YAO’S WORLD

Matthew Barron

The bubble hummed. It had grown into a dark globe and was partially submerged in the table top. Yao sat at the bench and looked into two long tubes. His hand hovered over a toggle.

“Let there be—”

“Yao!” came a shrill voice from beyond the stairs.

Yao pulled back his hand and gritted his teeth. “What?” If he hadheld the toggle too long, or not long enough, all this preparation would be for nothing.

Lucy called down. “Are you coming up for dinner?”

“Not now!” Yao shouted. “My work is at a delicate stage. Leave me alone!”

He could hear her moving at the top of the stairs.

“Alright,” she said. “Have it your way.”

Yao took deep breaths until his nerves settled. Shelves of exotic equipment lined the cinderblock basement. A tiny above-ground window was cracked open for ventilation.

At last Yao was calm enough to proceed. He wanted to savor this moment. The long tubes contained magnifying lenses that slowed time. Without them, he could never perceive the rapid, miniscule events within the bubble. Yao pulled the proto-matter trigger. There was a tiny flash in the lenses, like someone sparking a match in a dark room. Yao closed the valve and waited.

He didn’t wait long. The globe flashed with life. When Yao returned to the lenses, his mouth gaped with wonder. Motes of light expanded to fill the bubble. As the motes flew outward, tiny bits of dust spiraled around them. Yao wanted to call his brothers, but things were happening so quickly he dared not look away.

Yao focused the lenses on one tiny corner of the globe. He and his brothers had each planted a seed in the world below. His brothers had gotten bored. They went back to their wives and jobs. Yao was alone, with no one to share this joy. His brothers said this wasn’t real.

What Yao saw below him was more real than anything he had ever experienced. Green sprouted around pools of blue.

Yao couldn’t help but smile when tiny dots started moving around the green areas, and then even between the green areas.

The stairs creaked. Lucy was in her nightgown and carried a plate with a sandwich on it. “It’s after three in the morning. Are you coming to bed?”

Lucy was a lovely woman. Yao’s brothers were fond of asking her why she was with their nerdy brother. Sometimes Yao wondered that too. Today however, he barely glanced at her.

“I can’t.” Yao spoke through a mouthful of sandwich. “Even using these lenses to slow things down, everything’s happening so quickly.”

“What’s so interesting in there?”

“They’re alive!”

Yao zoomed in on one particular young man. The man wasn’t much different than any person Yao might meet. He was lean under his colorful robe and had a short brown beard. Time had slowed considerably inside the bubble, but Yao still had to adjust a knob to make sense of the action within.

Yao moved away from the lenses and motioned for Lucy to take a look. Her wavy red hair dangled over the long tubes.

“Already 19 generations have passed. I’ve named that one Abraham.”

“You named it?”

“Yes!” Yao swiveled a cone to his mouth. “We are on different time scales. There is no way I could communicate with them directly, but I’ve inserted quantum-bots into the globe. They speed up my voice. Watch…” Yao cleared his throat and spoke into the cone. “Take your family and move east, to the foot of the mountains.”

Lucy’s mouth hung open. “He’s looking up at me!”

Yao continued to speak into the cone. “When you arrive, sacrifice a sheep to me.”

“He’s packing up his belongings, herding a bunch of animals together…”

Yao shoved Lucy out of the way so he could see. “Look at him go!”

Lucy scowled. “What about the thing with the sheep?”

“They started that on their own, giving me these token gifts. A sheep is a pretty big deal to them.”

“It’s a really cool game, Yao, but it’s late.”

“This isn’t a game! These are real, intelligent beings.”

“I’ll admit, it’s a great simulation, but they aren’t real. They don’t actually think for themselves.”

“But they do! I tried to confine my creatures to an enclosure. I wanted to keep them separate from my brother’s creations, but they broke out in less than one generation, one blink of an eye!”

“So they escape from their cages and you give them names. At best, they are like pets.” Lucy waved her hand at the globe. “I’ll admit they’re cute, but it’s late. Turn it off and you can play again in the morning.”

Yao was flustered. “It doesn’t turn off! It’s not a game. This is a universe, a universe full of people!”

Lucy sighed. “Whatever. I’m going to bed. You will have to sleep eventually.”

Yao scowled. He didn’t know how he could ever have been attracted to someone like Lucy. Her shapely behind swished up the stairs, and Yao remembered how it had happened. She was hot. Yao wondered if he would have been better off with someone else, someone who could understand what he was doing. He wished Lucy would be that person.

The world progressed in the globe, and Yao forgot all about his wife.

A shrill mumbling woke Yao. He lifted his head from the table. His mouth was dry and the half-eaten sandwich remained on a plate beside him.

Terror gripped him when he saw Lucy speaking into the cone. “What are you doing? You could ruin everything!”

“Can’t I play too?”

Yao looked into the lenses. “What did you do?” Abraham was now an old man with a long gray beard and bald head.

Lucy smiled. “I told Abraham to sacrifice his child to us.”

“What! Why?”

“If a sheep is a big deal, think what a sacrifice his child will be.”

“That’s barbaric! Abraham only has one child with his wife! I’m planning to breed him.”

Yao pulled the cone to his mouth, but Lucy stopped him from speaking. “Relax. If they are real, intelligent beings, he won’t go through with it.” Lucy’s eyes were wide and untroubled. To her it was all a silly game. “An intelligent being would never kill their own child just because some voice tells them too.”

“If he refuses…”

Lucy shrugged. “Then maybe you really have created something unique in there.”

Yao could have stopped it all with a few words into the cone. He hated the idea of torturing his creations, but he wanted so much for Lucy to understand. He accepted the devil’s bargain. “Alright. You will see.”

They couldn’t bear to take turns at the lenses, so they each put an eye to one of the tubes. Their faces pushed against each other, and they were closer than they had been in months.

Abraham took his son into the mountains.

Lucy smiled. “He’s going to do it.”

Yao shook his head. “It’s a trip to the mountains. They are probably taking a vacation.”

Abraham tied his child up.

“He’s going to do it!” Lucy said.

Yao’s heart beat like thunder in his chest, and sweat covered his palms. “He’s thinking about it. Give him time!”

Abraham lifted an iron knife above the child’s head.

“Wow,” Lucy said. “This simulation is really convincing. The look on that kid’s face almost makes me feel guilty.”

Yao was practically hyperventilating. “Abraham is hesitating. He’s not going to do it! You see! No parent could look into those eyes and kill their own child!”

But Abraham raised the knife once more, eyes clenched in determination.

Yao jerked the cone to his mouth. “Stop!” Yao closed his eyes, and his hand trembled on the cone.

“He stopped,” Lucy said. “He obeyed his master.”

Yao looked into the lenses. Abraham had dropped the knife and looked to the sky expectantly. His child was still tied to the rock. If it seemed long to Yao, then Abraham and his child must have been there much longer. They might stay like that forever if Yao didn’t say something.

Yao cupped his hand over the cone and cleared his throat. “It was all a test. You passed. You are a good man, a good, good man.”

Yao looked into the lenses and watched Abraham embrace his son. Their joy seemed so real, but it was all illusion. Yao wiped a tear from his eye.

Lucy pulled him close. “Come on. I’ll make you some breakfast. Maybe we can go on a picnic today. Some fresh air would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

Yao sighed and nodded his head. He followed her up the steps. Yao took one last look at the dimly lit globe. Perhaps he would return one day and see how his simulation progressed without him. For now, it was time to concentrate on his wife and the world around him. Yao flipped off the basement light.

Food for Thought

Many individuals argue whether we should believe in God, but how do we know if God believes in us?

About the Author

Matthew’s stories have appeared in House of Horror, Roboterotica, Gifts of the Magi, and Welcome to Indiana. More information and samples of my writing can be found at submatterpress.com

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CARTOGRAPHERS

Benjamin Le Gros

When the breeding programme began, mankind had only reached the nearest edges of our solar system. We hadn’t yet calculated the algorithms necessary to account for astral drift. We lost forty-three ships before Dr Schreiber’s breakthrough. The costs were staggering.

My first encounter with one of the cartographers happened over four years ago. They tell us not to look during basic. Don’t even peek, they say. I peeked. I stared. You see, the cartographers are kept naked, shrouded in semi-opaque plastic gowns. This is not what shocked me. Nor their leering, drooling toothlessness. Nor the smell. We are all forewarned of the cartographers’ frequent accidents. The scent of ammonia is home, is the nostalgic aroma of every flight deck in the fleet. Urinals conjure mixed emotions. No, rather, what set my spinal chord itching was their constant twitching and braying, restlessness and jerking, fingery shivering. I worried they might touch me, and wherever their fingers touch, their skin stays behind. Peels far too easily, their skin does. At regular intervals their keepers slather them from head to toe in petroleum jelly. I’ve seen it. We aren’t supposed to watch.

The keeper’s eyes are blank, sleepy. She’s careful not to look it in the eyes. Her hands work: toes, crevice and valley, arch of the foot, around the ankle, once, twice, three times, up and down the calf, up the shin, cupping the knee, top of the thigh, inner thigh, and onward. There’s a vacuum, an abyss that sucks all of the sexuality from the ritual, a mutual hatred that bonds the keepers and cartographers. That’s why the cartographers have no teeth. The scars from the removal process are horrific. Their mouths are left like the rock pools of terraformed Mars. This keeper is older than most. She has puckered scars on her face and arms from before removal became common practice.

When the ritual is over, she replaces its tubes. This cartographer has three: catheter, saline drip, monoamine oxidase. That’s how this whole thing works, monoamine oxidase, inhibition of REM sleep. The longer you manage to keep them awake, the more they tune into the drift. This one is better behaved than most. It doesn’t tug at its tubing. Though, it is missing the topmost portion of both index fingers, so it’s been disciplined at least twice. By contrast, its keeper’s hands are deft. She works assuredly, her hands moving with a practiced economy, in spite of their knuckly, twigish appearance. Then, abruptly, her cartographer stands. For a moment it just sways, bub-bub-bubbing quietly to itself. A few crew members brave a furtive glance. Their reward is the sight of it rubbing its nipples and dribbling. There’s blood mixed with the stringy saliva. Over to my right Tom is sniffing through quiet tears. He’s new. All the newbies cry. Or gag. Most can handle the smell or the sounds, but once they put a human face to them, they crack. He’ll get used to it. We all do. His mistake was peeking. The cartographer begins to haw like a donkey in pain, and the bag taped to its ankle fills with dark green urine, a sediment floating in the liquid making it look soupy. The cartographers are fed tablets only— a mix of what the body needs and no more.

There were protests at first. Dogooders (like ferrets or rats) will wiggle their way into all sorts of places they have no business being. Food prices had spiralled. Heavy taxes were introduced on the most basic of items. Fuel was already being rationed, and food followed soon after. Only the most privileged had constant electricity. The designated blackout hours were being extended every month. News of the programme’s abuses broke the camel’s back. People took to the streets. One red faced protestor made himself famous by shouting into a newscamera. His rant culminated in the words: “Your exploitation of mental illness will see you all in hell!”

The protests died away when antibiotic resistant strains of common illnesses started killing. Issues like the wellbeing of mentally ill citizens soon evaporate into thin air when your neighbour, or your auntie, or your daughter dies from a disease that should be easily cured. Doors and windows began to be boarded up. Ordinary people armed themselves. One morning there were tanks on the streets. There wasn’t any violence, just confusion. The snowglobe of suburbia had been given a pretty vicious shake. Some hid away, stockpiled tinned goods. Some formed into groups. Soon a gridlocked snake of traffic could be seen winding its way out of every town and city. Camping stores made a fortune. Some folk wanted an election. They didn’t know what they actually wanted; they did know they were entitled to a say in whatever happened; besides, they had the overwhelming urge to vote. “How did this happen?” they asked. “Where did all of our natural resources go?” they demanded to know. In amongst this chorus of indecision and indignation, the programme took its next step. By this point, there were already ships in orbit, tin-cans floating far above, waiting. Technology already existed to accelerate the tin-cans to twice the speed of light. None of the computers could keep up with the maths required. The algorithms were too complex, too fluid, the drift too malleable.

The programme began without official government backing. Before the programme was uncovered, before the protests, it consisted of a group of doctors testing unsuspecting new mothers. Those who carried the specific gene-flaw for Down syndrome were given a chemical shove. Essential immunisation, they were told. The doctors always chose poorer individuals. The poor asked fewer questions. And they were more likely to breed again.

The original intention was to engineer individuals who could assimilate information and make decisions in a split second. The Ministry of Defence funded the initial research, covertly of course. At this point, up in the sky, there’d been six crashes: six tin cans obliterated by unaccounted variances in the drift, all souls lost. And then Dr Schreiber published his paper. All this was before the farms.

Every ship carries two cartographers, to cover for illness, or lubricating, or feeding. The cartographers are fed at two-hourly intervals. The tablets foam in contact with saliva. Often the keepers will work in tandem.

The cartographer’s arms and legs are strapped to its seat. The bonds are leather, the buckles steel – a throwback to more tender times. I’m assured by the keepers that leather leaves fewer marks. Those fancy modern materials cause friction burns, but leather doesn’t, I’m told. And she nods before carrying on. The larger of the pair removes her blouse, folds it carefully and balances it atop a nearby monitor. Her bra is nondescript, government issue. Her breasts are matronly. Her stomach is marred by stretchmarks. She covers the cartographer’s eyes with her thick fingers and palm. Her other hand is planted upon the cartographer’s forehead, tilting its head back so it would be looking at the ceiling. By this time, her accomplice has stripped her blouse too, and she has the tablet held in a pair of forceps at arm’s length. Her arm shakes as she inches closer. The older keeper is nowhere to be seen. She must be on a rest period. There are usually three for this particular cartographer. This younger one is skinny. She manages to both reach towards and cringe away from her target in equal measures. The cartographer has clamped its lips together, puckered them into a tight anus – an old trick used by children everywhere to avoid eating their greens. The matronly keeper tightens her grip and shifts so her hand covers nostrils as well as eyes. Another old trick, and well practiced. The cartographer holds out for an impressive time, but when the bradycardic reflex kicks in, between the in and the out of air, before its lips can clamp shut once more, the skinny keeper lunges. She whips her arm away and retreats. The forceps are empty.

The tablets are designed to foam up in contact with liquid, in this case saliva— something about the increased surface area and the absorption of nutrients. The matron’s hands have moved. They no longer cover the eyes and tilt the head – now they are covering mouth and pinching nose. “Easy, calm, calm, swallow, swallow,” she whispers. Still the cartographer resists. Foam dribbles from between the matron’s fingers. The cartographer chokes and convulses and an arrow of foam arches gracefully across the flight deck. The matron frowns and presses down harder; her charge twists and wriggles and fights; her hand slips from its nose and a volcano of green foam erupts, rolling down its chin, down its plastic gown. All of this happens in under two minutes. And will begin again in two short hours.

The cartographers see the world differently to us. To them the universe is a straight line. From A to B. To use Dr Schreiber’s own words: “These savants are the true map makers. They take the universe in all its three-dimensional glory and they make it flat, they make it measurable, they make it seem small again! Their minds create a picture that can be seen from any angle, looked at from any one point in space, yet they perceive it to be from only one angle, one point – what we consider to be the fourth dimension: the Minkowski continuum. To them, the universe is not spatial, but chronological. At any given moment a celestial body could be at any point in the universe. Its location is dependent upon factors such as drift and gravitational pull and fluctuations in relative space drag. But instead of calculating these factors, these savants merely perceive all of these moments at once. All of spacetime is merely one single event, waiting only to be plotted according to where the savant is in relation to the moment in question. With these savants, these cartographers of spacetime, with their minds, I have created a living map, a 1:1 scale replication of all history past and all history yet to occur!”

The footage of Dr Schreiber’s speech cuts off seconds after his last word. Before the screen goes blank he raises a finger to his lips: shush, it’s a secret! And then he winks. The applause is rapturous. I’ve watched it over and over.

The first tin can to house one of Dr Schreiber’s living maps was discovered near limitless deposits of acid sulphate topsoil on Titan. Mining began two months later. The trip to Saturn’s moon now takes only one week. Despite the now abundant supply of fossil fuel arriving daily, unscheduled blackouts continued. The populace were not trusted with reliable energy. Every letterbox, every individual, was sent a newsletter supplying information about the success of the deep space expeditions. Weekly updates followed. Heroes were placed upon pedestals. New laws were created. Mostly, they protected the rights of the families. The word families was swiftly replaced with donors. The new laws (bundled into the aptly named Resource Requisition Act) assured energy supply and increased rations for those willing to donate.

At first the process was imperfect. Dr Schreiber called it Cerebral Mining. It involved seventeen chemical tests for the savant. There were drills. Survival rates were less than one in fourteen. Further research gave a glimpse into what might be achieved if the process were begun earlier, in-vitro; incentives were increased; more families came forward; survival rates grew to one in three. When the first dedicated hospital opened, crowds gathered and cheered as the ribbon was cut. Never has the snick of a pair of scissors been so loud and so important (or so the speech went). They will hear this across the globe! This is the sound of progress!

There were still protests but they had become muted, isolated, and they grew dimmer and quieter as the days and weeks snuck by. The tabloids called them Dissenters, called them selfish, called for dedicated citizens to daub their houses with paint – yellow, for their cowardice.

Yesterday we received news that our sister ship had been lost. The trajectory hadn’t been miscalculated, which is possible but rare.No, rather, during mid-leap, the tin can simply veered off course and plowed through a planetary rip-tide. The result is a slow death for the crew: First the ship shakes, gently at first, like a massage chair, but then evolves into a teeth-chattering, chair-gripping fairground ride. Mild shudders aren’t uncommon during a jump, and at first you don’t worry. When you can feel your bone marrow being mixed, when your knuckles go white from gripping, that’s when you all know; and the only thing you can do is hope. As the gravitational fluctuations from the rip-tide increase and decrease, so do the cabin pressures. Your ears pop and your lungs feel heavy and your eyes stream tears and your vision swims. It can be quite pleasant, once the lack of oxygen kicks in, once reality and fantasy intermingle and you begin to forget. It happened to me once, on board the Zolas. We were lucky. Our cartographer came to its senses. Ordinarily, their urge to punish us is just too strong. I woke on the floor with my shirt off. The flight lieutenant lay next to me. Her shirt had been unbuttoned and her belt unbuckled. As I said: pleasant once you begin to forget.

This is the reason all tin cans are issued two cartographers. Usually (hopefully) when the destructive urge strikes, they aren’t mid-leap. These vengeful fits are just tantrums really. It’s easy to forget that these creatures are only fourteen-or-so years old. They’re useful for small journeys from age twelve, with a life expectancy of twenty-three, speaking in averages. Beyond the twenty-third year of exposure, the sedatives degrade their bodies too rapidly for them to be viable. Dr Schreiber experimented with various methods to prolong their usefulness. Dialysis was found to be most effective. However, the cost outweighed the effectiveness. Now the cartographers are simply retired.

The keepers’ training centres were established in the fourth year of the programme, after it was acknowledged that the present nursing standards were proving ineffective. A secondary line of defence needed to be established; pastoral care evolved to incorporate medical training. The Keepers were born.

Piety struck with a perplexing swiftness. We have granted ourselves absolution; we have amended our religions. Food for our bellies, guilt for our shoulders, and words for our mouths. Over weeks and months, the pews filled. Car parks became battlegrounds for the newly pious. Then came the open air ceremonies, with their massive screens to prompt Hallelujahs and Amens. The Lord’s Prayer now reads:

Our Father, who art in heaven,

Hallowed be thy Name.

Thy Kingdom come.

Thy will be done in earth,

As it is in heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread.

Reward those who make sacrifice,

And forgive us our trespasses,

As we forgive those who trespass against us.

Lead us not into temptation,

But deliver us from evil.

For thine is the kingdom,

The power, and the glory,

For ever and ever.

Amen, we cry. We are joyous—every day, at breakfast, everyone with faith, and a few without. In America they’ve amended The Constitution. In Europe the Bill of Human Rights now contains an addendum detailing what (accurately speaking) may constitute as Human. I don’t know about the Jews and the Arabs. Both are researching, but neither possess the technology for deep space flight, yet. Our newsreaders are subtle, but when the autoqueue rolls up their attempts to launch – it’s a twist of lips, or an almost imperceptible movement of their eyebrows, but it’s there, and I’m sure we’re supposed to notice.

This morning our cartographer spoke. Every single member of the flight crew stopped dead. Most of the cartographers have their tongues removed. Not ours. Unusual, but it’s the family’s decision to make. The drooling is much less when they’re tongueless. One of the keepers, the matron, had hold of her charge by a flap of its neck skin pinched between thumb and forefinger. She twisted and the poor thing writhed in its seat. Its wrists were still strapped to the chair; they’d just finished the feed; there was a mess; it hadn’t gone well, again. Her nostrils were flared, her teeth clenched. She hissed something into its ear and twisted harder. At first it merely bleated. And then it spoke. How it knew any words, I don’t know. It said: “Sorry Mummy.” She didn’t stop. No-one interferes when the keepers administer punishment. Family know best.

Food for Thought

Cartographers sets to dissect how we treat the vulnerable within our society (most especially those with mental disabilities) in a world where resources are diminishing and consumerism has become rampant. In particular, this short questions what we might do if the vulnerable themselves became a resource capable of supplying for all of society (in this instance, how the thinking patterns of ‘idiot-savants’ might be manipulated to explore the stars), and how we might absolve / excuse ourselves for our lack of humanity.

About the Author

Benjamin Le Gros is the erstwhile owner of a pizza restaurant and a writer of irreverent fiction. He is currently working upon his debut novel, a completely fabricated biography of the magician Paul Daniels

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NATURE OR NURTURE? TIME TELLS

John Kaniecki

“I must condemn your utter contempt for ethics,” Rejeck the research director blasted away in furious contempt.

Doctor Ols and Doctor Hines nervously turned to one another. The empty looks and fearful stares portrayed the nervous contents of their minds.

“However,” Rejeck continued in calm words, “I must compliment you on your method which is beyond brilliant.” Now the research director was smiling brilliantly, one of those ‘congratulations, have a cigar, you have a healthy newborn son’ smiles.

The pair of psychiatrists relaxed. The cold harshness of winter had been swept away into a summer of delight. This welcome compliment was the reception they were expecting for their experiment. “Our results are most conclusive,” Doctor Ols volunteered.

“Well,” Director Rejeck spoke thoughtfully, “you can present your findings to the Academy whenever you are prepared.”

The two doctors smiled enormously, matching Rejeck’s countenance. This was the outcome they’d hoped for. Just to appear before the Academy was an honor in and of itself. Surely fame and fortune was to come their way. In the scientific community this translated into an immortal name. To be infused into the text books and become part of the curriculum. To be spoken in the same company as Freud and Jung. Truly Ols and Hines had graduated into the annals of history.

The hall was packed with the who’s who of the scientific community, not only the psychiatrists but philosophers as well. For tonight promised to be an enlightening report on that age old question: was success nature or nurture? In fact those very words, “Nature or Nurture?” were imprinted in giant red letters hanging on an enormous blue banner over the stage.

Polite conversation trickled in the curious crowd. Strong proponents chattered over this newest infusion into the psychological and philosophical realm. Strong opinions on both sides of the controversial subject permeated the talk of the audience. But all were clearly eager to hear the new data resulting from the experiment. It was the way of science. Emotions did not rule the day, cold hard facts did. Let the chips fall where they may, for truth is truth.

A light popped on the stage while at the same time the theatre darkened. A quiet hush ensued in anticipation. A balding man with sparse patches of gray hobbled to the podium. All eyes observed him intently.

“Good evening,” spoke the man in a nervous fashion. “My name is Doctor Harold Rejeck, the Director of the Psychiatric Research Center of Earth IV.”

The audience leant forward in eager silence. The moment had arrived!

“I am most happy to present to you a wonderful experiment conducted by two of our associates, Doctor Jeffrey Ols and Doctor Samuel Hines. It sheds light on the age old question, ‘What is the end result of a human being’s development; is it from nurture or is it from nature?’ Is accomplishment an intrinsic trait in humanity or is the primary influence the environment?” The Director paused, surveying the crowd. His eyes saw expert after expert in the audience. Rejeck smiled. Clearly he and his institute were a stunning success.

“Now without further ado I present to you Doctor Jeffrey Ols.” The aged man hobbled off of the stage into the darkness. In turn a younger man with a full head of brown hair replaced the Director.

“My name is Doctor Jeffrey Ols,” introduced the man. A rousing round of applause filled the theatre. I shall be a hero for the ages, the doctor boasted to himself.

“Myself and Doctor Samuel Hines have conducted a most interesting experiment.” The psychiatrist paused as he shuffled papers. In turn he organized his thoughts and summoned his courage. Far from a fluent public speaker, the man was awkward before a crowd, especially at a gathering of the Academy!”My partner and I traveled through both dimensions and time to visit Earth XVII, approximately four hundred years ago.” At that declaration a profound murmuring erupted among those gathered. The two scientists had shattered what was considered taboo.

Speaking above the din of noise Doctor Jeffrey Ols pressed on. “As you know Earth XVII never developed into a sophisticated society as witnessed by our very own superior Earth IV and many of our other sister Earths. Rather they have digressed into a point of constant war. This has kept them permanently in a primitive state.”

“You can read the full details in our report. To sum it up Doctor Hines and I had found a mother who had given birth to identical twins. We took the babies from their mother and placed them in the care of two different women, one who was in abject poverty and the other in the opulence of wealth.” The audience now burst out in a loud babble. Such unethical behaviour was unheard of. Still the general sentiment of the gathered intelligentsia was that it was a brilliant and bold move.

“Our conclusion was most interesting,” continued Doctor Jeffrey Ols, his voice quaking in fear. “One of the twins wound up in jail. The other became a prominent politician and a great scientist.” Many in the crowd burst out in applause, especially those who proposed that the environment was the primary factor in development. Why here was rock solid proof. “However it was the baby put into poverty who was successful while the one raised in luxury wound up in jail.” At this startling announcement all grew quiet in thoughtful reflection.

Suddenly there was a banging in the back of the theatre as if weapons were being fired. This was followed by a couple of shrieks. The screams cut the air like arrows piercing the wind. Suddenly armored soldiers carrying rifles marched down the aisles of the assembly. The Academy was deathly afraid and bewildered.

“We are from Earth XVII and hereby declare that you surrender for crimes against humanity,” barked a warrior.

From backstage Doctor Harold Rejeck shuddered. He knew all too well the dangers of interfering with the time flow. The question of nature versus nurture had not been decided tonight. But an overwhelming statement on ethics had been.

Food For Thought

Two psychiatrist bend the rules and get a harsh lesson in ethics.

About the Author

John Kaniecki is an author and poet. He resides with his lovely wife Sylvia in Montclair. John is a full time caregiver and volunteers as a missionary at the Church Of Christ at Chancellor Avenue. You can find his work on Amazon

John is a thinking man and thinks a lot about things. This intellectual aspect is evident in his work. His poetry tends to send a message while his stories portray life in all it’s hues.

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LIFE OF ORPHEUS

Carl Grafe

Orpheus. They call me Orpheus.

The asteroid had felt the weight of the shuttle displacing its particles, the slight increase in mass subtly changing its gravity. It had felt the pricks of the tools chipping away at its surface, and then deeper, down into its core–taking samples. The asteroid felt no pain—but perhaps some amusement.

It had never had a name, had never needed one. It knew who it was, and the other bodies of mass around it could not ignore its presence, so what did it matter what it was called? Still, the asteroid was flattered. It listened, intently analyzing the clanks and whirs of the machinery, the conversations of the crew members, the messages broadcast to them from Earth.

There were two things the humans were seeking. First, minerals. Sampling the rocky flesh of the asteroid was their primary objective, and the asteroid was willing enough to oblige. The millions of particles that composed it sang together as a single unit, forming thoughts and attitudes the same as those formed by any other coherent mass. To a rock of such size a few samples meant little, no more hindrance than the flakes of dead skin shed by a human. The second reason for the quest was of far more interest. The humans were looking for evidence of life. It was perplexing to the asteroid. The minerals were understandable, but life?

What is life?

Orpheus strained to discern the signals emanating from the humans’ brains, tuning out the overwhelming static of stars and planets.

They have a list?

The listed attributes included things like “homeostasis” and “organization,” “growth” and “reproduction,” various measures of stability and change that could loosely be applied to almost anything in the universe. Orpheus thought smugly about these criteria, trite descriptors it could sense being ticked off in the humans’ minds as they inspected the obscure particles, missing the massive intelligence of which the samples had been a part.

What were they looking for?

What more could they want?

Orpheus noticed that one of the crewmen was thinking a lot about his home—that he was scared. What was there to be scared of? It certainly didn’t mean them any harm. Orpheus listened closer to the crewman’s thoughts.

Ahhh….

He was afraid of dying.

But what is death?

What did the humans think happened when they “died”? The nerve endings would cease to fire, keeping the humans’ cerebral consciousness from drowning out the thoughts and whisperings of the rest of their matter, but surely they didn’t think they would cease to exist. Some of their particles may be absorbed by other masses, but the whole of their body would continue to exist for decades—parts perhaps for centuries or longer. Individually, their particles would always endure in some form, a permanence of existence that was to be revelled in, not feared.

Fickle.

Searching for life, when life was all around them. Afraid of death, when death was meaningless. Orpheus was suddenly bored. It tuned out the humans and started listening to the radiation it was receiving from the sun. It paid attention to the stars, all of them, their sizes, intensities, and the distances between them. It basked blissfully in the cacophony of life burgeoning all around it in the ever-expanding universe.

Orpheus was jolted back to its immediate surroundings by an explosion.

What the…?

Again, it didn’t feel any pain—now it did feel indignation. What did they think they were doing? It turned its attention to the humans and their thoughts.

What!

Destroy it! They were going to blow it up! Orpheus sensed from the humans that it had been labeled “potentially hazardous,” and they had deigned to remove it as a future risk to the Earth. The impertinence!

Fortunately, that first explosion had only been intended to open a hole wide enough for loading the rest of the explosives, so Orpheus still had time to… to…? What could it do?

Orpheus began to panic, experiencing the sensation felt by the homesick crewman—fear. There was nothing it could do but sit and wait and watch as its imminent destruction unfolded. It tried to think, tried to reason away the whole calamity as just a natural progression, an evolution in its existence. It wasn’t very reassuring. Orpheus noticed that the hole in its side was full.

A sudden vertigo-like rush washed over the asteroid as the shuttle thrusters pushed the craft away from Orpheus’ surface, and Orpheus thought, briefly, hopefully, that maybe the humans’ plan wouldn’t work. Maybe the explosives wouldn’t go off, and the humans would decide to just go home. Maybe it’d all be okay.

Orpheus felt a spark deep inside of it, and after a moment of absolute calm—it detonated.

Great blocks of the asteroid blew apart in all directions. Orpheus felt them go with a wistful anxiety, sensing the diminishment in its consciousness with each departing molecule. It was like a human losing the senses of sight or smell, only all at once in millions of tiny pieces.

The mass of interconnected thoughts and emotions that was left of Orpheus careened toward the Earth, eventually hurtling into orbit and finally into the atmosphere. It felt the fire of the atmospheric particles’ resistance, the burning friction that enveloped it, and it longed for the solitary life it had had previously, only a cosmic blink of time before, high above in space.

But that life was over. The particles that had composed Orpheus’ body still existed, scattering across the solar system. The particles would exist in some form forever. But this was no consolation. For all practical purposes, they were gone. Orpheus reflected on its existence through the flames, wondering what would come next.

What will happen?

Where will I go?

Will I still exist?

Will I still be me?

For a moment Orpheus felt absolutely, utterly alone.

Then it felt the Earth. The pull of the planet’s mass reached out toward Orpheus, beckoning, its magnitude encompassing him, permeating him, soothing the panic with a warm embrace. The discomfort of the incineration ebbed away, and Orpheus’ awareness expanded beyond itself. It felt the Earth’s molten core, the various layers of rock and sediment, even the photons bouncing off of its surface, dancing in an array of choreographed chaos. The bright greens and blues stretched out before Orpheus, filling its consciousness with light and color and life.

Orpheus arced across the sky, now a meteor, blazing somewhere high above the Pacific Ocean. There was a final, brief, brilliant streak of light, and Orpheus died.

Food for Thought

The main philosophical underpinnings of this story are pretty transparent and the following questions can be found in the text of the story itself: What is life? What is death? (And after death:) What will happen? Where will I go? Will I still exist? Will I still be me?

About the Author

Carl Grafe lives with his family in the Salt Lake Valley, which he enjoys on days when it’s not snowing. His short stories and poetry can be found in The Colored Lens, Perihelion Science Fiction, Star*Line, and elsewhere.

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CYCLES WITHIN CYCLES

Darrel Duckworth

The End had come.

The universe was dead.

No more galaxies shining in the darkness. No walls of stars or glowing nebulae.

The stars, long cold, had been swallowed and processed by the black holes.

The black holes, sated to quantum-endonic equilibrium in a universe with nothing left to consume, had self-collapsed, releasing the equalized, quantum probabilities they had been collecting and preparing for so long. In silent non-explosions, they had surrendered their final product and ceased to exist.

Matter and mass gone. “Dark matter” and the others… no more.

Weak and strong forces… no more.

Gravity… gone.

Probability reduced to universal equality.

Time… no more.

Even weary Entropy, its work complete, had lain down and ceased to be.

Cosmos and Meta-cosmos… gone

The thriving, chaotic system of interplaying forces was now a constant, cold ‘fog’ without form or purpose.

Only essence remained.

Here, the trillion trillion essences waited, perceiving what was left of the universe that had sustained them through all their myriad existences. Essences… all that remained of all the sentients who had lived in all the galaxies through all the billions of years of this once-alive universe.

Thought and feeling. Experience, wisdom and understanding. All that mattered in the end. Still individual yet also merged in this final epoch: the essences.

The essences of organics and inorganics who had transcended their corporeal beginnings. Of energy-entities who had exceeded their matrices. Of cognitive-entities that had perceived more than their abstract. Reborn to a higher level as they developed: Potentials becoming the Risen.

Risen essences who had developed further to become planets and other biospherics as newly Realized.

Realized essences who had developed into the Enlightened and become stellar beings, now released at last from their vital roles.

Essences that had been universal Forces, now released from their purpose: the Entwined.

Essences that had been the Unseens, unperceivable except by another essence: the Pure.

Most had lived countless lives in this once-universe… learning, growing, developing and evolving. Some had developed enough to rise two or even three levels. Others had barely moved beyond corporeal.

They were the Reason for it all.

Now, they waited, perceiving the cold fog that was all that was left of everything.

They waited for the All to decide. To act.

The All.

The All was not omniscient. It did not know everything. It was omniscience. It was everything.

The Risen, Realized and Enlightened still pondered if the All was the only All. Although they could feel and touch the All, they were not yet developed enough, not yet entangled enough with it, to understand the All.

Was it the only All? Or merely the All for this universe? Were there other universes, each with their own All and trillion trillion? Or was this the only hope for sentience? For being?

If the Entwined knew those answers, they did not share them with the less-developed. And the Pure? The Pure rarely shared with the Entwined. Never with the rest.

Most likely, those answers were part of the Understandings that could be understood only when an essence was ready to understand. Which was as unsatisfying an answer as ignorance to the less-developed, even though they understood how understanding must come.

So, they waited… perceiving a universe that had once been unified in its purpose… now unified in its pointlessness.

And, they perceived the All perceiving that universe… and them.

The All looked upon the trillion trillion. Most had been in its care since before this Cycle of this universe. For many Cycles, in fact. Even if most of them did not remember.

They were not just essences; they were the essence of the universe. The Reason. The souls, the kina, the spirits, the eindosai of those who had lived in any form. So many names for the one thing—the only thing—that endured through all the Cycles… for the one thing capable of growing in a universe made to die.

The All found it interesting to watch the many ways Potentials tried to understand themselves while they still existed in corporeal, energetic or cognitive form and had forgotten their own Truth. Often, they misdirected or stunted their own efforts. Which was why the tiny cycles within each Cycle had been introduced; to give each essence the chance to escape stagnation and continue to develop.

That they try to understand themselves during those existences was imperative. Growth came during the struggle, not during the emergence.

But now, there could be no more growth. Not in this Cycle of this universe. It offered no more struggle.

The All felt the melancholy of the Entwined, the curiosity of the Enlightened, the anxiety of the Realized and the confusion and fear of the Risen. They were part of the All and it was entangled with them, more even than they realized… the sum of the All being the exponential of the rest.

The Pure and the Entwined merely waited. Completely or deeply entangled with the All, they were infinitely patient in their own Understanding.

They knew that soon the next Cycle would begin and the All would appoint them to roles as universal Forces, or as Time, Probability, Entropy or as the Unseens. With those in place, the All could shape the new Laws and Interplays for the new Cycle. The Pure and Entwined would use those qualities to nurture energies, matter and other essentials into existence while the Enlightened and Realized watched and learned.

Or perhaps there would be an entirely different set of parameters this time.

The Entwined would then guide the Enlightened as they formed the nucleus of the new universe and the Realized watched and learned. Then the Enlightened, as stellars, would guide the Realized as they formed biospherics, or whatever the equivalent of stellars and biospherics would be in the next universe.

Through it all, the Risen would watch and some would learn, those closest to self-realization. At least the process would be imprinted on some fundamental part of them even if they did not remember it.

Eventually, the new universe would be capable of supporting life in all its forms.

Then, with the environments established, the Risen would be thrust back into a myriad of corporeal, energetic or cognitive forms, depending upon their development, putting the final component of the new universe into place. They would become the souls of the fledgling races in a fledgling universe… collective, singular and intertwined beings spread across the structure, struggling to survive, to learn, to find meaning.

To Understand.

With the new Cycle, there would be purpose again.

But first, there must come the Cleansing; the purification to remove the final traces of the old universe.

The All acted.

The trillion trillion essences perceived the act as a single “thought.”

“Begin!”

The Calm became The Storm.

The cold “fog” erupted into arcane, bizarre madness. In a universe without forces, it roiled like turbulent gases, boiled like heated liquid, blazed like unstable plasma and exploded like supernovae.

It sliced and bled like flesh and shattered and screamed like crystal.

It solidified into chunks the size of galaxies that tore at themselves and savaged their neighbours.

It shredded and reformed, engulfed and vomited.

It collapsed upon itself and thrust against itself.

Like a thing alive, the Storm clawed at the Weave that surrounded and bounded the universe, raging to free itself to ravage and devour beyond. Unable to break through and escape the walls of the universe, it raged the length and breadth of its prison—no pattern, no reason, no restraint—destroying and ending the universe with the fury of absolute Finality. The ultimate Violence. Chaos that a universe would… could see only once in all its existence.

Around them, The Storm raged clawing at the trillion trillion, seeking to shred their essences as well, to pull them into itself. To devour them.

Having spent endless lifetimes working toward harmony and oneness, the Realized and Enlightened justifiably felt fear. The Risen, completely unprepared, were terrified.

But the Entwined and the Pure, having passed beyond the need for harmony and earned the Understanding of Chaos, protected the rest.

The Storm that threatened to tear through the boundaries of the universe was unable to penetrate that protection. It howled its frustration and raged all the harder.

The All watched, unaffected by the Chaos Storm or the terror it caused.

It was good that the Risen would not remember this at a conscious level when they returned to existence as Potentials, only at an instinctual level. In those forms, the conscious memory of such fear would drive them insane.

But the instinctive fear of universal oblivion would remain, driving them to learn, pushing them towards Understanding for the sake of survival, even though they would not yet be able to envision the threat.

So, the All did nothing to calm them, letting the fear be imprinted.

The Storm raged against them but was unable to consume them. It clawed at the walls of the universe but the walls held. It raged at itself, destroying the last traces and emanations of the universe that had been.

The All waited, perceiving. It perceived each fragment of violence, each churning, rending, searing, shredding, tearing, boiling… perceived until it could perceive not a single emanation from the previous Cycle remained.

The All issued another thought. “Condense.”

Like a living thing, the Storm that had destroyed a universe screamed and railed against the Primal Force that pushed it inward, compressing it smaller and smaller into an infinitesimal point of cosmic fury. The power of unleashed Chaos raged to escape the one force that was its superior.

While the Pure and Entwined guided the rest into calmness again, the All prepared.

Next came the difficult part.

The Pure prepared themselves… all except one who stood apart from the rest. As he had stood apart this entire Cycle.

The Other. The finest of their echelon… and none of the Pure desired the Other’s place of honour.

First among the Unseens. The Force who would direct the other Unseens and the universal Forces. Who would touch the existences of every being in every life.

The Other… the One who Opposed.

For there to be growth, there must be challenge. Resistance. Opposition.

That was the Other.

Only among the Pure were those strong enough and wise enough to drive the less-developed to develop themselves.

Fear, temptation, and sorrow were only some of the forces that the Other commanded. At his command, Probability would alter to create the setbacks and the sufferings required to test and drive each essence upwards. At his order, biospherics would turn their powers against their own charges creating catastrophe among those they nurtured.

From the smallest, daily annoyance… to the termination of an essence’s current state of existence… to the destruction of an entire civilization, these were all the responsibility of the Other. A universal symphony of discord, each harsh note precisely played to achieve the sweetest purpose of all.

Yet, among the essences struggling in corporeal, energetic or cognitive form, none would understand. From them, the only reward for the Other would be revilement and blame for all things. Hatred.

From some of the Realized, in their biospheric forms, the Other would receive the same, for they were still too new and too eager to nurture the frail life in their care.

From the rest, the Other received a combination of pity and respect, for they Understood.

For an entire Cycle, the Other stood alone, carrying the burden that none but the All understood.

But now, the old Cycle was done and a new about to begin.

The Pure stood ready. None coveted this most essential of duties, but they would serve.

From among the Pure, the All selected one.

The new Other acknowledged and accepted the burden from the Other of the last Cycle.

The All cast gladness and appreciation upon the Pure who had been the Other in the last Cycle.

Then, for the first time in a Cycle, the All felt sadness.

The Pure one who had been the Other, who had been closest to the All for the life of a universe, simply faded out of existence.

To the Risen, the Realized and the Enlightened, that essence simply ceased to exist. And they did not understand. Was it punishment? Did the task consume so much of even a Pure that it could not remain cohesive when the task was completed?

The Entwined however, perceived the transition… perceived the former Other exceeding this universe… and they suspected the truth.

The other Pure understood. Their own sadness mixed with happiness for the former Other.

Somewhere, a new universe was being brought into existence and a new All was beginning a first cycle.

And the Pure wondered at the purpose that must exist beyond the purpose in this universe.

The All did not explain it to them. Understanding would come when they carried the burden of the Other themselves. For this All, it was enough that it still felt a thread of a touch from the Other who had been its closest companion… as it felt the threads from the many Alls. And those higher.

Those touches eased its own burden as it began yet another, new Cycle here.

The All issued the thought, “Grow. Let there be insight.”

The new universe exploded into existence.

Food for thought

Among the many spiritual concepts, I find those involving cycles to be the most interesting, logical and consistent with the many indications of the cyclic nature of our universe. But, the universe appears to be non-cyclic in the extreme long-term (i.e. entropy). Also, there is the universal concept of evolution (biospheres, stars and galaxies all evolve, not just organic beings). These ideas sparked questions:

What if there were only one “energy” in the universe that was not subject to entropy? An “essence” that was truly cyclic… being reborn again and again? This would fit well with certain spiritual beliefs. Could it be that these beliefs are our unconscious perception of these eternal “essences?”

What would it be like to be those essences when the universe finally ran down?

Or is the universe truly cyclic? Are we just in one cycle that is so long we can only guess with our limited knowledge at its true nature? Entropy argues against that idea… but what if entropy itself is part of the cycle?

What then would be the purpose of a universe of limited duration if it contains any “force/energy” that persists beyond it?

I played with some ideas but the “development/growth” idea kept pushing its way to the forefront of my mind… perhaps because of the evolutionary nature of the universe. New stars, planets, etc are all still being formed. What if these are the “bodies” of essences that have reached higher levels of “enlightenment,” ascending beyond their original forms as some spiritual paths suggest? Perhaps the term “Mother Earth” isn’t so far off.

And if there is an “evolution of essences” to become the celestial bodies and universal forces as they continue their growth and aid in ours… doesn’t this suggest that there must be a highest-level in this universe… which might account for the monotheism interpretation of spirituality?

At that point, I realized that the “Devil” of some religions would have to be among the wisest and most-developed of the essences in order to fulfill the essential but infinitely-painful role of the universal antagonist that pushes us to grow.

Finally, what would be the point of such universe-level development… if there were nowhere to evolve higher than this universe? What if the cycles of a universe itself were just part of a larger cycle… which, like each level up the “chain” could only be perceived when an essence had developed enough to perceive?

Cycles within cycles within cycles.

For what purpose? What waits beyond?

About the Author

After a career in high tech Darrel Duckworth returned to his first love, writing. He now spends more time on other worlds, occasionally returning to Earth to refill his coffee mug. His stories can be found in magazines such as LORE, Bards and Sages, and Plasma Frequency and in anthologies such as “Coven.”

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NEW APPLIANCES

Brandon McNulty

Seven A.M. brought sunshine and the usual droning from beside the couple’s bed. A young boy named Alarm sat atop the nightstand, blinking wildly and functioning in the only way he could.

“ALARM—ALARM—ALARM,” he said.

On the bed below lay a thirty-year-old woman and a man passing for her husband. They had worn matching rings for a year now.

“ALARM—ALARM—ALARM.”

“Shut up…” the woman muttered.

“ALARM—ALARM—ALAR—”

She slapped the boy’s elbow and quieted him. For a moment she rested, eyes aching from the sunlight slicing through the vinyl blinds. She dozed, and Alarm started droning again. This time she smacked his knee to shut him up.

Her routine dragged her to the bathroom, where she fretted because she couldn’t find Hairdryer, a disproportioned man with the heartiest lungs on the market. She ran around yelling for Husband to help with the search. He didn’t budge from the sheets.

Husband wandered out of bed around seven-thirty. His own morning routine carried him past Wife twice—once in the bathroom, and again on his way to the living room. He forced a bearded smile for her both times, but she only glared in reply.

In the living room Husband sat at his desk facing a sleeping boy dressed in a silver jumpsuit. The boy’s name was P.C., and he flashed to life after a tap on the knee. Next to him lay Printer, whose inky hands had once again smudged the cherrywood finish. Husband considered wiping it up, but surely there was an appliance built for the job.

Husband had greater needs than clean furniture, anyway. He asked P.C. about the basketball game from last night. P.C. apathetically revealed Boston’s overtime win.

“Hell yeah,” Husband cheered with a hearty double-click. He checked over his shoulder, then whispered to P.C., “While I’m here, you got any porn on you?”

P.C. asked Husband if he was eighteen or older. For an instant, P.C. froze, then handed over some racy photos. Husband flushed as he flipped through them. Poor quality, but still worth a gaze. Husband was undoing his belt when the color drained from P.C’s face.

“What’s wrong? Not another virus.”

P.C. muttered about shutting down.

“Wait—check my stocks first.”

P.C. blinked feverishly, turned blue, and fainted with his legs hanging off the desk. Husband double-clicked. No response. Oh well. Wife could handle this later. He considered notifying her, but instead plopped on the couch opposite of TV, an older man with wires running down his legs. T.V. rambled on about the necessity of acne cream, why one judicial candidate was honest and incorruptible, and how erections lasting longer than four hours might interest your doctor.

Wife groaned as T.V. echoed through the house. She was in the kitchen trying to get Toaster to accept a slice of rye. Toaster slumped against the kitchen curtains and repeatedly handed the bread back. He mentioned how he was uncomfortable burning things. Ever since he blackened a bagel last week, he’d felt like such a safety hazard.

“Toaster, please,” she said, smacking the bread across his face. “Hurry!”

Toaster had kept cool as wet hair, but now he frazzled with apprehension. Next to him Coffeemaker was lighting matches under a steamy pot of Colombian roast.

“C’mon, Toaster. Just one fucking slice before work.”

Work couldn’t come soon enough. Ditch a house full of appliances and go manage GrassGreen gardening store. Everything got easier when you sank back into soil. Sure, she’d have to deal with Lawnmower—the guy had such a battery up his ass these days—but the rest was all shovels and mulch.

Toaster grabbed the bread and produced a lighter. “Golden-brown.”

With Toaster busy, she moved on to Fridge and Freezer. One hoarded bags of ice while the other pressed fresh fruit against the cold cubes. Wife pulled Fridge’s arm aside and rummaged through everything he cradled: yogurt, grapes, beer, sliced ham, but no—

“Fridge, where’s that cantaloupe I cut up?”

“YOU cut up?” Husband said with a humorless laugh. “You mean the cantaloupe that Fruit Slicer cut up. Lady, give these guys the credit they deserve.”

Her face burned golden-brown. “Fruit Slicer can’t even function unless I hold everything in place for him.”

“Don’t insult the appliances like that. T.V.’s listening to all this.”

“T.V. never listens.”

“Whoa, now.” Husband hopped off the couch. “T.V. doesn’t always listen, but he understands. Guy knows when to change the subject. One minute it’s weather or goofy charity fundraisers, then—bam!—on to gunfights or reality show loons. T.V. gets it, lady. You don’t.”

“T.V. this, T.V. that. He’s all you ever talk about.” She hurried to Toaster. Her bread was soft and white aside from a lone dark spot. She narrowed her eyes and yelled to Husband. “Unplug Toaster once he cools down. Then leave him at the end of the driveway.”

Not long after wheeling in a pallet of mulch, Wife heard Telephone cry, “Ring-Ring!” In the backroom Phone stared solemnly ahead, gripping a wall hook with both hands. She tilted Phone’s chin and spoke into his ear.

“This is GrassGreen.”

“Hello?” said a scraggly voice. In the background Alarm was wailing his name. “Mrs. Price?”

“That’s me.” She felt an urge to drop her married name.

“Ma’am, this is Fireman Walton.” Walton’s voice wavered. “We just arrived at your house. The fire’s out—”

“Fire?”

“Yeah. A fellow named Toaster set your kitchen curtains ablaze. Possible arson case, we’re looking into it. Unfortunately, we’ve got some bodies here.”

A lump clogged her throat. “C-Could you describe them?”

“Well, the flames overtook your living room. I’m looking at—hold on—two guys. One’s covered in black ink and burns. The other’s dressed in charred silver, got some porno photos in his pocket, some basketball scores—”

“No! P.C. and Printer. They cost a fortune.”

“Hope you had them insured,” the fireman said. “And there was a body not far from Mr. P.C., dressed in black with wires running down—”

“T.V., goddammit. I still owe six payments on him.”

“Shame. Then one last guy. Bearded guy. Burned up real bad. His pants were down around his ankles when we found him, and some of Mr. P.C.’s photos were crumpled up nearby. Forensics says he tried running from the fire, but stumbled and hit his head.”

She exhaled her words, gentle as air conditioning. “That’s Husband. Shouldn’t be hard finding a replacement.”

The fireman paused a moment. “Least that Alarm kid is okay.”

Food for Thought

– Technology performs many jobs we either cannot do or don’t want to do. What do we lose when we hand the reins over to machines?

– As technology garners importance in our society, how does it affect the importance of human beings? Should we be worried that technology (especially TVs and computers) often satisfies us more than the people around us?

– Some people mourn a broken computer or totaled car like a lost loved one. Is this simply a case of materialism, or something more?

About the Author

Brandon McNulty writes from Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania. His work has appeared in Digital Horror Fiction, Disturbed Digest, and Acidic Fiction. He is a graduate of Taos Toolbox and a Writers of the Future semi-finalist. Follow him @McNultyFiction.

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