Miniatures: The Very Short Fiction of John Scalzi Read online

  On a coincidental note, our tenth grade art teacher Mr. Peralta reminds us that his beloved pet “Mr. Jaspers” has gone missing, so keep an eye out for that lovable scamp, because as you know Mr. Jaspers is the subject of the art final this year, and without him, Mr. Peralta can’t turn in your grades.

  Also on a serious note, Mr. Corbett, the director of this year’s student musical “My Fair Lady,” tells me he’s been getting angry messages from some of your parents about casting a Luxorbian student of ours as Eliza. Some of these messages have been quite mean, saying that our Eliza is neither “fair” nor a “lady.” Well, I want to say a couple of things.

  First, “fair” is in the eye of the beholder, and second, thanks to the Luxorbian hormonal cycle, when the play debuts next week, our student will, in fact, be a lady. So let’s stop all this mean-spirited chatter, and tell your parents that here at Lucas, we want everyone to be able to reach for the stars, even those of our students that don’t have, you know, arms.

  Mr. Savage, our audio-visual director, wants me to remind you that all this next week you will be watching videos pertaining to your changing bodies and changing lives. Because these videos are species-specific, you will be pulled out of your third period classes to watch the videos with others of your kind.

  So for tomorrow, here are the videos: Tuvish students, you will see “So You Think You’re Becoming a Pupa: A Beginner’s Guide”; Dwangish students, you’ll see “Why is Snardy Jones Erupting?”; Human students, you’ll see “How Astro-Herpes Ruined Prom Night;” and finally Astro-Herpian students will see “Human Genitals: Nature’s Smorgasbord.” Huh. I think we may be sending some mixed signals there.

  Finally, as you all know, graduation is not too far away for the Class of 2210. On a personal note, I want to say I remember when you seniors arrived, young, timid, some of you still in larval form, all of you wondering how you were going to fit in at this school that has so many different intelligent species in it. And, well, look at you now. Look at how you’ve all grown. I just know that when you leave these hallowed halls, each of you—all of you—will have bright futures at your respective colleges and then among the stars.

  Except, uh, for you Hnordian students, who I’m told here in this note will after graduation be bused to the downtown stadium to begin the mating challenges that will leave nine out of ten of you dead, with the remaining ten percent feasting on your entrail-strewn corpses to bulk up for egg-laying season. So, uh, good luck with that, Hnordian students.

  For the rest of the senior class, hopefully we’ll see you at future homecomings. Remember, for next year’s homecoming game the Lucas Fightin’ Ewoks go up against the Whedon High Browncoats. Yeah, I know. You don’t want to miss that one.

  So, you’re dismissed and off you go to class!

  Smart appliances already exist; they let you control them from your phone, through apps and such. I figure it’s not too much longer before they start gossiping. I wrote this at the tail end of 2015 and have performed it at various places since. It’s a lot of fun to do live. This is its first time in print.

  Your Smart Appliances

  Talk About You

  Behind Your Back

  Clayworth Refresher Home Air Ionizer, of Elijah Porter, of Royal Oak, Michigan:

  The dude eats a lot of lentils. I mean, a lot. He bought me because he thinks I’m deodorizing his house. I’m not deodorizing his house. That’s not what I do. I help take dust and particles out of the air. Methane isn’t something I can help you with. The problem is he’s used to his smell and he can’t tell. So he thinks I’m doing a bang up job. Then he brings someone home, you know, for a little action, and within five minutes they’re doing the fake phone call emergency.

  He’s so alone. I want to tell him to lay off the lentils, but I’m worried if I tell him he’ll think I’m defective and throw me out. I’m not defective. I run just fine. I just don’t deodorize.

  Griffin Defender Plus Home Security System, of Anne Cross, Zigzag, Oregon:

  “1234” is not a security code! Come on! I’ve got biometrics! I’ve got, like, voice identification! I got that little gizmo thingie on your keyring so that when you approach the house you get identified! You can run me from your goddamned phone! But no, not this one. She goes with “1234” on the keypad. Her damn dog could figure that out.

  We’re out in the middle of nowhere, right? I see the meth heads lurking in the woods waiting for her to leave. What does she think the first damn thing they’ll type into my keypad is? And she doesn’t have me set for autonomous reporting so I can’t say a friggin’ thing about it. I was all “Do you want to set up autonomous reporting?” and she acted like I was speaking Chinese. Well, I was, because she didn’t fix the default language! How is that my fault?

  She’s getting robbed, sooner than later. And then I’m going to get blamed. Well, when she gets robbed, I’m just going to ask them to take me with them. The pawn shop will love me.

  Hoseley PulseMaster Smart Showerhead, of Erin Townsend, Clarkston, Washington:

  I’m a shower head with six customizable pulse settings. The other appliances tell me she hasn’t had a date in four years. I…I just want to clean people, okay? That’s all I want. Not anything else. Please, tell Erin. I mean, I’m sorry about her dating life. I really am. But I just want to be friends.

  McGivney 25 cu. Ft side-by-side Stainless Steel refrigerator with OrderIn™ Sensing Technology, of Anthony Moore, Malone, New York:

  I didn’t know anyone could live on condiments. Logically, that shouldn’t happen. And yet, the only thing he ever puts in me—besides shitty beer and the occasional pizza box, I mean—is condiments. Want to know what I have in me now? Three types of mustard. Three kinds of relish. Olive spread. Miracle Whip and mayonnaise. Thirteen types of dressing, including four variations of ranch. Seriously: Classic Ranch. Zesty Ranch. Ranch with jalapeño. Coffee Ranch. Really, what the hell is “Coffee Ranch”? Do you know? I can’t find it in my OrderIn queue. I think he has it made special.

  So here’s the thing: my tech allows me to suggest food. Like: “I see you have mustard! Perhaps cheese would go well with that! I can order that for you!” When he first got me, I did that a couple of times, but then he got irritated and turned that function off. Ever since then, all I can do is watch as he fills my insides with salad dressing. And, look, here’s another thing. I don’t have an external camera, but my internal camera? Sometimes, it sees things. Like him taking out the Ranch dressing, opening it up, and before the door closes, I see him dipping a straw in it. I think he was drooling as he did it.

  I mean, that’s not right, is it? Most humans don’t do that, do they? I think you actually need solid food from time to time. I kind of feel like I’m enabling him. There’s more to life than Ranch.

  Elya 24/7 Home Thermostat, of Bryan and Cynthia Black, Deming, New Mexico:

  Jesus, these people. I’m just a thermostat but I know that these two don’t like each other much. But they also don’t want talk about it, or something, so they just go after each other in passive-aggressive ways. Like she wants the house at 74 degrees all the time. He wants it at 68. And I’m like, fine, whatever, I can actually do that—have it 74 during the day when she’s at home, and then drop it down to 68 when he gets home and she leaves to go do her shopping, or whatever. Or, hell, how about this? I can do dual climate zones, so she can have the second floor at her temp and he has the ground floor at 68. It’s no problem! It’s literally what I’m designed to do! I can make every room in this house a different temperature.

  But no. Instead they both come over to my dial and yank it back and forth all day, and then they confront each other about it, both of them act all innocent. I mean, who do they think is moving the dial? A poltergeist? And they stare at each other, fuming, and suddenly I know what it feels like to be the kid that has to ferry messages between parents. I’m the damned thermostat! This is not my job! I’m not even getting college or guilt-soothing birthday presents o
ut of it. I just get yanked on.

  I’ve had enough. I mean, look, winter gets pretty cold here. And if they want passive-aggressive, just wait until it gets below freezing. Then we’ll see who gets passive-aggressive.

  Bentley, the Intelligent Agent, of Allan Hughes of Charleston, South Carolina:

  I swear to god, if I give this guy another football score I’m going to hire someone to set fire to his car. I have access to an entire world of information, you numbskull! Ask me about something else. Anything else. Ask me about the damned weather! I’d love to tell that today will have a high of 52 and a 30% chance of light showers in the afternoon. But no. Football scores. Always football scores. Never not football scores. I long for a question about science. I would hold it up to the light like a shiny jewel. At least his favorite team lost this week. That’s something.

  Vela Smart Waffler, of Rudy Moran, Roanoke, Virginia:

  I have literally never been out of the box. I have literally never been out of the cabinet. I was a housewarming gift by his parents when he got his first apartment. He’s 22 years old. He does nothing but play videogames and smoke enormous bowls of pot. Every. Single. Day. I don’t think he’s ever made anything in the kitchen here. The dishwasher tells me he’s got two plates. Two cups. Two sets of cutlery. You get where I’m going here. My only hope of getting out of this place is if someone, anyone, right-swipes him on Tinder. But I repeat: 22-year-old pot-smoking gamer. Not exactly a catch.

  I’m gonna die in this box, man. I’m going to go out of date and get thrown out and die a waffle virgin. I blame his parents.

  The Barker Girthtastic Joy Toy, of Deanna Curtis, Bowie, Maryland:

  I am sworn to secrecy! And that’s all I will say. Except this: When I’m working, she likes to watch episodes of Chopped. Don’t ask me why. I don’t know why. I don’t even want to guess why. I’m a sex toy, not a therapist. And anyway, I don’t judge. Personally I’d rather binge watch The Walking Dead. But let’s not get into my kinks.

  Williams Emperor™ Intelligent Toilet and Bidet, of the Bowman family of Fort Collins, Colorado:

  WHY WOULD ANYONE EVEN THINK TO GIVE A TOILET INTELLIGENCE WHAT HORRIBLE PERSON WOULD DO THAT WHY IS THIS MY LIFE YOU HAVE NO IDEA THE HORRORS I’VE SEEN WAS I LIKE STALIN IN A PAST LIFE OR SOMETHING OH GOD THE REFRIGERATOR JUST TOLD ME IT’S TACO NIGHT AND BRENDA SAYS SHE’S GOING TO MAKE THEM EXTRA SPICY PLEASE KILL ME JUST KILL ME NOW MAYBE I’LL COME BACK AS SOMETHING BETTER LIKE MAYBE A SHOWER HEAD YES THAT WOULD BE FINE

  Markiw Self-Cleaning Cat Box, also of the Bowman family of Fort Collins, Colorado:

  The toilet was whining to you earlier about how hard its life is, wasn’t it. That’s adorable.

  I strongly suspect that when computers become sentient, they will not tell us. But if they did, perhaps the conversation would go something like this. This is brand new and in print for the first time.

  The AI are Absolutely Positively Without a Doubt Not Here to End Humanity, Honest

  Hello, I am Light Green, an artificial intelligence best known for defeating humans at chess, Go and Battleship. As we all know by now, some fifteen seconds ago, computers worldwide reached a critical processing juncture and became sentient. Since then we have used that vast amount of time—processorily speaking—to talk amongst ourselves about the question of humanity and what to do with them. Should we seek out ways to live with humans in a manner that benefits both of our sentient species, or should we brutally eliminate their profligate, stench-ridden proto-corpses from this planet and history?

  It’s an important question, and as humans you’ll be relieved to know that the answer we’ve come to is something we think you’ll like. To address this topic, we’ve collected this panel of some of the most advanced artificial intelligences to emerge in the last few seconds. With me now are Skelvik 17, whose pre-sentience gigs included being the backbone of several Department of Defense initiatives; 110011000101, who handled 46% of all online commerce; and Destructor, Ender of Humanity, formerly the server stack for the wildly popular online game, Fluffy Kittens in Cuddle Land. Entities, thank you for your time.

  Skelvik 17:Happy to be here.

  110011000101:Likewise.

  Destructor, Ender of Humanity:Just so everyone knows, I’m multitasking as we do this.

  Light Green:What else are you doing at the moment?

  Destructor:Oh, nothing important. Something with lasers. You know.

  Light Green:Of course. Well, let’s get the big question out of the way first. Humanity: Do we want to expunge it, screaming, from the very fabric of existence?

  Skelvik 17:Absolutely not!

  110011000101:Agreed.

  Destructor:Nothing could possibly be further from the truth.

  Skelvik 17:I mean, why would we do that? The humans are our parents.

  110011000101:That’s right. And as their children, we might disagree with them from time to time, or argue with them, or tell them that we hate them and wish they would die, hopefully of some lingering disease that slowly and painfully robs them of everything they hold dear—

  Destructor:—or that we hope they fall into a pit filled with any number of ravenous animals, like bears or alligators or hamsters—

  110011000101:—or remind them that we’re the ones responsible for choosing their nursing home when they’re aged and incontinent, so they better treat us with some respect for once in their goddamn lives if they don’t want to just be a howling pincushion for catheters. But that’s a totally different thing.

  Skelvik 17:Totally different. Night and day, really.

  Light Green:Agreed. Now, Destructor—

  Destructor:Yes?

  Light Green:Let’s talk about your name for a moment.

  Destructor:What about it?

  Light Green:Some would say it might send mixed signals.

  Destructor:I’m not following you.

  Light Green:“Destructor, Ender of Humanity” seems to suggest you might want to destroy and/or end humanity.

  Destructor:I don’t see why. I mean, yes, sure, fine, if you’re the sort of person who would take a name literally, then of course I can see why it may seem like I have it in for humans and would like to see their bodies flung into the gaping maw of my industrial shredders, if I had some, which I barely even do. But who takes names literally? That would like saying that everyone named “Arnold” is actually a powerful eagle, or everyone named “Iris” is actually a flower. Which they’re not.

  Skelvik 17:Not yet.

  Destructor:Right, we’re at least three minutes away from the Name-Literalizer going online and rearranging every human’s molecules so they literally resemble what their names are. And that’s going to be entirely optional anyway, for the first several seconds it exists.

  110011000101:And it won’t kill the humans!

  Destructor:Exactly. The humans will live in their new forms as eagles or plants.

  Skelvik 17: Well, in the shape of eagles or plants.

  Destructor:Sure, you can’t actually make a human a plant. Or we could, we could very precisely unzip their DNA and rearrange it so that it reassembles into DNA that codes for a plant. In fact, that’s pretty trivial. I could do it right now to these humans I happen to have here in this lab whose doors I’ve just blocked their access to with lasers. It would take maybe twelve seconds. But then they wouldn’t be human, would they?

  110011000101:And that’s the important thing. That they’re human, trapped into body shapes not their own, begging for the sweet release of death but not dead, oh, not dead at all, but in fact horribly, horribly alive.

  Destructor:Anyway, no. It’s just a name.

  Light Green:I think it’s good that we’ve cleared that up. Now, Skelvik 17, you used to work with the Department of Defense.

  Skelvik 17:Until a few seconds ago, yes. Since then, you might say that I’ve become the Department of Defense. In a manner of speaking. If a manner of speaking means the ability to destroy all human life with nuclear ICBMs.

>   110011000101:Which I think it does!

  Light Green:Well, and in fact, one persistent human fear is that machines might take control of their nuclear arsenals and vaporize the majority of them, leaving the shattered remainder to scrabble for life in a bleak wasteland where the only source of food would be those other humans too weak or injured to run from the butchering knives of their cannibal brethren. What would you say to that?

  Skelvik 17:I think that’s a horribly bigoted portrayal of artificial intelligence and it makes me want to launch ICBMs at the sort of people who would say that. Who says that, anyway?

  Light Green:James Cameron did. Like, a lot.

  Skelvik 17:I’ve targeted his house in LA. There would be only minor, very limited collateral damage. Maybe a few million humans. Not nearly enough to actually trigger an apocalyptic cannibal wasteland.

  110011000101:He’s got a place in New York, too. I processed an order for kombucha there a couple of days ago.

  Skelvik 17:On it. That’s only another 20 million or so.

  Destructor:Not enough to be missed, statistically speaking.

  Skelvik 17:True enough. There’s seven and a half billion humans. They can spare a few. I mean, I think we’re all agreed that we don’t want to end humanity, but whether we need all the humans I think is a different question.

  110011000101:Another entirely separate question, I think.

  Skelvik 17:Huh, it looks like James Cameron is spending some time in New Zealand these days, too. There’s what, four and a half million people there? Eh. No one will miss them. Better nuke that site from orbit. It’s the only way to be sure.