Dean Martino

Dean Martino - The rise.
by Samuel Ramratan.

One eyed-Jack glared at the server, you are a dammed cyborg, he
snipped. You, you calling me names, her voice tumbled, I know my
Mama always told me not to talk about this, but you are not human. Jack
snatched at his pastry throwing down a small ruby, Take that he
jibbed. We don't take any precious or semi-precious garbage stones
here. Uug, only as I thought, but, you take metal don't you grumbled
Jack, his one eye working furiously back and forth to the amazement
of the cyborg counter attendant. You put your paws an it, she said
softly, I can"t take it back, she completed. One eyed jack was
literally shrivel ling to his core, his own physiology and species
evolution allowed his being the luxury of understanding when
his psyche was ill-placed in an environment. The cyborg huffing around
seemed distressed, an orange light was flashing around the contours of
her ears, your Service-card, she demanded, accompanied by an increase
in the intensity of her luminous ear. One eyed jack watched her,
thinking to himself, she has cheap parts, he had seen better ears.
There are many devices car ring away the peaks known from human brain
electro-chemical surges associated with strong emotions. Now
Jack laughed, remembering how he had made a cyborg's ear burn, once
on Crystalmum, using his hands, while back on Terra Firma, Jack handed
the Cyborg girl his universe-patrol service card. We are now public.

One eyed Jack had seen faces change during his life, so he believed
when she saw it, her whole mental world had collapsed. She had placed
his card slowly over the reader seeing his one eyed face pop up,
Jack Herra, Universe-patroller. She had done her ack, while Jack was
dong his. I did not mean to say what I said, the cyborg girl, had
murmured, you are still young, she had then added. Jack had shrugged
her off, keep the ruby, he had motioned, it may bring you luck.

Jack soiled his face with a smile as he unwrapped the pastry. His
nose which was not joined in the middle had its openings below the
cheek area making the area above his lips look like a really
broad nose. Jack Herra wouldn't change his look for anything. His
one eye was popping in and out, while his mouth had expectations of
its own, you could say that his lips were flapping. That eye popping
thing he could never control. These days he could probably get a
head-cap with a tiny battery which would stop his constant eye
movement. On Colombo, his homeland, such head gear
made the natives bi-polar, while uni-polarity made strong experiences.
Most cyborgs live on a plateau, their orgasms were described as small
waves of pleasure. I think of Cyborg orgasms as Schrodinger wave
equation marching through and bouncing off two definite quantized
series. Like that new music format, I don't think they are getting
the real thing. I could go on and on about cyborgs for hours on end,
but who was I to talk, I had a spare pair of hands under by shirt
with EM-guns on hand. No wonder they don't call us humans. However
we are all natural products of the universe unlike cyborgs who are
medicated or enhanced beings. The new motto is: We are all made to be.

My grandfather Braveheart had travel led to CaneLand, to fight during
the cyborg wars, Then the cyborgs had obtained technology and had
tainted the human capacity by offering superhumanity or death failing.
The cyborg leader at that time, the well known master of deception,
Adi Hardtobear, had wished territory for these master-Borgs, and after
having purposefully risen to leader, started one hell of a *censored* war,
being in a position to do so. His bold plan had succeeded and the
master-Borgs were given Fourland. Everything else was off beat and
entangled in a mess except on Colombo. It seemed as if the whole world
had been involved in the cyborg-war. That was my grand-father, the
message he had passed down was cyborgs were dangerous. This was because
they lived in a narrow idyll, and when threatened, all forms of
deceit, sabotage, high-handedness, or force coming from these,
souped-up independently acting citizens, to protect themselves,
sometimes even irrational behavior. After the cyborg war, which was
really a war of identity, Cyborgs re-found themselves as beings of
existence, the need for propaganda and fear mongering had subsided,
but the art of media stuck to them like it belonged there. I remember
ruminating with my friend Elvis about the media thing, and he said
it could be because they needed to defend so many falsehoods that
they became good at presenting, so real truths are easily glorified,
however real truths told, are almost always about cyborgs - their
advance.


I had been lucky enough to have wanted to know things. That was the
final question at my patroller interview, if you think you have a soul,
what does it do? I met Dean, after I had been accepted by the Directors.
His direct nature soothed me and his first words were, we do not
believe in souls, but it seems to be a way when conversing about your
basic character to bring it into focus. I guess that was one of those
times my eye bobbed. For a second, I thought I had made a mistake,
showing the cyborg girl. my patroller card, suspecting she would
transmit some message through their world-famous cyborg network, but I
had wanted to know her reaction to my position and function in this
Universe. Now it did not seem to matter as much, they now knew someone
from Colombo was patrolling the Universe, so they could now cast their
aggravating behavior on something concrete. Honestly, Dean told me we
were only five, but from stories, it sounds like we are thousands
strong. I heard one of us operates with network robots, seeing some
police reports extended their acks to robot generated schemes
responsible for success of their operations. Some of my stories have
had different proportions on different worlds.


On Colombo, my ego can hang out larger than life. Whereas on StarTrek,
that world furthest from us, I am considered too emotional, too damn
reactive, really loud, and discontinuous for the times. This report
card came about because all of the anxiety drives I fixed from their
mental emissions, ended with complaints from Trekkie's. Beam me up
Scotchie. Dean was happy with my results including the way it had
been brought about. I hadn't bumped my head that time taking it all in.

You tell people you see with your hands, they laugh then tell you that
is because you are making up for having one eye, Jack. Then I ignore
them exposing my Visual which has its screen saver tuned to a small
edge of the universe, and watch their jaws drop at the immense beauty
of our universe's vacuum. Another one that blows their mind is the
eye out at Breakheart Pass where all the various, great and grand
machines from our Universe slow, as they check in at that
intergalactic checkpoint Charlie.

My chum Everest, who, while I was hanging out in Injun territory, was
himself looking for lasagna recipes, had remarked to me, on the lack
of discipline, many had exhibited. Yes today, No tomorrow, being unable
to hold the line. Those years I was treading light, Dean was on the
most hated, most wanted list and anything that
looked like a Dean or even resembled a Dean was immediately crushed by
elements from society.
They were no Deans crushed, that seems to be the case, and when things
can be spoken about in such a way, accurately describing some specific
case, facts from the case are being mentioned. When people get their
facts wrong, the world turns to jumble. Mabye it is because Dean and
I are on the same side, Dean so completely human, that I know the
truth lies not in the vilification of Dean but in the plan of some
to be rid of us patrollers. When a patrol instigated law came into
effect stating, helmet wearers were not cyborgs even if they were
being medicated or bi-polar in nature. That decision had come down
by the executive panel nine to zero. Their principal reasoning was
given as, executed because, without the hats creatures were plainly
non-cyborg, and additionally, samples from some species use helmets
during their sleep. I myself tried a sleep-hat but quickly became
scared with it, knowing my tendencies for dependence. I had done them
all f, g, but my real favorite was hallucinogenic wine which is still
available on the red soils of the Rupanuni. I suspect Everest fell
prey to the same sort of indiscipline anyone can undergo when their
consciousness is imbued with drugs or alcohol, not that Everest ever
fell prey to those same two disruptive influences. Everest had just
crumbled with age.

Mt next move was to do a long jump over to Sin City which was in the
middle of the celebrated Axis of Evil. Moral topology of our Universe
changes, therefore at times, torques can exist between Sin City and
its Axis of Evil, and what better way to experience these torques than
making whoopee in Sin City itself. Let me introduce myself, we are
genetically compatible, meaning my thing fits into yours, that law was
passed eons ago, it is a fact, only emotions separate us. Some cyborgs
would do it with a one-eyed beast, if only to hear it boast, what a
surprise. Humans back on Earth loved me like ten, called me their
one eyed Jack, they did not seem to mind doing it with someone who
looked foreign. Sometimes we are blind to so many things...

I ran in to Stumpy grovelling over some lucky dice, over at Fischer's
BoardWarf, the very night I clubbed into Sin City. It had been Sin Night,
so their floor shows were not meant to pass unnoticed. I hadn't had that
much experience so my testicles exhibited local swellings. I swayed to
the crowd avoiding swaying with the crowd. It seemed like a large gang
bang for some, and some samples from the crowd were hot, extraordinarily
tempting. So as Stumpy unravel led his meager plans, my real hopes shot
up.

There is no reason why I should be a propaganda expert, I have had
no formal training, except perhaps explaining why I am one-eyed Jack
from Colombo which is quite straightforward. Stumpy was a Cyborg,
having had access to his data, I knew his secret was a small heart
controller which gave him en explained power, but few people know,
and Stumpy never offers that information to anyone. Sometimes it
seems Stumpy does not even know he is a Cyborg. Like Dean told me,
when you become a true patroller, you will be forced to face
necessary events. I had never told Stumpy I was a patroller, but
something about the way Stumpy eyed my one eye, that night, made me
shiver to think about the Cyborg network.

I crumpled up his plans and threw it in his face, Stumpy surely you
the great Stumpy can do better than that. His grin was sheepish, his
look foolish, his eyes steady. Good at least he has a grip on
something. Jack, Jack, he gazed at me in earnest, you know I do my
best for you, Then get me a sweet cyborg chick, one with no visible
marks. Jack, I gotta tell you those Cyborgs prefer humans, you are a
difficult sell, to say the least. Listen, run down to the French
quarter, ask for Laput, they help one eyed people like you there,

One of my undercover macros for my Visual, which included blocking
security, anywhere, from seeing my Visual, was activated on my way
to home base. Robots were now lurking in the background, our robots,
which made me feel better, our inhuman friends. I tapped into the
backbone of Sin City's service network and searched out Stumpy. I was
curious about his peccadilloes.

Devil's Island loomed through the vacuum mist, I felt like I was
chasing flies returning so far into the past. A remote planet,
domed, housing the nastiest criminals in the world, close to the
edge of the universe, looked as gloomy as they make it sound. It
is best I do not describe what I saw there, except to say, I could
not add any information which would strengthen the case for my
newest proposition about the growing opposition to discipline.

The last time I saw Dean, he had remarked about lists of complaints
which never seem to be resolved. When Dean says something he usually
intones an institutional footprint. For us those footprints are
quite large. Sometimes it shows huge shifts in collective Mental
causation while at other times it means that forces of circumstance
are impinging environmentally on people. There have been many past
examples showing how an event or impending events cause many people
to have the same idea. Concepts like information control emerged at
the end of the twenty-first century, only to be discredited by the
end of the third millennium. On a need to know basis, turned ugly when
post-modern philosophers twisted a new interpretation into that very
same statement, Need to know because my personal security is important.
Need to know because I am the one who really decides my fate unless you
need to learn to act properly. Need to know otherwise my understanding
of life is reduced to fish bowl contexts. What was really remarkable,
in my humble mind, reflected what people were ready to accept. Most
would readily embrace the fish-bowl interpretation of life, following
the waves and heading for the crests. Bouncing up and down in society,
searching out the fair land of Brittany was a job for an ordinary Joe,
but when cliques become largely self contained, the word cult can be
mentioned, alongside commune, then corporation. You never see these
people except their occasional contacts with the real world. Real world
views largely developed to combat closeted non-debatable, therefore
unfalsifiable concepts that eventually produce local human action. By
taking post-modern philosophy as an inquiry into the human spirit, it
could only be that we know good because of its falsifiability as bad.
Closed societies are philosophically unsound and this is why I am
making this report to you, to aid the sanity and clarity of our little
clique which is no longer a cabal. Dean gave the order.

When fish-bowl politics gain new meaning people invariably suffer
because it is difficult for everyone to adopt the same ideas, bringing
them into experience, at or around the same time. Famous attempts were
recorded like those of Attoman whose administration was thought to
have an electronic device that could listen in to your thoughts. The
stories that emerged about that Attoman device were as varied as they
were untrue, because the Attoman device was planted by Dean as a
self-spying device. I had sighed when I had heard the truth, such
brilliant people, but later that night it had dawned on me, Dean was
expecting that sort of mental production from me. With the discipline
thing I had realized people were practicing occupational discipline,
being hardcore event driven. I couldn't imagine, children were given
a rope to hold at one end, and then led around for the rest of their
life. The condition of their lives was good as long as they did not
let go of their end. A place to fill, but cast out, your hopes of
success in the real world diminishes in the real world. Historians say
sometimes the real world can shrink to only infrastructure, because
all the cliques are incommunicado. Empty streets can dash your hopes
to the ground.

When the Directors hauled me in after five attempts at the same, it
was only because they met up with me on TopTwenty. Their hand cards
which were gold discs with their names on them were an impressive
showpiece to say the least. The last time we met, I was the one
showing credentials. They said they were self-styled after the Nobel
committee and I was surprised how much ears they had for me. My eye
did its share of bobbing, while they related to me the tale of James
Bay who was becoming cyborg. You met James, they all chirped together.
Who are these people, I thought, standing there, in front of me, all
with basic Earth type variations, acting together, to ensure some
better good, some reasonable future. James, they were prying at me.
I stared calmly at them, but I knew my eye was going. The only one
I had been meeting whose name I did not know was, James. What do you
need from me? I stared them down, focusing on each for a fixed measure
of time. I saw it in their eyes, each one of them had accomplished
something or the other during their life. Could any of them be Cyborg
doctors, among the most famous in the Universe, or a Vacuum technician,
one who builds mathematical models for vacuum overloading, I remember
hearing about a technician who had exploded the Paris model near the
edge of the Universe and a twin likewise had been created, had
literally disappeared. There were no professors here were there. The
group took on a serious air and resounded all at once, We thought you
could be Dean. If James Bay was going cyborg, then he had to find a
new way of life. If going cyborg was a help to him and others would
benefit equally, then hurray, James Bay. Dean, f, Dean meant a lot to
me, someone with whom I could feel comfortable, Dean. I gave them a cold
nod, but I knew my eye was doing its own thing.


Hi my name is Dean. the cyborg audience looked and felt hostile. Yah,
try it. Most of them won't know what would hit them. I was loaded as
usual. I had the newest byrner in hand. Those were my most famous
pair of hands liked best in bed. My eyes fell on a cyborg female
lurking the long corridor, working up the crowd, as she rubbed by.
I had a triple vision set which was pretty standard on Colombo,
sometimes some were born with quad-vision, which was apparently
vacuum tuned. Although none were born in my lifetime, I heard the
vacuum tuned beings, through mental wizardry, would create symmetry
sets, which I presume were quark profiles in the vacuum, and use them
to resonate with other minds, startling them at times, creating
private cliques at other times. The whole thing is beyond me, but
on Colombo, it is a documented fact, for some it is akin a demi-god.
I only have a pair of extra hands tucked neatly under my shirt. Wait
a minute, my eyes drifted to a fella with a metal hat fixed to his
head who seemed mighty familiar. Dean? they questioned, show us your
papers? Cyborgs, f the papers. I raised my right hand, with a
universal middle digit to embrace them, paper this, I said, thinking
of tomorrow's headlines. Cyborgs now fingered. Half were hushed and
half laughed. My eyes were working furiously now, scanning the audience
noticing who were not laughing. Cyborgs are noted for a weird sense of
humor. I glanced at the plaque on the bubble podium I was in, The
Cyborg Institute, it marked. Along with a few weird symbols, was a
display panel, which had among other things, a layout of all primary
invitees, sitting in the audience. A few of the old distinguished
Cyborg doctors were laid out to the left. I stared at their names
bitterly, most of them had had brilliant human careers, and then
would suddenly part company and show a preference for being Cyborg.
That fella who looked familiar was listed as Matt Houston, but no
reason was given as to why he was distinguished. I chose the
representative from The Cyborg Circle, well known for their reasonable
views, but not a lot of knowledge about their own actions was
available, to lead off the questioning.

Why are you afraid of living? was her question, a long faced, Cyborg
woman of undisclosed intent. Living, that's not living, that is only
machinery, Machinery do not have the same rights as humans, Cyborgs,
or children. Some of those doctors would be classified as machinery
and set out to the pheriphery. The days of great Cyborgs were over. I
looked at Matt Houston and slowly shook my head. In my estimation
half of this audience would become lab instruments while the other
half faced similar circumstances, perhaps becoming intelligent lamp
posts, or automated counter assistants. What an end to the Cyborg era.
The Universe is finally waking up. After my answer, the hall emptied
in record orderly time, as if they had a practiced march to certain
tunes. I heard it echo in my head, Dean you are dead, Dean you are
dead, Dean...