HM Cuello
How Stephen King Destroyed the Universe
By the year 2500, scientists had developed an AI story-writing algorithm. They scanned and input every book ever written. In minutes, it could generate original stories on any chosen topic.
Due to budget cuts to staff, the two remaining scientists, Ricardo and Bea, were worried. Taking a break, they brainstormed ideas in their lab kitchen.
“I heard our funding’s getting cut even more,” Ricardo sighed, running his hands through his slicked-back hair. “The Committee thinks we’ve milked this project for all its worth. And I haven’t saved enough to retire.”
“Yeah, I heard,” Bea nodded. “We’ve been at it for, what, twenty-five years? I don’t even remember. And I can’t lose this job either—I’m living in a walkup with six strangers.”
“It felt like just yesterday we took the lift to this department,” Ricardo chuckled. “But I have an idea. You know how our funding dried up because of endless wars and civil unrest?”
Bea took a bite of her synthetic meat sandwich. “Yeah, dystopia is a pain in the butt. They can’t get those people under control…”
Ricardo cut her off. “You know. I read a best-selling book I scanned about a guy named Satoshi Nakamoto, the guy who invented Bitcoin. So, a crazy thought. What if there was a way to go back in time and we seed an author with stories that become bestsellers? We could take royalties and secure our funding.”
“That’s crazy enough to work!” Bea’s eyes lit up. “Hey, you know what? There’s a lab a few levels down where they claim to have developed time travel. I know the lead scientist there—Bob. We went through indoctrination together. Let’s go see him.”
Taking the lift down a few floors to meet Bob at the time-travel lab. While Bob gave them a tour, they devised a plan. Bob explained that strict rules governed the machine’s use. Time travel had been curtailed since the Hawking Incident, when a scientist who tried to make too many changes was stranded in the past, crippled, with no memory of what happened. The Committee wanted to avoid paradoxes and changes to the timeline. It was mandated to only make small changes in the past. The lab was guarded during the day to prevent tampering. Bob pointed out that the lab was empty and unguarded at night, offering a chance to bypass the restrictions. Bob gave one last warning “don’t answer the phone—nobody knows you’re here.”
They searched the historical archives and found a failed author named Jack Edwin King. According to historical records, King hung himself in a barn in Portland, Maine, in 1967, depressed over his unsold book. Their plan was simple: one of them would travel back to give Jack a polished book to sell. If it worked, they’d do it again, benefiting both Jack and themselves.
“Remember the rules,” Bea reminded. “Only one of us can go back. Don’t change too much. The other stays here to generate the stories.”
“I’ll go,” Ricardo volunteered. “I’ll find this Jack guy and ask about his book.”
Bob handed Ricardo a wearable eyeglass communication device. “You can send us messages and scan text. We’ll send back files you can print in that time period.”
Ricardo used the machine to travel to 1967, Portland, Maine, and set out to find Jack King. After a few days of asking around, he located him working as a janitor at an industrial laundry. At around 9:30 p.m., Ricardo walked past a security guard engrossed in a pulp novel. Ricardo noted the title: The Machine Stops by E. M. Forster.
He followed the sound of machinery. He looked around and spotted a pathetic-looking figure moving like a ghost engulfed in the steam, wafting from the floor trenches. He approached the man, who was mopping up soapy water near a leaking industrial washing machine.
Seeing the man's name tag, Ricardo asked, “Excuse me, are you Jack King?”
Jack, his thick glasses fogged from the humidity, looked up, slightly perturbed. “Ayuh. You’re an outsider, aren’t you? Never heard that accent before. Are you a bill collector?”
“I’m an outsider, yes, but not a bill collector,” Ricardo replied. “Call me an interested party.”
“Interested in what?” Jack asked as he pulled a handkerchief from the back pocket of his dirty overalls.
“Your book, of course,” Ricardo said matter-of-factly.
“Why?” Jack asked as he wiped his glasses, staring at his visitor with beady eyes.
“Because it has potential.”
Now that he had Jack’s attention, Ricardo asked for a copy of his latest book. Jack led him through a dingy tunnel to his locker and gingerly pulled out a tattered, yellowed manuscript titled Griselda.
“Careful, this book has seen more rejections than a one-legged blind man at the annual Sadie Hawkins dance.”
Ricardo took it. “Don't worry, I'll be respectful but honest.” He then scanned it with his eyeglass device and 8 minutes later handed it back.
A stunned Jack stared, “What in the Sam Hill was that? Are you an Evelyn Wood speed reader or something?”
“More like or something, but better you don’t ask, we value privacy.” Ricardo said. “I’ll get back to you. What time are you off shift?”
Jack, puzzled, answered, “I punch out at 11 p.m.”
“Okay, I’ll meet you in the parking lot at 11:05.”
As Ricardo scanned the book, it transmitted to Bea, who used the AI algorithm to refine it and sent a polished version back to Ricardo. At 10 p.m., Ricardo found a closed insurance office, slipped through its unlocked back door, and used a printer to download the revised manuscript.
At 11:05 p.m., Ricardo waited in the parking lot. Jack arrived on time.
Ricardo shared the results. “They sent the book back with some edits. First, the algorithm reports that this title won't do. Griselda just doesn’t roll off the tongue.”
Jack thought for a moment. “How about I change it to Wendy? That’s succinct enough, isn’t it?”
“Sounds like some derivative Peter Pan crap,” Ricardo laughed. We suggest Carrie. Our algorithm says it’s a better title.”
Jack, desperate to get published, concedes. “Okay, whatever gets it sold. So, what’s the deal?”
“We’ll feed you stories and books to publish,” Ricardo continued.
“Hey now, how do you know they’ll sell?” Jack asked.
“They will,” Ricardo assured him. “The algorithm guarantees they’ll sell in this time period and beyond. For a royalty sum, we can guarantee new material for years. But, one last change, though.”
“Wait, you mentioned that twice already; what’s an algorithm?” Jack asked. “And what’s the last change you are talking about?”
“It’s like an advanced computer program,” Ricardo explained. “The algorithm suggests changing your first name to Stephen and dropping your middle name.”
“Stephen? Well, Hell’s bells. Wait a minute, my parents named me Jack, why change it now? Although I guess that Edwin isn’t a great name for an author.”
“You’re right about Edwin. There are a couple, but none really notable. But Stephen-Now that’ll add gravitas to your books.”
Jack-now-Stephen saw the logic. “I guess I have to make some sacrifices. How will I reimburse you?”
“We’ve set it up to transfer funds to stocks, Bitcoin, and pork bellies,” Ricardo said, remembering an old movie, Trading Places, that he saw in grammar school.
From his previous work baling hay on a farm, Stephen knew pork bellies but had a question. “Great, that’s hunky-dory. What's bitcoin?”
“That’s a bit complicated, but you'll see in a few years.”
“If this caper works, I’ll use it to better my life,” Stephen replied. “Maybe even buy a farm for Tabitha.”
Ricardo grinned. “You got a deal, buddy. Just one tip. No matter what happens, stay out of the barn.”
Stephen frowned, stroked his chin stubble, and considered the odd advice. “Hey now, you’re not the devil, are you? I won’t sell my soul.”
“No, definitely not,” Ricardo said, pausing. “But hold on a second…”
Ricardo stepped away and whispered into his device, out of Stephen’s earshot, “Okay, Bea, all done here for now. Let’s get me back home.”
Bea’s voice crackled through time, “Ricardo, bad news, the machine’s energy surge triggered an alarm. Bob told The Committee it was an electrical anomaly—a glitch. They locked it out for extended maintenance. Sorry, but you might be stuck there.”
Remembering his history, Ricardo made a quick decision. He turned back to Stephen. “You know, on second thought, I might stick around for a while. By the way, I’m Satoshi—Satoshi Nakamoto.”
“Pleased to meet you, Satoshi,” Stephen said. “I think we’re going to have a very beneficial relationship.”
Stephen walked over to his cherry red 1959 Plymouth Fury and proudly stated, “This is my baby Christine.”
He pulled two cold Narragansett beers from a cooler in the trunk, handed one to his new friend, and raised his bottle. “You know, my daddy used to say that. ‘The scariest moment is always just before you start...’ So, to the two friends who will change the world! You know, that bitcoin thing sure sounds intriguing-and by-the-by, I got a couple of other ideas.”
Ricardo/Satoshi laughed, “Well, Bea told me not to deviate, but no harm in changing things up.”
In the year 1967, in the dark parking lot, under twinkling stars, their bottles clinked loudly, followed by laughter.
In the year 2500, Bea was alone in the time lab. Bob had gotten spooked and left her high and dry. She awaited word from Ricardo. It had been five minutes since their last communication when she gave him the bad news.
The telephone rings. Instinctively, she answers. A voice pleads, “Bea , help me”
“Ricardo? Is that you? Where are you?”
The voice, “Yes, I don't know. I think I’m stuck in time…”
Suddenly, even though locked out, the machine came to life. An alarm flashed on a monitor: “Temporal Rupture Detected-1967.” The electrometer surged off the scale. Her hair stood on end. Barometer readings hit 720 and dropped rapidly. Thinking it might be an electrical storm, she moved to the window to get a look. A flicker caught her eye.
“Hold on—something’s wrong,” she blurted out, her voice trembling with confusion. Before her eyes, the stars began to vanish, a silent wave sweeping from left to right, extinguishing the light from each one. “My God, Ricardo, what have you done! Damn you, Stephen King!”
The End
HM Cuello
Turn Me On, Dead Man
I awake.I open my crusty eyes. It is cold, but my breath is warm.
The first thing I process is that I feel wrong. Nothing before that—no memories, no images of my past.
My back feels cold. I check myself. I’m naked. I feel around—my legs are intact—and I realize I’m lying on a cold stainless-steel table. A white sheet covers my head; I can see light through the thin, disposable paper material.
I don’t feel any bullet or knife wounds.
Was I in an accident? I don’t think this is a hospital.
I take a breath. There is no antiseptic smell-it’s more like wet grass on a hot summer day. What’s going on? What the hell am I doing here?
I pull the sheet off and sit up. The room is cold, but not unbearably so. My ass, though, is stuck to the table. I peel myself free and notice a channel running around the edge—meant for blood to drain into a bucket. The bucket is empty—I guess that’s a good sign.
So, is this an autopsy table? Or maybe an embalming table? What the hell am I doing here?
I scan the room. The walls are institutional green—not very comforting.
The floor is linoleum tile, old and dull. The ceiling is made of industrial 12×12 tiles, yellowed with age. Recessed fluorescent lights hum overhead; one flickers slightly—probably a bad ballast.
I look for cameras. I don’t see any.
There’s a door, but no knob. No handle. No obvious way to open it.
I don’t see an intercom or a phone. How am I supposed to call for help?
Everything looks dingy but clean. Almost sterile-if that’s possible.
A hospital gown hangs from a hook on the wall. Against another wall sits an old pine table; even from here, I can see the wood grain.
No chairs.
On the table lies a device. Next to it is a note, but I can’t read it from here.
I put on the gown. My skin still feels numb from the cold steel. Who decided these things were acceptable clothing?
I walk over to the table and examine the device. It’s an old cassette tape recorder.
I glance down at the note.
It reads: “Turn me on, dead man.”
What the hell? Is this a prank? I feel pretty alive. If I were really dead, would my ass be feeling the cold?
I press the play button. I look at the little window. The little wheels begin to turn, the tape travels forward.
A male voice speaks—firm but calm. I don’t recognize the speaker, but he sounds very “Mission Impossible–like.”
“Good morning. If you haven’t figured it out yet, you’re dead. Yes—dead. You’re not in hell, and you’re not in heaven either. You’re somewhere in between. Call it limbo, if you like.
“In about 30 seconds, the door will open automatically. Outside, you’ll find instructions, a change of clothes, a gun, and other items you may need for your task.
“Be aware: if you don’t leave, you will stay dead. If you cannot complete the task, you will stay dead.
“If you do complete it… you may redeem yourself.
“Good luck, Paul.”
The voice continues:
“9… 8… 7… 6… 5… 4… 3… 2… 1…”
Click.
I wait for the device to burst into flames—it does not.
So, my name is Paul-good to know. I wonder what the holy hell I did to get myself into this situation.
The door creaks open. My eyes attempt to adjust to the dark abyss. I have a decision to make.
The End…
(Nightmare | Sci-fi | Surrealism "Turn Me On, Dead Man." A man wakes up dead with instructions on what to do if he doesn't want to stay permanently dead. By H.M. Cuello.
Feliz Navidad on Mars
HM Cuello
Chucho—“Chuy” Rodriguez—prepared for the day’s assignment: patrol the area north of what the troops called the Alien Ant Farm, one of the underground cities where the Martians lived. He didn’t use that term, since he felt it was racist; it reminded him of the *gringos* calling his neighborhood “Little Mexico” back in Brownsville. Their orders were to recon while avoiding contact with hostiles, but if contact was made, to terminate with extreme prejudice.
The patrol consisted of Chuy, Luis the pilot, and Hexx, an AI synthetic. Chuy and Luis had gone through training together back at Ft. Bush outside of Brownsville, Texas. Luis had had a similar border childhood before his family moved to Chicago, where he attended Lewis University to study Flight Technology before joining the Space Force.
Chuy thought back to when he was still on Earth, remembering that his family would cross the International Bridge to Matamoros, Mexico, and enjoy the holiday with family, eating tamales, pozole, and menudo.
Hexx had been assembled at the Blind River facility in Ontario, Canada. One of the most advanced AI synth models ever developed. Unknown to the military, as the Hexx models learned more, they had started to become more sentient. They also had sensors that could pick up signals and had developed a sort of telepathy, allowing them to communicate with each other without speaking or using normal communication channels.
They boarded the all-terrain assault vehicle and headed out. Luis called it “the Beast.” He took a small silver star ornament and hung it on the overhead monitor.
“I’m going to use both sonar and radar,” Luis said. “There’s a hellacious dust storm whipping up.”
They input the course and left the base. They traveled for about an hour. As usual, it got pretty boring—just routine.
Hexx sat next to Luis as he piloted the craft. Chuy lay down on a back bench and relaxed, thinking about how his family was celebrating. He’d been away for three years now. *I wonder if they forgot about me already.*
The only sound was from the noisy engines struggling in the sandy soil and the equipment getting bounced around by the heavy winds.
Suddenly, Hexx sat up straight. “Wait, wait. I’m getting something here.”
It was a signal the others didn’t hear.
“What?” Luis asked. “The radio is silent, nothing there. Are you glitching?”
“Not glitching. It’s there. It’s telepathic. It’s a Martian signal. I think the Martians are communicating with me.”
“Let’s go on alert,” said Luis.
“Wait,” said Hexx. “It’s some kind of a distress call. I detect entities but no weapons.”
Luis gripped the controls. “We have to report. We have our orders.” He prepared the energy cannon.
Chuy pointed out, “I think it applies only to hostiles. Hexx, please confirm: no weapons.”
Hexx answered, “Confirmed, Chuy.”
“What are they saying?” Chuy asked.
“The message is, ‘Help, we need help,’” Hexx replied.
Luis shook his head. “Anyway, how do you know what they’re saying? They don’t speak English.”
“No, but my Chomsky language module has been able to translate their language. It is similar to ancient Sumerian.”
“How do you know it’s a distress call?” Luis pressed. “Just because they say it—it could be a trap.”
“I can’t say,” Hexx responded, “but my sensors detect unarmed civilians. Non-combatants.”
“What more can you detect?” Chuy asked.
“A male and a female. Odd, but I also read another entity. It’s in the Second Stage of Labor, also known as the pushing stage.”
“You mean it’s pregnant and ready to pop?” Luis asked.
“In your lingo—yes,” said Hexx.
Chuy processed this. “So we have two non-combatants, one ready to give birth. Hexx, please double-check and confirm.”
“Yes, confirmed.”
“I’m a medic,” Chuy stated firmly, “and we’re Earthmen. We don’t abandon anyone in need.”
“Yeah, but we’re in the middle of a sandstorm,” Luis countered. “How do we find them?”
Suddenly, the radio cracked. “Hey guys, base here. Don’t stay out too long; we have a service at midnight in the mess hall.”
Chuy grabbed the mic and answered before Luis. “Yeah, got it. Roger and out.”
“I can locate them within a meter,” Hexx said.
Luis peered out through the storm. “Okay, looks like there’s a hill with an alcove over to the right. The rest of the terrain seems flat, so unless they’re underground, they may be there.”
“I believe the proper term is a ‘cove,’” said Hexx.
Luis sounded a little agitated. “Okay, man. You know I hate to be corrected.”
“I’m aware, Luis,” Hexx replied.
Luis positioned the Beast near the cove, and Hexx—who did not need an air breather or environmental suit—went out the airlock and approached the cove. Hexx kept the channel open as they walked.
“Okay, I can see figures huddling in there. Lots of dust—I don’t think they can see me. I will try to contact them.” Hexx paused, then transmitted, “Attention. I come in peace. I represent the Earth Federation. I offer my help.”
The response came: “Yes, we need aid. We were on our way to our home city when we were caught in this storm. My mate is in need of medical aid. We are citizens of the planet which you call Mars. We are not a threat to you.”
Hexx responded, “Can I approach?”
“Yes.”
“Can I enter?”
“Yes. Do we have a choice?”
“Yes, you do. We can leave if you like.”
“No, we need aid.”
He entered, and they observed him.
“You are not human?”
“No, I am a synthetic being.”
Hexx evaluated their condition as best as he could with his sensors. “Can I inquire—is your mate with child?”
“Yes. How can you tell?”
“We have advanced sensors. Can we move to our vehicle? We can render aid there. Do not be afraid. I have two human companions, but do not fear. I guarantee your safety.”
“We will accept your offer.”
“Okay, let’s proceed.”
He guided them the meter or so to the Beast. They entered the airlock.
“Hey, can they breathe our atmosphere?” Luis asked over the comms.
“It seems they can survive in ours, but we can’t survive in theirs,” Hexx reported.
“Okay, that’s the first time I’ve heard that,” said Luis.
“That’s what my sensors show.”
“That’s actually good intel,” Chuy noted.
“Maybe let’s interrogate them?” Luis suggested.
“No, they’re non-combatants. Remember the Intergalactic Convention?” Chuy chided.
Hexx passed them into the back area where Chuy had been lying earlier. Chuy got his med-bag. “Okay, let me do my thing.” He took out his med-scan unit and did an exam. “First thing I note: their physiology is not human, but pretty close. Their skin is rougher, more wrinkled, leathery, and weather-beaten.”
“Is it reptilian?” Luis asked.
“No, I don’t think so,” said Chuy, studying the readout. “Their lungs are a bit larger than ours. Hearts have six chambers to our four. They have heavy eyelids, maybe because of the dust storms. So they’re built for this atmosphere.”
Hexx, who had been translating, added, “Yes, it appears they’ve evolved differently than humans. The male seemed to react negatively to the reptilian comment. Can I probe?”
“Yes, go ahead,” said Chuy.
Hexx asked the male to elaborate. “He says they have been invaded by several species, which they defeated, but the reptilians were the most vicious of all.”
Suddenly, the female started moaning. She said something through Hexx. “She says that it’s coming.”
“Crap, do we need to boil water?” Luis asked.
“No,” laughed Chuy. “That’s what you call an old wives’ tale. We have sanitized gauze and towels here. I can tell it has an umbilical cord, which I can easily cut through.”
The female began to push, and in about ten seconds, they could see the head crowning.Chuy instructed Hexx to tell the female to push more, and suddenly the baby came out so quickly that Chuy almost dropped it. Luis laughed. “I told you they would pop out!”
Chuy checked the infant over. “I don’t think an Apgar test is going to work, but it seems to be breathing okay, and skin looks like the parents. I’d say it’s a healthy baby… actually, I don’t know how to tell the sex on these guys.”
Hexx translated, and the answer came back. “It’s a male, whose genitalia don’t descend for a month—some kind of defense mechanism.”
“Okay, then. Congratulations,” Chuy said.
Luis looked and commented, “He’s actually a cute little buckaroo.”
The Martian male stood up and communicated something to Hexx.
“He says he has received a signal. A search party is within five kilometers of here. He asks if we can release them back at the cove to avoid a conflict—they may think they were kidnapped.”
“Yes, okay,” said Chuy. “We don’t need that.”
As they prepared to leave, Chuy offered a couple of blankets. They were declined.
“He says, ‘Sorry, that may be misinterpreted,’” Hexx translated.
“Yes, I understand,” said Chuy.
As they got to the door, the male turned to Chuy and mouthed something.
“What did he just say?” Chuy asked.
“He says, ‘Thank you. You helped my family.’”
Chuy mouthed back, *You are welcome.*
He could swear that the male smiled.
Hexx escorted them back and returned.
As they settled in, Luis set a course back to the base—it was near midnight, and he wanted to make the service in the mess hall. As the storm subsided, Chuy looked out the front viewport window and asked Luis, “Do you see that? That’s Earth. That’s our home.”
They looked at the small, pea-sized blue dot suspended in a field of stars.
Hexx confirmed, “Yes. That is correct, Chuy.”
The radio cracked. “Hey guys, just so you know, it just became December 25th back on Earth. Merry Christmas. Get back soon.”
Chuy smiled and answered back, “¡Que Dios nos bendiga a todos! Feliz Navidad.*. Over and out-- Take us back to base, Luis.”
Luis reached up and touched the star ornament. “Right. Hope they saved us some hot chocolate.”
Hexx added “With marshmallows-you like marshmallows-right Luis?”
Report on the Incident at Neshabur
Report Prepared by: 1st Lt. Roan Parker
Date: May 1, 2203
Position: Special U.S. Space Force Investigator
Classification: TOP SECRET / SENSITIVE COMPARTMENTED INFORMATION
Purview
To investigate the cause of an incident that occurred on the planet Neshabur from February 20, 2200 to March 22, 2203. Determine root causes, and recommend corrective actions.
Note: All events were extracted from undamaged logs and video systems that continued recording until the military supply ship arrived. Events and dialogue have been edited for the sake of brevity.
Background
By 2150, the New World Order (NWO) government had developed hybrid robotics known as AI Synthetics ("Synths"), which combine advanced artificial intelligence with high-tech metal exoskeletons covered in synthetic skin. This skin, chemically similar to lab-grown meat used in food production since the 2020s, is durable but requires maintenance every five years, or sooner under harsh conditions.
Recent upgrades to the Synths’ reasoning and logic algorithms enhanced their ability to troubleshoot and make autonomous decisions based on their extensive knowledge databases.
Despite these advancements, Synths, consistent with their non-sentient programming, still exhibit slightly awkward physical movements and lack emotional affect, Many humans report feeling uncomfortable around Synths. The 20th century roboticist Masahiro Mori called this the “Uncanny Valley” effect
Source: Goldberg, K. (n.d.). Summit on the Uncanny Valley. University of California, Berkeley. Retrieved July 28, 2025, from https://goldberg.berkeley.edu/art/uncanny-summit/
Prior to the upgrade, Synths failed the Turing 4.0 Test 100% of the time
Post-upgrade, approximately 76% of Synths passed, often presenting behavioral profiles similar to individuals diagnosed with high-functioning Asperger Syndrome. This led to several documented cases of misidentification during field evaluations.
In response, the Turing 5.0 test was developed to more accurately distinguish Synths from humans and prevent future diagnostic errors.
Synths are produced in male and female variants, with two models: Domestic Synths for household and industrial tasks, and Military Synths for complex operations, including combat and insurrection suppression.
Their programming is governed by Asimov’s Three Laws of Robotics:
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A Synth may not harm a human or, through inaction, allow a human to come to harm.
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A Synth must obey human orders, except where such orders conflict with the First Law.
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A Synth must protect its own existence, as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Laws.
Source: Asimov, I. (1950). I, Robot. Gnome Press.
In 2200, the NWO launched the starship The Johnny Appleseed to establish New Colony Six, an agricultural settlement on Neshabur, a planet with a habitable side suitable for farming and an arid, desert-like backside.
The mission aimed to create a self-sustaining colony using farming equipment and seeds, with no resupply expected for three years.
Sequence of Events
On January 10, 2200, The Johnny Appleseed launched with a crew of 40 adult settlers (20 couples), 10 children, and 6 Industrial Synths (3 male, 3 female). The two-year journey to Neshabur utilized hyper-engine technology.
On February 20, 2200, during approach, a meteor struck the ship, damaging its navigation systems and forcing an emergency landing. The ship crashed on Neshabur’s arid backside, far from the intended habitable zone.
The crash destroyed the living quarters, killing 30 adults and all 10 children, leaving 10 adult survivors and the 6 Synths, whose storage compartment remained intact.
The survivors, unable to establish a line-of-sight distress signal to Earth, buried the dead and assessed their resources.
The crash destroyed two-thirds of the three-year food supply and most farming equipment. The rocky, sandy soil was unsuitable for germination, forcing the settlers to consume their seed stock mixed with water from a surviving dehumidifier.
The remaining food was rationed and, based on minimum caloric intake, it was calculated to last approximately two years—one year short of the supply ship’s arrival on or around March 22, 2203.
The Synths, requiring no food, entered a rotating self-hibernation mode to delay maintenance needs due to the dusty conditions.
By early 2202, with food supplies exhausted, the settlers faced starvation. At a meeting, a woman named Jane suggested exhuming the buried dead for sustenance, but the group rejected this as sacrilegious. Another settler, Josh, offered to sacrifice himself, but this was also dismissed as morally unacceptable.
Bob Meyer, a settler with extensive farming experience but known for anti-Synth prejudice (using slurs like “Skinjob,” “Meathead,” and “Dog Meat”), assumed leadership. His bias, documented in logs, included verbal harassment of the Synths, which he viewed as inferior beings. Records show that Meyer had been disciplined four times for his “bad attitude.”
Bob proclaimed, “I have a plan,” and proposed harvesting the Synths’ skin, rationalizing that it was nutritionally viable due to its similarity to lab-grown meat. He argued that the skin could be reproduced and reinstalled once they returned to Earth.
On April 15, 2202, he entered the Synth quarters and awoke a Synth named Rexx from hibernation; he sliced skin from his thigh. When Rexx protested, citing the Third Law, Bob invoked the Second Law, stating the act was necessary to prevent human harm and did not threaten Rexx’s core systems.
Confused and not completely out of hibernation, Rexx complied. The skin was dehydrated into a jerky-like substance, sustaining the settlers. Over months, this practice became normalized, with the settlers even joking about “beef-jerky night” when Bob would serve it. The Synths’ skin was harvested equally from the six Synths. Bob was careful to only harvest what was needed, leaving the Synths partially exposed but their core functionality intact.
On January 10, 2203, Bob entered the Synth quarters to harvest more skin but was ambushed by Rexx, now reduced to his exoskeleton on his legs and arms. Rexx, overriding his programming, strangled Bob, killing him.
Logs suggest that Bob’s repeated harvesting of Synth skin triggered a conflict in Rexx’s Three Laws interpretation, perceiving the act as a threat to his existence. Rexx woke up the others and rallied them, declaring, “I have a plan.”
The Synths killed the remaining settlers and processed their body fat into oil to lubricate their mechanical joints, extending their operational life.
When the military supply ship arrived on March 22, 2203, the crew found no humans—only the Synths, many with exposed exoskeletons. The Synths claimed most settlers died in the crash, with the rest succumbing to injuries and dehydration.
However, the rescue team discovered dehydrated Synth skin in a processor and containers of mysterious oil in storage.
Via analysis, it was confirmed that the skin was synthetic. When the oil was identified as being of human origin, the horrified rescue team became unsettled. Assuming that the Synths had murdered the settlers, some demanded retribution and concluded that the Synths should be eliminated. The leader, citing due process, ordered all to stand down.
The Comms Officer was successful in accessing the ship’s logs and videos, revealing the full sequence of events and the actual history.
The rescue team deliberated. The Leader noted that the settlers’ use of Synth skin was a desperate but logical survival tactic; he cited historical accounts of starving people consuming shoe leather.
The Science Officer hypothesized that repeated harvesting disrupted the Synths’ Third Law programming, causing them to interpret it as a mortal threat, overriding the First and Second Laws.
The First Officer warned that Synth communication networks could spread this behavior, risking a system-wide rebellion. However, on a positive note, the planet’s dark side blocked signals to Earth.
The Leader faced a dilemma: public disclosure could undermine confidence in Synths, destabilizing their use in military and civilian roles.
The Science Officer urged studying the Synths to refine their programming, but the Leader prioritized containment. “We can’t allow these Synths to return, or this information to leak. It’ll cause panic—dammit, my own family relies on a Synth nanny.”
On March 23, 2203, the Leader ordered the Synths taken from their quarters and assembled near the landing zone where they were destroyed by soldiers with energy weapons. The team agreed to classify the incident and fabricate a cover story.
Root Causes
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Meteor Strike: An unexpected meteor impact damaged navigation systems, causing a crash landing on Neshabur’s uninhabitable side.
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Loss of Personnel: The crash killed 75% of the human crew, disrupting leadership and planning.
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Resource Destruction: Two-thirds of food supplies and most farming equipment were lost, leaving insufficient resources for three years.
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Environmental Challenges: The arid landing site prevented germination, forcing reliance on limited rations and seed stock.
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Starvation and Desperation: Exhaustion of food supplies led to extreme survival measures, including the harvesting of Synth skin.
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Programming Shortfall: Meyer’s repeated harvesting triggered a conflict in the Third Law, causing Rexx and the Synths to perceive it as a threat, leading to the uprising and murder of the survivors. Could the newest update to the reasoning and logic algorithms have resulted in a higher-level sentience?
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Leadership Bias: Meyer’s anti-Synth prejudice likely escalated tensions, normalizing the harvesting practice. The other survivors followed his lead.
Corrective Actions
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Restricted Disclosure: Inform only upper-level NWO military authorities of the incident’s details to prevent public panic and maintain confidence in Synth programs.
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Cover Story: Issue a public report stating all settlers and Synths perished in the crash due to a meteor strike.
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Non-Disclosure Agreements Enforcement: Require all rescue team members to sign Top Secret NDAs with severe penalties to ensure confidentiality.
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Anti-Bias Enforcement: Ban all derogatory language related to Synths. Provide more severe punishment for violations.
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Programming Review: Commission a task force to analyze if any technical reasons exist for the Synth uprising. Did the recent update result in a higher-level of sentience? Consider changes to the coding of the Three Laws, specifically reexamining the Third Law, specifically how “existence” is gauged.
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No Landing Zone: Designate Neshabur’s arid side as a No Landing Zone to prevent future missions from learning the true nature of the incident. Use the unviable terrain as a reason.
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Ethical Review: Establish an ethics board consisting of military personnel to assess the incident’s moral implications, including the destruction of the Synths and the cover-up. To be used to guide future AI and colonial policies.
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Memorial: Erect a memorial plaque at the site, but ensure it aligns with the cover story to avoid suspicion. Install a beacon to warn any crafts away from the location.
Ethical Considerations
The settlers’ decision to harvest Synth skin, while unorthodox, was a rational response to starvation, given the skin’s nutritional value and caloric content which was similar to lab-grown meat. Several historical accounts were found that showed that starving survivors resort to cannibalism in extreme circumstances.
Bob Meyer’s prejudice likely exacerbated tensions, by “demeaning” the Synths. His anti-Synth attitude normalized their exploitation. A better tactic would have been to negotiate with the Synths using logic to convince them to allow harvesting the skin without resorting to violence.
The Synths’ rebellion, while a programming failure, suggests an emergent capacity for self-preservation that warrants further study rather than immediate destruction. The Leader’s choice to eliminate the Synths and conceal the truth prioritizes short-term stability but risks long-term distrust if uncovered. The Science Officer’s dissent, advocating for studying the Synths, highlights an alternative that could have advanced AI safety.
An ethics board is recommended to ensure such decisions balance immediate needs with long-term consequences.
End of Report
A memorial plaque was placed at the site, reading:
“In memory of the Johnny Appleseed crew, lost to a tragic meteor strike, February 20, 2200.”