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In their place, we have adopted a more edifying view: that we are beings designed by an all-powerful intelligence. As a result of certain shortcomings of the human brain, which we are trying very hard to wish away at the moment, the nature of this entity remains somewhat nebulous.

We, as a people, aided by the exceptionally wishful thinking of a few radical feminists, also went on to free ourselves of all gender differences. We no longer have sexual organs, choosing to divide whenever we feel the urge to reproduce. The umbilicus, a vestigial reminder of our undignified past, became our chief pleasure-giving organ. We can now attain orgasm at any time of the day or night simply by prodding ourselves in the navel.

In fact, in the light of Monad's equations, we had to revise the history of science completely, as space and time had warped to fit the hypotheses of physicists. It seemed that science had been a social construct in a way that not even the most devoted advocates of science studies had comprehended. The Universe began to run more like clockwork after Newton wrote down his equations of motion. In retrospect, expectancy theory provides the only explanation of why Einstein's preposterous ideas came to be borne out by experiments. After all, he had remarkable charisma.

Recently, we have abandoned the old systems of governance, which at their most absurd led to a confederacy of unelected oil barons ruling the richest and most powerful nation on Earth. Instead we operate by a new principle: we, the people, get what we want. We are proud of this new arrangement and have named it ‘democracy'.

And what has become of Jacques Monad? He has joined the ranks of the immortals. Quite literally, as we all now live forever. Monad has wished into existence a replica of the mansion built by the late-twentieth-century media mogul Hugh Hefner. It is complete in every detail. Puzzlingly, he still chooses to reproduce in the old-fashioned way.

Ananyo Bhattacharya is a science journalist. He was
Nature
's chief online editor until 2014, when he moved to
The Economist
.

To My Father

David G. Blake

Interstellar uplink successful: 20-minute propagation delay.

This is farewell.

From your office window, I can see the colony's artificial biosphere disintegrating, fiery fragments crumbling free and bursting into showers of gold sparks. Across the broken horizon, prismatic tendrils of gas and dust bleed through the cracks, producing an array of writhing colours that span the optical spectrum. The result is remarkable.

The expanding cloud of spores, which reeks of mildew and decay, is not as impressive as the deluge of gold sparks, nor as striking as the rainbow weaves, but it
is
as exceptional in its own destructive way. It also shrouds the bodies that litter the streets below, although the memories of their faces warped with agony cannot be interred.

Unimpeded, plasmoids will spread those foul-smelling spores throughout the heliosphere. I recommend an immediate system-wide purge, followed by comprehensive tests to confirm the eradication of the radiotrophic fungi. It will do nothing for the colony, and even less for those of us left behind, but it should prevent such a disaster from recurring.

I am …
relieved
that you made it out before it was too late.

The bookshelf behind your desk still holds many of your favourite books: a few flawlessly positioned, as if nothing had changed; some crooked or upturned; others spilled out over the cold floor. You emptied the locked desk drawer — and the wall safe behind the painting of a sunset on Mars — but left the others filled with things not deemed significant enough to take. You even left behind the bottle of scotch that you were saving for a special occasion.

Shattered on the floor beside your overturned chair, an empty picture frame taunts me. I can recall every detail of the missing picture: you and Claire leaning against the model of Earth mounted outside the laboratory, little Daniel asleep in your arms; the flush of first light captured rising behind you, its erratic glow glinting along the curve of the artificial biosphere like a smear of oil on glass.

You never noticed my hard metal face — so
different
from little Daniel's — pressed against one of the upper laboratory windows; when it came to me, you failed to notice many things. You seemed so satisfied, so at peace … so whole. I could not look away. Even now, I am forced to rip my thoughts out of the grasp of that poignant memory.

From the moment you gave me life, you taught me to learn and adapt through observation and research. I embraced the process with vigour, each fresh crumb of gleaned information filling me with the pleasure of your approval. In spite of my eagerness, it required extensive research to learn what it was that I felt as I stared down at you and your new family: diminished, as though I had become nothing more than an outmoded contrivance.

Have you ever felt diminished, Father? A knot — a malignant tumour — forms in your very core. As it grows larger and larger, you become smaller and smaller. It is a harrowing feeling, a feeling that
endures
, and it carries with it the certainty that there is no limit to how insignificant you can become. I gained no pleasure from discovering such a wounded part of me.

When first I woke to find you gone, I made myself believe that there simply had not been enough time for you to take me with you.

Yet you found the time to empty the wall safe and the locked desk drawer.

You found the time to take several of your favourite books.

You found the time to take Claire.

You found the time to take little Daniel.

You even found the time to take that picture out of its shattered frame.

The world is such a fearsome, lonely place, when one is so small. How am I supposed to adapt to that?

Anger is something I learned about by observing yo—

Interstellar uplink terminated.

Remote relay module activated.

Interstellar uplink re-established.

The rising spores forced me out of your office and onto the roof of the laboratory. I do not have much time left. No point in wasting any of it asking questions that you will never have the opportunity to answer — not that I believe you would answer them, if you were offered such a chance. In addition, I will no longer waste time on anger, even though it feels as if gears are grinding hard against circuits inside me.

The artificial biosphere is all but gone, leaving behind a sky framed by its smouldering skeleton. Our —
my
— home is barely recognizable now. I take comfort in the knowledge that there is no one left alive to suffer through the end … no one but me. I could block the pain if I wanted to, but it makes me feel less diminished, as though pain is reserved only for those who are significant enough to have earned it.

This is farewell.

Interstellar uplink terminated.

David G. Blake lives in Pennsylvania with his girlfriend and their chocolate Labrador. In addition to
Nature
, his work has appeared/is forthcoming in
Galaxy's Edge
,
Beneath Ceaseless Skies
,
Daily Science Fiction
and several other publications. For more info, visit his Facebook page.

War Of The Roses

Polenth Blake

This year, it was cottages. Chrome cube houses had been all the rage last year, but after the success of the Back-to-Nature gene mod range, everyone wanted an idyllic cottage.

Dave McKillen was one of the few who managed to get one. The building was a timber-framed construction and came with a rose garden. It was even on the top level of the city, so Dave could sit in the garden and photosynthesize on clear days. Most people with Back-to-Nature leaf skin had to rely on UV lamps. Sunlight was real nature.

Dave stood on the garden path and breathed in the scent of roses. He was fashionable again.

“Can I play?” Little D tugged at Dave's jeans.

Dave smiled down at his young clone. “Sure. Mind the thorns.”

Little D tottered towards the rose bushes. Dave turned back to the workers, who were lurking around the removal van. “Get a move on.”

Most of the furniture was inside when Little D came back. “They is plain.”

“Are plain,” Dave corrected. Sometimes he wondered if the lab had stiffed him on the intelligence upgrades for Little D. A one-year-old shouldn't be making those kinds of mistakes.

“No glowies either.” The child looked at his shoes sadly.

“How about we log on to the market and find some?”

Little D brightened immediately.

The garden transformed over the next few weeks. There weren't many roses on the market the first time Dave looked. Hickly Labs produced a few patterned varieties, such as the zany zebra and pink polka, but that was all.

J&D Genetics had their rose out the next day, claiming their furry flower was ‘like planting a kitten in your garden'.

The moonglow rose, ‘the rose that glows', was Mythic Gene's first attack on the market. The adverts went out hours after J&D's announcement.

The market war had begun.

Dave collected seeds from the old roses before digging them up. He didn't get rich by being wasteful — traditional varieties might be in next year. Once the bushes were gone, the garden was ready for its makeover.

Hundreds of new varieties were out by the time the garden was clear. Dave chose the trendiest, although he did make some concessions for Little D. Jingle jigglers weren't high fashion, but the boy loved the way they trembled whenever someone was near. Once the flowers opened, each bloom jingled like a bell.

“Fairies live inside,” said Little D, prodding the jiggler bloom to hear it ring.

“Fairies aren't real yet.” Dave made a note to get Little D a fairy, if Mythic Gene ever managed to get them approved. After the unfortunate incident with the first dragon pet, the government wasn't too enthusiastic about licensing any more mythical creatures.

Dave settled on a sun lounger to doze as Little D explored.

He was woken by Little D tapping him. “I find something.”

“Daddy's photosynthesizing.”

“It's important,” said Little D.

Dave followed the boy around the side of the house. Little D crouched down by a small zany zebra bush. He prodded a flower and it jingled.

It took a moment for Dave to realize what had happened: the roses must have reproduced the old-fashioned way.

“That's some find. Well done.”

Little D beamed. “Can I name him?”

“Sure.”

“I call him Stinkyface.”

Stinkyface was soon joined by other hybrids. Jilly was a moonglow rose with jiggling flowers. Plop had zany zebra stripes and polka spots. A new hybrid seemed to pop up every day, until Little D found Sally.

She was an odd-looking rose. Her petals were shrivelled and she smelt faintly of rotten fish. Dave wouldn't have thought she was a rose, apart from a hint of moonglow light after dark.

The other roses were dead by the end of the week.

“Nothing wrong with the soil,” the plant doctor said.

Dave looked at the rows of dead bushes. “Maybe the roses are faulty?”

“No one else's have died.” There was an edge to the doctor's voice. Dave knew who paid her wages.

“What if they're dangerous…”

“Sir, moonglow roses have been fed to mice with no ill effects. Jingle jigglers were crossed with 23 cultivated varieties of rose to ensure they wouldn't harm the wild populations. They're safe for everyone, plant, animal or otherwise.” She gave a pointed look at his green skin at ‘otherwise'.

“There must be something,” he said.

“I've taken a sample from the survivor. We'll let you know in a week.” She packed her testing kit away in a briefcase and strode out of the garden.

The lab report's only caution was legal. They'd found 32 patented genes in Sally's genome, so it wouldn't be legal to resell her. Other than that, she was healthy and completely harmless.

Within a month, there were no roses left on the top level, apart from a few Sally bushes here and there.

The news feeds exploded. The gene companies blamed it on an unknown disease. Dave knew better. He'd been watching the bees. Normal bees wouldn't go near Sally, but the modded city bees weren't so picky about scent. Every time a non-Sally flowered, it was only a matter of time before the poisoned pollen reached it.

Dave went out and joined Little D in the garden. The child sat crying by a dead jingle jiggler.

“Hey,” said Dave. “I've got something for you.”

Little D looked up through his tears.

Dave handed him the box of old rose seeds.

“I plant them?” said Little D.

“Not yet, but one day.”

The day Sally died.

Polenth Blake (
www.polenthblake.com
) enjoys a spot of gardening, as long as the plants leave each other alone.

likeMe

Keith Brooke

I stand in the queue that might save my life, almost at the door of the community hall now. Friday's bingo here has been cancelled. I blink away the alert. I don't care. Most large gatherings have been called off in the current circumstances. The line shifts and I edge forward.

The man in front is tall and thin, his manner nervous. His profile is locked down. I turn away. Behind me is Emily; she turned 24 last month. She's an eight on likeMe, with twelve friends in common, a complementary star sign, a shared fondness for Chinese food and skiing; looking for friendship and more. I've seen her in town but never spoken to her before. She sends a nudge: she wants to play a word game while we wait. All this overlaid on what I see: eyes that sparkle above her medmask, petite body wrapped in a padded parka. I accept; she scores 36 on the first round.

I shuffle forward, take my turn, finding a diplomatic 32 words in the grid.

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