The Men of MOREOC

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Science Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
An unconventional group for men, with unconventional goals.

Submitted: May 12, 2015

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Submitted: May 12, 2015

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The walls and furniture glowed green with phosphorescence, blinking rapidly; so rapidly that there was an effect that appeared as if the walls were fuzzy.  The speaker, Dale Sotherby, stood behind the podium grasping the edges of the wood with his indigo hands.  It wasn't just his hands that were indigo, it was his whole body—from his tightly knit brow to the soles of his penny loafers.  His person, including his cloths, were composed of finely crosshatched threads of light.  Dale wasn't corporeal, and neither were the dozen, or so, individuals situated around the table positioned in front of him.  The individuals in this room, this segment of the construct, were incarnations of digitized humans; transhumanist representations of the flesh and blood that was sacrificed in the process of melding consciousness with machine.  For all intents and purposes, Dale was the same person he was before the conversion, just without all the messy fluids and demands of the flesh.  There were a few bugs that needed to be ironed out with the construct and the avatars that inhabited it.  This was the purpose of the meeting; the meeting of the Men's Occupational, Recreational, and Existential Optimization Club, or MOREOC.MOREOC was concerned mainly with the existential aspect of their construct, minds, and avatars that were conveniently located on 5.32 Exabytes of local storage at a server farm; that was itself situated in a rundown section of commercial real-estate in suburban Baltimore.

Dale looked towards the back of the room, "Alright, first thing's first.  Could someone code some coffee?"

"Already done," spouted Tad Wainscot. 

"Great.  Anything new?" Dale scanned the group with his eyes.

"I've got something rather interesting that I think most of us will appreciate," said Herb as he leaned back in his chair.

"Hit me," said Dale.

"See that table in the corner?  The one next to the shelf?  Watch this."  Herb leaned forward and produced a tablet from his lap, which he proceeded to type at furiously.  Once he was done the table began to shimmer and become distorted at the edges.  The shimmer and distortion reached a crescendo and there was a sudden pop.  The table had returned to its previous state with one exception: it's tightly packed ribbons of light now glowed a deep red.

”Fuck me . . . Red!"  Dale stood dazed in light of this new development. 

There were murmurs and exclamations throughout the group.  Tyson Redmond hugged Richard Scopely, and Richard kissed Tyson on the cheek.  Tad Wainscot held his hands clasped to his chest, gazing at the table, as his eyes began to tear up.  Scott Johnson was murmuring to himself as he rocked forward repeatedly on his chair and slammed his fists into his thighs.

Dale  and the rest of the men clapped furiously.  Once the clapping died down he addressed the group: "This is really something.  I don't know how long it's been since I've seen any color besides blue and green."

"I can also make yellow," Herb smirked.

"Yellow.  That's great.  Now we have all the primary colors . . . and green," Dale could hardly contain himself.  He shook his head and blinked his eyes briskly.  "I already consider this progression's meeting to be a success.  Moving on . . . okay, okay, okay . . . okay.  Seeing this fantastic painting on the wall I can only assume that Fred managed to code an excellent green facsimile of the Mona Lisa."

"That's right," said Fred.

"And judging by the budge in my pants I'd also like to send out a special thank you to Tom for coding the penises."

"Mine's a black guy's," Tom Selznik grinned.

"Very good.  Now I know they're not necessary, but I like to think they give our cause a little pizzazz.  That little something extra that says 'hey, this is a men's club'.  Now, I really think we should do something about the infrastructure.  On my way here I saw a couple of buildings, but other than that it's mostly a dreamscape of nothingness.  I think we should look into roads."

"First of all I don't see why you didn't just materialize here like the rest of us," said Al Rumptkin pensively. 

"Materialize.  How do you do that?"

"It's introductory stuff.  You just take your pad and select destination from the location drop-down menu."

"Good to know."

Al took a deep breath, "Anyway, so far we've been coding the environment to mirror Portland.  I'm assuming that everyone wants a basic grid street pattern with buildings that are comparable to that of flesher Portland, but there are a few specifics that need ironed out.  One being that I don't know if we should code water for the bay and another, seemingly insignificant item, being the bums."

"Bums?" Dale stared quizzically. 

"Transients.  Derelicts.  They're kind of part of the scenery."

"Alright, get us some A.I. software to replicate some bums.  The war vet kind though, not the Jesus freak kind.  This is great . . . just great so far.  Anything else . . . anyone.  Well I think this has been a very productive meeting: the painting, that red table, our dicks, and now the city is just coming together.  One last thing that I think all of us have noticed, and I don't mean to single you out, but I think I would be remiss if I didn't mention Alex's situation."

"Alex is here!  Right here!"

"That's right Alex, I can see you big guy.  As we all know Alex is only working with sixty-three percent of his consciousness when the uplink partially reformatted during his download.  Let's see if we can't piece together something for him by next meeting.  I'm thinking of something along the lines of an evolutionary learning algorithm ; something to augment what he's already got."

"I might be able to dig something up," Fred said.

 "Alright!  Great work so far guys, this evolution has been the best yet.  I guess I'll see you all back here after the end of this cycle which should be up in," Dale glanced at his watch, "about 30 picoseconds.  Meeting adjourned."  Dale slammed his day-glow green gavel on the podium,  pulled out his touch-pad from underneath, typed away for some time (cursing under his breath), and then disappeared.


© Copyright 2020 dracovelli. All rights reserved.

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