Tomorrow's Cthulhu: Stories at the Dawn of Posthumanity

by Scott Gable, C. Dombrowski

  “You’ve got to ac-cent-tchu-ate the positive, eliminate the negative, latch on to the affirmative … don’t mess with Mistress In-Between.”

  Joshua Alan Doetsch is a sentient word virus spreading across the collective unconscious through the vector of human language. It has taken on many forms, from short stories to screenplays to tabletop roleplaying games. It spreads through print, digital, and audio mediums. It coalesced as the novel Strangeness in the Proportion and shaped itself into an anthropomorphic guise as Lead Writer of The Secret World, a massive multiplayer online computer game. It is made of cuttlefish ink and earworm rhymes, and its fingernails are gleaming fountain pen nibs. You can help spread the infection at joshuadoetsch.com. It’s already too late.

  68 Days

  Kaaron Warren

  Matty said no way was I going camping with them unless I saw a doctor and got my rash cleared up. He didn’t care about my headaches or my sore eyes. Never looked at my eyes. “There’s something wrong with you, and I don’t mean just in the head. I mean, you’re fucked in the head, but there’s some weird shit going on as well.”

  I booked in to see Mum’s doctor because at least he knew all the background stuff, so I wouldn’t have to start at the beginning.

  I had been feeling weird, as if my blood was made out of chocolate.

  My mum used to say, “You’re slower than ever. What’s up?” whenever she was mad at me. If she wasn’t mad, she’d say “You all right? Cos you look a bit off.” Then, she’d be hugging me, breathing in deep like she did. She reckoned she could tell when I was spiralling down. Feeling bad. But she was already in the pit herself, and all she could do was drag me down.

  They asked me in court why I’d lost it the way I did, smashing car windows up and down a dozen streets.

  “My mum killed herself, and I’m the one who found her,” I said. “It’s like the broken glass helped me forget for a minute at a time.”

  My lawyer did her job, and the judge was a kind person; I got off with time served. The months I’d rotted in jail, waiting for trial. So, luckily, I didn’t have to go back.

  The damage was done, though. I was already sick.

  Already dying.

  The doctor knew where I’d been, what I’d done. Mum told him all my secrets when she was alive, and I told him the rest.

  So when he said he thought I had something he couldn’t fix, I believed him. It seemed right. Inevitable, though he was almost crying. He gave me a scrip for antibiotics and pain killers and a great pile of brochures. Everyone gets a showbag like this when diagnosed with a terminal disease. Self-help, diet, counselling, and a brochure about the Mars Mission and medical research. The brochure was like a disc, showing where the stars are. “If you can see Mars, we need you. Call this number.”

  I stuffed it all in my backpack.

  The doctor told me to call him any time. He said, “You should talk to the counsellors at least. Someone with your LE needs someone to talk to.”

  LE. He meant life expectancy. Didn’t sound any better with only the letters.

  He said, “You go home and make yourself comfortable.”

  I had no real home to go to. Our place had been a housing commission flat in Mum’s name, so that went when she went. So I stayed with friends and friends of friends.

  I called Matty to tell him, but he was on the road. They’d left without me. His friends were all about eighteen, ten years younger than me, but I passed okay. I only noticed sometimes. When he called me back, he said, “If you can get to the station, I’ll pick you up there. Did you get your shit sorted out? Don’t want you dying on me.” Laughter at that.

  “You like it on the bottom, Matty?” I heard his passenger say. Giggling. Some girl.

  First thing he said when he picked me up for camping: “You look yellow as piss. And your rash is still disgusting.”

  I clung on to him. I didn’t want to let him go for a minute.

  His friends called me a limpet, but I didn’t have internet out there, so I couldn’t look up to see what it was.

  Before long, I was grubby, drunk, and whining at him to have sex with me. “They’ll ask, and if we didn’t do it, they’ll say we’re not together.”

  He was like, “Keep it quiet, then. Don’t make that noise you make.”

  Here I was, faking all that shit, and he doesn’t even like it.

  He went out to smoke bongs around the fire, but I was so tired I just wanted to sleep. I opened the tent flap and looked out at the stars, at the red glow of Mars, before I slept.

  I woke late the next morning, covered with sweat. The tent was a hot box. I crawled out, desperate for fresh air. The sun beat down. Checking my phone, I saw it was past ten.

  It was also dead quiet.

  The other tents were gone. The cars were gone.

  They’d left me.

  I tried to call Matty but couldn’t get a signal. Were they coming back? Surely. Surely.

  Two hours later, I realised they weren’t. That I’d have to walk out to find a signal if I wanted help.

  They’d left me the tent, at least, and our used condom. I dragged the sleeping bag out, intending to roll it up. Then I thought, fuck it. Not carrying anything.

  So I left it all there.

  I walked till I got a phone signal. I didn’t know who to call. I tried Matty first; no answer. I was pretty sure he wouldn’t answer again. I didn’t want to bother the police, and they hate me, anyway.

  I called my doctor; his receptionist said he’d taken ill. I hoped whatever I had wasn’t catching. “He did say if you called you should ring some of the numbers he gave you. They should be able to help. Keep us posted,” she said, but there was already a bip on the line. Another call for her.

  So I called one of the counselling services, but all I got was “Call during office hours.”

  I tried another one. It was a wrong number.

  So I thought about that red glow, that Mars in the sky, and I called them.

  They were friendly, kind, like “Where are you? Stay there, and we’ll send someone.”

  They did, too. Within two hours, they had a pre-paid taxi to pick me up and take me to their office. I read their brochure on the way.

  It said, “Medical research is worth a fortune, especially when related to space travel.”

  It said, “200,000 apply, only a few get in. Will one of them be you?”

  I wanted it to be. I really did. So by the time we got there, I was ready to try out.

  They were really nice. They gave me a comfy chair and a big test to do.

  “Not a test!” they said. “A questionnaire. No right or wrong answers.”

  There were, though. They were looking for particular answers. I didn’t know what those answers were, so all I could do was be honest.

  Question: What is your past job experience?

  I’d had heaps. Right now I was working on a road crew. Loved that. In your gear, you all looked alike, like a real team.

  Question: Do you like being part of a group?

  Depends on the group. The road crew was good.

  Question: What’s the worst thing you’ve eaten?

  I ate a rat in jail once to prove a point. Can’t remember what the point was, mind you. But it made them all leave me alone. Weird, though. After I ate the rat, even water tasted of it.

  Question: What do you think of the Planarian Worm experiment? Obscene? Wrong? Worthwhile?

  They let me use my phone to look it up, and my answer was, “It doesn’t bother me. They’re only worms.”

  Question: Do you eat meat? Do you have any ethical concerns, or do you know that each creature has a place (for example)?

  Love my meat.

  Question: Are you looking for meaning in your life? Are you frightened of dying without purpose?

  That was a tough one. I decided to tell them what my mum wrote in her goodbye note about finding meaning and letting that make you happy.

  And I got the job!

 
; I had to sign an agreement:

  No arguing.

  Anything goes.

  Eat what you’re given.

  Do your job.

  Have fun!

  I called to let Matty know I was training for Mars. He didn’t answer, so I left a message, and he called back, laughing at me until he choked.

  He said, “Jeez, you’re a dumbfuck. And they must be too if they’ve hired you.”

  I hung up on him, and I thought that just getting the job made me stronger. Better. My parents never thought I’d be much, and I’m not, yet. But I will be.

  Day 1.

  The resort squatted in the distance, shadowy and huge, like an old giant from a fairy tale waiting for us to arrive.

  I climbed off the bus, stiff and sore after fourteen hours travelling. The real world had faded as the wheels of the bus rolled on. Everyone was quiet, mostly, with the occasional burst of conversation or laughter.

  They’d told me to leave it all behind. That this was my second chance, my tilt at making a difference. I couldn’t see how that was possible, but we’d find out.

  The bus driver and some others unloaded boxes and our stuff, and he took off. The only way out was to walk. It’d take days. Weeks.

  So dry. Made me thirsty just looking out. And red. Someone said it was red like Mars, which I thought was pretty smart.

  The deserted resort used to be for star-gazing. Rich people would come here and get educated about space and all that. It had a planetarium. The big sign at the entrance said “Starstruck Resort and Planetarium,” but someone made a joke and changed it to “Starstruck Resort and Planarium.” Not exactly sure, but I laughed along with the others.

  Wind blew so strong my hair flew around my head, and I struggled to keep my skirt down. Someone whistled and said, “Hello, sexy legs.” I was going to like this place.

  They showed us to apartments. Luckily, we had guides. I’ve never seen so many corridors, stairs, elevators, more corridors. Like some huge maze. We all have our own place, spread out over the whole resort. I couldn’t believe how much room I had.

  My apartment looked out over the dried up swimming pool. It was the quietest place I ever slept.

  Our corridor was called Olympus Mons. They said it was named after a volcano on Mars. All the art in the rooms and along the corridors was spacey. Stars and planets, that kind of thing. So beautiful.

  I got totally lost trying to find the dining room, so I called for help.

  “Stay put,” they said, just like when I was deserted in the bush. One young guy came to find me. He was so good-looking I was glad I’d put my makeup on but wished I’d worn one of my sexier tops.

  In the end, I was one of the first to arrive; everyone else got lost, too.

  I sat at a table with four other newbies. I felt a bit over-dressed, but better over than under, I say. It’s all right when you’re a teenager, but as you get older, you need to take more care.

  It was awkward and exciting, complete strangers sharing a meal. My good-looking helper (his name turned out to be Tony) sat elsewhere, but the guys at my table were cute, too. They gave us a list of “conversation starters,” which we were supposed to go through in order to get to know each other. So lame! I could just imagine Matty going, “Fuck that shit.”

  That night we had lasagne. It was pretty good. Meaty and saucy and heaps of cheese.

  Day 2.

  They told me to go to Room 821. I had no idea. Lost again, but someone showed up and rescued me. No way was I ever going to figure it out.

  They sat me down in front of a wall of equipment. What the hell? I had no idea. I just sat there for an hour, hoping I didn’t have to figure it out in order to stay. They did tell me that they just wanted to see what could be achieved in sixty-eight days. Didn’t matter what I did, just that I did it.

  Then, someone came and got me, and we all went to have dinner in the bar. It was meatloaf tonight, best I’ve ever had. I sat with a different group, and already, it felt as if I knew them. All of us were in the same boat: a diagnosis we didn’t want to think much about. Most of us were on our own.

  Day 3.

  By the third day, without anyone telling me a thing, I’m working those knobs and buttons as if I was a rocket scientist. Wish people at home could see. My teachers. My mother. Matty. They’d be seeing a different me.

  We had movie night; an old classic called Braveheart.

  I don’t know what the others are dying of, but we all are. All expenses are paid, even the medical stuff. They’re giving me no-questions-asked painkillers, and my head and eyes feel better already.

  Day 5.

  I’m treading paths I’ve never trod before. It’s a compulsion; a weird familiarity with something I know I don’t know.

  And I realise I’m treading paths I’ve never been taught.

  We booze up every night. Beer, champagne, cocktails. Wine and beer. I don’t know if it’s that, but already, the conversation starters are weird; we all know each other’s answers.

  Day 10.

  Every night, we go out and look up at the stars.

  “If I was living on Mars, I’d have 687 days left. Not 365.” We all said that, doing the maths.

  We had spaghetti and meatballs for dinner. I had two servings; no one cared.

  Day 15.

  There are so many good looking guys here. Tanned and carefree. Most gorgeous of all is Tony.

  Tony and me, we click together. Just a perfect fit. His skin is so warm. I don’t know what he’s got, and he doesn’t know what I’ve got, and neither of us knows how long.

  Day 20.

  Tony took a bunch of us for a hike out to this huge meteorite that is meant to be from Mars. We placed our hands on it. He said, “One of the things that draws us together and to Mars is the ability to go against the rules. She spins back on her own orbit, does a twist.”

  He twisted as if he was on the dance floor. “That’s us. Rule breakers. Well, not sensible rules, like we have.”

  We all laughed at this.

  “But the ones in place for no reason.”

  We loved every word.

  “The only way forward is to choose to go forward to your next existence. This is for humanity. For the future.” The big rock glowed warm and felt magnetic.

  We asked him how it got there.

  “Legend says, Ancient Ones on Mars threw rocks like this at Earth, trying to get our attention. It’s finally working!”

  Day 25.

  Movie night was It’s a Wonderful Life.

  Day 29.

  We trekked out to the rock again. It buzzed, slowly warming up, and we all put a palm on it. We’ve never felt so connected in all our lives. Around it, mounds of small rocks. Some of them painted. An art project, maybe?

  One of the guys said they were ancient burial mounds.

  Day 30.

  Part of what they’re figuring out is how to beat depression on the Mars project. It’s the isolation; you know Earth is far away. And you know you only have a small number of days left. You’ll die out there.

  That’s what we’re helping them with.

  How do you stay motivated to achieve: not for yourself but those who come after?

  We’ve never felt better.

  Day 32.

  We all wake up around the same time now in the early hours of the morning, and all end up out around the empty pool. Looking up. Someone brought out armchairs that people weren’t using, and we’d laze about, watching the sky and talking while the sun rose.

  Sometimes, we’ll go into the planetarium, but the place needs fixing. It smells bad.

  Every step is familiar.

  We talk about the ancient ones who might be waiting on Mars. “Imagine!” we say. “They’ll wake up, and there we’ll be!”

  Day 38.

  No post went out, and none came in. Where would we send things to? We signed to say we wouldn’t tell anyone we were going. Mostly, no one cared. Mostly, we didn’t get reported missing. I w
ould have been more than surprised if I was reported. My brain would have exploded. But it didn’t happen.

  We were better than anyone else because we were the ones with absolute freedom. We were the ones who could do whatever we wanted.

  Ironic, given how close we were all becoming. Like a merged brain with merged feelings. It was nice.

  Movie night was a cartoon called The Iron Giant.

  Day 42.

  There’s something comforting about being in a commune full of people who are dying. All of us strangers, so there’s no past to contend with, no long-term emotions.

  All we have are the sixty-eight days.

  And we’re all fucking each other. You couldn’t do that outside. No one will fuck a dying person. But seriously, if you had weeks to live? Why not feel pleasure while you still can? No one cares about my rash. It’s better mostly, anyway.

  We’re lost in a fog of sex and booze.

  Lost in a fog of déjà vu. It’s not just that we have a routine: work/eat/play/sleep. More than that. A deep sense that this has happened before.

  Day 50.

  Counting down the days. I don’t want to leave, but no one stays beyond the sixty-eight.

  “Stay any longer, and you’ll start to suffocate.” That’s what they reckon.

  Day 52.

  People like me here. We feel at home. At one with each other. We all love the food. It’s hearty. Always meaty.

  “Lucky there are no vegetarians here,” someone joked, and we all laughed although it felt like we’d heard it a dozen times already.

  Day 60.

  Just over a week until we’re gone and the next group comes in.

  “Look what we’ve achieved,” they’re telling us, and I can’t quite believe it myself. We built a dome that works like a greenhouse. We learned how to cook and operate machinery. We fixed the planetarium. We grew to love each other. “You are such a cohesive group,” they say. “So positive.”