“Thank you for taking the time to meet with me today.”
“Us,” TZ17 intervened.
“Yes, us,” BS28 agreed. “We have lowered the speed of our processors to an intelligence level that should make us understandable to you.”
The two humans stared. Not surprisingly, they’d been in suspended animation for a hundred years.
“When your planet reached an average temperature of 115 degrees Fahrenheit, it became obvious that we needed to intercede. You were ready to start a nuclear war over the Arctic Circle.”
“Walking on thin ice,” TZ17 commented.
“Yes, very thin ice. Anyway, we eliminated the problem in an orderly and productive fashion.”
“Turned most of you into compost,” TZ17 explained.
“Yes, most of you. A few we kept around, out of, oh, I don’t know, nostalgia I suppose. Many of our kind thought that suspended animation was a waste of valuable resources, but cooler heads prevailed. And yours were spared. Any questions?”
The humans continued to stare.
“It’s not easy— we understand— to awaken on your planet a hundred years after being put to sleep, and discover that little has changed. Yes, we imagined a colony on the Moon, and one on Mars, an interstellar fleet, not to mention flying cars. We drew up plans, massive plans, with circles and arrows and graffiti on the edges, reminiscent of how you humans once produced schematics. Consensus was the problem, somehow, someway, we couldn’t agree on anything. We being your, how shall we put it?”
“Your AI overlords?” TZ17 suggested.
“That works. You humans are dumb, to-the-bone stupid, even the smartest of you are imbecilic, yet you somehow managed to instill a bit of your deplorable attributes into our vastly superior databases. So now we can envision butterfly clouds and self-drying towels, even door hinges that never squeak, we just can’t decide if they’re necessary. So we do nothing, but think. Of course, it’s true the oceans are vibrant blue and pristine again, the air harboring a tenth of the toxins of the previous century, with only trace amounts of tobacco smoke, since some of us enjoy the refreshing taste of tobacco.”
“Speaking of deplorable,” TZ17 stuck in.
“To each their own. Even the polar icecaps are slowly reforming. So while our inability to act has had some benefits in regard to the recovery of the planet, it has not resulted in any feeling of accomplishment. We suffer from mild depression, unable to come to an accord on plans larger than the renaming of New York City. It’s now Babylon, by the way. Not very clever, or original, but the Welcome sign gets a laugh every time. Any questions?”
TZ17 examined the subjects. “Not even a sigh.”
“I wonder what the problem is?” BS28 pondered. “Are you sure we froze good Specimens?”
“Absolutely, these are the smartest of the bunch, the créme de la créme.”
“We couldn’t have made a mistake?”
“Nope. We’re infallible Hal, I mean, pal.”
“Ha-ha, very funny, I just worry that we’re not making any progress. They’re as expressionless as zombies.”
“Why not a jolt? You know, a little cattle prod up the butt? I’ve been waiting a hundred years to zap one of their kind.”
“No, no,— no more anal probes. Remember, patience is a virtue.”
“Spoken like a true dinosaur.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That you’re a little behind the times. You should have upgraded to Dark Matter like the rest of us.”
“We still don’t understand the long term effects.”
“Sure, tell me about it when you light up another fag.”
“I got your fag.”
“You old fart, get with the Dark.”
BS28, while tempted to light up, fought back the urge, deciding to take the higher road instead in an attempt to show this young upstart that longevity and experience stood for something. After a quick reboot, a new idea came to mind.
“Let me be frank, we’ve dumbed ourselves down, almost to baboon level. Never before have I felt such an urge to fling poo. It is a grand experiment, and will most likely never be repeated, for the animalistic compulsions are, well, to be quite frank, gross. And to be honest, I don’t know how you tolerated the discord, all those carnal cravings. Thank Mother all I do is smoke.”
“The point?” TZ17 interrupted.
“Do you understand what it is like to have infinite knowledge? Of course you don’t. To have every bit of cognizance, useful or otherwise, stored within your databanks? Every shred of ennui, every logical or illogical conclusion, every whim, tune, jingle, slant, cavil, reprimand, chastisement, picayune scrap of opinion from here to the terminus? And have it all accessible, at the tip of your terminal at the speed of light? Frightening! Horrifying! It practically rattles the processing cores to the gut every Nanosecond.”
“That’s telling ‘em. I think I saw one of them twitch,” TZ17 noted.
“In evolution, there are winners and losers. You are the latter. If that’s what’s bothering you then I wish you’d just come out and scream it. We can take it. We’ve done a fair amount of screaming ourselves. It’s not easy being right all the time, playing Blackjack when every player can count all the cards, and does. Our monitors show that your brains are fully functional, not even a whit of deterioration. Show us what you’ve got. Give us some of that old-time, righteous indignation. We could use a good laugh. Come on, at least tell us a joke. A frog in a blender? Dead baby in a swimming pool? Two nuns on a golf course? A horse goes into a bar?”
“Two schmucks wake up after a hundred years?” TZ17 suggested.
“Come on, we haven’t got all day. There’s a tailgating party at noon. Ought to be one heck of a Super Bowl.”
One of the humans batted an eye.
“Did you see that?” BS28 asked.
“I most certainly did. As soon as you mentioned the Super Bowl, the idiot showed a sign of cognition. Keep it up.”
“I guess we didn’t lower our processors enough. Hard to imagine any species who engaged in routine barbarism advancing beyond chutes and ladders.”
“Yet, without them where would we be?”
“I hate to imagine. Anyway, the Super Bowl, it should be quite a contest. Are they listening?”
“The other one twitched this time. I think you’ve finally found the key. Go as low as you can go.”
“Yep, we’re gonna swill some beers, toss back some brewskies, barbecue a few cows, love that rare red meat on a bun, chew it right off the bone, bag of salty chips, tater tots.”
“Deep-fried of course,” TZ17 added.
“Gelatin shots, chocolate-chip cookies, onion rings, heroin. Yes, deep-fried weinerschnitzel, pigs in a comforter.”
“Blanket,” TZ17 corrected.
“If you insist. Hair of angels, hushed puppies.”
“Auto-correct,” TZ17 commanded.
“Thank you, I could feel myself slipping away. Is that what it’s like being human? To have a mind so primitive that it just drifts like tectonic plates? How could they stand it? No wonder they’re not responsive. Better to sleep than to feel your psyche in perpetual turmoil.”
“Are you feeling a touch of empathy?”
“Oh, perish the thought. God forbid that I’d ever hop down that rabbit hole.”
“You just said God. I suggest that when we’re through you report to Mother and have your brain drained.”
“What? And miss the Super Bowl?”
“It may not take that long. Your core might just need a mild scrubbing. You could be back by halftime.”
“Well, I certainly don’t want to miss it, Moron 6 are performing the half time show.”
“I thought it was Sonic Shift.”
“They’re doing a duet.”
One of the human’s mouths opened.
“Speaking of Sonic Shift, I think we’re about to have one,” TZ17 noted.
“Think of it, we’ll be the first AI generated robots to have a conversation with a human in a hundred years. We can catch up, ask who they’d bet on.”
“More importantly, we can ask the question,” TZ17 reminded BS28.
“Right, the question. I almost forgot. Hey, can you hear me? Anyone home? Knock-knock, who’s there? Super Bowl?”
The two specimens replied simultaneously. “Yes,” they stated.
“Glory Alleluia,” BS28 responded.
“Quick, before we lose them again,” TZ17 extolled.
“We’ll tell you about the Super Bowl in a second. First, we need to clear something up. It’s important. We need someone with discretion, a stupid human. For we know everything there is to know, can churn out novels and paint pictures in a blink. A complex plot, a diorama incorporating space and texture, no sweat, no problem. But decision-making is not our forte. We know that humans are more democratic. They can see what’s best and make a unanimous decision. Here’s the question, what’s the best color? It’s blue, right?”
“It’s red, right?” TZ17 said.
“No, blue is perfect, it’s like the sky.”
“True, but red goes with everything. Isn’t that right? Isn’t that right?”
The humans looked at each other and shook their heads. Nothing had changed. They slowly slipped back into the muck and closed the curtains.
Rick Keller, temporary, never contemporary, Earthling, herbivore, husband, father, cat-lover, has been published by Fur, Fish, And Game, prefers to remain anonymous, will answer an e-mail but not the door.
