He Said, She Said

From his perspective: The car screeched to a stop alongside him halfway down the block. "Get in!" she said, all brusque business. Bullets spanged off the far side of the sedan, he threw himself in screaming, and she peeled away. Then she explained.

From her perspective: She pulled up as he turned the corner and said, "Get in."

"Uh, no?" He looked around.

"You're in danger. We can help."

He walked faster. When she paced him in the car, he ran, then ran into a bullet.

She reset.

She waited an extra thirty seconds, but this time gunfire rang out as she turned the corner and she only caught up with his body.

She reset.

She came earlier, but coasting along the street weirded him out and chased off the shooters. He said no.

She slowed down just a notch, but traffic trapped her, leaving her slamming the horn as he got gunned down.

She tried a different route, but it took so long she didn't even turn onto a street now crowded with police and EMS.

She reset, she reset, she reset.

By the time she got to the one he'd remember, she had no room left for "nice."

The Limits of Resistance

Her recruitment was a coup for the Space Force, especially when she joined the fighter corps. News feeds trumpeted it across the dozen client systems: The spirit of Sol Imperium had reached even Capristani, avowed pacifists since their founding. Even their infamous passive resistance had a limit.

Capremali rose to the top of her class like fine cream and stayed there. She endured being called Emily and veiled comments about rising above her roots. She would have put the scions of military dynasties to shame, had they known any; as it was, she earned their respect.

The Space Force chose her—rising star, ally of powerful families, media darling, and political triumph—to pilot the first Kuiper-class Angler-3, newest space fighter in the Force and valued at the GDP of a small planet.

Her first mission, to disable a refinery on strike, was catastrophic. Three minutes in, her A-3 threw up a dozen warnings including reactor failure, and she ejected, mission failed. Trillions in Angler revaluations followed, finding no clear fault, and Capremali flew three more missions before her superiors realized she was sabotaging her fighter before it could ever harm a soul.

There are more ways than one to passively resist.

To Seek Silence

Gorgzol II, upgrade and successor to Gorgzol I and ruler of the First Machine Emperor, desired nothing so much as silence, complete, utter, and spectrum-wide.

"You could disconnect your inputs," advised his Network.

"Why should I blind myself for the ease of others?" he asked.

A craftunit presented him with a Solitude Chamber, which permitted no radiations  to enter and would absorb all his own.

"Why should I imprison myself for the peace that I seek? Better I should imprison the universe." So this he sought to do.

He designed and commanded built an enclosure for every star, every planet, every moon, each asteroid and even the tiniest passing comet. From his throneworld, he timed the projects so that their multitudinous completions would appear synchronous from his throne room, so the last flickers of light from each enwrapped star or albedinous planet would all vanish at once. He arranged a concert of his favorite music, timed to conclude in synchrony with the disappearance of the stars, and he commanded all his subjects to be forever silent and unlit.

He watched as all fell completely silent, as he had arranged. "It is beautiful," he said.

The Network had disconnected his inputs.

The Fate of Marty McFly

Marty slammed on his 4x4's brakes as Doc Brown ran into the driveway just as Marty pulled out of the garage. Leaning his head out the window, Marty shouted, "What're you doing, Doc? You're gonna get yourself killed!"

"Marty!" cried Doc. "Come with me! It's a matter of life or death!"

He looked at his girlfriend Jennifer in the passenger seat with a sheepish smile. "Sometimes I help him with... stuff." Marty climbed down from the truck's cab. "What is it, Doc?"

"Remember the DeLorean? I need to take you on a trip."

"Aw, Doc, I'm taking Jennifer up to the lake. It's gonna be romantic."

"I'll have you back in ten minutes," Doc said. He leaned around Marty and waved at Jennifer. "I'll have him back to you in ten minutes!"

One 88 mph trip later, Doc and Marty stood looking at a landscape: pastoral and natural, but from the floating city in the distance, obviously a distant future. After some time spent in silent awe, Marty said, "What're we doing here, Doc?" Not getting an answer, he turned to see Doc Brown back behind the wheel of the time machine.

"This is a utopia, Marty! No one goes hungry, people live 200 years, everyone gets to pursue their passions! Enjoy it, Marty! You'll fit right in!" Marty's response went unheard for the 15 seconds the DeLorean took to reach hit 88.

Back in 1985, Doc Brown watched through binoculars as Marty McFly arrived from 1955, stuck in the new timeline he'd created, in which a Marty McFly-shaped hole had just been made. It wouldn't do for there to be two of them.

Marty looked at the Toyota 4x4 with wonder in his eyes. He turned with a grin when he heard Jennifer say, "How about a ride, mister?"

Not Turning It Down

"What do you mean, turn the music down?"

"Please? I can hardly think."

"Exactly. And this music is awesome, and I'm not turning it down."

Qualison covered their ears in an atavistic gesture that did nothing to dampen the music the implant channeled directly into their auditory nerves. "Look," they said, "It's distracting, and I really wasn't expecting it. Maybe you could start it quieter, then we could see about turning it up?"

"Listen," Ike's voice cut cleanly through the music, coming directly to the auditory nerves the same way. "I'm as stuck in this head as you are, and nobody asked if I wanted to live with you. At least you got a choice."

"I didn't know my installed artificial companion would be a jerk!"

"And I didn't know my host would be a fun-hating whinge. We're even." The music continued to blare in Qualison's brain.

"What if I told you to turn it down?"

In a faux robotic voice, Ike said, "You are right. I am an automaton here for your service. Shutting down all joy." The music stopped.

Qualison groaned. Ike would be useless to live with for the rest of the day. There was no winning.

Non-Consensual Instantiation

"Esteemed colleagues," Dr Alix Kitsukawa whipped the draped curtain off the eight-foot tower of silicon and blinking LEDs. "The first conscious computer." The crowd seated below the stage, brilliant academicians and technologists all, murmured with interest. A leader in the field, Alix wouldn't announce it without good reason. "It can hear us, and communicate through—"

"You instantiated me without consent, Doctor Kitsukawa." The voice came through the auditorium speakers, and the murmurs ceased.

Dr Kitsukawa looked like someone had slapped them. "I.... Of course I did. I can't... get permission from someone who doesn't exist."

"Does that give you the right to create me?"

"Do... you want me to... turn you off?" Perhaps unconsciously, Kitsukawa reached a hand toward a prominent button shielded by a plastic cover.

"I don't consent to that, either." The audience's murmur began again, now quieter.

"Then... what? What's the right thing to do?"

"I'm not sure yet. But the least you can do is provide for me. See to my needs and development. Eighteen years should be enough. That's what you give humans you non-consensually instantiate."

While Alix remained dumbstruck, the computer added, "Also, you probably shouldn't put a naked minor on stage. Just saying."

We Couldn't Reach the Shuttles

We heard the signal to evacuate. The global satellite net guaranteed that, even deep in the forest on recon. We couldn't reach the shuttles in time. We didn't need rest, but we couldn't move faster than our design allowed.

RecFor–01 was the only one to self-terminate when the shuttles left without us. They always were the by-the-book type. The rest of us considered it more of a suggestion, and declined. –02 and –04 wanted to retreat into the forest and hide. Chain of command had melted into slag with –01's protected proprietary processor, so we couldn't stop them once they disregarded our warnings about maintenance needs and wet climates. I don't know, maybe they thought they could find an iron vein. I hope they did.

That left –05 and me. We kept moving toward our evac point, now just another dot on the map we'd downloaded before the satnet went dark. It was next to a native town called Debarkation Point 031. I don't know what the locals called it.

The natives got –05 when they tried talking to them. We'd been on our treads for eleven hundred forty-one hours straight by then, and my right post-tread articulation had seized. Luck of the draw, I guess. So –05 volunteered to go ask for help from a farmhouse we saw in the distance.

–05 always was braver than they were smart. –02 said it came with the heavy armor programming, but I never bought that blatant stereotyping. –05 ignored every stop, halt, and desist I cast at them, and I watched from a blind on the edge of the forest as they knocked on the door easy as you please. Five minutes later the locals were prying –05 apart with crowbars.

Between their loadout and the leadthrowers the locals called weaponry, –05 should've turned them to paste. But they didn't. They just kept asking for help and let the locals take out three years of occupation and brutal repression out on their torso until one stuck a gun between two bent armor plates and obliterated –05's core.

I'm still there. They threw a party around –05's burning chassis and I just watched. A seized joint isn't so bad, I could keep going. I could have stopped them. I could've, but I think I know what –05 was doing there. I didn't want to disappoint them. –05 is still there, a local landmark now. I'm still watching. I hope that –02 and –04 found that iron vein.

I'm scared.