ARAB SPRING, WESTERN FALL
Eurabia If You Want To!
"But... but...!" spluttered curvaceous, blonde, adorably liberal ace reporter Lola Langsam, wondering in a treacherous corner of her mind how this infuriating bigot could possibly look so hunksome at half past arsed o'clock into the sadcase shift at the Turk's Head. "The Arab peoples are rising up at last, and seizing democracy, freedom, and equality for themselves! What's not to like?"
"Indeed... Ms... Langsam." He allowed a flash of martial amusement to cross his saturnine countenance. Damn, but these leather-jacketed beer-connoisseur polymaths old enough to be my father are hot! Concentrate, Lola, damn you! You're not a woman tonight, you're a professional! "And have you ever considered... who they're seizing it from? And why they might want to do that?"
"W-why," she stammered uncertainly, "from the dictators, surely...?"
"Come, come, you know better than that. They don't have those things - they couldn't, and still boss their rackets. Cut the PC, girl - think!"
The truth detonated in her brain like an incontinent suicide bomber. "From - from us?!?"
"Yes, Ms Langsam. There ain't no such thing as a free lunch. Once we've exported all our values to North Africa - where, by the way," he waved his hand jovially, "history says they don't work - we won't have any left for ourselves! That's when their fifth column here will go to work, and at that point - " He smiled his cocky (stop that!), infuriating, mercurial smile, " - it's game over for us, nice civilization you had there, see you Dhimmi! Still," he added, with an openly venereal flash of his eyes, whose precise effect on Lola was unprintable even in a modern and realistic techno-thriller, "I'm sure you'd look charming in harem pants!"
"Knickers to that!" she flared spiritedly, but quickly sobered. "But, Mr... Dick... if they can do that... however can we beat them?"
"That's the hard part," said Richard Large, rising, and tossing off the remains of his Mangold's Old Weaselwaxer with nonchalant ease. "A few places - like this - are still safe. The volatilized ethanol repels them. But we haven't got much time, and there's only one way to stop the flood. What we've got here is a plain old case of Intellectual Property Theft, and there's only ever been one answer to that!"
"You mean - " She faltered, but set her jaw and willed herself to accept the starkly inevitable. "Lawyers?!"
"Nope," he said. "Good old-fashioned DRM. And that's where you come in... Lola!"
"But... but... Dick, you know that only works pre-release, on digital media you already control!" She struggled to contain her tempestuous disappointment. "Even then, it's trivially breakable! As everybody knows, back in the Noughties, when Sony - "
"Teach your grandmother to suck eggs, Lol!" he cracked. "That's true in classical computing. What we need here is nonlocal effects - lock down one copy of an idea, lock all. And that means - "
"Quantum computing!" she shot back, with unerring womanly intuition. "But that means - !" she added, with the quick Celtic insight of her exotic Galician grandmother - !
His grin was mad, bad, and dangerous to know. "Got it in one, doll," he gloated, his Wylfa-mutated Holyhead dialect breaking through his mask of urbane manly cosmopolitanism and all those jobses. "Professor Layla Ali, your old - friend - from college." Lola felt herself blush a charming scarlet. And those Roger Moore eyebrows of his, don't get me started! "If anything can do the job, it's her QT69I Entanglatron - and if anybody in this rotten can of beans can find her, it's you. We've got seventy-two hours before critical moral field collapse in Paris. Are you... in with me?"
"Yes," she breathed, almost breathlessly. "Dick, Dick, Dick, I'd rather die than live in some horrid patriarchy! And Layla can't have changed so - she isn't like the others - we'll both be in with you, all the way, I know it!" He channelled Roger Moore again. She wondered if she could ever, ever get tired of that. "No!" she warned spunkily. "Don't even think about it!"
But her vivid memories of mysterious, perverse, hot-blooded Layla, and that quick Celtic second sight again, were thrilling wicked premonitions across her nerves, like the sort of dream it would be deeply inappropriate to even admit to having - let alone seeing pp236-249, thereafter passim.
Ignoring temptation, all business now, she click-clacked on her D4X5 hyperresilin-tipped Jimmy Choos to the back exit, ahead of the wolfish Welshman. Outside in the Official Dirty Nasty Smoking Losers' dustbin alley, they paused. The odour of discarded kebab, now redolent of a new and sinister spectrum of terrors, rose up to challenge her proudly flaring nostrils.
"We'll skewer 'em yet!" she quipped. "Let's takedown some Barbary IP Pirate!"
Nature's Bounty - (This poem is brought to you courtesy of one too many forage enthusiasts being Wrong on the Internet about the merits of nomming on random bits of black ni...
1 year ago