| Meme Depot : Writing: "Memetic Drift" excerpt | ||||||
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Excerpt from "Memetic Drift " by Glenn Grant My first published short story, "Memetic Drift" appeared in Interzone magazine #34 (March 1990), and was reprinted in Northern Stars (Tor hc 1994, tpb 1998). It was one of the earliest SF stories to make use of memetics as a theme, though mostly it deals with the secondary effects of Global Warming. "Memetic Drift" is currently being translated into French (for a forthcoming issue of Solaris magazine) and Slovak (for the cyberculture website Kyberia).
"13.01: A meme is not replicated
by words alone. Competition between meme-complexes is becoming increasingly
intense, but we have no interest in resorting to evangelism or cult-tactics
to gain 'converts' [see 13.3]....Although actions do not, in fact, speak
louder than words, they are a more subtly effective transmission vector." * Stick out my thumb, and I find myself crossing the Great Midwestern Dustbowl with a flock of sun-crazed Nomadiks, generally heading in a westward direction, without plan or destination. Half the day wasted in the hard solar infall which is the only rain here, waiting for this lift. Half the night spent staring past my reflection, past sandblasted billboards and disused silos. Not a recommended therapy for anyone just pulling out of an extended period of depression. This same desert that has finally swept over my home has now settled into my mind, grain by grain filling up the cortical folds, a thin layer of insulation against unwanted emotions. I'm riding with the Norm Famli, a polymarriage consisting of two women, a transmale, an hermaphrodite, and two pseudochildren. All of them live in these two articulated trailer modules, carted around on the back of a mammoth surplus defense vehicle. (A GM mobile missile carrier, to be exact, auctioned off by the US military when they decommissioned the MX arsenal.) I'm one of two hitchers they picked up last night in the depopulated suburbs of Regina. The other guy, who calls himself "Scred", is a wiry geezer with a missing right canine, nasty stitchmarks up one arm, and a lot of crude jokes to tell. A few of them are even funny, but for the most part it's a dull trip. Far too much time to think. Sometime around sun-up, I notice my reflection in the window. There's a gap where my eyes should be, the shadow under the visor of my Co-op baseball cap. Only the end of my thin nose is reflected, and a twenty-year-old face that is gaunt even when I've been eating well (which I haven't), surrounded by long strands of dirty-blond hair. Yes, I'm aware that I'm exhibiting all the symptoms of emotional shock: apathy, indifference, inexpressive staring, the whole bit. It doesn't help to have seen it happen to others, to strangers and neighbors, and to Jodi. Jodi had to go in for observation after her parents were killed in a tornado. A year later she was off the medication and holding up fine, until the dunes swamped the pathetic encroachment barriers out behind our rented farmhouse. By ones and twos, our housemates packed up and left. Then, with an enormous sand-drift engulfing the back porch, came the city's eviction notice, and the papers from the Resettlement Ministry, and the inevitable, final moving-day.... Eventually Jodi's aunt and uncle brought her to a hospital closer to their home in Thunder Bay. When I last saw her, a month ago, she didn't know who I was. * "Want some tea with that croissant, Fifer?" Sue sets her tray down on the table in the kitchenette where Scred and I have been sitting since midnight, getting leg cramps. "Fifer -- that's your first name, is it?" "That's right. Fifer Stenzel. And some tea would be nice. Thanks, ma'am." Sue Norm is a tall Asian woman, eldest of the Famli, streaks of grey in her disorderly black hair, and a few crinkles around the eyes as she laughs. "Not ma'am, please. Call me Sue. Or Yingsiu, if you prefer." She fills the teapot carefully, compensating as the trailer rig sways around a turn. A couple of the other Norms are having breakfast in the small living-area adjacent to the kitchen, where the TV runs a disc of a Fijian earthdub band. Forward of that are storage shelves and overhead cupboards, haphazardly decorated with posters of obscure netbands and digital Shunga paintings. Sliding doors lead onto a low tunnel to the cab, below a warning in felt-marker: Don't bug the driver. Aft of the kitchen are the fresher, the shower, and the accordion-pleated passage to the second module, hung with a curtain. Famli sleeping quarters, back there. Yingsiu pours the tea. The first sip sets off a warning alarm, "Aw hell, this is--" then a sudden sneeze, spilling a hot mugfull onto my lumberjack shirt, "--mint tea." "Oh, I am sorry." Sue grabs a towel, passes it to me. "You're allergic to mint?" "And to certain trees, and cats, and--" another sneeze "--and it's my own stupid fault for not checking first." Next, an onslaught of three sneezes.... Scred is cackling hysterically. "You oughta be more careful, Fife." Grinning, he returns his attention to his Bioregional News fax. The top headline reads: Secessionists Bomb Edmonton Airship Terminal. Mopping up the spilled tea, I decide that it might not be a good idea to settle here in Alberta. More jobs out in BC, anyway. *
"Yingsiu? Bad news from World3," Vicki calls from a swivel chair by the vidphone. "ResetMin just revoked our permit for Finnegan. The Christas have a monastery about one klick to the east. They filed a complaint." "Shit. That hexes that. Left it as late as they could, didn't they?" Sue takes the other chair and slips on a headset. "What's the backup site, Larry?" Maps appear on the screen, the new destination and ETA in red. "Mount Cyprian? Great. We'll have to double back. Okay, put Sal on." Larry, I take it, is the name of their vidphone persona, the program which handles their messages, broadcatching, and other databiz. Noel Norm calls it Larry the Lar, their protective household spirit. But Noel's a Teknik Pagan (an absurd idea, in itself) and I can't tell if she expects to be taken seriously. On the screen, a thinly-bearded face shows up in a shuddery low-angle, flowing brown hair snaking about in the breeze from the driver's window. This would be Sal Norm, somewhere up ahead of us in the box-van, seen from the dash camera. Sue explains the situation to Sal, who nods, jots down directions, and signs off. Sue makes a few more calls, while Victoria removes her headset, sidles aft to the kitchen, and draws a cup of water from the dispenser. "What's all that about?" I ask. "A little change of plan." She draws a felt bag out of her sweatsuit pocket, drops something blue into her palm, a capsule which she tosses back, and the water follows it. "We got word from World3 -- our net, y'know -- that the...uh, Resettlement Ministry won't let us use the town of Finnegan for a little gathering we'd planned. You ever been to one of our -- no, you wouldn't have. Lotta fun, you'll see." She nods, rather Californian in speech and gesture, blonde split-ends swaying into her face. (I don't know what's in the capsules she keeps downing. Maintenance doses of something, but they have no visible effect on her at all.) "What was wrong with Finnegan?" "Nothin'. A ghost town. Perfect, for our purposes. But there's these Christa Cultists nearby, seem to think we'd make lousy neighbors, so the ResetMin revoked our permit. Happens all the time, so we arrange for back-up sites." Another evil grin from Scred, who's been sitting across from me, reading something on his microbook. "You know those Christians. They used to say the Gypsies refused to shelter the Virgin and her child on the flight to Egypt, and for that they were cursed to wander forever. Ain't that so?" Vicki blows hair from her eyes. "Pphh. I've heard that. They fucked up, as usual. The Romani were never Egyptians, and as far as we're concerned, its everybody else who's cursed to stand still." With that, she returns to the living area. The back of the sweatshirt reads, Can't hack reality? Try reality-hacking!, in purple on mauve. * Turned about on the TransCanada, we head southeast from Brooks, Alberta, backtracking. After breakfast, Lyndon Norm goes to work on the plumbing system at the rear of the module, and asks me to assist. "Well, carpentry's my specialty," I tell him, "but I can turn a wrench or hold a spanner if needed." "Specialization? Hah!" Lyndon's voice is a thin alto, an odd match for his stocky, broad-waisted frame. Somehow he manages to wedge himself into a closetful of tangled pipes and cables. The place stinks of methane and mildew. "Don't let 'em do that to ya. Hand me that bag of filters, there; thanks. You go to school?" "Well, I applied to a few, wanted to be an architect, but...uh...I couldn't get in. Tough competition. But I was in an apprenticeship program for two years, first as an electrician, then as a carpenter. Then they cut off the funds last year, and I haven't worked since." "Bastards -- here, tighten these gaskets for me -- they couldn't care less about education. So what? Do it anyway." "Do which?" "Become an architect, or whatever. Everything's online, isn't it? Math tutors, manuals, design standards, expert systems. Schools are just a game for rich kids anyway." Sue's laugh again, from the kitchen. "Watch it, Fifer, that's Actuator propaganda. And they don't accept excuses." "Damn right. Nobody's stopping you." With some difficulty, Lyndon extricates himself from the plumbing system, and replaces the service panel. "For a bunch of lazy mediabase artists, the Actuationist Transnational actually have the right idea. If I want to do something, or if I see something that needs doing, I do it. Learned a lot of electronics, automotive maintenance, metal fabrication. Like, I got tired of being Lynda Kulikosky, and now I'm not. "Hey, thanks for the help." He picks up the toolbox and heads off to the second module. Lynda? Oh, right, those hips. First transmale I ever met. |
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content ©2004 Glenn Grant except as noted |
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