by Loki Renard
She snarls at me, unrepentant. I suppose she’s not enjoying the preamble to the tour as much as I am. She’s fortunate she didn’t do any real damage to my suit, though I can see Reaper looking over at me with real concern. He thinks he has One under control and he wants me to do the same, but One is much easier to control than 42. She lived a hard life, but she was never actively harmed the way 42 was. There’s less anger in her. She's also been with us a lot longer.
Reaper probably considers me to be too lenient, but I’m not going to beat a girl who has already been beaten. If she responded to pain, she would have been trained long before now.
Andrew is eyeing us nervously, but he’s not saying anything. I’m sure he’s been instructed to never, ever offend the clients.
42
I feel a pang of regret and guilt for having hurt Tarkan. I wasn’t actually expecting him to make a sound of pain. I give him an apologetic lick, which he seems to understand as me saying sorry. I don’t want to be biting Tarkan. I want to be ripping the throat out of this traitor who is selling out the human race just to get some perks from those who enslave us.
“We reset the simulation every three years,” he says, answering a question from Reaper which I wasn’t listening to. “They’re fairly stupid, to be honest with you.”
I bristle with anger. I do not like his arrogance, his assumption that the people trapped down there are stupid. I was probably one of them. I’m sure that this is where I came from. Even if I didn’t have the tattoo in my arm, I’d know it by the uncomfortable little sparks of recognition firing in my head and heart. This is not a joyful homecoming. Far from it. I feel my heart begin to race, responding to memories I can’t quite access mentally, but which my body is more than familiar with.
I grit my teeth and stay quiet. Tarkan has his hand on my collar, and Reaper has moved closer to me, walking around so I am no longer over on one side of Tarkan, but instead I am sandwiched between them while One sits nicely next to her master. What is it with people who are so willing to roll over and play dead whenever aliens say so?
Both of my scythkin guardians have made it clear that I have to be a good little human and deal with whatever is unfolding before us.
“They don’t notice the resets?”
“They notice them, but we’ve found humans will accept almost anything as normal if it goes on for six months or more. So the world seems strange for a while, and that’s when we plant a few suit wearers, who stand on street corners with signs that say the world has ended, and then the humans laugh at them, call them tinfoil hat wearers, and the very idea itself becomes something they're unwilling to entertain.”
“Wow,” Tarkan says. “That’s…”
“Intelligent,” Andrew says. “Galactor knows precisely how humans work, and has engineered an environment from which they will never escape. They’re a species in suspension.”
“That doesn't make you angry?”
“No, it’s for the best,” Andrew says. “We were a trash species on the way to destroying ourselves. This way we get to live in a world where most of us are healthy, where we can live as close to a natural life as any ‘modern’ human has ever lived.” He performs air quotes with his fingers when he says the word modern, and I want to bite his hands off.
“We use conspiracies as tools of control,” he says, rabbiting on. “Humans were always given to fascination with them, and now they’re an excellent means of keeping them corralled in terms of thought. For instance, there was a flat earth conspiracy. The truly amusing thing is that the world they live on now is actually flat. All our gardens are discs. Easier to maintain the machinery on the underside that way. But anyone who suggests that it is flat is mocked mercilessly. We use the images from the old planet to give them a sense of continuity, but some historical data has been lost and we’ve filled it in as best we can.”
There’s silence when he finally stops talking, which I think only exists because his stream of consciousness has been dominating the conversation for so long I’m not sure Tarkan or Reaper remember how to talk. I certainly don’t.
“Do any of these humans ever leave the gardens?” Tarkan finds his voice and asks a question relevant to me. Obviously the answer is yes. I left the garden. And apparently I’ve come back, which now seems to have been a huge mistake. I escaped one prison, only to find myself in another, only to find myself back at the first prison. But why can’t I remember any of this? This all seems really important.
“If you’re asking if you can purchase a human, the answer is no. The human species is a trademark of the Galactor corporation, and any specimens found off-world are usually ordered for destruction.”
“What about the humans of Earth?”
“Earth?” He snorts. “That planet was destroyed a long time ago.”
Tarkan
Reaper and I look at one another. We discovered the ravaged world that was Earth on our last and final visit, but we never knew what had happened to destroy the vibrant species which once dominated the planet.
“Do you know what happened to it?”
“It was sprayed.”
“Sprayed?”
“Once Galactor had established human colonies here in the gardens, the original planet was sprayed with substances designed to suppress the human species. They attacked and disrupted the biological specimens which humans survived on. Everything from cows to corn was destroyed via mutation.” He smiles brightly, so proud of the chance to share his encyclopedic knowledge of the destruction of the planet. My guess is most visitors who come here don’t spend this much time questioning him, and it’s obvious that he likes to talk.
He opens his mouth to start talking again, but his last set of statements has caused chaos among the women. Both One and 42 are both growling now. I can see Reaper struggling to keep the appearance of calm with his girl. I’m starting to wonder if Boolean mastiff suits were the best idea to hide our women. They are powerful suits. I thought they would allow the girls to defend themselves, but now I’m starting to think that we may have made a huge mistake.
“I think those dogs will have to be kenneled,” Andrew says, eyeing them nervously. “We can’t risk them hurting any of the human subjects. There are only one hundred and forty four thousand and one humans in existence. They’re very precious and cannot be injured under any circumstances.”
Unlike Andrew, I know there's only one human either of these women want to hurt, and none of them are in the zoo. He’s standing right in front of them, in all his arrogant, fleshy, insufficiently armored lack of glory.
“They’re fine,” I say. “They’re really friendly.”
I am channeling a human habit which I always enjoyed when we visited Earth. I observed it many times when walking among the people, and I never failed to find it a fascinating and rich tradition. Humans with no control over their aggressive dogs would alert others to the imminent danger of being mauled by shouting a singular phrase: “IT’S OKAY! SHE’S FRIENDLY!” This phrase was usually called at a distance which ensured that the worst of the blood spatter would not coat their clothing.
“They don’t seem friendly,” he says, playing his own part in the human charade. I smile over at Reaper. I have missed these kinds of interactions a lot. He gives me a dark look. He’s not enjoying this as much as I am. He thinks there’s too much at stake. Maybe he’s right. But I miss the thrill of battle, and I am not afraid of these Galactor minions.
“She’s really friendly, she’s just a total sweetheart,” I beam. “She’s a rescue. I found her in a ditch in Zintacular prime and tamed her with sweat meats. She loves to sleep in the bed with me even though she should really be in her crate, she’s just such a good girl!”
I watch with satisfaction as Andrew attempts to feign interest in my dog rescue story. There are several narratives which humans love to tell and never want to hear. Dog rescue stories are strong contenders for the most powerful of these. It is impossible to refuse to listen to such a story without bei
ng shamed. In much the same way, a picture of a baby can be forced on other humans at will, and the other human is forced to smile and make an encouraging comment - even though babies are mathematically the least interesting possible kind of human there is.
“Alright,” he says, looking uncomfortable. “There are penalties if any human is harmed, so you need to be fully aware of your responsibilities. For any damage, you will be charged the full replacement cost of the human, which can run into the trillions, and you may be required to forfeit any further tours.”
“Alright,” I smile broadly.
Okay, alright,” he says. “Then let’s begin, shall we?” He makes a sweeping gesture to a pair of doors which slide open with what I could swear was a moan.
The room beyond is green in color, an intense green which surrounds and envelops, an Earth perfect green. I feel my breath catch in my throat. I am not given to emotion. Scythkin have little use for it. We do not need to form emotional ties as part of our mating strategy, because our reproduction involves spraying seed over freshly laid eggs. What emotion we have is a vestigial trait left over from evolution’s basic template for sentient four limbed life. I know I love 42, but that I thought that was the only strong feeling I’d ever have, so I’m caught off-guard by the rush of feeling I have now, especially when Andrew hits a switch and a virtual model of the Earth as it was in the latter part of the twentieth century is projected all around us.
People made of light move through us. I feel as though I am seeing the ghosts of those we failed to protect, even though what we’re seeing isn't real.
42 is pressing close to me. She doesn't like this either. I wonder if it is at all familiar to her, or if it’s the strangeness of the experience which is freaking her out. Freaking out. That’s a phrase I haven’t heard in a while, even in the confines of my mind.
“This is Planet Earth,” Andrew says, starting his spiel as if we are not intimately familiar with the planet. I would spill blood to see the look on his face if he realized that there were two humans right here in the room with him - and two scythkin guarding them.
“Oh wow, Planet Earth!” I gasp as if I’m shocked and surprised. “A planet made of earth. That’s amazing!”
“This was the first planet on which sentient consciousness arose,” he says. “Not in linear time, of course, but in true time.”
Reaper and I nod. We understand this very well, of course. Time isn’t a straight line. It’s an animal with a mind of its own, and it decided it wanted humans at the beginning of consciousness, and so it was.
“So do we get to go in yet?” I interrupt. I have no interest in being further delayed. We have waited long enough to see this place.
“Just put your suits on and we can go in,” Andrew says, producing two human skin suits from behind South America.
He hands us a pair of serviceable human suits. They’re not scythkin design, but they look like they will work. I’ve never tried to wear a suit over a suit. I have no idea how that is going to work. Will the two suits interact with one another? Will one simply layer over the other?
Reaper and I both put on a show of not knowing how to get into them. I rather enjoy the role of physically inept murketeer. This is a species not known for being able to lift its leg higher than its knee, so donning a skin suit which must conceal the entire body leaves plenty of scope for tripping, dancing, and otherwise making a convincing go of it. A wheezing sound from my good little puppy girl tells me that 42 is enjoying this too.
It turns out, the suits will layer. I’m not sure the results are as good as they could be, we both look a little too… smooth. But Andrew doesn't seem to care.
“Okay, so this chamber is actually already inside the simulation,” Andrew explains. “The humans can’t detect it, but when we open it, you’ll be aware of the world outside. It's strange. Try not to scream.”
I open my mouth to say I think we can probably handle it, but then the world unfolds around us. The room disappears like a lotus flower unfurling and we find ourselves standing in the middle of a great human city. Andrew was right. That was fucking weird.
“WANNA BUY A MIX TAPE?”
A street vendor shouts the words into my face. I jerk back in surprise, feeling my scythkin dorsal ridge rise up sharply, threatening to slice through both the suits I’m wearing in a single sweep.
“Cute dog!” Someone comes swooping in from the right. 42 snaps and nearly takes another human’s hand off with her sharp canine jaws.
I thought Andrew’s warning was goofy, but there’s no doubt that this place holds immediate dangers for all of us. I can see the concerned look on Reaper’s human face too. There’s no way to tell how the girls are holding up, but I can see One pressed up against him shivering visibly, and 42 isn’t in any better a state.
I’d forgotten how noisy the human world was. There’s a cacophony of sounds assaulting my ears with every breath I take. Cars, trucks, bicycles and cabs rush by us on the road, just mere feet from us. We rely merely on the convention of staying on the sidewalk to keep us safe.
The city is much as I remember it. I exchange looks with Reaper, and can tell he is experiencing the same strange dissonance I am. This feels real - and I know it is real, but I mean it feels like an actual version of the planet I used to know. Reaper and I visited Earth many times over the years, always slipping through time, finding a new world every time. This one is clearly modeled on the early nineties, or perhaps the late eighties, or some mishmash of the two periods, not quite authentic to either of them.
I never thought I’d find myself surrounded by people again. I truly believed that the species had run its course, misfortune and the rough justice of nature crushing it from existence. But there are people here. Real ones. I could reach out and touch them, though I know better than to do so. We have to maintain a low profile. Do this smart.
I can feel 42 stiffening on the leash. This must be hard for her.
“Easy girl,” I murmur, reaching down to run my hand over her head. “Easy.”
I mean to calm her, but my touch only seems to enrage her. She starts to growl and snarl, her eyes darting around her, hackles raised. One is not much better, though she isn’t worse. Both the girls are reacting very badly.
42
One was right. This suit is dehumanizing. That is the point, of course. We’re trying to pretend that we’re not human, but finding myself surrounded by people while I am stuck inside this furred, feral prison is almost too much for me to handle. I want to burst out of it and start screaming that they’re trapped, that the world is a lie, that they need to rise up and overthrow their oppressors, but the further we walk down the street, the closer we get to a man on the corner who seems to be doing just that.
“THE WORLD IS A LIE! YOUR ALEIN OVERLORDS ARE WATCHING! REPENT! RECANT! OVERTHROW THE POWERS THAT BE!”
As we pass by, he stops his shouting for a second and winks at Andrew. He’s in on it. He’s a plant from Galactor. They have him out there yelling like a crazy person, ensuring that nobody will listen to him. They’ve built it into the system that the truth is told in such a way as to make sure everybody believes it is a lie. This is sick.
Looking around, the people don’t seem unhappy. They seem normal. That almost makes it worse somehow. At least when I was held captive, I knew that I was captive. I had the luxury of being able to resist my captors because I understood my situation. These people do not. These people are fully immersed in the simulated reality which has been built for them.
The world around us is full of right angles and hard, smooth stone. It looks as though it was designed by the sorts of people who doodle with a ruler. It smells organic, like food and like waste at the same time. I don’t know if it is the canine suit which is making the world seem to stink so much, or if the smell reflects objective reality.
It doesn’t matter. This isn’t a world. This is an enclosure. I shake myself, feeling tremors of fear and anger rushing through me as I turn my head an
d look up at Tarkan with a silent question.
What’s the plan?
Are we just here to look?
Tarkan, Reaper, and Andrew are talking to one another, discussing the world around them. I know that they’re gathering intelligence, but everything I hear out of Andrew’s mouth just makes me angrier. He’s so smug, so pleased with himself.
“The simulation is very stable,” he says. “If you see a human you’d like to pet, let me know and I can arrange some private time for you and the person you’ve chosen.”
“Sexual private time? With any person here?”
“That’s right. The first one is included in your entrance fee. Subsequent humans will attract additional charges.”
“So they’re all willing to have sex with anyone who asks?”
“The sexual zeitgeist here is very liberal. It is not difficult to seduce any of the humans. Here, I’ll show you.”
He reaches out and grasps a passing woman by her arm. She is young and attractive, wearing a short red skirt and a tank top with the word: WAITRESS on it. I’m guessing she’s a waitress.
She turns with a pretty smile and inclines her head. “How can I help you today, sir?”
“On your knees, please,” Andrew says.
I watch, shocked, as she sinks to her knees obediently, doing as she is told in the middle of the street. People keep flowing around us, not paying any attention to what is happening as Andrew unzips his pants and flops his flaccid organ out toward her lips. Are they not seeing what I am seeing? Do they not care? Is this so common that they don’t notice anymore? I look around, but I don’t see casual sex acts taking place elsewhere. I think this is something the aliens have done to the population, though I don’t know what, and I don’t know how.
“Any of the humans will obey you,” he says, standing over the kneeling young woman, ignoring her while he talks to Reaper and Tarkan. “Male or female. Everybody in the simulation is over eighteen years of age, so they’re all suitable for sexual contact, and they’re all very willing. Aren’t you?”