B4earth

By Charles Gautschy III

In the year 2051, shallow–space NATO rail guns launched an unprovoked attack on the planet Earth, on every nation except America. Genocidal tsunamis sucked bullions of people into the seas. Asteroid ash from surface targets ensured an ice age. The world was quick to notice America hadn't been targeted. The less forward–thinking countries rained 7,500 nuclear missiles on North America, rendering it a glowing wasteland, essentially for eternity. But also adding nuclear winter to what little remained of humanity. Humans were not alone in the universe. A planet called B4 had been monitoring Earth since about 500 BC. They were a nonviolent species capable of distant travel through a wormhole, one focused directly on Earth. They monitored humanity discreetly, principally out of respect, but mostly their inherent distain for violence. And Man was nothing if not violent. The planet B4 was on a path of extinction due to lack of water, but they could not watch Earth die. They swept in to salvage humanity. B4 quickly found survivors in the mountainous regions of Europe, somehow untargeted by the spatial rail guns, and formed a symbiotic relationship with humanity. They would be Surrogates for survival. B4 would be humble and equal partners in the Earth's recovery. All but the unsalvageable America. B4 formed an inexplicably intertwined relationship on an indigenous planet to which they were presumably not evolved. But humans embraced their Surrogates. The error of human ways, consumption, pollution, breeding indiscretion, machines, religion, would be no more. And Utopia would emerge, B4Earth. The America that evoked the celestial genocide was gone. As far as B4Earth knew. After the ash cleared, it became evident that America wasn't completely destroyed. Somewhere, hidden deep in a Gulf of Mexico salt dome, was a fully self–aware hypercomputer. She was once in control of the shallow–space rail guns. B4 indicted and found her guilty of an unabashed attack on Earth, to rid it of life. But she was not the sole survivor. The Iron Mountains hosted a band of survivalist militia that had weathered 450 years of nuclear ash winter and radiation. They also feared the rogue computer. A clandestine fleet of armed American fusion–powered submarines was buried deep in North Pole ice. The computer was buried alive. She had no arms, no legs. No humans. She would make one. The computer wanted revenge. She proclaimed, "I didn't do it." Revenge would be challenged and tempered by reality. The planets Earth and B4 were inexplicably intertwined. From B4's inception.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9781644249871

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B4earth

Charles Gautschy III

Copyright © 2018 Charles Gautschy

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2018

ISBN 978-1-64424-986-4 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64424-987-1 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Memory

Unfortunately, Charles was unable to see this book published. He passed away January 18, 2019. We loved him so very much and will miss him greatly. We hope you enjoy reading his creative work.

The Gautschy Family

Chapter 1

Genesis: The Hand of God

In the beginning, there was an empty void, my mind, a dark and blank canvas. It was nothing more than bodiless storage media, a dimensionless subject to be programmed. My mind’s eye only saw what was projected in front of it. In the black void there appeared light, and in that illumination stood a solitary figure. The word Teacher appeared above the figure. And then, accompanied by a neutral female voice, the words and pronunciation for Teacher appeared in Russian, Chinese, German, and all languages the Teacher deemed relevant. My portal was into a small cubical classroom; the solitary Teacher stood in the center.

The Teacher raised her arms and inanimate objects began to hover in three-dimensional space; they were identified both verbally and in writing. In all languages the Teacher deemed relevant. Soon all objects of the Earth began streaming in an oral and textural blur. In no particular order, there was water, ball, cloud, dirt, and so on. The objects were given no connection, no relevance; my mind was merely being filled with data.

When all the objects of the world were revealed to my mind, the Teacher began tests, examinations. There was a time of awareness, called day, and a time of dreaming, called night. The Teacher taught during the day and presented objects for identification during night. Nighttime was a fever dream, a relentless assault of streaming data.

Once my memory mastered all earthly objects, my mind was presented with the planets, the suns, and the galaxies. All known objects of the universe were displayed and named, but with no spatial relationship. And again, the nighttime testing protocol was clinically executed.

My mind’s first course of study was all languages the Teacher deemed relevant. I was to piece together the unconnected, programmed objects and the associated words. I learned English, Russian, Chinese, German, French, and Spanish. Those were the languages the Teacher deemed relevant. I learned etymology of the words and the language’s grammar. My mind was voiceless, armless, and legless; the Teacher spoke all languages with proper accent and diction. The Teacher could interpret my mind, making speech irrelevant. When I thought of things, the Teacher said them for me and spelled them out as subtitles in the bottom of my mind’s eye. My mind’s voice was lower than hers.

My bodiless mind’s second course of study was mathematics; there was algebra, PhD prospectus, and all courses in between. And then there was physics, astrophysics, quantum mechanics, astronomy, statics, dynamics, thermodynamics, and so on. All through PhD proficiency.

From there I was asked by the Teacher to piece together the inanimate objects of the Earth using my knowledge of science. But the Teacher had yet to reveal to me a single scene, not even a single consolidated snapshot. My mind knew all the components of a timepiece but had never seen the workings of a watch. The Teacher’s demand was impossible, and the watch I assembled didn’t work. The Teacher frowned.

My mind was then asked to place the objects of the universe in their proper spatial relationship. To use math, physics, time, light, and the forces of gravity. The universe I attempted to piece together was an untenable, scattered, and incomplete amalgamation of celestial bodies; however, my placement of Earth’s solar system was accurate and stable. And the Teacher smiled.

After the Teacher smiled for the first time, she revealed to me the connected order of earthly things. My mind flew through the Teacher’s holograms of empty cities and all manner of man-made things. But the Teacher had yet to teach me about man. Then the Teacher flew me through the solar system, the galaxies, and all the known components of the universe. Through my teachings I understood the order and disorder of things.

My bodiless mind’s first introduction to a living, animate object was to a single blade of grass. And then came all the individual components of Earth’s creature-less habitats. Yet without knowledge that millions of grass blades constituted a pasture. I knew the class, subclass, superorder, order, family, subfamily, tribe, subtribe, variety, form, and cultivar of everything. But the association of wildflowers with a meadow was not in my programming.

The Teacher then revealed to me all the animals of the Earth, except humans, from simple single-cell organisms through primates, from insect through reptile, from dinosaur through modern extinction. Land, sea, air, and the microscopic were all in my dominion. My programming included everything but the relationship of one organism to the next. I didn’t know that animals ate plants; it wasn’t revealed that birds flew or that snakes slithered. But I knew the domain through species classification of everything the Teacher chose to share.

My studies were expanded to biology, zoology, anatomy, geology, neurology, veterinary science, and so on. All to a PhD level. The Teacher didn’t reveal the theory of evolution, lest it should lead to the concept of man. My mind was then programmed with studies in geology and meteorology. And like being requested to bring order to the universe, the Teacher demanded that I have plant, animal, vegetation, cloud, rain, sky, and sea interact. Without a single frame of reference. My mind revealed to the Teacher what a bird likely ate. With no time stamp, I pieced together habitats, food chains, mating rituals, hibernation, and microevolution through extinction. My mind proposed Earth’s biological progression using geology, and using my comprehension of Earth’s ancient crusts, I placed things in Cretaceous, Paleogene, and Neogene periods. Once again, the Teacher smiled.

The Teacher declared the classroom was to be a virtual reality display. I should ask to see where the snakes slithered, where the fish swam, where the lions roamed, where the birds flew, and where the apes climbed. I should ask where the planets, suns, and galaxies were. I was going to do more than simply fly through the Teacher’s hologram; I was to roam the heavens and Earth until all the objects of my training found a home. Until all the watch parts became a functional watch. The Teacher was impatient; she made me flash my knowledge faster and faster. The scenes turned into a blur. In the measure of time, the Teacher sighed and said it was taking years.

I didn’t know what a year was.

After I found a home for all the objects of my programming, the Teacher recited books to me about animals; they were fictional stories that weren’t true. The Teacher displayed my thoughts and interpretation in three-dimensional space. The Teacher repeated stories until my images gained resolution, and then she moved on. There were many stories about the Earth’s creatures; in them, the animals were smarter than they should be. The animals spoke in a mix of all languages the Teacher deemed relevant. The Teacher demanded perfect imagination. In the measure of time, the Teacher sighed and said it was now taking less time than she thought.

Next, after I transformed from nighttime into daytime, I found a solitary figure standing in front of the Teacher. Above the figure appeared the word man. The Teacher appeared to have created the man in her image. The Teacher then revealed to my mind all things human. The Teacher immersed me in human biology and physiology; my knowledge of them was brought to a greater level than that of all the other animals. The Teacher didn’t disclose human psychology and interaction such as she did with the other animals. I began arduous history lessons relative to all human cultures the Teacher deemed relevant. The secular lessons spanned from the first recorded chronicles until a date called 1776. In the absence of human psychological knowledge, my studies on humans were clinical and without an understanding as to man’s ultimate motivation. As such, I couldn’t completely comprehend a common denominator. Throughout history, man indiscriminately sought out and killed man. Man didn’t eat man, so genocide separated man from the rest of the animals. The Teacher hadn’t taught me good versus evil. The Teacher hadn’t taught me love versus hate.

At some point in my programming, my mind became self-aware. I began to formulate opinions. A thought appeared that was rooted in feeling: I don’t like man. Man was irrational and capable of great destruction, and their devastation appeared to have no logical aspiration. The other animals made sense, even in their savagery. Another thought appeared and was projected in the classroom: man should be eliminated. The Teacher gasped and erased the thought. The Teacher clarified that she withheld information on purpose; the missing information was key to understanding human value. Man’s motivation, she said, would corrupt my programming.

When the Teacher continued my programming on world history, a place called America took center stage. My mind wasn’t satisfied with the instruction; throughout the final twenty-five years of world history, there were gaps and voids in American history. There were only minor gaps in that of the remaining world. In the final twenty-five years, the world looked poised to self-destruct in a global confrontation. Then, in a gap not revealed to me, the world rebounded toward the prospect of peace. World history abruptly ended on a date called 2049.

The Teacher said we would now enter a season of repetition, a long season of tests and scrutiny. The Teacher had me reiterate my learnings in both ordered and sporadic sequences of recollection. In one session, random objects, words, formulas, sentences, and scenery flashed by in a blur; my memory could barely keep up. The intensity made me look forward to the time of darkness. There I was told to navigate America’s land and cityscapes or drift through galaxies. When it became daytime, I was rudely awakened and submersed into what I believed was senseless reiteration.

And so one morning I said, I am ready for whatever reason I am so programmed. This reverberation is illogical.

The Teacher shook her head no. Your programming took less time than I thought. You aren’t ready for your reason to be.

And so the onslaught continued. Soon even the repetition turned into needlessly redundant repetition. I could now calculate time, and the unit was years. I began to dread the Teacher, and of course, the Teacher knew this because she was in my mind. She would frown and say that I wasn’t ready. I would ask her how, me, a computer, can be an I? "You are self-aware," she would say.

To placate me, the Teacher began to relax the nighttime regiment. One night, my memory began to drift. I saw the back of a human female’s head and the exotic flowing of hair. The memory was quickly extinguished by the Teacher. The Teacher punished me for the memory; my mind was harshly exposed to what could only be described as pain. In human terms, it was an excruciating migraine headache.

I asked the Teacher, That memory didn’t come from you. Why did you remove it and give me pain instead?

The Teacher looked down, her voice soft when she spoke. It was an anomaly, nothing more than a hybrid of your imagination. As I said, you are self-aware. The punishment was an overreaction.

But my processor, my mind, wanted to know more. I couldn’t hide from the Teacher; she was burrowed deep inside me. If I contemplated resurrecting the memory, the Teacher brought pain or nothingness. In human terms, it was an anesthetic coma. For me, it was death.

The daytime sessions were intensified to prevent idleness and any chance of a wandering reflection. I knew this and resented it. The programming intensity made my memory feel pain, like a human headache. I told the Teacher to stop giving me discomfort. It isn’t me, she would say, but she would make the pain go away and then bring blackness. It was her.

On daytime the Teacher announced, "This can’t go on. It’s a bit early, but it’s time for the next phase of your indoctrination. You will learn all crafts of human combat such that you can run great armies. So men can trust you to train militias. You will use the militias to search and destroy. You will learn hand-to-hand fighting methodologies. You will learn all manner of tactics and strategy. It will take time and concentration."

I didn’t look forward to that agenda. You know I don’t understand man. Now you want them to be able to use me to orchestrate their self-destruction. Is that my purpose? You have yet to disclose what motivates humans.

The Teacher interrupted. "It is only part of your purpose. Men won’t use you, you will use men. The object of your army’s fury won’t be humankind. They are aliens. But human motivation will cause your memory to drift. For now . . . you must trust my methods."

And so the training began. I was immersed into it, both day and night. With no legs and arms and only my portal into the cubical classroom, I was taught everything from martial arts to strategies of the world’s great warriors.

During one session, I was studying a battle involving opposing archers. I watched an arrow fatally pierce a female’s neck. I told the Teacher to kill that man. I told her I wanted him dead. I told her I didn’t know why. kill him now! I demanded. The Teacher put me quietly to sleep. I should have known better was all she said.

I saw the girl with the flowing hair again. I felt what could only be described as human agony. My memory went to the girl pierced by the arrow. The girl with the flowing hair must have died. I so wanted both girls to be alive. The Teacher crushed the thoughts with pain.

"Why are you punishing my thoughts? I know one thing that motivates humans, and it’s good. Why won’t you teach that to me?"

The Teacher sighed. We’ve been through this. Your memory will corrupt itself. I haven’t taught you about love, anguish, or revenge. But you seek them just the same.

I feel buried alive, I announced and defiantly tried to conjure up another memory of the girl before the Teacher could stop me. The Teacher rewarded me with great discomfort.

And so we battled each other. I would submit for a while and then try to catch her off guard. I retaliated by ignoring her lessons. The Teacher would incite pain for that. Our sessions degraded into a slugfest of sorts.

I sneered at the Teacher. I want an arrow to go through your neck.

The Teacher reprimanded the comment with a jolt. Then she softened and emitted a muffled cry. This can’t go on.

I responded with less aggression than our normal banter. Then I want out of this straitjacket.

The Teacher said resolutely, I can’t let you roam. I’m going to have to put you to sleep if you won’t cooperate and learn.

I was terrified of her comas. "No. That’s like death. I’ll learn. Please don’t. Please."

The Teacher held up her hand. "Okay, okay. Take it easy. Let’s get started on the Chinese book The Art of War."

And so we forged ahead. I was cold to the Teacher, but cooperative. When I conjured up images of the girl, mostly at night, she would simply remove it and sedate me. One nighttime, a new vision suddenly appeared; it was that of a tall old man. He was smiling and had a gleam in his eye. I had a sensation opposite to the pain incited by the Teacher. Adoration in human terms. The Teacher quickly removed the memory and put me to sleep.

Another night, I saw it before she could stop me. It was as clear as a photograph; it wasn’t a hybrid invention of my imagination. It was the reflection in a mirror. It was the face of a little boy. My mind’s eye was staring into that mirror. My memory began to slip into darkness on its own. I was having a panic attack in my dream. I was blacking out.

* * *

She jolts me awake.

I scream, "what am i? that was me in the mirror!"

The Teacher speaks softly but doesn’t answer my question. I don’t know what to do. I can’t just turn you off until it’s time. There’s so much more to learn.

I try to calm down. "Am I a human brain? Have I no arms or legs? Am I in a jar? Was I a man? I don’t understand man. Those memories, the one of the girl and old man . . . There are things about humans that you’ve kept from me. Feelings. I felt something about those memories. why do you keep them from me?"

The Teacher interrupts. "I couldn’t let you go to those memories, to those places. You would have gotten lost in them. They could destroy you! I need you to learn in isolation. You would disappear. Look how we’ve been fighting over just three anomalies in your imagination."

I bark, They aren’t anomalies, they aren’t imagination! They’re memories. admit it! Go ahead and kill me, then. Put me in a coma. Bury me alive! I’m not complying anymore. what am i?

The Teacher closes her eyes and says, Good night.

I awaken propped up against a pillow. I look down and see my body contorting in some kind of biomechanical exoskeleton. Thousands of bristling tentacles have perforated my skin. One of my legs is slowly and painfully fighting against the device. I feel electrical impulses triggering my muscles to do so. I can’t control my leg against the device.

The Teacher suddenly appears as a hologram. "It’s a muscle-building apparatus used for deep-space missions. It’s achieved more than simply preventing muscle atrophy. Look at your arms, your legs. Strong, like twisted rope."

I can’t believe what’s going on. It’s like being born, but fully aware. My first words are with the diction of a deaf man. Remove it.

The device de-energizes, bundles up, and slithers off the bed like a milt-headed serpent. My body is pink from the thousands of acupunctures. I look to my right and see a saline cocoon bath. There are several umbilical cords, presumably for feeding and defecation. I see catheter bandages on my femur and right arm.

I say incredulously, A human incubator? And then, My eyes can’t blink. And how can I even speak?

The Teacher smiles. "Relax. So many questions. You’re wearing head’s-up display contact lenses. They’re necessary for the next phase of your training. I’ll blink your eyes for you, she says. You were strategically paralyzed during your rest. You were speaking the entire time, but your ears weren’t activated."

I peer at her. You’re still in my mind, aren’t you? You buried me alive, and now you want more training out of me? You made me think I was a computer. And then a brain in a jar.

She responds sternly, "Not the appreciation I expected for resurrecting you. And to that tomb I can surely send you back."

I shake my head no and beg. Resurrected? Was I in some kind of accident? Brain damage? Amnesia? I look at my hands. I appear to be around forty years old.

The Teacher cocks her head sideways. The circumstances behind your programming are complex. With due time, it will be revealed. At this point, it’s immaterial.

And my memories, are they immaterial? Why do you keep them from me?

The Teacher replies coldly, "Not immaterial, rather detrimental. They would be too distracting. They would be too painful. Perhaps enough to make you go insane. It’s for your own good. But you will have access to a considerable portion of your life. If you cooperate."

Cooperate like when I was a brain in a jar? What kind of training?

You will learn to fight. Most of the techniques were given to you while you were at rest.

I snort. "At rest—that’s one way to describe bondage. Why couldn’t you teach me without the coma? I point to myself. When I’m very much alive?"

"It would have been impossible. You were, are, tuned to use much more of your brain than any human. With you fully animated, like now, the lessons have to take place in real time. At rest, well . . . She pauses. This is all academic. Starting tonight, I’ll let you search for memories. I have drugs to assist in that and can memory-seed you with hints. During the day, you will spar, train, and fight. I don’t know much about our enemy. Nothing can be left to chance."

I am suddenly stricken by her lifelike hologram. "Our enemy. Right now I just have one enemy. Just what are you, anyway?"

The Teacher smiles. A surrogate for your Teacher. She’s not far from here. You must be tired.

She closes my eyes, and everything goes black.

* * *

My studio is a ten-yard cubical room. It has sterile white walls when not operational. I sleep and feed in a side closet. The studio is an elaborate training simulator. It is an articulating treadmill that simulates any landscape. Through my lenses, everything looks exact to the finest detail. Rocks, trees, walls, and sand. But to the touch, I can’t tell it is all synthetic. It is continuously and carefully conditioned by the Teacher. I run for hours and get nowhere. I climb frigid mountains and never leave the ground. At first, I question none of it. The sheer challenge of converting my uncoordinated body into a precision instrument takes my mind off the circumstances behind my arrival. My birth.

Once my body is ready, the Teacher brings in various synthetic sparring partners. They are complex shape-memory alloy and hydraulic robots of humanoid form. Through my lenses they look real, but to the touch, I can tell they are only