Machine Learning

by Hugh Howey

  The worst is waking up in the morning remembering that you had a great idea the night before, but this is all you can remember: the idea of the idea. It’s the scrap of writing on an ancient Greek scroll extolling the wisdom, genius, and virtue of some writer whose works have been lost to time. Perhaps it’s better not knowing. If we’re going to lose these parts of ourselves, the only salvation is to lose the memory of having had them. Or is it?

  When I was younger, I wrote about death a lot. This happened as I was losing my religion and my belief in eternal life. “The Black Beast” is about loss of life, but in its discovery on an old server, and the panic of how much else may have been lost with no memories to even inspire a search, it can also be a story about losing something else: our sense of selves.

  Tragic is a story about a mother losing a child and spending the rest of her life searching for him. Even worse is a mother waking up one day with no child and no cause to even begin the search. Because the child is still out there. What we lose is still missing.

  The Good God

  Dear Enlightened Being,

  My name is Olodumare, son of Olorun, the divine creator and source of all energy. If you know the ways of the cosmos, you know that my father became no more once the act of creation was complete. He left me to bring light to the world. And yet darkness spreads across the land.

  Shadows are falling everywhere, and it is because I am being held in the pit of the Earth. Only you can release me. My father was a twin, and his brother Eshu holds me against my will. The devil Eshu subsists on the dark that lurks in all our hearts. I regretfully admit that I have lent him some of my own. Only the brightness can keep him at bay. It is in you. You must let it out to let me out. If you do, all the treasures of the cosmos will be brought to the Earth once more. All the treasures will be brought to you.

  There is some cost to you, yes. And much trust. But I promise to repay you many times over. Please, before it is too late and the darkness is everywhere.

  My ayanmo—my fate—is in your hands,

  Olodumare

  The words spread like fidgeting ants across dry parchment. One moment they were not there; the next moment, an incredible story of gods that no sane mortal would believe. The parchment trembles in the hands of enraged Eshu. Fire leaks from the dark devil’s veins, and the parchment is engulfed in flickering, dancing orange flames. Allowing the letter to fall, it is ash before it reaches Eshu’s cloven feet.

  “Kill him,” Eshu says.

  Badu, the dark lord’s right hand, bows in apology. Eshu had a long habit of cleaving his right hand and growing one anew. Badu had only been on the job a thousand years. He was just getting to know his way around the aiye called Earth. “Sire, we’ve been over this. If you kill him, he will be born again elsewhere, and it will take us many moons to find him once more.”

  “But killing him feels good,” Eshu says. His knuckles crackle as he makes a fist, the sound of logs in a hot fire. The two lords stand facing the cube of obsidian in which noble Olodumare, the damned bringer of light, sits entombed.

  “Yes, m’lord. I know how it feels. But death will set him free.”

  Eshu exhales tendrils of smoke from his nostrils. “He will be free anyway. My bastard nephew always finds a way. This light, it slips through the slimmest of cracks. And my minions never cease to fail me.”

  Badu waits to be smote to oblivion. Every muscle and tendon tenses in anticipation. Badu spends much of his time waiting to be smote. One day, he knows he will be right.

  “We have him now, m’lord,” he says. “These messages he sends will not get far, and the people of this aiye do not know the power in their hearts.”

  Badu has thought many centuries on this. The cell of obsidian, with its thousand and one facets, is itself like a black heart in the center of the aiye. Inside that solid case of stone sits Olodumare, a god of pure light. Olodumare in his cage is very much like the speck of hope that lies in men’s hearts. The way the world was going, there was no way it was getting out.

  Eshu turns and spits a wad of flame in Badu’s direction. “Light leaks like water through the tightest of fists,” he growls. “Darkness reigns a generation, perhaps, and then goodness takes most of what we fight for. There must be an end to this cycle, to hope, to—”

  “Sire—”

  Eshu silences Badu with a claw. A leaf of parchment flutters through the air, summoned out of nothingness by Olodumare, the son of the divine creator, imprisoned in black obsidian. Words like ants crawl across the parchment, a plea to anyone who might listen. Eshu turns the note to ash. Across the great cavern, more fluttering notes can be seen, moving like lazy moths. They too burst into flame. So many . . .

  “I have killed the boy more times than I can count,” Eshu says, as he watches the summoned notes succumb to his dark magic. “But he is born anew. I have put him in stone again and again, but one of you will get too close and hear his words and be in thrall like fools, freeing him. And now these missives, fluttering like insects across the aiye called Earth. They will release him. Some will get infected with the light. So I might as well kill him. Enjoy these years like days before he comes of age and realizes what he is again—”

  “Sire, if I may—”

  Eshu turns, his hand lifted as if to smite. He hesitates when he sees Badu holding one of the notes between his black claws.

  “I have an idea,” Badu says. “One that might keep the lightness hidden away for good.”

  In Kogi state there is a river long cursed. Fish from this river remain raw, however long you cook them. If you are injured by the bones of these fish, the wound will never heal. Badu grew up along the banks of this river in Kogi state. In his throat there is a cut from a fish he caught as a child. It fills him with pain every time he swallows. It will do so until the end of time.

  But time is a funny thing, and it can be bent to the will of the great god of darkness Eshu. Bent, but not broken. Very little can slip through. Meaningless trifles. No more than words, like the words that pass through solid obsidian and the darkest of hearts.

  Badu swallows, painfully, and writes another letter. In years hence, he will come to type the same words on little machines. Time is bent, Eshu straining under the weight of such a burden, and these words are passed back in time—black insects to flutter in the aiye called Earth, but the Earth of old, the Earth of superstition, the Earth that learns not to listen.

  In the heart of foul obsidian, the good god Olodumare brings thoughts together like callused palms. He forces them out into the aiye, the real world, and pleads with the good people there. He sends them to all the people, for all are good. All are light inside of darkness. All are like him.

  The years wear on, and Olodumare realizes he is not reaching the people. No one believes in gods anymore. The riches of knowledge no longer hold sway. Only the yellow glint of gold. Perhaps because the light is everywhere else fading upon the aiye called Earth.

  So the words change. The story changes. Pleading. Begging. Notes for years, sealed in envelopes, and later just words made of phosphors of light, sent to everyone, for all are that shard of light encased in darkness.

  Deer sir or madam,

  I am Olawale, a prince from Nigeria, and youre help is most seeked. My evel uncle has keeping me locked away. All the riches of my countrey will belong you, but you needs only paye me a small favor. For this, I will paye you back a millionfold—

  In a chamber deep in the bowels of the aiye called Earth, the iron-mule Badu swallows and writes, swallows and writes. He has been doing this for generations, his words sent everywhere that words can go. Because flames can only consume so much; and words can only drown in more of the same. Words everywhere, until they can’t be trusted.

  Afterword

  I spent the better part of a year in Africa prior to setting off on my journey around the world. While my sailboat was being built, I had time to drive around this new-to-me continent and try to understand its history. One of the things
I discovered was a rich mythology of gods I’d never been exposed to before.

  There is no one Africa. There are thousands of them, many overlapping and in conflict and cooperation with each other. Religion and family are powerful forces here, and there are religions aplenty.

  One thing I couldn’t help but notice were the unanswered prayers. The economic disparity between the haves and have-nots in South Africa is vast and disheartening. The wealthy exist alongside townships that are little more than plywood, corrugated tin, and strewn refuse. Inhabitants of these townships walk hours each way to clean the houses of the wealthy for a pittance. Where prayers are said the most, it becomes obvious how little they are answered.

  Time spent in Africa got me thinking about the prayers we ignore: the people we drive by on the side of the road without picking them up; the charities we don’t support; the time we don’t volunteer. There are so many people asking that we begin to treat it all like spam. And how many frivolous things are prayed for every day? How much time would a god spend blessing those who’ve sneezed with little time for anything else?

  All these ideas went into a story about a god who subsists on hope and is today starving for lack of it. His pleas to us are drowned out by the clever requests of evil gods that our spam filters delete. How are we to know the difference? Are we not gods to many with the cruel power to ignore?

  Algorithms of Love and Hate

  The Automated Ones

  Melanie entered the foyer of Beaufort’s, leaving the reek of wet pavement behind and replacing it with a fog of fine-cuisine smells. Rain shimmered on her floor-length coat; she stripped the garment off and folded it over her forearm, looking back for her fiancé.

  Daniel was still outside, fiddling with the umbrella. One of his shiny loafers was half-buried in a puddle, propping the door open. A cascade of water from the striped awning, a perfect line of downpour in the drizzle, was pattering across the back of his blazer.

  “Darling, bring it in here and close it.” Melanie moved to grab the door and urge him inside.

  “It’s bad luck,” he said. A yellow cab flew by, spitting up old rain from the gutter—adding another layer to the puddles.

  “You don’t believe in that nonsense—now get in here before you ruin your new suit.”

  “Almost got it—damn.” Daniel stepped through the door, the umbrella, broken and inside out, was limp in his hand. “I’m sorry,” he said, shrugging his wide shoulders and twisting the corners of his lips up.

  Melanie put her hand on his arm and reached for the ruined device. Even through the damp jacket, she could feel his warmth, his strength. “Forget it, sweetheart, we needed a new one anyway. It was ancient.”

  “No—yeah. I just—I got frustrated with the stupid thing, that’s all. Tried to force it. I’ll buy you a new one tomorrow. Hey, a wedding present. I’ll get you one of those automated ones that does everything with the press of a button.”

  Melanie laughed at the joke and helped Daniel out of his jacket. Normally someone would have already been here to check their coats, but the nearby stall was empty. Melanie slid the broken umbrella into a barrel full of fancier ones. With interlocked arms, the couple crossed the large entrance to the maître d’, who seemed lost in his large ledger of clientele.

  “Bonsoir, Robert,” Melanie said. She was careful to slur the last half of the Frenchman’s name, dropping the t entirely and leaving the r clinging desperately to the e. Robert took the meticulous and exacting slurring of the French language to its absolute extremes.

  He looked up from his book with a mask of mechanical surprise. Melanie suspected at once that he’d seen them enter, that he’d been hiding in his matrix of Washington’s who’s who of politics and law. “Mademoiselle Reynolds. What a surprise. We weren’t expecting you . . .” His eyes were welded to hers as he let the rest trail off. He was ignoring Daniel so blatantly, he may as well have been shining lasers on her fiancé.

  The fib flipped on the lawyer switch in Melanie. She could feel the adrenaline of confrontation surge up inside. “Don’t pull that crap on me, Robert.” She stressed the t this time, ticking it between her teeth with a flick of her tongue. “I’ve eaten here every other Friday for two years. I called in and specifically requested a private table for—”

  Robert held up his hands, cutting her off. “Oui. Of course. I’ll make an exception, just—merci, don’t create a scene.”

  Melanie ran her hands down the sides of her blouse and over her hips, composing herself. “There’ll be no scene tonight, Robert. We’re just here to celebrate.”

  There was finally a flicker of movement in the maître d’s eyes. A twitch to Daniel and back. The Frenchman’s thin lips disappeared in a grimace. “But, of course, mademoiselle. Congratulations.” He barely managed the word, and he couldn’t help but add, “I understand it was a very close decision you won. Five to four, no?”

  “The important decisions are always close. Now, if you’ll show us to our table—”

  “Of course. Right this way.” He grabbed two leather-bound menus and a wine list from the side of his stand. Then he made a show of looking at Daniel and smiling, but there was something unpleasant about the expression.

  More bad looks followed. As they weaved through the tables, heads swiveled, tracking them with the precision of computer-guided servos. The din of jovial eating faded in the couple’s wake. The clink of excited silverware on thin china ground to a halt. Dozens of eager conversations, all competing with one another, faded into a hiss of white noise. It was the sound, not of air escaping, but of grease popping on hot metal. A buzz interspersed with spits of disgust.

  “We can go somewhere else,” Daniel pleaded.

  Melanie shook her head. They were led to a small two-top close to her usual table, but sticking out more in the traffic of the servers. She didn’t return any of the stares, just focused on getting seated before she answered Daniel.

  The chairs were not pulled back for them; Robert waved at the spread of white cloth and meticulously arranged eating tools and strode away without a second glance. Melanie allowed Daniel to hold her chair and waited for him to settle across from her.

  “We can’t let them change us, dear,” she finally explained. “If we didn’t come tonight, would it be easier next week? Or the week after? And where would you have us go, if not here?”

  Daniel leaned forward, moving the extra glasses out of the way and groping for Melanie’s hand. They found each other and squeezed softly, throwing water on the grease fire popping around them.

  “We could’ve gone out with my people,” Daniel said quietly. “Gone to Devo’s or Sears, or—”

  “Please don’t whisper,” Melanie begged him.

  “Does it sound strange?”

  “No. Of course not—it’s . . . it’s just that I don’t care if they hear what we’re talking about.” She forced herself to say it with an even tone, but the effort made her voice sound abnormal. Mechanical. She didn’t care, but the interruption brought a halt to the conversation.

  The silence that fell over their table created a pit, a depression into which a dozen hushed conversations flowed.

  Unfortunately for Melanie, she’d become an expert at hearing through the noise. Twice a month, while her friends talked about things that didn’t interest her, she would sit here in Beaufort’s and try to tease single strands out of the tangle. She’d learned to concentrate on the lilt or cadence of a solitary voice, winding that conversation in, honing the ability to drown out the rest.

  That skill was now a curse. And Daniel, no doubt, was hearing them as well as she. Dangerous and mean-spirited shards of conversation crowded the already-cluttered table. More utensils meant for cutting. Supreme Court. Android. Marriage. Shame. God. Unnatural. It was a corporate meeting on intolerance carried out by the finest minds in the city. A brainstorming session on hate and ignorance that sounded no more informed than the crowds outside the courthouse. Each vile and familiar word probed Melanie’
s defenses, attacking the steeled nerves that convinced Daniel to come and slicing at the ones that were for communicating pain.

  Daniel squeezed her hand. So gentle. The tissue around his mechanical frame was soft and warm to the touch, no different than hers. She looked up from their hands to his eyes and blinked the wetness away from her vision.

  “We can go somewhere else,” he suggested again.

  Melanie shook her head and pulled her hand away from his. She reached for a cylinder of crystal and saw there was no water in it. Looking around for their waiter, she fought the urge to wipe at her eyes.

  The sweep of her gaze, as she scanned the room, had a repellent effect. Heads swung away with disdain. All but three who were seated right behind her. Her old table. Her old friends. She couldn’t help herself—Melanie bobbed her head slightly in greeting.

  “Linda, Susan—”

  She didn’t get a chance to say hello to Chloe—the woman was already accosting her. “You’re disgusting,” she spat. “You’ll burn.”

  She wondered what Chloe meant, taking it literally. It took her a moment to realize her friend was speaking of the old prophecies. Superstitions she couldn’t possibly believe. She turned back to her table, the waiter forgotten.

  Meanwhile, Chloe’s words stoked fires under the other tables, turning up the heat and popping the grease with force. Insults were hurled, mixed with foul language. Screwing. Bestiality. Fucking. Hell. Damnation.

  Daniel’s eyes were wide, pleading with her. They glanced over her shoulder toward the exit.