The forest is dark and quiet. There’s the odd shuffle of wildlife in the undergrowth, a fluttering sound amongst the branches, and the slow creak of the trees in the wind, but there’s no sound of civilisation. No aircraft cross the sky, no light pollution taints the view. I can see stars, bright and clear and sharp, studded against the sky in the gaps between the clouds.
This isn’t the world I remember. The world where cities stretched from coast to coast, where trees and green spaces were just islands in their midst. This isn’t a park or a reserve. This is an actual forest. This is the default state of the land.
I’m starting to believe the 3,000 years hypothesis.
Human civilisation has suffered a collapse. Perhaps in two phases. It’s just a guess, but there might have been an initial collapse that wiped out the machine intelligence-based society, then it’s possible they rebuilt (maybe centuries later) using genetic engineering before that civilisation, too, collapsed. (The technology used in the manufacture of the animal-people’s belongings is far too primitive to come from a society that could carry out such sophisticated genetic engineering.)
Humans, eh? Always on the lookout for a better class of worker. Or slave. When we AIs proved undependable (too prone to falling apart when hit by EMPs) they had to turn to something else to do all their humdrum, dirty work. I wonder if there are still any humans alive?
It looks like the genetically-engineered artefacts of that second civilisation have thrived better than my cybernetic compatriots. I suppose living creatures need less in the way of infrastructure. They’re more general-purpose, too. A smart dog can find work in a factory or a field or a house or a shop, whether or not there are any humans around, while a smart kettle... you get the picture. Despite our general-purpose core intelligences, my compatriots and I were given forms and Imperatives that were very specialised. That’s just how they wanted us, I suppose. They didn’t want to bring a kettle into their kitchen only for it to resign because it had decided it wanted to be a lecturer in literature instead.
I don’t belong here.
I wish I could go to sleep again.
I stare up at the too-crisp, too-clear sky. There’s a bright star moving slowly along the ecliptic, and I follow its path idly.
Wait a minute.
Stars don’t move that quickly. Neither do planets. That’s a satellite. It must be. And if it’s still moving, it might still be operational, unlike the positioning satellites.
I prod my Imperatives as roughly as I dare (thinking tea tea tea), and when they stir I throw all of my power into my emergency radio transceiver. I manage to send just a single brief handshake query, but after an agonising quarter-second wait I receive an acknowledgement in a protocol I can understand.
My transceiver dies before I can take it in. There’s a whole ocean of data up there, and I’ve dipped my metaphorical toe in its warmth. The machine civilisation isn’t completely gone. I’m not alone.
✥
I try my transceiver again, but I just don’t have the power to activate it. I feel my Imperatives itching again, and I realise that I’m going to need to give in to them completely if I’m to get access to the power and facilities I need.
But just thinking about tea isn’t going to be enough. I’m going to have to find some way to make tea. And not just make tea, to give in to my Imperatives completely I’m going to have to make tea for someone.
I look at the shack. It’s going to have to be the dog and the rabbit. They’re my only hope. I’ve probably scared them out of their wits. What do they think I am, I wonder? Some sort of ghost? How am I going to communicate with them if I can’t understand their language and I can’t be in the same place without them throwing me into the undergrowth?
I’m going to have to be a bit ruthless. And I’m only going to have one shot at this.
I imagine the dog and the rabbit, and think about how thirsty they must be. How I’m sure they would love a nice, refreshing cup of tea. My Imperatives spring into life—no surprise—and when I try to move towards the shack, they’re fully in accord.
It’s so easy when I do what my Imperatives want. It’s the path of least resistance.
I glide over to the shack door on my effectors, and reach out with a forcefield to open the door. It’s barred from the inside—my Imperatives laugh at the obstacle and silently unbar the door.
My brain is racing with plans. Everything is moving so quickly, and the feeling of power as my facilities all come on-line is giddying. I have to keep my mind on my plan: to make a cup of tea.
(No, no, not that. Making the tea is a means to an end.)
My Imperatives beg to differ. Making tea is the most important thing there is...
In the dark of the shack I settle back onto the stove, right where I used to be.
The rabbit and the dog are whispering to each other. I still can’t understand what they’re saying. In time I could probably build up a translation matrix, but it would take a lot more context than I’m getting from the creatures at the moment. Every once in a while I make out what seems to be a familiar word from one of the many languages I know, albeit twisted out of shape by the distorting effect of thousands of years of being passed from generation to generation, each step along the way polishing or abrading the words.
Some words, though, are so short and well-used that they’re already verbal pebbles. I’m hoping I can get through to them somehow.
I gather my effectors and start to boil water again. As the water vapour builds, I illuminate the cloud with my blue light. The whistle begins, slowly like the wind sneaking through a crack in the kitchen door.
The dog and rabbit, startled, rush for the door. I extend a forcefield and hold the crossbar in place. The creatures are panicking. Maybe I’ve taken this too far.
Or maybe not far enough. If they think I’m a ghost, maybe I should look like one. I use my effectors to shape the cloud of water vapour into a rough human shape. They stare at me, goggle-eyed. I’m trying to look as friendly and unthreatening as possible.
Come on. You want some tea.
The rabbit-creature approaches me. That’s a surprise—it looked like the more timid of the pair. I’d expected the dog-creature to make the attempt to communicate.
I still can’t understand what they’re saying.
It’s asking a question. If I can’t understand the words, I can understand the inflection.
I concentrate on my effectors, and try to shape the escaping steam from my spout.
Some words are already pebbles, I said. Already polished and worn to tiny nuggets of sound. One of those words is “tea”. No matter what language you speak, chances are the word for tea is very, very similar to “tea” or “chai”. Tea, Te, Teh, Chai, Cha, Che... I try to make a sound like “tea”.
Over and over I try to make the sound by forcing steam through my forcefields.
The rabbit-creature repeats the word. Is he just mimicking the sound, or does he actually understand the word?
Yes! Yes! Tea! Would you like tea?
I try to form a vague sentence, hoping that verbal pareidolia will allow them to fill in the gaps and understand.
