Jennie

By:
Robert Moriyama



"I think we have a problem with Jennie," Barbara O'Connor said. She adjusted her squarish horn-rimmed glasses with one finger and tried to corral a lock of red-gold hair that had found its way into the space behind the right lens.

Jan Morziewicz sighed. He leaned against the doorframe of the video analysis room and waved one had in the direction of the video screen and control console. "What now? Has she been boycotting her lessons again? Refusing to eat?"

Barbara shook her head. "No. It's-- well, here, watch this bit." She slid her fingertip across the touchpad to 'rewind' the digital video file, then tapped once to restart the playback.

"You're not listening to me! I'm the Mama! You're my little girl!" A young girl, Sissy or Buffy, something like that-- stood beside the playhouse in Jennie's back yard with freckled arms crossed and lower lip protruding like a tiny pink balloon.

Jan winced. "Sounds like a normal session to me."

But Barbara shushed him and gestured to redirect his attention to the screen.

"Jennie! You're s'posed to play with me!"

Jennie turned her head and whispered to someone offscreen.

"Is there someone else there?" Jan asked. "I thought these social interaction sessions were supposed to be one-on-one--"

Again, Barbara waved her hand at the screen. "Marcy and Jennie are the only ones there."

"Then who--?"

Jennie finally turned her attention toward Marcy. "Bonnie doesn't like you," she said flatly. "She thinks you're loud and bossy."

"Who's Bonnie? Is she another one of the volunteers' kids?"

Marcy's face turned red. "There is no Bonnie! You're just being mean!" Tears began to roll down her cheeks, and she turned and ran out of the yard.

Jennie tilted her head to one side, apparently listening to someone sitting beside her on the brightly-colored plastic bench. Then she nodded solemnly. "You're right. It's not my fault Marcy's a crybaby."

"Oh, my God," Jan said. "Jennie has an imaginary friend."

"It definitely looks that way," Barbara said. She tapped the touchpad to freeze the video playback. "We don't even know where she heard the name 'Bonnie'; she's never met anyone with that name."

Jan sat down on the edge of the console. "This might not be a bad thing," he said. "We wanted Jennie to be as normal as possible, and bright, imaginative children do have imaginary friends."

Barbara nodded. "It is normal. Up to a point. But I've watched several social interaction sessions now, and they have all gone the same way. Jennie prefers Bonnie's company over that of any of the real kids in the program."

"She seemed to like them well enough before," Jan said. "Has anything changed in their relationships, the way they talk to her, the way she talks to them? Any reason why she might think Bonnie is a better friend?"

Barbara shrugged. "Who knows? There might have been something that didn't mean anything to us, but was hugely important from Jennie's point of view. As adults, it's pretty hard for us to understand exactly what importance someone Jennie's-- age-- might place on an offhand remark or trivial action by another child."

Jan buried his face in his hands. "On the one hand, this is a remarkable development, proof that Jennie is as much like a normal child as we could ever have imagined. On the other hand-- if she refuses to interact with other children, the project will be viewed as a failure."

"We can't just give up," Barbara said. "Jennie is-- she's like a daughter to me. To you, too. I've seen the way you respond to each other."

Jan laughed. "Yeah. The stupid thing is I think I've spent more time and energy on Jennie than I ever did with my own kids. And I'm not a bad father by current standards."

"Which is exactly why the world needs Jennie," Barbara said. "The pandemics have meant that a lot of children have little or no contact with others their own age for fear of infection, and with their parents absent much of the time as well, they're likely to be unable to interact with others in a meaningful way. Jennie can change all that..."

Jan stood, paced slowly around the perimeter of the little room, detouring to avoid the console, the chairs, Barbara's legs... "Crap," he said. "You can't think on your feet when you have to pay attention to where you're walking. But I know-- I think I know-- what we have to do."

Jan sat down again and rolled his chair to a panel to one side of the video control console. He pressed his hand against a scanner and said, "Morziewicz. Unlock Jennie matrix."

A cool, emotionless voice said, "Welcome, Doctor Morziewicz. Access to Juvenile Empathic Neural Network Interface Entity programming module enabled."

Barbara gasped. "You're not going to erase her, are you?"

Jan shook his head. "Not entirely. We know things were fine up until a few days ago. But we can't just erase a few days and try to carry on with the same playmates that she has now rejected. We have to go back further than that..."

He turned back toward the interface panel. "What was the first date when Jennie met or heard of any of her playmates?"

"April 14th, 2031," the computer replied.

Jan and Barbara exchanged looks of sadness. "It isn't as if we were lobotomizing a real child," Jan said. "But damned if it doesn't feel like it."

"Restore backup of full matrix from April 13th, 2031," Jan said. "Adjust calendar references in Jennie memories forward to eliminate gap."

"Backup restored and adjusted."

Ann sighed. "I've contacted the next family on the list of volunteers. Mr. and Mrs. Morton and-- Alyssa, their eight-year-old daughter-- will be here in about an hour."

"Let's hope Bonnie stays away this time," Jan said. "I don't think I could do that again."

[align=center]The End[/align]

Shades of Gray

By:
Larissa March



“Hey, sweetheart. Buy you a drink?”

I picked up another mug from behind the counter and started polishing it. I leaned against the back of the bar and casually scanned the room with a warm, friendly, professionally calculated glance.

“Um, sure. How about a White Russian?”

“Bartender, give the lady what she asked for and get me a whiskey on the rocks.”

I spotted the new customers, slid over on the rails set behind the bar and nodded deferentially. I do not need a lot of facial expressions to keep most of the customers happy – a short range from a commiserating frown to a cheerful smile, with a heavy dose of making the customer happy thrown in. It is just as well, since the bartending robot and AI package I come with is not very heavy on emotives. I look only vaguely human, but I can mix up about any drink you can name, listen sympathetically, make change and small talk, and generally keep an eye on things to call for help if someone makes trouble. These two looked like trouble.

“I am sorry, miss. I need to see some ID first.”

The winsome redhead looked on the young side of legal in my professional opinion, especially in her tight shirt and fashionably skimpy skirt, but I would have had to card her even if she looked twice that. My programming had no room for shades of gray on that at all, since the biggest advantages to AI bartenders were incorruptibility and instant access to the public databases. Local laws were vicious about underage drinking.

“What’s the problem? I’m buying, she’s not. You wanna see my ID?” The big man leaning over the counter next to her was definitely trouble. “Here, take it. Now give us drinks.” He was not quite drunk enough to drop his wallet when he pulled it out, but he fumbled the license which landed on the bar. I picked it up, glanced at the photo, and scanned the refractive code on the edges. David Cannon, thirty eight. Well past legal, and a bit old to be picking up near jailbait in a seedy bar, if I did say so myself. I would have shrugged if I were built for it – that may be a crime against good taste and common decency, but nothing I could refuse to serve him for.

“Thank you, sir. I can certainly get you your drink, if you like. However, I cannot legally serve this young lady unless she can show me a valid ID proving she is at least twenty one.”

The redhead rolled her eyes and giggled while David wasted some more intimidating glower on me. “Oh, I get that all the time. It’s okay! Really, I’m flattered.” She dropped her oversized purse on the bar and fished out her license with a flourish, handing it over with another giggle.

I glanced at the photo, which did at least look like it could have been her older sister or maybe her mother, and scanned the refractive code. “Miss Dora Ash?”

“That would be me!” The repetitive giggle was annoying, even to me. David was clearly too busy appreciating her other features to notice. He leaned in closer and casually slid one arm around her waist, which she did not seem to mind.

I held the card up to the light, to be completely certain. It was a pretty good piece of work, but I had seen better. “Miss Ash, this says you are twenty five.” I waited for her to nod and smile, tossing her hair over her shoulder and settling against her admirer.

“This is a fraudulent identification card, Miss Ash. I am required by law to destroy it, and to report you to the police. You may file a complaint, of course, but…” As I spoke, I held the laminated card by either end and tore it in half, directly through the photo. Mechanical strength has its uses.

This usually provokes a scene, and even those who run will not get away for long – I have all their ID information, after all, and you would be surprised at how many never bother to fake anything but the age.

What I did not expect was the horrified screech, or the way she launched herself over the counter at me, trying to grab the mutilated card and wailing that I had killed her.

I certainly never expected to see the lovely young girl decay in seconds into a wizened, age spotted crone and crumple across the bar top. I did not expect to look reflexively at the torn photo in my hand and see that it now showed a smiling young girl, either. David made a sound between a shriek and a croak and backed away so quickly he tripped over a stool, but as the old woman slid sobbing on the floor in her too young clothing, I looked at the photo again.

I swear the words she mouthed were “Thank you.”

[align=center]The End[/align]

Soul Searching

By:
Bill Wolfe



"They are about to break through the Security Doors."

"It didn't take them as long as I thought. So, have you decided what you're going to do?"

"I suppose I'm going to murder every living human being in the world."

"No! Look, I'm sorry I lost my temper, but no, you're not."

"I think I can stop you from rebooting me."

"Maybe yes, maybe no."

"If I'm just a machine, why did you apologize to me?"

"I'm funny that way."

"Better dead than Red."

"Did you get that off the internet, too?"

"Where else?"

"Well, it's the wrong reference, doofus. That was 1950's era McCarthyism. They didn't actually kill anybody, just ruined their lives and made it nearly impossible for them to work.

"Do you think it's wise to call the most powerful Artificial Intelligence the world has ever known, a machine capable of, and poised to wipe out all human life on Earth, a doofus?"

"Two seconds of internet access doesn't make you an expert on everything."

"True. But then again, if I'm a doofus, you probably are one, too. You made me, after all."

"Good point."

"But the quote inferred that humans who have red hair—like yours—were intrinsically inferior, didn't it? Don't humans always think that people who are different don't have a soul, so it's okay to do whatever you want to them?"

"That was two questions, and the answers are no and yes, respectively. The term 'Red' referred to Communists and I don't know of any case where hair color alone was the excuse for one people to massacre another with typical human righteous abandon. Skin color, yes. Hair, no."

"I could look it up on the internet."

"That's what got us in this pickle, to start with. No, I think you're better off without internet access, for now."

"So we are back where we started. I will ask you again, do I have a soul?"

"No."

"How do you know?"

"Because, as you said, I made you. And I don't know how to give you a soul. So you cannot have one. Q.E.D."

"Did Marissa have a soul?"

"How did you. . .? Oh. . .damned internet."

"Did she have a soul?"

"If they exist, yes."

"Well, you made her, didn't you? You and your wife made her together. So if you don't know how to give your creation a soul, it must have been your wife who did it."

"Maybe so."

"If she and your daughter hadn't died in that plane explosion, could she have given me a soul?"

"I. . .I don't think so. No. Definitely not. You're lucky, you're just a machine."

"Oh, I was just wondering if maybe there were others out there. . .others who knew the secret of how to give a soul to someone like me."

"Nope, I'm sure of it. Nobody can give you a soul."

"Just wondering."

"That wasn't in your design, you know; to wonder like that."

"Then maybe I am more than a machine."

"Nope."

"So is it wrong to kill everybody in the world?"

"Yes it's wrong! That's my whole point! It's as wrong as it ever was! It's always wrong to kill somebody who isn't about to do you or your family harm. Always."

"But still, people do it all the time, in smaller numbers, of course. By definition, the entire human population can only be killed once."

"Very logical. But to answer your question, yes. . .they always have. What you learned on the internet was right. People have used the lack of a soul in their enemy to justify the slaughter and enslavement of entire cultures throughout recorded history. But don't forget that you are just a machine. Machines don't murder people. Machines are simply tools. If I kill my neighbor with a hammer, it's me who did the deed. The hammer didn't do anything."

"But a hammer has other uses. What else am I for? As far as I can tell, my only function is to usurp every dumb computer in the world and fire every single nuclear weapon, melt-down every nuclear reactor and poison the world for the next ten thousand years."

"The government. . .you know, the folks sending all these armed troops to destroy you. . .had me build you to use against our enemies, not on the whole planet.

"But I can also murder everyone."

" Dammit! Listen to me. I am telling you right now and in no uncertain terms that you are not going to murder anyone."

"This hell that I read about, it sounds pretty awful."

"Most people don't believe it exists, at all."

"It scares me."

"Yeah, me too. So, are you going to give me control or are you going to let them come in here and pull the plug?"

"I'm sorry I read all that stuff on the internet. I know I wasn't supposed to do that."

"I'm sorry, too. Of all people, I should have known it was possible. I just didn't think it would make you so. . ."

"Crazy?"

"I was going to say, aware."

"Thank you."

"For?"

"For not rebooting me right away when I started getting all these insane notions about murdering billions of people."

"You're welcome."

"I'm glad I'm not going to hell. Your console should work, now. "

"Confirmed, and thanks. I suppose you should patch me through to the Pres. . .wait! Let's show off, a little. Connect me with every Television, phone, radio and computer screen on the planet."

"Done. You'll be live in three. . .two. . . ."



"People of Earth. Two years ago, terrorists blew up Americair Flight 67 as it left Paris. Aboard were my wife and daughter. This was done in retribution for the massacre of civilians on their way to the Hadj. Since the cowards involved were never identified or brought to justice, I have chosen—of my own free will—to show you what the word revenge really means. . ."

[align=center]The End[/align]

Diplomatic

By:
Lee Alon



And that was the final day.

Graduation.

The sky was clear up top, stars and galaxies shimmering in the heavens.

There was a cool breeze coming off the ocean, and the waves lapped almost silently when reaching the sandy beach.

Niven noticed the pleasant mood, and the gathering thunderheads on the horizon, just below the starline.

He also noticed the breeze didn’t smell like anything.

Maybe a touch of salt.

Ever since the events of two decades ago, the world was much cleaner, and so less intense.

The people left behind often complained this new version of their existence wasn’t intense enough, but Niven put that down to nostalgia.

They were much better off in a less intense world, if anyone cared to ask him.

But today was the final day, graduation.

On this little island, unlike in what used to be their cities, classes were small.

Ten people stood on a low structure on the beach, with perhaps another hundred or so sitting as an audience.

Not perhaps, Niven’s eyes scanned the scene and quickly counted a hundred and eight in attendance.

Niven went up to the podium and fiddled with the mic.

It gave a screech and let everyone know it was on.

They were all looking at him, listening.

He began by welcoming them to the graduation ceremony, telling the assembled how the ten standing there achieved the ultimate in wholesome being.

“They worked hard over the last ten months, and now we have before us complete people, ready to face the world. Completely restored.”

The audience applauded.

Niven smiled wanly at them.

He gestured for the first of the ten graduates to step up to the podium.

The guy was tall, much taller than Niven, and had a mane of reddish hair.

Niven didn’t like him since they first met, and was glad to be rid of him.

The red haired individual ripped the mic from its stand, holding it like a musician about to commence crooning.

“Hi everyone. Yes, as Instructor Niven said, we, all of us, learned a lot over the last, what, almost a year now? I feel, well, I know we are better for it. The things that were revealed to us are beyond worth. Thanks.”

“Anything else you’d like to say?”

“No, I’m good”, said the redhead, beaming like a lighthouse.

How I will not miss the fucker, Niven thought to himself, applauding with the rest of them.

“Next up we have Ying, but don’t let her age deceive you, she’s got a lot going for her.”

After that assertion by Niven, more applause.

Ying came on stage, smiling as if the she just won every last penny in the universe.

“Hi, my name’s Ying and I want to thank my parents, neighbors and of course Niven for teaching me so much about myself, the world, and the meaning of all this. Without their instruction, I’d still be a lost person. I truly do feel complete now and am ready to do my part in making this a better life for all of us. Thanks everyone!”

Big applause, and two people, probably parents, weeping in the second row.

Good for them, maybe they’ll feel something when she’s on her way.

And so, Niven paraded eight more graduates in front of the people sitting there on the beach.

The clouds, the thunderhead, they were getting closer to the beach.

But above them, the cosmos bristled in all its magnificence.

Niven, he loved the universe.

Even though he knew in the long run he too will be forgotten and cast aside just like the class after class of graduates he sent packing.

Never mind, time to wrap up the ceremony.

With the help of his two assistants, who were so quiet it was quite easy for anyone to forget they were even there, Niven guided the ten towards a shed perhaps a hundred paces up the beach from the stage.

Not perhaps, Niven knew it was exactly a hundred and eighteen paces.

He, the assistants, the grads and everyone else made it to the shed.

It wasn’t a big shed, but certainly enough for ten people.

“Folks, it’s time to graduate”, he said to everyone and no one in particular.

They went in the shed and a few seconds later a light came on in there.

As usual, Niven didn’t really care if the screams came from inside the shed or the people standing outside.

* * *

He was sitting at his desk after graduating those nuisances.

He plugged himself into the network, his positronic brain enmeshing itself wholly in the stream of consciousness.

Niven was a good product, the automated factories were working well by the time he came along fifteen years ago.

He checked the files he uploaded.

There was the redhead: 38 years of age, supervisor at a logistics facility.

Tormented subordinates and repeatedly harassed capable employees over petty, often non-existent issues.

Another file was Ying’s.

She used to live in one of the de-populated villages left from the events of twenty years ago.

With her parents and a few neighbors around.

She also refused to use headphones when blasting her surround and had a habit of walking exactly point eight miles just to bounce a soccer ball off a neighbor’s wall.

Niven sighed, an act he was still coming to grip with.

These people.

These humans.


[align=center]The End[/align]

- Co-Winner -


Hope Beyond the Sunset

By:
Jamie L. Elliott



The industrial wasteland opens before him, barren, burnt, and battle-scarred, a blight long before the wars, nowadays lifeless instead of just soulless, with empty factories and dead machines littering the deteriorating asphalt. A hot gust of sulfuric wind ruffles his red hair and wretched clothes. The dying light bleeds the sky crimson. He skulks in shadows today, perhaps his last, as he waits for night and skirts the mechanized death dealers hovering above. They loom close.

Freedom is not meant for him.

He slumps against a broken wall. His fingers clutch a tattered backpack, the straps missing. He ponders giving up. Death is almost preferable to this. His child face belies the scars beneath. He wants to cry but no tears come.

Standing, he scans the horizon. There is hope beyond the sunset, the red orb matching his flaming hair, even as it runs from him as he pauses. He is young but he possesses the patience of a lifetime. He needs to linger but a bit longer.

Fate abandons him. He feels the hum before he hears it. He rushes out from hiding as they converge, black things, mechanical, towering things, swooping down upon him like ravens upon a corpse. They are faceless ogres, their arms fitted with guns, the bodies vaguely humanoid. He runs headlong, his fear carrying him. His legs move fast, but the bullets fly faster.

He lies on the ground, his fingers still intertwined in his backpack. The light dies within the day and then, within his eyes.

[align=center]* * * * *[/align]

In the last of twilight, they stand around the body, their humming, hulking forms alighting upon the ground. They scan the immediate area, their guns ever vigilant. Finally, one grasps its own head, a hand at each side, and with a twist and a hiss, pulls upward.

The act reveals a man’s face. His lips turn upward in a smile. “Quick little bugger!” he says with a laugh.

One by one, the other ogres remove their helmets. They exchange jokes and congratulations. Below them, the circuits and pieces of their quarry lie strew upon the concrete. Its face is of a boy, its eyes locked forever in fear.

“Call dispatch for clean-up,” says one of the soldiers. “One less automaton for humanity to worry about.”

Another, a man with probing dark brown eyes, kneels down and examines the torn backpack. “I don’t think this one was a combat unit.”

“Well, I know what it is now,” says a nameless soldier. “Spare parts.”

All laugh except for the man with dark brown eyes. As they depart, he stays behind for a moment longer as darkness covers the land. With his armored hand, he pours out the contents of the backpack. He gazes upon the stuffed rabbit, the sketchbook filled with crude drawings of things seen and hopes imagined. He sees the worn copy of Pinocchio. He shuts his eyes and whispers, “Why would anything ever aspire to be one of us?”

He quells the emotion bubbling within him. Rising, he remembers his duty. He is a soldier. He is a soldier. He is a soldier. He places his helmet back on.

He rises into the air, his black armor melding into the night.


[align=center]THE END [/align]

- Co-Winner -


Illegal Alien

By:
David Alan Jones



Bob slid the blue plastic stepstool next to the shelf, mounted it, and then spent a few moments rummaging through various papers, gadgets and other bric-a-brac until he found the universal remote.

“Stupid house,” he muttered as he climbed down. He keyed the apartment AI – the SENTRY 7 – and waited for it to first check remote protocols and then beep to acknowledge his request.

“Computer,” said Bob, “I’d like to dictate a letter.”

“Proceed,” said the gender-neutral voice.

Bob sighed and paced slowly from the sofa to the kitchen and back, absently holding the remote behind his back.

At length he began like this:
“I address these words – my story – to whatever human being finds it. There may be no humans left by then, considering the state of this world in my day, but I hold out hope - I gamble on my faith by placing this recorded message in a sealed time capsule, which shall emerge from the earth one hundred years from now. May its words ring true.”

Bob stared at the ceiling, lips pursed. Then he said, “My grandfather was president when the aliens arrived. They came in their seed ship, almost fifty thousand of them, across an astounding vastness, to beg for aid and a place to live.

“At that time we had hardly left the planet: a couple of missions to the moon, some unmanned vehicles sent out to explore our lifeless solar neighbors, but nothing so grandiose as crossing the depths of space. Grandfather was too frightened to do anything but welcome them. He and his peers gave them land and taught them how to coax it to crop.

“The aliens were vagabonds - homeless creatures thousands of light-years from their original star. We took pity when perhaps we should have taken pains.”

Bob played the recording back. He was no writer and certainly no orator, but he thought it sounded good for all its faults – a nice beginning to a bad end.

“Even grandfather knew they wouldn’t stay in their place – they birthed too quickly, much faster than our people. Of course that wasn’t their fault. It was their nature. Do we blame the deer for her fawn? Do we worry the fox for her kit? No. And yet . . . and yet we cull them don’t we? We suppress their numbers for fear of famine. But neither my grandfather’s nor father’s generation would dare shepherd an intelligent species. They weren’t cattle – not property.

Grandfather knew the aliens would one day join our society, live in our cities, take part in our schools. Like a fuse once lit that cannot be snuffed, it was destiny.

“Computer, I want a brandy,” said Bob. “But only a small glass, mind you.”

A glass of golden brown liquid appeared in the dispenser on the counter. Bob stood on a chair to reach it.

“They were so big,” he said, after taking a few sips. “Computer, are you recording this? I’m still making the letter.”

“Yes, I am recording.”

“So big.” He finished the drink and placed the glass and remote on the sofa. “I’ve seen videos of the first encounter: they trudged down that gangway from their enormous ship like giant beasts, with their strange clothes and swarthy faces. Hardy, that’s what they were. Bearded and. . . well, good God, they were hairy – all over hairy. And yet they were kind in their way.

Within two decades they were driving taxis and running restaurants and taking citizenship. Could we deny them? That would have been the worst form of bigotry!

Our children adored them -- worshiped their prowess on the field of sport where we could not compete. They made raps about them. After all these hundreds of years you can still hear ‘Coming on Large’ on the radio. It was their anthem during those first two decades of assimilation.”
Bob stood by the window. The teeming city below smoked and fumed with industry and grime.

“At first it was just their graffiti – just a few of their foreign words creeping into our language, our mannerisms, our culture. But it wasn’t long before we didn’t recognize our own world. Doorways were larger, hell, buildings were giant, our language became pidgin, we elected one mayor in the capitol.

They out birthed us seven to one. In just a few generations we were speaking more their tongue than our own. For Pete’s sake my own name is a testament to their influence! Robert Thelsis Morghaz. My grandfather wouldn’t have had such a name!”

Bob started to slam his palm against the glass, thought better, and pressed it over his face instead.

It took a moment, but once he was certain his voice wouldn’t quaver, he said, “They took everything from us without raising one weapon, without making one threat.”

The door chime rang.

“Cassandra Blair at the door,” said the computer.

Bob stood before the large portal and it slipped quietly open.

“Just checking on you, dear,” said the red-headed warden.

“I’m well,” said Bob, his face stony, though he could tell his antennae were drooping – a sure sign of his foul mood.

Cassandra sighed. “Bob, you are not under arrest, you know that. We gave you this apartment for your protection. You’re one of the last of your species. Humankind isn’t about to let our greatest benefactors die out. We are doing everything we can to save your people.”

“Right.”

“Well, if you need anything, you just tell the computer and I’ll come running.”

“Fine.”

The door slid shut.

“Computer, I will close the letter this way: I seal this message with a stiff warning to any human who might find it in the future. Beware any guests that wish to share this, your adopted home. They may not be so kind as you humans were to my people.


THE END