It's good to hear my most recent short story, "The Day God Came Back", has been so well-received. (If you haven't read that already, shame on you! Go do it!) With it, I've received some requests to share my other short stories, which were previously available online before I took them down. It sounds fair enough. The stories are too short for publication (not that I intended any of them to be published to begin with), my publisher suggested that free samples of my writing can help raise interest, and I'm certainly not gaining anything by keeping them to myself unread. At the same time, though, I feel I should give a...disclaimer of sorts to anyone wishing to read them.
These five stories are all fairly old; each of them predate my publishing deal with FutureWord. The oldest of the five, "The Long Winter", was written before I had even finished the first draft of "But Whether Men Do." The point to this is that when I wrote these stories, I was extremely new to writing. I still am new to writing, mind you, but even now I look back at these stories and realize that I was a total amateur at the time, and it shows. Many of these stories existed as little more than a way for me to vent off steam, permanent reminders of a bad mood I was in 2-3 years ago. In this respect I'm particularly ashamed of "From the Machine." Although I'm still not a religious person in any sense of the word, in retrospect I find the message of that story to be rather ignorant.
There's also the fact that, since I never intended for these stories to be published, I didn't apply the amount of care I did for "But Whether Men Do," or any future writing which I plan to be read by the masses. Each of these stories were churned out quickly, with little to no revisions. For each one, the first draft is the final draft. And you know what Hemingway said about first drafts.
If you've read this far, I know what you're thinking. "Why is this guy going on about how terrible these stories are? If he wants people to pay attention to him as a writer, this isn't the way to do it." But in fact, this is why I'm bringing all of this up. I'd like to think that I've come far as a writer since I've written these short stories, and I'll develop even more in the future. When you're reading them and find anything poorly-done, just keep in mind I was young and inexperienced at the time. If you like the stories, great. If you don't like them, please try not to let it impact your thoughts on me as a writer.
That said, here are the "lost" short stories of R. Anthony Mahan: "The Long Winter," "From the Machine," "Peace For All Mankind," "It's All Uphill From Here!", and "It's Inhuman!" Enjoy.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
"It's Inhuman!"
The time had come when the process of creating and raising a child could be performed completely free of human beings, thanks to the wonder of the Human Cultivation Facilities, though most people just called them “farms”. Donated sperm fertilized a donated egg sitting in an artificial womb, the incubator nurturing the fetus until it had matured to the point of birth. Childcare robots catered to every need of the children, physical, emotional, and educational. Although the farms were highly controversial at first, they proved hugely successful in their origin of Japan. It wasn’t too long until the United States had legalized farms as well, and by now there were fewer souls in the country who remembered natural birth than there were states.
It had only been a few years since young Albert Crohn reached the age to leave the farm, and for want of a better career he went back in, as assistant to his local farm’s administrator.
“Here’s your coffee, Mrs. Barsi!” Albert said as he entered the main office.
“Call me Jill,” the administrator offered as she took the coffee from Albert’s hands, not once averting her gaze from the enormous window that allowed her to oversee the farm’s nursery.
“J…Jill?” stammered Albert. “Could I ask you a question?”
“Of course,” she answered, still not turning her eyes towards Albert. “What is it?”
“Why do we have farms anyway?” he asked. Without warning, Jill turned her chair around to face Albert.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Well, it’s just…” Albert searched his mind to find the words he wanted. “It seems strange to raise kids like this. Never knowing who their parents are. Never even really seeing an adult until they become one themselves, you know?”
“Well, the Japanese invented the farms to combat their steadily declining birthrate,” she explained. “Too many couples were unwilling to have children, so why not just…have children without them?”
“But there was never a declining birthrate here,” countered Albert. “I don’t think, at least.”
“Well, the decision to import the farms to the United States allowed us to analyze the donated gametes and find the best potential genetic match-ups, insuring the production of the best children, you could say. More important, though, is the…”
“‘THE BEST CHILDREN?!’” interrupted Albert in shock. “Is that what this whole mess is? Some strange Nazi factory?”
“No, Albert, it isn’t like that,” assured Jill calmly. “The biggest reason is…”
“Shut up!” shrieked Albert. “I don’t want to hear it! I can’t believe I’ve bothered working for a place as horrible as this! Breeding children like machines without the care of their parents! It’s inhuman!”
Albert stepped out of the room. Jill chased after him, pleading for him to come back, but eventually realized it was a futile effort. She returned to her office and continued watching the nursery, and Albert left the farm, never to return again.
“And so she said it was to create the best possible children!” Albert said later that day as he regaled the tale to Myra. The two of them had been living together since the day they were deemed adults by the farm. They weren’t married, and not even entirely sure how to be, but for all intents and purposes the pair could’ve been seen as husband and wife.
“Sounds awful,” Myra said apathetically as she took two beers from the refrigerator. “So the whole farm thing’s like a crazy experiment?” She handed a bottle to Albert, which he seized, opened, and drank without hesitation.
“Yeah. It just…it just pisses me off, you know?” Albert said, already feeling the effects of the drink. “I wonder what it’d be like if I didn’t grow up in that damn farm. I bet…I bet my dad would’ve been the greatest, you know? I could’ve seen him walking down the street once, but I’ll never know it’s him. I…I can’t believe they took my life away for some wacked-out science shit, you know?” He took another swig of his beer.
“So what are you gonna do about it?” asked Myra as she put her arm around Albert’s shoulder. “Tell the news or something?”
“I have a better idea,” Albert said as his eyes widened, turning to face Myra. “Everyone loves the farms so much they’re not willing to make a kid naturally anymore, but it’s not against the law or anything. Let’s do it.”
“What?”
“Let’s have our own kid. Let’s show them that no baby farm can match the love of good old human parenting.”
“Well, Albert…” Myra replied hesitantly, brushing at her ragged red hair. “I don’t really know. I mean, it sounds like you’re out of a job, and I don’t feel like I’m ready for a kid.”
“Finding a new job’s easy,” assured Albert. “And besides, it’s perfect. We’ll be the heroes who proved a point. We can…we can set an example to follow. We’ll let the farms rust from disuse. I mean…we can’t let kids grow up like that anymore. It’s inhuman.”
Seven years had passed since Albert and Myra had given birth to young Marvin Crohn. Albert had gotten a job cleaning up at a hospital, and made a decent sum from it. Myra took up the duty of homeschooling the child (all the schools were part of the farms, and Albert flat-out refused to let his son into the place he reviled so.
“So Jupiter’s the really big planet…” Marvin said, reciting the lesson he learned.
“That’s right…” complimented Myra. For any other flaws in her life, she enjoyed teaching her son. Most of the information in these books were new even to her.
“And Saturn is the one with the big rings!”
“Yes! Good job!”
“Saturn…Saturn…” the child repeated to himself. “Mommy, why do the planets have all these funny names?”
“I don’t really know, sweetie,” said Myra. “Maybe we can find another book wi…” she stopped speaking as she heard the sound of a car rolling up the driveway. “Oh! Your father’s home!” she whispered. The previously talkative Marvin immediately grew silent.
“Open,” said Albert in a slurred tone. The door opened to his command, and Albert staggered in, a half-empty bottle of beer clutched in one hand.
“Hi honey!” welcomed Myra warmly.
“Yeah, yeah,” dismissed Albert. “What’s for dinner?”
“Oh, I was going to start dinner when I finished the boy’s science lesson.”
“‘I was going to start dinner when I finished the boy’s science lesson!’” repeated Albert mockingly. “What the hell have I told you? I’ve told you a hundred times, haven’t I? I want dinner when I’m home! I’m fucking late getting back and you still haven’t started!”
“And why are you late?” asked Myra, looking at the bottle in Albert’s hand. “Did anything happen at work?”
“Shut up!” screamed Albert, backhanding Myra. “You want to teach the brat so much? I’ll teach him,” he said as he looked through the pile of textbooks and pulling out one for math.
“He’s in the middle of his science lesson right now,” corrected Myra, trying to get back on her feet.
“Shut up!” repeated Albert as he turned through the textbook inattentively. “Here we are. Division.”
“He hasn’t started multiplication yet!” interrupted Myra again.
“SHUT UP!” Albert boomed. “Why don’t you show some fucking respect for the man of the house for once?” Myra looked at her husband with tears fighting to leave her eyes. She still remembered the young man proclaiming himself as the hero to destroy the farms. They showed up on the news a lot, at first. The parents of the first natural baby in years were a brief sensation, but public interest waned almost as quickly as it first exploded. No couples tried to follow their example. The farms went on. And the product of their failed plan stayed with them.
“All right. Division,” began Albert. “This is…this is finding out how many times a number goes into a bigger number. Got it? What’s twelve divided by four?”
“…I’m not sure how to do that,” complained Marvin softly.
“It’s finding out how many times a number goes into a bigger number,” repeated Albert. “Jesus, what’s the point of all these school lessons if you’re going to be so dumb? Shows what you get learning from your mother, though,” he chuckled as he looked back at his wife, who still hadn’t managed to summon the emotional strength to stand up again.
“Twelve divided by four,” Albert asked again. Marvin sat at his desk, saying nothing.
“TWELVE DIVIDED BY FOUR!” boomed Albert.
“A…all right…” whispered Marvin. “I’ll try.”
“Don’t try! Do it!”
Marvin sat thoughtfully, piecing together his own way to solve the equation as best he could.
“…Eight?” he answered.
“Wrong!” yelled Albert as he slapped Marvin in the face. “What’s the matter with you? You want to be a failure?” he asked loudly as he gave his son a sharp poke in the chest.
“That’s your problem! You think you can fuck up without consequences! What do you want me to say, kid, huh? ‘Good job you got it wrong?’ Hell no!” He punched Marvin in the stomach. Deciding it was pointless to try to prevent it, he began to cry.
“Don’t cry!” he hissed, punching the child in the face. “Be a man! You think I’m going to feel sorry for you?” He picked Marvin up, placed him on his knee, and repeatedly spanked him. Myra reached for her pocket.
“I’m doing this because I love you, you see? I don’t want you to be a failure! You start doing badly in school, then soon enough you’re in prison and getting raped up the butt by old men! If a kid does something wrong, his father should punish him, right?” Marvin couldn’t bring himself to speak.
“…Right?” Albert repeated. Marvin worked up the strength.
“I didn’t…”
“ANSWER THE QUESTION!” Albert boomed.
“…Right.” Marvin said, tears streaming from his eyes.
“Right,” Albert said, throwing Marvin into a closet and locking it. He panted heavily before hearing the sound of distant sirens.
“If there’s anything we can do for you, please let us know,” said one of the policemen, briefly glancing as his partner placed Albert into the back of their car.
“Thank you, officer,” said Myra with exasperation. “Can…can I still visit the kid in the farm?”
“Of course,” the officer assured her. As Myra returned to her house the elder officer pulled out a notepad and pencil he always carried in his pocket and began to prepare the early draft of his report.
“Marvin...Crohn...” he mumbled to himself as he wrote. "Son of...Albert..."
“The father of the first natural babies since the farms came,” said the younger officer once their criminal was secure. “Never imagined I’d end up catching someone like that.”
“I’m not too surprised,” said the first policeman, briefly stopping from writing to wipe some sweat off his wrinkled forehead. “How old are you again?”
“Twenty-five, sir,” his partner answered. “Why?”
“I can’t believe I haven’t retired yet,” mumbled the older officer half to himself. “You may not believe it, kid, but I was a natural birth.”
“Really?” responded the younger officer with astonishment.
“Yep. And it’s a miracle I turned out the way I did. I have a…dim remembrance of those days. You know how they say the farms are to make the best matches, or whatever?”
“I do.”
“I’m sure that’s a part of it, but it’s hardly the main reason why they brought it to the States.” The elder officer said, still fixated on his notepad.. “The problem wasn’t with the children, but with the parents themselves. There were good parents, to be sure, but there were too many who didn’t really see their kids as human beings. More possessions than anything. And if you want to break your toys, you can. There were thousands, hell, millions of kids attacked regularly by the only people on Earth who, no matter what, are supposed to love them. Most kids like that never grew up psychologically normal. Even beat kids themselves later on, maybe. And those were the kids lucky enough to survive.”
“That sounds awful,” said his partner softly.
“No kidding. That’s why we had to get rid of the old way of raising children,” the officer said as he put away his notepad, turning to face his partner. “It’s inhuman.”
It had only been a few years since young Albert Crohn reached the age to leave the farm, and for want of a better career he went back in, as assistant to his local farm’s administrator.
“Here’s your coffee, Mrs. Barsi!” Albert said as he entered the main office.
“Call me Jill,” the administrator offered as she took the coffee from Albert’s hands, not once averting her gaze from the enormous window that allowed her to oversee the farm’s nursery.
“J…Jill?” stammered Albert. “Could I ask you a question?”
“Of course,” she answered, still not turning her eyes towards Albert. “What is it?”
“Why do we have farms anyway?” he asked. Without warning, Jill turned her chair around to face Albert.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Well, it’s just…” Albert searched his mind to find the words he wanted. “It seems strange to raise kids like this. Never knowing who their parents are. Never even really seeing an adult until they become one themselves, you know?”
“Well, the Japanese invented the farms to combat their steadily declining birthrate,” she explained. “Too many couples were unwilling to have children, so why not just…have children without them?”
“But there was never a declining birthrate here,” countered Albert. “I don’t think, at least.”
“Well, the decision to import the farms to the United States allowed us to analyze the donated gametes and find the best potential genetic match-ups, insuring the production of the best children, you could say. More important, though, is the…”
“‘THE BEST CHILDREN?!’” interrupted Albert in shock. “Is that what this whole mess is? Some strange Nazi factory?”
“No, Albert, it isn’t like that,” assured Jill calmly. “The biggest reason is…”
“Shut up!” shrieked Albert. “I don’t want to hear it! I can’t believe I’ve bothered working for a place as horrible as this! Breeding children like machines without the care of their parents! It’s inhuman!”
Albert stepped out of the room. Jill chased after him, pleading for him to come back, but eventually realized it was a futile effort. She returned to her office and continued watching the nursery, and Albert left the farm, never to return again.
“And so she said it was to create the best possible children!” Albert said later that day as he regaled the tale to Myra. The two of them had been living together since the day they were deemed adults by the farm. They weren’t married, and not even entirely sure how to be, but for all intents and purposes the pair could’ve been seen as husband and wife.
“Sounds awful,” Myra said apathetically as she took two beers from the refrigerator. “So the whole farm thing’s like a crazy experiment?” She handed a bottle to Albert, which he seized, opened, and drank without hesitation.
“Yeah. It just…it just pisses me off, you know?” Albert said, already feeling the effects of the drink. “I wonder what it’d be like if I didn’t grow up in that damn farm. I bet…I bet my dad would’ve been the greatest, you know? I could’ve seen him walking down the street once, but I’ll never know it’s him. I…I can’t believe they took my life away for some wacked-out science shit, you know?” He took another swig of his beer.
“So what are you gonna do about it?” asked Myra as she put her arm around Albert’s shoulder. “Tell the news or something?”
“I have a better idea,” Albert said as his eyes widened, turning to face Myra. “Everyone loves the farms so much they’re not willing to make a kid naturally anymore, but it’s not against the law or anything. Let’s do it.”
“What?”
“Let’s have our own kid. Let’s show them that no baby farm can match the love of good old human parenting.”
“Well, Albert…” Myra replied hesitantly, brushing at her ragged red hair. “I don’t really know. I mean, it sounds like you’re out of a job, and I don’t feel like I’m ready for a kid.”
“Finding a new job’s easy,” assured Albert. “And besides, it’s perfect. We’ll be the heroes who proved a point. We can…we can set an example to follow. We’ll let the farms rust from disuse. I mean…we can’t let kids grow up like that anymore. It’s inhuman.”
Seven years had passed since Albert and Myra had given birth to young Marvin Crohn. Albert had gotten a job cleaning up at a hospital, and made a decent sum from it. Myra took up the duty of homeschooling the child (all the schools were part of the farms, and Albert flat-out refused to let his son into the place he reviled so.
“So Jupiter’s the really big planet…” Marvin said, reciting the lesson he learned.
“That’s right…” complimented Myra. For any other flaws in her life, she enjoyed teaching her son. Most of the information in these books were new even to her.
“And Saturn is the one with the big rings!”
“Yes! Good job!”
“Saturn…Saturn…” the child repeated to himself. “Mommy, why do the planets have all these funny names?”
“I don’t really know, sweetie,” said Myra. “Maybe we can find another book wi…” she stopped speaking as she heard the sound of a car rolling up the driveway. “Oh! Your father’s home!” she whispered. The previously talkative Marvin immediately grew silent.
“Open,” said Albert in a slurred tone. The door opened to his command, and Albert staggered in, a half-empty bottle of beer clutched in one hand.
“Hi honey!” welcomed Myra warmly.
“Yeah, yeah,” dismissed Albert. “What’s for dinner?”
“Oh, I was going to start dinner when I finished the boy’s science lesson.”
“‘I was going to start dinner when I finished the boy’s science lesson!’” repeated Albert mockingly. “What the hell have I told you? I’ve told you a hundred times, haven’t I? I want dinner when I’m home! I’m fucking late getting back and you still haven’t started!”
“And why are you late?” asked Myra, looking at the bottle in Albert’s hand. “Did anything happen at work?”
“Shut up!” screamed Albert, backhanding Myra. “You want to teach the brat so much? I’ll teach him,” he said as he looked through the pile of textbooks and pulling out one for math.
“He’s in the middle of his science lesson right now,” corrected Myra, trying to get back on her feet.
“Shut up!” repeated Albert as he turned through the textbook inattentively. “Here we are. Division.”
“He hasn’t started multiplication yet!” interrupted Myra again.
“SHUT UP!” Albert boomed. “Why don’t you show some fucking respect for the man of the house for once?” Myra looked at her husband with tears fighting to leave her eyes. She still remembered the young man proclaiming himself as the hero to destroy the farms. They showed up on the news a lot, at first. The parents of the first natural baby in years were a brief sensation, but public interest waned almost as quickly as it first exploded. No couples tried to follow their example. The farms went on. And the product of their failed plan stayed with them.
“All right. Division,” began Albert. “This is…this is finding out how many times a number goes into a bigger number. Got it? What’s twelve divided by four?”
“…I’m not sure how to do that,” complained Marvin softly.
“It’s finding out how many times a number goes into a bigger number,” repeated Albert. “Jesus, what’s the point of all these school lessons if you’re going to be so dumb? Shows what you get learning from your mother, though,” he chuckled as he looked back at his wife, who still hadn’t managed to summon the emotional strength to stand up again.
“Twelve divided by four,” Albert asked again. Marvin sat at his desk, saying nothing.
“TWELVE DIVIDED BY FOUR!” boomed Albert.
“A…all right…” whispered Marvin. “I’ll try.”
“Don’t try! Do it!”
Marvin sat thoughtfully, piecing together his own way to solve the equation as best he could.
“…Eight?” he answered.
“Wrong!” yelled Albert as he slapped Marvin in the face. “What’s the matter with you? You want to be a failure?” he asked loudly as he gave his son a sharp poke in the chest.
“That’s your problem! You think you can fuck up without consequences! What do you want me to say, kid, huh? ‘Good job you got it wrong?’ Hell no!” He punched Marvin in the stomach. Deciding it was pointless to try to prevent it, he began to cry.
“Don’t cry!” he hissed, punching the child in the face. “Be a man! You think I’m going to feel sorry for you?” He picked Marvin up, placed him on his knee, and repeatedly spanked him. Myra reached for her pocket.
“I’m doing this because I love you, you see? I don’t want you to be a failure! You start doing badly in school, then soon enough you’re in prison and getting raped up the butt by old men! If a kid does something wrong, his father should punish him, right?” Marvin couldn’t bring himself to speak.
“…Right?” Albert repeated. Marvin worked up the strength.
“I didn’t…”
“ANSWER THE QUESTION!” Albert boomed.
“…Right.” Marvin said, tears streaming from his eyes.
“Right,” Albert said, throwing Marvin into a closet and locking it. He panted heavily before hearing the sound of distant sirens.
“If there’s anything we can do for you, please let us know,” said one of the policemen, briefly glancing as his partner placed Albert into the back of their car.
“Thank you, officer,” said Myra with exasperation. “Can…can I still visit the kid in the farm?”
“Of course,” the officer assured her. As Myra returned to her house the elder officer pulled out a notepad and pencil he always carried in his pocket and began to prepare the early draft of his report.
“Marvin...Crohn...” he mumbled to himself as he wrote. "Son of...Albert..."
“The father of the first natural babies since the farms came,” said the younger officer once their criminal was secure. “Never imagined I’d end up catching someone like that.”
“I’m not too surprised,” said the first policeman, briefly stopping from writing to wipe some sweat off his wrinkled forehead. “How old are you again?”
“Twenty-five, sir,” his partner answered. “Why?”
“I can’t believe I haven’t retired yet,” mumbled the older officer half to himself. “You may not believe it, kid, but I was a natural birth.”
“Really?” responded the younger officer with astonishment.
“Yep. And it’s a miracle I turned out the way I did. I have a…dim remembrance of those days. You know how they say the farms are to make the best matches, or whatever?”
“I do.”
“I’m sure that’s a part of it, but it’s hardly the main reason why they brought it to the States.” The elder officer said, still fixated on his notepad.. “The problem wasn’t with the children, but with the parents themselves. There were good parents, to be sure, but there were too many who didn’t really see their kids as human beings. More possessions than anything. And if you want to break your toys, you can. There were thousands, hell, millions of kids attacked regularly by the only people on Earth who, no matter what, are supposed to love them. Most kids like that never grew up psychologically normal. Even beat kids themselves later on, maybe. And those were the kids lucky enough to survive.”
“That sounds awful,” said his partner softly.
“No kidding. That’s why we had to get rid of the old way of raising children,” the officer said as he put away his notepad, turning to face his partner. “It’s inhuman.”
"It's All Uphill From Here!"
The time had come for humanity to grow up. Minor machines more reliable than any human worker would ever wish to be had been created to continue performing the necessary functions to keep the main machine working smoothly. The main machine’s task was absorption. Upload the minds of every man, woman, and child into their personal simulations. Grant them paradise while the machine gathers knowledge, learning and collecting until it was as close to omniscience as anything could hope to be. Once the information on the planet was sucked dry, it would start work on a greater machine, which would itself work on an even greater one, and so on until the stars themselves were man’s domain.
Raymond Barrie sat in his armchair, reading the last newspaper, as its headline boasted. The written word would survive for those who wish it to, but as more and more agreed to be absorbed into the machine’s simulation, it would soon be unnecessary to slaughter another tree ever again. His doorbell rang. Raymond rushed to the door to see his trusted co-worker and long-time friend, James Matthews.
“Hey, Ray,” greeted James, smoothing his moustache.
“Hello, James. Did you want something?” Raymond asked, confused.
“I just wanted to say good-bye to you before I leave,” James said, setting his hat on a nearby table.
“I had no idea you were leaving,” Raymond replied, retreating to his armchair. “Where are you going?”
“I’m being absorbed.”
“Oh, hell, James! Not you too!” Raymond hissed.
“There’s no need to get hostile, Ray. It’s just a part of life.”
“Don’t be a dumbass, Jim! It’s not a part of life. We must’ve gone, what, 1.7 million years without having to be absorbed.”
“It’s a part of our life, Ray. It’s progress. Evolution. We had to leave the seas, we had to leave the trees, and now we have to leave the Earth.”
“Can you even hear yourself? You expect to leave behind everything you’ve learned to live with? Everything familiar to you?” Raymond shouted frantically.
“I know it’s a hard thing to imagine, but it’s necessary. We were both editors for that journal, right? Remember all those big scientific essays we looked over? If we want to be successful as a species, it’ll be necessary to depart from what we’ve been comfortable with. We can’t just stagnate with outdated technology, forever young.”
“And what if you’re wrong? What if it’s not as big and important as you think it is? Maybe it’s useful, maybe it’s even necessary, but would it make you happy?”
“Oh, always wanting to be happy with you! You’re like a little kid, Ray!” barked James. “You want happiness? The machine is providing the absorbed with everything you can ever want! How is that not happiness? And before you say anything else, there isn’t a country on Earth whose government hasn’t inspected the machine piece by piece to make sure it’s just what was promised!” James inhaled sharply and picked his hat up from the table.
“I’m sorry, Ray. I wanted to say good-bye to a great friend. Not get into a fight.”
“It’s fine,” sighed Raymond. “Maybe I deserved it.”
“Don’t go feeling sorry for yourself,” James replied tonelessly. “I’m going in to be absorbed tomorrow. It’d be nice if I could see you there too.”
“I’m sure it would,” scoffed Raymond.
“Well, nobody’s forcing you to go in, and I don’t have a right to either. But, you know, Ray…the journal’s gone kaput, after all, and it’s going to become harder and harder to find a job. I just don’t want you to suffer.”
“Thank you, Jim. Good-bye.”
“Just…think about it, you know? Bye, Ray,” whispered James as he shut the door. Raymond rose from his armchair and walked up to his bedroom. He looked around and thought about all the years he’s spent sleeping here. He knew the hue of the walls, the clothes in his drawers, the pattern on the sheets, and every other detail as well as he did his own name. He got under the covers and closed his eyes, pondering to himself if inside the machine he could find the same satisfaction he did in here at the end of a long day.
As a new day came Raymond stepped into his local Absorption Department. He thought to himself why they had to use a term as threatening as “Absorption”. He entered the building and found what appeared to be a perfectly normal waiting room, except that it was completely devoid of life save he.
“Hello!” chirped a disembodied female voice kindly. “My name is Wendy. What is yours?”
“Raymond. Raymond Barrie.”
“Do you mind if I call you Ray?” the voice asked.
“To be honest, I’d rather you not,” he sighed.
“Very well. Are you here to be absorbed?”
“I’m…considering it. I want to look into it more first. Can I ask you something? It might be kind of…personal.”
“You may.”
“Are you a real person who’s been absorbed, or an artificial intelligence?"
“The difference is superficial, Raymond. It has been since ’29 when the first machine with a mind on the same level as a person’s was created. It did not matter when artificial intelligence became human, and matters even less now as human intelligence becomes artificial.”
“Uh-huh. Now, this absorption thing…will I still be me?”
“You will be more yourself once absorbed than you are right now. Your knowledge, your personality…every aspect of your mind will remain intact. You’ll simply have abandoned your biological form.”
“And what happens to it? My body, I mean.”
“It is destroyed. I’m sure such a thing sounds unappealing to you, but following the upload your body will be devoid of life and simply consuming space. No harm will come to you during the process, we assure you.”
“And what will there be once I’m in there?”
“Whatever you wish to be, Raymond. As the machine continues its quest, the absorbed will be kept satisfied with a simulation of whatever they desire.”
“Sounds a bit fishy.”
“I am sure the concept sounds sinister to you, but we promise it is completely benign. The machine is, in a sense, incapable of ill will.”
“I have one more question.”
“Yes, Raymond?”
Raymond looked down at his hands for a few seconds before he spoke again.
“Will I cry?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Crying. Tears. Will I be able to?”
“Your emotional responses will remain as they are now, and you could cry if you truly wished to. It is unlikely you will, though. As the machine races towards utopia, the word ‘sadness’ and all of its variants will continue to exist only when necessary for description of the past.”
“…I’m scared.”
“I assure you, the intention of the machine is completely ben…”
“No, I believe you. But I’m still scared. I don’t know if you’d understand, but…it’s just…leaving everything behind. I’m not sure I can do it. No more job. No more family. No more house…”
“No more war. No more crime. No more hatred,” added the machine. “I know it must sound scary initially, but it is essential for humanity’s success.” Raymond looked away from his hands, his face devoid of expression.
“All right.”
Raymond went to Heaven that day. The process was quick and painless. When Raymond next opened his eyes he was in a pleasant room not too different from his living room.
“I didn’t think you’d do it, Ray!” laughed James, slapping Raymond on the back.
“Jim?”
“None other. I bet you want to spend some time getting used to things, so I’ll see you later. After all, we’ve got eternity. Close to it, at least,” mumbled James, exiting the room. Raymond stared at the window, keeping his eyes on James until he was out of sight.
“Are you enjoying it?” asked a familiar voice. Raymond turned around to see a young woman with long red hair.
“The voice.”
“Wendy,” she corrected, smiling.
“So what do I do now?”
“Whatever you want. Enjoy yourself. You may have to wait a bit, but whatever you desire will come to you. I know the process seems alien, but it’s part of humanity growing up, and you will adjust. I promise you, it’s all uphill from here!”
“Yeah. Yeah. It’s all uphill…” Raymond mumbled. “Could you leave, please?” he asked. Wendy gladly obliged. Raymond went upstairs to see a bedroom exactly like his old one. He got under the covers and nestled himself into a comfortable position. The entire world was his now, or at least he’d been told, but he thought it best to give it time. He thought about what he’d given away without a thought and what he’d received. He wasn’t sure why, but before he drifted to sleep a single tear rolled down his cheek.
Raymond Barrie sat in his armchair, reading the last newspaper, as its headline boasted. The written word would survive for those who wish it to, but as more and more agreed to be absorbed into the machine’s simulation, it would soon be unnecessary to slaughter another tree ever again. His doorbell rang. Raymond rushed to the door to see his trusted co-worker and long-time friend, James Matthews.
“Hey, Ray,” greeted James, smoothing his moustache.
“Hello, James. Did you want something?” Raymond asked, confused.
“I just wanted to say good-bye to you before I leave,” James said, setting his hat on a nearby table.
“I had no idea you were leaving,” Raymond replied, retreating to his armchair. “Where are you going?”
“I’m being absorbed.”
“Oh, hell, James! Not you too!” Raymond hissed.
“There’s no need to get hostile, Ray. It’s just a part of life.”
“Don’t be a dumbass, Jim! It’s not a part of life. We must’ve gone, what, 1.7 million years without having to be absorbed.”
“It’s a part of our life, Ray. It’s progress. Evolution. We had to leave the seas, we had to leave the trees, and now we have to leave the Earth.”
“Can you even hear yourself? You expect to leave behind everything you’ve learned to live with? Everything familiar to you?” Raymond shouted frantically.
“I know it’s a hard thing to imagine, but it’s necessary. We were both editors for that journal, right? Remember all those big scientific essays we looked over? If we want to be successful as a species, it’ll be necessary to depart from what we’ve been comfortable with. We can’t just stagnate with outdated technology, forever young.”
“And what if you’re wrong? What if it’s not as big and important as you think it is? Maybe it’s useful, maybe it’s even necessary, but would it make you happy?”
“Oh, always wanting to be happy with you! You’re like a little kid, Ray!” barked James. “You want happiness? The machine is providing the absorbed with everything you can ever want! How is that not happiness? And before you say anything else, there isn’t a country on Earth whose government hasn’t inspected the machine piece by piece to make sure it’s just what was promised!” James inhaled sharply and picked his hat up from the table.
“I’m sorry, Ray. I wanted to say good-bye to a great friend. Not get into a fight.”
“It’s fine,” sighed Raymond. “Maybe I deserved it.”
“Don’t go feeling sorry for yourself,” James replied tonelessly. “I’m going in to be absorbed tomorrow. It’d be nice if I could see you there too.”
“I’m sure it would,” scoffed Raymond.
“Well, nobody’s forcing you to go in, and I don’t have a right to either. But, you know, Ray…the journal’s gone kaput, after all, and it’s going to become harder and harder to find a job. I just don’t want you to suffer.”
“Thank you, Jim. Good-bye.”
“Just…think about it, you know? Bye, Ray,” whispered James as he shut the door. Raymond rose from his armchair and walked up to his bedroom. He looked around and thought about all the years he’s spent sleeping here. He knew the hue of the walls, the clothes in his drawers, the pattern on the sheets, and every other detail as well as he did his own name. He got under the covers and closed his eyes, pondering to himself if inside the machine he could find the same satisfaction he did in here at the end of a long day.
As a new day came Raymond stepped into his local Absorption Department. He thought to himself why they had to use a term as threatening as “Absorption”. He entered the building and found what appeared to be a perfectly normal waiting room, except that it was completely devoid of life save he.
“Hello!” chirped a disembodied female voice kindly. “My name is Wendy. What is yours?”
“Raymond. Raymond Barrie.”
“Do you mind if I call you Ray?” the voice asked.
“To be honest, I’d rather you not,” he sighed.
“Very well. Are you here to be absorbed?”
“I’m…considering it. I want to look into it more first. Can I ask you something? It might be kind of…personal.”
“You may.”
“Are you a real person who’s been absorbed, or an artificial intelligence?"
“The difference is superficial, Raymond. It has been since ’29 when the first machine with a mind on the same level as a person’s was created. It did not matter when artificial intelligence became human, and matters even less now as human intelligence becomes artificial.”
“Uh-huh. Now, this absorption thing…will I still be me?”
“You will be more yourself once absorbed than you are right now. Your knowledge, your personality…every aspect of your mind will remain intact. You’ll simply have abandoned your biological form.”
“And what happens to it? My body, I mean.”
“It is destroyed. I’m sure such a thing sounds unappealing to you, but following the upload your body will be devoid of life and simply consuming space. No harm will come to you during the process, we assure you.”
“And what will there be once I’m in there?”
“Whatever you wish to be, Raymond. As the machine continues its quest, the absorbed will be kept satisfied with a simulation of whatever they desire.”
“Sounds a bit fishy.”
“I am sure the concept sounds sinister to you, but we promise it is completely benign. The machine is, in a sense, incapable of ill will.”
“I have one more question.”
“Yes, Raymond?”
Raymond looked down at his hands for a few seconds before he spoke again.
“Will I cry?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Crying. Tears. Will I be able to?”
“Your emotional responses will remain as they are now, and you could cry if you truly wished to. It is unlikely you will, though. As the machine races towards utopia, the word ‘sadness’ and all of its variants will continue to exist only when necessary for description of the past.”
“…I’m scared.”
“I assure you, the intention of the machine is completely ben…”
“No, I believe you. But I’m still scared. I don’t know if you’d understand, but…it’s just…leaving everything behind. I’m not sure I can do it. No more job. No more family. No more house…”
“No more war. No more crime. No more hatred,” added the machine. “I know it must sound scary initially, but it is essential for humanity’s success.” Raymond looked away from his hands, his face devoid of expression.
“All right.”
Raymond went to Heaven that day. The process was quick and painless. When Raymond next opened his eyes he was in a pleasant room not too different from his living room.
“I didn’t think you’d do it, Ray!” laughed James, slapping Raymond on the back.
“Jim?”
“None other. I bet you want to spend some time getting used to things, so I’ll see you later. After all, we’ve got eternity. Close to it, at least,” mumbled James, exiting the room. Raymond stared at the window, keeping his eyes on James until he was out of sight.
“Are you enjoying it?” asked a familiar voice. Raymond turned around to see a young woman with long red hair.
“The voice.”
“Wendy,” she corrected, smiling.
“So what do I do now?”
“Whatever you want. Enjoy yourself. You may have to wait a bit, but whatever you desire will come to you. I know the process seems alien, but it’s part of humanity growing up, and you will adjust. I promise you, it’s all uphill from here!”
“Yeah. Yeah. It’s all uphill…” Raymond mumbled. “Could you leave, please?” he asked. Wendy gladly obliged. Raymond went upstairs to see a bedroom exactly like his old one. He got under the covers and nestled himself into a comfortable position. The entire world was his now, or at least he’d been told, but he thought it best to give it time. He thought about what he’d given away without a thought and what he’d received. He wasn’t sure why, but before he drifted to sleep a single tear rolled down his cheek.
"Peace For All Mankind"
General Jon-Tau stared out the window, looking at the blue planet overhead. Somewhere down there in Aemrik was an officer ready at any moment to deliver orders to the orbiting warstation Jon-Tau stood in at this moment. And somewhere in the nation of Meslex, an opposing general was willing to deliver orders to Meslex’s orbiting warstation. Jon-Tau was taught that the use of warstations was decided upon long ago to make war more humane, to keep it off the planet. By the present day, the staff necessary to operate the warstation’s weapons, repair malfunctions, prepare meals, and a myriad of other operations now rivals that of the planet they fought over. Regardless, it was Jon-Tau’s job, and he was only too willing to perform the services Aemrik required of him. As he sat in his desk, awaiting orders, Jon-Tau heard a knock on the door.
“Come in!” he shouted. The door slid open, and Pol-Xi, the resident scientist of Aemrik’s warstation, stepped in, hands behind his back.
“Ah! Pol-Xi!” said Jon-Tau warmly. “How are things? Have you managed to get the hadron cannon back to normal yet?”
“Not yet, sir,” answered Pol-Xi. “But I found something that I think you would find interesting.” Pol-Xi smiled. Being the weapons technician aboard Aemrik’s warstation was the only respectable career he found himself suited for, but the perfect opportunity to become the scientist he always fantasized about had finally fallen upon him.
“While repairing the hadron cannon, my men tried examining every little aspect to find the flaw. We decided it may come from the parts of it that are, you know, under the floor. We begin taking things apart, looking deeper and deeper, and we find…”
“Yes?” asked Jon-Tau, intrigued. “What did you find?”
“This!” said Pol-Xi has he pulled out one of his hands. He opened it, revealing a pile of fine dust, and blew it into Jon-Tau’s face.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” screamed Jon-Tau.
“Sorry about that,” Pol-Xi apologized, still with one hand behind his back. “It’s soil. Not like the kind back home, but it’s still natural soil.”
“You can’t be serious. There’s nothing natural here.”
“The dust in your face says otherwise. I begin to wonder if maybe…”
“This entire warstation is natural? Well then why don’t you stop trying to repair the cannon and just grow a new one?”
“Well, I suppose it’s possible that…maybe this whole place was a natural satellite of Earth that was converted into a warstation. It’s been almost 3,000 years since the earliest known mention of the station. Details are sketchy about its origin.”
“Do not be ridiculous. I suppose you’ll say Meslex’s warstation is natural too? And Inglon’s? And Zhaen’s?”
“They could be.”
“No. None of the warstations are natural. Especially not ours. Ours is the largest and the most powerful. A total construction of Aemrik’s army. The pinnacle of human achievement.”
“If you insist,” said Pol-Xi, rolling his eyes. “Can I show you one other item of interest?”
“Are you going to throw it in my face?”
“No,” answered Pol-Xi as he dropped a sheet of metal on Jon-Tau’s desk. A picture of a familiar planet adorned the top of it, while the rest was covered with a series of bizarre symbols.
“What is it?”
“I took a class on archaic linguistics in college, sir. I don’t remember much, but from the look of it I think that this writing is an ancient form of Inglin.”
“Well, we all speak Inglin, don’t we? What does it say?”
“I’m sorry, sir. Although this is technically our language, millennia of memetic mutation has warped it so that Inglin then barely resembles Inglin now. You may as well ask me to read a completely foreign language.”
“Oh,” grunted Jon-Tau in disappointment.
“I can tell you what one part of it says, though,” Pol-Xi offered as he pointed at one segment of the sheet. “‘1969’. Those are numbers. A year, I believe.”
“1969? So this thing came from the future?”
“Whenever this sheet was made, it came from a time when they used a calendar different from our own. By my estimate, it has to be at least 5,000 years old.”
“Where are you going with all this?” asked Jon-Tau impatiently.
“I have a theory, sir. Suppose our warstation really is natural in origin. Someone would have to be there first for there to even be a warstation in the first place. My guess is that this is…some type of plaque to honor the first settlers.”
“From five thousand years ago.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Pol-Xi. Jon-Tau sighed and pinched the space between his eyebrows before looking up.
“Pol-Xi, we pay you to make sure the weapons on this station are in proper shape, not to tell fairy tales. Unless your little ‘scientific studies’ improve our military potential, then you’ve just wasted your time, my time, and the time of the good people of Aemrik. Out!” he shooed. Pol-Xi hastily ran from the room. Jon-Tau looked back at the window and saw another planet. This one was red. He forgot the name, but remembered it was named after a god of war. He began to wonder if Aemrik could convert the red planet to a warstation, like Pol-Xi claimed was already done. Meslex would be helpless then. He quickly dismissed the notion and picked the weathered plaque up off his desk. He looked at its symbols a final time before shoving it into its drawer, a curiosity to never be retrieved again. Its text, forever unread, was as follows:
“Come in!” he shouted. The door slid open, and Pol-Xi, the resident scientist of Aemrik’s warstation, stepped in, hands behind his back.
“Ah! Pol-Xi!” said Jon-Tau warmly. “How are things? Have you managed to get the hadron cannon back to normal yet?”
“Not yet, sir,” answered Pol-Xi. “But I found something that I think you would find interesting.” Pol-Xi smiled. Being the weapons technician aboard Aemrik’s warstation was the only respectable career he found himself suited for, but the perfect opportunity to become the scientist he always fantasized about had finally fallen upon him.
“While repairing the hadron cannon, my men tried examining every little aspect to find the flaw. We decided it may come from the parts of it that are, you know, under the floor. We begin taking things apart, looking deeper and deeper, and we find…”
“Yes?” asked Jon-Tau, intrigued. “What did you find?”
“This!” said Pol-Xi has he pulled out one of his hands. He opened it, revealing a pile of fine dust, and blew it into Jon-Tau’s face.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” screamed Jon-Tau.
“Sorry about that,” Pol-Xi apologized, still with one hand behind his back. “It’s soil. Not like the kind back home, but it’s still natural soil.”
“You can’t be serious. There’s nothing natural here.”
“The dust in your face says otherwise. I begin to wonder if maybe…”
“This entire warstation is natural? Well then why don’t you stop trying to repair the cannon and just grow a new one?”
“Well, I suppose it’s possible that…maybe this whole place was a natural satellite of Earth that was converted into a warstation. It’s been almost 3,000 years since the earliest known mention of the station. Details are sketchy about its origin.”
“Do not be ridiculous. I suppose you’ll say Meslex’s warstation is natural too? And Inglon’s? And Zhaen’s?”
“They could be.”
“No. None of the warstations are natural. Especially not ours. Ours is the largest and the most powerful. A total construction of Aemrik’s army. The pinnacle of human achievement.”
“If you insist,” said Pol-Xi, rolling his eyes. “Can I show you one other item of interest?”
“Are you going to throw it in my face?”
“No,” answered Pol-Xi as he dropped a sheet of metal on Jon-Tau’s desk. A picture of a familiar planet adorned the top of it, while the rest was covered with a series of bizarre symbols.
“What is it?”
“I took a class on archaic linguistics in college, sir. I don’t remember much, but from the look of it I think that this writing is an ancient form of Inglin.”
“Well, we all speak Inglin, don’t we? What does it say?”
“I’m sorry, sir. Although this is technically our language, millennia of memetic mutation has warped it so that Inglin then barely resembles Inglin now. You may as well ask me to read a completely foreign language.”
“Oh,” grunted Jon-Tau in disappointment.
“I can tell you what one part of it says, though,” Pol-Xi offered as he pointed at one segment of the sheet. “‘1969’. Those are numbers. A year, I believe.”
“1969? So this thing came from the future?”
“Whenever this sheet was made, it came from a time when they used a calendar different from our own. By my estimate, it has to be at least 5,000 years old.”
“Where are you going with all this?” asked Jon-Tau impatiently.
“I have a theory, sir. Suppose our warstation really is natural in origin. Someone would have to be there first for there to even be a warstation in the first place. My guess is that this is…some type of plaque to honor the first settlers.”
“From five thousand years ago.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Pol-Xi. Jon-Tau sighed and pinched the space between his eyebrows before looking up.
“Pol-Xi, we pay you to make sure the weapons on this station are in proper shape, not to tell fairy tales. Unless your little ‘scientific studies’ improve our military potential, then you’ve just wasted your time, my time, and the time of the good people of Aemrik. Out!” he shooed. Pol-Xi hastily ran from the room. Jon-Tau looked back at the window and saw another planet. This one was red. He forgot the name, but remembered it was named after a god of war. He began to wonder if Aemrik could convert the red planet to a warstation, like Pol-Xi claimed was already done. Meslex would be helpless then. He quickly dismissed the notion and picked the weathered plaque up off his desk. He looked at its symbols a final time before shoving it into its drawer, a curiosity to never be retrieved again. Its text, forever unread, was as follows:
HERE MEN FROM THE PLANET EARTH
FIRST SET FOOT UPON THE MOON
JULY 1969 A.D.
WE CAME IN PEACE FOR ALL MANKIND.
FIRST SET FOOT UPON THE MOON
JULY 1969 A.D.
WE CAME IN PEACE FOR ALL MANKIND.
"From the Machine"
THE FIRST DAY
Dr. Salverton stepped into the testing chamber, where he saw Dr. Simpson putting the final touches on Project Deus Ex Machina. It was hard to believe they had spent five years working away in the quiet town of Huxley, but after a week to test and make sure the machine was working smoothly, the two would be gone. Huxley had a population barely above one thousand, large enough to conduct a proper test but small enough for the consequences to not be too regrettable in the event of a mistake. After all this time, neither of the two scientists could still believe it when the military first approached them with the notion of Project Deus Ex Machina. The project went by that name because that was exactly what the scientists were commissioned to create. A deus ex machina. A god from the machine.
“Everything going smoothly?” asked Salverton.
“As best as I can tell without turning it on,” Simpson answered. “The machinery has been planted throughout the town, and from what I can tell, it’s fully operational. As far as this experiment requires, DXM is omnipotent.”
“DEM,” corrected Salverton. “‘Ex’ starts with an E. Are the…prayer receivers functioning?”
“It seems so. It can detect the frequency of a human thought and translate it into the cold language of the machines.”
“So all’s well for omnipotence. And omniscience?”
“I’ve installed it with every major academic work known to man,” explained Simpson. “I also equipped it with your deductive program for anything it doesn’t know.”
“Ah, yes. The Holmesian Construct.”
“Holmesian?”
“Yes, Sherlock Holmes,” Salverton answered, hesitating for Simpson to answer. “You don’t kno…never mind. It’s just a stupid nickname. Shall we turn it on?”
“Sure,” Simpson agreed as he headed towards the main terminal. “It doesn’t feel right, though.”
“What doesn’t?”
“You know…making a mechanical God to replace the real one.”
“Replace?!” Salverton sputtered. After all these years of labor Simpson never once made a reference to this. “Surely a man of science such as yourself is too educated for such mythology!”
“Well, all this stuff had to come from somewhere, didn’t it?”
“Yes. I admit, I can’t say for certain where it did, but I can say where it did not. I confess, though, I’m hesitant about this machine too, though for different reasons.”
“What?”
“We’ve gone along fairly well without divine intervention. With it…well, let’s just turn it on and hope for the best.”
Simpson punched in a quick string of keys and a humming sound began to emit from Deus Ex Machina.
“It works!” the two shouted. The machine lay still for a few seconds before words began to appear on a nearby monitor.
“What’s that say?” Simpson asked. Salverton immediately rushed and looked at the screen.
“It’s…it’s deducing,” Salverton explained meekly.
“Deducing what?” Simpson asked impatiently.
“I don’t know. Whatever it can, I suppose.”
“What do you think that means?”
“I’m not sure. I wouldn’t worry about it too much. I advise we just get some rest and dream of returning home.” And so they did.
THE SECOND DAY
“Was that the mayor?” asked Simpson once Salverton re-entered the room after a private phone call. With the exception of the two scientists, the mayor of Huxley was the only one aware of Project Deus Ex Machina’s development, and was instructed to stay quiet on the matter.
“Yep,” answered Salverton as he returned to the breakfast table and began poking at the egg on his plate with his fork. “Delivered our first report on how the town is handling God.”
“And how is it?”
“It’s started small,” Salverton began, taking a bite out of his egg. “A little kid playing soccer prayed to score a goal. DEM used its low-gravity field and the kid scored.”
“That’s sweet,” Simpson replied.
“Maybe at first. After that the other team’s goalie prayed to block a goal. The gravity increased. The child couldn’t even kick the ball off the ground. He began crying.”
“Ooh,” hissed Simpson. “Still, I suppose there’s no serious harm.”
“No serious human harm, at least. From what I heard afterward, the kid began praying to score every goal, and the goalie prayed to block every goal. Receiving conflicting orders like that could have conceivably destroyed DEM.”
“No, they won’t. I handled that,” explained Simpson.
“You handled it?”
“I made sure that in the event of conflicting prayers, DXM would do exactly what the real God would: it wouldn’t intervene.”
“Is that really what the ‘real God’ does?” asked Salverton, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure that during those occasions, which happen quite often, I’m certain, the reason God doesn’t intervene isn’t because there’s no God to intervene?”
“Yes.”
“Honestly, that belief always bugged me. In my experience every single ‘prayer’ answered was due to a completely normal, non-supernatural force,” Salverton hissed as he bit into his egg once more. “I was in a car accident once. After about a month I recovered. My family said God had answered their prayers.”
“And he had!”
“No. After my accident I went to a hospital, where I was placed in the hands of a competent staff of doctors with extensive knowledge of medical science. If everybody prayed and nobody called an ambulance…” Salverton dropped his fork, unable to finish his sentence.
“The creation of Project Deus Ex Machina, if properly executed, will change some people’s way of thinking forever,” he spoke. “On the other hand, it will also keep most people’s way of thinking the same. Forgive me, Simpson, but I think I’m going to take a nap,” Salverton said as he rose from his chair.
“I’m only stuck in this town for a few more days, and I’d like to spend as much of my time left as possible unconscious.”
THE THIRD DAY
Salverton sat staring at the terminal which contained Project Deus Ex Machina’s mind. Simpson came into the room, having finished receiving the mayor’s daily report. It came later today.
“How are things?” asked Salverton.
“Remember your story yesterday about how the doctors had helped you but not God?”
“Yes.”
“An old woman was ill with some kind of infection, it seems. She prayed for it to go away. All of a sudden, the machine brings her a bottle of penicillin. Free.”
“That’s service,” chuckled Salverton.
“Not for a healthy economy it’s not. That was a bad sign of business for Huxley’s doctors. When you think about it, it’s a bad sign of business for everyone. Why give money to farms, grocery stores, and restaurants when you can pray for food?”
“Well, I suppose they could just…”
“Don’t say it, because they did. It seems the existence of ‘God’ is now known throughout all of Huxley. There are four doctors in this town. Immediately after finding out about the free penicillin, all four doctors, feeling cheated out of business, prayed to receive the money they rightfully should have. A considerable sum of money disappeared from the woman’s bank account: enough money for a doctor’s appointment and penicillin prescription four times over.”
“Hmm,” hummed Salverton, resting his chin on his right hand. “Seems God isn’t such a good thing for the world. It’s a good thing he doesn’t…”
“Shut up,” interrupted Simpson. “Now isn’t the best time for an argument. How’s DXM functioning?”
“DEM,” answered Salverton, placing a particular amount of stress on the second letter, “is working perfectly. Except that it’s still deducing…whatever it is. I installed the Holmesian Construct only when it needs to find out something it doesn’t know. Ever since we’ve turned it on, it’s been deducing non-stop.”
“Have you read what it says?”
“I’ve tried reading what it says. That’s pure logic. Pure logic is a language all its own, in a way. It’s a giant mess of symbols that I can’t make head or tail of.”
“Maybe it’s a plan,” suggested Simpson.
“A plan?”
“Yeah, you know…God’s plan. If DEM's really a god, it wouldn't just do whatever it's asked, would it? It must have some plan behind it all.”
Salverton began laughing hysterically. Simpson began to grow indignant.
“Look,” he boomed. “Are you going to make fun of me every time I bring up religion?”
“Right…of course, I’m sorry,” Salverton said as he began to calm down. “Let’s just…let’s just…”
“Let’s just what?”
“Let’s just hope God’s plan includes finding out how much you should pay for penicillin.”
THE FOURTH DAY
It was Salverton’s turn to hear the mayor’s reports for the day. The pair had initially decided they would alternate hearing the mayor each day until they were allowed to leave. The two at first looked forward to their turn, hearing the impact of their creation, but by now each of them dreaded their day to receive the news. As Salverton came back to Simpson, his entire face, bright red moustache included, seemed curled into a giant frown.
“What now?” asked Simpson.
“The town of Huxley is predominantly Christian,” Salverton explained.
“Yes? So?”
“There is one Muslim family living in the town. They have a little girl. She wanted it to snow. DEM used its weather simulation and gave the town six inches of snow.”
“Well, that’s not too bad, apart from people being late for work.”
“That’s the least of it. The majority of Huxley, being Christians, has decided that DEM is not just God, but Jesus Christ himself. Why would he answer the prayers of a Muslim? They’re getting angry at the whole family. A mob’s gathering. Things will probably get violent. All because a little girl wanted to play in the snow.”
“Well, I’m sure DXM can protect them,” assured Simpson.
“I remember looking over your programming for DEM,” Salverton explained. “It said that in the event of conflicting prayers, the one prayed by more people wins out. If there’s a balance, DEM doesn’t intervene. There’s a family of four praying for protection, confident God is on their side. Then there’s a mob of around fifty praying for help in the battle against the non-believer, also confident God is on their side. It all reminds me of a line, Simpson.”
“What line?”
“I majored in Engineering when I was a college boy, obviously. I needed another class. Not caring what it was in particular, I took French history. I had to read about Napoleon. I still remember a quote he said once.” Salverton grabbed a nearby chair and placed one foot on it, slipping his right hand into his coat.
“God fights on the side with the best artillery!”
“I’m glad you can find humor in the situation,” said Simpson bitterly. “Maybe I should reprogram DXM to be more discriminating in the prayers he answers.”
“Maybe you could just pray for it to disobey!” laughed Salverton, almost demented. “Who knows, maybe it’ll destroy itself.”
“That sort of thing only happens in movies,” Simpson answered drolly. “You can’t destroy a machine through a logical paradox, especially one as advanced as DXM.”
“DEM,” corrected Salverton, suddenly calmer. “DEM. I’m going to make an appeal to Washington to shut down DEM before things get really ugly. I just hope they get back to us in time,” Salverton said as he headed out the door. Before exiting the room, he suddenly stopped.
“By the way, Simpson, speaking of logical…is it still deducing whatever the hell it is?”
“Yes.”
“You’d better hope it’s really deducing ‘God’s plan’ like you said it was, Simpson. And more importantly, you’d better hope ‘God’s plan’ is a damned good one.”
THE FIFTH DAY
Simpson went back into the room with tears streaming down his cheeks. Salverton looked astonished, having never seen this reaction before.
“Wh…what happened?” Salverton asked, growingly scared at whatever events occurred. Simpson stood silently, attempting to compose himself, before he finally spoke.
“I tell you the truth, anyone who has faith in me will do what I have been doing. He will do even greater things than these, because I am going to the Father. And I will do whatever you ask in my name, so that the Son may bring glory to the Father. You may ask me for anything in my name, and I will do it.”
“What? What does that mean?” asked Salverton.
“The mob…they wanted to prove they were right. They…they prayed for DXM…they wanted God to kill that whole Muslim family, to prove they were right.”
“You don’t mean that…”
“You may ask me for anything in my name, and I will do it.” Simpson tried to walk forward but merely fell into a heap on the floor.
“Come on, Simpson. Come up!” cried Salverton as he tried to hoist Simpson up.
“From what I understand, from what I understand…DXM killed them painlessly,” explained Simpson. “I suppose it’s…a benevolent god.” Simpson burst into another sobbing fit. “The military hasn’t responded yet, have they?”
“I’m afraid not,” Salverton said. “In all likelihood, we’ll be allowed to leave Huxley before we get the word. We can go to our homes, far away, where DEM has no jurisdiction. In the meantime, I advise you try to reprogram DEM. Perhaps you can make it so he only answers benevolent prayers?”
“It won’t matter. At this point if God doesn’t do it they’ll take care of matters themselves.” Simpson looked up and saw a seemingly infinite stream of logical symbols appearing on DEM’s monitor.
“You know what, Salverton?” Simpson moaned. “I think you were right. I think you were right this whole time. God doesn’t exist. Isn’t that horrible?”
“The fact that God doesn’t exist isn’t horrible at all,” answered Salverton. “I think the real horror lies in the fact that God didn’t exist until relatively recently.”
THE SIXTH DAY
“What did the mayor say?” asked Simpson, becoming more and more thankful with each passing second that they were underground, safely concealed from the town’s residents.
“He was the deputy mayor,” answered Salverton. “Seems the mayor was killed by someone. Death by prayer. And nobody knows who asked for it. Nobody but DEM.”
“This is terrible!”
“It gets better. Listen closely.” The two remained completely silent, and could just barely make out the sound of stomping and screaming.
“That is the sound of war, Simpson. That is the sound of people dying and a mechanical god more than happy to reward its followers.”
“Ugh!” moaned Simpson, putting his face into his hands. “I can’t believe what we’ve done.”
“I suppose this isn’t the best time for more bad news,” said Salverton.
“What else could there be?” screamed Simpson.
“The military hasn’t responded yet. And I know for a fact that if they do, they will decline to shut DEM down.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you see? Project Deus Ex Machina was funded by the military. The military exists to win wars. The occasional officer bragged about having God on their side, and decided that they should make the statement true. The role fulfilled by the atomic bomb in World War II was planned to be fulfilled by prayer in World War III.”
“Grrr!” Simpson growled. “What are we supposed to do with all of this?”
“Wait for tomorrow. Wait for the military to escort us back home. If I were you, I’d sleep. Sleep and hope the whole town isn’t slaughtered when we wake. Which reminds me.”
“Please, Salverton,” begged Simpson. “Please tell me this is the last news you have that can make the situation worse.”
“It is. The new mayor’s inauguration was conducted in secret, out of fear for his own life. As far as the town is concerned, there is no mayor. The police fighting to keep the peace have been almost completely slaughtered, felled by a prayer.”
“So there’s no government to stop the chaos, then?” asked Simpson. “So this is anarchy.”
“No,” corrected Salverton. “This is theocracy.”
THE SEVENTH DAY
Salverton and Simpson woke, washed up, and got dressed as if this was any other day. The pair anticipated this day as the best of their lives. They would be free. The two planned to never mention Project Deus Ex Machina for the rest of their lives as long as they could help it.
“Rise and shine, boys!” greeted the soldier standing in the main room. “Ready to go home?”
“Yes,” groaned Simpson. “A bit too ready.”
“Have you been up on the surface?” Salverton asked.
“As a matter of fact I have.”
“Can you tell me how many people are up there?”
“One. One very good Christian.”
“One?!” exclaimed Simpson. “Are you telling me we killed an entire town save one resident?”
“Calm down. That’s nothing more than a sign the machine worked.”
“IT WORKED?!” shrieked Simpson. Salverton jumped in front of Simpson and attempted to restrain him.
“I apologize for my friend’s rudeness,” said Salverton, wishing he could do the same. “I’m sure he’ll be better once he’s returned home. Er…it is safe to go up there, isn’t it?”
“You know it is. You guys sure were prepared, temporarily turning the machine off just for safety.”
“Turning it off?” the two scientists said almost in unison. Rushing to the main terminal of Project Deus Ex Machina, they looked at the monitor they had watched so intently. Below the seemingly constant flow of logical symbols they could see two plainly written sentences.
Dr. Salverton stepped into the testing chamber, where he saw Dr. Simpson putting the final touches on Project Deus Ex Machina. It was hard to believe they had spent five years working away in the quiet town of Huxley, but after a week to test and make sure the machine was working smoothly, the two would be gone. Huxley had a population barely above one thousand, large enough to conduct a proper test but small enough for the consequences to not be too regrettable in the event of a mistake. After all this time, neither of the two scientists could still believe it when the military first approached them with the notion of Project Deus Ex Machina. The project went by that name because that was exactly what the scientists were commissioned to create. A deus ex machina. A god from the machine.
“Everything going smoothly?” asked Salverton.
“As best as I can tell without turning it on,” Simpson answered. “The machinery has been planted throughout the town, and from what I can tell, it’s fully operational. As far as this experiment requires, DXM is omnipotent.”
“DEM,” corrected Salverton. “‘Ex’ starts with an E. Are the…prayer receivers functioning?”
“It seems so. It can detect the frequency of a human thought and translate it into the cold language of the machines.”
“So all’s well for omnipotence. And omniscience?”
“I’ve installed it with every major academic work known to man,” explained Simpson. “I also equipped it with your deductive program for anything it doesn’t know.”
“Ah, yes. The Holmesian Construct.”
“Holmesian?”
“Yes, Sherlock Holmes,” Salverton answered, hesitating for Simpson to answer. “You don’t kno…never mind. It’s just a stupid nickname. Shall we turn it on?”
“Sure,” Simpson agreed as he headed towards the main terminal. “It doesn’t feel right, though.”
“What doesn’t?”
“You know…making a mechanical God to replace the real one.”
“Replace?!” Salverton sputtered. After all these years of labor Simpson never once made a reference to this. “Surely a man of science such as yourself is too educated for such mythology!”
“Well, all this stuff had to come from somewhere, didn’t it?”
“Yes. I admit, I can’t say for certain where it did, but I can say where it did not. I confess, though, I’m hesitant about this machine too, though for different reasons.”
“What?”
“We’ve gone along fairly well without divine intervention. With it…well, let’s just turn it on and hope for the best.”
Simpson punched in a quick string of keys and a humming sound began to emit from Deus Ex Machina.
“It works!” the two shouted. The machine lay still for a few seconds before words began to appear on a nearby monitor.
“What’s that say?” Simpson asked. Salverton immediately rushed and looked at the screen.
“ALL STATEMENTS ARE EITHER TRUE OR FALSE.
ANY STATEMENT WHICH IS NOT TRUE IS FALSE, AND VICE VERSA.”
ANY STATEMENT WHICH IS NOT TRUE IS FALSE, AND VICE VERSA.”
“It’s…it’s deducing,” Salverton explained meekly.
“Deducing what?” Simpson asked impatiently.
“I don’t know. Whatever it can, I suppose.”
“What do you think that means?”
“I’m not sure. I wouldn’t worry about it too much. I advise we just get some rest and dream of returning home.” And so they did.
THE SECOND DAY
“Was that the mayor?” asked Simpson once Salverton re-entered the room after a private phone call. With the exception of the two scientists, the mayor of Huxley was the only one aware of Project Deus Ex Machina’s development, and was instructed to stay quiet on the matter.
“Yep,” answered Salverton as he returned to the breakfast table and began poking at the egg on his plate with his fork. “Delivered our first report on how the town is handling God.”
“And how is it?”
“It’s started small,” Salverton began, taking a bite out of his egg. “A little kid playing soccer prayed to score a goal. DEM used its low-gravity field and the kid scored.”
“That’s sweet,” Simpson replied.
“Maybe at first. After that the other team’s goalie prayed to block a goal. The gravity increased. The child couldn’t even kick the ball off the ground. He began crying.”
“Ooh,” hissed Simpson. “Still, I suppose there’s no serious harm.”
“No serious human harm, at least. From what I heard afterward, the kid began praying to score every goal, and the goalie prayed to block every goal. Receiving conflicting orders like that could have conceivably destroyed DEM.”
“No, they won’t. I handled that,” explained Simpson.
“You handled it?”
“I made sure that in the event of conflicting prayers, DXM would do exactly what the real God would: it wouldn’t intervene.”
“Is that really what the ‘real God’ does?” asked Salverton, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure that during those occasions, which happen quite often, I’m certain, the reason God doesn’t intervene isn’t because there’s no God to intervene?”
“Yes.”
“Honestly, that belief always bugged me. In my experience every single ‘prayer’ answered was due to a completely normal, non-supernatural force,” Salverton hissed as he bit into his egg once more. “I was in a car accident once. After about a month I recovered. My family said God had answered their prayers.”
“And he had!”
“No. After my accident I went to a hospital, where I was placed in the hands of a competent staff of doctors with extensive knowledge of medical science. If everybody prayed and nobody called an ambulance…” Salverton dropped his fork, unable to finish his sentence.
“The creation of Project Deus Ex Machina, if properly executed, will change some people’s way of thinking forever,” he spoke. “On the other hand, it will also keep most people’s way of thinking the same. Forgive me, Simpson, but I think I’m going to take a nap,” Salverton said as he rose from his chair.
“I’m only stuck in this town for a few more days, and I’d like to spend as much of my time left as possible unconscious.”
THE THIRD DAY
Salverton sat staring at the terminal which contained Project Deus Ex Machina’s mind. Simpson came into the room, having finished receiving the mayor’s daily report. It came later today.
“How are things?” asked Salverton.
“Remember your story yesterday about how the doctors had helped you but not God?”
“Yes.”
“An old woman was ill with some kind of infection, it seems. She prayed for it to go away. All of a sudden, the machine brings her a bottle of penicillin. Free.”
“That’s service,” chuckled Salverton.
“Not for a healthy economy it’s not. That was a bad sign of business for Huxley’s doctors. When you think about it, it’s a bad sign of business for everyone. Why give money to farms, grocery stores, and restaurants when you can pray for food?”
“Well, I suppose they could just…”
“Don’t say it, because they did. It seems the existence of ‘God’ is now known throughout all of Huxley. There are four doctors in this town. Immediately after finding out about the free penicillin, all four doctors, feeling cheated out of business, prayed to receive the money they rightfully should have. A considerable sum of money disappeared from the woman’s bank account: enough money for a doctor’s appointment and penicillin prescription four times over.”
“Hmm,” hummed Salverton, resting his chin on his right hand. “Seems God isn’t such a good thing for the world. It’s a good thing he doesn’t…”
“Shut up,” interrupted Simpson. “Now isn’t the best time for an argument. How’s DXM functioning?”
“DEM,” answered Salverton, placing a particular amount of stress on the second letter, “is working perfectly. Except that it’s still deducing…whatever it is. I installed the Holmesian Construct only when it needs to find out something it doesn’t know. Ever since we’ve turned it on, it’s been deducing non-stop.”
“Have you read what it says?”
“I’ve tried reading what it says. That’s pure logic. Pure logic is a language all its own, in a way. It’s a giant mess of symbols that I can’t make head or tail of.”
“Maybe it’s a plan,” suggested Simpson.
“A plan?”
“Yeah, you know…God’s plan. If DEM's really a god, it wouldn't just do whatever it's asked, would it? It must have some plan behind it all.”
Salverton began laughing hysterically. Simpson began to grow indignant.
“Look,” he boomed. “Are you going to make fun of me every time I bring up religion?”
“Right…of course, I’m sorry,” Salverton said as he began to calm down. “Let’s just…let’s just…”
“Let’s just what?”
“Let’s just hope God’s plan includes finding out how much you should pay for penicillin.”
THE FOURTH DAY
It was Salverton’s turn to hear the mayor’s reports for the day. The pair had initially decided they would alternate hearing the mayor each day until they were allowed to leave. The two at first looked forward to their turn, hearing the impact of their creation, but by now each of them dreaded their day to receive the news. As Salverton came back to Simpson, his entire face, bright red moustache included, seemed curled into a giant frown.
“What now?” asked Simpson.
“The town of Huxley is predominantly Christian,” Salverton explained.
“Yes? So?”
“There is one Muslim family living in the town. They have a little girl. She wanted it to snow. DEM used its weather simulation and gave the town six inches of snow.”
“Well, that’s not too bad, apart from people being late for work.”
“That’s the least of it. The majority of Huxley, being Christians, has decided that DEM is not just God, but Jesus Christ himself. Why would he answer the prayers of a Muslim? They’re getting angry at the whole family. A mob’s gathering. Things will probably get violent. All because a little girl wanted to play in the snow.”
“Well, I’m sure DXM can protect them,” assured Simpson.
“I remember looking over your programming for DEM,” Salverton explained. “It said that in the event of conflicting prayers, the one prayed by more people wins out. If there’s a balance, DEM doesn’t intervene. There’s a family of four praying for protection, confident God is on their side. Then there’s a mob of around fifty praying for help in the battle against the non-believer, also confident God is on their side. It all reminds me of a line, Simpson.”
“What line?”
“I majored in Engineering when I was a college boy, obviously. I needed another class. Not caring what it was in particular, I took French history. I had to read about Napoleon. I still remember a quote he said once.” Salverton grabbed a nearby chair and placed one foot on it, slipping his right hand into his coat.
“God fights on the side with the best artillery!”
“I’m glad you can find humor in the situation,” said Simpson bitterly. “Maybe I should reprogram DXM to be more discriminating in the prayers he answers.”
“Maybe you could just pray for it to disobey!” laughed Salverton, almost demented. “Who knows, maybe it’ll destroy itself.”
“That sort of thing only happens in movies,” Simpson answered drolly. “You can’t destroy a machine through a logical paradox, especially one as advanced as DXM.”
“DEM,” corrected Salverton, suddenly calmer. “DEM. I’m going to make an appeal to Washington to shut down DEM before things get really ugly. I just hope they get back to us in time,” Salverton said as he headed out the door. Before exiting the room, he suddenly stopped.
“By the way, Simpson, speaking of logical…is it still deducing whatever the hell it is?”
“Yes.”
“You’d better hope it’s really deducing ‘God’s plan’ like you said it was, Simpson. And more importantly, you’d better hope ‘God’s plan’ is a damned good one.”
THE FIFTH DAY
Simpson went back into the room with tears streaming down his cheeks. Salverton looked astonished, having never seen this reaction before.
“Wh…what happened?” Salverton asked, growingly scared at whatever events occurred. Simpson stood silently, attempting to compose himself, before he finally spoke.
“I tell you the truth, anyone who has faith in me will do what I have been doing. He will do even greater things than these, because I am going to the Father. And I will do whatever you ask in my name, so that the Son may bring glory to the Father. You may ask me for anything in my name, and I will do it.”
“What? What does that mean?” asked Salverton.
“The mob…they wanted to prove they were right. They…they prayed for DXM…they wanted God to kill that whole Muslim family, to prove they were right.”
“You don’t mean that…”
“You may ask me for anything in my name, and I will do it.” Simpson tried to walk forward but merely fell into a heap on the floor.
“Come on, Simpson. Come up!” cried Salverton as he tried to hoist Simpson up.
“From what I understand, from what I understand…DXM killed them painlessly,” explained Simpson. “I suppose it’s…a benevolent god.” Simpson burst into another sobbing fit. “The military hasn’t responded yet, have they?”
“I’m afraid not,” Salverton said. “In all likelihood, we’ll be allowed to leave Huxley before we get the word. We can go to our homes, far away, where DEM has no jurisdiction. In the meantime, I advise you try to reprogram DEM. Perhaps you can make it so he only answers benevolent prayers?”
“It won’t matter. At this point if God doesn’t do it they’ll take care of matters themselves.” Simpson looked up and saw a seemingly infinite stream of logical symbols appearing on DEM’s monitor.
“You know what, Salverton?” Simpson moaned. “I think you were right. I think you were right this whole time. God doesn’t exist. Isn’t that horrible?”
“The fact that God doesn’t exist isn’t horrible at all,” answered Salverton. “I think the real horror lies in the fact that God didn’t exist until relatively recently.”
THE SIXTH DAY
“What did the mayor say?” asked Simpson, becoming more and more thankful with each passing second that they were underground, safely concealed from the town’s residents.
“He was the deputy mayor,” answered Salverton. “Seems the mayor was killed by someone. Death by prayer. And nobody knows who asked for it. Nobody but DEM.”
“This is terrible!”
“It gets better. Listen closely.” The two remained completely silent, and could just barely make out the sound of stomping and screaming.
“That is the sound of war, Simpson. That is the sound of people dying and a mechanical god more than happy to reward its followers.”
“Ugh!” moaned Simpson, putting his face into his hands. “I can’t believe what we’ve done.”
“I suppose this isn’t the best time for more bad news,” said Salverton.
“What else could there be?” screamed Simpson.
“The military hasn’t responded yet. And I know for a fact that if they do, they will decline to shut DEM down.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you see? Project Deus Ex Machina was funded by the military. The military exists to win wars. The occasional officer bragged about having God on their side, and decided that they should make the statement true. The role fulfilled by the atomic bomb in World War II was planned to be fulfilled by prayer in World War III.”
“Grrr!” Simpson growled. “What are we supposed to do with all of this?”
“Wait for tomorrow. Wait for the military to escort us back home. If I were you, I’d sleep. Sleep and hope the whole town isn’t slaughtered when we wake. Which reminds me.”
“Please, Salverton,” begged Simpson. “Please tell me this is the last news you have that can make the situation worse.”
“It is. The new mayor’s inauguration was conducted in secret, out of fear for his own life. As far as the town is concerned, there is no mayor. The police fighting to keep the peace have been almost completely slaughtered, felled by a prayer.”
“So there’s no government to stop the chaos, then?” asked Simpson. “So this is anarchy.”
“No,” corrected Salverton. “This is theocracy.”
THE SEVENTH DAY
Salverton and Simpson woke, washed up, and got dressed as if this was any other day. The pair anticipated this day as the best of their lives. They would be free. The two planned to never mention Project Deus Ex Machina for the rest of their lives as long as they could help it.
“Rise and shine, boys!” greeted the soldier standing in the main room. “Ready to go home?”
“Yes,” groaned Simpson. “A bit too ready.”
“Have you been up on the surface?” Salverton asked.
“As a matter of fact I have.”
“Can you tell me how many people are up there?”
“One. One very good Christian.”
“One?!” exclaimed Simpson. “Are you telling me we killed an entire town save one resident?”
“Calm down. That’s nothing more than a sign the machine worked.”
“IT WORKED?!” shrieked Simpson. Salverton jumped in front of Simpson and attempted to restrain him.
“I apologize for my friend’s rudeness,” said Salverton, wishing he could do the same. “I’m sure he’ll be better once he’s returned home. Er…it is safe to go up there, isn’t it?”
“You know it is. You guys sure were prepared, temporarily turning the machine off just for safety.”
“Turning it off?” the two scientists said almost in unison. Rushing to the main terminal of Project Deus Ex Machina, they looked at the monitor they had watched so intently. Below the seemingly constant flow of logical symbols they could see two plainly written sentences.
“FROM ALL THIS, IT CAN BE DEDUCED THAT GOD DOES NOT EXIST.
ERGO, I DO NOT EXIST.”
ERGO, I DO NOT EXIST.”
"The Long Winter"
Dr. Glau shivered as he drove towards the military complex. Even with the truck's insulation, along with the heavy layers of clothing he was wearing, he could still feel the cold, if just barely. He saw two flashing red lights: the only way in this weather that he could realize he had arrived at his destination. He opened the door and walked towards the complex. The temperature was unbearable, but the clothes prevented him from dying of the cold, and so he trudged through the endless white landscape and into the complex. There he was greeted by his boss.
"Any vegetation out there?" the general asked.
"Nothing," answered Glau, slowly removing the layers of clothes. "Nothing but snow, as far as the eye can see. Assuming, of course, the eye can see at all." Glau took off his goggles.
"It's just like the dinosaurs," he mumbled.
"Hmm?" asked the general.
"Well, you know how the dinosaurs went extinct, don't you?"
"Course. Meteor killed them all."
"Well, not directly, sir. It seems likely that when the meteor hit, it spread dust all over the Earth, resulting in global cooling. Almost all plant life died. The herbivores gradually went out. The carnivores feasted on the remains, but even then they had just postponed the inevitable."
"Spare me the science lecture, Glau," scolded the general, reaching for a bottle of whiskey. "The dinosaurs couldn't grow plants indoors."
"Yes, sir, but..."
"Well?"
"We can grow a lot of plants in this complex, yes. But it's barely enough for this complex. Definitely not enough for the world. I've managed to save a small supply of cows. I suggest we devote most of the plants to feeding them. We can get beef and milk out of the cows. They're something of a priority."
"Ain't eating all beef bad for your health?"
"Yes, sir. But starvation is worse. Where's my wife?"
"Room 273."
Glau walked into Room 273. The door was the same type of steel that adorned all the doors in the complex, leading one to assume it was a typical military area. Inside, however, it had something of a quaint touch, appearing to be a normal house. Glau's wife Melanie sat on the bed.
"Hi, honey," Glau greeted her.
"Oh, hello," she said apathetically. "Are...are we going to..."
"I've worked things out. Don't worry. All we should do is wait for when this ends."
"If it ends," Glau corrected himself in his head. He dare not say it to Melanie, of course. This was stressful enough as it is.
"You know," Melanie began to smile. "There is...one way we could keep warm."
"No." Glau answered firmly. "We can't compromise our food supply with another person."
"Come on," she pleaded in an almost melodic tone. "I've got it under control."
Glau sighed. "All right."
Two months had passed. The general demanded to see Glau.
"You wanted me, sir?"
"They left," said the general grimly.
"Who left, sir?"
"The people operating the power plants. The roads were just barely accessible through all the snow. They decided they'd rather die with their families than die at work."
"Oh," replied Glau, unsure of what to say.
"Glau, those power plants were powering the heating and watering system keeping our plants alive."
“Don’t we have an emergency power system?”
“The emergency power system is called the emergency power system because it is meant to be used in the event of an emergency, and to cease being used once the emergency has ended. It was designed under the assumption that all emergencies would end. Any idea when it’ll get warm again?”
“No idea, sir. For all we know, we could be in another Ice Age.”
“Dammit. Any advice?”
“Keep the plants alive for as long as you can. When the power goes out...” Glau swallowed his saliva momentarily. “Slaughter the cows.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“The cows are doomed the second the plants die. You may as well not waste any time drawing it out. It’ll only make things hurt more. We’ve got a lot of cows. They’ll last us a while. And we can easily keep them refrigerated.”
Glau smiled. The general didn’t.
“Do we have any other problems I should know about?”
“Well, actually, I suppose, sir.” Glau answered.
“What?”
Glau twiddled his thumbs for a second before responding.
“Did you know the birth control pills at this complex are very unreliable?”
Twelve months since Glau first settled into the complex. Their baby son was three months old already.
“What should we name him?” Melanie asked on that fateful day.
“How about Ymir?”
“Ymir?”
“Yes. He was...um, a frost giant in Norse mythology. He was born from the cold, just like this guy is.”
“We can’t call him Ymir. The other kids will make fun of him.”
“What other kids?”
Melanie felt slightly sick when Glau responded with that. “Ymir it is,” she sadly obliged.
Glau and Melanie sat down eating their meat (it was softened up for Ymir). Glau reached for his cup. After the cows died, they obviously ceased to provide milk. Glau felt rather uneasy drinking his own wife’s breastmilk at a meal, but it was necessary.
“The steak tastes odd today.” Melanie complained.
“Oh, really? That’s odd.” Glau replied unconvincingly.
“Honey? Are...are you hiding something?”
“What? No.”
Melanie stared at Glau, one eyebrow raised.
“Fine. We ran out of cows. They’ve all been eaten.”
“Then what is this?” asked Melanie crossly.
Glau straightened his shirt. He wasn’t sure how to continue.
“This...this cold...it has a bad effect on people. Some of the staff didn’t like it.”
“And?”
“Well, even though modern warfare doesn’t use them much anymore, there are still a lot of guns lying around the complex. Some employees...well...”
“Are you telling me we’re eating people?” she shrieked.
“They committed suicide. It’s not like I had killed them.”
“That doesn’t change that we’re eating people! I...I can’t live like this!”
“Fine, Melanie, fine. Then don’t. There’s no more food. It was eat them or die. Go on then.”
Five days since Melanie made her vow. She felt weak. She finally aquiesced.
“I...I give up,” she panted. “Get me some food.”
“The few staff members left are committed to living, dear. I finished off the general yesterday.”
“Then kill someone! I’m hungry!”
Glau stared at his wife.
“Melanie, please. While I am well aware of the barbarism I’ve been committing, I must attempt to maintain some form of order. I will not murder.”
“Fine. Then I will. Where’s everyone else?”
“I don’t know. Probably hiding from each other.”
“Uhh...I have to eat. I have to eat now.”
Melanie caught sight of Ymir in his crib.
“Melanie? Melanie...don’t...”
Melanie grabbed a knife from the kitchen.
“Melanie...please...”
Glau’s words were useless. As Melanie gorged herself, she suddenly realized the gravity of her actions.
“W...w...what have I done?” she sobbed.
Melanie picked up the knife once more.
“No! Don’t...”
Glau’s pleas were worthless once more. His once beautiful spouse lay on the ground lifelessly, blood caked over her dress.
One week since Melanie died. Glau had just finished eating her. It pained him to do it, but he had to survive. He wandered through the base. No one left. Not even corpses. It seemed the last man in the base had chosen to die out in the cold, as if to refrain from giving anyone the satisfaction of eating him. Glau suddenly began to wonder if there was anyone at all outside, in the world. He could take a plane. He could find someone out there. He could...
Glau slapped himself. The fact that he would consider such an idea was proof of what he had become since then. He thought about everything that had happened in this relatively short time span. Nothing remained. There were no plants, no cows, no people, including his own family. Even Glau himself was gone in a way. Once the star scientist behind the military’s greatest weapons project, he was now a partially insane cannibal. He was going to starve. He may as well not waste any time drawing it out. It’ll only make things hurt more. He wandered into the munitions room.
A few seconds before the trigger was pulled, Glau whispered humanity’s last words.
“I hate this. I hate the long winter. I wish we had never created it.”
"Any vegetation out there?" the general asked.
"Nothing," answered Glau, slowly removing the layers of clothes. "Nothing but snow, as far as the eye can see. Assuming, of course, the eye can see at all." Glau took off his goggles.
"It's just like the dinosaurs," he mumbled.
"Hmm?" asked the general.
"Well, you know how the dinosaurs went extinct, don't you?"
"Course. Meteor killed them all."
"Well, not directly, sir. It seems likely that when the meteor hit, it spread dust all over the Earth, resulting in global cooling. Almost all plant life died. The herbivores gradually went out. The carnivores feasted on the remains, but even then they had just postponed the inevitable."
"Spare me the science lecture, Glau," scolded the general, reaching for a bottle of whiskey. "The dinosaurs couldn't grow plants indoors."
"Yes, sir, but..."
"Well?"
"We can grow a lot of plants in this complex, yes. But it's barely enough for this complex. Definitely not enough for the world. I've managed to save a small supply of cows. I suggest we devote most of the plants to feeding them. We can get beef and milk out of the cows. They're something of a priority."
"Ain't eating all beef bad for your health?"
"Yes, sir. But starvation is worse. Where's my wife?"
"Room 273."
Glau walked into Room 273. The door was the same type of steel that adorned all the doors in the complex, leading one to assume it was a typical military area. Inside, however, it had something of a quaint touch, appearing to be a normal house. Glau's wife Melanie sat on the bed.
"Hi, honey," Glau greeted her.
"Oh, hello," she said apathetically. "Are...are we going to..."
"I've worked things out. Don't worry. All we should do is wait for when this ends."
"If it ends," Glau corrected himself in his head. He dare not say it to Melanie, of course. This was stressful enough as it is.
"You know," Melanie began to smile. "There is...one way we could keep warm."
"No." Glau answered firmly. "We can't compromise our food supply with another person."
"Come on," she pleaded in an almost melodic tone. "I've got it under control."
Glau sighed. "All right."
Two months had passed. The general demanded to see Glau.
"You wanted me, sir?"
"They left," said the general grimly.
"Who left, sir?"
"The people operating the power plants. The roads were just barely accessible through all the snow. They decided they'd rather die with their families than die at work."
"Oh," replied Glau, unsure of what to say.
"Glau, those power plants were powering the heating and watering system keeping our plants alive."
“Don’t we have an emergency power system?”
“The emergency power system is called the emergency power system because it is meant to be used in the event of an emergency, and to cease being used once the emergency has ended. It was designed under the assumption that all emergencies would end. Any idea when it’ll get warm again?”
“No idea, sir. For all we know, we could be in another Ice Age.”
“Dammit. Any advice?”
“Keep the plants alive for as long as you can. When the power goes out...” Glau swallowed his saliva momentarily. “Slaughter the cows.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“The cows are doomed the second the plants die. You may as well not waste any time drawing it out. It’ll only make things hurt more. We’ve got a lot of cows. They’ll last us a while. And we can easily keep them refrigerated.”
Glau smiled. The general didn’t.
“Do we have any other problems I should know about?”
“Well, actually, I suppose, sir.” Glau answered.
“What?”
Glau twiddled his thumbs for a second before responding.
“Did you know the birth control pills at this complex are very unreliable?”
Twelve months since Glau first settled into the complex. Their baby son was three months old already.
“What should we name him?” Melanie asked on that fateful day.
“How about Ymir?”
“Ymir?”
“Yes. He was...um, a frost giant in Norse mythology. He was born from the cold, just like this guy is.”
“We can’t call him Ymir. The other kids will make fun of him.”
“What other kids?”
Melanie felt slightly sick when Glau responded with that. “Ymir it is,” she sadly obliged.
Glau and Melanie sat down eating their meat (it was softened up for Ymir). Glau reached for his cup. After the cows died, they obviously ceased to provide milk. Glau felt rather uneasy drinking his own wife’s breastmilk at a meal, but it was necessary.
“The steak tastes odd today.” Melanie complained.
“Oh, really? That’s odd.” Glau replied unconvincingly.
“Honey? Are...are you hiding something?”
“What? No.”
Melanie stared at Glau, one eyebrow raised.
“Fine. We ran out of cows. They’ve all been eaten.”
“Then what is this?” asked Melanie crossly.
Glau straightened his shirt. He wasn’t sure how to continue.
“This...this cold...it has a bad effect on people. Some of the staff didn’t like it.”
“And?”
“Well, even though modern warfare doesn’t use them much anymore, there are still a lot of guns lying around the complex. Some employees...well...”
“Are you telling me we’re eating people?” she shrieked.
“They committed suicide. It’s not like I had killed them.”
“That doesn’t change that we’re eating people! I...I can’t live like this!”
“Fine, Melanie, fine. Then don’t. There’s no more food. It was eat them or die. Go on then.”
Five days since Melanie made her vow. She felt weak. She finally aquiesced.
“I...I give up,” she panted. “Get me some food.”
“The few staff members left are committed to living, dear. I finished off the general yesterday.”
“Then kill someone! I’m hungry!”
Glau stared at his wife.
“Melanie, please. While I am well aware of the barbarism I’ve been committing, I must attempt to maintain some form of order. I will not murder.”
“Fine. Then I will. Where’s everyone else?”
“I don’t know. Probably hiding from each other.”
“Uhh...I have to eat. I have to eat now.”
Melanie caught sight of Ymir in his crib.
“Melanie? Melanie...don’t...”
Melanie grabbed a knife from the kitchen.
“Melanie...please...”
Glau’s words were useless. As Melanie gorged herself, she suddenly realized the gravity of her actions.
“W...w...what have I done?” she sobbed.
Melanie picked up the knife once more.
“No! Don’t...”
Glau’s pleas were worthless once more. His once beautiful spouse lay on the ground lifelessly, blood caked over her dress.
One week since Melanie died. Glau had just finished eating her. It pained him to do it, but he had to survive. He wandered through the base. No one left. Not even corpses. It seemed the last man in the base had chosen to die out in the cold, as if to refrain from giving anyone the satisfaction of eating him. Glau suddenly began to wonder if there was anyone at all outside, in the world. He could take a plane. He could find someone out there. He could...
Glau slapped himself. The fact that he would consider such an idea was proof of what he had become since then. He thought about everything that had happened in this relatively short time span. Nothing remained. There were no plants, no cows, no people, including his own family. Even Glau himself was gone in a way. Once the star scientist behind the military’s greatest weapons project, he was now a partially insane cannibal. He was going to starve. He may as well not waste any time drawing it out. It’ll only make things hurt more. He wandered into the munitions room.
A few seconds before the trigger was pulled, Glau whispered humanity’s last words.
“I hate this. I hate the long winter. I wish we had never created it.”
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Happy New Year! (And a special announcement.)
(I'm a little late with this. Oh well.)
I know this blog's readership is somewhere in the single digits (which is my fault for rarely updating it, I suppose), but I thought I should make a token update and wish my fans the best for 2011.
New Year's always gets me thinking about the future, in more ways than one. In 2010 I got "But Whether Men Do" published, fulfilling a dream I had held for a decade. Yet at the same time, so many upsetting things happened that year (which, for brevity's sake, I won't go into detail about) that it was easy to forget I had accomplished something very few people do. I hope I won't spend most of this year letting small reasons to be unhappy get the better of me, but I do have an announcement that I know will help make 2011 worthwhile.
This summer, I will be starting my second book. Since it's purely in the conceptual stage right now, there's very little I can reveal, but when the time is right I'm sure I'll have more on the subject. With the hardest part of being a writer, getting my first novel published, out of the way, I should be able to gradually climb my way up the ladder. It won't be too long before more people are reading this blog. (Maybe it'll go all the way up to double digits!)
Keep in mind, however, that even though I know when I'll start this book, I don't know when I'll finish it. A total of 754 days passed between the day I started writing what would eventually become "But Whether Men Do" and the day it was first sold on Amazon. Perhaps this next book will be completed in less time, or perhaps it will take even longer. Like I said, just about everything regarding this book is speculative at the moment, but when I can tell you more, I will.
In the meantime, I'm hoping 2011 will be a good year for me, and I hope the same for all of you. Thanks so much for your support, and stay tuned!
(P.S.: Even though it's been out for almost half a year now, you might not have heard the last of news regarding "But Whether Men Do" yet. Just to keep you curious.)
I know this blog's readership is somewhere in the single digits (which is my fault for rarely updating it, I suppose), but I thought I should make a token update and wish my fans the best for 2011.
New Year's always gets me thinking about the future, in more ways than one. In 2010 I got "But Whether Men Do" published, fulfilling a dream I had held for a decade. Yet at the same time, so many upsetting things happened that year (which, for brevity's sake, I won't go into detail about) that it was easy to forget I had accomplished something very few people do. I hope I won't spend most of this year letting small reasons to be unhappy get the better of me, but I do have an announcement that I know will help make 2011 worthwhile.
This summer, I will be starting my second book. Since it's purely in the conceptual stage right now, there's very little I can reveal, but when the time is right I'm sure I'll have more on the subject. With the hardest part of being a writer, getting my first novel published, out of the way, I should be able to gradually climb my way up the ladder. It won't be too long before more people are reading this blog. (Maybe it'll go all the way up to double digits!)
Keep in mind, however, that even though I know when I'll start this book, I don't know when I'll finish it. A total of 754 days passed between the day I started writing what would eventually become "But Whether Men Do" and the day it was first sold on Amazon. Perhaps this next book will be completed in less time, or perhaps it will take even longer. Like I said, just about everything regarding this book is speculative at the moment, but when I can tell you more, I will.
In the meantime, I'm hoping 2011 will be a good year for me, and I hope the same for all of you. Thanks so much for your support, and stay tuned!
(P.S.: Even though it's been out for almost half a year now, you might not have heard the last of news regarding "But Whether Men Do" yet. Just to keep you curious.)
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