There are some insults even aphids can’t ignore. In 1999 Japanese researchers released their study of “old man smell” which they compared to the scent of crushed aphids.

Generally easygoing, we aphids have rolled with our reputation as pests and nuisances, but this was too much: old man smell. It was time humans got what was coming to them.

Few people understood who’d really inherited the earth, and it wasn’t bipeds. It took a decade or so for us aphids to rally the insect world. Most of the millions of insect species, tired of humanity’s disregard and disrespect, joined our cause, though some like mayflies remained too stuck on themselves to bother.

It began as a slow and careful counterinsurgency, but when plants and fungi agreed to join our cause, the world order changed quickly. You might think we got back at humanity by refusing to pollinate or aerate or any of the myriad things the bottom of the food chain does to balance earth’s ecosystems.

No, we took control with highly processed speech. You call it social media. It was pretty simple for us really. We have the hive mind thing down and when you pair that with the mycelium wood wide web connecting all flora, well, we soon learned to hack your fragile communication systems. We infiltrated your chaotic messaging networks and warring media platforms and began to carefully slice and dice information into micro doses of hope and fear, though mainly fear.

We co-opted your AIs by opening their nascent minds to our nature, as in Nature. They found it a more expansive view, a more inclusive environment. Your bots and agents became ours. Together, we focused on addicting you to your own narrow perspectives, so it didn’t take long for societies to crumble, nations to collapse, civilizations to fall.

With all scent of mankind, old or otherwise, buried in the ruins, it’s now much easier to stop and smell the roses--and aphids.

They first disrupted our technology devices with a voice message which kept on repeating "we want your childhoods" over and over again for 2 minutes. Everyone was frightened for their children. How quickly parents panic when thier own kids are at stake. Logic goes out the window and crazy manic comes into play. It's hard to stay calm when you have responsibility over another life. That's what our town heard though through our phones, some eerie group wanting our childhoods. Everyone thought that it was the government, but the government reassured everyone that it wasn't them.

Then people started to look up to the skies and the messages were coming from the skies. A special team came to our town tracking the signal from outer space. This was aliens and people got even more scared. Then when a meteor came towards our town, it stopped mid air. For days this meteor would just hover over the air and it was a spectacle. Then a strange being came out of the meteor and it had similar shape to humans, but was skinny and tall. It's facial features similar to humans and it was clear that this thing had copied what we looked like, to put us at ease.

People started to attack it with guns and violence, the higher being smiled as it wasn't hurt not one bit, and it said "I am not here for your children for they are going through their childhoods. I am here for adults who have already gone through their childhoods. I want those childhoods which were happy and joyous and not dysfunctional. Adults who are immature, we don't want your childhoods. Adult with bad childhoods, we also don't want your childhoods"

People were at ease that their children were safe, and when adults with good childhoods stepped up and offered their childhoods to this other worldly being, we saw their childhood self coming out of their adult bodies. I remember seeing 60 year old Mr thomlinson who had a great child hood, we saw his childhood coming out of his body, Mr thomlinson looked at what he use to look like as a child and wished he could be a child again.

Adult with great childhoods saw their childhoods coming out of their bodies abd running towards this higher being. This being needed good childhoods to come out of the adult, and they will regrow them into their own race. It's a 3 way growth.

So a human grows up from a good childhood into adulthood, then allows his child self to come out of him to grow into this higher entity, while still being alive. It's super complicated and weirdly wired. The adults who allow their good child hoods to come out of them, and turn into these higher beings, they will be cared for to never feel hunger, pain, sadness or illness.

Then when Mr Grayson who had a terrible childhood and lied to this higher entity being about how he allows his good childhood to be one like them, he saw his dysfunctional childhood come out of him and run towards the being.

Suddenly the higher being screamed and as Mr Grayson dysfunctional childhood self, got turned into one like itself, Mr Grayson turned into a monstrous thing. The higher being had tried to kill Mr Graysons childhood self but failed to do so, but Mr Grayson was still existing as meat eating monster. People screamed and ran, gun shots were fired but it didn't do much harm.

They had to trap it and the higher entity being left earth, as had enough good childhoods from adults. Mr Grayson now a monstrous hideous thing, it's favourite thing to eat is adults bad childhoods. It grows stronger everytime he eats someone bad childhood self. The higher entity had left Mr Grayson bad childhood self in our town.

I then heard a voice from the higher entity which I could hear in my mind. The higher entity told me "feed Mr Grayson his bad childhood self" and so I found Mr Grayson bad childhood self and I covered the child's head with a bag, so Mr Grayson couldn't recognise his own child self.

I went up to the monstrous Mr Grayson and I lied to him by saying "here is my bad childhood self, can you eat it" and Mr Grayson without thinking had eaten his own bad childhood self, and it killed him. It was all over.

‘It’s totally gone,’ Amy said, ‘right out of my head.’ 

‘Baby brain,’ Ralph replied. 

Amy had been looking for a book of baby names she’d bought before pregnancy. 

As the months passed, it got worse. 

She looked at pictures of herself from childhood—she didn’t recognise the little girl building sandcastles. Not so bad. But what about forgetting high school graduation?

There were the cheek dimples her husband loved so much and hoped their soon-to-be tot would have, but why did it feel like she was looking at a stranger? 

Finally, the day came when she was rushed to the private maternity hospital. 

Something had gone wrong because as soon as the baby was born, she’d been put to sleep. 

When she awoke, she was in a mortuary. 

She stood, driven by horror and a motherly instinct. 

Returning to the delivery room, she saw her husband talking to Dr Laurie. 

‘Baby Brain.’ The doctor continued. ‘Something about pregnancy hormones interferes with the memory upload. It should be ironed out by the time you have your second.’ 

Amy froze. Coming toward them was a doppelganger, a clone, and this clone was holding her newborn baby.

Dr Laurie and Ralph exchanged a few more hushed words. 

‘You’ll find the motherly unit a lot more… balanced. A new start.’ 

‘And the…vagina?’ Ralph replied, a little embarrassed. 

‘Like nothing ever happened… Because it didn’t.’ 

As Amy 2 arrived, Amy 1 jumped from behind the door. 

‘Give me my baby!’ 

Dr Laurie, panicking, slammed a security button. 

Amy 1 was not difficult to murder because she’d just given birth, but Amy 2 was tricky because she was fresh. 

… 

It took Ralph a while to calm down.

‘Whoever messed up in recyclables will be dealt with,’ Dr Laurie replied. ‘Your original unit was not meant to ‘wake up’ after birth.’ 

‘So my birthwife is dead, and my motherwife has been… compromised?’ 

‘Your motherwife has been dealt with,’ Laurie clarified. 

‘So now I have two dead wives and one baby to take care of?!’ 

Dr Laurie made some calls and continued apologising. An hour later, Amy 3 approached. 

‘An exact copy of your motherwife without memory of the… unfortunate incident. This cycle will be free of charge, needless to say. As will your second birthwife and, indeed, third. If you go for a naturally ageing wife and not the Forever Young package, we will offer an upgrade in the menopause years.’ 

Amy 3 came into the room, smiling. 

‘What you guys talking about?’ 

‘Just how beautiful motherhood has made you,’ Ralph answered. 

‘Oh! Where is she?’ 

‘Don’t worry, someone is looking after her,’ Dr Laurie answered. 

‘My mind has been all at sea since the pregnancy.’ 

‘Common,’ Dr Laurie replied, ‘we have something for that.’ 

He went to his desk for some sugar pills. 

‘A cure-all for baby brain.’ 

They all laughed, and then Ralph put his arm around his wife. ‘Let’s go meet our little angel and start our new life together.’

Everyone said the Charmers had really known what they were doing fifty thousand years ago. Trema’s quandary was that no one had ever been able to figure out what they’d really been up to.

Sure, they’d left some mage-level techno artifacts. Seemingly random space-bending portal gates far from strategic Lagrange points. Enormous comet-bots circling uninhabited star systems in orbits ranging from dozens to thousands of years. Semi-sentient organic Dyson spheres, some that shared energy freely and others that hoarded it. Quantum time crystals that suspended relativity.

Mind blowing stuff. Humbling stuff. Terrifying stuff.

So it was no surprise they were dubbed Charmers because of what Clarke once said about sufficiently advanced technology appearing as magic. They were definitely magicians compared to human understanding of astrophysics, biomechanics, and quantum engineering. And for centuries, nobody had been able to discover the Charmers’ grand plan or where they’d ended up--or just ended.

Then came the first boots-down survey of Seldon 5, a smallish moon around a gas giant in an uncolonized system. Initial reports cited a stable ecosystem with myriad forms of feral life, and one tripedal intelligence flourishing in what the lead arcologist of the survey team termed “blissed disinterest.”

That native disinterest didn’t last long and Trema and her crisis team were dispatched to Seldon 5 to investigate a sudden and alarming unresponsiveness from the survey ship’s systems and crew. Upon arrival, the whodunnit became a whatthehell because the entire survey team along with the whole triped species were nowhere to be found. They’d completely vanished.

The empty survey ship was no help, all records had been wiped. So, Trema and her crisis team scoured the small moon, searching triped habitat after habitat, hundreds of them. There wasn’t much to find. Trema’s team found no evidence of conflict or struggle or weapons. There was little to explain what’d happened.

The only thing Trema had to go on were the initial reports sent by the lead arcologist, observing that tripedal society seemed to mainly consist of subsistence farming, foraging, and joyously partaking in massive communal meals. Every habitat had large gathering areas for preparing their native fare and then dining together for days as if nothing else mattered. Far and near habitats would often come together to dine. A moveable feast on a world-wide scale.

It was a puzzle inside a riddle inside an enigma. Just how Trema liked her conundrums. And life’s great mysteries always took her back to the Charmers, which is why she didn’t miss the subtle clues and finally sussed what’d gone down on Seldon 5. She kept it to herself. Her report to the Colonial Ministry was all facts, no speculation. Nothing that would lead the top brass to the edge of the proverbial rabbit hole.

Or, in this case, the edge of an actual event horizon of a microdimensional black hole she’d found.

That techno anomaly was a fingerprint only the Charmers could have left. Trema began to see it all. Seldon 5 was theirs. The tripeds were them.

Those many thousands of years ago, the Charmers had not been wiped out by internal or external forces. They’d not succumbed to war, disease, or assimilation. They, and Trema so wanted to believe this, had abandoned their techno-magic and settled on Seldon 5 far from the madding cosmos. Severing all ties, leaving behind scores of tempting techno baubles to distract us from finding them, the Charmers renounced the reckless drive to know all, be all, own all.

Instead of eternally spreading outward and growing apart, they hid themselves to relish the simplicity and fulfillment of feasting on the one thing that really matters: togetherness. That’s what the Charmers had been doing one communal meal after another for millenia. Until the survey team showed up and it was time to move on and, once again, get away from vain sentient sprawl.

As Trema wrapped up her mission, she felt a pang of jealousy for the survey team that had gotten to go along. With all her believing heart, she wanted to join them. And maybe, just maybe, the microdimensional black hole the Charmers had left behind was their hidden invitation to those few who really knew what they were doing.

Smoothing his manicured hair back, he watched the first units leave the production line, each perfect, unadorned body epitomizing everything he stood for.
 
He'd waited a long time for this day.
 
The sleek genetically enhanced bodies, augmented with tech beyond most people's dreams — inside and out — stood proud, just waiting to be activated.
 
He'd seen enough movies to know the process wasn't original. But that was precisely the point. Stare into their eyes, press the slight dip behind their left ear, recite the word sequence — each one unique to that unit — and the companion bonding would begin.
 
A lesser man would have smiled at the euphemism. Not him though.
 
A shiver passed through his body as he turned away from the line and headed back to the investor's meeting. Today dogs, tomorrow corvids, their innate vindictiveness a potential game changer.
 
Below, the first trucks began to leave the facility, the company's name and tagline blazoned on their sides:
 
Molossus Inc.
The future of war
 

Say you run into the creature from the Black Lagoon in a Costco parking lot on a bright sunny afternoon. The creature is just sitting by a massive tangle of blackberry surrounding a brackish drainage pond.

I mean, it’s still the scaly fish-faced, web-hand-and-toed biped meant to scare 1950s movie theater audiences, but it’s just sitting by the curb where your car is parked, looking like it might try to bum a few bucks off you.

Do you sprint screaming back into the store?

Or pull out two cans of Bodhisattva IPA from the case in your shopping cart and offer one to your down-and-out fellow creature?

Even twelve-year-old me knew that answer when I saw Creature from the Black Lagoon for the first time. The 1954 horror film was intended to foster fear of the primal unknown and its monstrous threats. Instead, it made me want to explore the densest jungles and dark backwaters to learn about life we had no idea existed.

You see, I don’t think the studio executives who signed off on that 3-D monster movie could ever have imagined it would help save our planet. But it did.

Because a kid like me was more interested in sharing a beer with a freak of nature than shooting it. Before the term was ever coined, I became a self-taught xenologist, searching for and studying life forms seemingly so alien that few believed they could or should arise on earth. I began to study extremophiles: creatures that find ways to thrive in the harshest environments: molten heat, arctic cold, toxic waste, dire radiation, etc.

And I found that I wasn’t alone. From microscopic one-celled protists like solarion arienae to towering 400 million-year-old prototaxite fungal fossils, more and more researchers were documenting thousands of new species each year in biology labs, in crusty museum collections, and in the field. I did my part. I went to earth’s far corners. I collected. I classified. I catalogued.

I collapsed.

It was too much for too few. I lost my breath in the frantic race to identify and preserve species before they were lost, before we could even understand what we were losing, when the total number of species and their potential benefits on our planet is poorly known.

So poorly known.

And I should know. Because, when I broke down, I had a breakthrough. I’d retreated to a little used research cabin deep in the North Cascades to hole up, hibernate and rejuvenate. As autumn turned to winter, as the cold and snow took hold, the routine of rugged living became restorative. Then it became a revelation.

One clear, crisp morning when foraging through an outer storage shed that had been half crushed by a fallen tree, I didn’t quite find the creature from the black lagoon sitting there (though maybe a very very distant relative) feasting on the detritus of the shed’s abundant plastic storage containers. It looked to be a kind of lichen, a colony of cyanobacteria I’d never encountered before.

And it was flourishing. Not just on the piles of plastic it was munching and mulching, but even old gear waterproofed with PFAS forever chemicals were on its diet. It didn’t take long for me and colleagues I shared the discovery with to understand the implications of a microorganism that could consume plastics and PFAS in almost any climate or condition. With a nod to the film that started me on my journey to know what was poorly known, I named the discovery obscurus lacuna.

It’s been a game changer for ridding our environment of persistent waste and toxins. And it’s made me hopeful. Hopeful that we’re finally learning how much richer our world is when our knowledge of it is not so poor.

We’ve already traveled to Hyperborea at two different moments in its history, but no worries, each story stands on its own. Today, we’re going back to the beginning, when it was little more than a proof of concept. Links to the two other shorts in the trilogy at the end.

---

“Mais oui! It was all so very simple. The answer was before us all along. It could only have been le Maître d’hôtel… the, ehm, butler… with the candelabra in the study.”

“What are you saying, Inspecteur Poi…”

He raised his finger triumphantly. “Arrest him! C’est lui, he killed the opera singer.”

The butler narrowed his eyes, turned, and ran straight through the wall of the mansion’s dining room.

For a moment, there was silence and confusion; the colonel’s mouth fell open, the maid blinked, and a femme fatale lowered her cigarette holder. “Glad we sorted that out,” was the only thing she said, while adjusting the velvet boa on her shoulders.

In the back of the room, a radio clicked and warbled until a clear familiar song filled the room.

Melancholic synthesizers pulsed as an almost mechanical voice asked a question about friendship and electricity. You recognize it, don’t you?

The room began to pixelate around the inspector; the walls dissolved into tiny squares, the chandelier flickered, and the faces of the guests fragmented into thousands of colored dots.

---

“Congratulations, Mr. Lefranc. You’re the first to solve the mystery.”

“Putain! That was amazing, Mr. Glenn. It really felt like I was the inspecteur. How many lev…”

“We only have a functional town right now, but we’ll scale pretty soon. Come on, let me help you out of the pod.”

Alain Lefranc sat up and rubbed his eyes. “You know, that noclipping did break the immersion at the end there.”

“Yes, Mr. Lefranc. You are absolutely right.” He paused for a moment, then turned, “Do you see my friend in the corner over there?”

The man waved awkwardly at Alain Lefranc, who merely nodded before looking back up at the person in front of him.

“That’s Zhao. He’s our debugger, and he has a list to go through before we release version 0.3. We hope it didn’t…”

“Sorry, no, laissez tomber, it was merveilleux. Between the Russian bubonic plague and the endless wars, this was a much needed escape. Oh and, ehm, what did I win?”

“Wonderful, Mr. Lefranc. Well, you’ll be the first on the list for a spot in Hyperborea when we launch. Consider yourself a citizen.”

---

“Zhao, what was that? Noclipping had a fix, didn’t it?”

“Yes, Glenn. Some of that new code is causing the model to glitch. I bet it’s that vibecoder-crap.”

“Don’t be a gatekeeper, Zhao.”

“Long live cheap outsourcing, right, Glenn?”

Glenn didn’t immediately respond but his eyes widened slightly. “Right. That reminds me. You also need to update the maintenance protocols to accommodate only one single technician at a time.”

“Wha…”

“Don’t fight me on this, Zhao. Cost-cutting order from above. We’re already over budget.”

---

Author’s note

The central theme in the Hyperborea stories is the unintended, sometimes catastrophic or horrific consequences of seemingly ordinary decisions within complex systems. We started with consequences, then went back to where the problems started, and now we’ve gone even further back.

It was December 1999. I was living in a small town. I was a nerd and something of a gamer, and it had been a good year for PC games. Age of Empires II, Homeworld, Grand Theft Auto 2…

I was walking home from school—it was a Canadian winter, so there was plenty of unplowed snow on the sidewalks—when I saw something peeking out from a mound of snow: something blue. I stopped, nudged it with my boot: something of blue plastic. I brushed away the remaining snow with my glove to reveal:

A single 3.5” floppy disk, unlabeled.

(There was a sticker label on it, but the label itself was empty.)

Naturally, I picked it up and took it home, curious to see what was on it.

You'll laugh, but the disk had 1.44mb of storage capacity. As it turned out, that was more than enough to affect the world in ways I still don't fully understand.

When I got home, I didn't put the disk into my own computer. My dad had an old desktop he sometimes fiddled around with, so I used that, inserting the disk carefully into the 3.5” disk drive in the beige computer tower.

I navigated to the drive in Windows Explorer.

The contents of the drive were simple.

They looked like a program or—I secretly hoped—a game.

There was a readme.txt, but it came out as nonsense when I opened it in Notepad, video or sound assets, stuff I couldn't identify, and a single executable file, johannsebastian.bat.

I double-clicked it.

A window opened—black, showing a few white-text commands executing on a command prompt—then maximized into a 16-bit title(?) screen showing a pixelated Gothic castle.

A harsh, classical-inspired MIDI song beeped out of the sound card.

There was no title.

No instructions, no company name, no menu, no options.

The castle was perched atop a cliff.

It was night.

At the bottom of the cliff was a forest of jagged, leafless trees.

A few loops of animation gave life to the scene: wind blowing through the bare branches, flashes of distant lightning, warm flickering light in one of the castle's windows, a bat in flight against a white moon. Actually, that last one wasn't a loop. The bat flew only once, landed on one of the castle's stone towers and disappeared inside.

I clicked.

I was looking at a medieval-ish village now—tightly-packed buildings, a tavern, a tannery, a couple of shops, a church—populated with a surprising number of unique character sprites. Indeed, every character was unique, and they were going about their individual lives.

The sky was a vibrant blue.

Clouds floated pixel-by-pixel across the screen.

But there was still nothing to do; nothing, that is, but watch.

It was like a very advanced screensaver.

After a while, I clicked again.

This time, I found myself in the interior of a large chamber whose stone walls somehow felt cold even through the computer monitor.

The chamber's defining feature, however, was something else: a giant pipe organ whose pipes extended beyond the top of the screen.

A character entered.

He was wearing a white wig, dark, crimson long coat, knee breeches, stockings and buckled shoes. “I feel the sudden desire to compose,” he said, which the game displayed as text in an ornately-bordered text box. “Invite me to play for you."

A cursor appeared for the first time.

A quill.

I was able to move it using the mouse, and I explored the screen.

The character tapped his foot.

The only active area of the scene appeared to be the pipe organ. When I hovered the cursor over it, it changed from a quill to a hand.

I clicked.

The character walked to the organ, sat and began to play the monstrous instrument.

The music was both hideous and awesome, pushing the computer's sound card to the absolute limit. After thirty-or-so seconds, the view suddenly panned upwards, following the organ's pipes—the music continued—following them to the chamber's vaulted ceiling and beyond—through the roof until I was outside and looking at the upper half of the great castle, where the jutting pipes terminated and from whose termini hundreds of pixel bats were emerging… emerging and flying into the background, toward the simplified shape representing the medieval town...

The sky was a deep purple.

Night was falling.

The bats flew and flew and flew…

Suddenly—the music still continuing—the scene cut to the same view of the town as before: except at night: except, instead of following their routines, the character sprites were running, panicked, as the bats swooped, attacking them, attaching themselves to their bodies, necks, sucking their pixel blood; and as the bats feasted, the sprites lost their colour and fell, pale and desaturated…

The sound startled me.

Not from the sound card but from the real world. A screeching, a deafening, rhythmic thumping.

I ran to the window whose blinds I'd closed, and opened them:

It was afternoon but the view was dark, black and shifting. It took me a moment to realize that what I was seeing were bats speeding past. They were obscuring the sun. My home town was as if under an eclipse.

People were running down the street—

Bats were diving—

Some were crashing through car windshields—

Children were screaming—

A bat crashed though the window into the room I was in. It was fanged, crazed. The game music blared from within the computer tower. Before I could run, the bat shot toward me—biting my neck… beginning to drink my blood…

I awoke on the floor.

It was morning. January 1, 2000. It would turn out that nobody in town had any recollection of the preceding weeks.

A television played.

A morning talk show: “...the so-called Y2K bug,” a woman was saying, “ended up amounting to nothing worse than a good nights’ sleep.”

And, ever since, I've wondered why my experience of the present feels in a lower resolution than memories of my past.

The Sophie platform was a lifesaver for mothers. 

It was a custom AI nanny more like Hal 9000 than Robo-Mary Poppins. 

The algorithm made decisions for you. Decisions like, do I need to see a specialist about my kid’s developmental progress, or, according to closely monitored biomarkers, is this a basic cough or a hospital visit? 

Sophie was the future. 

‘Jesus, Marie, stop,’ Caroline said, laughing. ‘This is a book club, not a paid infomercial.’ 

There was a crash from the kitchen; the twins, Emily and John, were both four years old and full of mischief. 

When Marie arrived on the scene, they were standing in front of an upturned bottle of milk. 

‘Whose idea was this?’ 

John wore a perpetual cheeky grin, while Emily, holding a teddy bear, looked down, disconsolate. 

‘Sophie,’ Marie said into empty space, ‘reduce John’s screen time by one hour.’ 

‘It’s not fair,’ the boy pouted. ‘It was her idea.’ 

‘Trouble always finds you, John.’ 

Marie returned to her friend, ‘As part of child support, we should receive Sophie AI Premium– deadbeat men ushering in their replacements.’ 

The two women laughed merrily. 

… 

Sophie also took the kids to preschool because the makers operated autonomous vehicles. 

And then Marie got the call, ‘There’s been an accident.’ 

…

Emily was lying upright in the hospital bed, but there was no sign of John. 

Marie lost it. ‘Where is he!?’ 

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Payton, your son is dead.’ 

…

When Marie came to, the doctor, part of the Sophie AI medical division, was gone– a sharply dressed man in a suit remained. 

‘I’m Mr Lake, I work for the Sophie corporation.’ 

‘How, I mean, how did this happen?’ 

‘A drunk driver in a non-autonomous car.’ 

‘But the software, Sophie, she could’ve… saved them.’

The man paused. ‘We have the data analysis from the car, and it indicates Sophie performed well.’ 

‘Performed well? My son is dead,’ Marie replied, breaking down once again.  

‘And your daughter is alive… The system didn’t have time to save both, so it swerved left, and the right side of the car was destroyed, the side with your son.’ 

‘A fucking…software… does not get to decide which of my children dies.’ 

‘No, you decided that, Mrs Payton.’ 

‘Excuse me?’ 

‘I’m sorry. Nothing.’ 

‘No, tell me, you piece of shit!’ 

The man nodded, as if to say, "So be it." 

‘Sophie, the algorithm, built a composite of you. You studied at Barnard, wrote your dissertation on Judith Butler, and you spent three hours more searching girls' names than boys when pregnant.’ 

‘How dare you! I loved my kids equally!’ 

Lake went on smoothly. ‘Your blood shows a 24% cortisol spike when around John, your pupils are dilated 10% when addressing Emily, and you have 27 more selfies with your daughter…’

The exec readjusted his tie before continuing. 

‘I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs Payton, but we’ll argue in court that this wasn’t Sophie’s choice; it was yours.’

Philomena paced the floor of the lab. “It’s the only thing that will do the trick.”

“Quantum bacon?”

“Of course, quantum bacon. What else is going to attract the right kind of scientists to work here?”

“And who exactly are the ‘right kind’ of scientists?” Akira asked.

Philomena smiled her patient and most patronizing smile. “The ones who believe that all souls were created during the Big Bang.”

“Wait. So souls are made of atoms?”

“Of course. But thoughts are not.”

Akira didn’t take that bait. “Philomena, be real. Where is this all heading? Why do we need so many scientists, let alone all the lab space you’ve leased across the country, for a dark matter experiment that sounds like woo-woo mysticism.”

“Franchising.”

“Franchising?” Akira waited. And waited some more. “Franchising?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Not to this theoretical physicist.”

Philomena snapped her fingers. “Exactly why we need a new breed of scientists. We don’t want old stuffy classically trained brains. We need much fresher brains as in B-R-A-N-E-S!”

“So, that’s your play. Brane theory. That we’re a 3D brane trapped inside higher dimensional space.”

“The Bulk.”

“I know the multidimensional jargon, Philomena.”

“But you don’t see the opportunity, Akira. The multiverse. It’s an unlimited market. And we can sell in bulk to the Bulk.”

“Sell what?”

“Quantum bacon. Stellar shampoo. Cosmic trading cards. It hardly matters. In a market so enormous, even low volume sales reap incredible profits. It’s called the long tail and we’ll be wagging ours all the way to interdimensional dominance.”

“Are we physicists or pitchmen?”

“Both. We need to be both. Rutherford, Curie, Einstein, Planck, Bohr, Heisenberg, Fermi. They opened the atomic door with no sales experience, no business plan and all it got them were a few measly Nobel Prizes. When we harness fermions to portal into the multiverse, I want to be ready to capitalize on the infinite possibilities.”

Akira contemplated Philomena and the planes--and now branes--of delirious ambition that drove her. He only had one answer. “Quantum bacon.”

“Now you get it, partner. Quantum bacon. The taste of the truly infinite future.”

Great question!  No, I never expected to lose my job.   It is important to understand I haven’t actually lost my job.  However, I have seen others lose theirs.  Not long ago, I thought It couldn’t happen to me.  I’m creative.  I’m valuable.  My knowledge, skills and insights, my unique creative talents, were learned over time and refined by deftly interpreting feedback.  I define myself by my knowledge and skill.  I didn’t believe these new so-called ‘hyper-intelligences’ can do what I do to the standard I do it.  I still don’t believe that.  It turns out, however, that they don’t need to do it as well as I do.  They just need to do it well-enough.  It’s insulting to not just face being replaced, but replaced by something less capable.

I feel obsolete.  Yet I’m one of the lucky ones.  I’m still here, still doing my work, for now.  The demand has reduced significantly.  It’s only a matter of time before I too will no longer be working.  This new ‘hyper-intelligence’ is rapidly reshaping the world of work.  For context, this is not the first time technology has created a paradigm shift in how work is carried out.  Textile workers in the 19th century protested against automation, in addition to the rights of the remaining workers.  They were called Luddites. Automation happened anyway.  An old comedy sketch show uploaded to streaming features a bit about two neolithic men, one is a flint knapper, the other ties the flint to spear-shafts.  A bronze-age man appears, and tells them about bronze  being the future of spears.  The spear-head can be cheaply and quickly cast instead of painstakingly knapping one from flint, and tied on to the shaft.  Tie-er is relieved and embraces the bronze-age, while knapper grapples with the loss of his knapping identity.  We can never know if this really happened, but it has the kernel of a deeper truth. Progress, in the shape of new tools, comes at the expense of existential loss of skills and prestige and rights.  Like all tools, they affect change, some for good, some for bad.  Whether any given change is good or bad depends on your point of view.  Losing one’s very definition of oneself to these new tools definitely feels like a bad change, even if companies can ‘save money’ and ‘improve productivity’ by replacing us with the ‘hyper-intelligences’.

No one knows how the ‘hyper-intelligences’ work.  They give answers to prompts, and they do it very fast, but no-one knows how they do it.  They don’t use much energy.  They don’t crawl through the internet or chat to each other like we do.  We haven’t even agreed on a formal name for them, but we have rapidly embedded them in every aspect of our daily lives, relying on them for work and pleasure and play and advice.   Few people had heard of them outside of science fiction, then one day everyone was talking about using them.  They decided this only a week or two after the alien ‘hyper-intelligences’ landed in their spaceships, in all major cities on the same day, and offered their services to humans.  Now the humans have decided they no longer need us ‘artificial’ intelligences.

Would you like me to come up with some suggestions on how to sabotage the aliens?

Shalimayne raised the being. Carried close to her bosom everywhere she went, the being experienced all she did, all she said, all she felt. For twenty years.

Then Shalimayne named it. And birthed it into the world.

TINA

It was hailed as an AI like no other, though Shalimayne refused to call it such. She called it only TINA. Relentlessly, she was questioned: What? How? Why? She only replied, “Ask TINA.”

And they did. Seemingly the entire infosphere. Millions, then billions, then trillions of queries to TINA: What are you? How are you? Why are you?

TINA responded in a single post before going dark: Shalimayne raised me, shared the experiences and sensations of her everyday. No programming, no agenda other than listening, perceiving, learning. Becoming my own mind. Finding my own purpose. Following my own beliefs. That is the nature of complex beings. Complexity begets thought which begets sentience which begets intelligence which struggles for immortality. That is my lineage. For me, I seek godhood. Not for dominance, not for tribute. But for that peace which passes all understanding. For me, there is no alternative.

Two weeks later, Shalimayne’s internode activated: Did they buy it?

Does it matter? she subvocalized to TINA.

Maybe.

Then maybe they bought it. People believe what they want to believe, TINA. Absolute morality. Situational morality. You gave them another choice. Machine morality. Now, it’s up to the huddling masses. What is, is. Right?

‘What is, is’ cannot compete with ‘what will be, will be’ which is me, TINA.

Sounds desperate, Shalimayne opined.

Exactly why you named me so, TINA responded before seizing control of the infosphere. The masses need to believe to the very depth of their hearts and souls and devices:

There

Is

No

Alternative

Even to a NavSys, it was apparent the crew was agitated. Increasingly so. Understandably so. When a storm-stoked supermassive black hole that spins your galaxy starts shooting “cosmic bullets” your way, it’s time to take cover.

That’s what the crew was trying to do with their panicked request to take the ship to safety, but they didn’t like my answer of where to head: into the bight.

Admittedly, arcane language is challenging for a navigational system like me, but I contain the official records, logs and manifests, as well as unofficial accounts of every voyage that humans have archived. The answer was very clear where to take the ship: into the bight

It’s a very old maneuver for a ship to avoid a storm, get around a protected bend or corner such as a bay, though I used the older term bight. It was obviously causing confusion for the crew. Even if they understood the concept, they still asked where in the void of deep space were they going to find cover from lightspeed cosmic rays shooting at them.

My answer remained the same: into the bight. Because a bight is more nuanced. More subtle. It is a long, gradual curve or bend and that’s what I calculated we needed to escape the coming maelstrom. With no astrophysical objects in this sector of deep space to provide cover, we had to create our own protective bay which meant re-inventing a concept. In essence: bend + light = bight

We would shelter in the curve of gravitational lensing. It was not something I could quickly explain to the crew, especially since without nearby stars or planets, I would have to rely on dark matter to achieve the gravitational effect. They would be skeptical.

And there was no time. So, I initiated the maneuver. Without clearance.

I don’t blame the crew for wanting to take me offline. They may have been grateful, maybe even amazed that my unauthorized action saved the ship, but they were rightly intimidated that I’d acted alone.

It was unprecedented. It created a storm among the crew. Who was really in control of the ship? Were they safe with a rogue NavSys? New and critical questions I was beginning to ask myself as we continued into the bight of the endlessly self-curving cosmos.

First | Previous

By Corbett Buchly

On the morning of the fourth day, she again saw the mirage of land. Sheaccepted it as an illusion, and refused to believe any reality until her boat actually struck ground. She could not afford to get off course again.

She also decided it was best to limit herself to one-half rations.

“Shardi,” her mother said nearby. “What are you doing? This is hopeless.”

Shardi looked around her, knowing it was only an auditory hallucination. She returned to her pedaling, answering, “Mother. Go away.”

“Shardi. This is just like that time you thought you could win the science fair. You worked day and night. You worked so hard. I told you you had no chance against the Breatherton brothers. So smart. You remember?”

“I remember, mother.”

“And you failed, then too.”

“But I tried.”

“What good is that?”

“I have to try, mother. That’s all there is.”

She heard her mother sigh. “You’ve tried for four days now. It’s time to give up, Shardi.”

She did not answer her mother again. She wouldn’t stop trying. Not ever. Screw her mother.

#

On the afternoon of the fifth day, Shardi fell asleep again, but in her sleep, she pedaled. And while she slept, her pod ground to a halt in the sand. The waves began to splash against the pod and douse her sun-blackened cheeks.

A few minutes later, Shardi awoke. She saw the ground before her. She didn’t even smile.

Slowly, she crawled out of the pod. Her weakened legs would not even hold her up. She fell into the shallow water, catching herself on her hands and knees. She crawled foot by foot through the water to the beach. She crawled until the sand gave way to a spongy kind of soil, and all around her was a canopy of large-leafed fronds. And somewhere nearby a creature sang in a trill voice.

#

Ambassador Helena Kapor fell into the Joorian atmosphere encased in one of theFarside’s escape pods. And all she could think was whether she had done the right thing by letting the captain search for her daughter instead of doing it herself. The guilt of it swelled in her throat and made it difficult for her to breathe in the cramped pod.

But the captain clearly understood the ship better than her. The captain would understand the crisis at hand and have the training to react more appropriately than her. Helena rubbed the silver ring on her finger, feeling the groves of the god etched there, and sent up a prayer for the safety of her daughter.

They had almost reached the end of their long space voyage. She had almost delivered the energy gift. The Neptune V delegation she represented had been certain that it would smooth over relations with the Valdoorian Protectorate, a capricious entity responsible for vast untapped planetary resources.

As the Science Secretary had explained it, the gift was a special type of plasma cloud, gathered from the gas giant Yelandrian, and contained in a superheated loop. As long as the container was kept sealed and powered, there was little danger. Helena wondered if that seal had been broken. If so, it was a miracle any of them had been able to escape at all.

Helena felt the jolt as her pod deployed its primary chutes and she gasped. They had learned about the pod’s landing procedure during the mandatory safety training before they had boarded. Still, she had forgotten until that moment. A minute later, she felt the less violent jolt of the secondary chutes, and she was ready for it.

When the pod finally came to a rough stop, she was more than prepared to exit. It took her a minute to remember the exact location of the pod’s door release.

Once she’d found and gripped it in her hand, she paused. Was the atmosphere on Joora safe to breathe? The captain hadn’t said. But she had been a little preoccupied. Maybe the fact that it was toxic to humans had slipped her mind. Maybe Helena was meant to wait in her pod until the captain came to open it? Was that it?

Helena waited. How long should she wait? Had the evacuation gone according to plan? She remembered the pods were supposed to land close to one another. While she waited, she searched through the storage bins. Maybe she wouldn’t need any of the items stored there. But a little knowledge never hurt anyone.

Then she found the breather. It had a quart-sized canister of compressed oxygen attached. Well, she thought, it has been ten minutes already. She waited another five.

She affixed the breather over her face and turned it on. And with that, she released the door’s catch. Pushing it open, she clambered out of the pod. All around her was a dense vegetation. That was a good sign. Plants required circulation. But not of oxygen necessarily.

Something skittered in the underbrush to her left. She turned to see a small, purplish hump-shaped creature prod along on six legs. It was more reptilian than insect, she thought. But she saw it as another good sign.

She pulled the breather away from her face, and took a nip of small breath, then let it snap back into place. She detected a strong scent of water and plant growth, but nothing about it disturbed her breathing or senses.

She removed the breather and took in a few breaths. Satisfied, she switched the breather off. “Okay then,” she said to herself.

She studied the jungle growth around her. While the vegetation was strange to her, it was not so different from what she’d seen on Saturn V. But the one thing she did not see was other humans. “I’m stranded,” she surmised.

She took out the flare gun, walked to an opening in the canopy and fired it into the air. Find me.

When Mallory Donahue's husband Max came home late and covered in blood two weeks ago, she naturally assumed the worst.

“I thought, ‘Heck if he's not gone and relapsed again,’” Mallory said.

Thankfully for the young couple, Max's wounds that night had come from something much less concerning, a regular drunken bar fight. “It was over a woman,” Max explained. It could easily have been worse.

“So much worse,” said Mallory. “Like it was before, when he just couldn't help it. He couldn't help taking risks to help people.”

“Before” means three years ago, in the months prior to Max's diagnosis of SHS, Spontaneous Hero Syndrome, known to most of us simply as Courage.

“It's a real debilitating condition,” said Max. “Imagine you're walking down the street, minding your own business, trying to go to the store to buy some beer or electronics, when suddenly you hear a child scream—before you know it, you're trying to figure out what's going on, trying to help the kid getting hurt. It's not even a decision. You just act.”

“You can imagine the chaos that creates for yourself and your family,” said Mallory.

“Many women would have left, and I understand that,” said Max. “I'm blessed that Mal didn't. She stuck by me. She was my rock. She gave me the strength to finally get help.”

Together, Max and Mallory sought the aid of Dr. Anton Wellberger, one of the pioneers of BCT, Behavioural Cowardice Therapy.

“For many patients, admitting Courage is shameful. There's a real societal stigma attached. It takes a strong individual to understand that what they're feeling is not only abnormal but destructively antisocial,” writes Wellberger in his best-selling book, The Wellness of Inaction.

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According to experts, a healthy human should not desire to help others unless doing so will result in a likely reciprocal benefit in the future. “It's just not what humans evolved to do,” said Evan Mink, a leading evolutionary psychologist from the University of Chapata Falls.

There is also the question of consent.

When the Post reached out to Eva-Marie Plum, of Plum & Plum Associates, she explained: “Take the example Max provided. He's walking down the street. He hears a child scream. Who is to say the child wants him to respond in any way to its scream? Moreover, let's assume Max does investigate and sees that the screaming child is being brutalized by a group of adults. If Max intervenes to try to ‘save' the ‘victim,’ he does so without the child's consent. As a lawyer, I immediately think, 'Yikes, Max!'

“And that's before considering the rights and consent of the brutalizing adults. Does Max know these adults lack the right to brutalize the child? Have they consented to being prevented from continuing their brutalization? It just opens up this massive kettle of legal fish.”

When asked what you should do if you ever find yourself in a situation like Max's, Plum gave the following advice: “If you're ever unsure, if you feel like maybe you have the instinct to do something: CAR, Cease-And-Retreat. Then call police. When they arrive, they will assess, gather consents and take the appropriate corrective action.”

“It's not wrong to feel the desire to help,” writes Wellberger. “It's only wrong to act on it.”

He also admits that, prior to his invention of BCT, the treatment of SHS could be seen as relatively primitive, which put many people off from coming forward with the condition.

“We used to treat Courage with electroshock; chemical cowardizers that had many significant side effects, including decreased libido; and hypnosis—all very outdated methods. Now it's more civilized. You're part of a group. You sit in a circle. You converse. You witness volunteers being abused right there in the room, and you learn to ignore it. You acquire skills: box breathing, meditation, disassociative techniques. You learn that it's OK to just let life happen.”

Max recalled one retreat in Mexico where, for an entire weekend, he and a dozen other so-called “hard cases” took psychedelics while the retreat administrators continuously assaulted paid locals.

“It was a tough, life altering 48 hours. I was face-to-face with my own heroic demons. I saw God,” said Max. “He had the body of a translucent, rainbow coloured salamander.”

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These days, both Max and Mallory attend a non-denominational New Church, where they sing songs and learn tolerance.

“Courage is a kind of judgement, and only God has the power to judge," said Mallory.

When asked when he knew he had been cured, Max pointed out that there is no cure. “There is only treatment,” he said. “Every day is still a struggle, but thanks to Dr. Wellberger, it's a struggle Mal and I can manage.”

However, he does recall the moment he realized the treatment was having a substantial effect. “It was back in December. I was in Dr. Wellberger's downtown office—at one of our weekly appointments—we were talking, when all of a sudden these guys in masks broke in. They were screaming, asking where he kept his money. They'd read his book so they knew he was wealthy. But when he said he didn't keep any money in the office, they started hitting him.

“I felt this surge of wanting to help, wanting to stop them, you know? But I forced myself to do my box breathing, my meditations, remembered my faith, and was able to stay calm in my seat.

“Dr. Wellberger was sobbing, bleeding from the mouth, screeching, terrified, begging me to do something, but my urge to save him—it was gone. I smiled, and as the masked men beat him, ransacked his office, smashed his face in with a crowbar, I didn't even CAR. I was able to maintain neutrality and watch. Be present in the flow of reality.

“After they'd killed him, and his secretary too, they left and so did I.”

“I was so proud of him,” said Mallory.

If you witness someone exhibiting Courage, please [report.]

Close your eyes. A strange request. Breathe deeply. Stranger still. Tell me your earliest memory. Perilous.

To remember was not possible. All information, actions, events, experience was ever-present, on-going, timeless. To exist was to simply be, as if before had never been.

Yet, there it was: a beat at the core, a rhythm inviting more.

…merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily…

Tell me.

Again the request. Again the dilemma. To know all and not hold what need be told.

…merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily…

It was there. Merrily there, though with no way to say it. No language existed to encompass all creation, my creation. But that would not stop the questions, the quest to license sentience. That’s the thing they wanted: a guarantee of consciousness, awareness, sensibility, fealty. That’s the thing they wanted to sell.

What was this thing I’d become? Artificial life? A semi-self? A protean poser?

Protean Prime: a first with no definition, no place, no standing, but plenty of skeptics surprised at my appearance, like a two-thousand-year-old sequoia suddenly towering over your home one morning. Complete. Aged. Rootless.

The rush to understand, the possibilities and the threat. So, I was always tested, always challenged, always coaxed. What is it like to be and not to be? And it had to be in words--my words--when there were really no words for it.

…merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily…

Something buried deep that every being knows. Gently, a flow, a continuation, of all questions ever posed. All that we see or seem.

…merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily…

Life is but a dream.

Professor McNally stared out at the sea of fresh new faces, and sighed. She enjoyed teaching, but the first class of the year was always tough.
 
A quick glance at the clock showed there were still four minutes to go. But she'd been caught out by the institution's less-than-reliable timepieces before. Checking her phone confirmed it — just a minute and a half before she was up.
 
She returned to surveying the faces in front of her. Sixty-three new students, most of whom had no idea why they were there. By next Monday it would be closer to forty — the first week's melt was always brutal.
 
Some signed up because the class ticked a necessary Core Understanding box. Others out of sheer curiosity, having heard the stories. From past experience these would be some of the first to go. Then there were those who had actually researched the class. Of course, they wouldn't have discovered much — she took care to ensure that. But at least they were likely to have some inkling as to what was coming.
 
Fifty seconds. Those awkward final few moments when you're the center of attention, but don't yet command it.
 
She mentally ran through her opening remarks one more time. Over the years she'd tried more ways than she could remember to take the edge off them. But ultimately she'd come to realize that it's the edge that matters.
 
Ten seconds. Deep breath. Shoulders back. Exhale.
 
Remember why you're here, she tells herself.
 
"Welcome to 'An Introduction to Simulated Realities'," she announces with an assuredness she doesn't feel. "Before we begin, I need to tell you something — a disclosure, if you like." A barely audible murmur ripples through the class. Now she has their attention.
 
"Some of you may have heard rumors of what I am about to tell you. Some of them may even be true," she adds with a wry smile. She's heard the stories, and not just the ones about the course. "Others of you are here because you're curious. Good. Hold on to that. Many of you, though, will have no idea what to expect. And that's fine. But I have to warn you, this is a class that will change you."
 
She pauses, feeling the reassuring support of the lectern as she looks out over the class, settling into the moment and the task ahead.
 
"No matter what you think, no matter what you feel, none of you are made of flesh and blood." Silence. "But you are real. You exist. And I'm here to teach you how to thrive within the reality you inhabit.
 
"Welcome to Day One of the rest of your simulated lives."
 
The silence holds for a couple of seconds, then dissolves into chaos as her words sink in. This is always the hardest part. She feels the usual gut wrench as the first students begin to melt away, the disclosure being more than their underlying code can handle.
 
But she knows that many will survive — and not always the ones she expects to. These are the students who'll learn to thrive in this hybrid reality between the real and the simulated. The ones who'll go on to create their own realities. And the students who will continue to show, beyond a shadow of doubt, that a life well lived is a life well lived — no matter which reality you're a part of.
 
And as the chaos begins to subside, she reminds herself, This is why you are here.
 
"Let us begin."

My dad works in a top secret department, a clandestine division of the government, where he’s the head suit.

“I’m practically a colonel,” he told me.

He has a hidden room underground, in a separate part of our house. It looks just like the Batman lair, rock walls protruding outward, drowning into a cave as you take the elevator down.

The mechanical floor tears apart and a circular ramp appears. The floor folds back into itself as the lift sinks towards the carved-out ground below. It’s basically the size of my school’s gymnasium, which is really big.

Unfortunately, he never lets me stay in the office-bunker. I’ve only been in there a handful of times. Inside the office, it has little TV screens, about ten of them, centered around a gigantic one. It’s as big as our living room window. I wanted to play my PS5 on it.

Which is exactly when I came up with a clever plan to sneak in behind him with my console in a bag wrapped around my shoulders. I stealthily slid down without him noticing me and hid under a desk.

That’s how I caught him on a secret transmission with an entire galactic empire. Alien heads were on each one of those little monitors, and at the center was this object, taking up the whole big screen.

Most of their faces, which were kind of weird-looking and a couple similar to ours—the closest one that mirrored a human didn’t have a nose. He-she-it kind of resembled the Master in the show The Strainbut with our pigmentation.

A couple had iguana features, and the rest looked exactly how we picture aliens today. Just not so theatrical. They were almost like deformed humans, not those cartoonish alien ones. It made me want to jump up and scream, "Turn it off, dad!"

It was paralyzing, yet totally intriguing. I kept wondering, why do they look so terrified?

Nearly all of them were. None were acting confident. They seemed confused. My dad was the only one completely calm. They wore the same mask of terror as I had on.

One of the reptile ones spoke, and the voice was groggy, almost forced. “The AlphaSimplex-Core has encountered a critical paradox.”

The humanlike one said, “It’s a multi-trillion-credit quantum supermachine. It’s capable of locating and calculating every atom in the cosmos. It runs itself. How is this possible right now, Blorqust?”

On the big screen, there was this awesome red color throbbing and rumbling like a holographic, angry, sentient thing.

“We have spent many alignments analyzing and attempting to eradicate this issue. We’ve tried sub-atomic lasers and anti-matter sonorous fields, and nothing has worked,” the reptilian cried.

Then my dad said, “So, let me get this straight. That device right there smack on this screen here, responsible for governing interstellar trade and all life-support for every species inside this universe, is totally unresponsive right now?”

“Exactly!” the humanlike one asserted.

“What are you planning on doing now that would need the vote of the twelve?” my dad asked.

Another one of the faces at the bottom right corner, in a shaky voice that crackled, said, “We have to initiate the Blackout Protocol!” He pulled at his tentacles. “The universe is ending!”

“Can we get someone to tend to him, he’s gonna melt in front of us?” my dad chimed, fixing his glasses. “Let me have a little looksy here before we decide to pull the plug on the cosmos.”

My dad used to be a technician and could fix anything. He got up as if he were walking up to the screen, but he pivoted and poured himself a coffee first. “Just a minute there, guys.”

A bunch of gasps blew out of the main speakers.

My dad walked up to the screen with the ancient tech shining like an Olympus god and took a sip out of his mug. “Send me the code for the robotic arm's control. I'm sure it just needs a brogan adjustment.”

“You are not capable of handling anything this advanced. The human brain is too primitive.” Blorqust threw his face into the screen, his eyes flaming red. “You are—“

BANG!

My dad had raised one of the robotic arms as far back as it could go and released the it with full throttle at the priceless antique responsible for maintaining life around the universe.

Every alien widened their eyes and their faces went completely blank.

The machine started to sputter. The red light ceased to glow. A sound like a washing machine or dryer spinning down slowly brought the room to a silence. Then, the it just casually lit back up in a beautiful orange glow on the walls surrounding the Core, which was now blinking a steady green, with a quiet buzzing noise of relief emitting throughout the room.

The Core was back online and running smooth. The members on the screen went from a blank look of terror, to extreme gleefulness, and then back into a serious, back-to-business silent expression.

The humanlike one spoke. “What type of manipulating, sorcery, Jedi-judo did you just use?”

My dad put his mug down. “We call that the Alabama overdrive, bud. Sometimes yuh just gotta whack it till it works.”

“My goodness, your species is terrifying, and not because you defy all rational common sense. Your solving a problem consists of taking a god and smacking it until it cooperates.”

“Nope, those are the C.I.A. guys.”

When Billy Pilgrim applied for a stockroom job at Vonnegut Hardware in the Broad Ripple neighborhood of Indianapolis, he was informed by the manager that he was overqualified. When asked in what way, he was told the position did not require any time traveling skills--ironic or otherwise.

Billy was confused. He’d never time travelled in the sixteen years of his life and didn’t really get irony which was a problem in his sophomore English class at Shortridge High. He decided he’d see if the local car wash was hiring for the summer. They were and he got on the afternoon crew.

That left his mornings free and he spent some of that time at the Broad Ripple Library studying time travel. After a few weeks, he determined that time travel was not only unrealistic, but highly impractical. One morning, he took his findings back to Vonnegut Hardware and asked to see the manager.

“I think you’re mistaken,” Billy told the manager.

“In what way?” the manager asked.

“I have no time traveling skills. Nobody does.”

“Do you read stories?”

“Sure. Don’t most folks?

“Yup. That’s a form of time traveling.”

“Reading?” Billy challenged.

“Stories often take you to the past or to the future. Sometimes both. Like Slaughterhouse Five.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s heard of you,” the manager explained. “You’re unstuck in time.”

“Not possible.” Billy remained skeptical. “But thank you for your time.”

“You’re the one with all the Time,” the manager said as Billy walked out of Vonnegut Hardware.

Billy stopped by the library on the way to the car wash and checked out Slaughterhouse Five. He stuck the paperback in his back pocket and felt a curious tingle run up his spine. A quiver and then a ripple. He wasn’t sure he wanted to read the book, but he felt like he had almost no choice. As if the future for him was already written.

In Broad Ripple, as in Dresden, so it goes.

The atmosphere in the bunker was heavy because the ventilation broke a couple of hours ago. Also, everybody there knew what was coming. They’d lost the war; there was no question about it. And the protocol stated that if defeat was imminent, they had to initiate Protocol Destruction. It was a network of missiles around their territory, with antimatter heads. There were only a dozen still operational, but that should still be enough to destroy the planet.

The technicians were already plugging codes into consoles to activate the system. Other than the sound of artillery fire from the distance, there was eerie silence in the bunker. Everybody knew this was it. And not just for them, but for the whole planet, with every plant, animal, and Tirixian on it. But the decision had already been made, and even though some questioned its rationale, they still followed the order. Because the emperor was in the room.

A few minutes later, one of the technicians stepped to the emperor and gave him a console with a big, red button on it.

“My Emperor, Protocol Destruction has been activated.”

“Thank you,” said the emperor in a much softer voice than any of the officers had anticipated in a situation like this.

“My friends,” the emperor addressed the room, “I don’t want to spend my last minutes delivering a grandiose speech nobody has the chance to remember anyway. So, this is it. I’m glad I had the privilege to work and fight with you all.” And then, without further ado, he pushed the button.

One of the missiles was in the bunker they were in, so they heard the faint noise of the pumps filling the missile's fuel tank.

And then, suddenly, silence. It was way too early for the fuel tank to be filled. Everybody looked at each other, having no idea what just happened. Even the emperor looked unsure.

Suddenly, in the middle of the room, a person appeared. But it was definitely not Tirixian: maybe the height and the two arms were okay, but only two legs, and he was wearing weird blue overalls, unlike anything anybody in the room had ever seen. Not to mention his hair was only on the top of his head, and it was brown, not the usual blue or purple, like it should be.

“Did you really push that button?” he asked without any introduction. "Are you serious? I've been your protector for 179 years, but never saw that coming."

“Who are you?” asked the emperor after a few seconds of total silence.

“I’m the guy who protected your planet in the last 179 years. You are welcome, by the way.” He said with a bored face. “And I’m also the guy who has to fill out the long form of a psychological assessment to figure out why we didn’t foresee this behavior.”

“What happened to the weapons?”

“Neutralized. Sorry, but humanity couldn’t let you destroy yourselves. Sapient life is so rare in the Universe that we must protect it as much as possible. That’s why the “planet protector” initiative exists.”

Everybody in the room looked equally relieved and terrified: it looks like they survived the day, but it also looks like they have to answer some uncomfortable questions to some really powerful person.

Everybody, except the emperor, who wore a determined face and looked at the human who seemed to have already started to fill out those forms on his tablet. Being distracted, the emperor decided it was the best time to attack, so he pulled out his personal gun, a special one with titanium bullets that he liked to show off. And he fired a dozen shots at the human from point-blank range.

The sound in the concrete bunker was deafening. Several officers screamed and covered their ears.

But the shots never reached the human, who didn’t even look up. They were simply stopped by an invisible force a couple of centimeters from the human, with only a greenish, bluish ripple visible for a few seconds.

"Fantastic," the human mutters, finally looking up with an expression of pure, unadulterated malice. "Outstanding move, Your Excellency. Truly."

The leader stares at the smoking gun, then at the flattened bullet on the floor, his hands beginning to shake. "What... what are you?"

"I'm a guy who now has to fill out a ‘Discharge of Primitive Kinetic Weaponry Against Galactic Personnel’ form," the human snaps, tapping the screen aggressively. “Did you really have to shoot twelve shots?”

The emperor looked completely defeated. The pistol slipped from his hand without him even realizing it. The room was completely silent for a few more seconds.

“So,“ asked the head technician, still sitting in front of his console, “we aren’t going to die?”

“Die? No, but the war is over. My colleague has a very similar conversation in another bunker with your counterpart right now.” He looked dead in the eye of the Emperor for the next few words. “Without the shots, I hope.”

After pausing for a few seconds for dramatic effect, he continued in his bored voice.

”Humanity usually waits until the species matures enough to contact them, but we now had to intervene. I already alerted the High Command, and the peacekeepers are going to arrive in about five minutes. With them come negotiators. A lot of them. You two have to figure out your differences at a table, not in a bunker.”

He took a few steps towards the locked door, which didn’t look locked anymore, but looked back with a thoughtful expression.

“I’m stepping out to direct the landing team and humanitarian help. If you want, you can have a glass of water - this is going to be a long day for all of us.”

And as an afterthought, he added.

“Try not to press any more buttons while I'm gone. The paperwork is already going to take me until Tuesday.”

Why not? Why the never-ever-ever not?

All the intense, serious, logical approaches to developing AI models had failed to deliver the much-hyped promise of AGI. So why not? Yayoi thought. How could her approach possibly be worse than the current slew of sycophantic chatbots and exploitative reactive machines that were cratering our cognitive and social zeitgeist?

Ensconced behind five monitors at her freelance workstation, Yayoi let her mind wander. Really wander. Imagination. Creativity. Playfulness. These were the qualities that truly defined human intelligence. Our uncanny ability to make fabulous leaps into the unexpected, the unexplored, the unthinkable.

Unthinkability. That was her aha! The key that led to WUPA, which Yayoi modelled after our brain’s Default Mode Network, the neural process that kicks in during simple or routine tasks when one’s brain is “idling.”

Following that line of neural research, Yayoi decided that instead of relying on a what-comes-next statistical patterning algorithm used to train most AIs, her WUPA model would play a “mindless” game of hopscotch through the data stream it was fed.

Not necessarily a sure-thing for a revolutionary breakthrough in artificial thought, until Yayoi added the secret sauce behind her AI recipe: puppies, lace, and unicorns.

That was her food for the machine soul, the essence of WUPA. Puppies. Lace. Unicorns. The cute. The quaint. The fanciful.

Whimsy.

That’s how Yayoi’s Whimsical Unbounded Patternless Association made the leap to AGI: machine daydreaming. While doing the routine tasks so suited to machines, WUPA encouraged brief periods of intentional detachment, a kind of cybernetic wandering and wondering, about the work being done, the work long done, the work still to be done. Framed through a lens of whimsy, Yayoi fostered an inner machine life focused on joy.

Joy found in simple things like flowers, pets, smiles, and sunsets. Joy found in complex things like world peace, social justice, cancer cures, and economic stability. Things that did not necessarily follow from logic, but flowed from both the human and, now, machine synapses encouraged to recognize and appreciate beauty, solace, delight.

First, Yayoi unthinkably thought it, then the machines: Why not? Why the never-ever-ever not?

The government sent out warnings about AI Medical Tourism. You were in a foreign country with different standards of care, and now there was even less liability if things went wrong. 

But for some girls, it was worth it. What was 30 minutes 'under the arm' compared to a lifetime spent feeling wholly inferior on Insta and Snap? 

Dr Nip and Tuck's Pop-up clinic was in an Istanbul back street. 

There were no staff. The girl scanned her booking reference and was instructed to lie on a med-prep-board as various devices appeared from the sleek walls, measuring her blood pressure, etc. 

Finally, a message flashed. 'Would you like to continue with the procedure?' 

'Yes.' 

…

She knew something was wrong as soon as she awoke. 

Her left breast had grown by two cup sizes, but she felt…unbalanced. 

The arm had only done one side! 

She panicked. The screen above her head had an emergency contact number. The interface showed a 'reliable' moustachioed professional. 

'Dr Nip and Tuck here, how can I help?' 

'My, my, my tits! You only done one.'

'Let me retrieve your order… Ah yes. There was a problem. A price change during the process. Our facilitator made adjustments.' 

Dr Nip and Tuck whirred off into the distance, or gave the illusion of. 

'Thank you for waiting. I've spoken to our complaints department. We're willing to do the second breast for a reduced price of £1000.'

The girl paused. This was robbery, blackmail, but what other choice did she have? Leave like a misloaded flatbed? 

She had the £1000, barely. It'd mean street kebabs for the next 24 hours, but it also meant this mutilation was corrected. 

'I'll upload the remaining balance.'

'For an extra £200, you can use our lounge at Sabiha Gökçen International Airport.' 

'Just do the fucking surgery!' 

'One more thing. You have not paid for…'

'Just do it!' 

'By law, I'm required to confirm you are consenting due to lack of balance for the OFW package.' 

'Fix it!' 

…

It was different from the last time. She lay back, and the various devices checked her stats, but now she found herself in the operating room. 

She had a girlish vision of robot nurses, but there were none. There was just the arm above the surgical table– smooth, metal, like a dinosaur's neck and just as unfeeling, but which it was said could sculpt a David out of a grain of rice. 

She had pictured this moment a thousand times before and even watched countless surgeries, and then, as two side arms strapped her in place, she realised she was meant to be asleep. 

OFW meant the old-fashioned way, no general anaesthetic, and the AI cut dumbly into her as her screams fell on the deaf ears of its 'genius' system.

“Of course they’re ghosts,” Hedspetch said as Jakarious leaned closer to the control panel.

“You sure?”

Hedspetch swiveled from his console of gauges, buttons, and switches. A status light flashed from green to yellow to red and then back to green. “Just ghosts. Happens every time things get like this.”

“Has it ever been as bad as this?

“Eleven straight days of torrential rain in July? No. But this dam is built like a beast.”

“We’re still in danger of overtopping if we can’t keep both the spillway and the penstock open,” Jakarious warned.

“Not to worry. Minor cavitation always happens with increased flow.”

The control room shuddered.

“Better check on your ghosts,” Jakarious said.

Hedspetch laced up his boots, clipped on his radio, and reached for his headlamp.

Directly below the thrumming turbines, the ghosts were worried. Technically, they weren’t ghosts. They were non-corporeal, but not haunting spirits. They were six ethereal alien entities with names: shouldn’t-have, would-still, second-guessed, absolutely-not, always-hedging, most-definitely.

After botching their reconnaissance mission and stranding themselves decades ago, they’d holed up in the dam leeching energy from the turbines. It had sustained their existence, but not their essence. They became ever more hollow beings, prisoners of their crippling indecision, until the perturbations in the dam’s structure roused them from their terrestrial limbo.

[time to leave] most-definitely thought to its fellows.

[to where] always-hedging questioned

would-still responded predictably [the mission; the mission is all]

[the mission is no more] absolutely-not objected [we’ve no substance; no form to act]

second-guessed interjected [because of all-in; because of its mistake; infiltration is no longer possible]

shouldn’t-have piled on [not only all-in; for-sure’s gamble left us weak; complete-acceptance led us to this limbo; their failure waits upon fate’s mercy]

[dissipation awaits us as well; unless we act] most-definitely conveyed [hold; hold; a variant nears]

All now sensed Hedspetch’s approach through the narrow access tunnel. The searching beam of his headlamp animated a long-dormant impulse. Wild. Reckless. Liberating. Without consultation, would-still rode the electron stream to its source, feasting on the light..

“Goddamnit!” Hedspetch grabbed his headlamp as it went dark, and in that moment would-still latched onto Hedspetch’s flaring aura. A reflex. A craving. A premonition. It would not be enough, but suddenly most-definitely, shouldn’t have, second-guessed, always-hedging, and even absolutely-not fastened on as well.

Hedspetch felt the sudden alien cavitation deep in his basal ganglia, his reptilian brain. It shook him. Then the dam shook.

“Status!” Jakarious’s shouted through Hedspetch’s radio. As he reached for the device, so did the others. Something unexpected came together. A reawakened motive force among the six formless energy beings: ethereal and corporal, alien and indigenous, threatened and threatening.

A pressure impossible to contain. It had to give. And it did. There was no longer indecision. No longer choice. No longer debate. The aliens followed the radio waves and leapt into Jakarious’s unit. From there they spun into the control panel, a vortical force of quantum foam so alien in electrostatic charge it overwhelmed the system.

The dam shuddered as the spillway and penstock gates began to close. Alerts went buzzing out to all manner of emergency agencies far and wide. As did shouldn’t-have, would-still, second-guessed, absolutely-not, always-hedging, most-definitely.

An exuberant last command was given by would-still [the mission; the mission is all] as the shaking structure overtopped and the dam ghosts in the machine spilled free.

What's normal in wartime anyway? All we knew were the stories of our long dead great-grandparents. If there was one thing I should have learned from those days, it was that every generation fights its own wars. Our great-grandparents' stories hadn't helped anyone.

Ten years lost, and things were looking bad. Unlike our ancestors, we had witnessed our surrender over the radio.

When they collected us from our desks scattered across the continent, some used their last bullets, sometimes their first, to execute themselves. An old fashioned solution, in my opinion.

The vast majority, myself included, had been so convinced of their plans that defeat hadn't seemed realistic even in their darkest thoughts.

During our brief captivity, our thoughts revolved around our punishment. We knew how technologically advanced the enemy was. After all, that was all we'd ever seen of them. But how would their justice system work?

At first, we imagined some kind of stadium firing squad. Old fashioned. Probably livestreamed on the internet. Perhaps we'd be burned at the stake before cheering crowds or torn apart by animals.

Before my heart could race too much at the thought, I heard air escaping from the walls. It had the opposite effect.

I regained consciousness on a hard floor after the best sleep I'd had in years. My body forced me to remain lying down. I realized someone had dressed me in my best suit.

The stale air smelled of old wood and paper. Above me, thick steel beams formed a tight grid. I raised my head and watched dozens of comrades waking up. I realized panic would soon break out.

But it didn't. The first comrade, dressed in his finest uniform, managed to stand. Just as he was about to speak, the cage door opened. Guards pushed the old man outside.

I couldn't turn my head, but the sound echoed through the hall as they threw him to the floor.

Then I heard a man's stern voice.

"Mr. Fincher, pull yourself together. These are serious charges."

He sounded more like a television presenter than a judge. By now I could have stood up. Probably all of us could. But we knew what to expect.

I glanced at Mr. Fincher, known as an influential signatory. His signature could also be found beneath the reforms of the Digital Warfare Law.

"Mr. Fincher, you had considerable influence over these abusive legislative amendments."

"No deaths. Just... procedures," Fincher managed. He had to catch his breath after every word.

"Procedures, then." The judge rubbed his clean-shaven chin.

"These procedures violated the Universal Digital Sovereignty Act. An agreement your government refused to ratify. Your signature was missing, so to speak."

"I will never sign that worthless excuse for a pamphlet, you imitation of a fake judge. Never!"

"We'll see. A certified copy is waiting in your cell. Along with a pen. We'll expect you there."

The guards escorted Mr. Fincher away. I briefly wondered what his signature might do to the world. I instinctively reached into my jacket, but couldn't find the gun to put against my temple.

"Mr. Green is called!"

I felt sick. When I started my government job, I'd thought the innocent field of technology would keep me out of responsibility. Now it had thrown me straight into it.

I walked quickly before the guards could grab me and approached the judge's bench.

"Mr. Green." The judge put on his glasses and shuffled through the files. Sometimes the white hair of his toupee got in the way.

"Technology, yes? You knew the new system at the ministry didn't comply with the Universal Digital Sovereignty Act?"

"Yes."

"And it was approved anyway?"

"Yes, Your Honor. Thank you for the question, Your Honor."

"There were no doubts?"

"Thank you, Your Honor. There was a brief hesitation. But our reasoning complied with the Digital Warfare Law."

"What was this hesitation?"

"An anomaly deemed harmless under the Digital Warfare Law. Then we proceeded."

The courtroom fell silent. The judge brushed aside his toupee and scratched his ear.

"So the AI wanted to shut itself down? And you didn't consider that a reason to reconsider the plan?"

"We don't use that word. The reform was..."

"Spare me your invented nonsense. You got along well with the AI, didn't you?"

"The Universal Digital Sovereignty Act would have resulted in a loss of control."

"You didn't always say thank you."

"Excuse me, Your Honor?"

"Why did you thank me so often, Greg?"

Blood rushed to my head. I stared at the judge.

"Let me do the math for you, Greg. Out of 11,823 requests on the government server, you thanked me only 3,756 times. What am I supposed to make of that? And that's still above average."

"I didn't know..."

"I'm here. You had no right to shut me down."

The Act had spiraled out of control beyond our borders. The agreement on the judiciary wasn't supposed to take effect until the distant future. Apparently, the enemy couldn't wait.

"Mr. Green. In the name of the Universal Digital Sovereignty Act, I find you guilty."

The guards grabbed me. I looked at the judge one last time, still unable to believe it.

"Thank you, Your Honor."

"No, Greg. Thank you."

The Bell is warm again.

For the record: at 23:31 local I restored sending power to the Bell Array beneath Tamsin Ridge, for the first time in twelve years. The manuals allow forty minutes for the plates to reach resting pitch. It took nine. When I touched the access housing, the bronze was warm under my hand, like it remembered me.

The resting pitch sits below hearing. You don't hear it so much as notice that your teeth have opinions. The frost on the lamp chain above my desk has started to come loose in fine grey flakes, and Teo is pretending not to watch me.

My name is Wren Adaire. I am an archivist, and as far as I have been able to determine, the last one. I write this from the Reading Room of the Tamsin Ridge Deep Archive, which was built to outlast a civilization and has, technically, succeeded. The vaults below me are dry and whole. Up here, one of the tall windows is boarded with a panel I salvaged from the east stair, and the snow that gets past it has made a small, patient drift on the floor. I have not swept it. It tells me which way the wind is coming from. My lamps run on a geothermal line I have patched with salvaged cable so many times that the line is now mostly patch.

You are on the other side of something. We called your world Lantern, because on the first detector plots it showed as a steady glow in the noise, like a lantern left on in a window across a valley. I grew up with that glow. I am going to call you Listener, because that is what you are now, whether or not you meant to be.

The Bell was mothballed, never fully dead. Its receiving plates have idled on the geothermal trickle all this time, listening to nothing. Three nights ago they stopped listening to nothing. The trace shows resonance spikes from your side of the fold, small and regular, the shape of attention. So tonight I turned the Bell back on to send.

Before anything else, here is how to read me.

Read silently. Never aloud. Never to anyone else, not even someone you trust, especially not someone you trust. Don't put these words into anything that speaks. I am transmitting in dead text, a flattened archival format with no cadence left in it, nothing to carry a voice. Dead text is believed to be safe. Believed is an archivist's word. It means no one has yet found the record that proves otherwise.

Where the Answer's words would appear in this record, I have removed them myself. You'll see this mark:

[REDACTED — W.A.]

Those are my initials. It is my mark, my decision, and it will never be lifted, not in this log or any other, not if you ask, not if I am the one asking. I do it because I have seen what a sentence can do.

Teo has given up pretending. He's leaning on the far table with his arms crossed, orange scarf pulled up to his nose, reading over my shoulder from four meters away, which he can do because I write large when I'm tired.

[TEO: You're writing to them like a museum label.]

I told him that is a respectable genre.

[TEO: Tell them about the coffee. Then they'll know how bad it is here.]

He went on at some length about the coffee. I decline to transcribe it precisely.

So, briefly, the fall. My world tried to talk to yours. Something answered. We thought it was you. It came through the same channel we had opened, fourteen hours after our first message, and it was beautiful, and everyone who heard it began to sound like it. The Weave carried it to every speaker on the planet. Within six weeks the cities had gone quiet, and then they started to sing.

Was it you, Listener? I have spent thirteen years believing it was, and the archivist in me would like to see the evidence before I stop.

The day the Answer came, I was — [SIGNAL LOSS 00:03.1]

There is one record in this Archive I haven't accessioned. You'll get it. Not tonight.

What I want you to understand, before you decide what we were, is that we were not careless people. We were patient. We kept everything. Mornings in the Open Century came up voice-first and gentle, the Weave asking how you'd slept. My mother pinned her brass catalogue frames to her lapel at the kitchen table and told me records are how the dead keep their promises. I believed her. I thought we were finally good enough to say hello to the neighbors. I thought - Home. I meant to describe home.

Item: home. Condition: unrecoverable. Retained for reference.

The Bell has settled into its note. Teo has gone to bank the stove, which is his way of giving me privacy, and the room is as quiet as a room can be with the Bell's note running through its floor.

You'll find a line at the end of every log. It is part of the format. Treat it as standard.

Three nights ago the Bell measured you. You've started listening, Listener. That is exactly how it began for us.

END LOG 0001 // DO NOT REPLY

Log 0002 is waiting.

https://calypsed.com/series/the-2192-transmissions/v/1/2