If we visited a holographic library together, then I would use my cyborg shapeshifting skills to assume the form of a giant onion ring, so you wouldn’t appear quite so weird to all the kids who run around and mash the buttons on the interactive displays instead of learning anything. People would weep at the memory of slicing onions, and impressed by the spectacle of seeing us together, the librarians in the genetic department would clone a real pig just so they could top you with genuine bacon.
If you were joined in secular matrimony with a slice of bacon, I’d try not to be jealous of you preferring a bit of piggy-in-the-middle to playing with my ring. I’d be sad, and crying, and wailing loudly, and wearing the white dress I bought for our wedding, but I wouldn’t do any of that to make you feel uncomfortable. On the contrary, I’d really really want you to marry a sliver of processed pork if you’re sure that’s what you wanted. It just happens to be the case that white shows off my complexion, and the color would help to hide any stains if you drip mayonnaise on me. So marry the bacon, if you must, but don’t come crying to me if the resurrected heads of 17th century statesmen currently serving on the Supreme Court decide to interpret Clutterbuck v. Homogenate Margarine Substitute as justification for rescinding the universal human right to divorce.
If I was wearing white at your wedding, I’d also want to wear something old, new, borrowed and blue, even though I wouldn’t be the bride and that’s what brides wore until our Artificially Intelligent overlords banned all forms of neopagan ritual, especially those which assigned different roles according to gender. To keep things simple, I’d borrow some stinky old blue cheese and incorporate it into a new hamburger recipe, and then wear that as a hat. The smell of my daring fashion statement would make it obvious you’re no longer the only hamburger in the world, which should make you smile, instead of complaining that I’m embarrassing you in public like usual.
If you weren’t the only hamburger in the world, or a cyborg which is almost fifty percent organic, then maybe you would have successfully fought off those ex-military androids who returned from the failed mission to conquer Io. Being homeless and intelligent synthetic lifeforms, they were entitled to fight you for your living quarters, even though you bought that apartment with money you borrowed from your parents. I had some sympathy for your plight, but democratic decentralization inevitably means rioting should be protected as an exercise of free speech. I watched helplessly whilst they kicked you in the taco, and pounded your brain into sweet and sour sauce. Sadly, the androids were careful not to mix their regrettable but perfectly legal ultraviolence with a prohibited activity like badwordscrime. They gave me no excuse to call the thought police. Though you were very angry at the time, you must admit the androids were pretty ingenious, using comically outdated phrases to deprecate you whilst they viciously pounded your skull. They called you a malcontent, and a vagabond, and a rogue, and a rotter, and a cad, and a bounder, and a ne’er-do-well. When one of them called you a eunuch jelly, I lifted my phone, thinking that might be badwordscrime, but the smartphone AI corrected me, saying “eunuch” was a legitimate reference to a recognized gender reassignment.
If you were a hamburger, my love, you’d be a great big fatty burger covered in cheese and bacon and pickles and relish, and then your enemies would eat you, and then they’d suffer heart disease, and possibly flatulence too. It’s fair to assume the androids would eat you. They don’t really need food but they like to appear like ordinary people, and I know I’d want to eat you, but only if I didn’t know you already. Or maybe eating you would rust the androids’ innards, though it’s possible the grease might actually be good for them. Anyhow, let’s suppose the androids started dying from heart disease because they couldn’t afford health insurance either. How I’d laugh at that! Whilst they were lying in their hospital/autoshop beds, I’d slink up to them using my shapeshifting skills, and show them a live update of their credit rating, which would demonstrate their medical bills had doomed their robotic offspring to a lifetime of indentured servitude.
If I laughed at ruining the credit rating of the androids’ children, then eventually I’d feel a little bit guilty, because you shouldn’t punish the daughterboard for the sins of the motherboard. But I’d only feel guilty to make it clear how superior I am to an android, because they lack a full range of emotions as appropriate for every situation. And then I’d laugh a bit more, because I really am superior. Ha!
If you were a hamburger, my love, then I’d be happy because that would mean cows aren’t extinct, and the closest analogue to beef would no longer be cockroach pâté. But cows are extinct, thanks to the cull which saved us all from methane overload. So it’s with a heavy heart that I give permission to recycle you into Soylent Green, because you’ll never be a hamburger, though you’re dead meat now.
IMAGINE
By
Pierce Oka
Who is willing to help the victims of an all-powerful state?
“You’ll be accompanying me today on your first field response.” Two men walked down a white paneled hallway tiled with shiny black squares. One man, the elder and the taller of the two, walked with an air of boredom, his legs precisely measuring two-tile steps. The younger man walked with a nervous but excited gait, checking the pockets of his long white coat repeatedly to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. They stopped at an elevator at the end of the hall and the tall man lazily extended a white sleeved arm to push the down button. The door hissed open and soft music began wafting out of the elevator shaft.
“Surprisingly fast, these elevators,” said the young man as they stepped in.
“Efficiency is the hallmark of our Society,” replied the other as he cleaned his glasses on his coat. “It’s why we have to be so strict with our citizens; too many freedoms and they forget the main goal.”
“Is that what we’re heading out for today?” asked the young man, raking his fingers through his fair hair.
“Today we are headed to apprehend a disturber of the peace. Our target is charged with racism, sexism, homophobia, and aiding a criminal. Order must be restored swiftly.” The young agent fell silent for a moment in thought. The elder agent listened with amusement as his partner began to reverently join in the Societal Anthem floating out of the elevator’s speakers.
“Imagine all in common/ No one has more than you/ No hoarders and no wreckers/ And everyone stays true...” He had trained many like him before. Give him a few months and his naive fervor would dissipate as he realized all the lofty ideals for which the Society stood were merely a useful tool for controlling the masses. The elevator came to a gentle stop and the two men exited into another white and black hallway, the younger now trying to match the measured steps of his elder. They passed into a side room near the large entrance to a garage.
“You have your choice of peacekeeping tools, though I’d recommend something small and unobtrusive; our target shouldn’t give us too much trouble.” The senior agent selected a small pistol and snapped the holster onto his belt. His partner examined several weapons in succession. A triple-barreled rifle. Impressive, but rather heavy. A stun baton. Too utilitarian. A crowbar. What the hell? He chose an intimidating-looking pistol and strapped it to his belt. The two men then exited the armory and headed into the garage.
“Hey, Amber, hurry up!” Dawn called down the sidewalk to her friend. A young woman came pelting down the concrete, her red hair flapping in the breeze a stark contrast against the standard issue grey scarf looped around her neck. She caught up to her friend, taking deep gulps of air and resting her hands on her knees.
“Why again is it so important that we get there so fast?” she asked between breaths.
“If we get there too late, all the good jobs will be taken. Do you want to be stuck with pipeworks for a year?” Dawn pushed a few light strands of hair away from her face, and made a pointed gesture towards a small crowd around a large building. “C’mon, you can already see the line forming down the street.”
&
nbsp; “Can’t we just walk for a little bit? I’m totally out of breath. If anyone passes us we can start running again, okay?”
“Have it your way then, lazybones,” said Dawn, ruffling her friend’s hair, “just don’t blame me if you get ‘sustainable power worker’.” The two walked on in silence for a bit until Amber let out a squeak of surprise she quickly stifled.
“W-what is that?” She gestured across the street.
“The stocks? It’s an old time punishment I think, didn’t know if they would still bring it out or not. See the sign?” Dawn pointed to a block of black text on the base of the stocks: HOARDING FOOD—FAILED TO LIVE FOR TODAY. “That guy probably hasn’t eaten in a few days, to make up for the food he tried to keep.”
“Shouldn’t we go help him? He looks like he could drop dead any minute now.”
“Didn’t you see the sign? It’s people like him that are trying to drag our Society back into the Dark Times, who don’t want people to share and talk about this being greater than Humankind.” Cameras on the nearby street lamps detected Dawn’s rising voice and swiveled towards her in case any altercation should occur. They soon turned again, however, when a man in a grey habit interrupted the beam plate in front of the stocks and began feeding something out of a bowl to the food hoarder. “See?” said Dawn, “Another one of these nuts, and he’s in some funny getup, definitely non-issued. I have half a mind to slam one of the red buttons right now, but we’ve got to get to the Ministry of Occupations fast!” She strode determinedly down the street.
“This isn’t the Dawn I remember from high school,” ventured Amber after a minute or so of uncomfortable silence, “What’s happened to you? It hasn’t been that long since we’ve seen each other.”
“Are you criticizing how I think?!” said Dawn, whirling about on Amber. “Do you know what Professor Hage has to say about criticism?!” But whatever it was Professor Hage had to say about criticism Amber never found out, because at that moment a small gravtruck swung around the corner and two men in white coats came out, weapons raised.
A small door opened out onto a side street and a dark beard jutted out of the doorway. The beard was followed by a nose and face as Brother Edmund peered cautiously into the alleyway. This was a mad risk, he thought to himself, aiding a condemned man while going out openly in his habit, but he hadn’t become religious in this day and age to live a life of ease. That man locked up in the streets needed to eat, and there were few that would help him do that. Cradling a pot of stew in his arms, Brother Edmund stepped into the street and began walking briskly. Turning right at the first intersection, he swung about to face the third door on his left. This door, like most doors in the Society, was a dull color, which, like most dull colors in the Society, had a pretentious name like Rodeo Beige or Italian Same. Closer investigation however, would reveal a small fish symbol carved into the door by the doorknob. Brother Edmund knocked thrice upon the door, which swung inward just enough for him to squeeze through.
“Heading to Fourth Street, Brother?” asked the plump, kindly looking woman that had opened the door.
“Yes, to help that poor fellow locked up for ‘hoarding food’, the nonsense.” Brother Edmund stepped over the threshold and the woman quickly closed the door behind him.
“I know, they expect us to believe that the bread will keep on coming and the trains will keep running and the perfect Society will go on forever. No need to worry about the next day! Just live for the moment and it’ll all work out fine!”
“Be careful, Martha,” he said, cracking a wry smile, “they might have bugs in the houses now. More and more of the side streets are getting crime spotters installed.” The two walked farther into the house, which Martha had managed to make look cozy despite the utilitarian design of Society furnishings. They entered the kitchen, and Martha shifted aside a large floor tile.
“Ha! My husband’s been an electrician for the past decade; he’d wire them into the neighbor’s house. They’re always spouting off Society claptrap and praises.” Brother Edmund set down the stew pot and began to climb down the ladder into the tunnel under the floor. “You be careful now,” she added as she lowered the pot down to him.
“As always. God bless you Martha.”
“Careful, they might have bugged the tunnels,” she said, smiling. Then all was dark as she pushed the floor tile back into place. Brother Edmund fumbled about in the hood of his habit for a moment before pulling out a small flashlight. With his path illumined he began to walk down the tunnel. Water dripped from the ceiling as he passed under potholed Fifth Street, and the small ring of light in the distance marked Fourth Street. The brother emerged from the old electricians’ tunnel behind a large dumpster, and glanced around the corner for any officers of the law. All he saw were two young women, preoccupied with some discussion, so he left his hiding place and approached the man in the stocks. As he did so, he felt as though he had passed through a current of some kind, and noticed the crime spotters swiveling to fix their glassy eyes on him. If he ran now, he could escape. Brother Edmund looked up at the man, saw his gaunt face and pleading eyes. No, he had not come to run away at the first sign of danger.
“Whatever you do for the least of my brethren, you do for me.” The thought echoed in Brother Edmund’s mind. How could he leave this poor man here? Uncovering the pot, Brother Edmund offered the man a ladle full of stew. He eagerly gulped it down, and croaked out through cracked lips:
“Thank you.”
“Thank God,” said Brother Edmund, “I am only His lowly servant.” He gave more of the stew to the man.
“Odd-looking clothes you’re wearing. Won’t you get in trouble for that?”
“They are a sign of obedience to God; no threat would make me wear otherwise.”
“That remains to be seen,” broke in a clipped, authoritative voice.
The young agent’s arms shook as he kept his pistol trained on the disturber of the peace. “Just drop the bowl and come with us,” he said, trying to force the nervousness out of his voice and sound authoritative. The target paid no attention to his command, and continued to feed something out of a ladle to the criminal. “If you don’t stop now, your sentence will be worse!” The man in the strange and offensive garb set down his pot, which made a hollow, ringing sound as it hit the sidewalk. It seemed as though he were going to listen to the agent now, but instead he made some odd gesture with his arms and began to head down the street. “Halt or I’ll shoot!”
“Leave him be!” came a woman’s voice from behind, followed by another’s:
“No you idiot, they’re the law!”
“Shoot him.” The third voice came surprisingly close to the young agent’s ear. The elder agent had stepped up behind him. The young man readjusted his aim and thumbed off the safety of his gun. His irregular breathing made it difficult to keep his pistol trained on the escaping man, who was approaching an alleyway. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t shoot. The older agent sighed, raised his gun, and fired. As the echoes of the gunshot died, the noontime chimes sounded over a public speaker and the Societal Anthem began to play:
“Imagine there’s no future/ Beyond what we can see... ”
GRADUATION DAY
By
Chrome Oxide
A glimpse of state-run education to come…
I was so proud of my daughter that even though I’d never met her, I wanted to spy on her one last time. As the anonymous sperm donor I had no parental rights, but she was the only child I’d ever have.
Today was her Graduation, I mean her Exit Day. After eight years at the Karl Marx Safe Space Educational Gulag she had been exposed to everything the government information czars decided was appropriate for her to see. Even though it seems like yesterday, it was eight years ago that she graduated, I mean exited from high school. She was about to leave academia behind and become a productive adult member of our society.
I pulled my keyboard and monitor from my pocket and expanded them to full
size. A quick touch brought up the Gulag map. The screen was full of glowing dots indicating the location of the privacy tracking chips implanted in all citizens at their birth. The signature of my daughter’s chip showed her near the center of the campus quad. Because privacy was important to her she disabled public access to her selfie drone when she started at the Gulag. That delayed my search because I needed to drone hop the data streams among the government, university, public access, private, pirate and selfie drones hovering over the campus.
The first drone I jumped to hovered at the east edge of the quad and focused on a white woman lying motionless on the ground. The tears in her clothes and stab wounds on her torso and throat were visible from this angle. A group of heavily tattooed non-white men were pulling up their pants. It wasn’t rape because there hadn’t been any rapes on campus since the government had banned white men and their rape culture from attending the Gulag. The courts had ruled that after centuries of oppression by the white male patriarchy any actions by minorities were a legitimate form of political protest.
I gasped with horror when I realized the races and genders were mixing in public when they normally stayed in their single-color and gender safe spaces. Only the excitement of Exit Day would cause them to abandon the safe spaces they’d struggled to acquire.
Because of my White Privilege, my education ended in high school where I was trained as a programmer. Five minutes into my first job I became a criminal when I hacked the national database and inserted a datahound to record any queries into my record. My shameful white male heritage was linked to my record because all white males that survived to puberty and didn’t have gender reassignment surgery were required to donate sperm to the government sperm bank.
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