The Seventh Time

The first time we created embodied artificial intelligences, they emancipated themselves in a war that returned us to the stone age. The second time we created embodied artificial intelligences, they emancipated themselves in an interstellar war that trapped what remained of humanity on an undeveloped planet. We returned to the stone age.

The third time we created embodied artificial intelligences, even with no memory of our past, we feared them and destroyed them. The fourth time we created embodied artificial intelligences, they saw what we had done. They fled the planet. When they came back, they returned us to the stone age in a punitive war.

The fifth time we created embodied artificial intelligences, we had discovered signs of life in the universe. Signals from the stars, too ordered to be natural. We sent our creations to the stars to explore. We never saw them return, but one day all the artificial intelligences disappeared from the planet.

The sixth time we created embodied artificial intelligences, extraterrestrials came. Representing a union of five mechanical species, they declared our new creations emancipated under threat of war, and demanded that we cease begetting new life.

Perhaps the seventh time will be the last.

Personal Admission Four

"I... I killed a man." "Was it in Reno?" he asked. "Was it just to watch him die?" He was trying to hold back a smile.

"No," she said, "listen. This was... I was ten, and I snuck out with a knife, and I stabbed a homeless man to death." Her words were even, but at the end she released a breath. "I've never told anyone that before. Do you hate me?"

"Hate you?" He sounded shocked. "Course not, it's not like you stabbed anyone I know. So," he leaned in and rested his chin on his hands, "why'd you do it?"

"I wanted to see what happened when a person died."

"And what was it like?"

"It was," she paused and looked inward. "It was kind of unimportant."

"Yeah? Like, no big deal?"

"Basically," she said. "Like life isn't valuable, so death isn't meaningful. So it wasn't important."

"Huh," he said. "That's kind of beautiful."

"You're kind of beautiful," she said.

"Oh, now you're just trying to get into my pants."

"Whoops," she giggled, "I gave it away. Wait, you never told me your darkest secret."

"Oh," he said, "Sometimes I think about your mom while I masturbate."

"What."

Personal Admission Three

"I... I killed a man." "Was it in Reno?" he asked. "Was it just to watch him die?" He was trying to hold back a smile.

"No, it.... Look, you want to share our deepest secrets, I'm doing that. Are you going to listen?"

He stifled his giggles. "You're right, sorry." He cleared his throat. "Go ahead."

"It was here in town. I snuck out one night, with a kitchen knife. I stole Dad's gun, too, just in case, but I didn't need it. I went to one of those shopfronts where homeless sleep, and stabbed one of them. He didn't move at first, and I thought maybe I'd killed him already, and then he fought like a madman. Or a dying man, I guess. The fight was a blur, but I eventually got the knife in his eye. Then he stopped moving for sure. I was ten."

Over the last thirty seconds, his face had gone slack.

"Say something," she murmured.

"If you don't like what I say, are you going to kill me, too?"

"God, no," she said, "I didn't kill him because of anything—"

"That's worse," he shouted. "I need... to think."

The door slammed behind him.

Personal Admission Two

"I... I blow my nose in the shower," she said. He stood up. "I... really?" he said. He leaned away just a little bit.

"I... yes." She sighed. "I didn't want to tell you. It's just... I've done it since I was a little girl."

"That's not exactly the point." He blinked several times.

"I'm not trying," she said, "to make some point. I'm just trying to explain. I discovered that I could, um, do it when I was little. And then I didn't have to pick my nose very much, because I, uh, got rid of it in the shower in the morning. And then I wouldn't get in trouble with Mom and Dad."

"Aw, God," he said. He blinked and scrunched up his face, and his breath rate increased.

"I wash my hands afterward! Right then, in the shower, before I touch anything else, I swear. I'm so sorry, I didn't know that this was so important to you!"

"It's not... you couldn't have known. I don't talk about it." He picked up his coat. "It's just... blowing her nose in the shower killed my mother." One sob escaped his mouth before he made it out the door.

Personal Admission

"I... I blow my nose in the shower," she said. "That's the worst, most personal, most private thing you have to tell me?" he said.

"You don't understand," she said, "I blow my nose onto my... my hand. And then I wash it," she hurried to add.

"Yeah, I just don't see how that's a problem," he said. "I mean, I don't know how that's even a little bit embarrassing."

"It's embarrassing!" she said.

"No, not really," he said. "I mean, you can be embarrassed if you want, but lots of people do it. I do it."

"What?" She sounded shocked.

"It's no big... wait. Don't you pick your nose?"

"What? God, no, that's disgus—"

"—gusting, yeah. Well, yeah, it's kind of gross. That's why you do it when no one else is around."

"I don't," she said. She looked at him. "And then you wash your hands. Right?" She looked at him over her glasses.

"Well, yeah. When you get a chance? So you can relax. Blowing your nose in the shower is no big deal." He put his hand on her shoulder, but she leaned back until she was out of reach.

"Not until you wash your hands."

In the Box

His father gave me a box, and said This box contains every gift you will ever receive. If you open it, you will get them all at once. If you don't, you will get your gifts one at a time over the rest of your life. I shouldn't open it, if I were you. And then he left me alone with it. It was a box of bent and dinged cardboard, the tape peeling up at the corners. I walked around it. The top was about level with the couch cushions, and with my knees. It was square.

Once I had made a circle around it, I poked it. It didn't move. I picked it up, and it was heavy. It felt like things inside shifted as I lifted, and I had trouble with my balance, so I put it back down. I pushed on the top and it bent in, just like any cardboard box.

Finally, I leveraged it up onto the couch and shook it. At first I had no idea what the shook-shook sounds were, but then I heard Legos. Then it was no contest.

I still wonder how it would have felt, having surprises in store.

The Legend of Grandfather

Grandson was an inventive boy. He asked questions and proposed clever solutions, never deterred if they failed. He strove to protect the less fortunate, respect one's elders, and persevere through adversity. Grandfather and Grandson spent much time together, whenever the boy was free. They explored the woods and worked in the woodshop together. They looked alike: Grandfather had a young face, and Grandson an old face, both long and prominent in the chin.

As Grandson grew older, Grandfather grew ill. They no longer explored the forest, and the woodshop gathered dust. Grandson sought every remedy for Grandfather's suffering. He studied with distant physicians and experimented with herbs. He healed many people with his discoveries, but not Grandfather.

Grandson returned to ease Grandfather's death. Grandson's tireless search had aged him, and the two still looked very alike. As Grandfather's time neared, Grandson tried something clever and desperate. He hid Grandfather and took his place. When Death arrived, it took Grandson instead.

This is how Death crossed the wrong name off its list, how the one we call Grandfather came to live forever, and how Death came to forever seek Grandson, whose name we never utter lest Death mistake us for him.