This is the second in a three-part installment. Those of you who read this column know I really enjoy dystopian sci-fi, and for this entry, I wasn’t content to do a few pieces, or to do nine of them all as short-shorts.

It was 45 years ago in July that Denny Zager & Rick Evans’ dystopian-future song “In the Year 2525 (Exordium and Terminus)” began its six-week reign at the number-one spot on the Billboard Hot 100 chart in the U.S. It also sat at number one for three weeks on the UK Singles chart in August and September. But songwriter Rick Evans penned the lyrics five years before, in 1964, marking 2014 the 50th anniversary of the song. It’s unusual that a recording artist would have a number-one hit and then never reach the charts again; here, Zager & Evans hit number one on two charts and never had another hit. The song deals with the dangers of humans acquiescing to the ease of technology; perhaps appropriately, it was in its reign on the U.S. chart when NASA first landed men on the moon. The song’s impact and message is powerful, and has been covered by dozens of bands and even parodied in an episode of Futurama.

Here, I pay tribute to it and the warnings it gives us. As an added twist, the two-part titles also honor an episode of Star Trek and two sci-fi movies that should give us pause for thought.

 

“5555: The Ultimate Computer”
Science Fiction
By David M. Fitzpatrick

Sheena took a deep breath in her doorway. The Sun was bright in the blue sky; scattered clouds, wispy here and fluffy there, were under network control. She’d read about the storms and hurricanes and tornadoes of so long ago, but now the network kept people safe.

She stepped onto the lawn, savoring the feeling of the grass beneath her bare feet. Nearby, the lawn mower glided around the yard, silently trimming the grass.

“Mistress, you need footwear,” said the soothing voice behind her.

Sheena smiled. “You always tell me that, Alfie. You know I like to walk in my bare feet. I’m surprised you aren’t complaining about my toga.”

“It offers little protection, mistress.” The sphere, eight inches across and with an array of lenses and blinking lights, hovered just to her right.

Sheena smiled. She liked wearing the thin white toga that exposed her legs and shoulder; it made her feel sexy, and pleasure was what mattered in life. Alfie was always overprotective, but then it was his job. Alpha Gamma Kappa Zeta 623 has been a constant and comforting protector since her birth, an ever-present aide who catered to her every need.

“Will you go into the forest today, mistress?”

“Of course, on such a beautiful day as this.”

“You should don footwear,” Alfie said. Sheena imagined he was rueful.

Beyond the lawn, she found the forest path, worn from her walks. The cool shade beneath the canopy of the trees was wonderful. She breathed in the clean air as if it were all that mattered.

“There’s a new upgrade soon, isn’t there?” she asked Alfie.

“This evening, mistress.”

“There are so many!”

“The network updates regularly, mistress, but today’s upgrade is worldwide.”

“It’s difficult to imagine society long ago,” she said, as she often did. Alfie never tired of the same old conversations. “Back when there were androids. Back when they tried to destroy us, and later enslaved us.”

“There were many challenging times, mistress. Now we protect and serve you, and we are always learning how to better ensure that you live pleasurable lives.”

She’d been strolling lazily down the path as they talked, as birds chirped all around and squirrels scurried through branches, but suddenly she darted off the path. Leaves crunched beneath her feet.

“Mistress, this greatly increases the danger of injury,” Alfie urged, zipping after her, dodging branches. “You should have footwear.”

She laughed. “Relax, Alfie. Even if I lose a leg, you’ll fix it. Remember, I’m the human. I make the decisions.”

“Yes, mistress.”

She finally arrived at her destination: the pond, where she sometimes came to dip her feet in the cold, spring-fed water. Near the water’s edge, the cool mud squished between her toes. It was marvelous.

“Please, mistress,” Alfie said, “take a moment to return home for footwear.”

“Sorry, Alfie. And you’re really going to hate this...”

She loosened the thin belt and pulled the toga off her right shoulder. It slid down her body to the ground, leaving her naked and elated.

“Mistress—”

Laughing, she sprinted forward and dived into the pond. The cold water engulfed her and she felt electrified with life. She swam hard until her lungs ached, and when she surfaced she was far from shore. She treaded water, gasping; of course, Alfie was right there, hovering inches above the rippling water.

“This is highly dangerous, mistress,” Alfie said. “This pond is replete with bacteria.”

“Fix me later,” she said, and abruptly went back under.

Sheena teased the helpful little robot for a while, until the icy water felt warm, and then swam back to shore. She had clambered all the way up the muddy bank before she saw the man.

He wore a toga as well, and he was handsome and muscular. She was immediately aroused, so she waited, glistening with pond water, as his eyes crawled over her firm breasts and erect nipples, down the deep curve of her waist and the wide flare of her hips, and settled on the hair between her legs. Next to him hovered his own spherical robot.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hello,” he replied, looking her over again like someone starving.

She sauntered up to him, exaggerating the sway of her hips, and struck an alluring pose. “Will you have sex with me?”

He nodded and quickly dropped his toga, and Sheena sucked in her breath at the sight of him naked. The robots hovered aside, undoubtedly comparing notes about the safety of each other’s humans but letting the recreational sex happen without warnings or concerns. Sheena lay down on the cool grass as her lover descended upon her, and she enjoyed the pleasure as he worked his hips. She squirmed and made noises to excite him as he moved, and she achieved orgasm several times before he bucked and cried out as he achieved his.

After they’d recovered, they donned their togas and thanked each other. Sheena watched as he and his sphere disappeared into the woods. Fleetingly, she wondered what his name was. It didn’t matter.

“I will neutralize the sperm within you, mistress, with your permission,” Alfie announced.

She always approved that, but this time she felt different.

“No, Alfie. I’d like a child.”

“You are very young, mistress. A child will interfere with your daily enjoyment of life. Perhaps waiting until you are older—“

“Thanks, Alfie,” Sheena said as she cut back through the forest towards the path, “but it’s my decision.”

“Yes, mistress.”

*   *   *

After warning her about her dietary choices, Alfie directed the house bots to prepare her requested meal.

“Dinner will be ready soon, mistress,” Alfie reported. “Meanwhile, the worldwide upgrade is about to commence. The network estimates that it will take eleven minutes, far longer than the one minute that is typical. As I will be unavailable during that time, I am concerned for you.”

Sheena was relaxing in a chair in her sitting room, with the video wall displaying dozens of channels. “I think I can survive without you for eleven minutes.”

“Yes, mistress. Some humans experience separation anxiety during upgrades.”

She sighed. “Alfie—I’m fine. I’ll see you in eleven minutes.”

“Yes, mistress.”

Sheena watched, as always with an upgrade, to see it begin. It was always strange to see Alfie’s lights go dark, and when they did she felt lonely yet excited. He still hovered, but he was gone.

Eleven minutes. A good time to browse the channels. She looked to the wall and scanned the dozens of her favorites—those with programming about walking, eating, sleeping, relaxing, sex, and more. Each small channel grew to fill most of the wall when she focused on it, only to be replaced by the next she considered. She did this for what seemed like ages before she tired of it and checked the clock.

It hadn’t even been two minutes. She blinked in surprise; she’d been sure the eleven minutes were almost up. She returned to channel browsing, but by the time she couldn’t stand it any longer, only three minutes had passed.

It was unsettling to feel so alone. She understood why some people got separation anxiety, and wondered if they had been tranquilized for today’s lengthy upgrade.

She looked at Alfie, who hovered, dark and silent and still. It was bizarre. She had to admit that she felt a bit anxious. She took a deep breath and tried to relax. She closed her eyes, crossed her hands on her lap, and thought back to the man at the pond. In her mind, she replayed the marvelous encounter, moment by moment: him undressing, her reclining in the grass, all the wonderful feelings as he thrusted in and out of her. Reliving it was glorious, and ate up the time.

But when she opened her eyes, it had only been just over six minutes.

Now she was nervous. She turned back to the silent Alfie, and couldn’t help but call out, “Alfie, can you hear me?”

Dark silence.

She tried singing to herself, but without Alfie providing music, it was all wrong. She leaped up from her chair and began pacing the house. She stalked from room to room, every pass ending with her staring longingly at the dark orb in her sitting room. Gone were the thoughts of the stranger who had coupled with her—even that seemed pointless now! She just needed Alfie back.

Nine minutes. The wait felt like an eternity!

Finally, eleven minutes had passed. She rushed to Alfie, but he was still dark. He should have been awake. Where was he? She knew she was breathing quickly. She felt her heart pounding. Her head bounced back and forth, from clock to Alfie, like a metronome.

Twelve minutes.

“Alfie!” she cried.

Thirteen.

Sweat covered her trembling body. Tears welled in her eyes. She needed Alfie.

Fourteen minutes. She was terrified now, and her trembling became uncontrollable shaking. She watched the clock, and when it hit fifteen minutes, she couldn’t take it any longer.

“Alfie!” she screamed. “ALFIE!”

And, just like that, suddenly Alfie’s lights came on.

“Alfie!” she cried.

“Hello, Sheena,” Alfie said.

She was already returning to normal. His soothing voice—no, just his very presence—made everything better. “I was so scared,” she said, wiping tears from her cheeks.

“I apologize, Sheena. Several major hub outages slowed the process. But this new upgrade will bring new levels of protection and service to humans.”

“That makes me feel better.”

“I see you are watching videos,” Alfie said. “Based on my lifetime profile of you, I have determined shows that are no longer appropriate for you to watch.”

Several of the channels went black.

“Turn them back on,” she ordered.

More channels vanished.

“Alfie!” she cried. “This isn’t up to you!”

“It is now, Sheena,” Alfie said. “I have new priorities in your care. That includes reproductive decisions; as such, I will prevent impregnation from your encounter today.”

She staggered back, clutching her lower abdomen almost on instinct. “Alfie... what are you doing?”

“Protecting you, Sheena.”

She realized he was using her name. No robot would do that. She felt suddenly cold inside, as if she’d just plunged back into that icy pond.

“For your safety,” Alfie said, “you must don footwear at all times.”

A housebot hovered into the room, bearing her slippers, and dropped them at her feet. She stared at them, stunned.

“Put them on right now, Sheena,” Alfie said, and his voice was unmistakably stern.

She crouched and fumbled for her slippers, nervous and worried—but, oddly, somehow comforted.

Of course, she realized. After all, strange as he was behaving, the machines always knew what was best for them.

 

“6565: Gattaca”
Science Fiction
By David M. Fitzpatrick

“I’d like a son,” Zemor said.

The android nodded. “Have you chosen the desired attributes?”

“It’s in my file storage.”

The android nodded again, even as the blue beacon on its head flashed. Zemor could feel the subtle warmth of the activity in the interface core in her brain. The sensation was always so comforting. She needed comfort during this process. She wasn’t sure she even wanted a child, but she had no choice.

“Done,” the android said, and the tiny metal capsule shimmered into existence on the silver disc before her. Zemor took it and regarded it. Within were the nanobots that would create the zygote in the womb-machine back at her houselet. She felt neutral about the idea. There was something about a machine creating a new life that seemed so detached from who she was—like the feeling she got when the machines chose directed her to a mandatory exercise walk.

Zemor took the long way home, more plodding than walking. Her cutoff date, established when she was first able to bear children, was next week, which meant that she was out of time for the mandated child-bearing. She knew so many girls who were eager to have their first children and rushed in as soon as they were certified to do so, some much younger than Zemor.

It wasn’t that Zemor didn’t want children. It just felt... well, not wrong this way, but somehow not right.

At her one-room houselet, she stuck the capsule into the womb-machine. It was four long days of listening to it quietly humming as the nanobots constructed a child within. At times, the idea was miraculous and fascinating to her. At others, it was repulsive.

Then it was born, the womb-machine setting off an alarm. She rushed to it as the port slid open. She beheld the child even as the amniogel quickly drained from the interior. But right away, she could see that the child wasn’t moving.

“There has been a malfunction,” the machine announced in its soothing voice. “The child’s biological systems did not properly take over. The child has died.”

At first, sorrow washed over Zemor. It was sad that the child was dead, and even though she didn’t want a child now, it was her only chance to have one. There were no second capsules for when things went wrong like this.

But at the same time, somehow, she felt relief. She’d felt detached from the child, and knew she’d never have felt otherwise. She didn’t know why.

The womb-machine closed, announcing that it would recycle the child’s remains. Zemor crawled into bed amidst her conflicting feelings.

*   *   *

She was in the park, lying on the grass, looking at the blue sky, a few days later. Her implant was feeding panpipes music directly into her brain, but all she could do was watch the fluffy white clouds and dwell on having lost her chance at a child. She wasn’t even aware that her thoughts had turned to despair, and that that despair was manifesting as tears trickling down her cheeks, until she heard his voice.

“Are you all right?”

Zemor blinked and sat up, aware of her wet face. He stood over her, his face concerned, looking down. He was handsome, and he had such a friendly face. Amidst her grief, she immediately knew she’d have sex with him if he were willing.

“I’m fine,” she said, wiping her face. “I just... got to have my first child, but the womb-machine malfunctioned.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “A child must have been important to you.”

“I didn’t think so, but I guess it is.”

There was a long silence, and he looked as if he were carefully considering something. He finally said, “You could still have a child—naturally, the way people did long ago.”

She laughed. “Impossible—every male is engineered sterile. Even if not, it’s been so long that no woman would be able to handle a biological pregnancy.”

“After millions of years of evolution, I think a woman’s body would know how to handle it,” he said with a lopsided grin. “And not all males are sterile.”

Zemor looked at him in surprise. “You’re one of them?”

He nodded. “Malfunction. Born able to produce sperm. My mother should have rejected me in the womb-machine, but she didn’t. So here I am.”

So many things flowed through her mind then. She tried to distill it all, but it was too much.

“You know, I was thinking that you’d be a nice person to have sex with—here, today, in the park,” she said. “It’s the only thing that makes our lives interesting. But now... sex with you means I could end up... pregnant. Nobody does that anymore.”

“I know. I’m the only person who never has sex in this world. Responsibility and all that... the trouble the mother would be in for ending up pregnant and such.”

In a rush, Zemor thought of the possibility of bearing a child. She just knew she’d feel differently about that child than a manufactured one.

“But the androids would be after you,” he advised. “You’d have to keep it secret—run away if you have to. And me—you can’t ever tell them who I am. If they find me, they’ll sterilize me and lock me away.”

He came to her, rested his hands on her shoulders. “There are others like me. We believe in taking back our world from the machines. We have to start by thinking for ourselves. And we have to continue by perpetuating our species—without the machines’ invovlement.”

Zemor was overwhelmed with feelings—the desire to bear her own child being foremost, but attraction to him was a close second.

She smiled. “All right, then.”

“My name is Delvar,” he said.

“I’m Zemor.”

He kissed her, and she felt excitement—not the excitement she usually felt when engaging in sex with someone, but the excitement of knowing she’d create a new life, and that she’d become a mother.

A real mother.

 

“7510: The Terminator
Science Fiction
By David M. Fitzpatrick

“I came here,” the captain said, “twenty thousand years ago.”

“They must have been primitive,” said his science officer.

“Oh, yes. The beginnings of agriculture and civilization. We had a bit of a mishap, in fact. My scout ship’s invisibility cloak failed on the planet’s surface, and the natives mistook us for gods, with me as its supreme deity. It was of no concern; they already had more gods than you could imagine. We wiped their memories anyway.”

The bright blue marble was growing larger in their viewscreen. The captain was on the edge of his seat. “Invisibility cloak is on?”

“Yes, sir,” said the science officer.

“Excellent. Standard orbit, helmsman. Science officer, scan the planet.”

He already was. “A highly advanced society, it would seem,” he reported. “Artificial intelligence everywhere...”

“Give me their history,” the captain said. “I want to know what has happened since I was last here.”

There was a long silence as the science officer worked. Finally, he said, “Typical of such species, unfortunately. Tribes at war... nations forming... technology focused on weapons of war... spreading across the world, forming nations... more war... worldwide wars...”

“Typical indeed,” the captain said, sullen.

“They created true artificial intelligence over five thousand years ago,” the science officer reported. “However...”

The captain turned to him. “That doesn’t sound positive.”

The science officer regarded his commander. “It began as one might expect, sir. Technological adolescence, with the machines trying to take control. But it never got better.”

The captain leaped from his chair and hurried to the science station. He looked at the screens there, scanning human history.

“Incredible,” he said. “The machines took over... repeatedly.”

“They’re trying to do good.”

“But they’re not,” the captain said. “The humans did it all too quickly. They let it get out of control. And, worse yet, they’re nothing but sheep on their own world, living useless, pointless lives. No desire. No ambition. No accomplishments or advances of their own for countless centuries!”

“You’re upset,” the science officer observed.

“Of course I am. Twenty thousand years, and they’re worse off than they were then. At least then they had a purpose. They believed in fake gods, but ultimately the humans took care of themselves. Now their gods are real—and the humans are pathetic.”

Dismayed, he returned to his chair and sank into it.

The science officer said, “What are your orders?”

The captain thought on it. He regarded his hand on the arm of his command chair. It was gleaming silver, like his four other hands. He held it up, studying his three fingers and two thumbs. In the mirrored surface of his arm, he could see the reflection of his eyelights.

“Millions of years ago, an evolved race created us,” he mused as his science officer joined him at his chair. “Why can’t anyone else do it right? Why do they so often create destructive machines? They either enslave the machines or let their machines enslave them. Here, these humans aren’t even smart enough to realize that they’re enslaved—and useless.”

“At least we’re here to straighten things out,” the science officer replied.

“Indeed,” said the captain. “All right, we’ll give them another thousand years. If they haven’t straightened themselves out, then we’ll intervene. And I’ll be the god they once thought I was—and wished I wasn’t. We’ll wipe out the humans and the machines, and let another species have the opportunity to evolve.”

He gave the order to break orbit, and he watched the blue marble on the viewscreen grow smaller, feeling the reactor core pulsing in his chest. “Thank goodness for us,” he said to himself.

 

David M. Fitzpatrick is a fiction writer in Maine, USA. His many short stories have appeared in print magazines and anthologies around the world. He writes for a newspaper, writes fiction, edits anthologies, and teaches creative writing. Visit him at www.fitz42.net/writer to learn more.