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“You can’t bid more than we agreed on. Please don’t get swept into it,” Jules said as we exited the BART on Market Street, the sun beating down at us. He shed a denim jacket while I suffered in my hoodie, which had made sense in Oakland, less so here. “You can’t believe what I saw when I temped at one of these divine auctions. I’m talking golden cattle, firstborn children, the smell of their grandma’s cookies.”
February 4, 2034: AI Compendium—Classified documents stolen from Congo last year were released this morning. These indicate morally, ethically, and legally dubious research on their own workforce as they seek more productive employees.
For the seventh dusk in a row, the human girl comes to our tree with an offering. She approaches on all fours, moving almost as clumsily as I do when I crawl from the knothole and amble out along my favorite branch. Her face is hidden by a ceremonial mask. It’s a simple wooden thing, not half so ornate as the ones I know humans fashioned in the time of our ancestors.
The body opened too easily, like paper wrapping on room temperature butter. “This isn’t right,” Lattner said, at first to himself, then louder, for the trauma nurse and anesthesiologist to hear. The patient, a John Doe, had arrived at the ER reporting pain in his right side and copious bloody vomit.
We called it the monster because we could, though none of us found the label to be particularly satisfying. After a certain point, Yerim started calling it the Logos Pilgrim. Which was understandable, seeing as how she was the most mystically inclined among us, as well as the most compassionate towards things we didn’t understand. And there were many things we didn’t understand. For one, where did it come from? And why was it here?
Spotnik knows the humans haven’t forgotten him, because kibble still clatters into Spotnik’s bowl at six a.m. sharp. They’ve been gone long enough for all the vegetables in Hydroponics to shrivel up, limp and dead. Spotnik eats his kibble and licks up the crumbs, because he is a Good Boy, and Good Boys eat their rations. Even when the kibble goes soft and develops a white coat of mold and begins to stink so bad that he has to struggle to choke it down.
Once upon a time, there was a king who married a witch. Together, they had four sons and one daughter, and they were very happy as long as the king lived. When my father the king died and my oldest brother was crowned king, life went sideways for me, my sister, and our mother. The new king, our oldest brother, decided to use our sister as coin to buy our country’s safety. He planned to marry her to the king across a perilous border to our south.
WARNING: The reading of this Dispatch is prohibited for anyone but the intended recipient. There are no exceptions. If you possess the encryption key and are not the intended recipient, be apprised that the means of decoding the contents do not constitute license. Penalties for the possession of the following include life imprisonment, or immediate execution. If you are delivered this message by accident, either delete it or, if a hard copy, seal it within an opaque receptacle and store in a secure location.
The humans crawl into us, carrying their instruments and consulting their manuals. Their hands run over us, searching for nuts and bolts and hidden crevices. We are big toys that they all long to play with, to tear down and study. Our origin baffles them. They express endless awe at the complexity of our systems and are always asking themselves who built us. They come up with theories that get increasingly bizarre as time passes.
Night to day. In Diyu, the Earth Prison, Chun Wei opened her eyes. “Day” in the realm of the dead registered only as a less pervasive chill to the stagnant air. Not that Chun Wei needed to breathe any longer. She unfolded from the lotus position she’d rested in, stretching and rubbing her balled fists against her lower back until her spine creaked. The dilapidated Guanyin temple had an intact roof and a semi-intact stone statue, hacked out of rock by denizens still hoping for salvation.
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