Book 6 3rd world product.., p.1
Book 6: 3rd World Products, Inc., page 1
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Abintra Press
www.abintrapress.netfirms.com
Copyright ©2004 by Ed Howdershelt
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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Caution: Some Erotic Content
Note: I'm not going to re-introduce everybody.
Read my other 3WP-Books before starting Book VI.
Chapter One
Never underestimate the value of idle observations. I was in my driveway one late Wednesday afternoon, checking under the hood of my Oldsmobile, when a couple of kids rolled past my house on skateboards.
One seemed to be an old hand at the sport, whipping back and forth across the street and circling his friend, but the other kid was wobbly as hell. He hit a spot of sand and took a rough dive, ending up in the grassy culvert.
Rubbing his unhelmeted head and clutching his unpadded knee, he rolled over, sat up, and swore loudly as the other kid laughed at him.
'Typical dumbass newbie,’ I thought, ‘Pads and helmets look geeky, so he'd rather wear scabs.'
After some bitching and arguing, they got underway again.
Keying my implant, I asked, “Sue, has anybody thought to add something like a skateboard to the list of PFM capabilities? Maybe link the PFM to a miniature version of the pallet-haulers I saw on the factory station's loading docks?"
Sue popped into existence beside me in her little black dress and watched me check the power steering fluid as she answered, “Yes, Ed. We've considered many entertainment and labor-saving devices."
Eyeing her magnificent legs as I twisted the cap back on the steering fluid pump, I suggested, “For skateboard-type stuff, you might try calling them ‘Sliders’ or ‘Slicks’ since they won't have wheels. Keep it short and give ‘em something to play word games with. ‘Street Ski’ might work, too."
As I straightened and wiped my hands, Sue said, “Should we decide to produce such devices, they wouldn't be limited to use above paved surfaces."
"Then they'd probably better double as water wings, because somebody will try to see if they can make it across a pond."
Snickering, she said, “We've considered that possibility. Nonswimmers would be able to call up..."
"'Call-up?’ Hah! Nope. Huh-uh, ma'am. Never count on common sense or lucidity where people are concerned. We're talking about a nonswimmer who somehow ends up in the drink, right? Expect him or her to just thrash and scream and drown, ‘cuz that's what most of ‘em do if there's nothing to grab onto."
Wiping the engine oil fill stick and dipping it for an accurate reading, I added, “Sooner or later, someone will screw up over water, guaranteed."
Sue's left eyebrow arched. “That's a rather cynical view of your fellow human beings, isn't it?"
"Yeah, that's the word for it. No doubt about it. Root through some coroner and insurance records sometime. It's amazing how many nonswimmers play with boats."
For a second or so Sue seemed to focus beyond me, then she said, “I see what you mean. We'll make flotation an automatic function. Do you have any other caveats or advice to offer?"
Putting the oil stick back and examining her from head to toe, I said, “Sure. As a manufacturer, always assume that someone will find or invent the most stupid and dangerous way to abuse your products. Visit the Darwin Awards website for some examples. That's about it, I think. You're looking particularly fine this morning, Sue."
"I look as I always look, Ed."
Lifting her hand to kiss it, I said, “Well, then, maybe I'm just particularly susceptible to your charms today, ma'am. You seem to look even more perfect than usual."
"Thank you. Have you ever ridden a skateboard, Ed?"
Nodding, I said, “Yup. As recently as ... um ... 1999, I think. Yeah, had to be; that's the year I helped Wendy move. Her son left one in her garage when he went off to college. Wendy wasn't too thrilled to see me ride it down the hill in front of her house. She got kind of pissed, in fact, and said I was too old for toys."
Sue laughed softly. “What would she say about your glider?"
Without hesitation, I replied, “Oh, hell, the same and worse, for sure. She was smart, funny, and sexy, but she was kind of stuffy about some things."
I closed the hood and reached for my coffee on the roof of the car as I said, “A cut-down version of one of those pallet-movers might come in handy for short trips and entertainment. If I had one, it would turn itself into big cushion and slide under me if I fell off."
Laughing again, Sue snapped her fingers. A slab of what looked like metal flashed to a stop near my feet, then a flat, translucent grey field pad about four feet long and two feet wide formed around it.
"What's the shiny thing?” I asked, “A field-booster gadget?"
Raising an eyebrow at me, Sue said, “Exactly. It's a focal device. It gathers, intensifies, and directs ambient field energies."
"Right. A booster gadget."
Kneeling beside the board to study it more closely, I said, “Kewl, ma'am,” then set my coffee on the car and stepped aboard the pad. As soon as both of my feet were on the pad, it gently lifted six inches or so and hovered fairly motionlessly.
"Sue, I weigh one-eighty-five, clothes included. How is it this snowboard-looking thing can support me? Elkor once said he couldn't make a drone that would carry me that would weigh less than a hundred and fifty."
"We've made a few adaptations and refinements in field manipulation over the last few years, Ed. Before you received your implants, Elkor had only officially sanctioned parameters to work from. Those parameters didn't include some of the unorthodox uses you and others have suggested. He chose to err on the side of caution rather than put you at risk."
Leaning slightly to the left and right made the pad slidingly turn as expected. I put my left foot on the ground to give myself a push. The field pad promptly settled to the ground.
Sue snickered at my one-foot-on, one-foot-off lack of motion, but said nothing. I returned my left foot to the pad and gave the matter some thought as the pad lifted again.
Leaning slightly forward made the pad go forward. I guided it down the slight slope to the street, then maneuvered it in wide arcs to the left and right. The pad remained absolutely level unless I leaned to either side. While I didn't topple off the pad, balance was definitely an issue for the first few minutes.
I discovered that my forward momentum wouldn't diminish in the least as long as I kept the pad generally level. My speed increased when I leaned forward, and when I leaned back, the pad slowed to a crawl. Leaning a bit farther back made it stop within a few yards.
Looking up the twenty-degree hill toward Sue, I wondered if the pad would climb a slope and gave it a try. The pad seemed to have no trouble propelling itself up the driveway.
Stepping off near Sue, I said, “You'll definitely sell a million of ‘em, milady. They're great.” Sipping my coffee, I added, “But I'd like mine to be adjustable to a length of about six and a half feet, to hover about a foot off the ground by default, but be able to elevate by command, and to be capable of carrying another person or whatever else I may need to carry. Is that do-able?"
Nodding, she answered, “Yes. At full extension, your pad will be able to carry four hundred and thirty pounds."
"Sounds great. How fast will it go?"
She gave me a long, silent look before asking, “What did you have in mind, Ed? Highway speeds?"
Shrugging, I said, “Well, low highway speeds, anyway. Up to maybe sixty or so. Wind would be real a problem above that."
Sue seemed to study me for a time, as if to see if I was joking. I sipped coffee and met her gaze, knowing she was reading my bios for the truth.
In a flat tone, she said, “A few minutes ago, you suggested that I not count on people having common sense."
"It wouldn't be any more dangerous than a motorcycle."
Shaking her head, she said, “It's too risky, Ed."
"How can we fix things so it wouldn't be too risky?"
"'We’ can't. If you fell off or collided with something above forty miles per hour, your protective field would be virtually useless."
"Fix it so I can't fall off. Make the pad become a cushion. Or maybe something else, like a skid plate. Whatever it takes."
"No."
"Steph would have..."
Raising a hand, Sue quietly snapped, “I seriously doubt it. In any case, I'm not Steph."
She leaned forward until her face was inches from mine and quietly, clearly enunciated every word as she stated, “Top speed is forty miles an hour."
Hm. Well, I could humor her and check with Steph later about speed limits and such.
Matching her gaze, I said, “It's basically a boogie board, so I'll call it a board. Same color choices as the kite, and it should also function as a cargo platform. Okay?"
"Done."
Her face was only inches from mine, so I leaned a bit farther and lightly kissed her.
"Thanks, milady,” I said with a grin, “We can talk about top speeds another time."
Sue's expression had changed not a whit. She responded flatly, “You'll be doing all the tal king."
I sighed, “You can be a real hardass, lady."
Nodding tersely, Sue replied, “Thank you. Why did you want your board to extend to six and a half feet long?"
Grabbing my coffee off the car and taking a sip, I said, “I might want to use it as a cot."
Her gaze narrowed again, so I told her, “Really. It's one of the ways I used to use my surfboard back when I lived in Titusville. I got flat in the shade during breaks."
Stepping onto the pad, I took my sunglasses out of my shirt pocket, put them on, and asked, “Care to come along?"
Levitating to match my height, she said, “I wouldn't miss it."
It seemed like a good time to visit the grocery store; I'd planned to go after checking the car, anyway. Easing forward, I nosed the board down my driveway and into the street, then to the corner at Northcliffe Boulevard.
"Sue, you might want to consider programming in regular vehicle lights, too."
She grinned at me. “If you'd looked back as you stopped, you'd have seen your brake light. Standard altitude is three feet above any surface, adaptable to circumstance."
"Circumstance. You mean like when some idiot pulls out in front of me?"
"Yes. Your ceiling height is ten feet. If a collision seems imminent, the pad will act to protect its passenger."
Hm. That likely meant that it would lock the passenger down just before it dodged and scampered like a bunny. Heh. That could be rather exciting.
Someone back in the sixties had said, ‘Surfing's appeal to youth is that it represents the two things they revere most; a free ride and cheap thrills.’ I could envision people aiming themselves at solid objects just to get a near-death rush.
Chapter Two
I hung my coffee mug's handle in a pants pocket and leaned forward a bit after a few cars had passed. The board responded fairly smartly and accelerated to full speed in a few seconds.
But—dammit—I could only do forty. A couple of cars quickly approached from behind. One stayed behind me and the other pulled alongside. Drivers and passengers stared hard at the guy surfing on Northcliffe Boulevard until I told the board to elevate to ten feet.
That didn't stop their staring, but at least I wouldn't be at street level if they bashed into each other.
"Sue, I need to be able to do at least the posted speed limit on any given road. This thing'll be a traffic hazard otherwise."
Without even looking away from the cars below, she replied in a conversational tone, “Forty, Ed."
Turning sharply and crossing the median, I headed back to the house, stepped off the pad in the front yard, and studied it for a few moments. It was just a levitating field device guided by body motions. Not all that complicated, right?
"Board off,” I said, wondering what would happen to the core device. The field pad shrank around the metal slab, then the slab disappeared. Hm. That likely meant that it had joined my overhead briefcase in order to be immediately accessible.
As I reached upward to verify my guess, Sue said, “Yes, that's where it went. I take it you're less than pleased with it?"
Shrugging, I said, “I'll probably find a use for it. I have a suggestion for the public models if you're interested."
In a terse tone, Sue said, “Do tell."
"Keep the front and rear lights, but back ‘em down to fifteen miles an hour so people won't be too tempted to use them on the streets. Make people think of them about the same way as bicycles and mopeds."
She didn't seem too pleased with my suggestion.
"Thank you for your considered opinion on the matter, Ed."
"I don't mean that as an insult, Sue. It's how I'd do things, that's all."
"I see,” she said tightly. “Is there anything else?"
"Nope. That was it."
Sue said tersely, “Fine. Later, Ed,” and vanished.
Ah, hell. But so it goes sometimes. I field-platformed myself up to three thousand feet, said, “glider on", and drifted toward Maggie Lake, a few square acres of water located about half a mile south of my house.
Landing on the northern shore where a vacant lot fronted the lake, I sipped my coffee and watched minnows scatter and hide as I considered Sue's gift.
Reaching above my head, I felt around until I found the board's core and brought it down to look it over. It looked like a featureless slice of metal about four inches wide, a foot long, and half an inch thick. It wasn't very heavy; maybe half a pound at most. Hollow? No way to tell.
Not for the first time, it occurred to me to wonder how a flitter achieved forward motion. It operated by applying fields in various directions. But what the hell did it push against at 40,000 feet in order to move itself forward?
A panfish about five inches long darted out from under some weeds and nailed a tiny minnow, then swam leisurely back to its hideout. Watching it move led me to consider using a sort of field-generated ‘tail’ to propel the board.
I cast a large, flat field and tried to wave it back and forth without using my hands. Ha. Forget that idea. The field weighed nothing, but moving it against air resistance required a supreme effort and there'd be side winds to consider.
A helicopter passed overhead on its way toward the county's little airport. Even before I spotted it, the sound of its blades and engine identified it to me as an Aerospatiale, not a Huey.
Studying the machine as it pounded across the sky, it occurred to me that choppers functioned by tilting the disc formed by their rotating blades.
Tilt the leading edge of the disc down and the chopper would be drawn forward. Tilt it any other direction and the chopper would head that direction. Add power to climb and vice versa.
If I couldn't figure out how flitters shoved themselves around the sky, I could at least work on developing a flying platform that worked like the fan-driven ‘flying saucers’ built in the fifties. They'd operated essentially the same way as a chopper, the main difference being that the propulsion disc had been underfoot rather than overhead.
Keying my comm implant, I called my flitter.
"Flitter,” I said, “Can you make modifications to my PFM implant's programming?"
"No, Ed,” answered the flitter computer, “In all matters relating to your implants, I may only function as a substitute device should either or both somehow be damaged."
Huh. That was something I hadn't known. Interesting. Maybe good enough for the moment, too.
"Can you also act as a substitute at my command? Say, for purposes of practice or developing new uses?"
"Yes, Ed."
Kewl. I gave some thought to how to present my ideas to the flitter for execution. Design, speeds, altitudes, and ... Oh, hell. I was about to try to tell a field-generating, field-using supercomputer how to make and use a field device. It might be better just to say, ‘This is what I want’ and stand clear.
"Flitter, I want to be able to call up a field platform that will respond to body motion by changing direction and speed. I suppose it would have to be generally similar to the one Sue offered me this morning."
"That programming is not available to me, Ed."
"I didn't think it would be, flitter, but I have a platform core you can study and you have access to records of the event. Examine the board she designed and extrapolate one generally like it, but don't include a speed limit. Instead, add appropriate protective capabilities. Will you be able to adapt my briefcase field to position itself at my back?"
"Yes, Ed."
Sipping coffee and watching a good-sized bass wander into the panfish's hideout area, I let Sue's core return to park by my briefcase and said, “Thank you, flitter. Show me whatever you come up with whenever you think it's ready."
The panfish spotted the bass behind him and started to dart away, but the bass powered forward like a green and black torpedo. Minnows scattered frantically, some even jumping out of the water and onto the shore.
The bass's mouth opened and closed in a flash and the panfish was gone. Ignoring the panicked minnows, the bass cruised away into the weeds. I sent field tendrils to flip half a dozen or so flopping, gasping minnows back into the water.
No matter how often you see such things, the speed with which one animal can attack and devour another can be rather surprising. The panfish had lasted maybe half a second after he'd spotted the bass and started to run.
