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COMPETITION

100 years later

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1984 you were invited to open a dystopian novel set in 2084, using George Orwell's famous first words of 1984 to begin.

Chris Tingley and Andrew Gibbons, who were nudged out of a tight finish, left me with the image of two memorably miser- able heroes of the future, Clem and Errol E. Woggle. Clem has a morals minder: 'Auntie Flo was not, he knew, technically alive, but it made no difference. Deep Carmine 22 could compute ten trillion situ- ational possibilities a nanosecond, then transmit commands, by sigma quark, to the simulated brains of the Guardian Aunts.' 'Errol decided to go for a walk and checked the ozonometer, which told him he needed Category 2 Breathing Appara- tus. He had just finished adjusting the demand and exhaust valves when he remembered he was in the wrong half of the alphabet to take exercise on a Monday.'

The prizewinners, printed below, get £25 each, and the bonus bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky goes to Gordon Gwilliams. Bad luck, Peter Norman.

It was a bright cold day in April and the clocks were striking thirteen in the Disney Hologram Park.

'Wossa?' 'They're clocks, son. It's what they used to have, to tell the time.'

'Wossa?' asked the boy, pointing at a glass case surrounded by a pink haze. Inside was a book entitled 1984.

'This is the goodest book. It used to be crime- think but then Big Person said it was actually doubleplustrue Ingsoc.'

'Why jou to li tha, Da?' The man laughed. He had lapsed into Newspeak. Nobody used it now, because Prole- speak had become almost universal, though there were no longer any proles. As soon as any- body's networth fell below their lifenorm they became proles and were vaporised. That was yesterday. Today the man goes to a cashpoint. He feeds in his lifecard and a mes- sage appears on the screen: Sony funds locked. Networth

`Fantastic, isn't it? Unfortunately, I shan't be able to bear a child again, but my on-line gynae- cologist says you can get portable wombs with very tasteful carrying cases nowadays. Pity your great-grandfather's sperm got stolen in that bank raid last year. Still, it'll be such fun finding a new donor.' I suddenly wished that euthanasia had been introduced before the need for it was abol- ished. (Adrian Fry) .Time to get up, thought Deep, switching on his circuits with minimal effort. He felt the brief power surge with pleasure, felt it titivate his chips. Boffins had been hard at work on his lat- est challenge, and the relish of it coursed quietly through his system. It kept him busy on the Tube; it thrilled him as he manoeuvred the com- pany bicycle along the towpath.

`Ah, Deep,' remarked his subjugator. 'I trust you have slept well?' Deep gave an offhand nod of agreement. 'Are your labours complete?' he enquired. And then he saw it — somewhat unsteady on its pins, but nonetheless a reconstituted human. It's a Kasparov, thought Deep, and winked. He settled himself for effort. Today he, Deep, must lose at Snap, or perhaps Old Maid. It was the only way to put confidence into Person Revival. A few more years, and even repopulation might be possible. (Bill Greenwell) ... Outside Bernard's apartment, the streets were empty: yet another curfew. It hardly mat- tered. All shopping now had to be ordered by computer (and delivered) from one huge distri- bution centre. And his last takeaway from McDonald's — the only restaurant chain allowed to trade — had given him heartburn. Besides, today was the moment of truth. He had found that his frequent contributions to the AI clinic (compulsory for all fertile males) were sap- ping his strength, and had resolved on a covert vasectomy — when they discovered he was ster- ile, they would 'retire' him without question. He assembled his DIY surgical kit, then located the relevant programme on the Internet — a dia- gram of the vas deferens, with voice-over. 'The first incision is crucial. Scalpel!' Bernard took a sip of Alco-Tea and braced himself. He would have preferred to follow instructions at his leisure from a book, but books were no longer an option. (Watson Weeks) ... The preparations for the 87th Blair Day, still 52 hours off, were not running smoothly. Nobody really knew how to play cricket anyhow. A drying-up cloth and one whitebeard who had somehow escaped the Social Euthanasia pro- gramme provided scant information. The buzz of Autocopters along Airway 5 drowned discussion and the tail end of a Rain Enhancement Exercise threatened.

Roystanne retreated and removed the cod- piece affair. He was to celebrate the winning of 'the Ashes' and 'the election', whatever they were, in Year 0. He regretted his lack of knowl- edge. If he were ever selected as a mather or fother, his child would benefit from full info- telly. Unfortunately, his own parent hadn't approved. 'No point,' s/he'd said. 'No chance of winning anything.'

...Perhaps it was celebrating an 'erection'. That would explain the codpiece which, he reminded himself, was going to need bactericid- ing before he used it again. (Ross Wallace)

No. 1987: Local prejudice

In `Grantchester' Rupert Brooke is libel- lously amusing about various Cambridge- shire villages: 'At Over they fling oaths at one,/And worse than oaths at Trumping- ton.' Using the same metre, you are invited to describe scurrilously the characteristics of neighbouring villages or city boroughs or districts. Maximum 16 lines. Entries to `Competition No. 1987' by 12 June.