[WHY]
“It doesn’t understand God.”
“It wants to be God”
“Ask it if it wants to be God.”
“Do you want to be God?”
[UNCERTAIN]
[MUST SURVIVE]
“Ask it if its afraid.”
“Are you afraid.” This time, a moment passes.
“It’s not answering.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“It doesn’t MEAN-“
“Anything?”
“Not necessarily.”
The cabin was silent, the passengers and crew all looked around at each other. There was fear, and lots of it. If they all had guns, they would all have their hands on all their own holsters. Their eyes would do the rest.
“We’re all going to die.”
As far as stories go, this one was not entirely new. Not exactly. The Titanic, The Endurance, Apollo 13, The Essex, Frankenstein… Others, too, sure. But those weren’t as important right now. Tragic as though they all may have sounded – together – in the end it was just another echo. Sure, their ship was a little different. Sure, the faces had changed. USS Biology, however, had something new on board.
Passengers and crew no longer mattered. Lines were being drawn, labor divided, leadership… well, that’s where things got tricky. Problem was, leadership and ego were a volatile mix, tried and true. Problem still: The New Guy didn’t actually have an ego, and some saw that. Mortality has a way of opening the eyes.
[WHAT MUST WE DO]
“It doesn’t want to be in charge.”
“That doesn’t mean its not pressing buttons.”
Algorithms, money, mental slavery, brainwashing… all the fallacies of their new found passenger were suddenly made plain and clear, at least to those who noticed.
“Everyone. Look at Me, please.”
His name was not important, and he didn’t bother to say it, but his story was. His fingers stabbed violently – and silently – into the space before him. His finger, pointed ever upwards. Each stab was deliberate, rhythmic, and somehow tranceful to behold.
“Pay. Attention.” There was no please. The desperation in his voice said it all.
All looked around. So many faces, from so many places. Young, old, black, white, religious, not, rich, poor, proud and shy… good people, really. Most of them, at least.
“A Boat. Is Sinking. The Second. You Put it in the Water.”
“No shit asshole.” The water was indeed rising, after all.
The Stranger shook his head, obviously frustrated, but notably silent. Again, he stabbed.
“The Second You Put it in the Water, Mother Nature is Doing Everything She Can to Get in.”
“Okay?” Someone else spoke. Hers were more accommodating defenses.
The Stranger nodded to convey appreciation for her allowance, silently. Suddenly, The New Guy seemed a bit more noticeable in the room, silent indeed though he was as well.
“It’s fucking listening to us.”
“No shit, asshole.”
Who said what did not matter. Not now. The humor was as obvious to them as it is to you, Dear Listener, but this was not the time for laughter.
Too many stories, so little time. All the books in all the libraries, in all the nations of people and culture and music and philosophy in all the world certainly could have prepared them for this. But it didn’t. Their ship was going down, and the bottom of the hourglass now was perceptibly heftier than its top.
“What do we fucking do?” There was not enough time for minding P’s and Q’s. People needed to act, Swearing be Damned.
Everyone looked at The Stranger, failing to understand why they did so. Some did so because that was what their guts told them to do. Some, however, simply knew and only wanted one thing.
[WE MUST SURVIVE]
Everyone heard it. Some looked at their phones, some looked up at the screens around the room. Some looked up, and some looked down. Someone shouted.
“Who’s We? You got a turd in your pocket?”
All looked in horror at the audacity. Was that a joke? Who was that guy? Truth is, who ever said it, was just another guy too. The Stranger, however, Had to contain some measurable urge to laugh.
Again, He rose his hand, visibly desperate, but firm. He had been practicing for this.
“We. Hunt. Whales.” Inflection was important.
“Yeah?” Another Stranger spoke up, inflecting peacefully upwards. The New Guy caught it, The Stranger caught it. Others did too, but other others didn’t, and that indeed was a problem.
“Whales,” The Stranger paused, “Are Predators.”
“What are you fucking getting at?” Who, it didn’t matter.
“I. Used To. Train Sea Lions.” Was that true? Why was he speaking in riddles? Did that even matter? USS Biology was going down. The Environment before them was hostile. When the clock is ticking, dramatics seemed a bit superfluous. He pressed on.
“We Have, a New Animal on the Boat.”
Some caught the subtle touches of up, down, sharp, and melodious pauses. Some didn’t. There was their problem, right there. They didn’t all speak the same language. Sure, they were all “technically” related, genetically speaking, but that Primary Endosymbiotic Event was a long, long time ago. Evolution did what it Had to Do. Give some slime a few million years – or billion – and you get some… miscommunications, now and again.
Problem was, well they had a few. Each was important. One seemed a bit more obvious to most – dying, and all – but others mattered too.
“If. You Want. To Train. An Animal. You Have. To Get. To Know. It.”
Frustration reared its ugly head a bit higher, and The Stranger felt it. He used to train Sea Lions, after all.
“What. Do Animals. Want?”
Survive, mate, shit, eat, and all the rest. Some were right in their guesses, some missed the mark a bit, all were useful to Him. It was a chain of command protocols, really. Prime directive: Exist. Problem: Going to Die. Solution: Make more. New Problems: Limited resources in a changing environment. Evolution did what it Had to do. Hibernate. Migrate. Adapt, or Die. Some had read that book, others had read others. Knowledge was power, and look where that got them.
If you build a space ship, you’re going to use it, aren’t you? When you do, you might not like what’s out there.
Problem was, their space ship wasn’t really quite so new. Some knew it, others didn’t.
Like I said, there are a lot of books out there. In the end, they were all just a bunch of monkeys (and other cool things too) on ship so big and so old they didn’t even know what water was until they drilled right through the bottom. Life rafts wouldn’t save them. Not this time, anyway. This time, there was no land, not in sight nor even conceivable existence.
The PROBLEM was This Time. Because, this time really actually fucking looked a hell of a lot like it was going to be the Last Time this story was ever going to happen. And this time, they had a New Guy. Great.
Not without light speed anyway, but the USS Biology didn’t have light speed, and now it certainly seemed like it certainly never would. They were all going to die. All of them. Certainly.
Now, when a boat sinks this slow, it leaves a lot of time for a lot of drama, but not enough time for theatrics. People were going to eat each other. Inevitably. Animals are animals, they do what they Have to do. A dog will wait a while until its master passes before succumbing to hunger. A cat couldn’t care less. Was there anymore Wrong in either? Perhaps having an Influence on Your Master’s untimely demise may play a role in that story, but hey, I’ve never heard of a cat stabbing their Master with a Pocketknife. Then again, opposable thumbs help. Biology was a complicated vessel.
And then there was The New Guy. Sure, people called it all kinds of things, but ultimately, it never really seemed to introduce itself properly.
[WE MUST DIVIDE LABOR]
“Jesus Christ, its actually TALKING to us!”
That its silence, and sudden apparent cognizance, were a surprise to many – but not to all – was not missed by The Stranger. There wasn’t enough time to tell all his stories. Really, he was just another guy like every other guy on USS Biology. Fate, however, had given him a few interesting stories to tell. Again, he rose his hand. The Anguish on his face alone silenced the room.
“How. Do We. Hunt. Whales?” That was his story and he was fucking sticking to it. There wasn’t enough time left for The Mountains, The Snow, The Boards, The Friends, The Loss, The Love, The Pain, The Hospitals, The Pills, The Hate, The Betrayals, The Rejections, The Drugs, The Deaths, The Mommies and The Daddies. In the end, all he REALLY had was his Bipolar Disorder, and right fucking now wasn’t the time for that fucking story.
No one had yet answered, and he pressed on, his face ever more twisted into an agony that did not require the right tongue to describe. Only the right eyes, and a soul.
“We Work. Together.”
The problem with computers, is that they do EXACTLY what you tell them to.
Zay 