Alternative Apocalypse

by Debora Godfrey

  REPORTER: Said no?

  CIVIL SERVANT: Well quite. The people don’t really want the detail anyway. They don’t care. They’ll live with whatever they’re given. They just want to have a system where they don’t have to think about politics. That’s the entire point of the Yes/No Machine: to make things simple and easy.

  REPORTER: Does anyone know how it works and why? Surely the man who invented it knows?

  CIVIL SERVANT: Well as it turned out, Professor Bartholomew was extremely depressed, and one day he ended up asking the machine whether or not he should kill himself, and it—

  REPORTER: Said yes?

  CIVIL SERVANT: Precisely. The machine’s decisions are legally binding, so he had to do it; no backing out if he changed his mind.

  REPORTER: I see. So I suppose my next question should be: how do you decide what questions to ask it?

  CIVIL SERVANT: Well, the electorate send in their questions, and these questions are vetted beforehand so we know we’re not gambling on something totally mad.

  REPORTER: Right...and how do you vet the questions?

  CIVIL SERVANT: Well, we ask the machine if we should ask it this question and it—

  REPORTER: Says yes or no?

  CIVIL SERVANT: Exactly! Pure and simple! No bias, no political partisanship, as fair as you could ask for. Though I will admit that I was a bit concerned when we had that question sent in asking whether we should exterminate all civilians under 30, but, well, we asked it and—

  REPORTER: Oh, so that explains the death camps!

  CIVIL SERVANT: Yes, quite.

  REPORTER: And that’s why you didn’t send an ambassador to that UN summit last month about the concerns over human rights abuses in your country!

  CIVIL SERVANT: Exactly! It said no! I’ll admit I was concerned about the firing of our ambassador, but, well, the machine said yes, so we had to do it. I suppose it made sense once we’d started the death camps, you know: isolate ourselves from consequences on the world stage...I’m still not sure how the machine came to decide that saying yes to the death camps was a good idea in the first place, but still, the crime rate is greatly reduced.

  REPORTER: But that’s a bit of a barbaric policy, isn’t it? Surely there should be some sort of system in place when considering extremist views?

  CIVIL SERVANT: Well we would’ve implemented one, but the initial piece of legislation had nothing in it that defined what is and isn’t an extremist view, everyone just sort of forgot about that, got caught up in the moment. It got passed by democratic means, so our hands are tied now, legally speaking. We did once put a question to the machine when someone came up with an amendment to the law regarding extremist questions, but—

  REPORTER: It said no?

  CIVIL SERVANT: Well, yes, quite. It’s all a bit of a mess all told.

  REPORTER: I suppose I’m lucky it said yes to grant me a work visa to come and film this interview.

  CIVIL SERVANT: Yes, that was odd. I did wonder why it did that...

  REPORTER: And you’re sure the machine doesn’t just answer at random? Are you sure it doesn’t work like a magic eight ball? One day it could say yes to an idea, next day it says no? Ask again later? Are you sure it’s not just a stupid lump of plastic?

  CIVIL SERVANT: No, no, no, the machine must know what it’s doing. The system must work! We haven’t just put a magic eight ball in charge of our country, for God’s sake!

  REPORTER: Have you ever tried to open it up and look at its circuitry?

  CIVIL SERVANT: No, we didn’t do that because—

  REPORTER: Someone asked it if they could open it up and look at its circuitry and it said no?

  CIVIL SERVANT: ...how did you know that?

  REPORTER: Lucky guess.

  CIVIL SERVANT: Well yes, and we’re bound by the machine now. The machine knows what’s best.

  REPORTER: But what if someone asks it something really quite dangerous, like: “Should we nuke North Korea?” for example?

  CIVIL SERVANT: Ah, I’m glad you asked me that. You see, we have a safety procedure in place when it comes to international conflict. Just before finalising a tactical nuclear strike, a big box will pop up that says “ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO NUKE THIS COUNTRY? YES/NO?” and then we—

  REPORTER: Ask the machine yes or no?

  CIVIL SERVANT: Precisely!

  REPORTER: I see.

  Anyway, that’s all for now. I’m certain that there’ll be more eventually.

  Back to you in the studio.

  Apocalypse

  Ugonna-Ora Owoh

  It came with cursing water,

  hurting river, angry wind,

  used to strike us down.

  We were too unbearable.

  Soldiers piled themselves into green-grey sacs

  filled with concreted sands and bitumen stew.

  Steeping their shaking guns

  into the open-naked street.

  Silence melted into our blood,

  our heart raced with prayers,

  the night made us ugly phoenixes in the dark.

  And there it was,

  like a mountain dressed with fire,

  an indestructible demon,

  we all thought,

  abandoned the sharp in our voices and fled.

  Soldiers firing bullet into empty ghosts,

  street wounds flaming up.

  And I looked behind

  with piano-making music in my chest

  and cried as the street

  I called home burnt to ashes

  in the dying dusk,

  in the dying dusk without hope

  and this became my own version of the book of

  revelation.

  The end time of flames,

  my Apocalypse,

  my Armageddon.

  The Janitor

  Tomas Furby

  Outside the storm raged, electric blue cracks across a black sky. Visibility was poor and detritus attacked the windows. A tin can man of buckled steel and rusted bolts trundled through the office muttering binary. The cleaning cart he pushed towered with every possible instrument of germ carnage. There were mops and dusters and clear plastic bottles filled with liquids so corrosive their labels had long since faded to white.

  Emergency lights glowed green over dark exits. Air conditioning hissed and crackled at him from above. He jangled back at it, humming a tune of ones and zeros that sounded a little like David Bowie’s “Ashes to Ashes”. He took a duster from the cart and wiped a thin white layer from the nearest desk. Two squirts of polish, one jerky circle forwards, one backwards. Wax on, wax off, he whispered, and chuckled a theremin.

  He moved from desk to desk as he did every day. Top left to bottom right; two squirts with the polish; wax on, wax off. He was a pro. Best cleaner FedEx had ever seen. They’d given him a trophy at the 2030 Staff Awards. Wheeled him out of the basement specially. He didn’t have any protocols for award ceremonies, so sat quietly in the corner until they asked him to take the stage. He said thank you when the boss shook his hand and everyone clapped. It was a good day. The trophy sat on the top shelf in his closet, proudly displayed, polished twice a day until the enamel wore off. Employee of the year.

  The sun rose, sliding light across the room. The storm was dying. Dust streaks across windows turned gold. It was going to be a lovely day. Perhaps everyone would make it to work after all. The robot, who liked to be called Wilson the Janitor by his colleagues because he thought it was rather grand to have a capitalized name and a title, stopped and performed the robotic equivalent of a frown—which is to say, he went quite still and trained his little red sensors on the large rusty stain on the carpet for a few seconds. He had no expression as such but he tried very hard for quizzical. “Oh dear,” he said, “someone’s spilt their tea again.”

  Wilson turned grinding gears to the cart. Something inside him crackled and sparked. One arm rose and hovered over the selection of bottles. It got caught in invalid memory and twitch
ed a few times until he slapped it with his other arm and it rebooted. The steel echo rang through the office. “Getting old,” he muttered, and groaned. He was definitely due a service. Perhaps it was time for another memo to IT. They hadn’t been down to see him in ages. He picked a bottle with a particularly viscous green liquid inside and bent to scrub at the carpet. Red stained his sponge. Not tea then. More like tomato juice, or wine. Maybe the execs partied a little too hard with clients last night. He scrubbed harder, refusing defeat. Time passed, he wasn’t sure how much. The light had moved when he stood. The carpet was no longer red. It was worn and fibrous in a patch, a little floorboard showing through. Wilson trundled toward the kitchen, singing the song that dial-up internet made in the nineties.

  He’d worked at the office for a long time. Unsure how long. His hard drive was full and no one had defragged him for a while, so he no longer recorded every day. There was no need really; he had just enough RAM available to perform within the parameters of his role indefinitely if he didn’t fill up on useless information.

  There were a few early birds sitting at their desks, tucked into their ergonomic chairs, all silently staring at screens. The computers booted up automatically at 7:30, filling the room with the hum of steel fans and loose wires. Wilson waved genially as he went past. They didn’t move. One made a crumbling sound and slumped forward. Wilson tutted to himself. “Heavy night was it, Delia?” Delia didn’t answer. Wilson shrugged. Delia was an alcoholic. The wind outside howled particularly hard and somewhere upstairs a door slammed. The sound of broken glass falling. Wilson sighed. More work. Couldn’t people close doors gently? Why all the slamming? He added it to the list. He’d send a polite reminder round later.

  The kitchen was dark. Wilson flipped the switch and light bars flickered. One was dim and sputtering. The other couldn’t decide whether ‘on’ was a function it performed anymore and made mournful buzzing sounds of indecision. A shadow sat in one corner. “Is that you, Chuck?” Wilson squinted into the dark, or would have had he eyes. He quite liked the idea of squinting. He tried it again. Maybe if he cut the light to pixels 5 through 102 so his sensors turned into little red bars…he raised one hand in salute over his makeshift squint like a sailor perusing the horizon. Chuck was slumped at one of the green plastic tables nursing a cup of cold tea and didn’t seem to appreciate the squint as much as Wilson would like.

  “Morning, buddy!” He creaked over to the sink and began running the hot tap. A few flakes of rust crumbled off and scattered a breadcrumb trail across the sticky kitchen lino. “Crazy storm we had this morning, eh? I nearly didn’t make it in.”

  He waited for Chuck to laugh at that—everyone knew Wilson lived in the basement—but Chuck wasn’t breathing. Wilson sighed static. Must’ve been a rough night. He was looking slightly more desiccated than usual. Chuck had a newborn, wasn’t getting much sleep. Nice guy though, appreciated a joke, never snapped. Always took the time to hang out in the kitchen, have a chat. Not everyone liked bots for some reason, but Chuck was one of the good ‘uns.

  Perhaps now was the opportune time to practice his new trick. Wilson grinned, or would have had he a mouth. He turned from the sink, leaving the tap running because the boiler was taking its time again, and rummaged in the cart. A robot rummaging can be quite chaotic. Bottles and rags spilt from the cart in an avalanche. He didn’t notice. “Hey Chuck, watch this.” Chuck watched.

  From the rubble Wilson reverently raised a small black tube. He’d found it on the side next to the dryer in the women’s loos. It was almost new. He’d posted a note on the bulletin board in Lost and Found but nobody replied, so it was his now. As he twisted it, a crimson bullet revolved out. Slowly, shakily, he raised it to his slate-grey globe head. He’d only done this once, in his cleaning closet after hours, and he’d had a mirror then. It might go horribly wrong, but Chuck looked like he could use a laugh.

  Wilson painted a smile on what passed for his face. It was a wider curve than anyone human could grin and a little lopsided, but generally pretty friendly looking. He finished it off with fake dimples at each end which made it look a little less like Pat Bateman laughing over business cards.

  “What do you think, Chuck?”

  Chuck’s head fell backwards in a cloud of dust, his mouth gaping open in silent laughter. Wilson burbled static happily to himself. Perfect. He turned back to the sink. The water was still cold. Boiler must be broken. He turned off the tap and stared remorsefully at the dusty mugs stacked on the sideboard. He’d have to email Facilities. He didn’t like Facilities. They always had an automatic reply on saying they’d get back to him and never did. Slumping a little, internally he composed the note:

  ***

  Dear Richard,

  I hope you are well. Please note it appears the boiler is no longer functioning. Ran the hot water tap in the kitchen for 3.17 minutes this morning and sensors indicated temperature of 5 degrees. Please can you take a look as I have been unable to wash up today. Thanks for your help.

  All the best,

  Wilson the Janitor :)

  ***

  He cc’d his boss, Mr. Zemeckis, just in case anyone complained about the dirty crockery, and hit send. Nothing happened. He hit send again. Nothing happened. An error message tickled the back of his head with warning lights. No signal. “Searching…please move closer to router.” Well wasn’t that just a bug in the code. The whole office would be up in arms if the internet was down. How was anyone supposed to get any work done? Ever since they downsized IT and outsourced to India, service had been particularly poor.

  Well, if he couldn’t do the dishes then that was this floor done. He checked his clock. It was showing an improbable date, around 11:15. He was definitely in need of a tune up. Soon as the Wi-Fi was back he’d email Mandeep about penciling something in. Chuck’s head was still thrown back, either laughing or asleep, so Wilson just waved and said “See ya later, Chuck. Stay frosty.” He wasn’t entirely sure what the saying meant, but the delivery guy with the long hair and the legalize marijuana t-shirt had said it to him once and he rather liked the expression. “Stay frosty, Chuck.” Wilson pressed the light switch as he left and the flickering room plunged into darkness.

  The windows down the corridor were thick with grime. Bloody light drifted in beams through the dusty dark wherever dirt didn’t smear glass. Wilson bobbed his head slowly side-to-side, like a volleyball drifting into the ocean, lost. He’d have to put in a requisition order with Facilities as well. He made a note to get onto them tomorrow. Those windows were truly disgusting. It looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in years. In decades. What was longer than a decade? The cart rattled along in front of him, echoing through the building. He called the elevator. Something dark smeared the blue ring round the call button like a slashed zero. Wilson cleaned it while he waited. Slowly, deep down in the bowels of the building, the lift rumbled upwards like Lucifer rising for breakfast.

  Floor by floor, Wilson the Janitor worked his way through the building, dusting desks and cleaning kitchens and sweeping broken glass. Top left to bottom right, kitchen, bathroom, lift; top left to bottom right, kitchen, bathroom, lift; top left to bottom right, kitchen, bathroom, lift. A few colleagues noticed his new smile and replied with their own: toothy and wide and a bit boney. One guy was so tickled he fell out of his chair and didn’t get up. The bathroom on 5 was flooded. The lift wouldn’t go to 19. A bar light hung from the shadow of broken ceiling panels and wires on 32, dust trickling down, humming gently. It was all a shambles, not like the old days at all. They used to run a tight ship at FedEx. It had gone to the dogs since the new CEO came in. The company was operating a skeleton staff and the building was falling apart.

  He made the top floor around 3:30. It was empty, quiet, and there was definitely more broken glass than usual. Air whispered through shattered panes like ghosts swirling cirrus dust. Wilson’s tracks crackled over frost. “Brrrr,” Wilson said, staring down at the cluttered street. There’d been a pileup
below. Scattered cars abandoned like a toddler’s toy set. “I hope no one was hurt,” he whispered, clutching his rag. A few flakes of snow drifted onto his head from boiling black clouds in an apocalypse sky. They melted and trickled tears down his sensors.

  Wilson’s internal clock flashed 4pm. Home time. He was quiet now, buzzing gently. His sensors flickered like that last bar on a phone’s battery. He checked diagnostics. Just enough juice to make it home. Switched to low power mode just in case. Wouldn’t do to shut down in the middle of a corridor. Someone would have to come and wheel him back down to the basement. Maybe Chuck would do it. He liked Chuck.

  His electric shuffle was slower on the return journey. The lift waited for him at the end of the corridor like an old friend ready for after-work beers. He smiled and patted it on the side as it delivered him to BF. “Same time tomorrow, Lenny?” The lift dinged and closed its doors.

  Wilson rolled his cart into the cleaner’s closet and sidled over to the charge port. His colleague Betty was plugged in already, powered down. Her arm was raised slightly, clenched hand at a right angle towards him. He fist-bumped her gently as he buzzed past, too tired to talk. Betty’s eyes were dark and her charger cracked and sparking.

  Wilson the Janitor leant back in his charging dock and propped his tracks up on the cart, switching to charging mode. It had been a long day. Hopefully the Wi-Fi would come back soon. There were a lot of memos to send. 372 on the list. Honestly, the state of the place. You’d think the end of days had come or something. A system message scrawled neon words across his display as the charger powered up.

  Low disk space: you are running out of disk space on Local Disk (C:). To free up space on this drive by deleting old or unnecessary files, please reply affirmative.

  Wilson nodded once, slowly, and deleted the day.

  Outside the storm raged.