The New Voices of Science Fiction Page 5

  “What the hell,” you said. “I thought the whole family knew these years were off-limits while I’m linear.”

  You didn’t quite recognize me, and you tilted your head. “Have we met before?”

  I looked you in the eyes, and my voice cracked when I told you I was your son.

  Your hand went to your mouth. “I’ll have a son?” you asked.

  And I told you the truth: “You have one already.”

  And your hand went to your gut, as if you would be sick. You shook your head, so hard that your curlers started coming loose. That’s when the door creaked open, just a crack. You flew over there and yanked it all the way open, snatching the child there up in your arms. I barely caught a glimpse of my own face looking back at me as you carried my child self up the stairs.

  I left before I could introduce myself to you: my name is Heron, Mama. I haven’t forgiven you yet, but maybe someday, I will. And when I do, I will travel back one last time, to that night you left me and Dad for the future. I’ll tell you that your apology has finally been accepted, and will give you my blessing to live in exile, marooned in a future beyond all reach.

  UTOPIA, LOL?

  JAMIE WAHLS

  Little is known about the brutally minimalist Jamie Wahls, who presumably lives in a mimetic reality peppered with digital simulacra like the rest of us. His fiction has appeared in Sci Phi Journal, Clarkesworld, Strange Horizons, with more to come.

  “Utopia, LOL?” is an excitable meme-filled take on virtual reality, utopia, and the desires of human beings. It was nominated for the 2017 Nebula Award for Best Short Story.

  HE’S SHIVERING as he emerges from the pod. No surprise, he was frozen for like a billion years.

  I do all the stuff on the script, all the “Fear not! You are a welcomed citizen of our Utopia!” stuff while I’m toweling him off. Apparently he’s about as good as I am with awkward silence ’cause it’s not three seconds before he starts making small talk.

  “So, how’d you get to be a. . . .” He waves his hand.

  “A Tour Guide to the Future?!”

  “Yeah.” The guy smiles gratefully at me. “I imagine you had a lot of training. . . ?”

  “None whatsoever!” I chirp. He looks confused.

  “Allocator chose me because I incidentally have the exact skills and qualifications necessary for this task, and because I had one of the highest enthusiasm scores!”

  He accepts my extended hand, and steps down from the stasis tube. He coughs. Probably whatever untreatable illness put him in cryo in the first place.

  “Oh, hang on a second,” I say. My uplink with Allocator tells me that the cough was noticed, and nites are inbound to remove some “cancer,” which is probably something I should look up.

  I’m confused and eager to get on with my incredible Tour Guide to the Future schtick but I have to close my eyes and wait because the nites STILL aren’t here.

  Patience was one of your weakest scores. But you proved you can wait. This is just like that final test Allocator put you through, the impossible one, where you could choose between one marshmallow NOW, or two marshmallows in one minute.

  I quietly hum to myself while checking my messages, watching friends’ lives, placing bets on the upcoming matches of TurnIntoASnake and SeductionBowl, and simulating what my life would be like if I had a longer attention span.

  It would be very different.

  #Allocator: Good job waiting!

  #Kit/dinaround: :D thanks!

  I beam at the praise, and check my time. I waited for eleven seconds!

  Pretty dang good!

  The old man clears his throat.

  “You poor thing,” I gush. “Your throat is messed up too! Don’t worry, the nites are here.”

  He looks at me. “The . . . knights? I don’t see anyone.”

  I cover my mouth with a hand as I giggle. “Oh, you can’t see them. Well, you probably could with the right eyes, but we’re actually in universe zero right now so the physics are really strict. The nites are in the air.”

  He looks up and around at the corners of the room. He’s frowning. It makes me frown too.

  “In the air,” I explain. “We’re breathing them. They’re fixing your ‘cancer.’”

  He looks downright alarmed. I’m not an expert but that’s not how I think a person should react to being cured of “cancer.”

  “Wow,” he says. “Is that how far medical technology has come? Some kind of . . . medical nanobots?”

  “They’re not medical,” I say. “They’re pretty all-purpose.”

  On one hand I’m sort of tired of answering his questions because it’s all really obvious stuff but also it’s really fun! It’s always super neat to watch their eyes light up as I tell them about the world and that’s probably why I got picked for the position in the first place.

  “Let’s have ice cream!” I demand.

  Four seconds ago, I demanded that we have ice cream. There is now an ice cream cone forming in my hand. It is taking FOREVER.

  The old man sees it and flinches.

  “Oh no!” I cry. “What’s wrong? Do you hate ice cream?”

  He looks at me with a really weird expression or maybe a couple different expressions.

  “How are you doing that?” he asks. His voice is funny and tight.

  “Oh. Allocator is making it for me?” I say. “Hey, let’s get into another reality.”

  I spring up to my tiptoes. Moving is kinda fun but not as fun as it is in, like, the Manifold Wonders. Or in Bird Simulator. That one’s really good.

  “What?”

  I blink. I almost forgot! It’s time for me to be a good Tour Guide to the Future and repay Allocator’s trust in me.

  “Post-Singularity humanity now exists entirely as uploaded consciousnesses in distributed Matryoshka brains, living in trillions of universes presided over by our Friendly AI, Allocator,” I say.

  My ice cream is dripping! It can do that?

  “Sorry, I didn’t really understand that,” he says. He doesn’t sound sorry. “Is there anyone else I can talk to?”

  “Sure!” I say.

  #Kit/dinaround: yo Big A, come talk to, uh

  #Kit/dinaround: hang on

  “What’s your name?” I ask. I forgot to ask earlier.

  “Charlie,” he says. “And you?”

  “Kit/dinaround,” I say, making extra-careful to pronounce the / so he won’t miss it.

  “Oh,” he manages, “can I call you Kit?”

  “I LOVE it!” I cry.

  #Kit: Did you hear that?

  #Allocator: Yes.

  #Kit: I LOVE IT

  The old man is looking around the room. There’s nothing to see, though. Just the cryo pod, the upload station, and the walls.

  “Is there a way out of here?” he asks.

  “Yeah.” I point to the upload station, a bare slab with a half-sphere dome for the brain. “I mean, it’s no demon altar, but this is UZ, so we can’t exactly travel in style.”

  “Please,” he says. “I don’t understand. I have apparently been snatched from death and returned to good health. I am grateful for that. I’m happy to repay that effort in any way you require. . . .”

  “. . . are you listening?”

  “Oh!” I start. “Sorry.”

  Charlie blinks at me and I blink at him. I actually really like these lashes that Allocator gave me.

  “Can I talk to the Allocator?” he asks.

  The man flinches as the one of the walls tears away with a big whooshy sound effect.

  Outside of our little blue room is the full majesty of the void. Space!: The Final Frontier looms before us, a whole lot of it.

  Ol’ terra firma is there, 90% nite-devoured to make more smart matter. Held in place above the gray slab by a trick of gravity (that I will totally remember to look up later), a little island is floating, a blue and tropical nature preserve. I squint, hoping to see an elephant.

  I do not see an eleph
ant.

  The sun is almost entirely shrouded behind big spindly metal rods and arms. Whatever project Allocator is doing with Sol takes a lot of energy.

  Charlie cries out, in fear and kind of pain. He doesn’t look hurt, but I can’t see his HP or anything so I don’t know.

  “Is it your cancer acting up again?!” I cry out. “Did Allocator not cure it?”

  An enormous floating head forms in front of the window.

  “Charlie Wilcox,” it says mildly, “I am called Allocator. I am an AI tasked with the safety and flourishing of intelligent life.”

  “Hi,” says Charlie, strangled-like.

  “I understand you have many questions. I have prepared a tour to assist in your understanding of how life is lived in the future. Kit will be your guide. She is more competent than you would think.”

  “I’d hope,” Charlie mutters.

  “To begin the tour, simply lie on the provided table, with your head in the hemispherical dome. You will then experience a simulated reality. You will be in no danger and may return here at any time. Do you consent?”

  “I suppose so,” says Charlie.

  Allocator’s big ghostly face is blank. “Apologies, but I was created with several safety measures which prevent me from inferring consent. Do you consent?”

  “Yeah,” says Charlie.

  “I require a ‘Yes.’” Allocator patiently smiles.

  “Yes, then.”

  “Thank you. Please lie comfortably on the table.”

  “Yaaaaaay!” I say, trying to force some enthusiasm because c’mon obviously we’re uploading and who even listens to contracts before agreeing to them anymore? If you listen too close, people can’t play pranks on you!

  Charlie tentatively lays on the table, and scoots his butt up until his head is under the dome.

  “Am I supposed to feel anythiunnnnnggg,” he drools, going limp.

  #Allocator: Good work.

  #Allocator: Where to?

  “Eeeeee!” I squeeeeee. “You’re letting me pick?”

  #Allocator: Yes.

  #Allocator: Obviously.

  “Oh my goodness,” I say. “Uh . . . but what if I choose wrong?”

  #Allocator: I have a hunch that you won’t.

  #Allocator: The “hunch” in this case is an identical copy of your mind, to whom I’m feeding inputs and reading her behavior as she makes it, thus allowing me to deterministically predict what the “real” you will choose.

  “Sigh,” I say. “Could you not?”

  #Allocator: I could not.

  #Allocator: Would you kindly pick a U?

  “Fiiiiine.” I roll my eyes. “Ummm . . . Oh! Bird Simulator!”

  #Allocator: Great choice. ;)

  #Allocator: Close your eyes.

  FWOOSH I’m a bird haha!

  I nip through the air, just above the snow on the treeline. The air smells incredible, like forest pine. I’m darting around like a cross between a rocket and a fly. My tiny bird heart is pounding like the itty-bittiest drum and golly but I do feel alive.

  #CharlieSamarkand: aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaa

  #CharlieSamarkand: aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaa

  #CharlieSamarkand: aaaaaaaaaaaaohgodwhat ’shappening

  #Kit: Charlie!

  #CharlieSamarkand: what? what is happening what

  #Kit: You’re a bird!

  #CharlieSamarkand: I NOTICED THANK YOU

  #CharlieSamarkand: WHY ARE WE BIRDS

  #Kit: That’s a really philosophical question!

  #Kit: Why were we humans??

  #CharlieSamarkand: WHAT

  He’s flapping really hard, so I fly under him to show how you can just sort of coast.

  He’s this really little cute bird. I guess I am, too, ’cause I think there’s only one bird you can be in Bird Simulator. Bird Simulator is more of a game than a proper U, but it’s also way fun.

  #Kit: You don’t have to flap constantly to be a bird!

  #Kit: Never give up! Trust your instincts!

  #Kit: Do a barrel roll!

  #CharlieSamarkand: YOU’RE THE WORST GUIDE

  #Kit: >:(

  #CharlieSamarkand: HOW ARE WE EVEN COMMUNICATING

  #Kit: haha

  “What was that?” Charlie demands. He’s pale and sweating.

  “Biiiiiiird Simulator!” I crow, because, “crow,” Bird Simulator? Get it?

  It is a pun.

  Charlie looks at me like I’m crazy, which, sure, yeah.

  “I want a new guide,” he demands, to Allocator.

  The face returns. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

  “Why?” asks Charlie. His voice comes thick and he looks like he could screamcry, which is like screaming while crying except even more frustrated and hopeless. I get serious, ’cause I’m kind of friends with him now and you get serious when a friend is gonna screamcry.

  “It may be difficult to believe,” says Allocator, “but Kit is one of the more relatable humans you could have as your guide. And, she is the only guide we keep on hand for cryogenically frozen patrons. You’re really very uncommon.

  “There are trillions of humans. However, you would not recognize a sliver of one percent of them as anything other than frightening, incomprehensible aliens. Not just their forms, which are inconstant, but their minds as well.”

  “Her,” speaks Charlie, all flat.

  “Yes, her,” says Allocator, a little sharply, and I feel bad for Charlie.

  “Hey!” I object. “What’s the big idea with letting me take Charles into a U that he hates?”

  “It was the universe you selected,” says Allocator mildly.

  “I’m not a giant superbrain!” I protest.

  “This is all part of my superbrain plan,” Allocator explains, mysterious like a supervillain. “Would you like to try a different simulation?”

  I glance at Charlie. He’s looking all dubious at the brain-helmet of the upload station.

  “In a second,” I say, because oh my glob I want to get out of this room that doesn’t have even a single unicorn in it but I also want to be a better guide. “And Charlie picks the U.”

  They both look at me.

  “He would have no idea what to pick,” protests Allocator.

  “Actually . . .” says Charlie. “Could I get a directory of available universes?”

  “There are trillions,” says Allocator.

  “Well, can you just,” Charlie waves his hand, “give me an overview? Of some categories?”

  I try waving my hand like Charlie did. I like it. “Yeah! Give him some categories!”

  Allocator sighs, real put-upon. “I will do my best. Please note that at least two-thirds of the simulations would be sufficiently alien to your mind so as to cause extreme trauma. I will exclude those.”

  “Like what?” I demand.

  “Floor Tile Simulator.”

  “What!” I demand. I’m demanding a ton today! “No way! I love FloTiSim!”

  “You . . .” Charlie looks all skeptical_fry.pic. “You look at tiles?”

  “No, you ARE tiles!”

  “And you . . .”

  “People walk on you!”

  I’m really underselling it. The sensation of being edged where your body has stark boundaries and stillness inside, no little fluttering feelings like a bird heart thub-thubbing away, no squashy boobs or butts or venom sacs to bump or sit on. Everything is rocky and stark and permanent, even your own mind.

  I get some of my best thinking done when I’m a tile. I can see my underlying brain architecture and all the little weights on the scales, the direct causal chain of “Kit doesn’t like snakes because of that one prank played a while ago and that’s why Temple of Doom is not a fun U for her,” the behind-the-scenes machinery. My mind gets like an obelisk, resolute and above everything. And I can finish a thought without my stupid brain interrupting.

  “And you’re . . . hard!”

  He makes that face again. “Okay, ma
ybe we should exclude those.”

  “I have made a list,” says Allocator. “I have taken the liberty of highlighting the one I expect you would most appreciate.”

  Allocator flashes something up so only Charles can see it.

  “Hey!” I protest.

  “Oh,” Charlie smiles, and it’s a certain kind of smile, like when you get back into a body you made a hundred years ago and you’re a different person now and wearing the old suit makes you miss your past self like they’re an old friend. “That sounds really nice.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” says Allocator. “Please, get comfortable.”

  “What is it?” I demand, but I’m also excited, because I like surprises.

  Charles glances at Allocator, then back to me. He’s smiling, and my heart does little leaps to see that Al and I made him happy, but also c’mon freaking tell me.

  “Is it your secret Terra project?” I ask.

  “No,” says Allocator. “You’ll learn about that soon enough.”

  And he sounds sort of melancholy but why he would bother to be ominous and foreshadowing for my sake I don’t even know!

  Charles lies down on the upload table and makes a more dignified exit this time.

  #Allocator: Doing great, Kit.

  #Kit: TELLMETELLMETELLME

  #Allocator: No.

  #Kit: >:^O

  #Allocator: Ready?

  Okay so I probably coulda shoulda guessed from how straight-laced Charles is that we’d be going to something really mundane, but I didn’t realize that he was taking it to the point of parody.

  We’re in Middle Earth.

  Uggggghh. Glitter_barf.pic

  Charles looks over at me. He’s dressed like that one guy. The secret king who lived in the woods and was pure of heart . . . and then there were no deconstructions or plot twists whatsoever.

  Charles looks pretty puling pleased with himself. At least until he sees me.

  “Kit?” he asks, tentatively. He’s backing away.

  I’m the whatever, the big thing. The big demon thing. Whatever.