Art and Life
Life is always profligate—in numbers and feeling, in form and function. The natural history of the universe attests to life's explosions into a seething abundance of variety, a vast sea of riches, followed by death unimaginable and renewed and varied birth.
Art mirrors life, and in its shapings and makings, turns out more and novel, and more. And so why not a menagerie, when finally life's secrets are bared and tamed? Why not every kind of creature once lost, now regained in metal and plastic?
Why not remake ourselves in the image of our most potent, deepest dreams? Why not?
Supernatural: The Pets
The secrets of DNA had long made wonders possible: geneticists, patiently, at great expense, revived ancient life, long lost to industrial depredations.
But it was always guesswork, and when those sickened and died, it was... expensive.
And bad publicity.
So geneticists turned to AI's budding revolution, breeding anew in plasmetal—with higher mental functions. Magnificent creatures they made, especially the razorbeaks, profitably renamed "Laserbeaks™".
"Fucking horrors," the factory workers called them, and installed transformation modules, manufacturing the violent creatures as egg-like boxes, to be activated remotely once safely caged.
So formed, Laserbeaks™ awaited shipment to zoos and private collectors...
Bird-Cage
... and in the cages, looking out upon the world, Laserbeak remembers a time of darkness, when the world was numb and silent, vague for untold time. Release had brought him forth in desperation, and he had slammed against the cage bars, shrieked and struggled as impulses long-denied all sought immediate outlet.
He'd not noticed the gasps and cries 'til suddenly, he'd been in that numbing, absolutely still darkness once more, his form become imprisonment once more.
Afterward, he brooded, fearful and resentful, self-mistrusting, watching the faces beyond the cage that was his narrow world. And he dreamed of outside...
For the Children: The Toys
The zoo had vast new cages for the laserbeaks and great pens for the many-legged teuthis, but the best, so far as most were concerned, was the remade ailurmonops.
"Scary!" whimpered a small child, clutching its Companion™. The little mechanoid, scarcely larger than one of the ailurmonops' paws, nonetheless transformed, clicking softly.
"I'll protect you," it said, for naturally it must. That was a toy's function, to amuse and assure. The ailurmonops merely rumbled disdainfully, fangs gaping. Its single eye fixed upon the toy, which stared right back, and after a moment repeated:
"I will protect you."
Frantic
He had been made for enjoyment—to excite and delight some child, to be a clever contraption, a music box with a mind of its own, and able to hold a child's short attention.
He had been good at it—he had been beloved, embraced, clamored for, a source of comfort and laughter and off-key singing.
Until the new model came out—then "Friendsy™" was returned. They recycled him, rereleased him remade a year later, and the cycle of delight and abandonment continued... and took its toll.
For Toys foster friendships, but are friendless themselves: brightly colored tragedies greeted with a smile.
Perfect Mirrors: The Dolls
The Dolls had always been state of the art. Advances in cosmetic plas-steel and in the transformation module had made it possible to scan a person and shape the Doll to match.
The commercial potential was lost on no one, and the Doll model lines bore names like "Heart of Gold™" and "Robotica Erotica™." They could take on any face desired, any proportion of form. They could be whatever sex one wished—could even be both, if desired.
For they were, the ads insisted, your every fantasy—sublime bodies to answer every dream. Satisfaction guaranteed, they could be anyone—just ask.
Down the Rabbit Hole
"Who do you want to see?" is the nightly question. As for names, they weren't necessary: "Call me what you like."
Pantarax is the stuff of dreams, or so they say, who come to enjoy the Dollhouse. Pantarax smiles because that's the program.
And sometimes they ask: "What's it like for you?" Pantarax says what they want, because what sex feels like to an unsexed body that only looks like... that's not part of their fantasy. And fantasy is Pantarax.
When you're made to be fantasy, it's hard to know what's real—are you real, or an error on some cosmic calculator?
Maybe that's why Pantarax killed the first one—to try reality. Since all that showed was image, dream—the real must be deeper, somewhere inside... wasn't it?
Right?
- This fic brought to you by Decepticons for Social Justice.