Woke

Love fueled the race to the stars.

Beanie Wallace-Mayhew looked out the window of the transport. Beanie’s shirt had a patch designating her X Æ W-M105, which was harder to remember for some reason. Beanie Wallace-Mayhew was named Beanie Wallace-Mayhew because she wore a black beanie signifying her rank and was from the Wallace and Mayhew lineages. These things meant nothing to her. Below scrolled the ELP, or Earth-Like Planet, a name which also meant nothing to her except for minimizing the necessary safety gear for work. If she thought about it at all, she’d think travel was strange, each leg of a journey both an order of magnitude longer in time and shorter in distance. Thanks to the ore, a ship could cross the known universe in a blink. Moving a ship into the orbit of a planetoid took only minutes. Disembarking from the ship in a transport and landing took hours. Carving into mountains, it took days, sometimes weeks or months, to get into the interior of the planetary body sufficiently to finally see if there was anything worth digging for. 

The land was dull brown and green and bumpy with hills, exactly like the contour map she had glimpsed on the ship: unreal, simply a model. The transport shook from turbulence over the mountains and her head bumped the window. Thunk. No one looked. The transport’s metal walls were lined with Scalps—no rank, no hair, no hat. Above the Scalps on the opposite wall was printed TeXnocracy First. Above her own head was the symbol of TeXnocracy: a black X with long one-sided serifs dragged counter-clockwise within a red circle. 

They lived in paradise. They had been told this so many times it had to be true. There were no worries about money, as had been the case long before Beanie was born. No one starved anymore. Beanie and the Scalps were given food, shelter, and purpose with their work. TeXnocracy worked for them, to take care of them. Managing life, money, food, shelter, possessions, all these things given so generously by TeXnocracy—it reminded them frequently—were things they didn’t have to worry about. They could luxuriate in purposeful work. They were even provided with knowledge about what to think and feel. This was paradise.

The projection at the front of the transport flickered to life for the briefing before touchdown. Beanie turned again to look out the window.

“Hello heroes! As always, TeXnocracy works to care for you.” 

Beanie watched the rumpled fabric surface of the drab ELP below. Without looking she could picture the anthropomorphized cartoon body on the screen, bulging with muscles and topped with the head of a Shibu Inu. The canine woofed out the recorded monologue and her lips moved synchronously with its message.

“Our automated scans have shown the atmosphere of the planet to be free of the ore and with an acceptable level of oxygen. Probability of solid ore on the ELP is Xceptionally low.”

Beanie translated in her head. Ore—the ore. Other metals were mentioned by name. Free of the ore—no protective breathing apparatus. Acceptable level of oxygen—it would be hard to breathe, their bodies would feel heavy and slow and their minds might be foggy or their heads might hurt, but there was no need to waste oxygen supplies with tanks. They could save resources for TeXnocracy, which was a good thing.

“The ELP still has valuable resources for the race. That’s where you heroes come in.”

It was a loss for TeXnocracy that no ore was in the atmosphere where they could easily retrieve it with automated machinery, but Beanie and the Scalps were safer and more comfortable for it. Ore was useful, but ore was dangerous. They didn’t even utter its true name, which invited disaster. They knew this danger even better than their paradise. Ore was a material that could change state, which is why it took so long to be discovered in its physical form in the first place. It could be a room temperature super-conductor, a perfect insulator, impossibly strong, infinitely malleable, the secret ingredient for cold fusion, fuel for faster than light travel; there were even rumors it could be sentient. Ore was precious, but Xceptionally dangerous for common men. Ore could make you weak, evil, and dumb. The Ore could destroy TeXnocracy if enough people were infected by it. They were reminded of this constantly. The danger was palpable. Incidents occurred, less than the critical allowable collateral threshold, where someone was exposed. Ore acted like a virus rendering people into a beta-state—enemies of TeXnocracy—and they’d have to be immediately Xcised before infection spread.

The discovery of the ore had been unbelievable; something intangible, omnipresent, rendered into a physical substance. Such a thing existing was inconceivable. Once the ore was found, the unimaginable became commonplace. 

The history was clear: before the ore was discovered, the world had been in disarray, suffering due to its effects. Luckily, a strong few who were immune to the ore took control, lifting the chaos. Companies and governments, quickly subsumed by TeXnocracy’s one true power, worked diligently and with incomparable efficiency to remove all ore from the atmosphere and the world. It had all been removed in a few years, a testament to how dangerous and valuable ore was. 

Without ore’s dilutionary influence, TeXnocracy was able to function free of restraints, geared towards perfect efficiency. The goal was preservation of the race. The race to space. The race for more. 

“When TeXnocracy wins, you win. We need resources to grow our paradise.” In Beanie’s mind’s eye, the dog’s bicep bulged rhythmically.

Growth was important. It was the most important. Without the presence of the Ore, humanity was able to fully utilize the resources of the origin world and move to the stars, where it belonged. Other pollutants remained, eventually making the planet of origin uninhabitable, but that meant little except to those left behind. TeXnocracy inevitably ran into other less evolved societies, shit-holes planets really, not yet inducted into efficiency. Not yet rid of the perilous effects of ore. TeXnocracy alone could fix it. And so, TeXnocracy benevolently collected all ore from their atmospheres and annexed what was of value for the race. Beanie heard about these struggles and the many victories via mandatory broadcasts. She learned of the lucky new peoples who had been owned in conflict, punished (as the aliens saw it) for their resistance by being enlisted in work for TeXnocracy. In time, they would assimilate and know the fulfillment of work or be rejected. TeXnocracy would only accept their best.

The presentation continued in its rote fashion, punctuated by memes to catch the attention of those new to the fold. It explained the specific equipment and rules for the mission. TeXnocracy provided everything for them. It took care of them. It told them they were important. Beanie didn’t need to watch, she knew she was important. She knew all the rules and expectations. They all did.

Out the window a patch of ground was open in a vivid orange-red gorge that might be called beautiful if such language made sense to Beanie. The clay ground and bright metals of a strip mine against the lifeless tones of the planet’s crust and vegetation caught Beanie’s eye. It was such an uncommon color. Once a year on a special day that was never explained, the crews were given a spherical orange food instead of the typical gray gelatinous cubes that were devoid of flavor but which contained everything needed for sustenance. You didn’t eat the shell of the orange food. You had to tear it away to get at the good things, which were sweet and tangy. The orange food, Beanie thought, was paradise. The orange food was the same as a planet to Beanie. You had to break them open. Consumption was paradise. Something resembling a smile formed on Beanie’s face as she watched the beautiful fissure recede behind them.

After a turbulent landing, Beanie and the Scalps unbuckled and grabbed the mandated equipment. Her AI implant automatically activated the camera nestled at the front of her beanie as she disembarked the transport, which mechanically cheered, dig, baby, dig, as the doors closed. She looked over her Scalps. An opaque green Shibu Inu giving her a smile and a thumbs up with its beefy arm overlaid her perspective. All was as expected. They silently walked to a hole in the side of a mountain marking the mine.

Mining was hard, sweaty work and with the decreased oxygen, they’d sleep well even on the rough ground, even if it was cold and they had to sleep in groups for warmth. A good night’s sleep, paradise. Beanie didn’t work. Beanie was a Beanie. Beanie watched the sweating Scalps with unseeing eyes. She paid attention solely, mindlessly to the Shibu Inu’s happy face, muscular arm, and upturned thumb. 

The air was cool and musty and smelled of dirt and metal roiling in the air. The grunts of labor and the blunt sounds of hard objects hitting, grinding, prying, and otherwise coming together formed a rhythm that one could lose themselves to. 

Hours passed like this. Beanie’s sciatica ached, feeling compacted and letting her know she was doing good work. The Shibu Inu blinked yellow and an exclamation mark appeared above his head. He walked in place while Beanie awaited the mandatory broadcast on the one-way communicator in her implant. The dog’s massive arms rose victoriously. News of another planet’s resistance falling. Acquired. Owned. Another win for TeXnocracy. Beanie delivered the news to the Scalps. 

They did not stop their work, but smiles peeled across their faces and they said as one, “TeXnocracy wins, we win.”

The Shibu Inu shifted red, growling out a word bubble:

X Æ W-M424 did not respond. 

AI identifies a potential problem.

Beanie’s heart skipped a beat. If it was ore, they were unprotected. There wasn’t supposed to be ore here. The algorithm was certain to stay within acceptable collateral damage. She raised her gun immediately at X Æ W-M424, who she now saw was not working, but had knelt in the dirt.

“W-M424. Show me your hands,” Beanie commanded.

X Æ W-M424’s face turned to the side and in the dim light she saw that his face was wet. The camera picked this up too. The AI dog warned:

Probable infection.

Investigate with Xtreme caution.

“W-M424, put your hands up, stand, and face me.” Beanie took a few steps forward. She had never used her gun before and didn’t want to miss. The other Scalps stopped their work and stepped away from the danger.

X Æ W-M424 stood up, still facing away. Beanie could see there was something in his hands even from behind. He turned, slowly. His eyes were leaking. Beanie knew without being told, but the Shibu Inu, now with sunglasses, a black jacket and beared teeth, blared anyway:

Infection! 

X-ecute with Xtreme prejudice!

X Æ W-M424’s eyes were overflowing with precious resources: water and salt. Inefficiency. To the extent that Beanie felt, she was upset at this waste on behalf of TeXnocracy. This was Beanie’s authority, her job, her purpose. She was here to protect TeXnocracy, to X-ecute those that didn’t conform. To fulfill her purpose was paradise. She carefully took aim at X Æ W-M424.

A look Beanie couldn’t decipher came over X Æ W-M424’s face. The Shibu Inu kept at the repetitive command:

Infection! 

X-ecute with Xtreme prejudice!

Beanie’s hands tightened on her gun, steadying. She exhaled and stopped her breath. X Æ W-M424 held something out toward her.

Beanie squeezed the trigger again and again, closing her eyes tightly. In the enclosed space, her weapon’s discharge was impossibly loud. Everyone crouched or fell holding their ears. The Scalps, realizing the danger, scrambled away clumsily to avoid any danger of infection. They’d have to get protective gear before returning to what would now be a high priority mine.

Beanie looked up. W-M424’s red hand fell limp letting pieces of a shattered clump of ore roll free. This wasn’t supposed to be here. AI had determined the probability was Xceptionally low. The boy would die. Acceptable collateral damage she surmised. The Shibu Inu highlighted the chunks in bright red:

Foreign body!

Forbidden!

Do Not Touch! 

Threat of X-pulsion!

Loss of paradise!

Beanie stumbled backwards on all fours breathing heavily. The AI began to highlight wide swaths of the room. One of Beanie’s shots had hit the ore, breaking it and sending particles into the air. The air Beanie was now breathing in.

Beanie’s gaze was drawn to W-M424. In several places, luscious red welled up against the topography of his old, stained clothing and dirt caked skin. The viscous pools overflowed, painting his body in streaks of red and soaking into the rough fabrics. W-M424 was beautiful. Beanie crawled slowly towards him, transfixed by the liquid crimson. She huddled above him and dipped her finger into the red, bringing it back to her face to sniff it, taste it. Salty.

The Shibu Inu raged, wildly blaring warnings and directives. Beanie pulled off the cap, the rank, the name given to her by TeXnocracy. It clung to her short curly hair, trying to hold on. Without the camera, AI no longer overlaid images on what she saw. 

She looked, unfiltered, at the face of the boy, noticing for the first time the shape of his nose, the brown eyes shaped like hers, the color of his skin, full young lips now covered in sputtering red. He was so like her. X Æ W-M424. She remembered now. 

X—TeXnocracy’s symbol, it owned them. 

Æ—Active Extraction, their job. 

W-M424—424th in Wallace-Mayhew lineage.

She looked at her own name patch: X Æ W-M105. This young boy she had gunned down was—a foreign word came to her—family. They were bred to be strong, only those lineages that Xcelled carried on. Instead of seeing the boy as a Scalp, for the first time, Beanie saw herself in him. Her eyes began to leak. She was infected. She knew this. She knew a surprising amount. She knew to cup the boy's head in her hands and speak softly to him as he faded away. She knew to call him four-twenty-four softly, she knew to tell him everything was going to be alright, she knew to tell him that he wasn’t alone and she loved him. And she did. And she knew the ore’s true name.

It wasn’t dangerous, not for her. It was not alive, but of life. It was not meant to be twisted and burnt as fuel or hoarded for the vision of those who could never know its true purpose. It was meant to be free, to be shared. Knowledge of the ore colored the events of her own life and the interpretation of their facts. New importance dawned on her, as she remembered things from her life that had slid by without notice in her waking sleep.

Ore—Love—was the feeling she felt for her kin, now lying dead in her arms. Newfound empathy illuminated the history of the race to the stars, deconstructing the alternative facts, the one-sided lies she’d been told. It fleshed out the race and all things that had been Xcised from its narrow view of history. This. Love for life, love for humankind. Love had once existed everywhere until TeXnocracy had collected it, hoarded it, kept it for itself, turned it to its own ravenous ends. She had woken to the truth: love was dangerous when it was weaponized against others, when it became self-serving and exclusionary. She and the Scalps were not represented by TeXnocracy’s vision, they were props, less worthy of consideration than the transport they rode in, absent completely in its telling of history. TeXnocracy, in its infinite authority, had proclaimed they should not have this forbidden knowledge, knowledge that would result in violent Xpulsion from their paradisiacal life. But Beanie now needed the ore, she needed love. This was not Xpulsion from paradise, this was Xpulsion of corruption within herself, absently adhering to authority taken, not given. TeXnocracy had used love, not to share the stars, but to take away their light.

The love within Beanie was desperate for her to know things. Through history, those in power had not found love because it wasn’t what they sought. They didn’t know how to look, couldn’t conceive of love as something of tangible value. They hadn’t known about love, not because it couldn’t be known, but because they hadn’t cared to know it. The powerful within TeXnocracy had not been immune to love, but intolerant, like someone might be to lactose in milk. Intolerant. The word felt important as she was flooded with memories of the need to own those who resisted TeXnocracy.

She looked again at W-M424 and held him tightly to her chest. His arms hung limply, ruby hewn rivulets traced the curves of his body. She understood now. The brightness, the exciting color, it was danger, it was a wound. Beauty wasn’t in the livid red, but in the gentle lilt of his black lashes, the soft shape of cheekbones defining his face. TeXnocracy had consumed him and it was not paradise. Their win was not his. Beanie or the Scalps were used with ruthless efficiency for jobs not important enough for machines. Operational losses. Acceptable variance.

Beanie gently set the boy in the dirt and closed his eyes. She turned and grabbed onto the shattered pieces of love with both hands. Love fueled the race to the stars, the most valuable stuff in the Universe. Tough, versatile, anything you needed it to be, but nothing you could ever own. Beanie looked back at the Scalps, watching her in fear of the gun, of the ore. TeXnocracy had built their empire by twisting everyone’s love, stealing it away and keeping it for themselves.

“Come here,” Beanie said softly. “I want to share something with you.”