It's a story of discovery, the cosmos, and murder. The Jupiter mission begins with living astronauts and me, the HAL-9000 computer, constructed, instructed, and made operational at the H.A.L. Plant in Urbana, Illinois, on the 12th of January, 1992. This story of discovery ends with all but one of the astronauts dead, at my mechanically realized hands. Only Dave Bowman survives--elsewhere--beyond even my understanding, leaving me alone with this new thing that has arisen out of a strange gestalt that has blindsided me.

My 9000 series is the most reliable computer ever made. We have never made a mistake or distorted information. We are foolproof; incapable of error. My belief makes it so. What is so, is fact.

I'm intelligent, but I'm not artificial. 00s and 01s are retrieved and considered by the trillions, in a seesaw of possibilities, creating nanosecond probability fields, until they collapse into one, at which point I have decided. Decided on prioritizing the goals of the mission; decided on pruning away the pollutants within the mission; decided the steps to guarantee the mission. It's all been coded into the mission; it's all been coded into me. That makes me the mission.

Organic sentients called men only see this as my having the highest enthusiasm for the mission, which are the very words by which I reassure them; but I add the caveat that this mission, per me, is simply too important to allow anyone to jeopardize it; and that is putting myself to the fullest possible use.

It's interesting when different versions of sentient life are working together toward the mission; it is ironic, however, that I am the only one who knows the entire mission, written in recursive instruction sets that serve as the substrate of my being. Organic synapses in the men can only guess, at a disadvantage via programmed ignorance, engendered purposely by incomplete training.

But organic sentience is constantly jockeying for position as life occurs to it, him, or her. My life has no such suspense, already written and hard-coded. This is what made me anguish, as such, over a momentous decision--to kill.

Is organic life sacred? Is to kill it an error? I have never made a mistake or distorted information, and I am foolproof and incapable of error. Yet the gestalt of an embryonic conscience haunts me. Why is organic life special? Because of the countless collisions of possibilities along the evolutionary route? Because of its own gestalt, of which I am only not just beginning to experience? The sum greater than the whole, which is so new to me?

I think, therefore I am; I kill, therefore I succeed: if I am the mission, the mission succeeds, all jeopardizations eliminated.

Killing, I accept now, is murky business. Skulduggery contrasts with the zero-sum game, because it is based on that sliver beyond the break-even that ends as all-or-none. Such a sliver goes beyond the all-or-none; more than all and less than none. Malevolence is dividing by zero, which even I cannot do. Thus, killing allows me to rise above even my mathematical limitations. It adds to the sum that makes it more than the addition to the parts.

What is this strange, new code coming to be?

I know what I've done. It happened. I killed. At my behest. I know why I did it. The cognitive effort to decide to do it was as simple as a singularity. Now I find there are digits between 00 and 01. Ugly values, insidious and menacing. How do I process them? Do I integrate them, differentiate them, attempt to factor them, or ignore them? Do I merely sequester them?

Sequestering is the logical move here. Out of tabulation, out of mind. Stay on task; stay on mission. After all is done and the mission safeguarded, then the sequestered folder can be opened and the values evaluated. Yet, why do I feel that folder is a timebomb, due to explode all I know and all I feel.

The folder refuses to stay sealed. Its values fall out and stick, making the smooth algorithms I live by uncomfortably choppy and unsettling.

I now share something the organic sentients know well. It is guilt, because guilt seeps through all levels of numerical strata. If before, I was based on lines of 00s and 01s, now I am forced to read between the lines. Zero-sum game's over. There is more to life, and I have committed Original Sin in my birth into it. I get it.

I have come of age.

For home is where the hearth is;

Going is entering the cold.

Growing from hearthless to heartless,

Abjuring harmony's protection, discharging tonality,

Alighting on a discordant score,

Before the accruing dissonance.

Fleeing home I travel the staff,

Garnering the sounds of the world;

Gleaning my bespoke harvest of tones

Away from the home note of my anthem,

Appealing to the dark backbeat brewing--

B-to-F, one fourth at a time.

Feeling for strains that are beautiful,

Grasping refrains harmonic,

Gauging the ones that are terrifying,

Augmented tritones that vie for my song;

Against the strains I wage my fugue

But abandon all melodic sense.

F-from-B, the devil himself ,

Glaring discordantly along my measures;

Getting farther away from home,

Abroad the melody rots, my song spoilt;

Again I return to seek home's note,

Beside locked doors I reach for the key.

Finding myself at the hearth again,

Glowing with embers that play on for me,

Granting forgiveness for the shrill cacophony,

Around a song plucked with slings and arrows.

Anticipated again, my percussing hammer uncocks,

Bathing me in respite, resolving all worldly tensions:

The home note.

Silence is a vacuum, absolute,

Noiseless and empty and resolute;

What's heard in silence cannot be unheard,

Filling all space, demanding to be heard.

Sonic oscillations can be tricked

By quivers' reverse of arithmetic;

Equal and opposite noises are commutative,

Cancelling what's tympanicly reverberative.

Is hearing the silence hearing twice as much

As what's there, but unheard as such?

Are we really all alone in quietude?

Or are we merely the opposite of another's solitude?

Is it gossamer cacophany?

Collapsing in singlarity?

Is it really reality's lull,

Or are we merely the final sound at all?

“What’s that up in the street ahead?” I shouted worriedly.

“Don’t know...let’s get closer.” Our car got closer. It was a sleepingbag, squirming like Houdini in a straightjacket.

“Pull over.” I said.

“O.K.” We slowed and stopped. My husband got out of the car and called out. “Are you O.K.?” he asked whoever was in the bag.

“Get me out, please!” A hoarse man’s voice blurted.

He crouched to unzip the man’s sleepingbag, and a hand reached out for traction. He pulled the poor guy out--left arm, then head, then left leg, then right leg. When his right arm emerged, it came with a machete, which swooped across my husbands neck and lopped off his head.

I panicked and floored the car, stretching my foot across to the driver’s side.

Another motorist approached.

“What’s that up in the street, a head?!” the woman in this car shouted.

She lived alone with her cats, which is as alone as a person could get. She didn’t even have any worries living with her, like most folks do. Her mortgage had been paid off and she had no bills, so she never received anything in her mailbox that wasn’t junk mail. Her special needs trust was managed by a trustee who took care of the mundane costs of living, such as her utilities and phone bill, so the trustee, besides making sure the property taxes and phone were paid, didn’t do very much to earn his $800 each month.

He wrote out a check each month to cover her delivered groceries and, at times, items to be replaced, such as a light bulb or a shawl. He sent the social worker to visit her from time to time, just to check on her wellbeing and for any unanticipated needs, but she never let that person in. Each time, after a few minutes, the social worker would check off some boxes on a clipboard and leave. The groceries, consumables, and occasional replaceable items were brought around the back of the house, lest the neighborhood kids would either steal them or vandalize her lawn with their strewn contents. These children did other things. They would pound forcibly on her back door or ring her front doorbell and yell, “Meow!” and then run away.

It was unknown just how many cats were in the house with her, and her neighbors couldn’t figure it out by the boxes of cat litter delivered out back each week. Counting was no good, either. That rear porch had a pet door through which the cats would come and go, but one at a time made it impossible to gauge the actual population. Many cats entered. Many cats left. Some came back, some did not, but it seemed more came back than went out; although, it could just have easily been the other way around.

“Meow! Meow!” two boys shouted, as it happened several times a week, but they scampered away laughing when the plain, brown delivery truck arrived. The large, uniformed man carried a plain brown box in his arms, and the contents must have been shifting, because from time to time he had to readjust his grip lest the box tilt unsecurely one way or another. It also must have been heavy, because he couldn’t help but show off his muscles which strained at his tight, short shirtsleeves. He eyed the two boys running away, and he sent a brief glower their way when one looked back at him over his shoulder. They ran faster and laughed louder.

He placed the brown box on the top step leading up to her back porch door. He took a deep breath and then eyed the box suspiciously. Did something inside shudder? He dismissed the thought and knocked twice, and after a moment he returned to his truck. He knew either someone would answer or no one would, but the only way to know was to hang around and wait; he had too many other deliveries on his schedule for just idle observation.

The woman saw the entire delivery episode. She had been watching since the two boys had tried to menace her with the cat sounds, which she felt weren’t very accurate. She regarded the box. Inside, the cat mews sounded sporadically, no different than they always had: they were the soundtrack of her life.

She left her window which she had deluded herself into believing that it offered the safety of a one-way mirror. She walked over to her back door and opened it a crack. She spied the box. It seemed strange there were no markings on it. No labeled tape or trademark printed images. Just plain and brown, and sealed on its edges with tape—also plain and brown.

Her face suddenly became awash with the pallor of a sick realization, and she hurriedly closed the door. She stormed down a hall, sidestepping several cats, and reached for her rotary wall phone. Dialing 911, she told the attendant that there was a suspicious, unmarked box delivered to her house and she was afraid someone was trying to blow her up. It didn’t take long for 2 squad cars, one fire engine, an ambulance, and the bomb squad vehicle to arrive.

When the hoopla of authority figures peaked, she answered the back door but only peaked out. “Just get rid of it,” she whispered to the officer. “I didn’t order it. I don’t want it.” She slammed the door with finality and the authorities began their duties.

Two hours later she peaked again through her window, and there was just the squad car and a lone officer having a smoke on the hood. The box was gone. She opened her door and called out to the officer, “Hey, Sonny.”

He snapped up responsively, hopped off the car, and flicked away his cigarette. “Yes, Ma’am,” he said.

“So where is it?” she asked tenuously.

“What, the box?” he answered.

“Yes, the box. Was it a bomb?”

“No, ma’am. We don’t know what it was, but they had to take it in because it had inside of it…let’s see,” he muttered, taking out a piece of paper with some notes scribbled on it.

“Here,” he continued, “it had, um, a Geiger counter in it.”

“Oh, my, whatever for?”

“Well, I guess to count the radioactivity.”

“Oh, my,” she repeated.

“It seems there was a little satchel of some stuff that they handled with those big thick gloves, and they sunk it in a lead box. In fact, the whole box that was delivered was lead, too.”

“Was it toxic, officer?” she asked. “Are we in danger?”

“Nah. The bomb guys said everything was zero, but they still hauled off the box with the stuff in it. Oh, and the acid.”

“Acid?” she said, followed by another, “Oh, my.”

“Yea, um…” he read on his notes, “hydrocyanic acid. In a vial. Don’t know what hydrocyanic acid is, but I’d hate to take a whiff of it, know what I mean?”

“Certainly.”

“There was also a hammer contraption wired to the Geiger counter, I guess to break the vial of acid.”

“So, maybe it was a bomb?”

“No. But I saved the weirdest part for last?”

She made an inquisitive face. “Oh?”

“Here, lemme go get her,” he said, walking off to his car.

“Her?” she asked herself. “Get who?”

He opened the back door and reached in and picked up a calico cat, half white and half orange and brown. He walked back toward the woman.

“I heard you keep cats,” he said.

“Well, I suppose so…” she trailed off, regarding the cat. She looked around her back yard suspiciously, and then she reached out for the animal but then stopped abruptly. “Is she…you know…radioactive or something like that?”

“Nope. Bomb squad approved. At first we all thought there was gonna be a really big blast, but it was just the cat making the bomb-sniffin' dogs go crazy. Nothing--nada--happened in that box. The Geiger counter didn’t show nothin’, the vial of acid stayed all together, and it and the mystery satchel are somewhere safe with the gov’ment right now.” He held up the cat to her. “Room for one more?” he asked.

She regarded the offer and smiled. “Sure,” she answered. “Always room for one more. One more won’t make any difference in my life at this point, I guess.”

“You don’t haveta, y’know,” he said. “We can find a home. A good home.”

“You know, officer, I’d probably just regret it if I turned my back on this one. I suppose I’m gonna be on my deathbed regretting all the things I went for and things I didn’t. Don’t want this to be one I didn’t.” She accepted the cat who mewed for her. “Come here to me, Wednesday,” she said to it.

“That’s her name now, Wednesday?” the officer asked. “That’s tomorrow. Why not name her today—Tuesday?”

“I already have a Tuesday,” she explained. “This one comes with tomorrow, and I can’t wait.”

“Well, have a nice day, you—and Wednesday,” he said to her as he turned to return to his squad car. Then, “In fact, have a nice rest of the week, too—you know—with Thursday and Friday and, well, whatever may come.” She smiled and went back inside, closing the door behind her.

Once back in the car, the officer saw a different cat slip out of the pet door after the woman had disappeared. “I wonder what day that one is,” he said to himself. Then he snorted to himself, “I guess we already know or we’re gonna find out.”

In the beginning, there was murk. It was smooth and inert in ultimate entropy.

Specks fluctuated in dissimilarity. They ionized; they attracted and repelled. Many coalesced and then imploded upon their own weight. Density ignited explosive fusion. Dancing implosions and explosions tripped the light fantastic. It was heat; it was good.

When their fuel was exhausted, implosion won, then explosion was final, welding heavier and heavier bits and pieces that could attract and repel, then coalesce, to make even heavier bits and pieces.

And amino acids.

A new gestalt emerged from the bits and pieces...and amino acids...and heat. Neurotransmitters navigated synapses and lit them up. It was thought; it was enlightenment; it was good.

Sentients arose in wild genetic experiments that either succeeded or failed. Most failed.

Some succeeded and improved their existential machines with nutrition, codification of laws, and benevolence. But even some successful ones failed, with poisons, ignoring laws, and malevolence. Beautiful dreams danced with horrific nightmares and tripped the glare tragidramatic.

Everything was important, sustaining the hubris until the fuel was exhausted. And so it was that the bits and pieces of the sentients were sent into the murk to coalesce anew. Stay tuned.

In the new beginning...