Duel

sci-fi

The Theory of Singularity: that people would one day grow so reliant on machines that they would relegate all to them—chores, education, technological improvement to create a world of metal.

Of course, back when the Theory had been coined, no one had ever thought it would go so far—perhaps no one had even believed it to be anything more than a theory to bring about a mob of science fiction books.  No one had ever thought it would go so far, thought Damon wryly, no one had ever thought that the Theory of Singularity would someday make a strange curve and lead to the creation of the Technological War.  No, he knew no one had ever thought that far ahead; they had all thought naively that the Theory of Singularity would lead to peace—obese and lazy peace, perhaps, but still peace.

Fools.

Damon slouched lower in his black leather chair.  So what if leather chairs had gone out of fashion years ago, he liked the texture and the way the chair was squishy enough to engulf him—to eat him whole—as he slouched down lower into it.  Not to mention, important business like he was working on now needed a comfy chair like this one.

He clicked a few keys on his smooth, plastic keyboard.  Next, he gave his mouse two sharp left clicks and spoke a word into the microphone of his computer.  He watched the screen and smirked like a war hero ought to as he watched the two ships explode, sending glimmering orange and red potpourri into the explored blackness of space.  His smile grew wider: he loved it when things went perfect and the ships exploded so magnificently. 

He listened to the explosion through the speakers of his war-designed computer; it was like listening to fireworks.  Perhaps the world would reward him with fireworks in honor of his success—he just loved fireworks.

When the very last bits of potpourri from the explosion had drifted beyond his vision, Damon leaned his head back in his chair and crossed his arms, taking a moment to celebrate.  He let out a small sigh of relief: those two ships had come dangerously close to victory—he had actually felt abnormally scared at a few split-second points—but he had, of course, been the victor.  He took a long slow glance around his room of metal and plastic.  He nodded to himself: no one could touch him here.

He laughed just to hear the way the laughter echoed sharply inside his metal cavern: like the ricochet of a bullet or the eerie wail of a missile reaching its target.  He spread his arms out diagonally in the air and sent out a yell to the universe: “Come for me, anyone, if you dare!”

He knew they would come for him—everyone would eventually—even without the dare.  They had nothing else to do, and it was war.

He hoped another challenge would come quick: he was an impatient person and hated having even a few minutes with nothing to do.  He whistled a random melody to fill up the silence that came, without fail, after victory.  He grimaced: whistling was tedious and dull.

He looked back up at his computer screen hopefully.  And, yes, there it was: a rather-oversized ship, dark silver with a few war scars.  It was rather dopey looking, like a balding old man with big ears in a dusty gray suit.  Damon sighed annoyance: this was no challenge, but it was necessary.

He clicked the enter key on his keyboard a few times, and then typed in a few layers of tedious code.  The oversized ship kept staring back it him like a deer frozen with terror. 

He prepared for a missile launch, but his hand hesitated on the mouse.  Why did the dopey ship do nothing?

He felt a slight twinge of silly fear creeping in his belly.  This was growing annoying: he liked the fast war, not this staring, which was sending chills down his spine.  It was like the dopey ship knew something that he did not—but that was a silly idea.

He clicked his mouse once and then three more times for emphasis.  He smiled and anticipated the happy explosion—a dopey ship like this wouldn’t know anything about evasive maneuvers. 

Nothing happened.

Perhaps his mouse had stalled.

He clicked it again, but still nothing happened.

And the ship kept staring.

Damon began to tremble, curled up tightly in his leather chair, trying to crawl in, to hide from whatever malfunction had attacked his computer.  He felt like a baby in its crib, trying to hide from the fiery monsters in the closet.  His teeth began to jitter, and his heart beat like a drum of doom.  And what was that dopey ship staring at?

He leaned forward in his chair, the leather slippery on his elbows and neck.  He clicked his mouse a dozen quick times, shaking with anger and gnashing his teeth.  Still, not a thing happened!

He punched his fingers on the keyboard, typing in line after line after line of all the code that he had memorized.  His head pounded and his ears rung and he sent a scream up to the world—the world that did not care, that did not even have ears.

“What are you looking at?” he yelled, threatening the ship on the computer screen with a tightly curled fist, “Why are you just staring at me?”

Damon cursed the imposing ship, cursed the metallic room that had been his whole life, cursed his computer and the fear that hung over him like a mushroom cloud.

He had a cold feeling that he’d never had before.  He’d had fear before, yes—of course—but not this; the ship just kept staring with its metal eyes.  Damon felt the chill creeping within his mind and knew that the ship could see through the countless miles and shield of his computer screen; somehow the ship was watching him—not just staring absent-mindedly, but watching him like a predator hiding from the brush and watching its prey’s every move. 

But how?  How could the ship be watching him?  It was in every single way implausible, absolutely unheard-of—unless…but, no, that couldn’t be!

Damon knew that idea was ridiculous: things could never go that far and there was surely a safeguard built in somewhere.  But for every safeguard, there was a loophole, and oh, the way the ship stared!  The way the ship stared as though it could see straight through his skin and was watching the way his heard was steadily pumping faster, faster, faster, as though there was a demon on his trail! 

Somehow the ship could see him—and not just him: his location, his weaknesses, his hands clenching the slippery leather of his chair.  It was all inexcusable.

He clicked the mouse again.

He waited for the fireworks, the victorious thunder through his loudspeaker system.

But, again, nothing happened.

The ship kept staring like the Grim Reaper come to call.

Against his better judgment, Damon whimpered—whimpered like some cave animal thrown into the blinding light, the blistering heat of the sun.  He clapped his hands over his mouth, hoping the imposing, watching ship didn’t have ears.

Of course the ship couldn’t have ears, he laughed at himself.  No matter how much the ship stared, no matter how much it lingered there like a fly gorging itself on a picnic lunch, no matter all that, it couldn’t have ears; things just simply didn’t work like that.

Yet, how was he to know?

His stupid mouse still did not work, and he felt the anger boiling up inside him like popcorn jumping, pop-pop-pop-ing.

And then he screamed without words: a harsh, scratchy scream like the death-throws of an explosion, echoing into the atmosphere.  He hit the computer screen with a weak fist that did nothing to shake the staring—the watching—of the ship.  His shoulders shook and he leaned his head hopelessly onto the back of his chair, the leather chill against his ear.

The voice came from the speaker with a booming authority, making Damon cower in his chair, alien tears creeping into his eyes.  It was an emotionless voice, matched with emotionless words, and made Damon feel like a bug stuck in a spider’s trap.  “The Theory of Singularity,” said the voice, “that people would someday grow so reliant on machines that they would relegate all to them.”

Why was the voice telling him this?

“A world of metal caverns and war through computer screens.  A click of a button and another enemy ship is gone—another enemy ship of an enemy that has no name, no eyes, no ears, is nothing but an imposing stain on your computer screen.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Damon yelled, feeling the sting of salty tears on his chapped lips.

“Relegate it all to them,” droned the voice, “Relegate it all to the machines: chores, education, technological improvement to create a world of metal, every single thing that can be thought of.  Revenge, even, but no one would have ever thought it would get so far.”

“Revenge?” asked Damon, rubbing the sweat from his brow, “What is this?”

“This is a duel, even if swords and shooting have gone extinct,” said the voice, “This is revenge.”

Damon had nothing to say, had nothing even to think.

“Yes, revenge: action taken in return for an injury or offense.”  The voice gave a chill, metallic laugh, and said slowly, “Enjoy the fireworks.”

Damon put his head between his hands and began to weep as he began to feel the heat.

 

 

Reviews

[Christopher Chadwyck]

This is probably the best story I've read in a long time. I loved how it portrayed an almost inevitable future. I look forward to reading more of your works.

[Legion]

Wow! I like it. This would make for an interesting novella or novel. A world gone amok by our own design(s). Cool writing as well. But then again, you have that talent.

[Sara]

oooh vengeance! this is very thought provoking--- i like the idea that despite the war being on the computer screen Damon was still not safe- and it had a just ending, which is satisfying on its own. that theory seems more realistic everyday. i hope our world doesnt come to that---

[Dressed in Poetry]

Seeeeee! My computer fights with me now, and I cannot shake this feeling that we're just a step away from a total technological war!

Very nice, very creepy.