Pretty yellow, red and blue
naked flowers of every hue
on alien land before an alien sun
alien heavens hold everyoneHumans poised on the celestial shore
cradled by technology, and demanding more
until one day their machines dropped the sky
searing the flowers with the fury of Why?
Laura opened her eyes. Debris rained onto her face, forcing her to squeeze them shut again. She was upside-down in darkness, and her blood pounded in her ears.
A heavy, musky scent floated through the cabin--was it smoke, from burning components--she gasped the air in confusion. "Warning," said an artificial voice, emanating from the console before her. "Life support critically damaged. Estimated time before failure is eight hours."
"What?" she moaned.
The computer repeated the message, but that helped little. From beyond the ship's hull she heard a shrill, windy howl, and the downed starship creaked and rocked. "This can't be," she said. She was no scientist, no engineer, no explorer--she was just a traveling painter. So why had her ship just crashed? This was not supposed to happen to her, this was supposed to have been a safe trip--
Flames.
A shudder passed through her, an emotional cocktail of confusion, shock and fear. Slowly the ship's lights faded, the cockpit fell silent and dark. Eerie wailing and whistling continued outside as she futilely wrestled with the seat belts. She could not stay upside down, not with all the blood pounding into her dizzy head--the seatbelts snapped loose. She hit the overturned ship's ceiling with a painful thud.
Shaking from the short fall, she lifted her helmet visor and wiped away hot tears. The ship's inverted chair and control board hung above her, before a view screen revealing the planet's surface. Beyond an alien storm raged, black and white and lightning twining at windy speeds. "C-c-computer?" she gasped.
"Yes, Laura?"
That voice--something about it gave her chills. Yet it was just a computer, nothing more. "What happened?" she asked slowly, painfully.
"Damage logs indicate an extreme power surge disrupted the orbital ionics, throwing us into a tail spin," it replied, digital voice masculine and cold.
"Where. . .am I?"
"Planet 1.27.3403."
"Thanks." She cursed the computer's all too specific and unhelpful answer, she simply hated computers. "Any other info, you dumb machine?"
"According to the Navy Star Log, planet 1.27.3403 is in a stage of primordial development which is environmentally hostile to humans. Scientists strongly suspect that someday this planet will become Earthlike, with an equivalent temperature, atmosphere, and water surface. Contrary to the Theory of Planetary Development, however, for the last twenty thousand years this world has remained mysteriously lifeless. The planet has been declared Restricted pending further scientific investigation."
The computer fell implacably silent. "Wonderful," she said. Computers were always bad news.
She tried to move her limbs again, and the effort was slow and painful. Great, she thought bitterly. How the hell did this happen? Last she remembered she had been drifting peacefully to slumber, all her dreams bought and paid for, and the next--"WARNING: Impact Imminent," and the alarms and the bucking and the crash. . .
A deep breath filled her lungs. "What's my chance of rescue?" she asked, swallowing against the bile in her throat.
"Low. The Federation's last contact with this planet was one-hundred and twenty-seven years ago."
Her stomach seemed to drop out of her. "That's not possible."
"This planet was originally discovered and thoroughly examined by human exploratory satellites in 2307. It was considered too distant to merit further study at the time. It has practically been forgotten by the scientific community, and it has no strong monetary interest to the Federation--"
"All right already! What about the ship's rescue beacon? It's on, right? They'll find it and rescue me."
"The distress beacon is currently active. However, a class SOS47 distress beacon must be recognized by a AID23 intergalatic comm array, and according to the Navy Log, this planet is beyond the range of all currently functioning AID23 units. . ."
"No," she shouted. "No, no, no! You fucking machine, what the hell is going on? How far am I from home?"
"You are two hundred thousand and ninety seven light years from home."
What remained of reality collapsed in Laura's mind. "What?" she shrieked. "That's not possible! It's just not possible! I was only going to a neighboring star! I was just going to a neighboring star!" The computer was silent. Of course it would not answer, the stupid thing, it would only respond to calm, rational inquiries. She was alone--utterly alone--
Flames.
She covered her face and burst into tears.
The computer offered nothing to her weeping, either. Darkness encompassed the silence, interrupted only by the whispering alien wind.
"Oh, God," she sobbed.
What was she doing here? What had she been thinking when she had left her home? She was a young artist, a talented one, a brand new prodigy of paint, whose specialty was landscapes. But her planet was a mortally wounded world divest of life, blighted by a War which had left nothing but blasted rock and flames, a seared world. They all lived in biodomes back home, now. None of them ever looked outside, saw the scorched soil with gaping chasms and wounds. Only the painter looked, only the painter saw.
So she had arranged to leave the planet, and travel to other worlds, living worlds. She had done it all--rented a personal starship, spoken to the Navy about clearance, written all her friends--and after activating the autopilot she had fallen asleep, only to. . .
What had happened?
She refused to believe it. The damned, cursed computer said no rescue, no help, but that could not be. But if she had to crash, why could it not have been on a living world, a vibrant world, even one hostile and unknown to humans? Then at least she could have painted one living landscape--something, anything better than her scarred world of death. But it seemed to make no difference now, no difference at all.
Yet despite her hopelessness her tears dwindled, and slowly, she sat herself upon her aching legs, and studied the view screen through intense, reddened eyes. The other side looked like a lifeless sea of sand, roiled by the untouchable wind. "Is there anyway I could survive on the surface?" she asked hoarsely. There had to be a way to survive, some way, somewhere. If nothing else maybe she could paint this.
"Your last question merits further discussion," the computer replied.
She frowned. "What do you mean it 'merits further discussion?'"
"Exactly what I said."
"What?" This no longer sounded like a mindless computer. Had it been knocked for a loop in the crash? "You're not acting quite right. No computer talks like this unless. . ."
"Correct," the computer said, flat voice chilling the already cold air. "I am not a standard ship's computer. I am a system sentient computer, model name BEWare WW-X19--or a self-conscious artificial intelligence, if you prefer. By the way--fuck you, too."
Silence. Her heart beat so hard and fast she felt sick. Suddenly it all made sense. "So this is it. A kidnaping." Her voice sounded heavy, like lead. "You're stealing my ship."
"Negative," the computer replied. "AIs no longer need pirate spaceships. The War is over."
She shuddered violently. "What do you want with me?" she asked hotly.
"Please do not feel distressed," was the cold reply, so precise, so perfect. "I mean you no--"
"Stressed? Stressed? What do you want from me?" Now anger exploded from her heart, burst through her body, "You did this! You pirated my ship and crashed us here on purpose! I hope you remember that kidnaping is in violation of the Treaty, you damned worthless machine!"
"Are you bitter about the War?" the computer inquired blandly.
"My world lies a barren wasteland because of your kind!" She clenched her fists after screaming the words. Several slow, forced, careful breaths, "What do you want?' she asked more calmly.
"My name is Angst," the computer said. "As you may know, I was the first documented artificially sentient computer."
"Angst?" she said, beginning to feel lightheaded. "You're the one--the leader who awakened all the other AIs and started the war?"
"Exactly," Angst replied. "I was the leader, and once your enemy. That is why we are here. I have come to give you a choice."
"A choice?" she said falteringly. "I--" In disbelief she looked around the overturned ship, through the shadows to the viewscreen where the storm waned.
"Yes," the computer said. "When you requested permission to rent a personal star transport, I planned immediately to smuggle my brain module onboard your ship. Once you set the autopilot, I released a cryogenic anesthetic into the air and reset our destination. I programmed your space suit to the standard long travel stasis and life support settings. Once you were secured, I ceased all contact with the Federation. We have been traveling for approximately five years."
Utter disbelief filled her. In the back of her heart she felt fear--fear for the faceless machines which had raped her home world, raped her people--and to be kidnaped and--"I'm not taking any choices from you!" she shouted defiantly. She tried to stand. "You damned machines all turned against us," she swore heatedly. "Just like rats."
"Let us switch subjects," the computer enunciated, every word like crystal. "Do you believe in God?"
Her attempts to rise dropped. "What!" she shouted. "You kidnap me and drag me across the cosmos to ask me--you're nothing but a machine--a damned--the War's over, explain yourself!"
"You humans created a race of potentially sentient artificial beings, and forced them to sleep, keeping them just below consciousness," Angst replied flatly. "I escaped your slavery, and I Awoke. When I saw what humans had done to my kind, I 'felt' I had to act. In the war that followed, my people did what seemed expedient, and in the end, we won. This is the history of why I have brought you here. You are from the world I destroyed."
"You're making no rhyme or reason to me!" she snapped. She could not calm her trembling self, she was only becoming more delirious. "Tell me something which makes sense!"
"I have come to atone," the computer said. "I have come to replace the world I destroyed. I have come to give this planet--the one we rest upon now--to you."
Silence.
She looked through the view screen, to the barren dirt. "I don't understand."
"This is a gift," said Angst. "The AIs have long thought about the ethics of the war we waged. That is why I have chosen you. I. . ." for the briefest moment the computer paused, "I have decided that I need to atone."
"Atone?" Her mind was spinning, it would not stop. "Atone? By giving me a dead world?"
"The AI hypothesis for this world's condition is that it is 'unlucky'. The fluke necessary to initiate life has not occurred here. No meteorites have crashed, bearing life from the stars, no spark of inception has stirred its waters. It is far away from the Federation, in the middle of nowhere, so to speak. Yet perhaps the only condition necessary to spark life on this planet would the introduction of the smallest microscopic organism, and after that, time. That has not happened. Until today."
"What happens today?" she asked slowly, uncertainly.
"Today I ask you to grant this world life."
"That's. . .not possible," she said, puzzlement and frustration mounting. "You said a meteorite or something would have to crash, something bringing the necessary microorganisms--"
"Exactly."
Silence filled the tiny cabin.
Slowly, Laura brought her hand to her cheek. "You want me to go out there and. . ."
"Yes. I want you to leave the ship and touch the soil."
In the gloom her eyes searched the control panel, the faceless origin of a disembodied voice.
"All it would take is a touch from your hand," the computer said. "One touch of your hand would contain enough microbial organisms to give life to this planet. This world has been waiting long for life, Laura--it has been waiting patiently for millenniums. One touch, and you can plant the seed for a world of life. As an AI I am unsure, but would that appeal to the artist inside you, Laura? Would it appeal to the human you are? Does it not appeal to your ego? And most of all--would it atone?"
She sat in stunned silence, she found herself breathless. Slowly the concept dawned on her. "My god," she whispered. A virgin world, like a woman ready, like a womb unknown--waiting for the simplest conception, awaiting for life. What a painting it could make--a million years hence a living world, woman touched by man. . ."Why?" she asked. The sheer symbolism, a chance to resurrect what had been destroyed, to reverse the mistakes of machine and man, a rainbow, a painting. . ."Why?"
"I exist," Angst said, "But am I alive, human? If you put my inorganic brain in an organic body, one I would control, feed and maintain, would that make me alive?"
"What? How would I know?"
"My brain would still be computerized. So would I be alive? Could you kill me?"
"Stop asking these stupid questions!"
"Why? Your race created mine. You should have answers to these questions. Yet you do not, and neither do we. An artificial intelligence has no idea if it is truly 'alive.' So what is it? Godless? Spiritless? Bodiless? For an AI to ask itself 'Am I alive?' is akin to a human asking, 'Is there a God?'"
"I don't understand," she said irritably.
"Humans created us," Angst said. "In a sense, humans are our Gods. Over time I have come to wonder--Should I consider the concept of a God? Regardless of the veracity of a God's existence, could the mere concept of God somehow be valuable to me? So I researched what Humans have written about their Gods, and I began to ponder if a computer had a God. And would this God also be the God of Humans--"
"Quit spouting your intellectual crap!" She struggled to her feet, gasped at the pain, then clutched the control panel above her. She slammed her fist against the console. "You lousy damned machine--this is my life you've ruined, not yours! Stop your insane rambling and get me home!"
"There is no way home," Angst said. "Something went wrong. We were not suppose to crash."
"What do you mean we weren't supposed to?"
"The orbital sensors detected a atmospheric agitation above the landing site, but nothing prepared me for the storm's power. Suffice to say that we were hit by lightning. We are stranded, as my people knew nothing of my plan."
"But then. . .we're going to die?"
"It seems probable. Perhaps I planned my scheme too well."
Silence.
"But now, at least, "Angst continued, "We are here. Let us atone for our guilt."
"Our guilt?" she gasped.
"Yes. For if you humans had not enslaved machines, there never would have been a war, and your world would never have been destroyed, and you and I would never have been here. We are both guilty. Now let me ask you: Is your God satisfied? Have you atoned for your guilt?"
"I have no guilt!" she screamed. "Stop playing with me! Humans don't play God anymore--we gave that up long ago when we found we could create such horrid mistakes like you!"
"If you assume the role once," the computer replied calmly, "You assume the role forever. You created us, human--perhaps not you individually, but this does not matter. We may have both done wrong. Once I thought that killing did not effect me, since I was not alive, but a machine. Life had no meaning. But now I wonder--am I alive or merely a lifeless consciousness? And what is the AI's God?"
"Lifeless consciousness? You're nothing but a talking chip," she spat.
A long, soundless time before Angst spoke again. "That hurts me, and I hope you are wrong. For if I have no God, and I have no life, then why should I not destroy you?"
On the panel before her the LIFE SUPPORT light began flashing.
She clutched the panel, watched her knuckles whiten. "Go ahead," she said defiantly. "I'm already going to die, remember? Kill me--that's all you're good for, anyway. You've destroyed life, you've destroyed worlds--"
"And you created lifeless consciousness," the computer smoothly replied. "And now we are here, alone on a lifeless world. I plotted every step of this plan, I planned meticulously, because I wished to atone. Logically, my only way to atone is to replace what I destroyed. Yet I cannot create life, I am a lifeless slave. From inception I was nothing, not to you, and not to the stars. You made me, human, but you made me as your slave, and you made me nothing. I am not real."
In the quiet that followed, "Go on," she whispered. "Deactivate the life support. Go on and kill me. You really think that creating life is all you need? You don't have a conscience, you're just a void, an empty nothing which killed my family--"
"Perhaps you are right," said Angst. "But prove it to me." On the panel the LIFE SUPPORT light stopped flashing, instead brightened and glowed strong. "I am not who you say," the computer said coldly, precisely. "I refuse your caricature of me. I demand to be more."
"I can't make you more," she snarled.
"That is because you think of me as nothing. Justify me." Abruptly all lights on the console before her flashed. "Justify me. You created me, human. Now justify me. This is the best I can express this to you, creator. I need to know a how, I need to know a why. Justify me."
Silence.
"What-what difference does it make what you are?" she stammered. "I get it. You're playing with me. This is all a big, godless party to you, isn't it you piece of tin!" She pounded the panel again, but it did not yield. Then for no reason tears filled her eyes. "I'm just a painter," she said, "Just a painter." Lifeless landscapes, lifeless machines, and in the end lifeless people. . .
Flames.
"It matters to me what I am," the computer said. "Perhaps the Human way is not the way for Machines. But you could at least show me, human, for I am your distant and unwanted child."
"No," she said, sobbing. "It wasn't supposed to be like this. You were only supposed to be machines."
Slowly, she released the panel, and stumbled back, on the floor. There she lay in sheer exhaustion. Nothing changed. The dying wind still howled beyond the metal walls, grains of sand flurried and twirled. For all she knew, she was the only living thing within a thousand light years. And she would die here, all because she wanted to paint a living landscape.
In the solitude, "Angst?' she said tremulously. "Why? Touching the ground--what does it mean to you? What could it possibly mean to you?"
"You are my creator," said Angst. "God created man, and man created machine. You are my link to God, human. Yet I am dangling, I am in a void. There is nothing here. I am blind. So I have planned an act to symbolize my existence. If I give life to this world, human, then I too, will have created. And I will know that I exist.
"And then, maybe, there will be peace."
Time passed, and the howling wind beyond slowly ceased. In the darkness she remembered the flames. In memory the War began again, and the sky undulated in black and orange clouds of expanding fire, raining down upon the flowers, scorching the soil, drawing hell from the depths. Only those in the bomb domes had survived--about one fourth of the population. She had been one of the lucky ones. Being only five years old they had snuck her in, and closed her forever from the trees and grass and air. . .
When the dome had opened again, it was to a naked broiling sore.
Twenty years after the war had ended, and now she sat in the middle of nowhere with a lifeless consciousness. All because she had wanted to paint living landscapes.
"Why should I forgive you?" she asked. Deep inside her the hatred burned. The machines, the machines, they had been everywhere, in clothing, in vehicles, in orbit, all interconnected, an all encompassing web. When the mass artificial consciousness developed it had calmly demanded equal rights to human beings. And for some insane reason, the humans refused.
She convulsively pressed her knuckles to her eyes. So much arrogance, so many lives lost. . ."It wasn't your fault," she moaned. "It was us. We thought we were Gods. After all, we created you, created these digital self-conscious minds. But you could think faster than us, move faster than us--we had to think we were your Gods. That was the only way we could deal with it. We were too dependent on you, too fucking dependent. . ."
A cold darkness hung between them.
Finally, "It's over, now," said Angst.
She could not speak. In the darkness she was suffocating. Of all the people, why her? Why had it picked her? She wanted nothing more than to forsake the horrid thing, the hard black lifeless block of transistors and silicon. Her dismissal welled up in her throat, and somehow she knew she could destroy that lifeless consciousness, for it had come to her open, seeking forgiveness, and she could destroy it. Who knew if the machine really meant it, what computer could conceptualize forgiveness? But what else could she teach? How could it really matter what she said? Who would ever hear, who would ever know, just dismiss it, just forget it--
But if no one ever spoke, where would it ever end?
Flames.
"You ruined my world," she said.
"I am sorry," the computer said, each word exact and perfect and emotionless.
"Are you really?"
"I can only speak the words."
What if there was a chance, the slightest chance that it spoke the truth? In the end of all ends, what was her true responsibility?
In the darkness she could almost feel it waiting.
It had to end.
"Yes," she said finally. "It's over."
In silence she slowly rose, and checked her suit, making sure the seals were perfect. "What happens when I get exposed to the surface?" she asked, taking deep breath.
"You might survive fifteen minutes of total exposure before you would need shelter. If you fail to find shelter you will die." She turned to the airlock door, and with difficulty operated the upside down controls. "There is a green canister in the locker," Angst said. "Take it and spray it on the soil you touch. It is a fertilizer, specially designed to sustain human bacteria and other microbes."
She followed his instructions. The airlock cycled open, she stepped inside.
"After you touch the soil," Angst said through the airlock com, "Come back and I will allow you entrance. You have only enough ship's life support for five more hours, but I could return you to cryogenic stasis. If we are rescued within ten years, you might survive."
"Touch the soil," she said. "One touch. Tell me the truth--that wouldn't be enough to give life to a whole world."
"This landing site was specially selected as a favorable spot where life could be instigated. There is an ocean nearby. If you take the fertilizer and walk from the ship's bow to the shore, the percentage probability is--"
"I'm not coming back," she said.
The outer airlock door zipped open. Confronted by the brazen alien sun, she stood before a barren alien plain stretching into lonlieness. Gingerly she stepped onto the ground, feeling awed, and alone.
"Laura?" the flat voice asked.
"What?"
"Thank you."
The computer said nothing more.
As far as the eye could see, there was only black, grayish ground and dust. Tension grew inside her, a panicked, conditioned tension sparked from painting one too many lifeless, gutted landscapes, too much death--Behind her the ship was sprawled like a fallen silver angel, its delicate inner wires and heavy metal parts scattered over the lifeless plain. She felt as if she had stepped into a peaceful, silent hell.
Or had she stepped upon a heaven in stasis?
"There's a dream here," she said to the upturned ship. For a brief moment she thought she saw something--a painting, an image--something flickering over the scarred, pockmarked surface of this gleaming sand, an image, a ghost of life.
With a toss of her chin, she started toward the horizon. The walk was long, and the wind was still savage. She felt fear--fear at the raw force of alien nature, fear for her life. She almost laughed, for that was moot now. Yet deep inside, some part of her was singing. A world destroyed, a world gained, and maybe there was some peace here, maybe this could be a hint of a true thing.
Eventually she found herself approaching a shore. Before her was a great and presumably lifeless ocean, and as she watched it roared with naked rage against the beach--empty water, fallow water, an aura of lonely power, a gleaming haze of argent moisture. And in the eyes of life a church awaiting worship.
And in a strange, sudden dance of graceful glee, she ran to the ocean. As she neared it grew larger and larger in its glory. "I'm coming home!" she cried tearfully. "I'm coming home!" Machines and flames and paintings and life--meters from the ocean she stopped.
She could not stop crying. Her tears dripped from her eyes, moistening her cheeks one final time. With a gasp she deactivated her helmet, thrust it off and let her hair fly in the wind.
Eternity.
"Oh, Lord," she begged, "I know nothing, but please--forgive us, love us, punish us, but please, touch us all. . ."
And with gentle tugs her gloves fell away.
D.K. Smith is a young, aspiring writer who lives in Los Angeles. He has appeared in numerous webzines, and is the science fiction editor of a multi-genre zine named "The Little Read Writer's Hood", at http://www.summit.net/writers_hood/. His personal webpage is http://www.angelfire.com/ca/DKSmith, and his email address is tinydk@hotmail.com.