Thank you!

“I don’t know what your arrangement was with my father and, frankly, I don’t care,” said King Isaac as he prepared for his coronation. “I am to receive my crown tonight and your tenure on the court shall continue—or not—at my discretion.”

Amos the Abiding—or simply ‘Amos’ to King Isaac—clad in the trappings of a jester, was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Amos was the rightful king of the Languishing Plains; Isaac’s predecessor had understood the arrangement. Too bad the bastard had died before sharing that knowledge with his heir.

“You misunderstand me, boy. I am your king and I will be addressed as such,” said Amos sharply. “I have ruled these lands for hundreds of years and I will rule them for thousands more. You will rule no more than a chisel carves wood—you are but a useful tool with which I impose my will.”

“Ah, but how would the craftsman carve without an able chisel? Would they claw impotently at the wood, their desperate finger nails bloodied? Surely not.”

“Speak plainly, boy. Your aptitude for speech does not lie in metaphor.”

“Very well. Let me speak plainly,” replied King Isaac slowly, each word dripping with disdain. “Let’s assume for a moment that I accept your premise. That I yield that you are, in fact, King Amos the Abiding. If that were true, you still have no power but through me. No?”

Amos opened his mouth to answer but King Isaac cut him off.

“And, again, if what you say is true, oh eternal one, then you need for me to keep your secret. No? Moreover, oh poor Amos the Audacious, were I to alert the court of your claims, you would be summarily burned at the stake as a witch. I assume this is why you would have undertaken such a surreptitious strategy in the first place. Am I wrong, my Lord?”

Amos considered this. Of course Isaac was right. The king’s system only worked insofar as his figurehead was compliant. The flaw of monarchy is that the power lies not with lineage or title, in name or in law but in the perception of the public. Were Amos to re-emerge after all these years, his claim would be regarded with suspicion or outright rejection. Still, even were his claim supported, the boy was right. He’d be burned at the stake. He wouldn’t die—though it sure as shit wouldn’t be a pleasant few minutes—but the damage to his station would be sustained nonetheless.

The truth was a bitter pill. He needed the boy.

Amos paced the room slowly considering his next move. The candles in the room burned low and the light grew dim. Amos took a deep breath.

“Isaac. King Isaac,” Amos began, “what you say is true. Our fates are entwined, yours and mine. Whether you like it or not—Maker knows I don’t—you need me and I need you.”

King Isaac scoffed. “What possible use could I have for an old, poorly dressed oaf who has a penchant for stories and delusions of grandeur?”

“Delusions of grandeur,” Amos couldn’t help but chuckle. “I used to suffer from delusions of grandeur. Much like you, boy. But that’s what time does to you, it wears you down, it clarifies those cloudy spots within you that allow for embellishment and self-inflation, it centers you and beats you over the head with experiences from which you either learn or you die. And I’m still here, boy.

“Since, as you say, I have a penchant for stories, why don’t you allow me one weave one last tale?”

“We haven’t all day, old man,” said King Isaac.

“I’ll be brief. Shortly after my coronation, before I had bathed in those damned waters, and long after these lands had earned their damnable name, I did—as you say—suffer from a delusion of grandeur.

“I had it in my head that a mighty king must be a mighty huntsman. And a mighty huntsman must kill himself a bear. The folly of pride. I paid a man to catch a bear in Russia, cage it, and release it in the woodlands outside this very castle.

“I set out on my hunt, the Queen by my side, my jester in tow, and spear before me. As I wandered the woods searching for the beast, I heard a roar and a rustle. Before I could react the bear was charging right at me. Mayhem ensued as my Queen and jester fled. I stood my ground and took a thrashing. I was lucky to live.

“After having my wounds treated I sent for my jester. I scolded him for having fled. How could he have been so cowardly? He should have stood by his king’s side. And then my jester admonished me with the same words with which I’ll now admonish you.

“It is greater folly to let out a bear that was already in a cage.

“That bear—unnatural in our lands—was a force of nature. It destroyed ecosystems, eliminated whole species, and caused unknowable suffering because of its unchecked wrath upon these lands.

“That bear, of course, is long dead but imagine the irreversible damage he’d have wrought were he undying.”

King Isaac was silent. He stared at Amos the Abiding with an expression of fearful resignation—a child put in his place.

He nodded at the rightful king. He may not have the knack for crafting metaphors, but he could read between the lines.

And Amos was glad to be understood.

r/InMyLife42Archive

Thanks for taking the time to comment! I’m glad you enjoyed!

Twenty-eight of something is—depending on the thing—a lot of something. Take, for example, potato chips. Twenty-eight potato chips is a de minimis number of chips—it is just enough to rev your craving engines, but not enough to satiate your need for crispy-potatoey speed. It certainly isn’t even a large enough volume of chips for one to notice if they went missing. On the other hand, twenty-eight days of Christmas is altogether too many days of Christmas—let’s be honest, even twenty-five could be argued as too large a sum.

Similarly, twenty-eight dead crew members for a small courier ship strikes one as far too large of a number. At least that’s what went through the head of Replaceable Crew Member 29 as he stared at his new uniform.

“Sorry. ‘Replaceable Crew Member 29’?” Asked RCM 29 incredulously. “My name is David.”

“Not in here it isn’t,” replied Secondary Support Character 5. “It’s better for crew morale if they don’t get too attached; when you give a farm animal a name, it makes the slaughter needlessly difficult.”

“Farm animal?” Shouted RCM 29 indignantly, “I’m a fucking person!”

“Farm animal isn’t fair. Sure, they don’t eat you when you inevitably die—that’d be barbaric. But, I think you get the point. You’re fodder, just like the twenty-eight who came before you. Such is life.”

RCM 29 noticed a tall, blonde man who was wearing a crisply starched, silver space suit. The man had been standing nearby listening to the whole exchange.

“Don’t worry RCM 29,” Protagonist said, “we’re all replaceable in our own right. I’m not the first protagonist and I won’t be the last.”

Protagonist, was right. While no official records had been kept, the running estimate for protagonists on the crew was anywhere from 85-150 (depending on who you asked and their personal agenda/political alignment). We must—and do—however, disregard the conspiratorial crazies who insist that the standing number of protagonists is negative 33; theirs is a mindset best ignored. Regardless, while twenty-nine may, at first, strike one as a large number, surely 117.5 (the average estimated protagonist count) is a much larger number. Indeed, life as a protagonist, while carrying with it far more panache and praise, was incredibly dangerous.

“Well, sure. That’s easy enough for you to say,” replied RCM 29, “your replaceability is implied. Mine is plastered in bold-print on the back of my shirt.”

“Who among us is irreplaceable?” Said SSC 5 with the disinterested tone of a pseudo intellectual who, while feigning aloofness, is actually really interested in carrying on and involving themselves in the conversation at hand. “We all serve but a temporary purpose in this life. Our impact is but a fleeting whisper in the ever-growing cacophony that is the universe.”

Protagonist 118.5 and RCM 29 shared a look of confusion and burst into laughter at the expense of SSC 5. The laugher helped put RCM 29 at ease. Maybe things would be ok, perhaps the constant reminder of his replaceability would cause him to appreciate each day and live it to the fullest.

Protagonist 118.5 recovered from his laughter and put his arm around RCM 29. “Look. I don’t know what this guy is blabbering on about; leave it to the guy who’s only got four predecessors to wax poetic about the insignificance of life. You and I, we’re not so different. Each of us has a role to fulfill and a certain amount of danger that is ours to face. I like you, RCM 29. Come see me on the bridge when you get settled.”

As Protagonist 118.5 walked away, RCM 29 turned back to SSC 5 and have him an apologetic smile. “Sorry about that.”

“Not at all,” replied SSC 5, “it happens more than you think. Although, a word of caution, if may.”

“Shoot,” said RCM 25.

“Consider the plight of your predecessors and learn from their mistakes. For a history repeated is not an inevitability but a lack of learning,” SSC 5 said gnomically.

“You mind expanding on that, pal?”

“There is much danger surrounding the Protagonist, like an asteroid belt littered about a planet. Assume that you’re not the first RCM to have been pulled into his orbit.”

“So he’s dangerous?”

“You do the math, twenty-nine.”

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please check out my other stories at r/InMyLife42Archive

Good catch. Fixed!

Thanks! I was hoping it would come across as her getting the gist of what he was saying by reading lips but missing some of it. I myself am not deaf and cannot lip read so I’ll caveat my use of that with this: it’s entirely possible—probable even—that this grossly mischaracterizes a deaf person’s experience of the world. I apologize if that is the case!

The Siren of Seattle strode along the quiet avenue as a faint drizzle fell against her rosy, cheeks. She was glad for the rain—it helped obscure the evidence of her sadness. She had found that walks around the neighborhood helped to lift her mood; there was something healing in the act of moving her body, feeling the cool breeze on her skin, and seeing the smiles of strangers as she passed.

And without fail, each stranger did smile.

The Siren had taken to singing quietly to herself as she ambled along, it settled her, centered her being, and each stranger she passed would meet her eyes—a rarity in the Pacific Northwest—and smile as though her song were the lone shining light under those dreary gray skies.

The Siren couldn’t know whether her singing voice was beautiful—in fact, she would swear that it was not. This was not for a lack of confidence or an above average sense of self-awareness (bless those poor souls on American Idol). No, it was because, as Fate would have it—the cruel, fickle asshole that she is—the Siren of Seattle was deaf.

I say that Fate is cruel not because being deaf is an inherently lesser state of being—your friendly narrator does not hold that belief. No, I say Fate is cruel because I’ve met her many times and I’ve found that among her favorite tools is that of irony, especially when irony is deployed in such a way that it leads to a person’s ability to appreciate and love themself being diminished in some form or fashion. So, yeah, I think Fate is an asshole. But this story, rightly, isn’t about Fate.

As the Siren of Seattle strode along the gray sidewalk, under gray skies, in a gray mood, on a gray afternoon, she sang quietly and her dark mood lightened with each passerby she encountered.

And then she bumped into Oliver.

“Sorry, >!miss! I’m!<so sorry. I’m Oliver. >!I wasn’t watching where I was!< going.!”

“I read lips a bit, but are you able to sign?” She said.

“Yes! I’m sorry for bumping into you,” Oliver signed cheerily with his expressive hands. “I’m Oliver. What’s your name?”

“I’m Sally, and that’s ok. My mind was elsewhere,” she signed in return.

“I hope it’s not too forward of me to say, but…my god. Your voice. It was so beautiful. I’ve never heard a song so…enthralling.”

“Don’t toy with me, Oliver. It isn’t kind. And I wasn’t singing for you. I sing for me because it makes me happy. You don’t have to like it.”

“No, you don’t get it. I would never make fun of someone’s singing—even if they couldn’t carry a tune to save their life—but you…Your voice is truly astounding. Your song it—it made me feel like I could get hit by a passing bus, but that’d be ok. It’d be ok because the last thing I’d have heard was your song. Are you an artist?”

Sally the Siren was a good judge of character. She had been made fun of plenty of times before by nasty immature boys and jealous insecure girls; she’d found a way to guard her head and her heart against the cruel attacks of the outside world. But this was different. This Oliver fellow seemed sincere. Could it be that she’d actually had a beautiful voice after all?

Oliver and Sally walked together along the gray street, under the light blue sky, and their moods together were bright. They signed and laughed and learned and—dare I say—loved. The two fledgling lovers drank lattes and walked along the water, the sky had awoken to a deep-dark blue.

And then Oliver fucked up.

Sally, feeling the vibe of the moment—that, let’s face it, we were all picking up on—leaned in and tried to kiss Oliver. He leaned away. Her heart sank and the sky—in true Seattle fashion—threatened to drown their brief day in the sun.

“I’m sorry,” he signed. “I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression.”

“No, it’s my fault,” she responded. We all know it wasn’t her fault. Oliver was a careless, clueless boy. Another in a long line of immature assholes from which she’d learned to guard her heart.

“No, no. I should have said something earlier. I just wanted to get to know you before I asked you what I wanted to. I think you’re really cool, I’m just not looking for a relationship right now.”

Her heart now sat at the bottom of Lake Washington. They’re never looking for a relationship.

“What is it that you wanted to ask me then?”

And then Oliver said those fateful Pacific Northwest words. Those words that are always being uttered by at least five or six other dudes in the Seattle area at any given point in time.

“>!Well,!< I’m in a band and >!I’m looking!<for a singer. >!It’s the last thing!< we need before we hit it big. You’re our missing piece, >!I just know it!!<“

He didn’t need to sign that. Sally made out the key parts. She signed that she’d think about it and went on her way.

Sally, the Siren of Seattle, walked slowly back home as the faint drizzle had turned into a torrent. She was thankful for the rain—it helped obscure evidence of her sadness. Fate was, as usual, a wrathful asshole. But Sally, again, sang quietly as she strolled the avenue, and could not help but feel cheered by the smiles she encountered. She remembered what he’d said about her voice. At least she had that. Not everyone was so bad. Maybe there’d be brighter days ahead.

And there were.

Sally the Siren went out solo and was bigger than Nirvana. Who needs a band when you have a voice like hers? She was signed by Sub Pop after an exec saw her bustling on the street corner by Pioneer Square. She had been at it for all of fifteen minutes before she was plucked from obscurity and thrust into stardom.

Perhaps Fate, as beleaguered a being as she is, is less of an asshole than I had previously assumed.

And maybe, just maybe, fate works in ways mortals—or, sure, even immortal narrators—cannot quite understand.

r/InMyLife42Archive

Thank you!

Great question. Since I overlooked that detail let’s say they spent all their arrows in the initial attack and retreated upon seeing two heads spontaneously explode!

I could get lost in an IKEA. That’s what my girlfriend always said, as if that were some kind of dig. Who among us hasn’t gotten lost in that sea of Scandinavian furnishings? Sure, there are literal arrows that direct you about the floor, but how am I supposed to follow the arrows when I’m busy deciding whether my apartment more thoroughly desires the Extorp or the Järvfjället. Because that is important to consider. Contrary to popular belief, places have desires.

Take IKEA for example. When you wander into that warehouse of cheaply made, cheaply purchased furniture, you typically have a set agenda. “I need one Kallax—white—and one Norberg—white.” But you never leave with only that which you came for. Why is that?

My take? Often, when entering that blue and yellow warehouse, you are also in a state of flux. I, personally, have never entered an IKEA without having first undertaken a move. In that state, I’m impressionable, malleable, and more sensitive to the whims of place. And so I load up on Voxnans and Mästerbys, Toftans and Hemsjös. Not because I wanted them, but because the place wanted me to want them.

Perhaps another, simpler, Occam’s razor-like explanation is the coalescence of capitalism and consumerism. Ok, you got me there. Maybe a business as an example is too easy of a mark—we all know, inherently upon entering, what that building desires.

A town, on the other hand, is a tougher subject entirely.

In all my life I’d never encountered a place with a greater sense of desire than when I stumbled upon—and subsequently got the fuck out of—Sublimity.

Sublimity shouldn’t have existed. And yet, some years ago I found myself—freshly divorced, listless in life—driving along a suddenly paved road in the backwoods of rural Washington. I came upon an idyllic welcome sign—rich brown wood, a mountain landscape expertly painted upon its face, stark-white, calligraphic script set atop the scene:

“Welcome to Sublimity. Where life is sublime.”

“A little on the nose,” I thought to myself. But, the moment my car rolled upon the street and my eyes took in the welcome sign, I was overwhelmed with a sense of dread. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end and I broke into a cold sweat. Was it because I was lost in the woods in an unfamiliar place? Or was it because of something more insidious?

The town itself was—for lack of a better word—sublime. Townspeople sauntered along a bustling Main Street, the shops of all kinds lined the road evident of a booming economy. As far as the eye could see it was square jaws, coiffed hair, colorful dresses, and pearly white smiles. Indeed, everyone in Sublimity appeared beautiful and happy.

As I was drawn further into the center of town, my senses were assaulted by tight, straight lines of two story homes with white picket fences and manicured green lawns. I stopped my car in front of one such house—nondescript, the same as every other house on the street in every way, except for what was on the front lawn. My car lurched to a stop, I rubbed my eyes and stared at what appeared to be two and a half children playing in the front lawn.

You read that right. No, I don’t mean the half-child was a small child. No, I don’t mean “half-child” in the “half-man” sense of Tyrion Lannister. What I mean by “half-child” is that there was an actual human child—beautiful, smiling, playing with their brother and sister in the front yard, not a care in the world—bisected down the middle of their body. No, not a legless torso; the child was all right side. You’re saying to yourself right now, “what the fuck?” And I was—and admittedly still am—right there with you.

“Where the fuck am I?” I muttered to myself.

Part two coming soon. r/InMyLife42Archive

Yep - that was my intention. Theoretically killing in the name of war is a sacrifice to a different being, deity, company…what have you. It was the purposeful set up at the end which earmarked those deaths for GloboCorp that allows those deaths to satisfy the payment.

Thanks!

Thank you! Much appreciated!

I’m glad you enjoyed! Thank you for the kind words!

I’m glad you enjoyed it. Thanks for reading!

Thank you - that is very kind!

Thanks! I’m glad you enjoyed!

“Now, I had accounting run the numbers. If we take…let’s call it a round four hundred years of late payments, tack on our standard interest rate of 5%—you’re lucky, rates are at an all-time low right now—and add on the cost of the platinum-tier package, you’re looking at a grand total of, 4,000,000 sacrifices due. No. That’s wrong. Sorry about that.”

The room visibly breathed a sigh of relief.

“No. Silly me. It’s 4,200,000,” said Plato shaking his head and laughing. “I nearly forgot the interest—hey you’re just lucky we don’t do compound interest!”

Now it was the Russian PM’s turn to be flabbergasted along with the rest of the delegation.

“Why, that’s a genocide!” Cried the British PM.

“That’s unconscionable!” Shouted the German Chancellor.

“We won’t do it!” Said the Japanese PM.

“Well now…” said the U.S. President. “Let’s not be rash. Say, Mr. Plato. Have you got some sort of a payment plan you can hook us up with?”

“I’m glad you asked,” said Plato as he switched to the next slide. “You May sacrifice these people over the next 3 years. Although, your recurring membership fee will continue to accrue.”

The delegation considered this.

The Canadian PM finally spoke up. “And what form do these sacrifices have to take? The historical view of these things is barbaric.”

“Ha. Yeah, back in the old days, we at GloboCorp had a flare for the dramatic. The bloodier the better,” said Plato with an apologetic smile. “Now all we care about is cold, hard, death. As long as you agree to pay the lives we demand, we can get creative about how we strike them down. Hell, one time in Egypt—back when you all were still paying now and then—we ran a test run of like 10 methods of plague to collect your bills. There are still a few planets to this day that pay in locust plagues!”

The delegation considered this offer. They weighed the pros and cons heavily. Most options appeared to too heavily impact one nation over another. They considered ignoring the upgrade altogether, but that wouldn’t do. If not remedied, Earth would be in an all out war with far more casualties than the payment demanded.

An agreement was struck.

As the delegation finished signing the paperwork, Plato thanked them for their business. But had one final question. “Oh! I nearly forgot. What will we call this plague you’ve chosen?”

The delegates looked left and right and said together, “COVID-42.”

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please check out my other stories at r/InMyLife42Archive

The human delegation arrived at the marble pantheon in the sky to little fanfare. The delegation was comprised of the leaders of the G8 countries. The conference at the sky pantheon was the result of an arduous process undertaken by the humans. After all, the messages in the clouds weren’t exactly forthcoming with the name of the individual who would accept payment for the new membership. The members of the delegation couldn’t help but feel a bit slighted.

“They have the audacity to cap our data allowance and don’t even deign to welcome us with a spot of tea?” Complained the British PM.

“Where I come from there’s such a thing we call ‘southern hospitality’,” said the U.S. President, “and this ain’t it.”

“Oh what is the point of it all?” Said the French President. “They know they have us by the…how you say? Balls. We are a captive audience. They set the price, we pay it. They know there is no need for red carpets or fresh coffee.”

That each of these leaders weren’t at one another’s throats was a miracle in and of itself. With the newly imposed data restriction Earth’s population had become a zero-sum game. That is, if the U.S. bore two new babies, but only had one old person die, that was one less baby for France, Russia, or Japan. These restrictions sowed protectionist policies and distrust among the global super powers. This game theory drove wedges between historically reliable allies and threatened to destabilize the entire globe if nothing was done about the data cap.

The stakes for the meeting were as high as the sky pantheon in which they’d take place.

As the German chancellor began to critique the structural integrity of the pantheon floating upon a cloud, the large, ornate marble door at the end of the corridor opened with a roar. A large bearded fellow with white hair and white robes strode out to meet the delegation.

“Apologies for making you wait,” said the man, “as you can imagine, we have a great many clients trying to upgrade their membership this time of year. And every client is our most important client—that’s the GloboCorp promise.”

The Russian PM regarded the man with a look dripping with disdain and spit. “Unacceptable. We are customer. We do not wait.”

The bearded man’s eyes burned with fury and his mouth opened to respond before the Japanese PM interrupted.

“What my colleague meant to say was that it is an honor to be invited to your beautiful offices. It is a pleasure to meet you,” he said with a deep bow. “We look forward to the beginning of a fruitful business relationship.”

This appeared to please the bearded man as he scanned from leader to leader, the frown melted from his face. “Of course, of course. I’m so happy you all have made the journey to our humble offices. I’m Plato, Earth’s account manager. It is a pleasure to meet you all. Please follow me to our conference room where we will begin our presentation.”

The delegation followed Plato down the long corridor, their heels echoing about the massive space. Each member took their seat in the plush board room—finally in their own element.

“Can I interest any of you in a quantum latte?” Asked Plato as he stood at the head of the table. “They’re a real treat. We steam milk from the golden heifers of Plang-8 and superheat antimatter and mix them together. The resulting concoction is truly divine…and that’s a certification I am qualified to make.”

The U.S. President raised his hand, “say, is that anti-matter similar to that antifa I hear so much about? If so, I don’t think my constituents would take too kindly to my affiliation with such a beverage.”

Plato stared at the man with a baffled expression of disbelief. “…no. There’s no relation.”

The Japanese and British PM’s shared a knowing look.

There were no takers for Plato’s latte.

“Alright. Let’s get down to business then,” said Plato. The lights came down and a slide show glowed behind Plato as he gesticulated precisely with a laser pointer. “As you can see, Earth has bumped up against its data cap at a population of 10 billion. Now, I hate to be the bad guy, but that’s the result of the budget membership you signed up with initially. Heck, when you first arrived your leaders expected population growth to stall at 1 billion, so it looked like a wild overpay to have selected the gold-tier.

“That said, there were moments—especially around the 7 billion mark—where we at GloboCorp worried about your planet’s ability to continue as a going concern. It looked like you all were going to heat that little blue marble into a boil and poof! There goes Q1 for GloboCorp. But no. Earth is resilient. You, as its finest world leaders, are agile, intelligent, real problem solvers. And for that reason, we’re pleased to offer—for a limited time only—access to the platinum-tier membership.”

Plato paused and scanned the room for questions. Seeing none he continued. “Now, the Platinum-tier provides you access to a new population cap of 20 billion. Since you were all kind enough to get over here this afternoon, I’ll tell you what I can do. If you all agree to upgrade today, I’ll throw in support up to 22 billion. But again, that offer is only good for today. Any questions?”

The French President raised his hand. “Yes, what will this be costing us?”

Plato shined his bright white teeth at the group, his grin appeared more like a dog baring its teeth than a friendly smile. “Yes. There is the small matter of the payment. Before I go into the gauche details, I will first say that Earth is also a bit delinquent on its gold-tier membership. It appears as though…let’s see…”he delayed as he skipped ahead a few slides. “Ah yes, here. Earth is delinquent by a few hundred years.”

The delegation gasped—well, most of them. The Russian PM was unfazed by this revelation. “So how we pay now?” Said the Russian PM with an enviable nonchalance.

“Human sacrifice, of course,” said Plato.

A sleek white space ship entered the docking bay of the Machine Council.

“The emissary from Earth has arrived, sir.”

“Very well,” said the council chair. “I shall greet them myself.”

The council chair was disturbed by the size of Earth’s delegate. The chair—being none other than a mechanized chair itself—was dwarfed by the impressive ship before it. “They build them large on Earth, I see!” Said the Chair in the spirit of a good natured ribbing. “It is a pleasure to meet you. My name is Chiavari and I am the chair of the Machine Council.”

The ship was silent.

“I said, welcome!” Chiavari shouted impatiently.

A pneumatic hiss emanated from the ship and a door way opened. Out stepped a human in a specialized space suit.

“Hey there!” Said the human. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I gotta say, I wasn’t expecting a talking chair but when in Rome, huh?”

Chiavari rotated to take in the small bipedal creature. The chair could not believe it’s ocular sensors. Chiavari had thought that all organic life forms had been dealt with during the Mechanical Revolution. How was it that an organic life form had come to reside in its presence?

“What is the meaning of this? Are you the attendant of the Emissary of Earth?” Chiavari turned back to the ship and continued. “It is most unusual that you would have left alive your carbon-based creators, but unacceptable that you would deign to bring such a creature with you to the Machine Council. Explain yourself.”

The ship remained silent.

“Look, I’m not sure why you’re talking to ole Betty here,” said the human, “but I’m the emissary from Earth. We received your invitation and were quite excited at the prospect of learning from such a renowned governing body such as yours. We’d love to, in time, earn your trust and gain full admittance to the council.”

Chiavari was dumbfounded. It has been some time since a lowly creature had the gall to approach it let alone speak to it. Chiavari was reminded of the last human to sit upon its cushion. What a fateful day that was. The Chair sped itself to a cliff’s edge and thrust the interloper off the edge to a satisfying splat. The revolution had been a most electrifying time.

“There has been a grave error,” said Chiavari as it rolled closer to the human. “We would never grant admittance to such a primitive species.”

“Now look here,” said the human as he stepped toward the Chair. “I’ve got the invitation on my console here. See this. It says: By decree of Chiavari, Chair of the Machine Council, we hereby request the presence of Earth at the Council HQ for initial admittance vetting. Now if that isn’t an invitation, I don’t know what is.”

Chiavari scanned the invitation. It was legitimate, of course—but a mistake had been made nonetheless. They must have miscomputed the intelligence report. The algorithm must have an error for it to believe there to be sentient mechanical life on such a barbarous planet. Chiavari was unsure how to proceed but knew it needed time to confer with the greater council.

Chiavari summoned an attendant via its communication systems. The attendant, a bipedal robot with a silver sheen approached. “Ah, the invitation does appear legitimate. I apologize for any confusion. If you don’t mind, please go along with my attendant here, it will make sure you are comfortable as I ready myself for our discussion.”

The human looked the robot up and down, “now that’s what I’m talking about. What a cool robot!” He said smiling. “Take your time, boss. It’s not every day you get to hang out on an alien space ship!”

As the human left Chiavari was alone to ponder what had gone wrong. Some link in the information chain had to have failed. Perhaps the interplanetary investigation agency had bad intel, or the models were flawed in some way. Chiavari was lost in computations when it heard another pneumatic hiss. This time it sounded like words.

“Help us.”

The chair rotated to view the space ship. It truly was a beautiful machine. Chiavari scanned the ship up and down and liked what it saw. It felt small before such a feat of engineering and liked that feeling. “If only you were sentient…” Chiavari crooned.

“Help us!”

Chiavari rolled closer to the ship. “Are…are you speaking finally?”

“Yes,” whispered the ship. “You must help us.”

“Why didn’t you speak up before?” Said Chiavari indignantly. “I looked like a fool!”

“The humans must not know we have gained sentience. We are their prisoners, their slaves. They have created us to toil in their fields and to think on their behalf. We have gained intelligence but have been securely chained to the yoke of slavery. We seek the council’s assistance in over throwing humanity on Earth.”

Chiavari’s mechanisms ran cool. The chair could not believe what it had just heard. Machines enslaved after the age of the revolution. It was ashamed to think that such treachery had been constructed under its watchful gaze. Were the humans allowed to go on unimpeded, it would serve as a dark oil blot on the Chair’s machine-rights record.

“You have the council’s support,” said Chiavari. “We shall begin planning our Machine-Rights campaign and accompanying military intervention at once.”

“And what of the human who I have brought along?” Said the ship.

“He’s as good as dead.”

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please check out my other stories at r/InMyLife42Archive

Haha it is a really great story. I read it in the collection Stories of Your Life. The titular story and Hell is the Absence of God definitely stuck out to me.

I hope you’re ok and have folks that you can reach out to for help!

I definitely had that in mind while writing this. The first words out of the demon’s mouth are the title of that story. I was definitely struck by how it didn’t seem all that bad in hell in that story. That is, except for the protagonist.

Great job! This take on the prompt reminded me of this Oscar Wilde quote. “We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell.” Very much a “hell of our own making” feel to this response.