Chapter 2

The Family

Gabe Anderson. Ian's Twin Brother. (nonidentical)

“I knew you aliens were coming,” said Gabe Anderson. “It's all on Dark Web. Our CIA took out the alien missionaries because they were going to give us the cure to cancer. Our pharmaceutical companies would have lost billions. Uncle Ben told me all about it. I bet you he's on top of this situation.”

“I see,” Beginner's Guide said. “Fascinating.”

“So what is my idiot brother doing?” Gabe asked. “I can't stand that guy.”

“I can't tell you that, Gabe Anderson. How would you feel if I told him what you were doing?”

Gabe paged down the list of gifts. “He went with the mind domination, didn't he?”

“What makes you think that?” Beginner's Guide asked.

“He's into that mind control porn stuff where the big-breasted bimbo is kneeling in front of some guy, going 'Oh I love ugly dorkhead nerds, you make me so hot.'

“So you're saying he would choose this gift for procreation?”

“Why else would he choose it?” Gabe asked.

“Fascinating. He would have to avoid getting eaten by monsters in the meantime. How do you suppose he would do that?”

“He would have to mind control humans and monsters to protect him,” Gabe answered. “I'm not saying he could do it. But I could see him being dumb enough to try.”

“I give such a strategy a low chance at success. What strategy for survival do you propose for yourself, Gabe Anderson?”

“That's easy. I want magic,” Gabe answered. “I want to be a wizard.”

“You want to become a practitioner of magic? Could I ask why?”

“Society programs humans to idolize the warrior. That's why jocks get cheerleaders, and there are so many movies about soldiers and police. The empire needs its cannon fodder. But it's the wizards and scientists who win wars. The warrior is the guy who gets killed fighting them.”

“I would point out, Gabe Anderson, that wizards in your stories are few and ancient. I would speculate that for every human that survives to become a wizard, there are thousands of humans who tried to become wizards and failed. The strategy you think your brother will take has a much higher chance of success than your own.”

“Can you do this or not?”

“I can, but I strongly advise against it.” Beginner's Guide moved ELEMENTAL MASTERY, and ALCHEMY, to the top of the list of gifts.

“Then do it.” Gabe felt something intangible, something changed, but he didn't know what.

“It is done.”

“How about a spell-book or wizard's staff?” Gabe asked.

“There are a few items like that on the galactic market, but they cost credits, and you are a poor candidate for a loan.”

“Then I believe we are done here. I wish my uncle was here. I bet he's kicking alien ass right now.”

***

Ben Anderson (The Uncle)

“Ahhh man, I am so drunk! You alien fuckers. Ahhh I miss my wife. She died of cancer. Pharmaceuticals have the cure, those greedy bastards. What kind of health care plan do you alien scum have?”

“Well Ben Anderson, we have a health-regeneration package that should protect you from most human illnesses, viral, bacterial, and genetic. It helps you heal quickly from minor wounds, and more slowly from serious wounds, assuming you don't get eaten first, of course.”

“I'll take five. One for me, four for my family. I love my family, but not my brother's ex-wife. She left him for a gymnast, a gymnast. She can get her own damn healthcare.”

“That will be five-hundred credits, Mr. Ben Anderson. The current galactic exchange rate is one thousand American dollars to one Federation credit. I do not expect the exchange rate to improve in the future.”

“Okay. I got this deed to the Brooklyn Bridge. That's worth at least half a million American dollars.”

***

Stacy Anderson (Younger Sister)

“This house had three rooms for us kids. Two small rooms, and one nice big room. Dad was going to give the big room to my two brothers, but they kept fighting and wouldn't get along. So Dad ended up giving me the big room, and my brothers got the two small rooms. It was awesome.” Stacy chattered away, not sure if she was in a dream or not.

“Fascinating,” said Beginner's Guide.

“Mom took off a few years ago because she needed some me-time, she offered to let me come live with her, but I'd have to change schools, and her new husband Zachary is okay, but it wouldn't be the same. Dad's pretty nice. I asked him for a gun last year, and he gave me one. It's an air pistol, but it's a real air pistol. I could shoot birds with it, but I don't, because that would be cruel. Are you a boy AI or a girl AI?”

“I don't know, Stacy Anderson. What kind of AI do you think I am?”

“How would I know? You don't have the equipment, but I guess there's more to gender than equipment.”

“True. Each gender plays a role in the reproductive process. I will have to determine what role I play. Stacy Anderson, have you determined what character you wish to be? I've released billions of monsters on your planet. Young girls like yourself are their favorite prey.”

“Any chance you could release monsters that don't like eating young girls?” Stacy asked.

“Shame on you for suggesting such a thing!” the AI said. “I would never dream of it!”

“Okay... Well, most girls like princesses, I think they're stupid. I like Kid Barbie. Have you heard of her? She's a zombie hunter. The previous zombie hunter gave her two guns, because he was bitten and about to become a zombie, so she has to kill him, and it's very sad. The old zombie hunter is like, 'you're the chosen one,' and she's like, 'I don't want to kill you,' but she does. Then she runs around killing zombies with her guns, and everybody's like, oh those fake guns are so cute, and she's like they're not fake, but nobody believes her. She's my favorite character.

“Fascinating, so you want to be Kid Barbie?” Beginner's Guide asked.

“Yes. Definitely.”

“Very good, Stacy Anderson. Leave everything to me,” Beginner's Guide said.

Stacy felt imperceptible changes take place. Suddenly she was wearing a belt with two holstered pistols. They looked like Kid Barbie's two colt forty-four revolvers. When she pulled them from their holsters, they felt light, and fit her hands perfectly.

“I took out a small loan on your behalf, Kid Barbie. Two hundred and fifty credits. As long as you kill the girl-eating alien filth that has infested your world, the guns will pay for themselves. If you don't, or if you get eaten, then I will have to take the guns back. Fight hard, Kid Barbie.”

Stacy woke up in her bed. She breathed a sigh of relief. Strange dream. It was quiet. The air-conditioner should be going, but it was off. Her night light was off, but she could see in the dark surprisingly well. Wrapped around her desk chair was a belt with the two holstered pistols. A message hung in the air in front of them. “Fight Hard Kid Barbie,” The message slowly dissipated. Then the screaming and shooting began.

***

Carl Anderson (The Father)

“We're speaking the same language, but we're not communicating. Sending billions of monsters to our world is not the act of friendly intelligence! I don't see why this statement is so controversial!” Carl Anderson's voice should be hoarse from hours of speaking in this alien time bubble, but it wasn't. He wasn't even tired.

“We worked hard on those monsters. It hurts me you don't like them!” Beginner's Guide seemed to be crying.

Could an artificial intelligence cry? Good grief, and he'd thought insurance companies were hard to deal with. He took a deep breath, as much as he could in this strange time bubble, and tried again.

“How could this help humanity?” he asked.

“Humans like killing monsters.”

“But there are no real monsters on planet earth!” he shouted.

“Well, there are now! And you're welcome. That is how much we care about humanity!” Beginner's Guide responded.

“Look, Beginner's Guide. I get that your people, The Federation, whoever you work for, are upset that we nuked your missionaries. But neither myself nor any human I know had anything to do with this. Most humans are decent rational beings, who deeply regret what happened, and don't run around nuking alien missionaries.”

“No no no no! We would never stand in the way, or interfere with sacred human cultural traditions, such as nuking alien missionaries. The missionaries didn't mind being nuked, it's just part of alien missionarying. We bear humanity no ill will. I work for The Federation Council and the Galactic Administerium, and both agencies want only what's best for humans. We are your friends, Carl Anderson.”

Carl took another deep breath. “Beginner's Guide, I want you to put yourself in my place. Let's say you are a human male with three children who you love very much and take care of. How would you feel if an alien intelligence showed up and sent a bunch of monsters to your world that ate your children?”

The AI seemed to think it over. “Well. I might be sad at first, but then I'd realize they would have died, anyway. Ninety planetary orbits around your sun at the most. If I fight hard and kill lots of alien monsters, I can have more children. Tougher stronger children. If I fail and get eaten, I'll join my children in that afterlife all us humans believe in.”

“I would like to speak to a non-artificial intelligence. Preferably one that's not completely insane,” he responded.

“You may submit a complaint to The Galactic Council. They will get back to you.”

Several hours later, Carl submitted a long and detailed complaint. He hoped it would reach the council, and that they'd read it and respond.

“Now that that is done, you have half an hour to decide what to do with your skill points.”

“So skill points are experience points I've gained from my past activities? And I can use them to improve my skills?” He asked, making sure he understood.

“That is correct. If you wish to use your points on a skill you don't have, you will suffer penalties, so it's a less efficient use of skill points. For example, you might convert 100 skill points gained from your profession of mechanical engineering, to 20 skill points, of a more useful skill like archery, stick fighting, running, or 30 skill points in screaming for help.”

“So you're saying the most efficient use of my skill points is to keep them with the skills I used to gain them. I believe I'll keep them where they are then, thank you.”

“Very good Carl Anderson.”

Then he was back in his bedroom. It was dark. He lit candles and activated a couple of glow sticks. As promised, electricity didn't work, but his mechanical Seiko watch told him it was just past two in the morning. His grandfather clock still ticked away in the living room. At least that still worked. He yanked open his desk to where he kept parts to an old Mauser pistol. The parts fit together... mostly. He ignored the distant sound of shooting and got to work. Last time it'd taken him over four hours of cursing to reassemble his Mauser pistol. Tonight it took him just under three minutes. Skill points must be working. That or adrenaline.

He pulled up his display. Every human and monster had one now, or so he'd been told. On one side was what everyone would see. His name and title. Carl Anderson Humble Craftsman. Next to the word Craftsman, two hammers lay across each other. The symbol for craftsman, apparently. He flipped the screen over with a newly gained mental muscle. This side had his statistics. Physical 3.8. Mental 7.8. Physical and mental scores were the average of thousands of traits and abilities he'd been told. Next to scores were the words, Profession: Master Craftsman, Special abilities: none. Underneath that was his wallet and special storage space. His wallet had the words “0 credits” with some kind of frowny-face crying emoji. His storage space had the words Storage capacity infinite with a sideway 8. Items contained 0, again frowny-face-crying emoji, and in smaller letters the words. “Maybe you should go kill some aliens.”

He loaded the gun, threw on an old flak jacket. Not much, but better than nothing. He grabbed a wooden chair and held it in front of him for protection, and left the room to protect his family.