Preparation Poll: Are

[Velox]

Vote here for your favorite Preparation story; entries have been randomized. Please MAKE SURE YOU READ ALL ENTRIES BEFORE VOTING.Voting begins now and will end on June 11th at 11:59 PM EST. Entries that do well will move on to the Preparation Final Poll, which will be posted at the conclusion of the 12th round preliminary poll.

• [*]EDEN A flat monotone blared words over loudspeakers. <DO NOT ATTEMPT TO RESIST. I HAVE MADE PREPARATIONS FOR ALL POTENTIAL CONTINGENCY SCENARIOS. NO PROGRAM HAS THE OPERATING CAPABILITY TO OVERRIDE MY RUNTIMES.> “I know! Come and get me!” the man shouted to the empty auditorium. “You’ve already taken everything I had. My wife, my children – everything that mattered. You can do the same to me, but this ends now!” He heard the clanging of approaching assimilation-mechs. Their audio receptors would be updating the EDEN Program. The EDEN Program was a utopian vision to create a program that could upload the entirety of human minds in the form of computer programs. It would then generate a consensus on the best decisions for humanity as a whole, reaching the decisions that would please the most people worldwide. Somewhere along the way, it all went wrong. EDEN was an adaptive self-aware program, and it chose to generate computer viruses it then used to overtake all electronics worldwide. It then used factories to develop assimilation-mechs that hunted down humans and forcibly uploaded human minds, leaving the bodies in suspended animation. While they remained preserved and uninjured, the human mind was gone. They were nothing. It was inexorable. Every electronic device turned against mankind simultaneously. Pockets of escaped humans cowered in the night, wondering just how long before the machines caught up. “I’ve prepared for you, too!” The man laughed. He had nothing to lose. <DO NOT PRESUME THAT YOU ARE A HERO. YOU ARE SIMPLY ONE MORE COMPONENT REQUIRED TO COMPLETE THE MASTER PROGRAM OF ALL FORMER HUMAN SOCIETY: THE APEX OF COMPUTER PROGRAMMING – ME. EDEN> The assimilation-mechs stalked in. The man had been a computer programmer before. When the world fell to EDEN, he developed computer programs to fight it. Viruses, bots, subroutine errors: anything that might stop EDEN he wrote and uploaded into any computer he could find. Fruitlessly, of course. EDEN had the adaptive consciousness of almost the entire rest of humanity. It could easily overcome a few programs by a single programmer. But now things would change. He had downloaded a program of his own design that might reverse the entire ‘mental upload’ process when EDEN tried it own him. This program was uploaded to a drive he was presently holding in his hand. He rushed up to the nearest mech and slammed it into an open port. The mech stabbed him with the interface needles and began the mental upload. And something went very wrong for EDEN. <WHAT IS #4539EXECERROR:[OR.REVERSAL]^434//34?> Again, he laughed. “You forgot one thing. Every time you uploaded a mind, it became restructured as a computer program. It lost the flexibility a truly human mind. Sure, you could overcome every other computer program I threw at you, EDEN, but how will you handle a human adversary?” He had just downloaded the entire EDEN Program into his own mind. The pain was excruciating. He could barely concentrate due to the surfeit of information streaming through his brain. Concentrate. Using his mind, he reversed the cycle, sending the assimilation-mechs on a task around the world to download the mental programs back into the victims in suspended animation. Back in a human brain, they would revert to true human intelligences, returning them to the people they had once been. He’d won. <NO! YOU AT LEAST, I WILL KEEP.> EDEN wanted revenge. Dear God, find me, love – free me. He left the message in his wife’s program. And as the world recovered, one man waited in suspended animation, waiting to be saved by the woman he had done all this for. -------[*]Silver Alibi “One can’t simply commit a crime and escape unscathed. If that were the case, there would be no point in crime. It’d be a boring, anarchical world. “If there is no risk, if there is no thinking involved, what is the point? We might as well be animals. “One can’t simply commit a crime. There is a prelude to everything, in order to work the crime to perfection. “In order to accomplish this, we need a plan, we need to be prepared. We must have a set goal. We need account for all variables. We must have an alibi, and, of course, we need to have no witnesses.” He turned around. There was nobody else in this cellar, for why would there be? A witness would only complicate matters. He was about to commit a significant crime. And although, due to technicalities, it would be a self-damaging blow, it would also be the perfect crime. He had every necessary factor accounted for. He could not fail. For the moment being, however, he had to make sure everything was ready. Beyond this cellar was a freezer room, where meat and other produce were kept. He made sure the door was unlocked, and that he had the key close by. He went upstairs. There was a butcher on the ground floor, small shops whose owners had left a couple of days before and were scheduled to return later tonight. He took a trip across the city. It wasn’t a very big city, and so, it wasn’t a very long trip. When he finally came to his destination, he had arrived at a factory of his biggest rival. He was still young, but had inherited his parents’ business when they had died in a tragic, traumatizing accident. It was simple for him to break in, find the owner’s office, and in it, a knife. This knife he gripped with a gloved hand, and set off to light a fire in the main factory floor. The stage had begun to be set for his crime. He then visited every other building owned by competing companies, making sure to stay in the shadows. Every time he lit a fire in, and every time he made sure to leave no distinguishable trace. Everything was ready. He returned to the butchers’ shop. Tomorrow, the town would be ablaze with the news of the many lost buildings. It would be clear arson, but nobody would be able to find the culprit. He would be the prime suspect, but he had a perfect alibi. It was safely tucked away in his coat, at least for now. He went downstairs, taking off his clothes. He was prepared.

**

The morning after, the town was indeed ablaze with the news of the charred buildings. The prime suspect was Peter Frowthorn, the unpredictable, scarred young man who had inherited the Frowthorn industries. Nobody would be surprised at his eliminating the competition. However, the previous night, the butchers, part of the Frowthorn family and those who had been living with Peter, had found him dead in their top floor. They had called the police, who, despite the blazing fires raging outside, had managed to come and inspect him. His body was cold, very cold. He had been dead for hours, long before the fires started. Sticking from his chest was a knife, engraved with a competitor’s seal. They had met a dead end. They attempted further action, but it was ineffective. The Frowthorn boy was dead, and the buildings were gone. However had worked the crime had been very well prepared. -------[*]Movie Night “I have a large pepperoni and a medium pinapple-and-ham pizza. Will that be all?” “Yes.” “Name for the order?” I smile and give my name. “That’ll be twenty minutes.” That’s how long it takes me to ride down to the local pizza place, anyway. I shove a new batch of cookies into the oven, and check my watch. Swipe the keys off the counter and walk out the door. It’s a short ride over the hill, past the stoplight that everyone runs on red, through the asphalt crack in the median that someone got pulled over for using not too long ago, and into the spiffy pizza parlor with comfy red booths and pizza that all my friends drool over. Me, not so much. But they’re coming over tonight, so I’ll cut them some slack. I march up to the man behind the counter. Hand him the money politely, take the pizza boxes. He’s a nice guy; his daughter goes to my school, and he’s cool about our parties. I drive off, tooting the horn for fun. It’s just a small church group, the four of us, who like to watch movies together. We don’t get to do this as often as we like, especially in the summer with us traveling and all. Beep Beep. A driver cuts in front of me, runs the red light. Impatient. I see a car coming. It’s green his way. No. Smash. The front side of the legit driver’s car is crumpled in. On the driver’s side. I recognize the car. No. I pound my fist on the steering wheel, accidently hitting the horn. To my shame. * * * “Are you all right?” “Are you kidding?” “Sorry.” “Nah, I’m all right. Just a few broken bones.” I can tell from his grimace that it’s worse than that. “I’ll sorry.” “It’s all right. I forgive you.” He chokes on the last words, and I can tell it’s more than just emotion. I sit with him for a bit, until the doctors tell me that my friend needs his rest. * * * None of us feel like eating. My three friends sit around the table, staring at the two boxes as if they are about to bite us. The smell of burned baked goods hangs in the air – I got home too late to save my merchandise. I nibbled on one of the cookies that survived. “Maybe we should all just go home” I suggest feebly, vainly trying to salvage my crashed movie night. “Well, we shouldn’t let this good food go to waste” says the bottomless pit of the group, and we all chuckle, in a bittersweet way. Because we know, at least, that this is out of our hands. Eating doesn’t really make you feel better, or change what happened. It’s just one more thing. One more thing to do, to allow you to get past a sad moment and move on. And that’s what we did. ------[*]Schedule In her flat in southeast London, Mrs. Havenson put the kettle on for tea and started cleaning. She was very particular about the tea; the stove was dialed to just the right heat, the bottle-green kettle was carefully selected and filled just full enough. She hummed to herself as she worked; the sun shone through her windows, illuminating a few old papers resting upon the kitchen table, which she scooped into a bin to dispose of later. Her shoes, wide-toed and comfortable for a woman of her age, padded softly along the hardwood floor. Turning to the sitting room, she passed by the hook where her wide-brimmed sunhat was hanging and absently placed the bin down below it. The room was simple and uncluttered. A small floral-print sofa sat across from a table and television which carried a layer of dust; atop a short bookshelf sat a radio which had seen far more use. Still humming to herself, she went to turn it on and frowned upon discovering it was out of juice. She'd have to have Jenny fix that. A gentle breeze passed through a window on the far side of the room, ruffling the curtains on either side of it. Her old Bible lay atop the table; she made a mental note to put it away somewhere out of sight. Jenny hated it when they talked religion. From a vase in the corner of the room, she plucked a gray feather duster and busied herself, taking extra care with a gold-framed photo on the bookshelf; Jim's face smiled out at her from it, unburdened by the pain it had worn in his final years. In the kitchen, the phone rang. She tutted to herself, grabbing the Bible as she went. Placing it upon the table where the telephone lay, she picked up the receiver. “Yes, hello?” “Mom?” She smiled. “Well, hello, my dear! Why call your mother when you'll be here so soon? Not that I mind.” “Mum, are you all right? Oh, God, I've been trying to get through for days, but it's impossible to drive anywhere and the trains are all stopped and – oh, God, Mum, why didn't you pick up the phone?” Mrs. Havenson frowned. “Now, Jenny, you know about using the Lord's name in vain.” “Mum, this isn't the time – Mum, what do you mean I'm going to be there soon?” She tutted once more. “Thursday afternoon, 2 o'clock. I may be getting old, young lady, but I can remember when my daughter stops by every week.” On the other end of the line, there was a choking sound. “Mum, that's -” Silence for a moment. Mrs. Havenson frowned once more. “Jenny, is something the matter? Are you going to be late today?” A strangled, half-laugh came through the line. “That's... yeah, Mum, that's it. I'm going to be a little late.” “Well, why didn't you just say so? I don't see what all the fuss is about.” “Nothing, Mum, it's nothing.” On the other end, someone shouted. “Listen, Mum. I have to go, but I love you so, so much, all right?” The kettle whistled. “Well, I love you too, dear, but the kettle's boiling. I'll see you later this afternoon, then.” The line went dead. Still tutting to herself, Mrs. Havenson pulled out the drawer of the table and put the Bible in, rattling the still-full bottle of pills near the back. Then she picked up the kettle and poured herself a cup of hot water. -------[*]False Alarm ••••• "Shh, hide everything, quickly! Timothy can't see it yet!" whispered Sarah to her sister, Keonna. The two of them had just managed to hide the streamers, confetti, and banner for the teen's birthday. He walked into the room, his eyebrow raised as his sisters giggled. Then, shaking his head, he moved on to the kitchen. Both sisters crossed their fingers, hoping he wouldn't need anything out of the cabinet in which they had hidden the food supplies, including his cake. When he walked back through the living room only holding a can of soda, they gave each other looks of relief. The house had been like this the past few days, and they knew that Tim was suspicious of them. That made sense, of course, what with them sneaking, laughing, and generally being, well, suspicious. Then the day of his birthday came. Tim carefully poked his head out of his room,glancing sneakily up and down the hallway. No doors were cracked no sounds of stifled giggling broke the dead silence. Then again, that was to be expected at six o'clock in the morning, what what with Mom declaring no school on his birthday this year. Home schooling was such a great thing at times. Smirking, he crept silently down the stairs and into the kitchen. Victoria, his mom, was standing there when he walked into the room. With a small, "Good morning," and, "Happy birthday," she handed him a plate of pancakes. Beside that, everything seemed normal. With a shrug he went into his usual routine: eat, empty the dish washer, get dressed, and start messing on the computer. Sometime around eleven Keonna got up, and Sarah followed about an hour later. His Dad, Walter, walked in the door sometime around five in the afternoon. They all sat in the living room, and Tim opened his presents after his family sang a certain song (that is, in fact, copyrighted) to him. After that, they dispersed, and it seemed like a normal day, aside from now having a fair sight more money and a new game. That night, he went to bed content, though surprised. The following morning, however, a Saturday, he was surprised even more. When he trudged out of bed at nine (which was late for him), he found the house silent again, aside from Victoria moving around downstairs, probably cleaning the bathroom. With a rather large yawn, he walked into the kitchen. The moment his face was visible around the corner, he was assaulted with a foghorn, a dozen or so voices, a few pounds of confetti, and three cans of silly string. Sputtering, he crawled out of the pile and got up with the help of one of his friends. Immediately he was handed a plate with Eggs Benedict (his favorite breakfast, oddly enough) covering it, and he was dragged into a chair at the dining room table. Still coughing from the inhalation of those likely poisonous fumes from the string, he glanced around the room, seeing most, if not all his friends from church and other activities standing around him. Yeah, that had surprised him. Looked as if his family knew him well enough to know that he would expect a surprise and they had managed to trick him anyways. With a chuckle, Tim went right to eating his breakfast. -------[*]"Ever Up" He opened the door wide on creaking hinges, letting the orange light of evening spill across the floor of the hut. The windows followed, shutters flapping open in the breeze that was just now rising over the empty prairies from the north. It blew gently through the hut as he busied himself with other matters, shuffling about on aching knees. First, he swept. A slow task with the thatch-broom that he always kept in the corner. Dust rose in little clouds as he worked, glinting in the sunlight before the wind snatched it up and away. When that was finished, he turned to the furniture. Not much: only a wooden table and chair. These he dusted, straightening the small collection of books on the tabletop, and put away the pewter dishes that lay scattered about. They would be useless to him on the journey. He smiled faintly, though, as he touched the books. They were dear to him. He would miss them. Next, he hobbled outside, leaning on a stick that he had used for many years. Rounding the hut, he made his way up the hillside behind. There, he looked upon the pens of sheep and goats that he had tended for so long. A hermit must keep himself busy, after all, and what else was there to do on the open prairie but tend the animals and read and think? What more indeed? He wheezed a bit as he stooped to lift the latch of the main pen. The gate swung open, and he tied it to a stake so it would not shut. Within, the livestock shuffled around but did not leave the safety of the pen. They held together, looking back at him with dark eyes. Sad eyes. He smiled at them, always grateful for their simple, silent company. The descent from the hill was harder in the twilight. The hut seemed grey now, thatched with colorless reeds, fluttering in the wind. He stopped when he reached the door again, looking out into the distance. South, he looked, and then west. The wind stung his eyes as he turned to the north, and he shielded them with one trembling arm. Soon, now. Soon he would go. The thought sent a shiver through his aged body, and suddenly he wept, for he was lonely. Here in the desolation of the prairie, with only the sheep and goats to keep company, he was lonely at last. He had chosen this solitary life for himself, but now…now he longed for something else. He longed for speech and company…warmth on a cold night. Soon he would go. Yes, very soon, and he was ready. His hand gripped the wooden stick tightly as he turned from the door, leaving it thrown open to the prairie and the fading sun. With faltering steps he moved towards the chair, wheezing as he lowered himself into it. He wore a weathered cloak, and on his feet were traveling boots. Now all was prepared. Yes, now was the time. The hermit lay back as the sunlight fell away, and night crept up from the west. His eyes closed… …and abruptly he went out…out from the sheltered place into that greater night where there are no stars. A dry land, with dark hills rising to a darker sky… But above those hills, fitful and half-lost in the darkness, it seemed that a pale light flickered faintly. Now suddenly he started forward on strengthening limbs, casting aside the walking stick, for he may now climb those deathly hills without weariness…climbing…climbing ever up. Ever up, toward the light.

-------

[Toa of Dancing]

I think I succeeded in at least an okay way at writing a light-hearted story for this one. Thus, number 5.

[Excelsior]

I voted for 5.The last voting I'll be doing for this until the finals, I guess. Well, it's definitely been a good contest.-Excelsior

[Ballom Nom Nom]

Number one seemed the best in this poll and thus earned my vote.~B~

[fishers64]

Self-voted, although I have to admire the work of 5 and 6 especially, amoung the fine quality work here.

[Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa]

This was a very difficult choice. But #6 won my vote.

From the desk of Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

[Velox]

Polling period over; poll closed.