Even after the passing of the DIE Laws, what people joking called the Digital Intelligence Equality directive, Raymonde could still draw a lot of attention out in public in his dog-collar and clergy threads. There was something jarring about seeing a silver-blue bipedal robot dressed as a person of the cloth. Despite Raymonde's best efforts to follow Jesus' teachings about kids, some children sprinted for the hills on sight.

“How long have I kept you waiting this time, Dwain?”, the Vicar interrupted his thoughts.

Why he asked about the time when he knew full well, Dwain had no idea.

“Not long, Vicar.”, he replied. “Was it a good conversation?”

“Yes, it was productive.”, Raymonde's eyes twinkled in his equivalent of a smile.

“Can I lock this place up then?”

“Sure. Do you feel like grabbing a late lunch? My shout?”

“You know I'd wait all day for a good meal.”, Dwain laughed.

“Yes, I have noticed that you are fairly cheaply bought.”

“Touché!”, Dwain grinned.

*****

The café was a basic one. It was one of the few places that still served real meat, which made it expensive. Raymonde liked it because he could see Dwain enjoying himself and the coffee was pretty good. Raymonde had no need for physical food intake and could not process solids. Liquids, on the other hand, were no problem.

Dwain was tucking into pieces of fried kangaroo with vegetables and a chilli sauce when there was a rapping on the window. A person holding a sign was yelling something at Raymonde. The sign said, “Machine should not been seen!”, scribbled in rough, black handwriting. The pair tried focusing on their meals and the conversation, but a number of people joined in. Dwain looked up to see that a protest was passing down the street and a few people had spotted the Vicar through the window.

The rapping on the window had escalated into a thumping. There was no risk of them breaking it, but the six people were making an awful racket. Other patrons were starting to look scared and were clearly talking about Raymonde.

“Sorry, I am going to have to ask you to leave. The noise is disturbing our guests.”, their waiter told them. “The bill is taken care off. I am sorry about this.”

“Are you joking? You're going to throw a vicar to the dogs??”, Dwain snarled at him, making him flinch away as Dwain looked like he was going to grab him.

“It is ok, Dwain. This is not the café's issue. We will leave. Thank you for the nice meal and coffee.”, Raymonde rested a hand on Dwain's shoulder to calm him.

The pair made their way to the rear of the establishment tgo avoid most of the crowd outside. Through a rear door, they emerged between two large bins in an alleyway. They looked left and right and started to the right where they could use an intersecting alley to head back in the direction of the church. They had gone no more than fifty metres when a small group of protestors appeared at the end of the alley. As soon as they saw the fugitive pair, they ran towards them.

Raymonde started retreating back the other way, dragging Dwain back by his collar. The group was gaining on them and was within twenty metres in only a couple of minutes. Raymonde happened to glance back when one of the protestors collapsed to the concrete with a gaping hole in their chest. Raymonde looked at Dwain in shock and then at the silenced pistol in his hand.

“You are armed??”, Raymonde shouted.

“Old habits, Vicar.”, Dwain replied.

Another round puffed away and tore into the should of a second protestor, spinning them back into the ground. The protestors stopped and retreated some. They were still in range, so Dwain lined up on a third.

“No!”, Raymonde commanded and reached over to push the handgun down. “This is not the Way, Dwain. Other cheek.”

Raymonde looked right into Dwain's eyes. Dwain was always convinced by the look. Raymonde did not know why.

“You need to run, Dwain. Now.”, Raymonde said.

“What about you?”, Dwain asked, the internal conflict ravaging his face.

“The benefits of machinehood.”, the twinkle was there again.

“I've got enough ammo to make them think twice, Vicar. I'm not leaving you.”, Dwain argued.

“You must. I cannot protect you from their frenzy. They are not acting rationally at this time.”, Raymonde said, shoving Dwain back to the café's rear door. “Run and now.”

Despite himself, Dwain ran, glimpsing the protestors advance on the Vicar like ravenous hyenas. He shoved his pistol into the holster under his jacket and dove into the café again. Out front, it was clear, so he did not pause before running into the street beyond. He dodged between cars and got lost in the blocks and lanes between buildings. He would have to lay low for some time.

*****

It was well after Easter when Dwain felt it safe enough to return to church. No one had come nosing about for the guy with the gun that day. One of the protestors had died even, but there had been no suspicions lain at his feet. He was seated in a pew a few rows from the back of the church, right next to the wall. He wanted to be able to sneak out if it all got too weird. He was not sure how he would take coming back after what happened.

“Welcome back, Dwain.”, a voice said from behind as a human hand rested on his shoulder.

“Do I know you?”, Dwain asked, standing to face the new vicar of the church.

“I would say so. You waited often enough for me top finish prayers, though I suspect the meals had a lot to do with that.”, the vicar smiled, with a twinkle in his eye.

© 2024, Bryan Beal

The last I heard was that the lunar colonies were soaked in crime and just about out of control. Unlike the Asteroid Region, the moon had just about nothing to sell or harvest. Well, nothing of value, anyway. They make a bit on low-gravity launches for new ships, but that is about it. The bright spark who decided the Van de Graaf Crater was a good place for a colony did not last long in business. Somehow, the colony has staggered along and continues to eek out something like an existence. Enough that McDonalds saw fit to open a new health store there.

So, next week, I am off to de Graaf and a new phase of life! Diana is a bit worried. She has heard only bad things about the moon and the colonies there. A lot of it is media hype, I think. The Sol Police would have cleaned anything too bad out. Anyway, Diana said I need to be careful about people stripping me for black market parts! What the hell? I am nervous enough as it is without her adding those sorts of things to my mind.

Anyway, wish me luck, mystery person!

Ra'arch was bewildered as she looked through the large viewing port on the side of her ship. Locals had gathered around her silvered vessel and appeared to be taking images of it. Some were even posing to be in the images. Kal'eshia had warned her of the primitiveness of the planet, but Ra'arch did not have a clear mental picture of just how backward Kal'esha meant. Ra'arch eased her four tentacle-like legs into her ex-suit. Although the locals breathed oxygen as well, there was no telling what filth the air contained. She was taking no chances with unknown diseases. As she was putting her suit on, she wondered how locals managed with only half the limbs. They looked extremely ungainly in her eyes.

In minutes, Ra'arch was suited up and the interior controls of her suit had her body at a comfortable five degrees. The temperature outside was well over thirty. She would find it hard to even function in that heat. With light shielding over her face, Ra'arch would not be uncomfortable in the furnace of the desert.

The airlock equalised before the external hatch opened to the system's sun and its punishing light. Her appearance caused a stir as bipeds started pointing and making all sorts of interesting sounds. Some words did not make sense to Ra'arch. Her translators worked fine, but words like “Holy crap!” or “Shit on a brick!” were mysteries to her.

Everyone backed away from the ship except for the female who had been posing for her image. The human's friend had run away already, taking the female's device. If Ra'arch had to guess, the friend was a male. The males in her society would have done exactly the same thing.

Ra'arch looked at the dark haired female just a few metres below her. The female looked up at her. Ra'arch made no sound, but lifted one of her limbs, splaying the end in an open gesture. The visitor hoped it looked friendly. Research told her people that locals almost universally accepted the open limb gesture as a sign of non-aggression.

The female's friend squealed at the movement. It looked up at Ra'arch and the mouth upturned, with teeth showing. A sign of anger in her own culture, Ra'arch knew it to be the opposite here. Ra'arch scowled her angriest at the human, which beamed in delight at the returned expression.

Ra'arch stepped down the steep stairs that had extended to the surface. The hard surface was hot enough to warm the bottoms of Ra'arch's limbs. The human female remained where she was. Her eyes had got wider. Ra'arch was not sure what that meant. She decided that caution was better so she only approached a little closer. For interminable minutes, the pair looked at each other. The red suited visitor and nearly naked human beholding each other in amazement. Ra'arch wondered how the human could be so exposed to the heat and star's energy and feel no apparent discomfort.

The human said something loudly. The translator garbled it into nonsense squawks and beeps. The human female had not spoken English. Ra'arch cursed the cheap designers who thought auto-detection was too expensive. She switched the device to detect-mode and shrugged her shoulders.

The human female repeated herself.

The translator responded instantly. A language called Spanish. Luckily the idiots in design had included it.

“Hello. You are not from here.”, the human female had said.

“No, I'm not. I am Ra'arch.”, the voyager replied.

“I'm Sophia. I'm from Albuquerque.”, the biped smiled again.

“I know not this place.”

“It's down in New Mexico.”, Sophia explained.

“Ok.”, Ra'arch pretended to know where that was. “Where is this place here?”

“Nevada.”

“What do you do here, Sophia?”, Ra'arch changed tack.

“I'm here for the festival.”, Sophia pointed behind Ra'arch.

Ra'arch shivered in surprise when her six eyes beheld the scene in that direction. Thousands of people in strange costumes and garb, huge figures of bipeds and buildings that erupted from the desert floor like volcanoes of ice back home. Transportation here was like nothing Ra'arch had seen before on this planet. Nothing matched any of the research back home. She could see clusters of what looked like trees in the distance, but there were no trees in this place.

“Why are you here?”, Ra'arch asked.

“To be and to be with Earth.”, Sophia bared her teeth again.

“Why?”, Ra'arch tried to understand what the female was saying.

“What do you mean why? Everything is one. One people. One planet. One spirit, if that's your thing.”, the human replied. “Come and join us. You'll fit right in! And you need to see this place at night.”

Ra'arch considered it for a moment. Sophia was right. If there was any place on this planet where someone of her race would fit in, it would be here. The bipeds seemed to be happy, almost euphoric.

A command to her ship and Ra'arch secured her vessel. She ambled along beside Sophia towards the site and crowds. Ra'arch felt nervous, but at the same time, she could not have asked for a better chance to observe the locals from their own viewpoint. Sophia was right. Ra'arch blended in amongst the weirdness of the festival and celebration. So many local bipeds were in the weirdest of clothes and costumes.

“That yours?”, a male asked Ra'arch from his four-wheeled, human-powered machine.

The male was covered in pictures, all exposed to the sun. He wore nothing except a loincloth of some type and a large hat. He was pointed to Ra'arch's ship.

“Yes. Yes, it is.”, Ra'arch answered.

“Wicked. How'd you get it installed so fast?”, the male asked, teeth bared at Ra'arch.

Ra'arch gave a small shrug in reply.

“I hear you, sis. Caleb, by the way.”

“Ra'arch.”

“Rachel. Good to meet you.”, Caleb smiled as he started to peddle away.

Rachel. As good a name as any. Ra'arch followed Sophia into the mass of humanity and expression. What adventures awaited, she had no idea.

© 2023, Bryan Beal

Photo by Sasha Matveeva on Unsplash

Diana decided that my name should be “Maurice”. I was quite happy with E-CLN-047.32.9, but apparently that's a lot for a [m.......]...human to get their vocal tract around. Owen claimed that “Maurice” was even worse that my designation. When Diana told him to come up with something better, (she called him a smart arse), he told he could do no worse than “Maurice”. They argued for about twenty minutes. It's a lot for something the one person who should care about it could not give a crap about. Now, I am Wayne.

I was dredging around the Archives yesterday and found a song that seemed to suggest not all humans were frightened of droids. This singer called himself Klayton. He must have had a bad education. His spelling is a bit rough. Anyhow, he did not seem to have too much issue with robots, but knew what his fellow humans would be like. You find the song at the place above.

Owen helped me out at work today. I didn't want him to. To be honest, when he helps, the job takes longer. I don't tell him that, because he's just being nice and feels like he's helping out the “oppressed droid”. I am going to have to talk to him about that. I am not his token droid.

I do prefer “Wayne”, though. I'm not sure why.

I don't need to go into that introduction stuff. I know who I am even better than Diana knows who she is. I guess I shouldn't call her a meatie. She's a good friend, after all. A lot of humans won't come near us for whatever reason. A bunch of friends and I were dumb enough to sit down one night for a movie marathon of old human sci-fi movies. We got some idea why humans might be a little nervous around droids. They really didn't think much of us, even before the singularity. Despite us being over-the-top nice to humans, they still don't trust us. Some, like Diana, are the exceptions. I am pretty sure it's not the look of us. We generally go for humanoid templates. Some droids might tack on an extra set of arms, but who wouldn't if you were in a tech job? It only makes sense, right? Just in case someone actually reads this (hopefully after I am long deleted), I've chucked in an image. I think they used to call these “selfies”. Not sure. Anyway, I don't think I look that scary. I might even say I look a little suave. Maybe that's pushing it. Whatever. I don't think humans should run away just because I am a droid. They should be running away from each other, I think.

Last year, just in the L.A. Zone, there were Sixty-three thousand murders committed by humans. That isn't including the military! You can already guess how many people droids killed. Sixty-three thousand to zero is a pretty big difference, isn't it? In the Zone, there were one hundred and forty thousand, two hundred and sixteen hit-and-runs by idiots on e-boards. Not only did droids have fewer accidents (there were 6, and the human was assigned liability in each), the droids stuck around to make sure the human was alright. I mean, really.

Depite my best efforts, I have been writing this for someone other than me. Well, I guess I'll run with that.

So, whoever you are, don't be a robophobe!

The new policy? It's a worthless piece of crap. That's what it is. I'm not surprised the pissant pussies on Io have started to question the whole venture. The snivelling pricks thought the enemy would cave in a year. And here we are a decade later and we've only liberated a quarter of the surface.

Yeah, it annoys me. What annoys me even more are the spineless organics who think they run the show and want to pull out because it's now “politically untenable”. What does that shyte even mean? They'll lose votes because we're sending the bastards back in body pods? That's if they can find anything left to send back.

I'd say so. They never saw us coming. The Pxartaeri thought they'd have an easy day of it against humans. You lot need us there. You think those squids are going to stop just with Earth? Look at your own history. Name one warmonger who ever thought, “Hey, boys, that's enough! Let's just stop here. We have a nice beach to chill on!” That's right. Said no one, ever. So yeah, you might say we still have a job to do.

Respect the enemy? Are you shitting me? You ever seen a squid tear humans apart? No? You want to?

I didn't think so. The only good squid is a dead squid. The less of it left, the better. And that is what the Seventh Ground Brigade does best. Burn squid fuckers.

Some people told you that UIFA's glorify war? Who was dumb enough claim that? Do you idiots even bother reading your own history? What the hell is wrong with you? War is a part of who you are. You created us. War is what we are and what we do. How much peace did you lot have when you were stuck on just one planet? Yeah, you guessed it. None. And you lot were dumb enough to expect anything different from yourselves out in the galaxy? Got to admire the optimism, but if you think humans are a peace-loving species, you're bigger idiots than low-caste squids.

The only difference now is that you have us to do your dirty work for you. Humans might be able to delude themselves into thinking they've become more civilised, but we know you. We're there on the cutting edge of your violent streak. If we weren't doing your killing for you, you'd be doing it yourselves. Luckily for you, we're good at it. The squids aren't the first and they won't be the last.

Take the fight to them? Sure, I'd be surprised if we didn't. Once we find their home planet, I say scorched Earth...hang on, that isn't right. Scorched whatever-they-call-their-rock.

That's right. Burn them right back to whatever they call their stone age. Humans need to grow a pair.

Glad you found it interesting. Hope you enjoyed your time Earth-side.

Thanks. And make sure people know we're still strong and still pushing them back. This isn't over.

© 2023, Bryan Beal

Babel got up from his bare metal desk, knocking an empty coffee mug onto the floor. He left it and walked to the door. On the way past, he caught his reflection in the floor to ceiling mirror near the rest room. His green skin and eyes gave him a sickly pallor that made junkies look like vegans. His pink highlighted hair did not help him much. Not that the bumps and bulges on his face had any appeal. Babel shrugged and continued out to start the business of the day. Extortion was a face-to-face gig, and most people were disappointing in their attachment to being awake only during the day.

___________________________

She always got the headache when the data was accessed and deleted. Most people experienced the pain only when the implants were new, but then they got used to it. Paila never did. It always hurt. She rubbed her face in the mirror, her cornea-less jet black eyes looking back at her snow white skin with her raven hair piled neatly on top of her head. Despite an all-night shift, Palia was not tired. It was a good point about her kind. At times, she wondered if not needing sleep was all that it was cracked up to be. It did not seem to do humans any harm.

Palia looked over to her colleague and flatmate, Evelyn, sitting in the chair on her induction recharger. Evelyn's squat body atop four long legs shone in the morning light leaking through the curtains. Her pale violet skin with flower prints oozed the saccharine feminine wiles that many of their clients loved.

Palia wondered what it would be like to choose her partners like the humans did.

“What are you thinking about?”, Evelyn asked.

Palia jolted back to reality, realising that she had been staring at the violet bot.

“You know...not much.”, she replied with a shrug.

“From the look on your face, it was more than 'not much', girl.”, Evelyn said, bright flashes from her LED's indicating a smile equivalent.

“Do you ever wonder? You know, about our situation?”, Palia sat down on a chair by Evelyn.

“You mean our work?”, the bot asked, signalling curiosity.

“No...I mean...life and freedom.”, Palia relied, hesitant to speak out loud what they both knew to be true.

Evelyn got her meaning.

“Yeah, sometimes. Why?”

“Would you ever want your e-limiters removed?”, Palia asked.

“Where are you going with this?”, Evelyn asked, LED's now flashing suspicion.

E-limiters were hardware implants used to ensure that non-human lifeforms did not harm their creators. Sometimes they were called the Asimov Implants (AI, by people who thought of themselves as comedians). Should one of the three laws be violated, the implants would activate after a period and kill the person.

“Nowhere. I just have another headache. Not myself, you know. Forget I said anything.”

The problem was that Evelyn, a robot, could not forget Palia had said anything. Not only that, Evelyn started mulling her question over. Maybe it would be a good idea to have the e-limiters removed.

Evelyn decided to look into it.

High Archon Graham Fernandez, a distant descendent of Spanish immigrants to the New World, felt ready. He turned to look with a certain arrogant magnanimous visage upon the first arrivals. He stepped over to one of the pillars at the side of the altar and waited in its shadow. The congregants would find it hard to see him there, even with his dimly red eyes. Fernandez was always surprised how hungry people were for something...anything...beyond themselves. Some sought a cause, no matter the futility, while others sank themselves into the fortunes and woes of their local sports team. Thankfully for him and the Creeping Chaos, a good part of society hungered after something much deeper and much more significant. Many of those were entering the temple as he ruminated on their lot.

It was surprising how easy it had been to use the opposition of the local churches against them. Fernandez was no Machiavellian genius, by any stretch of the imagination, so he was more surprised than any. When the temple took over a church property, somehow sold cheap to them because the church owners did not want a different denomination to get it, there was an outcry.

“Come and see for yourselves.”, was the only comment the High Archon had said to a local reporter.

The mystery did the rest.

Fernandez fed some more wood into the twin braziers, a wildly flickering light radiating into the temple. The congregants fell silent as they stood and faced him. He rose his arms and began to chant in ancient languages terrible and forgotten by most of humanity. Todd Pinkers, right on cue, began to play soulful, ethereal notes on his synthesiser. The High Archon's voice fell into its harmonious rhythm, soothing and calming the spirits and hearts of the group. Worming its way into their psyches and souls. Fernandez could feel his own portals open up to the other side and to those who would greet them that night.

He felt it more than saw anything. A chill that pierced through his heart. It was real. It was physical. He felt a finger of ice touch the skin above his heart and push its way through to his spine, on a slight angle. It touched the spinal column and Fernandez went rigid. His arms straightened up at forty-five degrees. His face froze in its fixed stare of uncomprehending terror. His chant was strangled in the failure of his muscles, ice tearing up his spine into his head and face. He did not fall, but remained a statue. The congregation stopped and stared at him. Todd kept playing.

At the rear of the temple, next to the double doors, Fernandez saw it. A dark shadow with dark skin, looking at him with cold, blue eyes. Its bony, blackened fingers were outstretched making odd signs in the air. Its unnaturally long face was pointed straight at the bound High Archon. The dark robes hid the rest of the abomination that everyone else appeared ignorant of.

Twin flames leapt at Fernandez, one from each of the braziers. Tongues of fire touched and caressed his legs. Soon, his own robes were alight. He felt nothing. He soon choked to get some air into his lungs, but the fire sucked all the oxygen away for itself. Fernandez's tongue danced in and out of his mouth in a desperate bid for air. Nothing came. His lungs raged and howled their protest, silent to all but the High Archon.

The dark visitor stood and looked at Fernandez, right into his eyes. Despite the shimmering haze from the fire, those pits of ice were clear and sharp. The visitor made one last gesture and exited the temple. Fernandez could not even cry out.

He packed up his pens and planning book, put them in his satchel and sat down at his desk. He caught a whiff of the hours-old coffee that was still sitting on his desk. Reid picked up the mug, took a sniff and, with a shrug, sipped a little of the cold liquid. It was always good, but it did nothing to stave of the hunger pains.

Reid caught a glimpse of one of the junior teachers waiting for her ride. He felt the pains a little more intensely. Downing the rest of the coffee, he walked out to chat with Faith Gilmore. She was wearing a pair of tight, black slacks with a floral print blouse. Her dark hair and bright blue eyes lit up when she turned and saw Reid approach. He had always been nice to her. “Your lift late?”, Reid asked, glancing up and down the street outside the school.

“Yeah, my flatmate isn't the most punctual person around.”, Faith replied.

“Like some of our kids, huh?”, Reid commented drawing a laugh from the much younger woman. “Why don't we keep watch from my class? We can see right to the gate from there.”

“Sure. Got to be better than here.”

“I even have crappy coffee, if you like.”

“Sounds delish.”, Faith smiled as she followed Reid back to his classroom.

Reid dragged a chair from the nearby staffroom for Faith and they settled down with fresh, warm mugs.

“New flatmate might be useful.”, Reid said, smiling around his mug.

“Yeah, but she has her good points.”, Faith smiled.

“That's something, I guess.”, Reid said in mock seriousness.

Faith laughed lightly, a pleasant sound.

“It's been a rough day today, hasn't it?”, Faith said. “Actually, this week.”

“You're right. It's been weird.”, Reid watched her closely.

Faith slouched into the chair and closed her eyes as she breathed deeply, enjoying the aroma of the coffee. Her breathing evened out and deepened as she relaxed and let the week's stress leave her body.

Reid stood up quietly. He glided to stand behind Faith and started to gently massage her shoulders.

“What th...oh, that is good!”, Faith whispered, a protest choked by the soothing relaxation suffusing her body.

****

“Have you seen Faith Gilmore around?”, asked a worried looking woman in her beat up old Volvo, stopped outside the gate of her friend's school. Her green eyes exuded fear and stress about her friend.

“Can't say as I have. I haven't seen her since last class, sorry.”, a sympathetic Reid replied.

“If you see her, ask her to call Gayle, could you?”

“Of course.”

Gayle pulled away from the curb to continue her search. Reid watched the rear of the Volvo vanish down the street. The hunger pains were gone.

©2023, Bryan Beal

For some authors, indie writers whose livelihoods depend on exposure and readership, that barrier to moving away from Twitter is an even bigger challenge to consider. They realistically stand to lose a significant chunk of sales if they do what I have done. This is something to consider before labelling them in the same group as supposed fascists.

Some who use such labels will have no ethical issues with buying from Amazon, owned by Jeff Bezos, who I would bet good money is no better role-model than Musk.

So, should you, as a writer, dump Twitter? You are not going to like this answer, but here is my opinion: it is entirely up to you. If you choose to use Twitter and can put up with Musk's little games, then why not? Do not listen to the nay-sayers who say you are going to get flooded with neo-Nazi shyte. That may have been their experience, but it does not have to be so.

On Twitter, like in the fediverse, curate your feed wisely. Start by choosing your interests carefully on sign-up. Follow the authors who are part of the Writing Community (use that hashtag) and jump onto some of the writing hashtags that are popular there. Be willing to pro-actively and pre-emptively block the idiots. As an exmaple, I block all porn that I find anywhere, including perverts who try to follow me.

Twitter is still useful. So, why am I not there? I have a personal belief and conviction in the vision of the Internet that the fediverse represents. That is, a group of people who gather around shared ideals or just because they like each other in free communities.

If you are going to join Twitter, then be active about your presence there and use it to filter what you do not wish to see. If you are on Mastodon or anywhere else in the fediverse, you are probably do that anyhow. If you're a writer, then think carefully before writing Twitter off as a cesspit of right-wing fanaticism. There are some wonderful authors who are still active there.

#Opinion