Huddled over my notes on the renal system, drops of blood where the sealant missed gluing my skin together, I hear the TV. Expert commentary on John Li’s brain. “Scarred.”
I imagine the Moon, welcoming every meteor to its blank surface. No strata for protection. You can’t be a blank slate forever.
* * *
Last day of exams.
I wake to metallic dust on my pillow. I sleep on clean sheets; we must have a robot for that.
Brush, eat, test.
The second it ends, I follow 30 others to the bathroom. We discuss how poorly scanned the holograms were, blurring the lens, stroma and cornea together, ha-ha isn’t that ironic.
The joke falls flat. There’s too much awareness of how little separates us. We can’t wish each other good luck; that’s the only difference between getting in and not getting in when you’re identically gifted.
The proctors shoot disapproval as we wipe our ears, but this is the future. Silver smudges on our fingers and brains like the Moon.
Some want to ban nontherapeutic stimulation, but that’s pointless. Normal students forget plenty, no studies show significant deviation from the norm.
We are the future.
I look in the mirror to straighten my hair, but I can’t tell which anxious face is mine.
Priya Chand graduated from the University of Chicago with a degree in neuroscience. She’s since found that writing stories can be as mindbending as conducting experiments, and is looking for a way to combine the two. Find her @writelies on Twitter.
Tea with Jillian
Brenda Cooper
On 25 June 2054, Technical Nurse Paul Castle brought a program he had been working on for three years into Shady Acres Nursing Home. He’d pieced it together from bits of open source available on the web and from some failed research of his own, which he had hoped to turn into a thesis project. He had tested it with crowd-sourced volunteers in Thailand. He’d done it for a patient, and because memory fascinated him.
This morning started like every other. Paul arrived early and perched at his desk, which had a view of the common kitchen for his wing, the long hallway between rooms, and of images from every room in the building. He did this just to watch the most beautiful of the robots in all of Shady Acres prepare Jillian’s breakfast. She worked with precision — like all robots — never spilling a drop of the oatmeal, adding exactly the same number of raisins and the same amount of sugar. The robot stirred in a half a cup of milk the same way every morning, and added the appropriate sprinkle of tasteless vitamin powder. Then she poured a glass of faux orange juice and glided down the hallway from the common kitchen to Jillian’s suite.
That was the moment Paul thought of as his meditation, his reminder to be as precise as Jillian’s robot nurse, as beautiful as he could manage in every interaction with the staff and residents.
There were other robots, of course. Some looked like people. Other residents chose the cheaper and more mechanical option of wheeled bots with screens or air-displays on them and metallic arms and hands for dispensing medications, making food and helping with bedding. These often ended up decorated; his favourite had stuffed golden retrievers tied to the large central post so their heads and ears flopped around as the robot negotiated stairs or tight turns. That one belonged to Patrice Mallo, who had been a good enough dog breeder that she could afford a single-room suite. For her part, Jillian dressed her caretaker in scarves and hats and gloves, and sometimes in evening gowns. On the morning of the 25th, Jillian had dressed her robot in pink.
Jillian owned the Penthouse. She had inherited a great pile of money from a grandfather, but she’d lost her ability to do more than shuffle the halls, and now she needed help cooking and cleaning and — on some days — remembering her name.
Jillian was the loneliest person Paul had ever met. He stood in for family on visiting days, and spent 20 minutes with her and the robot and Jillian’s robotic dog every afternoon at the end of his shift. He had a real dog, and parents to go home to, but just like his day started with Jillian’s breakfast, it ended with her cup of tea.
The robot girl would bring in the tea, leaning down and setting the lacquer tray precisely between them. They talked over this tea, small talk about the weather, about Paul’s dog Maximus whom he picked up at the end of every day and walked through Central Park. Sometimes they talked about Jillian’s past, and when this made Jillian cry, Paul would dry her eyes and ask her why. The most common answer was: “I miss being home. I miss being young and spry and beautiful.”
On 25 June, Paul spilled his tea on the table, so that some of the hot liquid splashed Jillian across the shoulder. This gave him an excuse to slip the data pearl from her necklace as he dried it off and add his program to her interface jewellery.
It took two days before he began to see results. The first thing he noticed was a change in the way the robot walked. Her hips slid right and left as she walked. It wasn’t quite feminine, but neither was it robotic. He imagined Jillian walking that way when she looked like a fully fleshed version of her metal companion. The idea made him smile.
At tea that day, Jillian looked happier. Her hands still shook as she held her china cup, her orange lipstick still missed the corners of her mouth, and her thin hair still clung to her cheeks. But her eyes were brighter and she gave him a smile that he imagined was just a touch more aware.
Weeks passed.
The robot began to join them for tea, to talk to Jillian about her past in a soft, silky and metallic voice. The two spent more time together. They bent their heads over books. The robot girl watched vids with the old woman, so close that metal touched skin often enough that Paul had to powder the old woman’s legs so she wouldn’t be burned by the friction of the robot’s movements. Jillian even named the robot after herself, calling her Jilly.
Over tea, Paul spoke softly. “Does it help you when Jilly can keep your memories for you?”
“Yes.” She paused. “I like it that when I talk to her she can recall the way the garden smelled after one of Poppa’s parties.”
“Are you happier?”
“Yes thank you. I know you helped to do that.”
He hadn’t expected that. “How?”
“Jilly told me. She remembers the day you spilled the tea, and how it felt to have the interface gone and returned, and how more kinds of things I want to tell her get stuck in her head so she can take them out for me later. She says you have made her into my mirror.” Jillian took a sip, age-spotted hands shaking so the liquid almost spilled from the cup. “Thank you.”
Brenda Cooper’s latest novels include The Creative Fire and The Diamond Deep, both out through Pyr and available wherever books are sold. Brenda blogs about the future of nature at http://www.backingintoeden.com. She lives in Washington state, and rides bicycles, walks dogs and works as a technology CIO.
Squealer
Robert Nathan Correll
“Hey George!”
A blast of cool, processed air entered the room as my new boss strolled in.
I stopped typing. “The name’s Ben.”
“Not today.” He threw another requisition on top of the towering stack of papers already on the desk. “New request just came in over the squealer. It’s a priority — something about farm animals.”
I glanced over the sheet. “Sure. Just give me whatever sample you’ve got of this guy’s writing and I’ll get on it as soon as I finish this.”
“We don’t have anything. Just a list of titles and a name. This guy’s stuff must have got lost at the beginning of the Big Crash. There are no samples. Go wild. And do it now. That,” he indicated my current project, “can wait. Two days.”
“Two? I usually have at least four to pound one of these out.”
“Not this time. I told you — it’s urgent.”
“Looks like he did a book on livestock and what else, some kind of single-year history? What’s the rush?”
The boss sighed. “Some idiot let an
old beta version of the Omnipedia out on the web and there are links to this guy all over it. Download requests are hitting us from e-readers all over the country. You’re it, George.”
* * *
“Hey, Ben — the guys and I are going out for a drink to catch the daily newsview. Want to come?”
I stopped typing and sighed. “Not today, Muriel. Priority request. Boss says he needs it yesterday.”
“Seriously? Look at you — sweating it out in this little closet on that ancient P. O. S. all damn day … why do you put up with it?”
“Boss says it’s verisimilitude. You guys all get to use those telepathic scribes, but that doesn’t sound the same as what you get out of a typewriter. Something about cadence.” I shook my head. “Besides, those things record everything that goes through your head. Doesn’t that bother you?”
She laughed. “Thinking seditious thoughts? Or just trying to make out your grocery list for the week? Whatever — this is a dead-end job. You should ask for a promotion to tech writing or something. You could get an office next to mine upstairs. At least we don’t have to dig through these piles of paper.” She prodded the swaying stacks of copy with disgust.
I shook my head. “You all go on. I’ll catch up with you later. Maybe Wednesday.”
“You really love this crap, don’t you? The deadlines, the typewriter, the stories … If you weren’t just churning out those prop pieces about duty to state and the virtues of hard work, I’d think you were the only real writer left in the country.”
“Don’t say that, Muriel.” I looked out the door with an exaggerated motion and smiled. “Someone could hear.”
* * *
That night I walked back to the apartment, past shuttered stores and boarded-up old tenements. It was still long before curfew and some people were about. A few were entering a dimly lit dive to catch the three hours of newsview that were mandated each night, while others tapped and scratched at their electronic tablets. I wondered if they were reading anything of mine. Maybe some Burroughs or Asimov — those had been fun to do. I rubbed my head. This afternoon had not gone so well and I wished I had gone with Muriel and the others after all. The words just wouldn’t come. Not writer’s block, but something about my assignment’s title that tickled the back of my mind and wouldn’t let go.
After an hour or so of digging through the hidden compartment under my bed, I found the answer. It was in the stack of old volumes I picked out of my grandmother’s storage unit the year before. A decaying paperback with a pig and a horse on the cover, barely visible beneath mould and water stains. I held it, running a finger across the pages and watching them flake away. What a trick — a bit of sleight of hand, electronic legerdemain. The boss once told me: “Just too much was lost in the Crash. So much of our history. And the idea that it’s just gone would be too much for most people to believe.” I looked at the book in my hand and laughed. I was replacing entire texts with real bits of fiction, and there was no one to know the difference but a dying generation and their failing memories. And me. I looked around my nice place. A real bed. Kitchenette. My own bathroom. Even Muriel didn’t have one of those. On the newsview, a government drone dropped bombs on some Nomad shacks, while the occupants were marched away at rifle-point. Re-settlement, re-education. But I never saw a man who could write a good propaganda piece in a work camp. And I meant to be writing for a long, long time. Turning, I pushed the book down the incinerator chute and began heading back to the office, off to write a young adult novel about the exciting adventures of a patriotic farmer and his loyal farm creatures, all toiling for the greater good. This, for instant delivery to the tablet computers of would-be revolutionaries and faux counterculture icons all over the nation, each of them looking for the ideas that could change their world.
Robert Nathan Correll is a postdoctoral fellow in cardiovascular biology who lives in Kentucky. He does not own an e-reader.
Acting Up
Elizabeth Counihan
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
4/1/2015 — 21:15 GMT
Hi Luke,
How’s it going down there in sunny LA? Now you know me, Luke, I never moan, but I have some problems up here that I hope you can fix.
I’m not complaining about the shuttle sickness. My fault — should have taken a pill, but it was my first trip and we’re not all old hands at weightless travel like you! And I wasn’t the only one either.
Don’t get me wrong. I love animals. I own two beautiful cats back in London. But that poor dog did throw up all over me just as I was getting used to the eating arrangements on the spacecraft. I noticed that Donita had two whole passenger bays to herself. I realize she’s the star of the movie but Toto is her pet, so why did I have to share a back seat with him? I don’t think he meant to bite me, not enough to draw blood anyway. Donita told me not to worry about rabies and blood poisoning as “Darling Toto has had all his shots as he travels everywhere with me”. Then she asked me if I had had all mine, as she didn’t want Toto to catch a cold from me! Like I said, I’m absolutely great with kids and animals. And Donita is so talented. I did admire her in Space Orphans — those big blue eyes! Wonderful how the camera just loves some people who look quite ordinary when you see them for real.
I was amazed to find so many tourists on the Moon, even with the new cheap shuttle flights. (I couldn’t believe it — bungee jumping at 1/6th gee!) Donita was surrounded by fans. Well, I suppose she is still a ‘child star’, although she must be at least 15. But no time to sign autographs. Merle had us all packed into our trailers and out to the location before you could say “Cut”! Merle is a wonderful director, so enthusiastic, almost like someone directing their first feature film. I watched out of the trailer window, very happy to pick up tips on low-gravity acting from such an old hand as Donita. Toto looked so cute bouncing around in his pooch-suit!
By the time I was needed I was ready for a coffee break. But the show must go on! They put me in this crazy rubber outfit with an incorporated oxygen pack. I had quite a shock, Luke. I didn’t realize I was expected to play a Moon tree! I told Merle the concept was ridiculous. Everyone knows there are no trees on the Moon. Merle was very short — told me to shut up and act! I told her I was a highly trained professional with years of experience and she said I was a pompous Brit! This is not what I’m used to. But I did as she said — bouncing about like a rubber ball with a lot of other ‘trees’. I felt a complete idiot!
Donita sang one of the main numbers from the show, asking Toto to protect her, but we had to have several takes because Toto quite lost control and kept jumping around us like he was on springs. We all heard his yapping over the sound system. I think he took us for real trees.
In the evening I felt one of my migraines coming on, but they told me the studio doctor was attending Toto for ‘a nervous breakdown’, so I had to retire to bed without the benefit of medical help! It was disappointing to find I was room-sharing with another tree — an absolute nobody on his first professional job. I had to complain. I do have my reputation to live up to. But apparently nothing could be done. Time pressure. The bottom line.
At least we were inside the complex for today’s schedule, so no need for pressure suits. A dresser appeared and glued me into another rubber costume. This time I was supposed to be a Moon zombie, whatever that is.
I asked Merle why we couldn’t stay on Earth and use CGI like in the good old days, and save the real actors for real acting. She looked at me like I was a cockroach and told me a) CGI technicians were a lot more expensive than rookie actors and old has-beens and b) there were great tax breaks for movie makers filming at the Moon colony and we had one week to complete the shoot, so would I kindly not waste any more of her time! I was most insulted and felt another headache coming on.
This evening I felt happier. We were, at last, able to meet our fans. Donita was surrounded by autograph hunters of course. Then a delightful elderly couple c
ame up to me waving an autograph book. They had seen my Hamlet on tour with the Shakespeare Players years ago out in Canada. I had just found a pen when Toto came rushing up, barking furiously. He suddenly recognized me as a ‘tree’ and treated my leg like one. This time he wasn’t wearing his pooch-suit. I was mortified! Hearing the fuss, Donita ran up and gave me a furious look as if it was my fault. So I was left there holding my pen while everyone had a good laugh!
Luke, this gig isn’t quite what I thought I’d signed up to.
My tuxedo is ruined.
Best,
William
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
4/1/2015 — 22:00 GMT
Hi William,
You’re fired. Merle e-mailed me. She has found a dog-owning Greenpeace activist who’s very happy to play a tree. I’ll buy you a new tuxedo.
Best,
Luke
Elizabeth Counihan has had stories published in Asimov’s, Realms of Fantasy, Interzone and several anthologies. She used to edit the British fantasy magazine Scheherazade.
You, In Emulation
Kathryn Cramer
I checked you out of the library. You were due back in two weeks for synchronization, but I kept you out much longer, running up huge fines. The librarian was very nice and didn’t make me pay right away, but said that she had very little discretion; that the fines were set by the library system and your publisher.
I am a writer and I was looking for an acting teacher to help me improve how I read my work out loud. Although, of course, your publisher didn’t tell me your real name, your bio on the package really spoke to me. I thought we would get along, and we did, from the very first moment that you were uploaded into my card slot.
Suddenly, there you were. It surprised me that you were my height. I’m not sure if that is an artefact of the software: virtual teachers scaled to the same size as their students, or whether you really are (or were) five foot six.
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