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Historical Fiction Speculative


“Yeah, this is Professor Mullins. Frank Mullins.” It’s not every day that a professor of anthropology gets a ‘mayday’ call from the engineers at M.I.T., so you want to make sure that it’s you they really want. It turns out it is. When they ask you if you’re familiar with ‘Lucy’, you reply, “One of the most significant archaeological finds in modern history? I should think so.”


Lucy is a set of fossilized remains discovered in Ethiopia in the mid-seventies, by a group of anthropologists, so exuberant at their discovery, they gave her a name at the ensuing celebration. Since then, she has become more widely recognized than the people who found her, never-the-less, the name stuck.


The voice on the phone sounds rushed, he doesn’t even bother to introduce himself. “What we have done,” he says, “is to lift her memories directly from traces of her DNA, culled from microscopic fragments still preserved within her fossilized bones.”


‘Impossible’, you think, but say nothing.


“How it works is beyond my ability to explain to you right now, but you will feel like you’re there, in her head, in her world. Are you interested?”


“Are you kidding?” You ask.


“No,” the voice says, “Not at all. We tested it ourselves, decoded various fragments, and they’re authentic memories, but we’re not anthropologists. We need a more informed set of observers and, let’s be clear, there’s no physical risk involved, and you’re not the only expert we called.”


“You’re serious,” you manage to say.


“Completely. It’ll be like your brain is going three-million years back in time, but your body will be safe and sound right here with us the entire time.”


You hang up the phone, a car picks you up ten minutes later, you sign a few waivers, undergo a brief medical exam, and a part of you is still wondering if this is some elaborate television prank. You mention this fear to one of the technicians, who politely ignores you.


But an engineer who overhears your question comes over and introduces himself, and thanks you for your willingness to help. You recognize the voice as that of the man who called you. “Take a good look around, Dr. Mullins. Does this look like a prank to you?” He almost has to shout.


You take a moment to scan your surroundings, as he suggests. The pre-fabricated aluminum building is new, sturdy, galvanized. I-beams gleam under the klieg lights. It’s noisy too. Large metal panels cover fans and evaporators that are humming at full capacity. High-voltage cables crisscross the floor. This is no prank. If it was, it would be a very expensive one.


“The reason we brought you in, Doctor, is…”


“Just call me Frank,” you say. “There’s no need to be formal.”


“Good,” he says. “The reason we brought you in, besides your credentials…” he rips your nametag off, writes the name Frank on a new one, and sticks it to your shirt, “…is because we only get one crack at these memories. We can only play them once, and there is no ‘ree-cord’ button.” He pats your nametag for good measure. “You get what I’m saying?”


He can tell by the look on your face that you don’t get it. “We can only read the data…” He stops and starts over. “We divide the data into two streams, the audio goes to the A.I. for real time translation, the visual feed goes through the quantum analyzer. Well we’re getting the A.I.’s version of the audio, but the Q-burger over there can’t keep up with the sheer volume of visual data, so we’re getting none of the optical output. However, we found, curiously enough, that if we put a human being in the output loop, with some assistance, we can confirm the accuracy of the A.I.’s translation, and ‘see’ most of the optical data as well. But,” he held up a finger, “we can only read the data once.”


The stoic physicist standing nearby adds, “It’s as though the circuit doesn’t work until we plug someone’s head into one of the sockets.”


You sort the information rapidly. Hardware obstacles aside, they’re destroying the data as they read it, and it can’t be recorded or played back ever again. Should you be surprised? It makes you wonder, ‘What’s the rush?’


As if reading your thoughts the engineer says, “You’re wondering what’s the rush, right?” You nod. “It’s the old Humpty-dumpty deal. Once this stuff is exposed to anything, it begins to deteriorate, and I mean anything, it’s beyond fragile. We had no idea what we were going to get, so, while we’ll be better prepared the next time we’re allowed to pulverize one of ‘Lucy’s’ bones, for now, time is of the essence.”


He escorts you to the VR module, a large stationary capsule containing a couch, speakers, and elaborate head-gear and goggles. “We’ve all tried it, and you feel like you’re there. It’s very realistic. At least it was to us. Your vitals will be monitored and you’ll be debriefed immediately after the memory is exhausted or thirty-minutes, whichever comes first. Thirty minutes of detail is a lot more than most people can remember, so pay attention to what you see and what you hear.”


As you climb into the module he says, “One more thing, the density of the memory varies. It may seem like a week or a month, or twenty-five minutes—you could get multiple memories. We just don’t know. But keep this in the back of your mind, we pull you out in thirty-minutes.”


As they help you place the headset over your eyes, the only thing you can think to say is, “Three-million years?”


“Three-point-one-five-seven, more or less.”


But are these actual memories, or…”


“Well, I don’t know what else they could be.” He flips a couple of switches. “There’s a fifth base within the nucleotide, it’s as simple as that. But the method we’re using is oddly similar to how we read DVD’s. Except in this case, what we needed was a 360-degree laser. Unfortunately, there was no such thing.” He smiles. “Until now. Ready?”


“I guess…”



***



I remember…long after sunset, my mother and I still awake, sprawled upon a large tilted rock, gazing at the sweep of star-dust in the night sky. When I was little, mother told me those little lights were just like the moon, only further away. My brudders scoffed, but it sounded reasonable to me.


My attention is drawn to a light breeze, which carries the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle, as well as charcoal and wildebeest. A nearby stream murmurs in the background while various insects chirp and flicker all around. The insects are a sentinel. They grow quiet from time to time, but if they stay quiet, something is wrong.


The plaintive howl of a dog-beast touches me inside. It shares my isolation. In moments like this, I feel more respect for that hair-raising beast than I do for my own brothers, mean and stupid as they are.


“I can climb trees as well as they can—almost.” I tell her. “My arms are long and my hands are strong. I can streak across the fields on two legs, leap across ten-foot creeks, snatch small prey from their nests before they take alarm. Why does Fadher treat me like an outcast? Does he wish to spoil my chance to make union or reach mutherhood?” We were forbidden to use ‘the talk’ for now, so I speak with my hands, with one feeble snarl to convey my distress.


“I could survive on my own if I wanted. None of my brothers could do that, they have to hunt in packs—like dogs,” I tell her.


Mother shakes her head and sighs, like she always does when I fuss. She’s a bit like a cow. And then a nut bounces off my head. I glance her way and see that she’s glaring at me, in an un-cow-like manner.


The nut didn’t hurt, but I rub the spot anyway. Message received. I could survive on my own, but I flourish with the clan. The flying nut she has thrown is tasty and rich for young muscles, yet mother procures the nuts, not me. I know not where or how she finds them, and that is all the explanation needed from her, by me.


We both know why I am shunned, but mother refuses to speak of it. I am more comfortable on two legs then I am on four. I suppose that makes me, in the eyes of some, malformed, but not in any obvious or hideous way. Except my feet.


I’ve given much thought to how I might discuss the subject with mother: I’m such a poor copy of Fadher, who seems much better at thinking, hunting and climbing trees than I’ll ever be, but he can’t run like me. A shaman of indeterminate origin passed through our camp several seasons before and he showed my brudders tools. Fadher was disinterested, but even mother could see the sense of it. The vines we use to tie things together is a tool. But the shaman’s tools were sharp, and hard. He walked upright, but only spoke with his hands. Despite Fadher’s reticence the rest of the clan plied him with meat, bowls of fresh greens that Mother has been guarding for weeks, and all the gush (sic) of course.


We had a feast on the eve of Shaman’s departure and Fadher, after a truly successful hunt, gorged with food, drink and confidence, rose to make a toast, but fell back on his butt. He’s not comfortable on two legs like I am. Mother said he was lucky he didn’t fall face-forward into the fire. But we also think he may have broken something, he’s been cross and grumpy for many full moons, and still is.


That unfortunate event caused him to forbid the rest of us, meaning me, from rising on their hind legs until further notice, so I do it in spite of him, everywhere he isn’t. My brothers have better balance than Fadher too, but they have no desire to imitate or encourage me.


I smell smoke and find myself climbing halfway up a crooked, half-dead pine tree. A quick scan of the horizon reveals scores of camp and hearth fires. It is as I suspected, our destination is a Gathering.


My anticipation is tempered with grief and reluctance. Gatherings take place on ‘the plains.’ A vast, flat expanse of land with scarce few bushes or trees, but abundant game and as many fearsome carnivores as one could hope to attract. (Let alone represent in any artificial fashion.) I expect there will be much feasting and bragging if other clans are as successful as we have been these past few seasons.


I cannot resist the recollection of a former Gathering, many seasons past, when one of my infant brothers was carried off by a single determined cat. Not the big-toothed cat that we hunt for sport, a smaller, quicker, mottled thing: desperately persistent and cunning. It grabbed him by the throat and dragged him into the brush without a sound. I can still see it when I close my eyes. I was no bigger than he was, and that’s when I found my voice.


Mother told me to find a mate who can do talk. “You’re ripe,” she says, but I’m not sure her advice is wise, let alone possible. Most mature males do not talk, they listen and understand, but disdain the actual practice of making sounds for speech. “How can I tell which ‘mute man’ talks the most, mother?”


I come to my senses lying on the ground, face up, rubbing my jaw. Fadher had gathered the clan together to remind us of the dangers in these festive events, and I suggested that meeting on the plain was stupid as we lost the advantage of the trees for tracking prey or sighting predators. For my insightful outburst I received a fist against my jaw from brother Larj. The scolding he got for that did not seem to hurt him much.


Normally we follow the game on their seasonal migrations, forming parallel trails that leave lasting scars on the land with our encampments, unlike the herds and beasts, who graze on the grasses and then move on. We should think that the passing of all those hooves would change the land forever, but three full moons pass, and the grass has returned, as high and as green as before. My Fadher calls it a miracle, my mother says ‘it is the way of things. The Great Mother is wiser than the wisest man.’ (Then we giggle for a bit.) Gatherings are the only time that we deviate from this trail.


I’m not sure why I’ve been led to this massive tent and invited to sit behind my family.


Upon our arrival to the Gathering, only two individuals from double-hands of clans favored their hind legs, and they were quietly shunned by all but a few enlightened (and irreproachable) seniors in our midst. I immediately fell in with these other two outcasts, and our status became the subject of much unwelcome debate. Most clan leaders are mature and steadfast, but there are always a few young, brash hominids who wish to prove their competence by resembling fools.


A small group of juveniles brought the issue to a head, in their own half-witless way, and my Fadher rose up on his hind legs and addressed the leader of this small group, with both signing and speech. (I didn’t even know he could talk.) “You and your ‘not even’ a clan will cease insulting ‘even’ my limited intelligence. I would no more banish my dowater for her posture than I would banish you from our kinship for your big, ugly, disgusting nose.” Then he sat down.


There was great consternation at this remark, but even more laughter. Once the laughter subsided, it was generally established that since there were great differences among us, to be different was normal. I was never so proud to be his dowater as I was in that moment, though he scarce looked in my direction.


I don’t know where I passed the previous evening, but I rose at dawn today to find a young lioness in our midst, she was fearsome and stealthy—so I raised the alarm and three hands worth of young hunters came stumbling out of their huts, cornering the poor beast with a dozen spears, but the cat got away without a scratch. Every projectile missed its mark.


TRANSCRIPTION ERROR:

THE PROGRAM WILL RESUME NOW:


We’ve been in this clearing before, it’s filled with spongy moss and giant clover, a two-minute sprint from camp. My oldest, most trusted brother watches over us from a tree. He looks bored and hardly moves, but he’s very wary, and alert, for our sakes. “I’m going to have a baby,” I tell my mother.


“I know,” she says. We both cry for a while, then she pulls me close and cradles my head in her arms, twirling a lock of my hair. “I knew you would be different.” She whispers. “I always knew.”


I sit up. “Why? Why do you say that?”


“It’s the way that you hold your head up,” she says.


“I don’t hold my head up, mother, that’s just where it is.”


“Oh, I know, but you leave it there. That’s what makes you different."


I do not find her comment satisfying. I don’t know where else I should put my head than where it is. Perhaps she’s referring to my height, when I am ‘standing.’


Our clan has changed much since the last few Gatherings. Fadher often speaks with mother now, but to no one else, and all four brothers mated and sired children. Two like me, and two unlike me. Again, it caused some consternation, but a lot more laughter. The shaman visits often and lives…


Mother interrupts my thoughts to tell me, “The Dawn is what I named you, dowater, I think it suits you well.”


“Then why don’t you ever call me that?”


“You don’t get your name until you reach motherhood, you know that.”


I do. I just forgot for a moment.



***



You feel fingers groping your head and scalp. A seal of air seems to break as someone removes the goggles from your eyes. A blast of warm, stale air hits you in the face as two arms pull you from the couch and lead you to the debriefing room. You take a seat in a featureless, all-white cubicle, cameras are already rolling, recorders are on, a notepad and pen is shoved into your hands for good measure. “Tell us what you remember, as quickly as you can.”


“Well, for one thing,” you begin, “her name was not Lucy.”

January 18, 2025 02:33

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5 comments

Laurel Hanson
22:35 Jan 26, 2025

Great story. Fantastic concept. Partway through, I was wondering how the heck you could end it within the confines of the 3000 words. Got to say, I did not see that coming. Genius.

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Mary Bendickson
23:13 Jan 21, 2025

Totally unique.

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Ken Cartisano
11:51 Jan 22, 2025

Thanks Mary.

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Mary Butler
23:41 Jan 18, 2025

Your story is an absolute marvel, blending speculative science with a deeply human (and pre-human!) narrative that feels profoundly real. I loved the line, “My brudders scoffed, but it sounded reasonable to me,” because it captures such a timeless, relatable sibling dynamic—equal parts skepticism and understated belief—even in a completely unfamiliar setting. The shifts between the immersive, ancient memories and the modern scientific experiment are seamless, and you’ve created a truly compelling and unique experience. What an imaginative, ...

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Ken Cartisano
09:57 Jan 22, 2025

Thank you very much, Mary, for taking the time to read my story and the wonderful and insightful review you posted.

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