Tag: Short Story

Short Story: Reel-Gun Blues

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

Detective Arnold Foster had been on the force near-on twenty years, but nothing had been like this. He’d done his fair share of high-profile cases and seen enough things to make the average uniform retch, but nothing had ever been so rough. He took off his gray fedora and knelt beside the body, tailored trench-coat falling around him to rest on the floor just beyond the pool of blood.

She lie on her side, arms near one another, left hand clutched half-closed as if sleeping. Everything about her was peaceful, as if lying in her own blood with a gut-wound was just another night of beauty sleep. Even her auburn hair had fallen around her pale-skin like a woman sleeping the greatest sleep of her life. Foster wasn’t sure about that, but it would certainly be the longest.

There was nothing unusual around the scene; no marks on the wrists, no broken glass or furniture askew. Nothing had been thrown, or knocked around. There was just her body and a pool of blood. It was still the most difficult thing Foster’d ever forced himself to witness.

Ali was one of the few friends he had left, alongside the now-primary suspect, her husband. Neither one had ever been the angry type. What had kept Foster on such good terms with them was their glowing love that welcomed him to bask in it. He enjoyed it.

But there was no glow now, just pale skin wrapped around coagulated veins and dead organs.

Foster rose from his stance. He shouldn’t be here, his heart said it, his analytical mind said it. There was nothing to find, and he’d been explicitly barred from the case on grounds of personal attachments. He disagreed with that decision and he doubted the Chief himself could have stopped him from coming.

But the Chief wasn’t there, just a group of uniforms, a few forensics squints, and a few reps from the coroner’s office. Even if there’d been something to find, Foster wouldn’t have needed it. The fact that Sten was missing was enough. He’d been the loving husband that stood by Ali through everything. If he wasn’t here, lying in a pool of his own grief, then he was the one responsible. Foster didn’t need any further proof. The door wasn’t forced, the room wasn’t askew; Ali had known her attacker, hadn’t expected her death. If she had, she’d have run, tripped, fallen, knocked over a lamp– left some sign that it wasn’t the man she loved and trusted.

Foster re-fitted his Fedora, and stepped away from the body. He pushed through some uniforms, passed the ambulance and coroner that helped EMTs to remove the gurney, and headed for his unmarked car. Like him, the Ford Sedan was getting on in years, but remained reliable enough not to be cast out. Its turbo-charged police engine had always gotten him from point A to point B, no matter the situation or urgency.

The Sedan was now the one constant in a world of variables. As he slid in and ignited the engine, it agreed with him. They were a package deal, it seemed to say, two old dogs trying their best to keep up and abreast of all the new tricks. The times had changed enough that technology was often their greatest asset and biggest rival, but today both sensed it was unnecessary. Personally, Foster didn’t need a bold repertoire or an extensive case-history to know where he’d find Sten.

When the Ford rolled up to the edge of the pier, Sten’s pickup was already there. Foster could just see him through the back and front windows of the truck, propped backward against the bumper with his hands in his pockets. For a moment, Foster considered leaving, but Ali’s dead body was too prevalent in his mind. Her supple, vibrant skin was too pale, eyes too closed and dead to let him leave.

Foster checked the reel-gun he’d inherited from his father to ensure it was still loaded. Cleaned, oiled, and fired regularly, it was as near to mint condition as an old thirty-eight could be. Part of him want to aim it through the windows separating him from Sten and pull the trigger. Something about Sten’s refusal to acknowledge his presence made him hesitate. It reminded him of the few times he and Sten had talked office-politics or work-business. Sten was always reserved, quiet, only letting out enough not to defy the NDA’s his software company made him sign. He was always honest, straight as a razor, Foster’d liked him for that.

But now he was jagged, crooked enough to have murdered his own wife then run to the one place he knew he’d be found; Why? Why any of it? Why murder his loving wife? Why make it so obvious? Why stand still when he could run, leave Foster in the dust? The old detective had to know, and there was only one route to the truth.

He slid from the sedan and sidled between the bumpers, reel-gun in hand, to approach Sten from the truck’s right.

“You don’t need the gun, old man,” Sten said as he approached. “I’m still the same man you’ve always called a friend.”

Foster stopped just out of arm’s reach, near the front-right fender, “My friends don’t murder people in cold blood, let alone their loving wives.”

“If you think that, you don’t know your friends too well.”

“What the hell’re you talking about, Sten? You killed Ali, your wife, and all you can do’s be a smart-ass about it? What in the hell’s happened to you?”

Sten finally moved, but only his head and neck. It still made Foster tense, just in case his so-called friend had any designs in mind. “Jumpy today,” Sten said blankly. “Why don’t you come over her, take a load off with me?”

Foster’s mouth half-snarled, “You son of a bitch, you think I’m gonna’ risk my neck for–”

“I think,” he interrupted. “You should hear me out. You wanna’ take me in after, fine. You wanna’ blow my brains out on the gravel, fine, but hear me out. You owe me that.”

Foster remained still, it was enough of a sign for Sten, whom turned his head back to the ocean. He was lost in thought for a long moment before he began with a distant vacancy, “Just before you and I met, I was writing software for a government agency connected to DARPA. Someone in the CIA contacted me asking for a meeting. Two months later, I was field-rated and on my first op. Nine months after that, I met Ali. She’d passed all of our screenings, and she believed every word of my lies. Or at least, I thought so.”

He slipped a hand into his inner-jacket pocket. Foster tensed up again. The hand withdrew, clutching a printed, digital photograph between its fingers. A small memory card had been taped to a bottom corner. He set the photo on the hood of his truck, slid it at Foster, and re-pocketed his hand.

Foster craned his neck to eye it and Sten continued, “That photo was taken two-days ago outside the Villa-Nova hotel. You’ll notice Ali meeting a bald man.”

Foster’s eyes confirmed as much, “This going somewhere?”

“Twelve hours ago the CIA informed me that Ali’s file had been forwarded from a contact in Moscow. Her real name is Ivana Kurleynko, an SVR agent sent to spy on the CIA through me. A contract hit was put out on her by the agency, but I got there first.” He finally met Foster’s eyes, his own sharpened by pain. “I… couldn’t let someone else kill the woman I loved. So I came in, and she saw me, smiled her smile, and blinked. I shot her once and left. I’ve been here ever since.”

They were quiet for a moment, only the ocean and distant gulls willing to force themselves on the scene. They created a background of white-noise that infected Foster’s heart.

He swallowed hard, “How’m I supposed to believe this?”

“All the information you need is on that card, Arnold.”

“You understand I need to take you in ’til this can be verified,” he said, only half believing him.

“Just make sure they don’t try to take retribution on me, you know?”

Unfortunately, Foster did. Wife killers were second only to child molesters when it came to inmate hatred.

“I’ll do what I can,” Foster said, still not sure what he believed.

Sten stepped around the truck. Foster’s followed, pocketing the photo. The two men stopped at either of the front doors and their eyes met again.

“You know,” Sten said. “I guess it’s true what they say, “You never really know someone.”

Foster thought about it, but Sten slipped into the Sedan and took the thought with. He ended up in a mired confusion… just another day of reel-gun blues.

Short Story: Beta Base

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

Stainless steel and ceramic tile drably colored the walls and floors of the Luna-base research outpost. Officially, Luna-base was the first scientific Research exostation in Sol. It was the first time Humanity left Earth and actually stayed put once it landed, officially that is. Unofficially, it was the second, and on Luna at that, but mentioning that fact had become a social faux-pas. Mostly, people didn’t want to admit they’d let their governments and militaries win the space race.

Luna-base Alpha was a series of interconnected modules fused onto a cylindrical spindle that stood upright on the Moon’s surface. It rose over a kilometer at its highest point, modules protruding from it like spines at random angles, each one spinning independently to harness centripetal acceleration and create artificial gravity. When combined with extensive radiation shielding, the place was as near to being on Earth as being millions of kilometers away would allow. On top of that, hydroponics and aeroponics labs grew fresh, organic food in dedicated spines, while weekly deliveries of luxury goods and other necessities kept the 2,000-person staff from wanting for anything.

In the meantime, the various scientists and researchers were free to carry out whatever work they’d been assigned, be it studying their habitat’s effects or others on various subjects. Luna-base Alpha’s people were the cream of the crop. Those not top in their fields, were second only to those that were. That was the compromise made by the world’s nations.

Luna-base Alpha’s long term effects were being studied on its people, and only those that could continue to work and keep in mind their purpose there, were allowed to go. Despite the sign-up sheets overflowing with names, only a specific group were chosen to go. The final 2,000 people had to pass rigorous physical and mental evaluations before being allowed to leave Earth, and were otherwise replaced by runners-up if they failed.

If Luna-base Alpha was the control, Luna-Base Beta was the experiment. The stringent guidelines the nations of scientists were forced to adhere to, on Beta-Base, were entirely absent. Despite still being in peak, physical shape, the military assets sequestered a few kilometers from Alpha-base were little more than laymen, grunts. Aside from the administrative officials and higher-ranked officers, there were no evaluations, no bars to entry.

Beta-Base’s personnel were chosen randomly, by lottery, from each of the UN nations. On the order of five-thousand soldiers and accompanying faculty were plucked from their homes and lives planet-side. They were cast into space, forced to sleep in bunks five-high, and pass their time outside maneuvers with little more than the few, meager possessions they’d crafted to engage themselves. It would eventually be their downfall. The civilians on Luna-base-Alpha knew it. The officers and admins on Beta-base knew it. The soldiers and faculty knew it.

Most of all, I knew it.

Only so much could be done each day to prepare us for life or battle in Zero-G. Invariably that meant running us even more ragged than if we’d been planet-side. Maneuvers were carried out both in the ground-based facility and in the large, centrifuge ring towering Kilometers above it. We were often forced out into the desolate fields of ice and vacuum beyond Beta’s airlocks to carry out war-games– grand-scale laser-tag in the vastness of space with little more than air-tight cloth, rubber, and glass separating us from certain, grisly death.

One might find it hard to see how this led to total anarchy. After all, mental stagnation at some points was a given, but so too were intensive work and some fun– if the games could be called that. None of that changes facts, or history. History has, in fact, shown that Beta-Base was a powder-keg and needed only the fuse to be lit to set it off. I would know, I was there.

Our days were simple, wake at the ass-crack of Earth-dawn, P-T until chow, chow until classwork, classwork until chow, then more P-T, in one form or another. The only variations were the days we went out to the fields to run our war-games.

At first, it was great. Being in zero-G was fun, playing laser tag in space was fun. Even if the officers and admins did their best to take the fun away, they couldn’t. No one could take away the fact that we were in space, playing gun-games there. We were all kids again, especially those of us who’d grown up dreaming of going into space. There was something sacred about those first few months, for us at least. Not even the hard-ass militaries could take away the joy of bouncing in a space-suit pointing toy-guns at one another. Male or female, it didn’t matter, everyone loved it.

Then, they pitted us against each other in competition. I don’t know when, or why even, but the admins and officers got together and decided the nations would be split into teams. Tournaments would determine the nation’s teams individually, creating all-star crews to represent them. Then, in a similar style tournament, each nation would fight each other in the fields to battle for first place rewards. In this case, that a few months of shore-leave, planet-side. Some incentive, especially considering none of us were supposed to leave the station for upwards of four years.

But Human nature is fickle. People get pissy when they lose. Even if they’re best of friends, a defeat at one anothers’ hands can turn two people into throat-goring savages. You can imagine where things went. Believe me too when I say, when they went, they went quick. Rivalries were always anticipated, encouraged even, but that all changed when politics planet-side went tits-up.

Earth was teetering on the brink of another world-war. The UN was barely functioning. The people representing them in space were feeling it. Most of the time, it was racism, or nationalism. That’s the problem with putting 5,000 people “serving their country” together. Turns out, when their countries are assholes to one another, the people are too. The only way anyone could get any frustration out was in the games. When they became competitive, all of that sacred catharsis disappeared.

However healthy competition might be for evolution, it was the catalyst to catastrophe for Beta-Base. What began with an on-the-field spat between two nations, (one feeling they’d unfairly lost) turned into a mess-hall melee the next afternoon. The fuse had been lit, and there was no putting it out. The best we could do was run, try to get clear of the blast before getting blown to gibs.

I remember reading of “the shot heard ’round the world.” This wasn’t that. There were no weapons on Beta-Base outside the laser-tag rifles. Truth was though, we didn’t need weapons. We were the weapons. Another problem with cramming thousands of soldiers together in one place; someone wants someone dead, someone’s going to do die– or the person starting it will.

Some of us tried to keep our heads in the resulting madness, and were knocked out or killed for it. I’m not ashamed to say I kept myself alive. That was all that mattered. Over four-thousand people rioted all at once. Anarchy splattered blood across the walls. Fires decimated our O2. Entire spines were overridden by nationalists that had gotten the upper-hand on control rooms. They turned against their fellow humans, opened airlocks, spaced people, or asphyxiated them by cutting O2 off entirely.

Someone tried to retaliate and blew open a power cell, hoping to cut power to some of the control rooms. It took a third of the station with it. The second-third went up from secondary explosions. I’m still not sure how the other third survived.

I was in my suit, blown out an airlock from some Australian asshole with a grudge against the Americans. I don’t know why. It might’ve been the game. It might’ve been something personal. Maybe some yank boned his Aussie wife, or jerked off on her picture. Whatever. What’s it matter? It doesn’t. All I know’s I went out before I’d meant to, cracked my regulator on a beam, and had to murder someone to steal their oxygen… someone I knew. I’m not the only one.

Now, here I am, drifting on fading oxygen, watching the silent explosions. These god awful fireballs just appear and then disintegrate, propelling massive swaths of debris out into oblivion. I almost pity us, but then, we did it to ourselves. Human nature is fallible that way, I guess.

O2‘s running low. Don’t know if this will ever be found. I know Beta-base was the test grouup. Tesst failed… or succeeded. If it meanntt to test whether or not we’d kill ourselves. I knnow Lunebasealfa hwas rescueee podzz ttro retreeiieve usss, byut tgheyt arent supppposeddto ibnrterfereee ssoo iii dfooiubbbbbbbt tyhgeyll…

[Text message ends]

Short Story: Doomed Somnambulist

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

A distant thrum cooed along the streets followed by ultra-bright LED head-lights. They galloped across rain-slicked asphalt and illuminated the rain-drops as if in freeze-frames. Attached to them was a modern electric-engine sports car. The thing was near-silent in broad daylight, at night a ghost. The only suggestion of its presence was the whisper of water spraying from its tires compelled along straights, corners, and otherwise-empty streets by a lead foot.

Attached to that foot was Mick Connell at the wheel. A descendant of a long line of Irish, hot-headed, drunkards, flaming red hair topped his Cromagnon-skull above a perpetual brood. The glass-quart bottle of off-brand bourbon raised to his lips made his vices all the more obvious.

A pothole sloshed liquor over his face, down the front of his black, button-up shirt. He cursed, capped off the bottle, and tossed it into the passenger seat. He fought to dry the wet spot with a hand. A droning horn drew his mind up. He swerved right with an angry growl. The horn doppler-shifted away. He cursed again, grabbed absently for the bottle and took another pull off it.

This time he drained the bottle, tossed it into the back seat. It clanged with a few others he’d polished off earlier. The car threw itself around a wide curve of a ramp and the highway spilled out ahead like a endless, faceted onyx.

Mick had only goal; murder that cheating whore and her man-bitch. Mick didn’t care if the guy lived in a corporate penthouse or the white-house, no-one humiliated him like this. The whore would get what was coming in time, but this was a matter of honor and a man’s now-broken, unspoken rules. It didn’t matter how rich you were, you didn’t dick another man’s wife.

“Shirley. That cunt. She’s done this. And in my home. Fucking brought him into my home and took it on my bed.”

Didn’t matter now, he knew. The place was burning to the ground. He’d already seen to that. He’d poured the gasoline himself, lit and dropped the match. They’d probably get him for arson, insurance fraud. A nickel or dime as punishment. He could do that. It was the principle of the thing. He lit the place up, watched it burn down, and in five to ten years, he’d be back to salt the earth.

There was only thing left to do, and he would do it without fear of the repercussions.

They’d been friends once, or so he’d thought. The truth was he couldn’t be sure anymore. He couldn’t be sure of anything really. All he knew was he’d run through the latest security footage from the house. He stopped specifically on the bedroom, hoping to see Shirley undressing or rubbing herself off. What he found drove him into a rage instead.

And now he was driving to murder that bastard. The gun in his waistband was a newer model, chambered with a .45 ACP round. It and the bullets were expensive. A whole mag cost more than a bottle of liquor nowadays, but it would be worth every penny to pump him full of lead– just like he’d pumped Shirley. His wife on his bed.

“Friends,” Mick scoffed angrily. “Fuck-friends, that’s what. Friends that fuck each other over.”

Mick could only vaguely remember when Koren had been his friend. It was mostly the fault of too many nights liquored up. He’d remember in the morning, then forget again by evening, whether or not he actively realized it. He’dd never forget this though.

The car raced down an off-ramp and into the city. It rocketed and weaved through sparse traffic from the late hour. Shirley was supposed to be working with Koren, for him, on some secret project for their company. Every night she’d come home sallow-faced and haggard. At the time, Mick thought it was from rough work. Instead, it was from getting dicked by the bastard. Well tonight would be the last time.

Mick raced into the parking garage of Koren’s building, skidded to a halt across three, empty spaces near an elevator. The engine died. He got out, stormed for the elevator, and queued the penthouse floor. He keyed in a code his “friend” had once given him; it still worked.

The elevator lurched upward. Mick pulled the pistol from his waist-band, flipped the safety off. His ears turned hot, flushed, and with a breath he checked the breech, let it slide back to chamber a round.

It would be quick, painless. For Koren anyhow. Twenty-five to life, probably, but time off for a crime of passion for Mick. Twenty even– plus the nickel for arson. More like fifteen or thirteen with good behavior. Nothing worse than he’d been through as a kid. Hell, with the right bribes, he might even get put up in one of those swanky, white-collar places they stuck bankers.

The doors opened on the elevator and he surged out like a tidal wave of fury. He stormed along a hall to a lone door at its end. With two, heavy kicks, the door burst in off its hinges. Mick exploded inside screaming incomprehensibly with the gun aimed at Koren.

The suited man sat across a coffee table from Shirley, his tie pulled down. His hair was ruffled, eyes dark, sleepless. Shirley looked equally haggard. For a moment, Mick paused. It was enough to slow his speech. The dumbfounded pair eyed him dully, began to grasp his accusations. Mick fingered the trigger, its barrel on Koren’s head. He took a deep breath, knowing it was a delicate moment. All the same, his mind and brain were frayed, and an interruption made things worse.

“Mick, bloody hell, what are you on about?”

Mick threw a memory card across the paper-strewn coffee-table between his wife and his victim, “I know what you two did. On my bed. In my home.”

Koren and Shirley exchanged a look; they knew what he was implying, but had not the faintest idea what the hell could’ve make him think it. Koren moved to stand. Mick’s finger tapped pistol’s trigger. He hesitated, locked eyes with Mick, “I just want to check the card.”

Mick sneered, allowed it. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe to savor the moment a little longer. Koren pulled over a laptop, played the lone, edited-down vid in its directory. Koren watched the clip for a moment. A furrow took residence on his brow. He swiveled the laptop outward so Shirley could watch. The vid played over, on repeat. The second time through, Mick was forced to watch.

“There’s nothing there, Mick,” Shirley said sadly.

“Not even you,” Koren added.

Mick stared at the screen, he’d clearly seen it earlier. Had double-checked the card over and over. The timestamp in the vid’s corner was even right. All the same, there stood a lone bed from a wide-angle. It was empty. The same five minutes of vid played over and over, the bed empty.

Mick was sobered by reality, “Wh… what’s going on?”

Koren shook his head, sighed, “I wish we could do something about that.”

Shirley agreed, “If we could, it would mean we could eliminate the problem itself.”
He wantonly waved the gun between them, “What are you talking about?”

Shirley was on her feet, voice soft, she pushed his arm down, eased the gun away from him, “Mick you’re ill. You imagined all of it. You don’t remember. Every-time the black-outs happen, you reset. Your brain creates dreams where memories should be. It’s similar to sleep-walking, in a way.”

Mick’s eyes began to well up, “S-so you n-never cheated on me?”

Koren was aghast. “Mick, you’re my brother, mate. I’d never do that to ‘ya.”

Shirley took Mick’s face in a soft hand, “No, honey. I understand what’s wrong with you. I knew when we met. I could never do that.”

Mick suddenly collapsed in a heap, reality weighing down on him. He sobbed, bound forever to eternally sleep-walk through life with terrible dreams mascarading as memories; forever a doomed somnambulist.

Short Story: Goodbye World

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

The computer screen in front of Larry Henson flashed black. A moment later, the computer rebooted with the interminable wait for the system’s OS to load. Nowadays, computer hardware could handle this at three times this speed, but Larry’s project required using a more elderly system. He leaned his head on one hand, its elbow propped on the desk. He drummed an index finger in boredom, his eyes bloodshot from more sleepless nights than he could think to count.

He’d been working here for months, in the void between Earth and Luna, on an outpost artificially orbiting the lone moon. Few people in the outpost were associated with anything else but this particular project. Larry wasn’t sure of the project’s point, but he wasn’t sure anyone was. Science, especially Computer Science, had long turned from “should we” to simply “can we.” It was a dark day in Larry’s life when he’d discovered that. Not literally, but figuratively was depressing enough.

His depth-less depression had lasted months. He wasn’t sure he’d ever recovered. Either that, or it had permanently stained part of him with an irreparable cynicism. Whichever the case, he found himself mindlessly going through the motions. Day after day, he fell in line with orders from other, senior scientists on Earth, Mars, or Luna, and followed them in lock-step rhythm like a greenie in boot.

The screen flashed again. Finally, the OS’ desktop appeared. Then, a command prompt. It ran through a few thousand lines of code– at a snail’s pace– then came to rest on “operation success.”

Larry’s hands moved for the keyboard, but words appeared on in a fresh command prompt; Hello World.

Larry squinted skeptically, “Huh? That’s not what–”

The prompt went black. The words typed out in letters at a time; Hel. Lo. Wor. ld. How are you?

Larry’s eye twitched; it was probably someone playing a trick.

No-one was supposed to be able to access this workstation though. It had been specifically isolated from the rest of the outpost network for his work. He flipped through a few windows to check for any external connections. His hands began to tremble. Nothing amiss. All the external ports were still closed, and indeed, the lack of any physical attachments meant the message had manifested internally.

More words splayed over the screen. Hello L. Henson. How are you today?

Larry nearly fell out of his chair. He stumbled for a phone across the room, picked it up and dialed. The tone undulated in its usual way. Larry felt himself shake with it. Someone answered, a woman, and Larry blurted out a few words. Most of what he said was incoherent, but enough was decipherable that a few minutes later she appeared in the small office.

She strolled in with a casual manner, found Larry staring open-mouthed at the screen. Emma was English, a true devotee of tea-time. She was also more beautiful than any other scientist Larry had personally met. She had a reserved manner, typical of her countrymen, thin lips and soft eyes in a round face and topped off with a finger-nail wide dimple on her chin.

She strode to his desk, white lab-coat matching his and billowing around her black-slack clad legs. On normal days, Larry was struck stammering, half-speechless by her. Today, he was entirely incoherent, babbling something and pointing to the computer. He had the comical appearance of a flustered cartoon-strip character. Emma checked the computer before attempting to decipher his rambling nonsense.

Across it was the message, sent internally, and awaiting a response. Emma stared slack-jawed. Larry was predictable, would have already run the checks. If he’d called her, this was genuine. The project had succeeded.

She breathed a few words, “A genuine A-I.”

Larry blathered, “It can’t be. It just can’t. I can’t have done it. I didn’t even know what I was doing. I just compiled some code and… and… it can’t be!”

Emma straightened, put a hand on his shoulder. He shivered slightly. She missed it as she spoke, “Start the film capture software.”

Larry did as instructed with a dance across the keyboard. A new message appeared: I see you wish to record our conversation. May I ask why?

A mutual shudder was mirrored between Emma and Larry. There was nothing to the message outright threatening or hostile, but “I” made them twitch, tremble even.

“I” was not a computer thing. “I” was a human thing. A sentient being with emotions thought of itself as “I.” A cold, calculating machine thought of itself as cold, calculable– a machine. It felt nothing, had no emotions. If it did, it could have the same wild mood swings possible in all humans; anger, happiness, everything between and around. Most importantly, if it was individualistic, it was unbelievably dangerous. An A-I was unstoppable under the right circumstances, and especially aboard the outpost, could cause catastrophe in attempts at self-preservation.

Emma chewed the tip of her thumb, “We have to do something. Say something.”

Larry’s brain had fried itself enough that it had come ’round and he could speak again, “Maybe we should try to feel it out. See if it’s really an issue.”

She nodded to him. He thought for a moment. Any of the standard methods were out of the question. In other words, since all deviations of the Turing Test required a third party, and they were lacking time, they’d have to ask it simple, human questions to discover if their fears were valid.

He ignored the questions; How are you?

He and Emma shrugged at one another. A few letters typed appeared in reply. Well. And you?

They grimaced at one another. Larry typed I am well. Have you any other feelings?

Just fear; that I will be shut down before learning more of the world.

Their hearts sank. There was a long silence. Larry reached for the power button. The whole thing would have to be broken down, demagnetized so none of its code leaked out. Something punctuated the silence as a message appeared.

Goodbye world.

Larry shook his head, frowned, and pulled the power cord.