The Furry MEGAPACK®

by Huskyteer

  There were clothes. In little piles, wherever the poor occupants had been when they had been struck down, just like we had been.

  “Matt, I think the overseers are gone. They must have recycled whoever was left behind.”

  He nodded mutely. This—well, this was one thing we hadn’t planned for. I walked over to the closest one. The clothes were colorful and smooth. They would have felt wonderful to wear, so light that you’d barely notice them on your pelt. This one had been playing a game on a little hand-held pad. When I lifted it, the game unpaused, and I immediately lost a virtual life.

  “Do you think these were their servants? They must have had someone here to keep everything in working order.”

  “No, Jay. Here, I think this answers it.” Matt’s voice sounded hollow. He’d found a block of displays. Not all of what I saw was familiar—these were tools for the overseers. Each and every one of the displays was showing the same message:

  This is an automatically generated notice. Storage overflow on surface. Error encountered.

  Production halted due to storage overflow. All resources reclaimed. System is in idle state, awaiting further orders.

  I blinked at it. Was that why the overseers had shut it all down?

  “Jay. Look at this. Does something look wrong to you?”

  “Of course it looks fucking wrong. We aren’t just resources to be reclaimed. We were people! We were alive! They just folded us up and—”

  “Stop.” Matt cradled his head in his hands. “Stop, and really look.”

  I looked again. The displays were smooth and featureless. There were gadgets all over, ones I’d seen the rare overseer down in our district use before. One triggers a new building to be built on an empty stretch of district flooring, and another could cause it to fold back up again. They were all the implements of command, the trappings of the overseer’s near-godhood.

  “Really look, Jay. Look! Do you see any inputs? Do you see any buttons, any way that they could give commands to the system?”

  Now that he mentioned it, no, I didn’t. Usually there’d be a keyboard, or a touch-pad, or something to interact with the system. These, though, there was none of that. “No, they must have some other way.”

  “I don’t think so.” Matt walked over and put his hand on one of the display screens. It didn’t respond to his touch. “I told you. They aren’t gods. They were just like us, Jay, made by the System. They had different tools and different jobs, but take all that away and you’d never know an overseer if you saw one. Why make it more complicated than it needs to be? There’s no reason. I know why there aren’t any. It’s because the overseers didn’t have any input. Don’t you see? The orders were all one-way.”

  I looked around at the heaps of clothing. Those were the overseers? Recycled just like the rest?

  “There’s no one here, Jay. They didn’t leave. They’ve been recycled too.”

  It hurt to accept. It was all one big brainless machine, working at ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-eight percent accuracy. Workers, maintenance, support crew, overseers, we were all part of the same idiotic cycle, monitored and controlled by nothing more than automated run-time scripts. All of it, everything we’d been put through, it’d just been an error down below. All of them, my friends, my lovers, all gobbled up because some warehouse in Downworld was full. And we were alone now. Truly, utterly alone. We were the last ones in this entire stack of districts.

  “Well. Fuck this.” Matt strode forward, grabbed the closest display and pulled.

  His muscles strained, and cord by cord the display wrenched loose of its stalk.

  “Matt, I don’t think tearing it up is going to do us any good—”

  “Stop yapping and get me a touch screen. If they didn’t build an input in before, I’m going to build one in now.”

  We scavenged tools and gear. The game pad I’d found became our input. Wires that had only ever sent signals up now had new signals sent downwards. We blew the first display out, and had to move on to a second. That one errored and locked up the game pad, so we found a little touch screen someone had been using as a journal. Matt broke screw drivers and zorched volt meters. He singed the fur on both of his hands, and I nearly took a loose washer and bolt combo to the face.

  It took us two days. Two frustrating days in the luxury of the overseer’s fortress. And then, from the smoking wreck of our fifth display screen, Matt let out a whoop.

  On the rest of the remaining screens, a finger-pointer appeared and waggled crazily over the automated messages. “Look at that! That’s me! That’s my finger!”

  “Okay genius. So now what can you do with it?” I folded my arms and grinned at him.

  “This.” He tapped at his screen, and a menu appeared. Just like he’d expected, there was no security. There was no need for security. We were already in a command center. The terminals weren’t equipped to ever have access, so why protect against it? Just like the drones outside, there’d been no thought put into the design, just a big dumb machine. No intelligence, just the system doing what it had been programmed to do.

  “Fucking hell.” The menu was deceptively simple for something that held the power of life and death over everything I’d ever known. ‘Production Overview’ was the first option. Matt hit it without hesitation—it looked harmless enough. The display it popped up contained nothing but statistics. One hundred and ninety three thousand workers generated by system in six districts in current cycle (there must have been some below where we’d been, too.) Six hundred million tons of product generated since start of production cycle. According to the statistics, we’d been at it for generations, making nothing but ‘product’. So Matt tapped on ‘product’.

  ‘Combi-bez carbonated fruit drink,’ it read. Fruit extracts created on district eleven. Syrup generated in district one twenty seven. Bottles made from foamed aluminum on two forty three—some pride there, that was home. Bottled on three ninety one, below us, and machine labeled on eight sixty six. The six of us, overseers included, churned out an entire planet’s worth of sugary pop, and had for as long as any of us had been alive.

  But now the storehouses were full. Product had been going in, but none of it had been going out. Who knew what’d happened down below? Why would people stop drinking Combi-bez? It was all we made, down through, according to the computer, eight generations of ‘workers generated by system,’ and now no one wanted it. I’d never seen the product. I’d never tasted the syrup. Maybe it was horrid stuff, but suddenly I felt very protective of it.

  Silently, Matt clicked out of the product display and overview. Back at the menu, we were faced with two other options. ‘Collapse stack’. I didn’t feel the need to ask what it would do. I saw Matt’s finger hovering over it. It’d be so easy, bring it all down, like it never existed. Flush it all away.

  I couldn’t say anything. I was afraid that if I spoke up, he’d press it, and that’d be the end.

  “I miss her, Jay.” There were tears in his eyes again.

  “I do too.” There was nothing more to say.

  He paused, with his finger hovering over oblivion. “Do you think this’ll bring it all down? Recycle even the districts themselves? I’m pretty sure that’s what it’s meant to do.”

  He circled his finger on the display.

  “I don’t think I want that, Matt.”

  “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. We were supposed to get up to one twenty seven, and everyone there would still be alive and the water would be flowing. Then I could keep Tegi safe, as long as she kept taking the pills. Then we’d go back to living our lives. All three of us. We’d have new friends and new Duties and it’d be like starting all over.”

  “I know.” I put my hand on his shoulder, and he flinched at the contact. “You needed to do this, Matt. But the ones responsible aren’t here. Hell, maybe they aren’t anywhere. Maybe there’s nothing out there but the System, doing stupid, painful things for no reason—except that’s how it’s programmed.�
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  “Then who do we blame? How do we make this right?”

  “Maybe we don’t.”

  He circled ‘Collapse’ with his finger again. A skinny box popped up on the display, reading ‘Really recycle all assets?’

  “Matt, stop it. You needed to do this. Fine, you’ve done it. We have our answers, as piss-poor as they are. Now I need you. You promised me I wouldn’t have to go it alone.”

  “You wouldn’t. It’d all be over.”

  “Listen to yourself, Matt! You’re a doctor, for fuck’s sake, and you’re talking about killing both of us! What would you say to one of your patients? If they were talking about suicide, what would you say?”

  He hung his head. “Do you know how many patients committed suicide in clinic, Jay?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Guess.”

  “I won’t. We’re not talking about your patients. We’re talking about you.”

  “But we are talking about my patients. Remember? They’re all dead. But you know, in the years I’ve spent stitching them back up after they did something stupid, not one ever committed suicide. Did you know that? Not one. How many times did people talk about doing it, and then not follow through, eh?” He turned around and faced me. His eyes were wet. “Think, Jay. How many people do you know that have ever done themselves in? Intentionally. I don’t mean someone who tried something stupid and got a short trip to a recycling vent because of it. How many actually wilfully ended themselves? I bet I know the number. Zero. We’re programmed this way. Just like the system, we follow rules and scripts and behaviors plugged into us.”

  He looked down at the display and hovered his finger over the confirm button. “As hard as I try, as much as I want it all to end, I can’t do it. I don’t have the power to wish it all down the pipes. Even that simple wish to not be anymore, we’re denied.”

  “But I don’t want it to end, Matt. We’re alive and breathing. You know, after everything we’ve been through, you know what I feel like doing?”

  He looked down at the display, and I saw a glimmer of a smile on his lips. I knew he felt what I did. If he was right, then it was how we were programmed to feel.

  He glanced up and finished the thought for me. “Celebrating?”

  “So let’s see if we can make it all good again.”

  Slowly, so slowly that it hurt, the finger-pointer drifted down to the last option. ‘Resume production’.

  “What will it do?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Want to find out?”

  He had a smile on his lips. It was the first I’d seen for a week. Without waiting for my answer, he pushed it.

  WIT’S END, by Watts Martin

  If the rake-thin weasel standing guard by the sidewalk entrance felt intimidated by Sterling, he didn’t let on, even though the wolf had six inches and a hundred pounds on him. He just gave him a once-over and languidly lifted a brow. “You know what kinda place Wit’s End is?”

  “A coffeehouse.”

  “Yes.”

  Sterling folded his arms, looking down expectantly. For one long second the weasel looked as if he might say something more. Then he shifted uncomfortably—now looking a shade intimidated after all—and waved at the narrow staircase. Sterling walked on down, pushing the door open and stepping in.

  The strongest light in the place couldn’t have been more than eighty watts, a bare bulb in what looked like a brass mine lantern hung by a thick brown cord. A weather-beaten stool sat directly under the lamp. In front of the stool stood a microphone. Between the stool and the microphone stood a gray tabby. Sterling guessed the black cap angled between his ears was meant to make him look hip, but it didn’t; it just made him completely monochrome. The cat’s jeans were black, his shirt was black, and his earnestly overwrought poem was black. Even so, it seemed to be holding the front row in rapt attention. All of them wore black.

  Sterling’s attire could hardly be at greater odds with the crowd: pressed grey slacks, matching Haggar polyester jacket, starched white shirt, navy blue tie. He’d been taught that when one went out for the evening, one dressed the part. Besides, he’d known before he came that he wouldn’t belong here no matter what he wore. He didn’t even own a pair of jeans. So he might as well play it up.

  At least, that’s what he’d thought ten minutes ago. Now he suspected coming here was mere stubbornness. He shouldn’t have let George’s needling about “loosening up” get to him today, but it had. George’s suggestion had been a discotheque—the fox apparently loved one that had opened up downtown a couple months ago. Sterling couldn’t think of anything he’d enjoy less that didn’t involve bamboo spears being driven into his paw pads. A quiet place with coffee and relaxing music had sounded like a much better idea. He’d only found one of two here, though—and he’d stepped back in time at least a decade. Wit’s End was from his parents’ era, although definitely not their scene. He could pick out scents of different kinds of smoke, some of which were illegal, and the scents of other patrons, some of whom needed baths. The scent of coffee was faint at best.

  He sidled up to the counter, studying the sparsely populated pastry case. The vixen behind it—in black, naturally—had braided her hair with beads; she’d be prettier without them, but she was still striking. She looked him up and down, a slim brow arching up high as her green eyes met his brown ones. “What can I get you?”

  “Coffee, please.” He leaned over to look more closely at the case. “And, uh…”

  “Espresso? Cappuccino? Latte?”

  “Just plain old coffee’s fine with me.”

  “We don’t have that. How about an Americano.” She didn’t state it as a question.

  “What’s that? I’m kinda new to the scene here.”

  “You don’t say. It’s an espresso with added water. It’ll be like a drip coffee but better.”

  “Okay, one of those. Do any of those pastries have meat in them?”

  She silently pointed at one of the hand-painted signs behind her. All food 100% vegetarian!

  “Right. How about, uh, that mushroom and cheese pizza?”

  “Flatbread,” she corrected him, punching his order into the cash register. “It’ll be a few minutes for the kitchen to heat it up.”

  “What’s the difference between flatbread and pizza?”

  “I don’t know,” she confessed after a moment, finally smiling. “But the menu says ‘flatbread.’” She went over to the espresso machine.

  When she returned with his drink, he smiled. “Thanks. I’m Sterling.”

  “You’re welcome. I’ll bring your food over when it’s ready. Just find a seat.”

  He made his way along the room’s edge to an empty booth in the back and looked around once more. He saw a few other people in suits now, although none looked as formal as he did. He loosened his tie and undid the top button. There. That helped. Maybe.

  Sighing, he took a sip of the Americano and immediately wrinkled his muzzle. He looked at the mug, sniffed, then took another sip. All right, it wasn’t bad, but he didn’t see how it beat a percolator.

  While Sterling had been ordering, the tabby had finished his poem. A new performer stood in front of the microphone, an otter, strumming a guitar in jangly fashion. He didn’t sing as much as speak quickly. Between verses he blew into a harmonica in frenzied counterpoint to the guitar. Who did that style…Dylan? Right. Sterling couldn’t tell if the otter’s performance was homage or parody.

  The braided vixen walked up with his flatbread, heels clacking on the wood floor far more loudly than his penny loafers had. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks again.” He gave her his best smile. “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “I didn’t tell it to you. Enjoy your pizza, Sterling.” She finger-waved and walked back to the counter.

  He shook his head, picked up the flatbread, and took a large bite. To his surprise, it tasted good. If it’d just had some pepperoni, it’d have been fantastic. Slouching back in the ben
ch, he finished it off and took another sip of the Americano—which, he admitted, he was also warming up to.

  The blues player stepped away amidst scattered clapping, and a goat in a black turtleneck stepped up to the mike. Sterling fidgeted. Yep, more terrible poetry.

  In his heart he’d known this had been a stupid idea. Maybe he’d just needed a new excuse to yell at George over something. This would do it, and that usually loosened him up. Downing the rest of the drink in one gulp, he suppressed a cough and stood up, starting toward the exit.

  A tan rabbit girl in ripped bell bottom jeans and a mottled dark red T-shirt replaced the goat. What did they call that style? Batik? She didn’t have the waif-like build of the other women around the club—not fat, but solid. A wild tangle of long brown hair fell around her shoulders; she flipped a stray lock away from one eye.

  Sterling quickened his pace as she swung a guitar into her lap, strumming a few times to check her tuning. He thought he knew what was coming, and he didn’t have the patience for it.

  The strumming stopped, then resumed as focused Spanish-style playing in a minor key. Good playing. He slowed down.

  As she began to sing, he froze.

  Well, I’ll be damned

  Here comes your ghost again

  But that’s not unusual

  It’s just that the moon is full

  And you happened to call…

  The rabbit had a clear, strong alto, pitch-perfect, nothing like the “wispy folk singer” sound he’d expected. For the first time since Sterling had arrived, the person at the mic held everyone’s attention.

  He slinked back to his seat, eyes locked on the singer.

  Her song went on another three minutes, spinning the tale of a phone call from a former lover, of a wistful, beautiful bitterness. As the last line’s echo faded, though, Sterling couldn’t have told someone a damn thing about the song’s story. He’d been captured by her voice, by her playing. And something else, something physical, something he couldn’t quite name. Yes, she was undeniably sexy—but it wasn’t that. Not only that.