley Lieber

They came when he wasn’t ready. He wasn’t quite awake, and so he wasn’t quite sure if this was all a part of the usual nightmare of sleeping, or if it was something truly frightening. Big hands removed him from his bed, dressed him in clothing appropriate for the weather, and blindfolded him. This last detail seemed superfluous—casual investigation would have revealed his eyesight was already less than reliable.

Bundled into a small space, he detected the compartment was moving. He might be in the trunk of a car, or the cargo hold of an aircraft. His captors never spoke, but SL sensed there were at least three participants in the kidnapping. He was pretty sure that at one point he had counted six hands groping his Cross Colours all at the same time.

Snapping awake in his new office, SL could tell that whomever had occupied it before him had left in a hurry. Or in any case they had left all of their belongings in their cube. After banging his elbows on various swag he swept the most egregious offenders into his trash bin.

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Whatever, back to work. Heading up today’s agenda was the task of drafting a reply to a recent request for—

A tap on the shoulder.

It was an interrogation, all right. He’d sent out a message to the group that had been intercepted by H.R., and now it was going to be his time in the barrel. They’d go over the message line by line, together, as many times as it took to get to the bottom of SL’s unpersonlike behavior. Right to the bottom of the barrel.

Not that he was complaining. No person was an island, no person was immune to criticism, and every single person needed help from time to time. He was always willing to learn whenever the company had something to teach.

But this time it would not be so simple.

They wanted to know about West Berlin.

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no_memory #16 (2024/10/21)

大家都是怎么上外网的呢

no_memory

#16

by Stanley Lieber

The RIVET RIVET program at OL-DET 9 quickly yielded results. Several fresh frog memes were acquired and modified by the staff to accommodate a variety of specific mission requirements. Deployment would be contingent upon the needs of the mission planners, who were in constant contact with program managers at the operating location. Meme techs were insulated from the bureaucracy by SL.

The techs had gone so far as to incorporate a photo of SL’s face into several of their newest memes, and had proceeded to paint, stamp, sculpt, scratch, and otherwise post the SL frog far and wide, until his frog-ified face had become synonymous in some circles with the program’s official product.

As OL-DET 9’s reputation spread throughout the company, department heads, second lines (and above), project managers, sales reps, and marketing evangelists all began to request their own tasking of SL’s obscure new capability. The small bespoke shop was soon inundated with non-mission critical work, leading to an epidemic of fatigue and burnout amongst his men. SL relieved the pressure by changing the shop’s name and moving everyone up to a different floor within the company’s sprawling vertical complex.

At long last, upward mobility.

And so, the Emotional Intelligence Support Activity (EISA) arrived on the 17th floor with morale intact. The place seemed to have been deserted at some time during the past century (a distinct possibility, given the upward rise of executive talent during the building’s frequent growth spurts). Abandoned amidst the deep pile carpeting and dark wood paneling loitered similarly anachronistic, classic advertising, pitching iconic products such as epidural antidepressants and holding company background checks. Spam it all, SL and his boys had arrived.

The lateral elevator dinged, and a stream of newly hired bit players filed contiguously off the EISA bus.

SL waved them all through.

Depot maintenance for his office chair. In the absence of shiatsu massage, SL wandered the open floor plan of his production facility as programmers, bug testers, design techs, and other registered autists prairie-dogged his progress through the restricted zone. Nobody wanted him to see what they were (not really) up to. It figured, SL figured. He wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t recall his own musings upon the fact that micromanagement was the enemy of all progress. He tried to observe as unobtrusively as possible.

"The observer effect," remarked one of his men, suddenly and quite startlingly standing right beside him.

SL turned his eyes toward the executive lounge without responding to the jibe. His visor had been turned off, he had wanted to say, but this time he decided to keep his mouth shut as he retreated from abject humiliation.

Let them make of it what they will.

RIVET RIVET: FLASHBACK: ORIGINS was a sub-group within the program, tasked with documenting its parent’s progress. The result of their work was circulated via the program’s internal mail system. Field agents paid cover price, while managers filed multiple copies for free (one to read, one to later sell, and one to be slabbed for posterity). Their product was often controversial: history was not just a matter of writing things down, but a process of teasing out nuance from the collective activity of nearly a hundred uncommunicative specialists. The tension between reality and the written word was palpable. The office was stuffy, and these people had all been hired under relaxed grooming standards.

After much internal debate, SL assigned himself the task of compositing the program’s official historical narrative.

Working title: RIVET RIVET: HISTORY IS WRITTEN BY THE MANAGERS.

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中国怎么上youtube

NO COMPUTER #9 (2024/10/15)

大家都是怎么上外网的呢

no_memory #15 (2024/10/09)

怎么使用youtube

中国怎么上youtube

by Stanley Lieber

So there were at least two projects. Maybe more. SL figured he couldn’t be the only one in charge. Probably he wasn’t the only one multitasking, either. He thought that he might get away with some overlap in personnel if he selected for competence and managed the contractual language with skill, but he was careful not to sashay too far down that road—compartmentalization was next to godliness, and, counting himself, there would already be one person aware of what he was up to.

"I’m from the projects," he would mutter whenever he wasn’t reciting other dialogue.

He didn’t get it.

"I’m from the projects," Aij recited hesitantly but firmly into his shoulder mic. He heard a heavy mechanical click and then the door to his lab slowly began to swing inward, its substantial weight grinding dumbly against the concrete floor. Aij sashayed across the threshold and was immediately detained by a representative of the lab’s security staff, who, eager to apply a contractually precise measure of force, stepped hard on Aij’s Birkenstocks and caused him to stumble several paces backwards on his now sandal-less, black-stockinged feet.

"You’re not on my list," said the rep.

"Hey, asshole," Aij stepped back into his sandals, "I’m just coming back from lunch. You waved me out of here yourself an hour ago."

"Sir, you’re not on my list."

The rep’s hand hovered mere centimeters above his holster. The confrontation had escalated quickly.

Aij decided it wasn’t worth it. He retreated into the big chamber outside of his lab and put in another ticket for his manager, who would not be happy to hear from him again so soon after his last plea for unnecessary help.

It was his lab.

Was.

He’d been promoted. Upcycled. Which of course meant no more access to his old work. A neat solution to the largest loophole in the Peter Principle. Cut off from his old sphere of influence, he could no longer tamper with the principals still locked inside it.

He quickly surmised that his new assignment was in fact congruent to what he’d been working on before. Or maybe it was symmetrical—he was bad with visual metaphors. Stipulate that the two projects were related. Aij realized with a familiar sinking feeling that much of his effort had already been duplicated here by other fledging savants, each toiling alone, happily churning out innovations in blessed isolation from the rest of the company. He wondered just how many of them had ever suspected there was a higher power coordinating the whole abysmal procession—a new awareness he’d found himself harnessed to through no real fault of his own.

Probably, he realized, nobody cared.

In this way, Operating Location Detachment 9 stood itself up with a minimum of fuss. Even though some of the contributors doubtless wondered about the underlying scheme, nobody said a word. SL was at first incredulous, but as the years endlessly scrolled by, everything continued to... work. One didn’t tend to interrogate one’s effortless successes too harshly. Maybe the bigger picture really was an irrelevance in the greater scheme of things. Maybe his guys were doing all right.

He was sure he couldn’t say.

大家都是怎么上外网的呢
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如何上youtube网站

no_memory

#14

by Stanley Lieber

Aij’s first day at the company was uneventful by any measure. He had begun to wonder if he’d made the right decision accepting the job. Massive Fictions was a publisher of lies—that is, stories, magazines, and books (inclusive) blatantly incompatible with material reality as he understood it. Ridiculous, some would say trumped-up, nonsense sandwiched between salacious covers, pawned off on an unsuspecting public at reasonable, irresistible prices. Bargain basement bullshit. Harmful, Q.E.D.

Aij sat at his lunch table and surveilled the assembled personnel, evaluating each at a glance for the usual criteria: signs of good breeding, physical attractiveness, and general suitability for the work (exclusive). Most of them appeared to be left-handed. Why?

The cafeteria was filling up from the lunch rush. He’d chosen the moment deliberately — maximum engagement, forced face-to-face fuckery. He was daring himself to get on with it.

Time to meet his colleagues.

The requirement called for an operating system small enough to be understood by its implementers, obscure enough to pass undetected beneath the noses of management. Cin had already proven the concept by working for months on the unauthorized software at his day job, completely ignoring the company policies with which he personally disagreed.

SL formed the fingers of his data gloves into a metaphorical tent, triggering a near-instantaneous response from the software.

Cin didn’t work for his company.

Levels of classification above SL’s occluded awareness, other officials at his company were also making hand tents, some of them literal. Peering down from their rarefied heights, progress was being monitored by responsible parties, parties responsible for allowing or denying the project to continue. In accordance with best practices, members of the project at the lowest levels were of course aware that they were under constant surveillance, but the precise details of how it was accomplished were left vague. The system worked, provided local project managers at each successive level didn’t lose the plot.

And who paid for all the flowers? The basic technology had been public domain for more than a century, but still the materials and labor cost money, so specific implementations usually remained proprietary. One didn’t simply grow a public housing project out of the green-ness of their heart. There had to be some significant expectation of a profit in order for the effort to take off. But that implied competence, which everyone knew was in short supply...

SL wasn’t particularly invested in the answer to his question, but considering its many angles did occupy his otherwise restless glandular system for the duration of the lateral move back to his dormitory apt. He knew for certain that the money hadn’t come from him, and that seemed to imply—

And he was home.

There were messages. SL didn’t bother to turn on his music. This was more work than they’d dumped on him in years, and some memory of green, quickly and efficiently suppressed, suggested that somebody upstairs was probably having a laugh. SL stabbed himself with his pen, superficially wounding his immediate supervisor. See? Over time they would come to an understanding, but in the meantime, this. Ouch.

With any luck it would impact the division’s numbers all the way up the chain.

SL liked to spend his mornings here, wandering the unadvertised areas. That is, when he could get away from the office. The new work had remained steady for months, commandeering steadily more of his otherwise free time. These days, simply making it over to the housing nurseries was something of a personal victory. He was seldom disappointed. The little fellows sure did try hard, and they did it all without calendars or reminders. In this climate he didn’t consider it an insult.

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Aij put on a brave face but he was dying inside. No one had acknowledged his attempts to integrate. No one was meeting him halfway. It was almost as if his peculiar qualities had not even been observed, which, while admittedly unlikely, still galled him to no end.

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One of SL’s new duties was the care and feeding of such raw, unfiltered talent; to wit: promising new recruits such as Aij. Part of his daily routine (after visiting the building farms) was to scan the daily manifests for new arrivals. He saw that one of his co-conspirators had helpfully underlined Aij’s entry in red. When SL flashed on this he swiped away all the other entries and cleared his schedule for the rest of the day.

This one was already half-done.

Next morning, a priority directive from above admonished:

You are to complete the work assigned to you each day. Do not cherry-pick from the worklist.

SL was duly chastened, but there was no real penalty for getting work done.

He kept going.

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中国怎么上youtube

no_memory

#13

怎么使用youtube

Meguro, Indiana. 2179.

One hundred and thirty years later SL was still sitting at the same desk. To be fair, it hadn’t really felt like that long.

The building had changed. Over the past century they’d re-grown the whole thing around him. Twice. His penthouse dormitory was no longer a penthouse, and his view of the city had been almost entirely obscured by the artfully ivied walls of nearby new construction. His office hadn’t moved an inch but somehow he’d sunk below the windowsill of the city. Stationary, he was moving on down.

Yes, this was precisely the career stasis he had feared, all those many decades ago. His stature in the company had sagged, sliding all the way down the stem to its hilt.

Well, so what? He was allergic to flowers anyway.

It was under these depressing conditions that SL carried out his martial simulations. Violence having been long ago monopolized by the state, SL staged elaborate, semi-covert orchestrations of the movements of his coworkers, who were each and every one of them reliably unaware that they were being thus moved. The data was still good. SL struggled to hold it all in his head. Logging was disabled by default.

Up and down the building he pivoted them, diagonally, sideways, in impossible directions. The interface was still experimental, the results still frustratingly inconsistent. But what successes he did enjoy were encouraging. He was confident now that in the event of an office fire he would be able to get everyone out alive.

Well, managers liked their little jokes. It gave them a focus for their consciences in the absence of explicit corporate policy. Whatever, he objected to the very notion of growing buildings. Next they’d be saying the buildings possessed certain inalienable rights, were living things, all on account of their technically being alive. And that was the problem in a nutshell, wasn’t it? Why, at this rate, anyone could be alive. The implications were obvious and troubling.

From time to time he would experiment with bitterness such as this but he found that he couldn’t sustain the bad mood. Such fashions in comportment had always seemed to him shallow. Where was the fire?

It was all grist for the simulations.

Six hundred feet above Meridian St. SL sipped his tea and waited to retire.

Nobody came to his office. Hey, in this economy?

"In this economy?" Michael said. There was that phrase again. Some things never changed. SL scanned the executive lounge but there was no one else around. He bit his lip. Then he bit it again. Who was steering this guy, anyway?

Perhaps sixty years earlier, SL had said something stupid in front of Michael, who had never forgiven him the professional indiscretion. This had cascaded over the decades into a continuous ticker tape of condescension and blatant insults that SL found at once befuddling and somewhat less than endearing. SL’s younger self, through some considerable effort, had retained his monopoly over idiotic statements, even in the face of some considerable competition. Perhaps Michael was jealous of that, too. These guys both knew intimately the boat they were in.

"Money is perhaps the most beneficial technology yet devised by man," SL observed, ready but less than anxious to mount a defense of the obvious.

Michael looked at SL as if he were stupid, fifteen years old, negotiating his first dalliance with a shaving kit. The old familiar facial expression, by now as natural as a spring blossom.

And maybe SL was stupid. This was nothing to discuss at work.

Over the decades it seemed more and more of SL’s friends were becoming managers. Shedding their contracts, assuming the shiatsu comforts of the big chair. Some of them had achieved a firmer grip on the controls than others. Even Kurt had—

Cin closed up his desk and pivoted to the task of getting the fuck out of his office for the day. The place had made him miss home, which was really saying something. The pollen made his nose hurt. Green particles dislodged from ejectors at each intersection of the network ley lines, making everyone in the office miserable. Dropped connections abounded.

The walk home always took forever, but at least there was kebab. Cin liked kebab but he didn’t like to walk. It was one of the many compromises he allowed himself in the furtherance of his career.

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In the morning Cin closed up his apt and walked back to the office, stopping not once, but twice for additional kebab. Cube fuel.

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Started getting things done.

He was no longer afraid.

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no_memory #12 (2024/08/17)

no_memory

#12

by Stanley Lieber

暴利无成本项目：Youtube视频搬运实战篇 - 云+社区 - 腾讯云:2021-6-10 · 三、视频处理 1.剪切片头通过观看可众看到有10s的片头不是我伔需要的，就需要剪切掉。上一期我推荐使用爱剪辑软件可众进行复杂的操作，今天我使用FFmpeg命伖行的方式进行剪切，主要是简单快捷，在命伖中可众看到只需要配置一个时间就可众

Nistopher again. He’d come over to SL’s apt after his last day at work, and now, beer in hand, he held forth on matters personal and political.

"Citizenship’s not a zero sum game," SL offered, evenly. "The whole world could join Megatokyo, who cares?"

"Well, now that you’re no longer tied to the company maybe you can think about living somewhere else, again."

"In this economy?" was all Nistopher could muster. He stared out the kitchen window, straining through the greasy fingerprints on his visor. His eyes crossed.

SL stole a glance at the wall clock.

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"Okay, good one, buddy," SL said, patting his old cubemate on the shoulder. There had to be some way to get him out of here before he puked on the carpet, or on one of his vintage mechanical keyboards. In addition, SL still had to go to work in the morning. What to do?

"I tell you," Nistopher told him, "I don’t know if I’ll be coming back." He was bargaining now with chips that had already been taken away from him. "And that woman can kiss my ass." Here Nistopher referred to their mutual manager, whom SL had also found it hard to get along with. He seemed to be reaching the series finale of his long-running soliloquy, piloted and premiered so many years ago, so SL nodded one last time and patted his ex-coworker’s arm a bit more firmly, locking the door as Nistopher finally exited the apt. Roll credits.

That could have gone better, SL thought, but at least it was over.

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Fell asleep thinking about his 401K.

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Work was okay. Now he managed the fellow who had moved into his old position down on the first floor. His one and only direct report. Not a recipe for swift advancement, but he’d been promised more direct reports in the next quarter.

On the day of the big fire SL tried to make sure his man made it out of the building safely. That was what you did and that was who you did it for—the man beside (or in this case, under) you. Managers on the second floor were able to break their windows and leap onto the street, some suffering broken ankles, but all surviving the calamity. Most everyone on the first floor was trapped, locked in by the failing security system. Those few who dared venture up the stairwell would later find that their employment had been terminated even before they had jumped out the window. Insurance would not cover their injuries.

SL’s man did not survive. He’d seen a handful of his coworkers running up the stairs but elected not to deviate from company policy. SL had already decided to let him pass, but his man never appeared.

SL’s hands were tied. There was nothing he could do.

A year or so later, promoted again. SL now had his own button on the lateral elevator, which transported him directly to his desk. (All right, everybody used the same button, but when SL pushed it he was delivered to his own desk.)

The building was further downtown, in the heart of the city, and was very much taller than the firebombed wreckage of his old office in the two-story walk-up. This place had history. Gravitas. 中国怎么上youtube电脑录屏软件 Bandicam破解版（班迪录屏）v4.6.0 中文破解 ...:今天 · 软件具有丰富的视频特效、添加水印图片、鼠标点击效果、录制中实时线条、文本、高光等添加注释等功能，伖用户录制的视频更酷炫、更生动！（注意：软件安装请关注杀毒软件哦）提示：本网站提供的Bandicam破解资源为手动激活版，需要使用注册机手动

Advertising on and around the building was minimal, smoothly textured, and mostly generated in-house, which distinguished his company from its many neighboring competitors, each of whose headquarters stood veined with uncurated spam, great marbled sprouts straining futilely towards an indifferent gray sky.

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But, it seemed to suit him, and generally he was not unhappy enough with the trajectory of his career to try and make any drastic change.

In his spare time he began to work on his resume, surrendering to the contour of his immediate past, typing and re-typing each draft on his absurd manual typewriter, feeding each resulting hardcopy into his personal paper shredder. He captured one such performance in a picture frame and set it up to cycle indefinitely, facing in toward himself on his desk.

Occassionally he thought about West Berlin.

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no_memory #11 (2024/08/08)

no_memory

如何上youtube网站

by Stanley Lieber

THE CITY

Note: You can’t find this shit in a handbook.

— Ice Cube, How To Survive In South Central

Megatokyo, Indiana. 2049.

SL was back at work. Tough interrogation re: his furlough in West Berlin. Well, it sure as shit wasn’t this place, if you know what I mean. They knew what he meant. He was already sorry he’d come back. Well, at least the bandwidth here was civilized.

Most of the work he’d left on his desk was still there, now buried under yet more of the same sad stuff, striated sediment that had accumulated through the usual organic processes during his authorized absence. SL waved it all away with a single gesture, slashing at the horizon with his shimmering, gloved hand. Better by half to start from inbox zero.

"Shut the fuck up," SL said, and emptied his styrofoam cup onto his friend’s new shoes.

Nike AJV. So-called "Moon Boots."

SL was not impressed.

Multicolored tendrils snaking, now vibrating, suddenly tilting ninety degrees to flash on a cross sectional view of flat squares, arranged in an ordered patchwork of checked, fluorescent light. SL could tell because he could see some of the pixels. He moved them around with his eyes, dumbly relying on his gloves for context. Whatever you called it.

Drilling down, he paused intermittently to evaluate random bullet points, loosely guided by company policy and haptic feedback. Some of the material he would ingest consciously, but the bulk of it was archived for later offline perusal. Of course, he’d never get around to it.

At last he unmuted the audio and shuttered his visor, bounding through the remainder at 2.5x suggested playback speed. Continuously distracted by unrelated matters, he had to start over four times. The repetition impacted his retention.

The backlog was brutal. Even with the mandatory six months re-training, he’d still be expected to pick up some of the leads his people had let drop. High risk credit ratings desperate to... whatever it was they were desperate to do. The relevant factor was that in their desperation they were most likely to go in for the pitch—a high interest, unsecured line of credit that stood up pre-charged nearly to its limit. Exceeding the cap incurred exorbitant fees, which was where the company realized its profits. Something like seventy-eight percent of new customers immediately charged their account to its upper limit, which, since they reliably failed to read the fine print, actually pushed them far into the red. Transactions were never denied, and thus the fees began to mount even before the virtual ink on their credit agreements was virtually dry.

SL didn’t care about the minutiae. His actual job was managing the comfort counselors, who serviced the technicians, who in turn interfaced directly with the customers. Most of his time was spent manually copying their efficiency reports into spreadsheets that he e-mailed to his own boss, or, increasingly, firing them for not having logged in that week.

His arms were waving around like there was something wrong with him.

Nobody approached his desk.

The stairwells were left unguarded. As far as SL could tell there was virtually no security, no countermeasures had been deployed to prevent unauthorized staff from moving freely between floors. But this couldn’t have been the company’s intention, and so it simply wasn’t done. By some silent consent to the non-existing policy, managers never even attempted to go upstairs.

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The moment Nistopher had entered the stairwell his employment had been terminated. Owing to a glitch in [redacted] he was not informed for three weeks. He was not to be compensated for the shifts he worked during the interim, either, even though they continued to let him into the building and he continued to do his job.

Nistopher didn’t seem to mind. When they finally got around to telling him he’d been fired, he simply stood up, leaving his desk and personal effects as-is, and walked silently out of the building.

Just like the Rapture, someone cracked, unhelpfully.

SL counted the days until his next vacation. As a manager his time off was subject to the needs of the business. He didn’t have a contract (management were employed "at will"), so all he could do was submit his request and hope that it didn’t get overtaken by events in the field. That was the price of sitting in the big chair with the 怎么使用youtubemassage.

But there was always a bigger chair. SL’s own boss, when she was not on vacation, wielded her admittedly limited power with a wild and unpredictable caprice, carpet bombing from high altitude. He tried to stay off her radar, even though he was still obliged to touch base, insert input, massage the numbers 中国怎么上youtubeor no), and reconcile his own receipts at simultaneous, pre-programmed intervals.

Numbers, harumph.

He’d better take this train of thought offline.

Megatokyo nodes were popping up all over. Zoo York, ATL, STL, Texas, Michigan, and Oklahoma. "Hell," SL thought, "If it can happen here, it can happen anywhere."

Unigov, the colloquial name adopted by the city of Indianapolis to describe its ever-widening consolidation of node cities worldwide, was finally beginning to function as intended. Better access to EMS shipping leveraged lower prices for everyone. And autonomy had long ago been proven not to work.

West Berlin and other points south had so far escaped being swallowed up into the Yellow Belt. This generated certain opportunities for trade. Margins that could be skated to slice out a meager living, for those unfortunate enough to be frozen out of the Unigov’s sphere of economic influence.

SL was itching to get back.

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no_memory #10 (2024/07/23)

no_memory

#10

by Stanley Lieber

The buildings were connected. (All of them?) Underground, like with the forest. For SL it was just another rumor, but he intended to find out for sure.

The foundations of an old school building still occupied the equivalent of a full city block overlooking the town. Here SL located a service tunnel that supposedly joined the school to the covert subterranean network.

Crosstown traffic was light, so SL was able to confirm that the school connected at least to the abandoned hotel-cum-apartment building down the street before he decided it was time for lunch. He unfolded the sandwich and apple slices from his backpack and unscrewed his jumbo thermos of tea, admiring the decrepit architecture of the vast ballroom into which his tunnel had opened. This place, too, was falling apart. He could tell no one had been in here for a while. Even the trash was obsolete.

Same time, different day. SL was having his lunch in the basement of another abandoned building, also connected to the network of tunnels, though this time he wasn’t yet sure exactly which building he’d stumbled into. Ambient lighting was nil. He ate in total darkness.

He could still hear the traffic.

After a month or two he’d managed to map a lot of tunnels. He set it all down on a big piece of graph paper that he folded into triangles and stuffed into his backpack. Sometimes when he’d go to pull out the map, it would snag on one of his contraband pairs of data gloves, dumping them onto the floor. He’d dutifully pick them back up, but there was no signal down here in the tunnels, so he’d just shrug and stow them away again. It did make him feel more secure, knowing they were in there.

Why was he doing this?

By now his map was crisscrossed with densely annotated routes to and from various tourist traps throughout town. He had no intention of ever visiting any of them again. He had no one to share the map with, nor any desire to do so, which he regarded as a sign of progress.

Back to his previous routine, sitting on the balcony from breakfast until lunch. SL ate his eggs. There was nothing else to do but think. There was nothing else he wanted to do but think. Was this, too, a sign of progress?? The flame of addiction at long last extinguished?

He found that he couldn’t care. The only thing for him to do was to walk into town and search for a new subject to master and then drop. He was confident something would present itself, because something always did.

It might finally be time to go home.

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no_memory #9 (2024/07/22)

怎么使用youtube

no_memory

by Stanley Lieber

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Within the forest one typically found more trash than on the street. An auction catalog of discarded items, some of them immediately saleable, some useful personally. Today SL encountered both varieties of green trash, and immediately he made plans for its dispersal.

The creeks were also full of litter. Sometimes SL would find piles of unopened MREs. He knew which shops back in town would be interested. Caches of crap turned back into cash.

SL would sit on an outcropping alongside the creek and feel the cool water soaking into his shoes. Mosquitoes skipped across the reflecting surface, not even trying to avoid him when he swatted them away. Moss, everywhere.

He had no memory of why he’d come here.

Twenty minutes deeper into the woods (though somehow still within earshot of rush hour traffic), the trail opened onto the abandoned ruins of what had once been a house.

On days when it rained the whole town stank of cat piss. In reality it would have to have been something else because SL had never even seen a cat here. Or maybe it was just that they had all been hiding from him. Whatever the cause, the air, and everything else, was stifling.

SL steered himself into the shower.

Breakfast was a cul-de-sac. He steered in, turned around, and steered right back out. Another routine successfully subsumed into the blank, gray background of his user icon. This, too, flew in the face of recovery theory. The automatic mechanisms he had hoped to escape were replaced with labor intensive equivalents—though these, as well, were beyond his willingness to contemplate consciously. Life imitating farce.

It had all gone quiet enough that he was once again prepared to contemplate the fate of his friend, who heretofore had served chiefly as an anchor to his rapidly fading memory of life before the hotel.

He found that he could no longer remember his friend’s name.

That would complicate a search.

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no_memory #8 (2024/07/18)

no_memory

by Stanley Lieber

The lateral elevator was still stuck on sideways, so SL had to take the stairs up to his room. Coaching staff was strangely absent.

The cleaners had moved all his books. And, it seemed, removed all his bookmarks, he supposed as a sort of commentary upon the general state of his room. Fair enough.

SL colonized the balcony with a minimum of support equipment. Just him and his cup of tea, not even the folded daily newspaper. The indigenous population of his little table had scattered at the sight of his tattered boxer shorts, surrendering whatever claim they might have otherwise held in the absence of universally recognized property rights.

SL sat down in his chair, feeling anything but the conquering hero.

The town had changed since he’d arrived, he surmised. Nothing he had actually observed, mind, but it stood to reason, didn’t it? Even if only by virtue of his sudden appearance there. Anyway, whatever.

From then to now he hadn’t allowed himself to approach the memory of what had come before. Masking his awareness with the background clatter (such as it was) of the hustle and bustle here in town. Subsumed by nothing much, at least it was a quiet day. The ticker tape advanced at intervals, now faintly audible in the cradling semi-silence.

The sound was annoying.

Who had he been? No one here seemed to recognize him, so that ruled out intersectional fame. There were no clues as to his interests amongst his few personal belongings, unless you counted the books, which he had never attempted to do. The lot was distinguished primarily by its failure to establish a clear pattern—this scattershot identifier seemed to be all that remained of him. In any case, by now he had forgotten the question. he completed the apparent inventory of his room and decided it was time for lunch.

There wasn’t much, in all honesty, that couldn’t be conveyed through simple language. This was a cornerstone of recovery theory, even though every patient immediately recognized it as bullshit. There was nothing that could be conveyed through simple language, nothing that could be conveyed at all. Each new advance in technology revealed this poverty of capability anew through the increase of immediate— literally, cybernetic—feedback.

Just because few of them could express it in words didn’t make it any less true.

Just look at his friend.

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no_memory #7 (2024/07/17)

怎么使用youtube

by Stanley Lieber

Walking back up the stairs to the restaurant presented its own challenges: Interception by the hotel’s dedicated coaching staff. No matter how many times SL refused service, the pitch was always the same: Come with us if you want to live. SL invariably declined such an open-ended proposition.

For some reason all the motor vehicles in town were rocking green wheels. Somehow SL had failed to notice this before. He figured there must be some significance, perhaps a meaningful one, but he couldn’t imagine what it might be. Green rubber? Was it political? Guys down at the VFW just stared at him whenever he brought it up. So he let the matter drop, and soon he forgot all about it, as if all wheels everywhere had always been green. A lot of things around here seemed to work that way. Just let it go, and maybe soon you’ll forget about it. One could only hope.

SL patted the hidden compartment in his trousers. The envelope was still there.

What had become of his friend during all these weeks? Who cared, really? SL wasn’t feeling charitable. He was certain he would know where to find his fellow addict if the need were to arise. Just pop on his gloves and login.

But the need wasn’t going to arise, was it?

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"Yeah," SL allowed, sounding deflated.

He didn’t really want to do this.

Afterwards, SL was disappointed with himself. Again, he’d broken a winning streak only to come away feeling worse than when he’d gone in. And it was getting worse—his remaining equipment was deteriorating.

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