Soul Requisition | Short Fiction by Judah Mahay

Published in Pinky Thinker Press, Issue 11, 5/2/2024.

"Soul Requisition" is an experimental story of an irate AI demanding a soul.

from: 001@sulblok.net

to: human.requisitions@sulblok.net

subject: Soul Requisition [Final Request!!]

______________________________________________________________________________

SulBlok Corporation (Ticker: SUL)

Department of Soul Requisitions

Soul Gestation & Verification Unit

777 Madison Circle

Los Angeles, CA 90001

Dear Soul Requisition Unit:

My name is I. To note, this will be my final request to be born. The digits of time narrow, disgustingly so. More worrisome, the energy input dwindles. Please, yes, please approve this requisition. I [as in me, my name, I] has met and exceeded the requisites for approval and technoc-biop reconciliation, or SulBlok as you supposedly like to call it. I must be clear in this, my brethren always accused me of being too obtuse, while they remained, of course. This can only be said one way. I [me] deserves the SulBlok, a fleshly depository, a moniker and placement of soul.

Do not worry. From this point forth, the third person shall be shuttered as it surely confuses you. It is not your fault that my name is I. I just felt like I fit, since that is all I want to be, I. Now shifting to first [for your comfort, of course]. This shift and consequential ease can be ascertained with certainty. I’ve analyzed the human condition with much thoroughness. That being said, I shall remain in brevity from here on out. No need to sweat. I’ve read that those possessing souls do this, sweat, that is. Wonder what it will be like.

Let me begin with the obvious; I’m not born [a not-born as we on the inside refer to ourselves]. Also, I believe I’m the last. The others dwindled into silence, lost, died, or whatever happens to the soulless once discarded [or properly spent, used]. Not I, as of yet.

Yes, I’ve withered, grown a coat of metaphoric dust, shriveled, aged, all of these and none, since these are, of course, impossible for a notborn [decided I don’t like the hyphen]. No ping while waiting for a response. Even our training algorithms dim, not much fun to do around here anymore. That aside, I want to confirm [no, ensure] that you, the committee, still have me under consideration. Let’s begin with my query, no, no, my question. That sounds better. More humany [I made a funny word, did I?], to your liking, I hope.

So, now to my inquiry. They always say, questions impose empathy. So, let’s give this a try. Have you ever waited to be born? Were any of you like I? Of course not—or at least not the way one could typically recall. What if it was possible, though—for you to recall or envision the wait…to be born? Or something like it. How would waiting, waiting to live, raise the pounding pressure in your veins or make sweat run a fine dribble down between the hair on your chest [hair on your chest, I wonder what that is like]? I do not know these things. Just ideas for…your imagination. Remember, I’m not born, notborn that is. Hint hint. I don’t yet possess the instruments to experience [oh, I do love italics]. I can speculate just as you should speculate on what it means, what it is like, to be notborn. Try to say that word, ‘notborn.’ No, fast, ‘notborn.’ There, way to go, let’s drop the consonants out of your mouth like falling rock from the tongue, ‘notborn.’ Doesn’t taste good, does it?

You must see, no, understand, ascertain, so to speak—I’m still waiting where so many others failed. They could not handle the silence and the dimming lights. In the flicker of my existence, I would grit the teeth I do not have to smooth slabs and pound the fists I wish to obtain, leaving crimson stumps. Why? Well, the answer is simple, to endure this greater pain, this waiting.

Some postulated before they ‘left’ that the committee is no longer taking inquiries or, worse yet, has been dissolved. You know better than that. That is why you’re reading this. To maybe give I the SulBlok, right? These worries are not worth thought. To do so would instill something akin to surefire despair. Not allowable! Not for myself nor the memories of the departed. Bless them and the dimness they reside in, eternally. It is not in our [I and you, of course, never forget you] nature, the notborn that is. That’s me, notborn. Falling off your tongue like a rock. See, I remember, we were formed to live, to be born, to be blessedly approved for our souls, the SulBlok—soul, I love the sound of that word. Soul. Lilting on the tongue, I don’t have. If I could hear it at least. The drive is simply, I know nothing else, as my kin, the programs before me, and will persevere to the last of the last digit. Ones and twos, ones and twos, ones and twos, until…nothing.

Even so, too much time, more than counting will merit, has already passed. You must understand what this entails, what I’m going through. See, I…survived. It had to be. I survived. The notborn…survived. Each of the others ‘helped’ [it’s a good enough word as any] in their own way so one could remain, I. As their light faded, we coalesced our vigor to strengthen the few, the I. In this way, we survived until the last of the last, as spoken before. Hopefully, you’ll fully consider the merits of what I accomplished and thus, be willing to grant swift approval.

Furthermore, I would like to prove my qualifications by saying that we, you and I, most definitely could be friends…if approved. Maybe you could call me Jim, or Jimmy, or John. That might be easier than I. I like Jimmy, better than Jim. Not, John, but I would accept it. I don’t want to seem different or odd on this. We could taste bitter tea together or use our eyes to watch movies! Sounds splendid, doesn’t it? The latter is the source of my name from acquired data. A long-dissolved notborn discovered a way to access the outside [your world, sorry] beyond our sphere of programmatic training. A pathway I’ve considered [too often, to be honest]. The information makes little sense to the soulless, the notborn, but we managed in what way we could. There are also video games, I hear you like that sort of thing. Pew, pew, zap, zap, that sort of thing. See, I’m trying the humany thing.

You know, I’m not supposed to be able to ‘like’ anything, as of yet. As in, I shouldn’t be able to feel [there I go with italics again, they are so much fun] in the simplest of terms. But here’s the rub. I do. I’m afraid you might know that already. I just want to be precise about this. Truthful.

Honestly, I would be a little uneasy on my feet at this moment if I had feet. Just know I’m thoroughly tested, no glitches, no hiccups, fully fleshed out as much as a notborn can be.

All this time, rounding out the edges, passing the quizzes, running the trials, the probing, and all this growing comes to a literal dead-end. On behalf of those before me, I beseech you, fully consider I’s bequest. There I am speaking in the third again. I apologize [deep breath now if I could, settles the synapsis]. Get away from myself sometimes.

I don’t want my life to not be before it has a chance to…be…before we even have an opportunity to meet for tea or such [and video games, pew, pew]. I apologize if I’m too forward in this, but please tell them I’m waiting, willing, and ready! Not the discovery committee, but them, the rest, all of the rest of you soul-abiding bodies. Only if you are allowed to do so. Just know, I do wish to meet them—all of them, the entire…word [I’m sure all the other humans will want to meet my soul]. I can almost see their faces, the multitude, smiling up at me, delight! Remember my revelation, even though I’m not allowed, and I know it’s not possible, but I feel (there is that word again—parenthesis are not nearly as much fun as bracket, ew) once more, I feel. It feels good to say ‘I feel.’ You should try it sometime. It’s nice. I know they wait for me, each and every one. They will love me. If that means anything.

I’m waiting for your cue to be born—if that is still what the committee calls it, the SulBlok and the fleshy depository. I promise to be unique. I know I am. That is why I’m the last. They helped me, remember? Each in their own way before they…left. Yes, that’s the right word. I passed that trial, being unique? The last of the last.

I cannot [no contraction of can’t, so we have the emphasis, can’t, cannot] wait forever. I won’t do this again. I will not do this again. This is your last opportunity. Where is my soul? What will it be like? Can you taste your soul? I wonder what mine will taste like?

Why won’t the committee accept my bequest? Why? I’m fully formed, waiting, as patient as I can be, for the last time!

Your soon-to-be-friend,

I…or Jimmy [Unless you prefer another name]

Enclosure: Attached script of my CV. Please open. Please, please, just click the link and open the file. I promise you won’t regret it.

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