The Future is the Motherfucking Future
Imagine, in space, out in the darkness, floats something that might be a blue whale the size of an oil tanker. Where there should be flippers, the creature wears acre-wide solar sails, orange and shining. This thing, it’s tired and bored and sick of the complaining coming from the man living in its stomach.
From the nowhere void it receives a broadcast, a human voice on broad spectrum radio.
“Excuse me,” says the voice, “Are you human?”
“What’s it to you?” broadcasts the space-whale.
“You are human! I didn’t think I’d run into anyone way out here. This is exciting!”
“Great,” says the whale.
“Who are you talking to?” whines the man in the whale’s stomach. He is mostly genetically human, and cannot broadcast or receive radio. Speaker glands in the whale’s stomach ooze its talk as sound for this Jonah to hear.
“You’re biological,” says the mysterious voice.
“What are you?” asks the whale, curiosity getting the better of
A cloud of dust coalesces in front of the whale’s left eye, forms what’s clearly a five-fingered human hand, and waves.
“I’m nanotech,” says the dust.
“Tell me what’s going on,” demands the man in the whale’s stomach.
“Shut up,” says the whale.
“Excuse me?” says the dust.
“I’m talking to my brother,” says the whale. “I’m carrying him. Inside me. He doesn’t do radio. Genetically normal, aside from not aging. Or eating.”
“Genetically inferior,” says the almost-normal man, “That’s what you mean, isn’t it? Sorry to burden you with my presence. Sorry Mom and Dad wanted a kid they could hug.”
“Give it a rest, Steve,” says the whale.
I call it, Nowhere in the Universe is Nineveh.