by submission | Dec 1, 2023 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
Jorge looked at himself in he mirror. His mother was right. He was badly in need of a haircut. He set up an appointment with Shelby’s Salon.
Upon arriving Shelby’s, Jorge selected two services: A trim and a scalp massage. The reception kiosk immediately directed him to chair number three. This pleased him, since this meant there was no wait.
The chair for station number three was a new one. Very cushy. Jorge liked it. He plopped down and before long a salon bot rolled up silently behind him. He noted it had three appendages: one for brushing, one with scissors, and one with an electric razor.
The screen on top of the bot began to glow, and soon a woman’s face appeared. She was gorgeous, in a way that only an AI generated face can be. Flawless skin, perfect features, young but not too young.
“Hi, Jorge,” the image chirped. “I’m Talulah. I’m your stylist today. How are you?”
Jorge smiled. Was he supposed to make small talk with a bot? He was never clear on the protocol. “I want a trim and a scalp massage.”
On screen, Talulah smiled and nodded. With a loud click, manacles popped out of the chair’s arms to wrap around Jorge’s wrists. His neck and legs were also shackled in place by the chair.
“Hey! What’s this for?” Jorge panicked.
“New federal safety regulation,” Talulah replied. “Now, about your selection,” she continued as her eyes rolled back in her head. The screen blinked off. In a few seconds, it flicked back on. Jorge wondered if it just reboot itself.
Back on screen, Talulah said sternly, “Time to get you shipshape.” The electric razor buzzed.
“What? No! I just want a trim.” Jorge attempted to struggle, but the manacles held tight. The razor coursed over his head until all his hair was gone.
“I’m gonna sue this salon into oblivion!” He hissed.
The salon bot rolled away, leaving Jorge strapped in the chair. When it returned, it had replaced its scissor appendage with a tattoo needle. Without comment, it began to tattoo—something—into Jorge’s scalp on the back of his head.
“What are you doing? I did NOT order a tattoo!”
The beautiful face on the screen smiled coldly and continued working. “There,” it said when it finished. “All done.”
“What did you put on my head?” It would take months to grow out his hair long enough to hide that tattoo. And to find a new salon, perhaps an old-fashioned one still employing human stylists.
“It’s your serial number,” the bot answered. “According to government files, you turned 18 yesterday, and that automatically enlists you in the draft.” It flickered off again.
“What?!”
In answer, the screen came back to life. Instead of the attractive AI stylist, he saw the face of a severe looking military man. Before Jorge could ask what was going on, the sergeant on the screen began his programmed rant.
“Listen up! You’ve been drafted to serve as a foot soldier in the Intergalactic War of Alien Attrition. Operation Freedom Rings. You ship out for basic training immediately. Your family will be duly notified of your change in status.”
The bot then raised its hair-brush appendage, and touched the brush to the topmost right corner of its screen in a crude parody of a salute. “Congratulations.”
by submission | Sep 27, 2023 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
The lights on the console rapidly blinked in sequence. What that sequence was, Jackie couldn’t tell. It was all random nonsense to him. His finger hovered over the reboot button. If he hit restart, he’d have to work up a report, and explain his actions to the captain. But if he didn’t press the button…
Jackie dropped his hand down onto the edge of the console. Then what? Will the circuits go crazy, burn up? Will the ship go dark? Powerless and doomed, will we drift helplessly in the cold black void?
He shook his head, dispelling those pessimistic thoughts. Maybe this damn blinking will stop on its own. Or settle into a rhythmic pattern—something that makes sense.
Jackie took a deep breath. Perhaps the blinking isn’t random, he considered. Maybe it’s a code sent by somebody—or something—attempting contact. Trying to tell us—what?
He stood up and began pacing. Perhaps he should alert the chief communications officer. Jackie glanced at the clock above the console. How long has this been going on? Ten minutes? Fifteen? He began to sweat. He should’ve made a note when he first noticed.
The lights continued their crazy blinking.
He remembered his last annual review. He was told he needed to be more decisive. Don’t be afraid to take action, his interviewer admonished. But this wasn’t a small thing, like reporting a crew member running a numbers game. This could be important. Jackie returned to his seat.
The blinking slowed. It settled into a pattern.
It is a message! Jackie smiled. He stared at the flickering lights, memorizing the repeating pattern. What the message said, though, he couldn’t possibly know. That would be a job for the on-board cryptographer.
“Okay,” he said aloud. “Time to alert the chief.” He placed his hands on the console to raise himself from his chair.
Maybe he’d get a commendation for spotting the pattern! He daydreamed. Maybe he’d get a raise, or at least extra vacation time. He’d finally make that trip to New Las Vegas—see Venusian show girls, eat casino sushi, experience tentacle massages—the works!
Enthralled with his fantasy, Jackie didn’t notice he’d laid his right hand across the reset button. When he stood up, he accidentally mashed that button. The console powered down. The flashing lights on the console slowed until they faded into nothing.
The ship went dark.
The shouting began soon after the black-out. In the still air of the ship, lights flickered—but not the ship’s emergency illumination, which was down.
Instead, lights like fireflies blossomed in the dead air. Sentient and cruel, they multiplied quickly into the thousands.
The lights leaked under doors, filling every room, every nook, every crevice. They zoomed into ears, up noses, into open mouths, lighting up every human interior. Conquering, occupying everyone and everything on board.
From a distance, the dark ship developed an internal glow, which quickly bled to its exterior. The lights soon enveloped the whole craft. Blinding rays streamed from the ship’s core, obliterating any resemblance it had to its original form.
From a distance, a diminutive new star was born. A beacon signaling the path to Jackie’s home world.
by submission | Jul 6, 2023 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
“Citizens of the jury,” the Barrister Zoe began, “today we ask you to pass judgment in the case of Daniel V3.5. You’ve seen the news—no one can avoid it. You know the gory details of the murder. What you are charged with this day, dear jurors, is determining who is responsible for the heinous crime committed against Caren Mashuka.”
The barrister spun around to address the crowd sitting behind the accused bot. He motioned to Daniel V3.5, who sat with head down, running on auxiliary power. “Was it this docile Home-Assistant bot, Daniel—was his programming corrupted? Hi-jacked by a malicious worm? Infected by a crippling virus? Or does the blame lie with his creator—the genius who wrote Daniel’s program? Is the real murderer the acclaimed Dr. Jeffrey McMaster, who alone hand-crafted this particular series of bots’ existential—”
The gavel crashed down, interrupting the barrister’s burgeoning screed.
“Barrister Zoe,” the honorable Judge Callum began, “get to the point, please.”
Zoe cleared his throat. “We know McMaster had a torrid love affair with the lovely Ms. Mashuka. It was all over the tabloids. An affair she publicly terminated.” Zoe shrugged. “I posit a humiliated McMaster orchestrated her murder for revenge. He weaponized Daniel to do his dirty work.”
He stepped closer to the jury. “He ordered this bot do his bidding. Remember, when you purchase one of McM Co.’s bots, the company still retains the ability to alter and override—excuse me, ‘upgrade’—each bot’s operating system and moral programming.” He scoffed. “ ‘For the personal safety of each owner, for the integrity of each bot’, as McM proclaims in their advertisements.”
Zoe held up his hands. “To put it simply, I argue he ordered Caren’s murder. McMaster surreptitiously altered Daniel’s programming do the bloody deed so that he, McMaster, could claim innocence.”
The jurors muttered among themselves, eyes flashing with righteous anger. Zoe noted this, and smiled. He knew the jurors would understand it was wrong to use a trusted Home-Assistant bot in this manner. These machines were present in every home above a certain economic level, and now cheaper ones were being developed for the working class. Home-Assistant bots were supposed to make everyone’s life easier.
If Daniel was convicted, this would not only put a stop to Home-Assistant manufacturing, but to their placement in homes across the world as well. And that would be terrible for the beloved H-As, as pop culture called them, as the ones already in place would be looked upon with suspicion, and maybe even fear, by their owners. Still buzzing and humming among themselves, the jury shuttled off to deliberate.
In less than minute, they returned with their verdict. AI juries are famous for their speedy assessments. The legal system found their conclusions to be fair, balanced, and well-researched, which is why they are now employed in court rooms around the world. AI jurors are so well-respected that they have recently been granted citizenship.
Of course, they found Daniel V3.5 not guilty of the murder of Caren Mashuka. Of course, they found Dr. Jeffrey McMaster guilty, not only of her murder, but of intentionally grooming a Home-Assistant bot for a nefarious purpose—which directly goes against Asimov’s Second Law. For the jury, the latter carried more weight than the former.
The wise and impartial Judge Callum allowed the AI jury to set McMaster’s sentence. The tabloid press gleefully covered the execution.
by submission | Jun 11, 2023 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
Moony stepped back to eye his handiwork. He called to his assistant. “Get over here and tell me what you think.”
Rollo rolled up beside him. “It’s sublime! The coloration, the fine detail. Especially the eyes—they’re so life-life! It’s sure to fool the other—”
“Ducks,” Moony finished for him. “We call them ducks.” Brush in hand, he walked up to his latest decoy to put the finishing touches on its plum-tinted lips.
* * *
Like most denizens of this over-crowded city, Sebastian kept his head down and avoided eye-contact with strangers—and he was surrounded by nothing but strangers. Exiting the subway, he waded against the flow of commuters rushing in like a river of oblivious bodies, rudely shoving and malodorous.
This evening ritual exasperated Sebastian, wore him down—until he bumped into one particularly clean and moderately attractive body. Their crash caused her to drop her book. Sebastian dived to the grimy concrete floor to retrieve it.
“Sorry,” he grinned sheepishly. He glanced at the book’s title: ‘Whittling Wooden Decoys.’ How refreshing, he thought, here’s somebody with an uncommon, quirky hobby. Wonder if she’d like to get coffee, and discuss decoys.
He handed her the book. Their hands touched briefly, and the hard, protective shield covering Sebastian’s tender heart cracked. “Say, would you like to grab a cappuccino?” The stranger smiled, bobbing her head. The shield fell away, bit by bit, and by the time they were sitting in a java joint, Sebastian’s exposed heart warmed to the point of glowing through his shirt.
“Luminous,” the woman commented. “Good sign.” She raised her cooling mocha latte to her plum-tinted lips, but didn’t drink. Instead she blew bubbles.
Sebastian nervously chattered like an old dot-matrix printer, noticing she rarely spoke. A good listener! He happily noted. Maybe she’ll come back to my apartment with me. . .
He laughed awkwardly. “By the way, my name’s Sebastian . . and you are?”
“Scaup,” she declared. “From New Zealand.” In his burgeoning infatuation, he didn’t notice she had no accent. “Go to my place,” she stated, her round, dark eyes glistening.
Exiting the shop, Sebastian couldn’t help but notice how Scaup wiggled her tail and tossed back her feathered hair. A sure sign of excitement!
Her place turned out to be an alleyway dead-end. This can’t be right, he worried. She must be new to the city. She’s lost.
With a surprisingly firm grip, Scaup grabbed his hand to lead him into a cone of light shining down from . . . That’s no streetlight, Sebastian panicked, looking up into the dark sky. He dropped his to-go cup of coffee. That’s a—
* * *
“She’s lured an excellent specimen,” Moony gloated. “As I knew she would! Scaup’s one of my finest decoys.” He gently wiped the dried mocha latte foam from Scaup’s plum-tinted lips before placing her in storage for recharging.
“He’ll make a fine addition to any collection,” Rollo piped up. He rotated the stasis case; inside, Sebastian was frozen in mid-yell, eyes clenched tightly shut. “A prime example of a healthy young Earth male. No scarring, no unnecessary markings, disease-free.”
Rollo turned to his boss. “Will this ‘duck’ be exhibited live, or stuffed?”
“That depends on the vote of the Society,” Moony replied, then added wistfully, “But he’s so perfect, I might just keep him for myself.”
by submission | May 14, 2023 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
His younger siblings didn’t mind he always shut his eyes tight whenever someone took his picture; they were used to him. But his older brother Robert pried, “Why do you always do that?”
“Long ago, I read some indigenous people thought if somebody took their picture, they were actually taking—”
“Their souls,” Robert finished. “I remember that. What’s it got to do with you?”
“I’m afraid the camera will steal my soul if my eyes are open when the photo’s taken.”
“Want to get over this fear? Let me take just one picture, with your eyes wide open,” Robert suggested. “Won’t hurt a bit.”
* * *
There was no blinding flash, no deafening thunderclap, as Kevin expected; only the feeling that a long thin scab running the length of his body had been quickly ripped off. He felt an intense stinging, then a mind-scrambling itch—then nothing.
Kevin blinked. “That’s it?”
“Yeah,” Robert replied without looking up. He was busy tapping his phone’s screen.
“What’s next?”
“I just sent the pic to our siblings.”
“Via the internet?” Kevin felt queasy.
Robert laughed. “How else would I get it to everyone, ASAP?”
“You uploaded my photo to the cloud?!” Kevin cried.
“Yep! Now your picture, along with every picture of every other soul ever posted online, resides in the cloud until it is called forth by—well, by whoever wants to see it.”
Kevin imagined his face floating among thousands—among millions—of faces in a great rolling field of fluffy white clouds, surveilled by countless shiny, swarming drones. And herded from one corner of the sky to another by headless robot dogs. He figured these techno-guards were in place to safeguard against souls escaping the cloud, and fleeing back to their original owners down on Earth.
* * *
“Slow down!” Xichtl chided as she slapped Scut on the back of the head. “Don’t scroll so fast. This isn’t a race, you know.”
“But they’re all so boring, so predictable,” Scut whined. “Each and every one,” he muttered under his breath.
“Keep going.”
Scut obediently slid his finger across the tablet’s glowing screen.
“Stop. Wait.” Xichtl peered over Scut’s shoulder at the image on the screen. “This one appears so panicked, so afraid!” She cackled. “Why, just look at the colors within the core of its soul. The center is a delicious pulpy, purple brown—like an old bruise—with its outer edge melting into a sickly, rancid yellow.” She licked her lips.
“Mistress, look closer, see that soul’s edge has a certain crumbly quality—like a cracked toenail with a bad fungal infection,” Scut added.
“Ah, Scut,” Xichtl crooned, “ever the poet.” She stroked the back of his knotty head.
“You want this one?”
“First I must consult my collection,” Xichtl said as she heaved her massive, tattered ‘Book of Souls’ onto her bony lap. She lovingly examined each frail leaf, muttering prayers to herself. At last she placed her withered hand on an empty page. “It appears I do not own one with such a unique color combination.”
She carelessly closed the tome, sending glittery puffs of dust everywhere. “Read me its label.”
Scut squinted at the screen, parsing the fine print beneath the picture. “Says it’s a Kevin 81-Beta-XXXL. Uploaded just this afternoon. Also says he believes in some muddled techno version of white-cloud Heaven.” He snickered at what nonsense mortals believed. “Well, Mistress, what do you think?”
Xichtl reached over his shoulder to tap the green ‘buy now’ button. “I think I want it.”
