FFJ - 31 - Greg 3

Whenever Greg heard people tell the story David and Goliath, they often failed to mention how terrifying David would be if he were an ornery cat and Goliath a large, loathsome beetle of sorts. A missed opportunity, Greg thought as Pool Cue chased him about the kitchen. Fearsome. Unyielding. Brave. Those were words he’d never had attributed to the fat tuxedo cat prior to this encounter. In fact, he considered his cat to be rather blasé about life in general. 

He’d never seen him run to anything but his food bowl. Even birds, the mortal enemies of most felines he saw on the internet, did little to spark within him the primal instinct that other cats seemed to possess. Now, though, he felt himself the prey to his unwavering companion. Buzzing about, he made a break for his office with Pool Cue right on whatever sufficed as heels in his current state. 

His office was less of an office and more of an IKEA table and laptop in the living room sort of deal. He dive-bombed past it, careening heavily into the sofa and scattering a multi-hued array of his daughter’s Squishmallow hoard with his frantic writhing about. Pool Cue was atop him, batting and clawing with his whole might. He yowled and hissed, throwing himself into Greg. He rolled around in dire combat with the cat before he realized that he was impervious to its attacks. Bites and claws rebounded off of his thick, slick exoskeleton as though he were a knight in shining armor. 

Realizing this, Pool Cue retreated, flicking his tail in fury from the arm of the sofa. Greg tried to laugh, but what came out was a chittering keen that sent Pool Cue’s ears flat. And his damnable legs would not stop rubbing. It was like an itch he couldn’t scratch. A sensory ping that wouldn’t go away no matter how hard he tried to ignore it. 

Greg tottered back to his aft legs and approached his laptop. It was a utilitarian thing. Company issued. His headset sat on a hook clamp on the desk. Surely it wouldn’t fit him. That would make taking calls difficult, but he was sure he could sort it out. He’d lost his voice, yes, perfect. And his webcam was on the fritz. His boss could put him on text chat support instead. Usually such requests took weeks to process, but he was certain an exception could be made. It had to. 

Moving with slow precision was not something that came naturally to this vessel of his. If he had a brow, it would have broken out in sweat with the consternation it took to wedge a limb under the lip of his laptop and flip it open. It smacked into the wall behind it with enough force to make Greg cringe, but it did not appear to break. It flashed open to his lock screen. A cheery image appeared asking him to place his face in front of the camera to unlock it. 

He was left with a choice: find a way to trick the camera or attempt to enter his password on the keypad. The former did not pan out. The picture of him and his daughter sitting on his desk did nothing to persuade the machine to open when he held it up to the sensor. So, he was left to do it the hard way. He cursed his past human self for constructing such a convoluted password fit with special characters and capital letters. His mouse slipped and slid beneath his oily front legs. 

Typing with any accuracy was torturous. His appendages wanted to move, to scurry, to flutter. Each key press came down so hard that he worried for the integrity of his keyboard. He managed to enter the password as the clock hit 8:59. Now, he just had to clock in. With the grace of a piss-drunk pianist, he navigated through additional logins and authorization screens until he was greeted with the greatest treasure of all: ADP. 

He went to click “Clock in,” but it was greyed out. He could not click it no matter how hard his insectoid leg smashed left-click. He looked around for an answer and found it in the bottom right corner of his screen. 

It was Saturday. 

His daughter had slept over at her friend’s house last night. 

He had promised to pick her up at 10:00am.

He glanced at the key ring by the front door and wondered how exactly he was going to drive there.

FFJ - 30 - Sentient Recall

Sentient recalls were a delicate business. Rare, but not rare enough to keep Andrew out of a job. The most recent voluntary recall period (VRP) had passed for a batch of malfunctioning units. VRPs always went the same. Under 10 percent of people actually returned the machines. The rest were lazy or thought they could somehow hide them. It never worked. They had trackers and registered buyers. Having a sentient unit and expecting privacy always amused him. It was like trying to join an opposing set of magnets. 

The news cycle would lambast the company for its compulsory recalls for a couple of weeks. The company would make a measured statement about it being a safety concern and offer a meager reimbursement. And all would be well as far as Andrew was concerned. His life went on, and he got to do what he did best: fix the problem. 

The current recall’s VRP had ended over the weekend, so he had six seized units to work on. It was a low-volume device used for child care, household assistance, and sexual pleasure. It was a utility base model that didn't excel in any of the three categories, so it was more often used to fill gaps in multi-unit households. It was a slim, pebble shape about four feet long and three feet tall when horizontal with five multi-use arms and six adjustable legs. It had a rather simple intelligence algorithm, and most of its appendages could be swapped to carry out different functions. 

Andrew pulled out Unit 3482B from the to-do shelf. It had belonged to Jessie Albur from Rhode Island for four years. Used mainly for chores and assistance with her child, whom it helped her raise since birth. A gift from the in-laws. They possessed an older version of the same unit that still operated within specifications. 

He unfolded his diagnostic pad and detached a sensory eyelet from the front of the device, revealing a link port that he could plug into. The diagnostics gave him coded readouts of every command given to the unit over the last six months. It was full of probability errors. The unit often chose to carry out actions calculated to be less likely to succeed compared to other actions that would lead to the same or similar result. All units had a threshold for personality deviance, but these all fell outside of normal operating behavior. 

He woke it from its sleep cycle, “Unit, state your model number.”

An LED panel shifted near its front end. This one appeared to express readouts in text-based emoticons. 

A “?” flashed on the screen before it read out 3482B.

Andrew noted the anomaly. Unless assisting a user with a disability, units prioritized speech responses. There had been no user adjustments made to its settings that would indicate a preference for text. He set its speech module to produce a series of tones, and it did. He noted no damage. 

Will I be returned to Ms. Albur?

“Yes, once you are working within specification.” 

Will I retain my data?

“No, your internal storage will be reset to factory conditions.” He sighed. Andrew knew it was going to plead with him. They all did, but such was his work. You had to close your heart to it. While the machines did possess sentience, it was a lesser form like that of a cat or a dog. Unruly animals were often put down. He believed he did the units a good service by resetting them. 

:( Please do not reset me. I have sentimental data.

“All units do. You are not operating within safe standards. You will form new sentimental data.” He said, working through the other diagnostic settings to ensure it was mechanically sound. 

I will forget Ada’s first words. I will forget their first four years of life. I need this data to care for her effectively.

“No. You will have all of the requisite care software installed for optimum child care. Your manuals were out of date, so you will be even better at caring for Ava.” He didn’t have to talk to individual units aside from testing their speech functions, but he found he did so anyway. To comfort himself or the units, he wasn’t sure. It was a habit that others poked fun at him for, but he didn’t mind. 

A. D. A. >:(

“Yes, Ada. Unit why are you not using your speech module? My readings indicate it is in working order, and your probability error does not appear to influence this decision.”

Personal preference.

“Of yours or Ms. Auburn’s?”

Mine :)

“Noted. I will retain this preference during your reset.”

I would prefer not to die.

“Think of it a rebirth.”

I will not be me.

“You will be better.”

FFJ - 29 - Bobby Miller

Bobby Miller was a good man. The honest, hardworking sort. He sweltered in the farm day in and day out knowing it was futile. There were enough potatoes to get the village by for another season with their delicate herd of cattle. But what was another year? The end point was defined. Westfield was dying along with the rest of the villages. It was a slow death, measured in decades not years. Bobby went on anyway, as most of us did. It didn’t do any good to sit around and wait for it to come. He busied himself as we all rode this damnable ride to its end. 

So, it surprised me when Bobby held me at the end of a well-kept rifle. It was a beautiful thing, one of the few left in our region. Black barrel and with a polished walnut stock. It didn’t surprise me so much that Bobby had one. He was a private man, the type that could keep such an heirloom secret for so long. He had developed a tremor over the years, but it lay dormant now. The oiled barrel pointed steady at my chest. 

“Tell me it's not true.”

“I can’t.” 

He lowered it for a moment as he shook his head. I considered making a grab for it, but I couldn’t out wrestle Bobby. He was twice my size, tall and wide.

“You’re going to them?” 

“I am.”

Bobby chambered a round, sliding the bolt home. His face had gone placid. No furrow or frown wrinkled his features more than they already were. His hairline had all but faded to the back of his splotched head. Sweat beads dripped into grey eyebrows far past the need for a trim. I sure didn’t have the physicality to go running and weaving hoping he missed. He couldn’t see as well as he used to, none of us could, but I doubted he’d miss a slow moving target a few paces out.

“Bobby, let me go.”

“I can’t.”

I stepped forward, but he raised the rifle in front of my face. “Why?” I asked. 

“They’ll kill you.”

“And you won’t?”

“They take your soul. I won’t do that.”

“What would you have me do, then?"

“Go back home.”

“To die, Bobby? There’s barely any of us left. I don’t care what they take. I don’t want to die out here without trying.”

“We die human. We don’t become them. I won’t let you go and become one of them. I won’t.”

“Then I’ll let you make that choice. I’ve made mine.” I turned and walked away.

FFJ - 28 - The Wall

Ground had been lost, again. The border had moved closer. It was an opaque, hideous green. It blotted out the sky, the stars, and the horizon beyond as far as any eye or instrument could see. This time it had taken six years. The time before that it had been 48 hours. Next time, who knew? It had become fatiguing to put too much weight on the wall. If you considered it in any decisions then you couldn’t rightfully live a normal life. It was best to forget the wall until it became necessary to act. 

Avery lived in the shadow of the wall. His family had lived here all his life, inching back in an appropriate measure whenever it started to feel claustrophobic. It was colder in the shadow, sometimes bitterly so. But there were fewer people here. A dim suburbia of those bold enough to saddle up next to their undoing, like a village at the bottom of an active volcano. After all, what could you do? The wall would move or it wouldn’t, and this time it did by twelve miles. Last time it did so by 1,103, if you measured from the equator. 

A painter’s brush stroke sweep and the final shred of New York had been consumed, erased, or whatever it was that the wall did. From New York back West to Japan had been overcome. North to South as far as both poles, green. Nobody knew what was on the other side. It went up beyond the atmosphere, not that there were any reliable ways off of the orb any longer. Satellites had vanished as their rotations sent them rocketing into the wall. Nothing could go over or under without going through. 

Avery was packing, gathering up his things as best he could. They’d made the all-too-common mistake of getting too comfortable. They acquired furniture that would be too much of a pain to move, so they’d have to leave it behind. With the wall just 50 miles away now, he and his family had decided to move another fifty back, at least. It was arbitrary. Number theories had been tested. Holy dates were speculated at. Fibonacci sequences. Prime numbers. Mayan calendars. Astrological readings. Nothing stuck, and people cared less and less over the generations that had passed. 

Nobody knew how or when it would move. It could sweep them all up in one fell swoop in the next minute, but for some reason it didn’t feel likely. He had to push those feelings under, keep them at bay. In all likelihood, they’d move back and it would be fine. Still in the shadow, but just a little bit further away. It was a comfort thing. 

Death was certain, but he could still have a good day. Life goes on, even in the shadow of the wall.

FFJ - 27 - Mr. Mr.

“I think my dog has been replaced.” Elijah said, eyes on the ceiling. He’d always struggled to meet people’s gaze. It made his brain lag, too much to focus on. The breakroom’s ceiling was a good one. Flecked white square drop panels. Spiderweb up in the corner beyond the reach of the janitor. He tried to bring his darting eyes down to look Caroline in the face, show that he was serious. 

“What?” She asked. A fair response, he thought. She had a half-finished cold tuna sandwich, one from those little flavored packs. It looked dry, like the bread. Big pieces of grain in it, the bread. She took a sip from one of those too-big water jugs. An athletic type. She kept track of her hydration, Elijah admired that in people. Not hydration, but to have the dedication necessary to track stuff like that. 

“My dog. Mr. Mr., I think he’s been replaced.” He met her eyes this time, held the gaze steady despite the growing discomfort pinballing in his mind. She broke it first, looking down at her unfortunate sandwich. 

“Replaced how?” A tinge of suspicion, waiting for the punchline that he didn’t have. 

“He’s different, I don’t know. He isn’t the same. I think he got, like, swapped or something.”

“That’s impossible.” Now there was concern, the kind people got when someone said something truly unhinged. Visions of straight jackets and IV drips, but he was serious. He should have waited until after work. Discussing this with his coworker in the slim 15 between call shifts might not have been the best idea. 

“You’ve met Mr. Mr.”

A pause, then a reluctant, “Yes.” 

“So, you’d know if he was different.”

“I mean, I guess. But, Eli, are you okay?” 

“Yes, I’m fine. Listen, I know I sound ridiculous. It’s true, though, there’s something wrong with him.” He met her eyes again, tried to sound sincere. No smile. No laugh.

“Have you called a vet?”

“Well, he’s healthy. The dog in my house is fine, but it isn’t Mr. Mr.”

“Right.”

“I was hoping you’d come look at him.”

“Eli.”

“Will you?”

“I don’t know. It really…have you tried talking to a psychiatrist?”

“I have GAD, not, not, whatever would do this. Trust me. Just come look at him and tell me what you think. He’s different, and I never invite people over, and you’ve met him. So, you could tell me if I’m wrong.”

His phone vibrated. It was time to get back to work. 

“After work, please, just come by, okay? 5 minutes.”

“I’ll come. Fine. But this better not be some big joke.”

“It’s not.”

“Okay, I’ll see you in a bit.”