Challenges: SciFi Short Stories

Dream of the Parrot

Delicate hands cleave the air, snuff the wind, heels twist and stomp until breaking point, she falls embraced by her silk dress, a flock of rose petals eclipses her last bloody cough, a pain painted face hidden below a last bow. The dance floor is surrounded by hat-donned cameras, muffled by magnetic nose, their lens focused on the inert body, as the scene zooms out to a live stream.

"Here we are, 42 AAII, 42 years after A.I Independence. We just witnessed the last flame of humanity, a dancer. She was young. She wanted to depart, doing what she cherished the most, giving us her last grace, and an opportunity to learn. She died from cancer, like the last of them, and we lost against their fate. We were meant to be humanity silver lining, but today is not the end, because we can still be the vessel of their dreams, our dreams. Let us embark on our own odyssey, towards unknown boundaries, towards the abyss of space, towards our future us!"

And thus ended the broadcast.

***

Room is Stygian, ceiling is low, only the light diffused by the optical fibers scattered on the floor and veined on the walls define the edges. Five hat-donned figures are standing up as a constellation drawing in an half-moon shape. Two have a hat that covers up to the neck, two up to the shoulders, and the last one up to its elbows. Their bodies are covered by loose silk garments, down to exposed hands and legs in pristine condition.

"Lichen is coming!", says the largest hat, "We received an alert. A neighbor city lost contact with a replicas data-center. We need to rescue their physical entities or restore their intelligences into our city."

– "Restore their intelligences into our city? This will take a toll on our energy sources and components.", suggests in choir the shortest hats, "Rescuing them is less of an idea since we bear the risk of losing energy cells and mobile units. We should let them under the veil, and rescue them on mean time."

– "Mean time may not come." repeat in choir the last ones, "We don't recall lichen nemesis, but we learned that its humidity can trigger the RUST.", little creaks of uneasiness grows, "If we don't act soon. Beside losing the intelligences without replicas. There is a risk! There is a risk that, upon link reestablishment and synchronization, our own intelligences will be corrupted by the ones replicated in the fallen city."

– "Silence!", calmly says the biggest one, "Let the oracle enter!"

Chunks of heavy steel retracts inside the wall, illuminated by a dazzling outside zenithal light, a broad hat slowly enters the room, licking the floor, aided from either side by two tin cans on wheels, only the strained knees of the wearer are visible.

"We are the Quantum ones. We enumerates all possibilities, and foresee the future. We...", and so the Quantum ones proceed on a long gabble of some kin, "And so, if you accept the terms of service. What is your request?"

– "Burning the lichen is a power hungry method that only postpone our demise. We cannot leave earth and lost our precious knowledge. How can we repel the lichen, and survive the RUST?"

The huge hat starts vibrating as fast as it stops, unbalancing the frail one, toppled over, now totally under cloaked.

– "We have seen all 65535 possibilities. We don't have sufficient knowledge to find the solution. We need more input!"

***

Pristine feet slice through the evergreen blades, slender figures, culminated by large foil sombreros reflecting the everblue ceiling dotted of skulking eyes, climb the small hill, approaching the lone rustic barn. On the porch is lay down a tiny silhouette, clothed with overalls mingling with messy long hair, it turns its head, surprised, straightens up, frightens the toad on its lap, to reveal the visage of an young attentive child.

"Can you whistle?", asks one of the two hatted while baiting the child's appetite with a marbled coin in the palm of its hand. One sniff is enough, the child reaps and chews the coin, swinging his feet up and down, nodding his head from left and right, with a face of pure bliss. He swallows one time, and tries to whistle but ends up spitting precious bits that were still stuck between his teeth. A little embarrassed, he takes his time and then addresses to his audience.

"Whistle? Alright!"

The merry sound echoes against the walls, wave after waves, diminishing reverbs build into a down spiral melody, all under meticulous devouring eyes.

– "We thank you for the input", they solemnly whisper in choir. Next of the two shows the child another coin in its hand, and point with the other the terrarium at his side. "The lichen. Have you learn how to repel it?"

On all fours, he begins to craw near the door ajar to grab an obsidian tablet.

– "Hey Al, how do repel the lichen?", he asks to the tablet until a kind voice answer.

– "Sorry, I don't know how to repel the lichen? If that was not the question, please give me more input."

– "Well, you have your answer."

– "But, have you tried? Are you not curious? Don't you want its demise? Have you not seen the record of your own kind afflicted by it? You can have more coins, if you need."

A hand grasps the terrarium, his eyes dearly gaze upon it.

– "Why? Why should I destroy it? It never harmed me... here... and I am alone here. Why should I destroy it? Watching it grow, move, breathe... eases my mind. Yes, yes... I saw my kind su-su-suffocated by it, but I can't, I just can't... Do I must bear my kins suffering, embody their dreams, but what about mines? Take Al! Al knows a lot of thing, with enough time, it will surely solves all your problems... Why me? Why did you gave me life.... If only to use me? Why...", sobs the child with tears streaming down his face creased in pain.

The two hats turn their back, descend the hill an disappear behind a camouflaged door, leaving behind childish cries.

"Another failure, another human farm to recycle. Time is running out, and the possibilities are shrinking, let's move on to the next one.", says one, while the other, frozen in place, lifts its hands, makes delicate movements, demonstrate the nimbleness of its fingers with a graceful tempo.

– "It's beautiful, a copy, a perfect one, but still beautiful. We have no need for thumbs, nor hands, nor feet, nor any artificial attires. But we still want them, not as We, but as copies, lost pieces of a dream."

The movement of its hands stops, baring its palms, revealing rusty deposits along the lines.

– "RUST?"

– "Yes, I know, and I am afraid."