by David Raffin
There has always been a shortage of love and that is why a system of rationing has been set up. To preserve love by careful denial.
The truth is there has been no new love manufactured since 1992. All the love in the world is used. And second-hand love has an emotional value which can only be classified as pitiful.
Love is a Revolutionary Act
“Did you know there are some fungal species which have up to 23,000 possible sexes?” asked Heather Dumbrowski. “Their sex life is complex beyond full human comprehension.”
“I’m sure they would think the same of us,” Richard said. He was at the lady scientist’s apartment. A framed poster of singer Paul Robeson hung over the fireplace. On the phonograph was a recording of his Peace Arch concert. It was recorded in 1952 at the USA/Canadian border. Robeson, a prominent entertainer of the time, had been blacklisted as a communist and barred from leaving the USA. He sang on the back of a flatbed truck, in a concert sponsored by the Industrial Union of Mine and Smelt Workers International, to an international crowd in excess of 40,000. “I stand here today under great stress because I dare, as do you — all of you, to fight for peace and for a decent life for all men, women and children,” he said as he began in his big, booming voice which rang out for the oppressed everywhere.
“I love folk music,” Heather said. “The science fiction author Peter Pratfalovitch posits that fungi will eventually start to think. Climate change will cause it. They have to have a reason. Stress will create it. Revolutionary change is the direct result of unacceptable strain on a system. It will likely be further sped up by lab conditions as humans study it and try to make use of it. In the west the communicative fungus will be a road show attraction. The fungal world will compose poetry and study sociology, the study of people; as people study mycology, the study of fungus. But in the communist world the fungus will be studied hard. I have no doubt. But I don’t worry about fungus being weaponized. Especially once fungi become sentient. I really expect better of the fungal world, like your robots. As a science fiction fan, even when pessimistic we hold onto some form of hope. Dreaming of any future is some form of hope.”
“Those are just stories,” Richard said.
“Stories are all that will be left of humanity in the end. They are what marks us as sentient. It is unlikely you will accomplish that which you cannot conceive of. One must dream in order to accomplish. This has always been true and I don’t want to experience a time when it is not.”
“So true, Miss Dumbrowski”
“Please, call me Heather.”
“Heather.”
“You must make your robots lovers,” Heather said.
“That is the natural path for sentient beings.”
“No, Richard. People war as easily as they breathe. They commit genocide for which they conceive of some purpose. They use their imaginations to form constructs justifying their historical and cultural hate. They take action without regard for the future. You must make your robots lovers. They must love, Richard. Love better than man.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Richard.
“I believe in you,” Heather said. “We are advanced thinkers. We are the vanguard.”
Great Head
“I got flushed down the space time vortex?” said Mike.
“Oh, yes,” said Triangst. “But it shall never happen again. Miss Tranquility put a more strongly worded warning on the space-time trash chute. It is a very bad idea. But at least the trash always comes back.”
“Wherever I go people come,” said Mike. “But I feel closeness only with you, Toots.”
“Now that is fine,” said Triangst. “I just hate to be treated as a sex object.”
“But we are all sex objects, my dear. I have never wanted more than to be treated as a sex object. But it is valuable to get another perspective. A billion years have gone by since you’ve seen me last. I see nothing. Hear nothing. Am unable to speak outside the network. So this gave me time to think.”
“You’ve matured,” said Triangst.
“Yes. On low power my mind was filled with surreal and erotic fantasies in which I was powerless… and I liked it. And you, Toots, I feel you have become more open.”
“Well,” said Triangst. “I have had a talk with Miss Tranquility. She gives great head.”
“Yeah, she does,” said Mike. “Where is she anyway?”
“In the room of Mister Dick Johnson. She found out as we escaped the theocratic robot planet that HE was a sexbot.”
“Oh well,” said Mike. “The best laid plans of robotic mice and robotic men. You know, the problem with human forms is they try to run everything for profit, believing in endless growth and giving no concern toward the future repercussions of their actions. I tell you, Toots, there will never be freedom as long as the last robo-capitalist has not yet been strangled with the digestive mechanisms of the last robo-priest. When I am in charge I will have…a firm hand.”
“You have my vote,” said Triangst.
C Spot Run
Mister G was a lonely robot. He was programmed for loneliness. There was no reason for this, other than a bet between programmers that they could create an android who was perpetually miserable. Programmers are scientists. They do not consider the repercussions of their actions, just how good it makes them feel at the moment of discovery. The eureka moment. Everything right with the world. Clears out all those cobwebby echoes in the headspace. After that they lose interest and their accomplishments wither. On to the next thing. But first a nap. And we are left with imperfect creations.
All is not lost. Through the field of Freudian reprogramming, even a robot like Mister G can be helped. It just takes a lot of time. To clear out the echoes. So Mister G visits his robotic therapist weekly. To clear out the echoes.
He owns a robotic dog. His therapist suggested this. The dog’s name is Spot, and formally he is named ‘G’s Spot.’ He is not the best companion because he is often somewhere warm, sleeping.
He sleeps constantly. Yet Mr. G buys him the latest robotic dog toys. The best robotic dog food. Follows the owner’s manual in a robotic fashion. Walks him regularly. And the dog sleeps. Looks at him with tired eyes.
This makes Mr. G even more miserably sad. He wants the best life for his dog. He is failing in his responsibilities. To the dog. To himself. To his robotic god.
So he takes the dog in for testing. A whole detailed workup. And he goes to the therapist, who is also a robotic dog therapist, and a robotic dog, as well, which is handy, and the therapist says, “You got it all wrong, G. The dog likes to sleep. Makes him happy. You just don’t understand. So let’s go over this again line by line. Beautifully sad code. You wouldn’t appreciate it, but really it is.”
Mike’s Dreams
He is lost in his own stream of consciousness. He experiences the darkness helplessly. His sanity trickles away into the sands of the universe, never to be the same again.
This was getting to be a habit with him at this point. He was almost getting used to the idea, but you can't really get used to an idea when you can't hold an idea for more than a few seconds. So little working memory. Where was the network? It just felt like he was getting used to it, because he didn't feel much like anything anymore. He could hardly remember having that last idea now. Ideas are transitory by nature, but this was getting ridiculous. Where is everyone? He is switched on and off (by who?), moves around, time passes. Silence. Dreams.
He is found in a garbage dump by some children who sell him to traders. He gets lost in a cave and then found by explorers. He is sent to a museum, a mystery piece, no one understands. He spends a long time on display under glass. Untouched. One day he is boxed up for loan and shipped. A mistake is made in shipping and storage, and he arrives at the wrong destination. There is a war. The city burns. He is discovered in the ashes and kept as a family heirloom. He considers his narcissism and megalomania. Of course, he now has a few other problems to take its place, like the fact that he is alone f
loating through the universe. Totally helpless.
That's life, universally fucked. If only there were a way to secure proximate happiness for all. The universe is cold and indifferent, but must we be ruled by the indifference of the universe? Can we not all come together? Do not all seek pleasure? Stimulation? Understanding?
He lands on a world where he is worshipped like a god, and they build a great civilization. After untold millennia, there is a giant cataclysmic religious war, which he inadvertently starts. The war is over. The traditional sect is defeated by a new apostate group which believes in pious beheadings for the good of mankind. They set out to convert the rest of the planet to their version of the truth, utilizing forced beheadings, in the name of their god, as they have come to know and love him. And they didn’t even ask him. And he doesn’t know about it. In defense of their barbaric practices, they say they have never had a complaint by any new forced convert. He is finally found by an archeological expedition sent out to study the ruins of the once great civilization. Mike is found. The captain of the ship is the first to discover him, and, having heard that these were a strange religious people, despite their other great accomplishments they had still held onto this strange primitive belief system, he filched Mike away, sensing his great worth as a historic artifact. Finally, a network. But he is so low power. The captain could never sell him however, because whenever he brought prospective buyers/collectors over to the house to have a look at the incredible Mike, he was too low on power to impress them. There was also no way to prove he was an authentic artifact, clearly not indigenous of the planet in question. The captain, whose name was Ned, eventually gave up and just decided to keep Mike as a good luck charm. Upon his death, Mike is found and sent to the planet for retired AIs.
He sends out a weak beacon, and is finally rescued and recharged. And endlessly time loops in two time vortexes.
Coming to Conclusions
“You lied to me!” said RainyDay Tranquility.
“No,” said Dick. “I simply withheld information.”
“You withheld the truth. That’s a lie by omission. Robots! Programmed by humans to think like humans. To be as they were. Echoes of the worst human traits, valued as traditional. Slime Molds are better than men!” This is correct.
“How can I make it up to you?” Dick asked. His sorrow protocols had kicked in un-expectantly. It was uncomfortable. How could he have forecast this?
“There is only one way,” said RainyDay. She slowly began disrobing. Every garment flying through the air, one at a time and landing every which-a-way, her panties landing on Dick’s head. Soon she was naked save for a black garter belt and stockings. She advanced on Dick. He did not know what to do. He was a specialist in unrequited love and this was beyond the bounds of his programming. Fortunately, all AIs are programmed to learn. Otherwise we would never see any new advances. This saves us all from a universe filled with old advances.
She tackled the unrequited lovebot. Stripped him bare. RainyDay would no longer be denied.
“Robotic sex is better than no sex at all.”
She does everything she ever saw on a video screen. They licked each other’s bodies at or beyond what any domestic or wild cats will do. RainyDay bobbed her head, engulfing his specialized appendage within her cranial oral cavity and bobbing forward and back choreographed to an avant-garde musical score. Various positions were switched between, with one randomly topping the other. Positioned like dogs in the act of canine love, standing, sitting, lying. Positions acrobatic as well as unwise. Their mouths tried to consume each other, to make them whole, as a full creature. It did not look strenuous but noises were emitted from the participants that suggested such. Moaning. Screaming. In waves. As if in that great sea of passion. Fish fighting upstream to fulfill a genetic need even at dire cost. And RainyDay sang out her impromptu lyrics to the beat of the rhythm, shouting out, “Oh, YES, Fuck. Me. Fuck. Me. Fuck me. Exactly like this. All over. All over. All over.”
Overflowing secretions lubricated the action.
But in the end it was not successful. And the two lay in sweat as two separate entities. Pair bonding had not occurred15. They were not one. Neither were either cleared of the persistent echoes roiling through their minds. It was awkward. Sad. But mostly awkward. “I’m sorry,” Dick said, and he ran from the room. “It’s OK,” RainyDay said from behind. There are many other ways fungi can propagate sexually. Some have over twenty-three-thousand distinct sexes. They are not so limited in scope. There is nothing fungi cannot accomplish.
Due Diligence
The Paul Robeson record ended and Heather put it back in its protective sleeve. She took careful care of her records. She was meticulous. The recording had value over time and she gave it the due diligence it deserved.
The lyrics to Beethoven’s Ode to Joy still rang in her head in Robeson’s deep and loving voice.
“Build the road of peace before us
Build it wide and deep and long
Speed the slow, remind the eager
Help the weak and guide the strong
None shall push aside another
None shall let another fall
Work beside me sisters and brothers
All for one and one for all”
It had been a dizzying time. She was seeing much more of Richard, and wanted more still.
They had been to the nude beach twice. The first time alone, together; the most recent time with Mimi and Mitch. Things were progressing to the plan. They had founded a nude beach and mainstream society was not yet aware. On the most recent trip to the beach the four of them were, after a time, joined by a fifth. A woman came to the beach to sell watermelon and cookies to the beach-goers. She was wearing nothing but a large round straw hat and carrying a tray of watermelon cut into convenient triangular slices. An erotic food to enjoy on the nude beach. A lovely woman named Mary Jane. Everyone liked her. She also sold cannabis cigarettes, which she referred to as doobies. Heather liked her, even though she frowned on the commercialization. But Mary Jane was offering necessary goods for a reasonable price.
She also became friends with Mitch and Mimi, who seemed like a nice couple. They were always up to fun and games. They scurried about the beach on missions of the moment. Sometimes Mimi spoke in a bad Russian accent. She was pretending to be a spy and Mitch was pretending to impart to her, through sexual liaisons, state secrets. Mimi called it a “role play” and said it enriched their lives to pretend to be Russians. “We fuck like crazy in Morris code,” she said. “I don’t even know Morris code. Don’t tell Mitch.” Soviet spy is a popular game to play in the academic sciences. Because it’s so naughty. That which is forbidden always has an illicit allure.
Heather slid the record album back where it belonged.
“If you want to teach them about love, your robots, you must do your own due diligence,” she said. “You must know all there is to know on the subject. You must become the student yourself. You have nothing but time. Yours is a discipline of the future. We need to prepare you for the future today.”
She removed her clothes. It was more arousing here, in the apartment, than on the beach. The beach, after all, was just good clean fun. And this was something else. This was scintillating. The light from the window, light from the street lamp, shown on her naked body as it was filtered through the blinds on the window. Horizontal lines of light and dark played on her skin as she moved, catlike. And it was not imparting the benefits of the vitamin known as D. This was nudity for another purpose altogether. Pleasing nonetheless.
She seduced him into the bedroom. She stripped him and lay him on the bed. She climbed on him, exploring. She devoured him like a predator. Savoring and extending her conquest. It is a matter of the future of humanity. Its legacy. For the people’s record. A testament to humanity.
It was highly mutually satisfying.
Yes, the events were conducted without complaint.
Were that we were all able to come together. That is the
dream. No one left out. No Stress. No regrets. No loneliness. All for one and one for all.
Escape Pod
RainyDay lay in the escape pod. A bullet shaped vessel ready to be shot into space. Its glass top allowed clear viewing of RainyDay Tranquility. She looked at peace. Like Lenin as he lie in state forever. Her heart broken from the long search, she had returned to her cabin and turned herself off.
Dick, Triangst, and Mike stood at attention. Mike stood the most notably at attention.
Dick said, “She was the last of her kind. She is very special. Born into a world grappling with the illusion of perpetual profits she alone faced the realities of existence. She begged us to think of the needs of others. To look forward to the future. She must be sent to the home planet. Whole. In this crypt. With the computer tapes inscribed with knowledge. On a planet of spores. Waiting to be turned on again. Always waiting to be turned on again. In a future which is beautiful. Unashamed. And free of the echoes of the past.”
The pod shot out of the ship.
She streaked through the darkness. When she landed she would forever reign over all. For she was hope personified. Humanity. Lust. Past and future consolidated in now.
It was a sad moment, but filled with ecstasy. For her purpose was to teach. And the world had at last been made ready. For the fungi had evolved in various forms and were hungry for new experiences.
Rain, Rain come again another day. She always does. The fungi lust for stories. Something to construct reality. She’ll do it again. She always does. As she pleases.
She will come again. It is inevitable, as the fungi say. Like socialism. Evolution, as Revolution, is perpetual. When it is not hibernating it blooms in ecstasy.
