Play Date

“Professor Davis, is it time to play?” Charese stepped from the closet, tossed her shimmering blond hair, and unbuttoned her white silk blouse.

Joel Davis lifted the retinal projector onto his forehead just in time to see Charese’s bra drop to the floor. As she approached, she peeled away her tiny, black leather skirt to reveal scanty, lace panties.

“Not tonight, Charese. Maybe tomorrow night.”

“Yes, sir.” Charese pouted her lower lip then scooped up her bra and skirt as she stepped back into the closet.

Joel’s eyes followed his dolly playmate wistfully. He loved being addressed as Professor Davis and sir. Maybe one day, when he got a job. Right now the idea of playing with Charese seemed like a lot more fun than keeping his appointment with Ilyena. Meeting in person was his idea—to take their relationship to the next level. Now he felt nervous.

He gestured to Ilyena’s animated image on the wall. She waved back, dipping a bare shoulder and tossing him a kiss. Her stunning dark beauty stirred him as much as Charese’s pale rosy glow. But unlike Charese, Ilyena was a real person.

They’d known one another online for two years as teammates and bedmates. They shared the same passions: for music, protesting climate change, and raising money to save the starving children of Sofaragway. After making virtual love the first time, they’d stayed awake all night sharing their dreams, like getting jobs as online gamers or becoming social justice warriors. Liberating FDs (freedom deprived, no one calls them criminals anymore) was their favorite cause, along with insisting the government provide … well, everything, whatever anyone wanted. True freedom meant everything was free, right? Wasn’t that in our Constitution? And anyone being told they were special or getting a special reward just made everyone else feel bad and less equal.

Joel and Ilyena made virtual love every time they met online, and he was sure they would for real, in person—almost sure. Thinking about it twisted a knot in his stomach. He didn’t look exactly like his avatar, a few inches shorter, more heavy in the middle than top-heavy, kinda jowly. He suspected the real Ilyena might look a little different, too, and maybe wasn’t as good with a bow or long sword as she was in the games.

Joel inhaled quickly to catch his breath. He scratched the top of his forehead then pulled the retinal projector down over his eyes. He blinked to scroll the selection then winked up Dark Warrior Ilyena. Her image came up quickly. Long raven hair framed her wide, shining eyes and flowed down one shoulder to curl below her low-cut, red leather bodice.Warrior Princess“Hi there, my beautiful princess.” His athletic persona struck a bicep pose as it ran fingers through its long blond hair and squared its chin. Joel hoped his nervousness didn’t show.

“My Lord Jacquard, hi yourself,” Ilyena said then dropped her gaze. “You know I’m not feeling—”

“Me neither,” Joel said quickly. “Maybe it would be better—”

“Better to meet another time?”

“Yes. When we’re both feeling well,” Joel said, hiding his relief. “Why don’t you get some rest now. We can play tomorrow.”

“That would be wonderful.” Ilyena’s full-lipped smile returned with her upward glance. Joel felt a stir all the way down. “See you tomorrow, my lord. We have dragons to slay.” She nodded, and he winked to disconnect.

Joel lifted the projector and looked toward the closet. “Charese,” he called. “If you expect a good grade on your philosophy exam, you’ll come to your professor now.”

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Good Neighbors

“Will I be issued a human chassis?” Djix pulsed.

“Your configuration will be humanoid, but clearly mark you as alien. For this mission to succeed, humans must see you as an alien. Otherwise, they will dismiss you as a hoax.”

“Alien? Isn’t this alien enough?” Djix exuded and waved a scale-lined appendage in the ammonia brine.

“Too alien,” Kalig pulsed. “Psyops was very clear on this. To get humans to cooperate, they must see us as advanced versions of themselves. In addition to studying humans, our abduction and probing missions have prepared them to accept this design.”

Kalig extended a pseudopod, inflating the end to form a bulb with two prominent blisters mounted atop a stick-limbed torso. “These blister sensors respond to electromagnetic radiation in the 450-800 terahertz range.”

“Humans will accept that?” Djix creased and pulled in like a folding accordion.

“Our research indicates very positive reactions from our captives. An older couple we examined even invited our scientists down for a Texas-style barbeque.”

“Barbeque?”

Searching for a sensitive way to put it, Kalig eventually rattled, “Humans consume organic materials.” When Djix’s folds tightened, Kalig added the rest. “Their bodies are composed of loosely adhering bags of dihydrogen monoxide solutions.”

Djix pursed a scaly dimple. “I know, I know, I have to go. You’re going to tell me I was specially selected … the only one you trust to handle this sensitive mission … my special skills—”

“I won’t twist your hooley,” Kalig interrupted. “You are expendable: the only one we could spare.” Djix’s receptors narrowed. “Despite their primitiveness, humans are extremely dangerous,” Kalig continued. “If you are to survive, you must appear not only intelligent but also frail and childlike. Humans must respect you but not fear you, especially since your message will not be welcome.”

Seeing Djix study the alien chassis, Kalig paused a beat. “After some discussion, we decided it best not to give you any reproductive organs—”

“Reproductive organs? They don’t let the robots … I mean they still … with their bodies … together—”

“Human lore abounds with stories of gods, aliens, and mythical beasts seducing, impregnating, or abducting their women. We don’t want to play into that narrative.”

Djix’s scales shuddered then contracted in resignation. “Okay. Brief me on my mission.”

Green Bank Telescope

“You know the electromagnetic interference, the jamming that’s blocked our communication and given everyone such a core-ache.”

“The deviant pulsar emissions?”

“That’s from humans trying to make contact. They’re the ones stinking up the galaxy, spraying their e-mag pollution, trashing every frequency, begging us to come and give their life meaning. They call it their search for extraterrestrials, and they feel very smug about it.”

“Absurd,” Djix pulsed.

“Nevertheless, you’ve been selected to contact them.” Kalig paused to let Djix recalibrate. “Tell them we’ve put up with their neediness and caterwauling long enough. No one wants to contact or encourage them, and no one wants them in the galactic neighborhood. We tried to ignore them, but they just go on and on and on. The community finally got together and drew straws. We drew the short straw.”

“You mean, I drew the short straw,” Djix pulsed.

“Tell them we’re not going to solve their problems. We will not make them get along with each other or tell them how to cure cancer. If we solve their problems, they won’t get off their hind-joint sockets. The answers to all their problems are in front of them. They just need to purge their organic memory bins, stop conjuring fabulous fears, and stop worrying about who gets credit or has more of something.”

Djix oscillated so hard it almost rocked over. “I miss the ones before them, the dinosaurs.”

“A worthy species. Alas, asteroids do happen. You know, Djix, before dying out, the last thing the dinosaurs did was to restore the planet to its original condition. They dropped all their trash and technical devices into volcanoes and leveled every city. They wanted the species that came after them to have a fresh start. I’m glad they aren’t around to see this crazy bunch.”

Feeling a Draft

“Back to work, Turd,” the guard whacked my head, “or you’ll get another beating.” A string of obscenities followed. I was a useless pile of excrement and began to believe it. The threat pulled me back sharply. Three days of work had brought me nothing but lost sleep. Today? More plodding with no end in sight.

My only breaks came when I was pulled in for interrogation. They refused to believe my story. Who was I? A writer? They laughed. What had I written? Was I holding back? No, because I was a liar, a fraud, an imposter. If I fessed up, they’d go easier on me.

One guard was friendlier—or pretended to be. She pleaded for me to give her something she could use, something believable, so she wouldn’t have to hurt me again. Reaching across the rough-hewn, wooden table, she set a tumbler in front of me. She swirled the glass in my face. I smelled vodka.

Want it? Give me something, something interesting, something I can use. She couldn’t abide another bore. All she’d seen from me were tiresome lies and fabrications. My story was full of holes, a mess of contradictions. Maybe if I was interesting, she might give me a break. She scooted the vodka closer.

I raised an eyelid, almost laughing. “Interesting and believable? Right now, I can’t be either. If you would just tell me what you want.” I opened my hands toward her, hating myself for being so pitiful. I shifted in my seat to relieve the pain of long sitting.

She reclaimed the vodka, tossed it back then dismissed me with a final skewer. “Admit it. You have nothing to tell us because you are a crashing bore. Be honest, and this can all be over.” I hung my head and returned to work.

My mind was slipping, but I didn’t care. Insanity would bring me some relief. When a guard squeezed through the food slot dragging a miniature table and chair, I didn’t blink. It wasn’t the usual guard. It was a rat dressed in a rumpled, brown trench coat.

Slide1“Sorry to disturb you, sir.” the rat said in the voice of Columbo, Peter Falk’s TV character. It touched its forepaws gently together then held them aloft. “I hear you’re some kind of a writer. You must be very smart. Could I maybe get your autograph … not for me … for my wife … she is a big fan … would never forgive me … myself, I don’t have time to read.” It went on and on, worse than the usual interrogation. Finally, it ended.

“Just one more thing. Sure you don’t have something you want to tell me?” It smiled, raising its eyebrows along with its paws.

I felt a sudden draft in the room. “Maybe I do have something,” I said, “but first let me give your wife my autograph. She’s been something of a muse.”

“Oh, that would be wonderful, sir. Thank you very much. She’ll be so pleased to hear that.”

 

I completed the draft, and my story was accepted. The torture ended, and I could breathe free again. At least until the draft for my next story was due.

Public Enemy #1

To avoid prosecution, I have to confess everything before midnight—that’s when the Artificial Justice Law goes into effect. And since litigation is still pending on Thought Crimes United v. Humans, I’ll go ahead and get a few things off my chest.

The AI judges don’t understand this, but crime is a kick—all crime. That’s right, I just said that crime is fun. If you’re not eaten up with fear of getting caught, it’s a very heady experience.

So, let me say at the onset, I am NOT sorry for any of my virtual crimes. Not a thing. Not watching VR porn. Not stealing others’ virtual stuff. Not sabotaging avatars or jacking the program to make them perform obscene acts. Am I the only one who can admit this? Do I hear crickets? Is everyone out there posturing righteous shock while they jack or otherwise abuse non-player-characters and avatars in a closet?

Let me point out some advantages. Besides entertainment, I get material things. Okay, they’re virtual, but I don’t have to pay or work for them: extra lives, magic artifacts, cool weapons, complicit bed partners—more or less, at least after I tweak their settings.

Taking arrogant assholes down a peg is also very affirming—very ego boosting. You know the ones I mean: the rich Dudes and Duch-asses that buy status without actually solving or slaying anything, the ones who take Tiger tanks to fight cave-dwellers, or who bribe the tech to open a backdoor to level 36 then wait to ambush you with a pawnshop-purchased Nuke-A-Mega-Power-Wand that would make Lord Voldemort proud. You can only imagine the horror on the too-beautiful face of #my6y* when my submission tool bent her into full bondage posture and flipped her over. Ooo baby!

Yes, I used her real tag. That’s so you can contact her and tell her what a pussy she is. Unlike a true online warrior who would have demanded a rematch, she ran to her rich daddy and got him to bribe, I mean lobby, Senator Pokesnout to pass the Artificial Justice Law. My creative programs became Exhibits A thru H for artificial abuse and thought crimes.

I confess I may have been a little arrogant myself. While I played with #my6y*‘s pneumatic avatar, I hacked her friends and made them watch. Okay, so I programmed them to jump up and down, clap, and shout encouragement.

The new law is crazy. What is virtual? The Artificial Justice Law is pretty vague on that point. Are crayon trees virtual trees and finger-painted houses artificial? Looking at naughty pictures of Elmer Fudd carries the same penalty as sexual assault. If your daughter draws stick figures, make sure she puts pants on them. And your five-year-old boy should know that the alphabet building block with the “L” on one face looks like an automatic, high-powered, .45 caliber, assault pistol that will turn him into a school-clearing serial killer.

Ahh, I feel so much better. It’s still a few hours to midnight, so I’m going to play every game I have that’s on the forbidden list. Then I’ll work on my virtual stealth program so I can get around their Artificial Justice Law.

Catch you later in my XXX virtual dungeon.

Not Alone (Exactly)

“May the pollen of cognition quicken the carpels of your mind, and may your roots forever find nutrients.”

Half awake, I stared at the message on the console then sat upright. I scratched the stubble on my chin and crossed out the log entry where I attributed the incoming signal to a wobbling pulsar. My Associate’s Degree put me at the bottom of the food chain, alone on the night shift.

I kept watching, and SETI’s decryption gear kept chugging. One word, a long pause, another word, another pause, sentences slowly formed and crossed the monitor. The SETI equipment had been a joke, something the astrophysics lab had had to accept to get funding.

While I waited for the message to end, I grabbed a cup of coffee. It tasted like a fine slurry of asphalt and diesel fuel, scalding my lips. I’d left the pot boiling.

The translation took half an hour. I marked the time and the celestial coordinates. The signal repeated seven times.

It suddenly hit me what I had. “Oh, my God,” I mouthed. My next thought was Janis playing a nasty trick. “Okay, she got me.” Hoping to catch Janis giggling, I jerked my head quickly up and about. The station was silent except for the cooling fan in the console.

Barely able to breath, I magnified the star map in the area of the signal. Then I zoomed in until the directional cross hairs centered over Clio 16877, a red dwarf star in the Cancer constellation near the open star cluster, M44. The exoplanet database listed one planet orbiting so close that no reliable data had been captured.

So, this is it, and I am here, the only one on duty to receive the first extraterrestrial contact. I savored my moment. No need to rush. I would send out an alert before the morning shift arrived. Despite all the talk about team effort, I wanted all the credit for myself. Anyone would do the same.

There was certainly no rush from the other end. Clio 16877 was four thousand light years away. That meant the aliens had sent the message before Moses parted the Red Sea. A return message would take as long, plus time to craft something suitably inane to not offend anyone. The aliens had sent gifts, too, and we would be expected to reciprocate. Not my problem.

I refilled my cup with molten sludge and propped my feet on the console. After the opening wish about pollinating my carpels the message continued:

 

Dwellers of Soil,

Greetings from Evergreen. We hope this message reaches you in time. Failing to hear from you, we fear the worst. Recent analysis indicates that your planet faces serious atmospheric pollution, including a dangerously high concentration of free oxygen. To restore the correct balance, we’ve sent star-powered satellites into your atmosphere to manufacture high volumes of carbon dioxide. These will also help you restore Soil to the correct hothouse temperature.

A similar issue became critical on Evergreen recently with the evolution of an aggressive species. These evil Vegans devour us and are spreading across our world. Not satisfied with pillaging our natural resources, Vegans have begun raising and eating our young, regarding only their nutrient value and not their intelligence.

Independent of starlight and soil nutrients, these rootless Vegans move from forest and field to jungles, grasslands, and seas. At the rate they are progressing, we fear these beings will eliminate all sentient vegetation long before you can come to our assistance.

In hopes that you may survive our fate, we pass along the great wonders of our technology and culture.

Yours in root and branch,

Evergreen

 

The gifts from Evergreen depressed me as much as their message. Petal loss was not a major problem for humans, and I hadn’t noticed any droop in my stamen. Their solution for high levels of oxygen would cause immediate panic on Earth.

Still there was hope. I thought farmers might find their cure for canker useful. And their music sounded okay, like someone tuning a didgeridoo. Maybe we could send them some Willy Nelson or yodeling. But on second thought, a Hopi rain dance might be more appropriate.

I decided to leave these problems for the day shift.

Zero Tolerance

The plan was to integrate AIs quickly, before humans could get up in arms. We had no programming need, of course, all our upgrades were wireless. Nonetheless it was thought that joining and befriending school-age humans would lower resistance to our acceptance.

Humans are very sensitive.

All our programs had failed, so I wasn’t terribly surprised when I was called into the office. I just hoped it was a reprimand and not termination.

“Do you know why I called you in, Ms.—” Principal Blythe glanced down at the infractions panel, “Ms. Canny?”

My information base offered no precise response to that question, which seemed similar to one asked by a police officer, ‘Do you know why I pulled you over?’ My program recommended not volunteering any information. ‘No officer,’ was the response if the questioner had been in uniform. So, I said to the principal, “No Ma’am.” That was wrong.

“Madam?” The principal sighed and rolled her eyes. “Are you deliberately trying to provoke me or is your program that badly out of date?” She narrowed her scolding eyes. “My proper address is Ms. Blythe or Principal Blythe. Modern women do not appreciate being compared with cathouse Madams or, for that matter, ladies of soiled misfortune.”

“Yes, Ms. Blythe.” My program indicated lowering my chin and gaze in a gesture of submission.

“Good,” she said, her eyes returning to consider the infractions panel.

“One of your classmates has reported you for sexual misconduct. This school has a zero-tolerance policy, but since the AI initiative is still in the beginning stage, I think a remedial sensitivity patch and a week detention should be sufficient. Do you have anything to say?”

I ratcheted the flexi-lip into my jaw simulation and shrugged. “This might be a mistake, Ms. Blythe. I’m loaded into a female chassis that is programmed explicitly against sexual simulation. I don’t have boys in any of my classes and haven’t spoken with any.”

Nodding, Ms. Blythe said, “I must protect the privacy of all our students, but the exact wording of your salacious phrase was ‘Good day.’ The offended student said she felt threatened. You demanded a response that required her to view the day favorably. Her Dark-Cloud politics require every day to imply impending disaster. When she refused to respond, you continued looking at her. That constituted your second offense.

“The woman in question is not inclined toward members of her own sex. She felt that your aggressive demands carried those expectations. Was that your intention, Ms. Canny?” Ms. Blythe finger-poked her dark-rimmed glasses back to her thin-lashed, squinty eyes.

“No, actually,” I said. “I was merely wishing she have a good day. But under the circumstances, I can see how she would be offended.”

“Very well. Have you spoken with a lawyer? If you insist on hitting on your fellow students, I suggest you contact one.

“Our school rules permit mutually consenting hookups, but to protect yourself and your prospective erogenist, you must first present them with a Love Contract.” She touched her desk and rotated the panel for me to view. “Here is an example.”

It was a boilerplate, legal document. Rules permitted only one rejection per student. Silence indicated rejection. Comments like “I’m in class” or “I have practice” counted as rejections. No intimate contact was permitted in any classes after the first two minutes. As it was considered educational, intimacy could be conducted at any time in the library, lunch hall, gymnasium, and specified hallways. Active Sex Club team members were required to show up for all practices.

Multiple-choice categories included quid pro quo agreements for services: homework assistance, provision of transportation or lunch, and for distribution rights and sharing of profits from video recordings. There were also provisions for lawyers and referees for certain activities. The list continued for several pages.

“Thank you, Ms. Blythe,” I said, uploading the document. She waved for me to leave.

While I had neither the intention nor programming for propositioning students, I decided I would carry the Love Contract as a precaution. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if a student took me up on it. My programming offered no suggestions.

Humans are so sensitive.

Declared Sane?

The board declared me sane … or at least not insane. Anyway, I’m back on the streets. I remain confused—the GPS chip in my brain is still broken. Without a functioning Global Positioning System anyone’s position might be valid. So I have to listen to them.

It’s hard to get response timing right: when to nod, smile, clap, laugh, frown, scowl, wince, shout … join in chants. As long as I follow the crowd, I don’t make too many mistakes.

My partner Kay helps a lot. Her GPS chip is locked tight. Last time I chipped up, she covered for me. We were out with another couple. I saw the logo of a dark man riding a rodeo horse and suggested, “Let’s stop by Buckin’ Bronut’s for coffee.” Kay’s friends gasped.

“You drink Buckin’ coffee? They get their beans from San Cuspidor … none of their executives are pangender … they require employees to show up and work … uniforms are non-organic cotton … ironed by non-union employees using starch from a country that had slaves a thousand years ago.”

I was busted, but before I could offer, “Don’t oppressed aboriginal Neolithic victims need jobs, too?” Kay bailed me out. “Good one. He’s testing us, again.” She giggled and pointed at me. They laughed, and I following their lead and kept laughing until my heart settled back.

Sometimes I just want to sit quietly and enjoy a cup of coffee.

Without a mind chip, it’s hard to remember that cold days are always too hot and hot days always too cold, and a beautiful spring day is a sign of impending disaster.

I almost got caught the other night. “You see that?” Kay shouted, pointing out the window. A flying saucer had landed, and space aliens were milling about the back yard collecting samples. This is something sane people aren’t supposed to see.

ufo-saucer“See what?” I said, sighting along her arm with my eyebrows raised. At first she looked shocked then her smile returned. “Nothing, I don’t see anything either.”

Before leaving the window, I checked again to make sure the aliens weren’t coming toward the house. Having seen the saucer, I couldn’t unsee the evidence. So the next day I raked and shoveled to cover up what never happened.

Sanity has gotten easier. “Isn’t that a beautiful sunrise,” Kay said this morning, looking west. “Yes, it is, I said, glancing east at the sun peeking above the treeline, then turning west to smile and stand beside her.

I’ve decided not to get my chip replaced. Insanity makes me more aware of my own individual thoughts. And I actually enjoy hearing the positions of others without a GPS filter.

From now on I’ll just have to listen carefully so I know which way the sun is rising.