Past, Future

But were they my memories, or were they hers? Or, were they anybody's?

Past

 

lives are present lives with the Last Protomeckian. Ellie let the gentle breeze whisper through her hair, toss fine rosy tendrils about her face. The winds billowed out a loose-fit dress which sat a hair’s breadth over bare ankles, over bare feet which kneaded the grass below and came away stainless.

 

“It’s perfect,” she whispered, knowing that this world was finally all that she sought. A thousand enticing scents blended into a pleasant mosaic, and as she ran a hand through the open air it came away clean, with no disease, no dust, no death. It was perfect.

She remembered a distant fear, of a time in which she'd lain beneath a world of dust, of a weapon exploding mounds in a bid to find her. When was that?

Never. Not for her. The vibrant life beneath her told her she was in a living world of tranquility.

What was more, she heard Father's voice again! Where he was, it was impossible to know, but he might as well have been right beside her.

 

// - “ . . . Is nothing like the conversation two people can have. Do you think a machine can capture the shrug of a shoulder, or the meaning behind a dozen different frowns?”

 

“No,” Ellie spoke, her voice shattering the silence. “It just can’t.”

 

// - “No. It just can’t. Human beings didn’t make machines to be emotional, or to hold up a conversation; surely, you can see that.”

Another voice answered the first, a woman's voice. "Mother?" Ellie wondered, though she didn't fully believe that it was.

 

// - “Of course, but you can’t deny the convenience--”

 

// - “No, but that’s the thing! It’s convenient. Machines are convenient. They’re not people though. You tell me, can a machine feel a symphony? No, wait up, now! I didn’t ask if a machine could write a symphony. Certainly it’s not beyond their abilities, and they could probably write it just as well as, or better than, any human being alive today or who will ever be born. But can it feel what it writes? What is a machine’s muse? What makes it do what it does, except some abiding programming? It will continue to do the same thing, forever, until one of three things happens: either, it will break down, or it will glitch, or some thinking being - like a human - will come along and change its purpose. Machines can only do what it is they’re intended for. It’s human beings who can adapt, discuss, and do great things. Phasing them out only makes the world even deader.”

 

// - “That was quite a rant, Master Singer. Erm, have you ever heard tell--“

 

“Of a man named Samm Loery,” Ellie spoke again, completing the sentence.

 

// - “Of course.”

 

// - “I’ll make this short then, for the viewers’ sakes. It’s said that he set a challenge between himself and the automatic reaper, circa year one-seven-four-four-four, after the machine was said to revolutionize harvesting, removing the manual aspect of it almost entirely. Samm didn’t quite support this, and wanted to prove that, between man and machine, no comparison could truly be drawn. It was an odd sort of contest, and one which Samm won with great effort and sacrifice; it proved something very important to the world. Do you know what that is?”

 

// - “I don’t think you’ll side with me on this one, honorable speaker, but that should tell you something by itself. If you cared about the struggles a lot of us have to deal with. The story ended with Samm besting a machine, and man proving his mettle.”

 

“But that’s not the end of the story.” Ellie sat up on the grass, let her feet and the hem of her dress dip beneath the cool waters of the lake below, and began splashing a metronome in the water as she listened to the voices within her own Mind.

 

// - “But that’s not the end of the story, Master Singer. Yes, Samm Loery won the contest, but worked himself to death in the process. At the end of a week, Samm had managed to draw three acres of wheat, by working day and night to the harvester’s daily schedule. He slept for only an hour a day.

// - “I understand where you are going with this-”

 

// - “Please, sir. As I was saying, the harvester only managed two and three quarters, operated by two men who’d slept and rested each a third of his day. It needed to be cleaned, its blades sharpened and maintained, and it was prone to overheating, especially in the hot summer sun. About half-way through the fifth day, it finally broke down, as the operators tried to push it to compete with this single being. They lost five hours of sunlight trying to troubleshoot the prototype Meckia.

 

// - “Samm finished his final acre in stunning fashion; he raised his arms above his head, and collapsed from exhaustion. He died three days later.

 

// - “Man beat machine in that contest, but after the reaper was returned to operational status, and improved at that, it defeated the next ten opponents who tried to be the next Samm Loery. In all of those, machine beat man, and did so handily. It continued to prove its worth to the present day, becoming more and more effective, easing the lives of greater numbers of people.

// - “Now, now this is ridiculous! You cannot compare-”

// - “Pray, are you a Luddite, Mister Singer?

// - “Of course not! I love our country, but you misrepresent my argument-”

// - “I am sorry, but that's all the time we have for today. I thank you for appearing on our show today, but I’d like to address the viewers at this moment, if it pleases.

 

// - “There are a great number of times in history when fear ruled our lives, but it doesn’t have to. Fear of the unknown is almost as bad as fear of the known, but not quite; in Samm Loery’s days, for example, you could still have a vengeful God burn a village to the ground, or a sadistic devil possess a man and make him do the depraved things we now attribute to the capable psyche of a human being. Everything in this world is progress, and like Samm, you can stand in the way and be remembered as a hero of the people, or you can actually be a hero to the people. Develop a means by which we can reclaim all that we’ve lost, or develop something which can draw us into the future, and create a new sort of world, alive and well.

 

// - “Because the hero we heard nothing of in that story was named Tristen Diamond, and he was the man who crafted the automated reaper. Samm Loery fought it and won, and inspired thousands of us for the next hundred years, but Diamond’s tool fed billions of us for the next seven hundred. In this contest, we should be happy with the outcome, with what Diamond’s reaper could display to all others who challenged it. Life has improved, and with these Meckia, it will further improve. For all of the technophobia out there, there must always remain those willing to inspire change, or the world will return to the times where your disease is an incurable curse, your squalor a mandate from a Lord up high.

 

// - “Science, and scientific discoveries, are our only friends in a universe that doesn’t cater to us. It may actually want to kill us, as I mentioned earlier in the show. So we get nothing from not embracing science, and embracing discovery, and leaving behind antiquated notions like the ones shown here today. We can remain in the past, but that leaves only the past to look forward to; it leaves us alone in a universe of dust and memory.

// - “But that is all the time we have, folks. Remember that your country is the greatest nation on Earth, and we have our wonderful technology to thank for that. May we prosper ever more, now and into the future.”

 

Ellie stopped listening to these voices, voices which had heretofore existed only in her Mind. The silence of the world crushed in around her, stifling her, and she heaved several strained gasps, locked in fear.

 

Why is it not like that man’s story, in a living world of tranquility? Were things not supposed to be different?

 

She blinked once, and upon opening her eyes came to witness the

Future

world wherein dust flew in everywhich direction, swirling around violently. She could see through it, into a sky which lit the world a crimson-red through a sword-slash cut jagged along it. Father gleamed above her for a split-moment before the Dustorm shredded through him. Tornadic winds ripped the forlorn, depressed buildings apart like a thermonuclear bomb. The funnel approached.

 

She breathed slowly, feeling the winds change as they pressed against her back. The dust tilted suddenly, so that she sad in the midst of a tunnel which ran right beneath the crimson wound above. Everything brightened into red, except for one point very distant, a tiny blue beacon no larger than a pinprick.

// - "Just open your eyes. You'll see the truth soon enough."

 

She blinked and her feet felt the soaking moisture again, but kick this time they did not. She gripped green grass possessively, drew a huge breath of the living world as if the air would soon be gone. “This is what it means,” she spoke to the nothing and nobody. “This is perfect. So why don’t I like it?”

Author's Note

Please, tell me what you think, and let me know where I can improve. Deconstruct this chapter, and all of them, and find within the Good and the Bad. Comments and compliments are welcome, but I most welcome in-depth analyses, because only by discovering my strengths and shortcomings can I ever hope to replicate or overcome them.