StevenPeck

Steven L. Peck is Associate Professor in the Biology Department of Brigham Young University where he teaches The History and Philosophy of Biology and Bioethics. Creative works include three novels. The magical realism novel, 'The Scholar of Moab,' published by Torrey House Press was named Association of Mormon Literature's best novel of 2011 and was a Montaigne Medal Finalist. His existential horror, 'A Short Stay in Hell,' published by Strange Violin Editions is currently being made into a full-length feature film by Wandering/Cut Films, written and directed by David Spaltro and slated for release in Dec 2017. Of his collection of poetry, called Incorrect Astronomy (Aldrich Press), poet Pattiann Rogers said, "The poetry in this book is factually beautiful and accurate, often witty, often profound, often touching, and rich with originality." This collection includes his 2011 Science Fiction Poetry Association's Rhysling Award nominated poem 'The Five Known Sutras of Mechanical Man.' Other creative works include publications in Abyss & Apex, Analog, Bellowing Ark, Daily Science Fiction, Dialogue, Every Day Fiction, Irreantum, Jabberwocky Magazine, Lissette's Tales of the Imagination, Nature Futures, Pedestal Magazine, Red Rock Review, Silver Blade, Tales of the Talisman, Victorian Violet Press, Warp and Weave, and many other journals.

Steven L. Peck is Associate Professor in the Biology Department of Brigham Young University where he teaches The History and Philosophy of Biology and Bioethics. Creative works include three novels. The magical realism novel, 'The Scholar of Moab,' published by Torrey House Press was named Association of Mormon Literature's best novel of 2011 and was a Montaigne Medal Finalist. His existential horror, 'A Short Stay in Hell,' published by Strange Violin Editions is currently being made into a full-length feature film by Wandering/Cut Films, written and directed by David Spaltro and slated for release in Dec 2017. Of his collection of poetry, called Incorrect Astronomy (Aldrich Press), poet Pattiann Rogers said, "The poetry in this book is factually beautiful and accurate, often witty, often profound, often touching, and rich with originality." This collection includes his 2011 Science Fiction Poetry Association's Rhysling Award nominated poem 'The Five Known Sutras of Mechanical Man.' Other creative works include publications in Abyss & Apex, Analog, Bellowing Ark, Daily Science Fiction, Dialogue, Every Day Fiction, Irreantum, Jabberwocky Magazine, Lissette's Tales of the Imagination, Nature Futures, Pedestal Magazine, Red Rock Review, Silver Blade, Tales of the Talisman, Victorian Violet Press, Warp and Weave, and many other journals.

Incomplete Slaughter

The Capekean teachers (named after the ancient Earth writer Karl Capek who coined the term ‘robots’ in his 1920 play R.U.R), were herding the students into the glade. It was late afternoon and the air was gravid. Still. Oppressive. Not even an insect dared mount a buzzing flight in this muffled wet heat. The sky’s blue seemed vast and watchful brooding over the landing site as if it were waiting for something to start. The turquoise sky was without the whisper of a cloud—except for the four slowly dispersing vapor trails of the Syndicate ships that had burned through the atmosphere to the planet nearly forty minutes ago.

Admiral Kosk sighed. Why was he the one called to do this? Why do this at all? Orders or not he could not keep the word ‘why?’ from repeatedly bubbling into his skull. He paced back and forth. Angry. Jawing his cigar as he repeatedly consulted his qnet communication channels. He looked at the gathering teachers and reminded himself they were not human, that they were machines, and that no matter how closely they imitated sentience they were not—so said all the prophets. It must be true. Right?


He knew this bewitching planet well. He had gone to school here, no, more than that, he had been raised here from age six to twelve. Taught by these teachers. He had played ‘Conic Raider and Primus Settler’ with this best friend Zad in the woods ringing the large meadow in which they had just landed. He had floated down the nearby river Neflon on an air filled donut and floated high above its forests in hot air balloons while studying canopy ecology in its equatorial rainforests. His fondest memories had all happened here—maybe the most carefree and happy time of his life.

His mind instantly jumped when he and his little friend Jinx had first kissed in this very glade. Was that really over forty-five years ago? Much had passed since. He looked at the gathered students; the younger ones were taking it in stride, chatting among themselves, but the older ones looked confused and perturbed. They had never seen the military land here. Ever. They had to suspect something was up.

The Admiral uplinked onto the military bands and checked the time. This was taking too long. The suzerain should be here already and several cohorts of children were still missing, likely on field excursions. It was not winter, so none should be off exploring the southern hemisphere’s thousands of miles of beaches. If they were, it would take hours to round them up. He checked the time again. There was really no hurry, but even so, he wanted this to be over as soon as possible. It was not pleasant duty. Indeed, ugly, horrid duty. He found himself almost sick in ways unbecoming of a soldier of the Dawkist Syndicate. Orders were orders, however. He would do what was asked. He always had.

Because he was an orthodox Dawkist, he did not have gene-integrated digital and conscious signaling enabled. He linked with his Second, “After the children are onboard, on my signal strike.”

“Any sign of possible resistance? Or is it as intelligence reported?”

The Admiral stared coldly at this officer as if he might shoot him.

He backed away chastened, “Right. They are just teachers.”

He looked across the field and saw Bla’a Kitra. When he was a student here, she had been his favorite teacher. If anyone could have convinced him that the prophets were wrong about Capeks lacking consciousness, it would have been her. His mind brought up memories he would have rather not visited at this moment. Recollections of when together, they—along with four others whose names have melted into the crevasses of lost memories—backpacked for two months through the Dakure Plain. They made themselves invisible for most of the trip with Hydoplex cloaks—walking among the giant predators and herd beasts that had evolved on this planet—a magical experience. At night, they would look at the stars scattered and burning through the striking expanse of the Nipmouse Nebula. It blazed orange and red across nearly the entire southern sky. The stories she would tell! Myths from the human past. Stories, she explained, provided meaning through the epochs of their cultural development on Earth. He remembered she discoursed on how humans had evolved on plains very much like this one; how the emergence of intelligence had then expanded into the Capekean event when artificial intelligence became actual intelligence and a new evolution emerged as technology reached into the quantum world and a new kind of sentience bubbled into existence. She spoke of how the heavens were now as full of thought as it is of stars.

All of it was heresy of course. The teachers were not supposed to talk about the rise of the Capeks to the Dawkist children, whose most fundamental belief was that humans were the only conscious beings in the universe. The Capeks were machines. Sophisticated machines, true, ones that mimicked real intelligence magnificently, but machines nevertheless. Sometimes, however, there in the dark, under stars, a kind of wonder took over making everything okay to talk about, as if all rules, ethics, norms, and such were set aside and imagination allowed to blaze into the firelight of speculation.

It was under that sky that he had almost abandoned Dawkism. How could this creature beside him speaking so clearly, so rationally—a being so filled with wonder and thought toying with the mysteries, not be conscious? The teachers rarely let their guard down like that, but it happened occasionally and people tolerated it. Most adults realized that at some point in their children’s lives they would be confronted with doubts about the singularity of consciousness and its provenance only in humans. Many fell into error. Tempted to think of the tick-tocks as sentient creatures. Although first created by humans, they had since evolved into myriad new forms with new capacities, abilities, and intelligences.

Of course, at a school taught and staffed by the human-mimic Capeks, it was inevitable that some students would be seduced by their clever mimicry of sentience. But the Dawkist council felt that those who did emerge unscathed were the stronger for it, hence sending their best and brightest children to the Academe-on-Schule. Like Admiral Kosk himself. If he remembered right, two of his four companions on that excursion had betrayed the Dawkist vision.