In the beginning was Buck Probably

In the beginning was Buck Probably

Number 12 wished that it knew more about the beginning of time - the Buck Probably era - fondly imagining that such knowledge would help it decide what to do from day to day. If the world had started like that and gradually become like this then its sense of direction would be clear - to increase thatness at the expense of thisness. It probably wouldn’t even need a detailed knowledge of hair conditioners which was handy since the hairy mammals’ shops seemed to have many varieties of the stuff.
Well the Buck Probably era wasn’t the beginning of time and it’s not even certain that the creature was called Buck. What’s even more surprising is the fact that whereas most stories begin in the past, the AloeVeras’ story actually began in the future, and went something like this ...

He replaced the phone without dialling, then walked out onto the veranda of his 27th storey flat and looked out over the city. The lights of moving vehicles carved up the night-time cityscape into rectangles of darkness. On a bad day, of which there’d been plenty lately, he fancied he was looking down on a swamp. Every clod had a silver lining, or vice versa, depending on his mood. At this height the roar of traffic was more of a murmur; an undercurrent of discontent where each vehicle was perceived as an obstacle by all the other motorists. They all seemed very anxious to reach their destination.
He wasn’t too sure if he had a destination any more. He glanced back towards his phone, sighed, then scanned the panorama again. In a city of this size there were always several emergency vehicles on the road, sirens blaring, and dozens of vehicle alarms. He realised that every vehicle alarm he’d ever heard had been a false alarm; the owner looking highly embarrassed as they tried to stop it. From this height the fluorescent street lights appeared doubly impersonal, viewed through a haze of traffic fumes. The view reminded him of peering down into the electronic world of an arcade amusement machine; lots of activity and smart mechanisms but no soul.
As he wandered back indoors He wondered if all those motorists had someone special waiting for them at journeys end. He sat with his head in his hands. On the table in front of him was an open folder containing letters from a female. We’ll call her She.
In the top letter, which was the most recent one, a few words were highlighted in fluorescent yellow:-
‘... just be friends. I need the freedom to pursue my destiny.’
His highlighter pen lay next to the box. He turned over the letter, for the seventh time in the last thirty minutes, and the previous letter was visible. It had a few words highlighted also.
‘... need you to make me feel secure.’ He sighed and turned over the page to reveal the previous letter,
‘... just be friends. I need the freedom to pursue my destiny,’ was highlighted.
He sighed again and turned over yet another page. Yellow highlighting was revealed. The word ‘secure’ was underlined. The page before contained the phrase ‘pursue my destiny’. It was highlighted in yellow. The box contained many such letters and they’d all been written during the previous three months.
In the interests of fair play it should be acknowledged that She had a similar box of letters from him. The only noticeable difference being, She had chosen to use a pink highlighter. He closed the box.
‘I can’t cope with this anymore,’ he muttered, and proceeded to write a letter accepting the job he’d been offered collecting rock samples from distant planets. Such projects had only become feasible since time travel had been invented. Imagine coming home from such a mission of many light-years distance and finding your grandchildren older than yourself! With the advent of time travel, he would be able to return to the present time as soon as he came home. Give or take a few weeks.
Two weeks later he had completed the stocking of his ship and was ready to complete his flight from love (the romantic variety). Before he’d even left his solar system he had a spasm of moodiness and decided to use the time machine straight away.
‘I’ll get as far away from her as possible,’ he muttered and set the machine to take him and his ship two hundred years into the past, before settling into the hibernation capsule.
When He arrived on a promising looking planet he set the automated machinery to work drilling into the soil and rock and commenced playing with his computer that he’d brought along for entertainment. He had the vague idea that programming the computer with artificial intelligence would be entertaining and considerably less frustrating than She had been, but problems soon arose. The computer understood his speech remarkably well but its very literal-minded replies were increasing his hunger for company without in any way fulfilling it. It was very frustrating trying to explain that, ‘Ye gods, you are a terminally stupid fucking dimwit machine’ was just his way of letting off steam, and the computer did not have to spend all night analysing the statement. It didn’t have to produce a smartarse response first thing the following morning, either.
But it did. Every single day. He accidentally called the computer ‘She’ once or twice.
One crucial day He awoke to find the computer clearing its mechanical voice, prior to its daily tirade of faultless but irritating logic and He had a brainwave.
‘I’ve decided to simplify your function, clever clogs. As from today your role in life is to serve tea. That’s all.’ Whilst the computer was searching its memory banks for references to intelligent footwear, He fixed it onto a trolley and reprogrammed it with its simple instruction. High-tech kettle and teapot were added, and a couple of mechanical arms.
He enjoyed the next few days. Tea in bed seemed rather a grand way to start the morning. Not a bad way to start the afternoon, either. Before the week was up problems surfaced again. The teasmade’s morning provision of tea in bed reminded him of the best times he’d spent with She. Tea in bed was one of the things they’d both enjoyed receiving and both been prepared to make.
‘I’ll have to make you a better conversationalist,’ he declared. The teasmade didn’t reply. He did the necessary programming and then it did.
‘Your wish is my command!’ it cheerily burbled, every time he spoke to it. He now felt entertained by the teasmade and relatively happy.
This state of affairs lasted a week. It reminded him of her again. He gave the computer some freedom to choose its own speech, but this didn’t quell his feelings of loneliness.
‘I’d gone on my travels to forget about other members of my species. One in particular,’ he complained.
A few days later he started thinking in numbers, which is always a bad sign:
‘What is the distance home divided by my arms reach? How long would it take me to get home compared to the duration of the average hug?’ Then he knew he must return to his homeworld. ‘After all, I have enough rock samples,’ he added. Having made the unpleasant decision he felt a little better.
He looked at approximately 6 billion stars, reminisced that there must be at least 6 billion of his fellows on his home world and if one of them was a problem that still left at least 5,999,999,999 to fraternise with. He wept a little, thinking of all the time he’d spent alone, then decided to head for home as soon as he’d washed his hair. The teasmade would have to stay behind because it was making him too sad. When He departed he took only the samples with him. He left behind all the machinery including the teasmade and an empty Aloe Vera hair conditioner bottle, supposedly to save fuel.
‘Shall I switch off the teasmade before I go?’ he wondered. ‘No, I don’t think so. I expect its photocell will soon degrade and it’ll switch itself off. Perhaps it will enjoy itself wandering around here on its own? Maybe not. Still, no harm can come of it,’ he shrugged. How many times have sentient creatures thought that, and been mistaken?
He left. The rest, as they say, is history.

archive 2


recent:

http://fiction-1.pjf.org.uk/2007/12/alien-consolation-in-drawing-of-graphs.html

http://fiction-1.pjf.org.uk/2007/12/recent-posts-18-december-2007.html

November 2007 Funny Fiction