I'm not really Stanley Lieber.

testimonial

Mon, 23 Nov 2009 21:40:35 GMT

Stanley Lieber’s THE ABANDONMENT OF CRUELTY is available here at an extraordinarily cheap price for something that makes you feel an entire lifetime of emotion.

by silenceinspades

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ENSIGN SMURF pt. 2 @ Arthur mag

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 01:45:19 GMT

ENSIGN SMURF pt. 1
ENSIGN SMURF pt. 2

written and illustrated by stanleylieber
colored by silenceinspades

other

Sat, 07 Nov 2009 18:34:23 GMT

other (2006-2009) from stanley lieber on Vimeo.

videos by sl for the tokyo art beat 5th anniversary party

Sat, 07 Nov 2009 18:29:33 GMT

sunrise from stanley lieber on Vimeo.

tab01 from stanley lieber on Vimeo.

can from stanley lieber on Vimeo.

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sunset from stanley lieber on Vimeo.

TABuzz #9 with Antonin Gaultier (Digiki) and Stanley Lieber

Fri, 06 Nov 2009 15:06:58 GMT

Thu, 05 Nov 2009 06:07:00 GMT

DIGIKI + SL @ SUPERDELUXE

Thu, 05 Nov 2009 04:30:08 GMT

tab01 from stanley lieber on Vimeo.

DIGIKI: live dj STANLEY LIEBER: remote vj

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VISUAL RHETORIC generator

Wed, 04 Nov 2009 03:00:00 GMT

VISUAL RHETORIC

Fri, 30 Oct 2009 09:32:24 GMT

visual rhetoric (text)

visual rhetoric (audio)

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i drew one of the stories in this anthology

Wed, 14 Oct 2009 03:06:53 GMT

$9.99, 126 pgs.

All stories in this anthology are written by my friend, Eric San Juan. The strip I illustrated is called Shackles. I contributed 12 pages of art.

Some details of my pages, still in-progress at the time, are presented below:

SL/fiction 10.11.09 | 1OCT1993

Sun, 11 Oct 2009 23:50:12 GMT

1OCT1993
2729 words by Stanley Lieber

"That's no whale."

"Sure it is, sir."

"No."

Piro had not yet been informed about the lighthouse. He stood on the bridge of the carrier and surveyed the scene cautiously, not rushing to judgment. He took in the particulars of the situation before venturing forward, hoping to avoid the unhappy possibility of issuing conflicting orders. Something in him sensed that this was an unusual situation, one that called for careful handling. His instincts, he guessed.

"That cannot be a whale."

Absorbed in disbelief, Piro realized that his reasoning had not been made clear to the command team of the carrier.

"A whale is not green," he explained.

"But Pennis, he's up there, right now!"

"But Violet, I don't care!"

"Come on now, sir, you'll be okay once we get you up on your feet. You can't allow a little seasickness to scuttle the whole mission."

"Negative. I've ruined some of the leaves."

Pennis Mold tried to wipe off his stack of leaves. The vomit had made them sticky, clingy. His shirt was also damp. It would take a while to extricate the devices, one from the other. Luckily, at least, all of them seemed to be functional.

"New paradigm. Synergy. I'm staying in bed."

"Pennis, sir, stand up."

"No."

Violet decided to take matters into her own hands.

Okay, I'm floating and I'm not-floating at the same time. Alternating, I should say. Accosted by a whale with arms. Arms that are, presently, dipping me in and out of the water at an alarmingly advanced speed. I'm thinking now that maybe this is not really a whale after all.

Before I know it the scene changes up and I'm being strangled by a large set of gray fingers.

I recall that, per mission parameters, I'm equipped with a variety of specialized tools. I react smoothly, activating reflex algorithms that in turn select an appropriate utensil for sawing my way out of the tentacle headlock. As the automated system goes to work, the not-whale's gripping apparatus gradually begins to loosen its hold. Perhaps having thought better of snacking on highly trained covert agents, the not-whale withdraws its remaining tentacles, and I make the most of a bad situation by allowing the current to pull me the rest of the way out of its reach. As I'm floating off, I login to my side-arm and lob a couple of rounds into its bulging, unblinking eye, wondering where a foul creature such as this houses its genitals. Wondering, also, if its genitals are larger, or smaller than, its brain.

After inadvertently swallowing a bit of sea water, I discard my ruined sawing tool and wade towards Plinth's ship, preparing to sync my temporary chronometer with it's time server. Scrolling, I see that the crew has just finished eating. The percept team will be light on men for another thirty minutes or so, depending on their local union agreement.

Hoisting myself onto Plinth's ship, I traverse the railing and immediately drop to the deck, pressing my face against its cold, slick surface. Probably for too long, as sixty seconds later I'm still catching my breath. I'm taken slightly off guard, startled, when Piro sets to screaming in my ear about an impending comms disruption.

Did I just black out?

"Piro to P. Mold, it looks like we're going to have to abort."

"Nonsense, I'm pro-life."

The men in the green microfiber suits held their expressions, ignoring Plinth's uncharacteristically flat attempt at humor.

"I can only guarantee channel integrity for another twenty seconds, sir. Less, if the enormous green squid off our portside bow chews the carrier in half."

Plinth turned to his attorneys. Then he thought better of it and returned to the men in the microfiber suits, who remained inscrutable as before. A number of alternatives spun through his mind until he abruptly halted the evaluation loop, manually copied a single data structure into his speech buffer. Discarding the false starts, he parted his lips and began to speak in his customarily assured and controlling tone, but was interrupted by the unfolding of events.

The crashing of a particularly large waved causes me to lose a few words, but I'm able to follow the gist of the conversation. Piro had said that the not-whale was, in fact, green. Puzzling, as it certainly doesn't look green to me.

Jarred by this incongruous data, I'm overcome by the sudden awareness that I can't remember ever having seen colors outside the overlays in my visor. Amazingly, I think that I may actually be -- when not running in enhanced mode, anyway -- color blind. How in the name of the Green could I have never noticed this? How could this possibly have been overlooked during the course of my career?

It boggles, but these are definitely questions best pondered post-mission. After a few quick adjustments, I can see the squid in what I will now assume is a true-color representation.

It's spamming big. And it's definitely green.

Color blind. It figures this is the sort of thing I have to discover in the field.

There was a brief interlude of silence, stillness, in contrast to the clatter that buttressed it temporally on either side. Piro looked around and the quiet seemed to be coming from the deck, of all places.

Directional silence, he thought.

Presently, the ambient audio resumed and a neon, flickering tentacle appeared above Plinth's ship. Continuing its downward arc, it proceeded to slice Lt. Commander Wetbeard's lookout tower cleanly in half. Comms silence followed as Piro, instantly refocusing his display, attempted to mitigate the situation by routing through a backup channel.

He blinked rapidly as his vision went to bluescreen for a period of seconds.

...

Cognizance returned, Piro began to notice streams of water on the windshield that were not abating after each passing sheet of mist. The deck of the carrier was sloshing now with... Of course. He vectored his line of sight vertically from the horizon and instantly achieved visual confirmation of his suspicions.

So now there was rain to contend with, in addition to the other problems. Piro drew his weapon and booted it up as he exited the bridge of the carrier. He realized, then, that with comms down, he would be unable to login. It seemed that today, everything would have to be switched to manual.

Fortunately, Piro habitually equipped serrated, as well as network, weaponry. He rotated out the crippled network device and attached a classical bladed instrument to his right arm.

Awake. Floating again, this time on deck. The variable terrain will complicate movement towards the forward cabin and bridge. It looks like the ship's taken some damage from the not-whale. Curiously, the percept team hasn't regrouped to try and correct the course drift. I wipe the blood out of my eyes and start moving again, forward as always, towards the target.

As I make my way past the final civilian stateroom, partial comms are restored.

Spam it, Plinth is no longer aboard. He's already transferred to another ship.

Intuitively, my gaze shifts to the Cold War-era aircraft carrier that has lately appeared off the starboard bow.

Piro located the appropriate elevator and returned to the deck of the carrier. Splashing through the rain, he approached one of the main guns from behind and relieved its pilot. Once strapped into the weapon he bore down on the enormous green squid, focusing his ammunition at the beast's underside. The dead pilot's body floated away behind him, his protestations about licensing rendered meaningless by the absence of conscious volition.

As if in response to the barrage of weapons fire, the squid embarked on a series of awkward physical maneuvers. First, its soft underbelly appeared to open up, forming into an uncertain grin. From out of this novel orifice, a flood of pink squares that turned into pink cubes that turned into pink bubbles were loosed upon the deck of the USS DOM DELUISE. Several forward members of the percept team slipped and lost their balance, went tumbling to the boards, rolling one over the other in a cacophony of limbs and bodies. Even so, each man tried to keep his wits about him.

"It's all pink on the inside," went up the call from the forward-most man.

"All pink on the inside!" echoed down the line.

Piro kept on firing, willing himself not to look away even as he shifted his aim and emptied the remainder of his ammunition stores into the squid's exposed right eyeball. Aside from releasing an excessive amount of smoke into the atmosphere, and a troubling amount of black ink into the water, Piro judged that the ammunition seemed to be having little destructive effect upon the squid. As he unleashed a brief salvo of explicit invective, the squid's enormous eyeball blinked, as if to mock his merely human attempts at violence.

"But, a squid cannot blink."

Piro understood then that words were not going to win the fight. Even from his heavily vested point of view, he had to acknowledge that the battle was not going well. Some alternate strategy had to be devised, put into play.

And so, what next?

Alone in the head, it was almost quiet.

Pennis eased his manually numbed stick back into his trousers. He watched with some interest as a milky white bead of his semen broke apart and ran down the door of his stall. He coughed, weakly. He'd given himself quite a workout this time; his heartbeat was still audible in his ears. Why did vomiting always make him so horny? Lost in thought, his eyes remained glazed over as he pulled up his slacks.

Exiting the stall, a glimmer of light registered in his peripheral vision, immediately snapping him out of his reverie. He noticed that across the counter, one of the Green certificates was blinking. Fumbling to wash his hands, he shook the moisture off and rushed over to see what was the matter. A small amount of water transferred from his fingertips onto the first device, causing a non-permanent deformation in the imagery along its external boundary.

After giving the leaf a thorough examination, Pennis moved on to the next one from the top of the stack. Then, increasingly disoriented, to the next. Finally, he doubled back to check his reading. The record presented here could not possibly be accurate. The narrative was inconsistent with the facts as Pennis knew them, had experienced them over the years and decades since being welcomed into Plinth's family as the youngest of the three Mold brothers.

And yet, the certificates all seemed to be in order.

It was, quite simply, astonishing.

Pennis shook his head, and then he shook it again. According to the evidence laid out before him, his brother, Plinth Mold, was the sole patent holder and undisputed trademark administrator of several key technologies which had been licensed to develop the sub-framework of the Green. Possession of these certificates would radically alter the texture of any future negotiations between Plinth's interests and the Green Consortium. Between Plinth's interests and anyone, anywhere. It was a remarkable collection of documents.

Pennis attempted, at this point, to deduce what his brother was really up to. He knew from long experience that attempting to puzzle out Plinth's true motives was an exercise in futility. Instead, he would focus upon the likelihood of various outcomes. Perhaps predictably, no matter which tangent his speculations followed, no matter what obscure avenue his suspicions swept down, as he neared that final, unified model, his concentration would crumble and he would be left with no theory, no explanation, only the visceral, irrational certainty that:

I want no part in any dubious intellectual property schemes.

He felt that, even in the absence of a convincing rhetorical argument, his objection would end up being appropriate. Call it instinct, he thought.

In the end Pennis sensed that, by resisting, he was merely prolonging the inevitable. For his trouble, Plinth would probably just shrug and set him up in a new job. Pat him on the head and tell him not to take things so seriously. Thanks to their father, the family still owned the government no matter what trouble the Mold brothers got themselves into.

Pennis resigned himself to chairing yet another board of directors, to unintentionally driving yet another thriving, multinational corporation into the ground.

He supposed things could be worse.

In the midst of all the action, a new thought occurred to Plinth Mold:

Why not just cut the budget losses and end it all now?

No sooner had the question formed in his mind than Plinth understood the thought to have contained its own affirmation. He was beside himself with surprise. Had events really progressed to the point where such a notion could present itself as an uncertainty, surreptitiously coloring his thoughts via some heretofore undefended, laterally obscured access point, avoiding all conscious realization of its presence until that awful, final moment when at last it was too late to object? He knew this concern was immaterial, given the nature of reality, but it bothered him that at this late stage in his development he could still be blindsided by a mundane, subconscious motivation.

Plinth pulled out his vintage pocket calendar and marked off the date. 1Oct1993. Later than he had expected, actually. Something had kept the cycle going this time, well beyond the projections laid down in his youth. He found that, quite surprisingly, he was not entirely in control of his emotions. Imagery of previous eras flooded his awareness at a pace he could not quite track. As the sensations passed, he replaced the calendar to his hip pocket and steadied himself against the conference table.

This fleeting nausea was troubling.

He considered for a moment that Piro, Thomas, the attorneys, the chef -- all of his crew -- would likely be lost in the transition to follow. In point of fact, all humanity would be dumped, unceremoniously dropped from memory. No record would survive. None would need to.

Except, he thought, for one.

The troubling unsteadiness returned and for a moment he considered aborting. Then he remembered his joke, from earlier, and began to laugh out loud.

"I'm pro-life," he said, apropos nothing.

Plinth's attorneys glanced up at him, arching their eyebrows professionally. The men in the green microfiber suits had, for the first time since he'd been introduced to them, altered their facial expressions. Rather than responding to the situation or his words, they were now laughing amongst themselves at an obscure joke which seemed to involve a goat and the manual to Photoshop 3.51. They showed no sign of having heard what he'd said.

Plinth Mold gazed at the humans with affection.

Without further delay, he spoke into his shirtsleeve and killed all processes of the Eternal September.

Bits of Plinth's boat were splayed across the surface of the water. For some reason, not sinking. Plinth reacted casually to this. He paddled over to a piece of debris and affixed himself to it in such a way that he could remain afloat without having to expend further effort.

Fingering his chronometer, Plinth discovered that comms were still down. Even long-range channels were unresponsive. He switched to satellite and got nothing. Inside, his servos were running blind without network updates.

So, he'd really done it.

Plinth continued to float there, alone.

The sun was up. Redaction Day, at last. The real whales had arrived by now and were beginning to circle the remains of the broken-up ships. Plinth ignored them and made a few final checks before accepting the obvious. Humanity, minus one, was gone. His Warm Reset had taken effect.

Plinth jettisoned the dead equipment from his makeshift raft and began to scan the area for signs of life. Eventually, he went into damage control mode, straightening the front of his shirt and slicking down his hair. He lit a cigarette and adjusted his eye patch. A whale crested nearby, displacing, and finally submerging, one of the scattered islands of refuse. Plinth was starting to get hungry. He discovered that somewhere along the line, he'd developed a painful erection.

Violet, the mother of civilization, should be floating along soon.

END BOOK THREE

creative.commons.attribution-noncommercial-noderivs.3.0

1OCT1993 | INDEX

SL/fiction 10.11.09 | A LARGE ROOM WITH no LIGHT

Sun, 11 Oct 2009 23:45:39 GMT

A LARGE ROOM WITH no LIGHT
1001 words by Stanley Lieber

Hello, I'm Calbert Whimsy, Master Of Ethics at Policy School Whiskey Tango Foxtrot. For twenty-five generations the men of my family have stood watch over your children and their education. Granted, twenty of those generations were vat-grown, simultaneously, over the last decade. And yes, we correspond. Ah ha ha ha. I've made a little joke. It is a pleasure to see you here, you all say. Likewise, I'm sure.

As you may have guessed, I'm not really Calbert Whimsy. Somehow, though, they've fitted me in here, floating paralyzed amongst these sharks. The Families. Their publicists, attorneys, clergy. And now I've got to give this speech to the Green Consortium assembled. I've had better days.

Thirty years ago I entered this profession, not knowing what to expect.

THE STRAND is a luxury liner, Old British flag and technically off-limits to agents such as myself. This class of people are not supposed to be subjected to operational trifles such as political assassinations and internetwork intrigue. Let's just say I'm off the clock. The Lunsford affair was a wake-up call nobody wanted to hear. The collective, meaty fist of the Green aristocracy simply mashed their alarm clock and rolled over on their 800 thread count sheets. Probably right into the wet spot.

Overheard from my place behind the podium:

don't

serious

hate

his

And:

"He said it was life or death. He was pounding against the police vehicle, just going to town. My man at the dispatch center reported the machine wouldn't authorize his identoplate. So, no entry to the back seat. I told him, it must have been a clerical error. Nothing to be done, you see. I got the impression his partner was irritated, but he didn't say anything as he drove me away from the rioting crowd of students."
Raucous laughter, all around. These people are not funny, and they don't even know it.

From time to time an especially gregarious, exceptional student will vex us all. I know each and every one of you is smiling now, thinking that I'm talking about your child. Well, I'm not. Ha ha. Let us stipulate that I'm not referring to your particular little brat.

You might say this is a bit of a roast. I'm not entirely comfortable, exposed like this.

But the weak humor is contagious. Someone in the audience gets clever and plays back the sound of crickets chirping on his vintage wrist chronometer. I squint and realize it's my support man, apparently trying to blow his cover. I want to yank his bolo-tie and pin open his testicles with a handful of these platinum salad forks. Connecting us directly in this context is unacceptable. But you can't launch wetwork from aboard THE STRAND without a hype-man. And you can't control any agent good enough to be fielded for this mission. So we'll be ad-libbing from here on in.

The other entertainments start and mercifully I'm cleared to leave the stage. I'm not quite sure what all I've just said, but the audience seems to more or less approve. My counterpart will have to sort it out later. I wasn't exactly provided with a script.

This particular sector of the south Atlantic is out of bounds to commercial traffic. In fact, at this time of year, THE STRAND is the only ship permitted to ply its waters at all. That's why I've been slipped onto this floating coke mirror. It was the only way to get me past Plinth Mold's perimeter security. In other words, Piro.

I've learned to hate Piro.

Before I know it I've been scooped back up on stage. This time the lights are dimmed and I can make out players from various fandoms that were listed on the mission brief. I throw in some targeted references to key episodes. Consortium classics. It goes over well.

We've heard from a lot of educators tonight! But no one's even mentioned the litigators! Let's hear it for general counsel!

This brings on a spate of vigorous cheering and I am whisked off again.

Four thespians in black tights take to the stage, each bearing brightly colored puppets sewn onto the fronts of their shirts. The effect, in combination with the spotlighting, is that of disembodied cartoon animals who glide back and forth across the stage, seemingly disconnected from the floor. The copyright dance. I refer to these creatures as thespians, but in actuality they are Consortium members plucked randomly from the audience, as is the annual tradition with this group. The script, such as it exists, is familiar, and the audience members cum dancers have little trouble falling into line. Their friends and family are by this time well and truly soused, and voice their approval at considerable volume. Monitors throughout the ship pipe the performance even into the head. Men are pissing themselves listening to it.

I catch myself drumming on the table and stop immediately.

On schedule, the chemical takes effect and I vomit across the lap of my companion. Over her protestations (etiquette, you see) I am pulled away from the table and assisted to my cabin. Once alone, I remove my outer garments and verify my stresspants one last time. Impulsively, I clip the bow-tie from my stage costume onto my wetsuit under my chin and then squeeze myself out through the porthole, exiting my cabin forever.

The ocean is slick and black. My visor activates as I hit the water. A large room with no light.

Instantly my testicles shrink up, even as my stresspants activate.

At last, my orders stream to life, glittering in my field of vision across the back of an enormous gray whale.

Plinth Mold.

It is time.

To be continued...

creative.commons.attribution-noncommercial-noderivs.3.0

1OCT1993 | INDEX

SL/fiction 10.11.09 | GREEN SQUARES

Sun, 11 Oct 2009 23:36:54 GMT

GREEN SQUARES
710 words by Stanley Lieber

It was Plinth's turn to evince incredulity. Obviously, there was no lighthouse at these coordinates, or at any other coordinates in the general vicinity. The apparent reality of the situation did not mesh with with common sense. The situation was untenable.

Plinth employed the use of a vintage chronometer, worn on his wrist. Presently, he fingered the device as his lawyers booted up their paperwork. "We're in the middle of the south Atlantic, Wetbeard," he said. "Please explain."

"Sir, I don't know where it came from. I looked down, and then I looked up. From out of nowhere, it was there."

"Well, what am I paying you for? Steer the ship out of it's way."

"Sir, that's what I've been trying to tell you. I--"

"So, after you founded 'Material', then what?"

"Plinth was impressed. I'd finally done something right. With his encouragement, I went ahead and started up Turbo Fuckin': Sensual Magazine as well as the fringe one, Sasquatch Cologne. Neither of them lasted long."

"Hm. What went wrong?"

"Basically, I went to sleep one night and had a dream that God was real. I mean, physically real. And I was His incarnation on Earth. I guess what was most difficult about the whole episode was that I... Well, I believed it. I believed in the dream wholeheartedly."

"Haha, a foolproof source of information because dreams are so often known to mirror reality."

"Exactly. Heh. You know, don't ask me to explain it, but at the time it seemed rational. Or should I say, intuitive."

"Ah, I see, that old pratfall. Laid clean by the banana peel of subjective cognition. I remember a time when I was forced by my grandfather to drive one of those four-wheeled automobiles. Mercedes, I believe they were called. I couldn't make sense of the steering mechanism. No Tetris blocks, as we have today. My grandfather was livid. He actually punched me in the shoulder! He couldn't believe that someone my age would have no interest in piloting such a vehicle. What a laugh, right? I told him to just use his leaf and order the groceries himself. Of course, by the time all of this took place he had been blind for thirty years."

"What can I say. You only know what you know. If you can't trust your own mind, what can you trust? The tactile leaf interface was foreign to him; the car, not so much. Your grandfather probably thought you were an idiot."

"And I, him. you have to admit that there was no real way he could have taught me to drive, in his condition. He was not equipped for the task. Just as in your dream, you conceived that the Green had been made flesh. Believing yourself, in fact, to be an incarnation of the Green, despite the complete lack of empirical evidence at hand. I'm sure you can see the parallel I'm drawing here. Both of you were groping for an appropriate set of terms, clawing for a hand-hold in the cliff-face of ambiguity that immediately blocked your path."

"Okay, okay, you've got me there. Maybe I wasn't God after all."

The boat lurched sharply, causing the walls of the corridor to reorient violently. The interviewer's laughter seg-faulted into a vague, restrained panic.

"I don't like the sound of that."

"Neither will my brother."

Silence then, as Pennis rearranged his folders.

"Tell me again about God's peculiarities with regards to intellectual property."

"Oh yes. As God, I briefly refused to interact with humans on the grounds that one of them might try to sue me if I ended up creating something that too closely resembled one of their fan fictions."

"Never mind the Scriptures, I guess! Was this before or after the introduction of your DNA-filtering condoms?"

"Oh, long before. All of this happened before Plinth set me up in the manufacturing business. This was even before the Rods magazine lawsuit. I had yet to piss away my share of our father's fortune. Plinth was still doing the action figures, partnered with that Swedish fellow."

"I wonder if he's going to be happy to see you."

"He'll make it seem so. I have physical possession of his Green certificates."

To be continued...

creative.commons.attribution-noncommercial-noderivs.3.0

1OCT1993 | INDEX

SL/fiction 10.11.09 | THE CARRIER

Sun, 11 Oct 2009 05:39:28 GMT

THE CARRIER
1292 words by Stanley Lieber

"This logo is all wrong," complained Pennis Mold. "You've got to include the inverted quotes, like this." Pennis made a few marks on the leaf and held up his doctored version of the logo. "Is that so hard?"

"It just seems like a bunch of artsy-fartsy crap, to me," said Chipotle. "It's a stroke book. Why does it have to be high concept?"

Pennis waved his logo around, gesturing with authority, which finally triggered Chipoltle to relent.

"Okay, all right, I'll give it another pass."

Each day at the company carried on roughly in this same vein. By the end of his fifth year at MASSIVE FICTIONS, Pennis was all but ready to hang it up. Then there had been a general strike partway into his latest project, which had resulted in Pennis' rapid promotion to group editor. When no satisfactory resolution was forthcoming and none of the workers returned to his office, he was promoted yet again.

Pennis didn't even like stroke books.

Years ago.

"Pornstations on," chirped the instructor.

Gravely and Chipoltle slapped the sides of their pornstations, whispering behind the buzzing of the blue lights. BTN adjusted the smallpox heart on her cheek and immediately launched into her morning monologue. Seeing this, Chipoltle activated his stresspants.

Back in the present.

"Sir, how long until dinner?"

"Help me with these potatoes," answered Pennis Mold.

The two men went to work, removing polymer wrap from each of the red potatoes. Pennis was going to wing it. He hoped that Plinth wouldn't notice that he'd bought organic. And from outside the company, to boot. Pennis decided then and there to add extra of his special seasoning to the potatoes.

Many years ago.

The group of boys made their way down the corridor. A snatch of audio sprung up, momentarily snagging their attention. "Gravely Cuss, Chipotle Pope Bags (Low Fat), Pennis Cialis Mold -- report to the office at your convenience."

"That means never," said Pennis Mold.

"I like that woman's voice," remarked Chipotle.

Present time, present day.

The deck of the carrier was not often parallel with the horizon. As Pennis struggled to right himself, a squad of homeless men pedaled out on their bicycles, brandishing empty gas cans, demanding spare change so that they might refuel their stranded automobiles. Seemingly oblivious to the rolling of the ship's deck, the cyclists converged on his position.

Pennis looked around and wondered where their automobiles could possibly have broken down. For that matter, how could anyone be homeless on an aircraft carrier?

"An aircraft carrier is supposed to have stabilizers," he said to the homeless men. "Obviously, ours don't work very well. It's probably dangerous for you to be riding out here."

The cyclists eyed each other nervously.

This guy was ignoring their pitch.

Pause to consider:

Pennis was the youngest of the three Mold brothers. To him -- and to their father -- it seemed he could never quite measure up. This had made Pennis' life much more difficult than he would have preferred.

But now he had his own ship.

"I just can't take it anymore," gasped Pennis Mold, tipping against the hold and clutching his stomach in a decaying imitation of photogenic, sportsmanlike physicality. He dropped the very important folder of leaves he had just removed from the ship's vault.

"What, you'd rather head back up top? Relax. We'll rendezvous with your brother soon."

"It's not the ship that's making me sick."

"No? Maybe you shouldn't have eaten so much of that weird cereal."

"Dad sent me another case. I wouldn't feel right just throwing it away."

Pennis started back towards his quarters. Then reversed course, then reversed again. He stared down at his shoes, which promptly faded into the floor beneath him. He was seeing green circles, spheres, squares, cubes, words. When he tried to focus on them he found that nothing came to mind.

Piro switched back to optical and then checked again. As with his other sensor passes, the visual sweep confirmed that there were no approaching ships. He glanced over at Thomas and wondered if his visor would report the same thing. That is, if Thomas were to muster any interest in scanning the horizon. Piro imported his department's budget and earmarked an allotment for upgrades to his team's standard equipment. Visors for all his men.

"What I'd like is for everyone to be prepared to withdraw at a moment's notice," stated Plinth.

"Understood, sir."

"I don't expect this will take very long. In fact, if not for the simple pleasures of life at sea, I doubt I would have agreed to this meeting at all."

Piro and Thomas both rolled their eyes.

"We'll be taking the same route back. I intend for us all to derive some enjoyment from this cruise. Consider it a peculiar sort of paid vacation."

"If you don't mind my saying so, boss, the south Atlantic is kind of an awkward venue for a family argument," observed Thomas.

"Thomas, the open seas are essentially the only place left on Earth where humans may whisper to each other in relative privacy."

Incredulous looks. That hadn't been true for decades.

"In any case, this meeting will hardly constitute a debate. We've long ago settled any differences we might have had. Contrary to what you two have probably surmised, I intend to shake the man's hand."

"That's a whole grab bag of intentions you've got there, boss."

"Hush now, Thomas."

"Gentlemen."

Plinth Mold removed his safety belt and stepped out onto the deck of the carrier. At his side were his personal chef, an armed guard, and three of his most trusted attorneys. The chef shuffled nervously, fingering the weapon concealed within his coat pocket.

Let's get out of this damned sunlight, thought the chef.

"Let's get out of this sunlight," suggested Plinth Mold, and all who were present nodded in agreement.

Arriving to greet Plinth and his entourage were a coterie of men in green suits. Vintage microfiber. They pegged Piro immediately as a fellow sec specialist and nodded to him, exchanging introductions via private channel. The conjoined group of men made their way into a vacant deck elevator and adjusted their postures to accommodate the cramped space. Presently, the doors swung shut and the mechanism slowly lowered them into the sub-levels of the carrier.

Inexplicably, Plinth's attorneys seemed as nervous as the chef.

The elevator doors slid open again and Plinth took the lead, navigating a winding series of passageways that finally terminated with the entrance to an executive conference room. He felt at home on the carrier, and somehow seemed familiar with its layout. This came as a mild surprise to him since he had never previously studied the vessel, nor had he ever set foot aboard such a ship. On the other hand, it was sometimes difficult for him to remember every experience which had accumulated throughout his long life. It was certainly possible that the carrier had, at some point in time, belonged to him or to one of his holding companies. He was amused because he could not remember, could not distinguish between whimsy and reality.

Plinth poured himself a glass of water and replaced the pitcher to the center of the table.

Lt. Commander Wetbeard was the first to spot the lighthouse. He reached instinctively for his pressure screen but the board had gone dead. He fumbled in his shirt and eventually produced his personal leaf. Shit. It would not power up.

Without Piro to guide their attention, the percept team was scrambling on the deck below.

Thomas finally gave up on aiming at the toilet and resigned himself to urinating on the floor.

To be continued...

creative.commons.attribution-noncommercial-noderivs.3.0

1OCT1993 | INDEX

SL/fiction 10.10.09 | THE SHIP, PT. 3

Sat, 10 Oct 2009 05:17:20 GMT

THE SHIP, PT. 3
1868 words by Stanley Lieber

It was Lunsford, all right. QCL Corp.

I really didn't need to verify.

I had spellchecked over three hundred individual songs, processing each of them manually. One at a time because Lunsford refused to let anyone use the automation tools. All of his interns were on leave for various reasons. He'd popped out of his office a couple of hours ago and handed me this improbable stack of leaves. One leaf per song! Then disappeared just as quickly as he'd arrived. Meanwhile, at an access junction to the abandoned floor, my own "interns" were spreading porn onto the mesh like so much organic peanut butter onto a bland tasting sandwich. The security exposure revealed by last night's scans would be healed by lunch time, possibly even before I could put Lunsford in the freezer and be on my way. But as a strictly practical measure I was confident of my chances. For various reasons it paid to keep positive.

I cracked open a Gray Pop and chugged it back. Its frothy, neutral-toned agents coated my throat with perpendicular cells. It was refreshing, but also damned delicious. Honestly, I should have been focusing on losing the extra pounds I'd picked up while working on the this assignment. There was only a week to go before I'd be shipping out again. I'd appear obese and would probably be mocked by my teammates. I glanced down at my belly, hesitantly. All right, shit, I thought to myself, I'll purge the perp cells again before going to bed tonight. So much for the perks of the job.

Presently, I belched.

Which temporarily alleviated my sea sickness.

I squeezed my eyes shut and strained to hear my heartbeat. The sounds of the machinery in the room ran my thoughts aground. Wave upon wave of diverse electronic complaint, crashing together into a ubiquitous aural foam. So loud that I couldn't feel the reassuring pulse of my circulatory system clicking against my inner ear. I wondered: Am I finally dead? Or am I being recalled to base? What is the meaning of all this?

Then reason, and balance, returned.

Meaning was irrelevant.

A new disturbance in my visor window. Some of the security from upstairs was leaking onto the public layer: Wonder what the pajama shits are? Text 667-SHITZ to find out!

Well. It was old-fashioned stuff but it would work. That is to say, if my interns could keep their hands out of their pants long enough to smear it into place properly. I crushed the empty Gray Pop can on my forehead and tossed it into the trash bin. There was more groundwork to be laid before my part of the assignment could proceed. I went over the progress reports again and made sure that all the numbers were leveling out according to plan. We were on schedule. Barely. A relief, but the boys were only onto the EF tab by now.

We were going to need more time.

It may have started as a reaction to the percept team's sudden loss of attention. It may have been something else. What was positive was that things were not going well for the team stationed upon the top deck of the USS DOM DELUISE. Piro's prodigious organizational efforts notwithstanding.

"You men, eyes on the horizon," directed Piro.

A waved sloshed over the deck, knocking a couple of the team off of their feet. They immediately righted their gaze to stern.

"Not what I meant," said Piro.

"Water's getting choppy," hollered Thomas Bright, emerging from belowdecks. "You sure you don't need to get your folks strapped in?"

"We'll be fine." Piro reinstated his leg to the side of the railing and propped himself against it with his elbow. He motioned towards the sun, which was only just now slipping below the the horizon.

Thomas interjected again. "It's no wonder they were having trouble, staring into the sun like that. Probably ruining their eyesight."

"Worrying about that is my responsibility," said Piro, clearly irritated that Thomas was raising the issue in front of his men.

"Hey, fuck s'cuuuuuuse me. I'm here on behalf of the boss. He's trying to mentate down there. Only, the ship's rocking too much. Giving him a migraine."

Piro's face didn't change. "Understood."

Satisfied, Thomas returned belowdecks.

Piro kicked one of his men in the seat of his uniform. "I said eyes on the horizon."

We were in before Lunsford got back.

I sat down behind his desk and played around with his knickknacks. Action figures, mostly. Even one of himself. Though it must be stated that the depiction was idealized, anatomically enhanced almost beyond recognition. There were some doodles carved into the arm of his chair, apparently with a pocket knife. What a barbarian. Inside his desk I found several unopened packages of Magnum prophylactics.

He burst through the doorway of his office just as I had one of the Magnums out and stretched over the barrel of my gun. I suppose it painted an odd picture for him. Well, shit, I thought, break time's over.

My first shot punctured the digitally enhanced prophylactic. The rest of the flexible, translucent material blew away as I carried forward with renovations to Lunsford's ribcage. Pieces of the Magnum were all over the place at that point, and I laughed when I saw that a small fragment of the material had become stuck to Lunsford's cheek. The debris and flesh dispersed in a natural, fractal pattern as I emptied the rest of my clip into the middle of his face.

Mission accomplished, then.

By the time everything had settled to the floor, my interns had caught up with me. They proceeded to scoop up any and all items of interest. I fished in Lunsford's pockets for a cigarette and came up with some off-brand that must have cost even less than what I normally smoked. I stripped off my necktie and tossed it ontoLunsford's chest, chased it with a flick of ash, and then, with some effort, produced a fair amount of Gray Pop spittle. A signature, of sorts. We gathered up what we needed from his office and left the body for housekeeping.

Ring, ring.

"USS DOM DELUISE, your one-stop shop for Redaction Day savings," Lt. Commander Wetbeard sighed into his mouthpiece.

"This is Plinth. I'm calling on an outside line because the intercom in my stateroom is non-functional. I need you to call Piro down here for me."

"I'll get right on top of that, boss," said Wetbeard, straightening slightly in spite of the fact that no one could see him in his watch seat.

A low-flying aircraft became momentarily visible to the percept team and the ship rolled to starboard.

"Did you feel that?"

"Feel what, boss?"

"Nevermind."

"I'll send Piro down right away, sir. Anyway, it looks like he could use a break."

"Tell him we'll have Thomas steer the team for him during his absence."

Lt. Commander Wetbeard stared at his phone. While his rank as Lt. Commander was merely a job title, not an actual rank in any known naval organization, he was still conflicted over whether or not to question the orders of Plinth Mold. It had been some time since Wetbeard had needed to contemplate the ramifications of any of the orders that were issued to him. His mind ran several possible scenarios as he awaited the flash of resolute intent that would indicate a suitable course of action had been selected. Accordingly, the two conflicted halves of Lt. Commander Wetbeard continued to negotiate, exchanging discreet packets of information at last-century speeds. As if to unclog the apparent bottleneck, Plinth Mold severed the uncomfortable silence before too much time had elapsed.

"I'm sending him up now," Plinth said, and hung up.

And with that, the crisis was resolved.

In all, fifteen of my team were disqualified from active service based upon their performance in the Lunsford simulation.

It was enough to make me seriously consider retirement. No, really this time. It wasn't bad enough that I'd been busted down to mission pre-visualizations; I had to be roundly insulted by the selection of students assigned to me, as well. I fairly ached to commit governmentally sanctioned violence against an entrenched group of radical dissidents, or at least to fire a weapon at a stationary target in a taxpayer-funded firing range. My desires, however, were irrelevant, owing to my present situation at the Farm. They'd even revoked my weapons licenses so that nothing in my personal arsenal could be activated or equipped. (Throughout the 1990s I maintained a very large personal arsenal, comprised chiefly of non-standard network munitions acquired through various back channels and private merchants). For now, the weapons would lay in wait, unable to further the interests of the nation I served. Unable to be used but still considered the active property of an active duty officer. Naturally, that meant I was still responsible for their maintenance. It was your classic example of bureaucratic entanglement: an asset existing in two contradictory states at the same time. Over the first six months of my demotion I was convinced that I'd soon be slipped a deep-cover assignment which would exploit my new status as a pseudo-civilian. Same as before. But I was never contacted. No such assignment ever materialized.

Maybe I had missed a cue.

In truth, there was an articulated reason for my demotion. I won't go into detail, but suffice to say that one day it was suddenly considered bad form to tally a large number of civilian casualties in the course of a single mission. They had cunningly rewritten the rule book after I'd already entered the field. Oh, there were extenuating circumstances, to be sure, but, as with the review board who oversaw my case, I'm sure you have better things to do with your time than listen to me complain about how I was sabotaged by the petty reprisals of middle-management. I'll just say that it was no coincidence a former student of mine had become my new case officer shortly before we shipped out, and that the offending mission was my first under her command.

Chrystal Pepsi. An officer for whom I'd flatly refuse to die.

It's conceivable that she may have sensed my lack of faith in her abilities.

Seeing the paperwork and gradually realizing the scenario I was being slotted into, I was furious. It's unprofessional to admit this, but I'm certain my feelings toward C. Pepsi affected my performance during the mission. It's likely she was cognizant of such a possibility even when she first pulled me into the operation. Hence, a typical sort of trap. Her bid to leapfrog my years of experience by removing me from the game board. This was the kind of thing I had taught her to do to other people.

I missed the Chief. I missed my old life.

I was used to being a target, but that didn't mean I would just sit around and do nothing about it, once I found out.

It was time I made a few phone calls.

To be continued...

creative.commons.attribution-noncommercial-noderivs.3.0

1OCT1993 | INDEX

SL/fiction 10.09.09 | PERCEPT DRIVE

Fri, 09 Oct 2009 14:26:58 GMT

PERCEPT DRIVE
313 words by Stanley Lieber

Plinth Mold sat and ate his Green Cashew cereal. The ship's percept drive sent barely visible tremors across the surface of his milk.

"Do you ever get sad when you see a girl who is, like, all obsessed with sports and stuff, and you realize that there's no way the two of you could ever be compatible?"

Thomas had somehow gained entrance to Plinth's cabin. What about the elaborate rhetoricalock system Piro had installed? Plinth had been assured, specifically, that Thomas could not penetrate it. Ridiculous.

"You mean some girl you like?"

"Not necessarily. Just, you know, any girl. Just to see her. From a distance, it's almost as if there is some sort of active force that draws you towards her, even as it pushes her away."

"I can't say as I've ever suffered that sort of crisis, Thomas."

"Oh. Well, even though I'm gay, it sucks. Strictly speaking."

The ship lurched sharply and Plinth figured Piro must be wrangling the percept team to the other side of the deck, making a slight course adjustment.

"Anyway, could we please shut up this incessant chattering? My Green Cashews are getting soggy."

"All right, boss. I'll just head up top and see if anything else needs doing."

Abovedecks, Piro was indeed herding members of the percept team from one side of the ship to the other. Each man or woman planted themselves into their new position and focused their attention acutely, fixating upon a single point along the horizon that had been marked pink in their visors. Slowly, the ship began to change direction.

Piro propped a leg up on the railing. "Forward; That way," he commanded, gesturing in a specific direction for the benefit of the percept team.

Their gaze moved to his hand instead of to the distant point he had meant to indicate.

That was not good for the ship.

To be continued...

creative.commons.attribution-noncommercial-noderivs.3.0

1OCT1993 | INDEX

SL/fiction 10.08.09 | THE SHIP

Thu, 08 Oct 2009 14:41:22 GMT

THE SHIP
847 words by Stanley Lieber

I'm watching the waves do weird things, dancing around the stuck pixel in my visor. It's making me a little nauseous.

Piotr's abovedecks with the boss, Plinth Mold. I really, really, really didn't want him to come along on this outing, but Captain Plinth insisted. I can't say no to him; literally. In spite of the rumors of impending cutbacks, I need to hold onto this job for as long as possible. There are debts to consider. And hey, it's his boat.

But truthfully, I hate Piotr. He's my best friend, sure, but things are complicated. He makes me be the bottom. Plus, his hair is longer than mine. These are only two of my reasons for hating him.

Staring out of my porthole is not working. I'm about to blow groceries, so I've got to get out of my room. I don't want to ruin my sheets.

I'm up top again, leaning over the railing. Piotr thinks this is all pretty funny. Plinth, if he notices, ignores the subtle best friend tension between Piotr and myself and has a laugh as well. I'm peering into his face, trying to line up the dead pixel in my visor with his one good eye. It centers me momentarily and I stop vomiting long enough to strike up a conversation.

"Plinth, I need a raise."

"I just want you to know that my having to fire Piotr isn't going to reflect badly on you."

I am transfixed. Somehow I keep from letting go on Plinth's shoes.

"You know, because you recommended him to the company."

After a period of stasis the sky is vibrating normally again, and so I'm back to leaning over the railing. If you need me, you'll know where I'm at. Plinth keeps on talking.

"Let's not tell him until we cross the Equator, eh?"

Wiping my mouth. "He's not really my brother, you know."

Going back several years now, Piotr and I have been telling people that we're brothers. Twin brothers, even. Somewhat surprisingly, seeing as how we look nothing alike, no one has ever expressed the slightest incredulity about our claim to blood kinship. I guess I have to admit, I would be surprised if anyone at this company had paid that close attention to anything that came out of our mouths. But it goes beyond simple gullibility. Never, no matter the ludicrous scenario Piotr and I may have just posited, has anyone, at any time, ever, challenged what we were on about. Even when we have deliberately crafted preposterous stories. Even when it's clear we almost certainly must be lying. I have no explanation for it, though I do admit to taking advantage of the effect from time to time. When it comes to untruth, we're multi-platinum. Too dope, so to speak. It's sickening.

Anyway, by now I am determined to break the illusion, to drop real knowledge. Piotr, my love; how I hate him.

"Boss, I have a confession. I've been lying to you, all these years."

"In your way. Of course I know you are not a blood relation of Piotr's. Though I doubt anyone else here at the company suspects. You see, Piotr is my son."

I lean back over the edge, then straighten myself, then back over the edge, ad nauseam (ha ha). An inverted pendulum. The IV comes out of my arm and then my premium grade Green is all washing onto the deck. It's a beautiful chaos.

"No way, boss."

"Oh, yes way, Thomas."

"That's ridiculous. That's disgusting. How could this happen."

It is a great storm that frightens the fish and blows up the skirt of our boat. It causes a great deal of entertaining interference in my visor. I'm tracing lines between the raindrops with the messed-up pixel and again, it's making me quite ill. However, my stomach has almost caught up to the unstable gravity of the ship, and I feel that if only I can keep up with the raindrops I may stave off vomiting indefinitely. In the meantime, the IV has been replaced in my arm.

Plinth stands watch over the bridge.

I can feel Piotr entering the room even though he's exercising his professional skills; he's so vain that he even wants to lie to me with his movements.

I can't take it.

"He's firing you, idiot."

"I love you, Thomas."

The ball is in play. I really do hate Piotr.

"Of course you love me, we're brothers, right?"

"He's not firing me. He's giving me the ship."

This is just too much for me. I have to throw up some more of my insides.

"You know he's my father, then," says Piotr.

"Oh, fuck you." I barely spit out the words before losing it all over my bed. Piotr looks sympathetic but then he gets a little testy as he realizes I'm damaging his property.

"Hey, don't make a mess of my boat."

Aw, shut up.

This is not a problem.

I know how to calm him down.

To be continued...

creative.commons.attribution-noncommercial-noderivs.3.0

1OCT1993 | INDEX

SL/fiction 10.07.09 | SHIFT!

Wed, 07 Oct 2009 18:58:02 GMT

SHIFT!
692 words by Stanley Lieber

11SEPT1981

UNIVERSAL MOLD, NYC OFFICE

Plinth Mold scrolled through the morning news and shook his head.

"They make up some lie and then they get mad at you when you see through it. Because in their mind they think they've crafted the perfect deception, which should appeal to your (perceived) faults."

"That's pretty fucking ridiculous. Clearly they are to blame for their own inability to con you."

"Yeah."

"By the way, do you want to come in early today?"

"I'm already here, sir."

Plinth looked up from his leaf and saw that Thomas was indeed standing in the doorway to his office.

"Oh. So I'm not talking to you on the phone."

"No, sir."

"You sound like you're on the phone."

"I'm not, sir."

"You're sure."

"Yes, sir."

"Nano-toxins. That eat sperm. Selective genocide."

"History is spamming weird."

"Yeah, I read about it the other day. Something they unleashed during World War II. Hell of a way to get your pipes cleaned."

"Barbaric. And yet... Hmm. Piques the curiosity."

"I'll say. I wonder if it hurts."

"See if you can finish up these inks before Chricton comes back from lunch."

"Will do."

Thomas moved his fingers inside the box. Ink lines began to appear over the blue wireframe on his screen. Once finished, he would export the flat image to paper. For some reason, Plinth Mold still preferred a 2-D mock-up for his action figures. Thomas found the whole get-up awkward, but for a paycheck he was willing to oblige.

"I know this is not what we set out to do with ourselves," Thomas said to himself as he continued to trace the lines on his screen. "We've allowed a number of years to go by, and yet, no clear progress is evident."

Just as Thomas was getting into the rhythm of self-deprecation, Chricton returned, bursting through the door with two brown paper bags full of groceries.

"That was quick."

"Yes. I ran into Eva in the corridor. Relieved her of these. Here, let's snack while we work."

"Thoughtful of you."

"Yeah, I don't think she was going to do anything important with all this stuff anyway. She was covered in some kind of white powder. Just stood there while I took her groceries away from her. Distant look in her eyes."

Thomas leaned his head down on his drawing surface and pretended to snort a line of cocaine.

Both men laughed heartily.

Plinth was flossing with a piece of o-ring from one of the prototype figures.

"Boss, that's gross."

"Hey, all this junk is mine anyway. Keep your eyes on your own paper."

"You know, I've often wondered how to solve the problem of The Troll."

"What the fuck is a Troll, boss?"

"I'm glad you asked. A Troll is merely someone who enters into a discussion with the intent of disrupting the equilibrium; usually by misrepresenting his own or others' actual positions in favor of inflammatory rhetoric, or by the constant interjection of non sequitors."

"I see. This has to do with one of your theological speculations, doesn't it? Doesn't sound like a very friendly habit, anyway."

"No, the Troll isn't a very friendly sort at all. In fact, the practice of Trolling is usually undertaken maliciously. Why, the history of the Green is positively peppered with examples of individuals who --"

"But boss, why would someone want to do something like that? Seems counterproductive."

"That, Thomas, is the problem of the Troll."

Chricton looked up from his workbench. "I think we should make a figure of this... this Troll character." He swiveled his screen around to display his design: a small creature with an obnoxious outgrowth of wispy hair, mounted atop a pencil as if it were some kind of ornamental eraser.

Plinth was visibly amused. He depressed a switch inside his coat sleeve.

"Capital idea, Chricton! Our only obstacle will be securing a license on the concept from the Green Consortium."

All of the men chuckled hesitantly before deliberately shifting the discussion to other matters.

The Green Consortium never issued licenses.

Not to the likes of Plinth Mold.

To be continued...

image after nina bovasso and nicepimmelkarl

creative.commons.attribution-noncommercial-noderivs.3.0

1OCT1993 | INDEX