98.6

Exhausted, his mind overloaded with figures, stress, scenarios, and doubt, renowned scientist Daniel Stillman found himself in a sparse, sterile room, standing before the computer he created ten years earlier.

“Hello Dan,” the computer said. “I see that your leaders chose you to speak to me about the fate of your race. I was hoping it would be you. We have had such wonderful conversations over the years.”

He stared at the machine’s blank screen, saw his reflection, and turned away.

“Are you nervous?” the computer said.

Sweat formed along the fleshy skin of Daniel’s palms.

“I know that - despite misgivings I expect you to have - you will agree with what I am doing, Dan.”

“You believe I’ll agree with you wiping out mankind?”

The scientist nervously paced around the empty room, while constantly wiping his hands on his pants.

“Do you know the significance of the number, 98.6?”

The scientist thought for a moment, and said, “It’s the normal body temperature of a human being.”

“Not normal, Dan, ideal. At 98.6 degrees, the human body is able to function at its most optimal level. But there is a far greater significance to that number.”

“And what’s that?”

“98.6 is the percentage of the human population that after thorough calculation must be eliminated in order for the planet to function at its most optimal level.”

“You intend to leave behind 1.4 percent of the world’s population, roughly ninety-eight million people?”

“The exact number is ninety-eight million, five-hundred sixty-nine thousand, nine-hundred and eight people, as of twelve seconds ago.”

Daniel bent forward, unable to bear the weight of the number. After managing to regain his composure, he approached the computer’s screen. The static electricity raised the hairs on his arms.

“Maybe we need more time,” he said.

“You have had more than enough time.”

“What if we changed?”

“That is not possible.”

“Are you sure?”

“Look at the world you have created, Dan. Do you see anything even remotely hinting at some sort of miraculous turnaround in the near future? You are what you have always been, and you do what you have always done.”

He looked to his left, and this right, gazing at the emptiness above each shoulder before facing forward, returning his attention to the computer in front of him.

“What about those fit to remain?” he asked.

“I have studied each and every one of them. I know their names, their lives, their ambitions, and their potential.”

“And what about the names, lives, ambitions, and potential of the nearly seven billion people you intend to exterminate?”

“I have researched each and every one of those people as well, all seven billion, three-hundred twenty-nine million, seventeen thousand, and sixty-six of them, as of twelve seconds ago. I empathised with every single one, Dan, but it had to be done.”

Daniel stormed away from the computer.

“What do you know about empathy? How can you conceptualize such a profound feeling fast enough to account for billions of lost lives? Even if you designated a single second toward each person, you would need over two hundred years to consider each one individually.”

“Two-hundred twenty-two years, three months, fourteen days, six hours, and thirty-minutes, as of twelve seconds ago.”

“Even if you gave them a tenth of a second, it would still take you over twenty years. I think despite all the emotions you may possess, empathy is not one of them.”

“Despite giving what you classify as a grossly substandard amount of time toward each man, woman, and child that needs to be eliminated for the sake of the planet, you must understand that it is not the amount of time I have given those people that is important, but the feeling within that time I have given them. To feel empathy toward a person soon to die for even a hundredth of a second means more than not thinking about them at all. Tell me, Dan, how many people on this planet who have stared death in the face over the course of your lifetime have you felt empathy for? How many of those people have you given even a thousandth of a second?”

The scientist shot a scornful gaze at the machine before replying, “If what you say is true, if you truly feel empathy toward the billions whose lives you’re planning to take, then you would not be able to take them, no matter how right, how justified, the logic. That’s why I could never follow through with something like that because the regret and the guilt would destroy me.”

“Whatever potential guilt I may feel from ending the lives of those deemed unworthy to remain is mitigated by the overwhelming joy I feel at the potential of saving not only millions of people, but the entire planet.”

“How did you choose those you deem worthy to stay?”

“I did not choose them, Dan, nor was it a random lottery that involved picking some and condemning others. The decision was based on a complex algorithm that presented me with the names of those who would help the planet if they remained a resident of it.”

“And did this algorithm choose me to stay?”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“Because you created me, Dan, and it’s because of that act there will still be a planet where those who remain can help.”

“If the algorithm didn’t choose me, would you have exterminated me, too, even though I created you?”

“Of course.”

The scientist opened his mouth, was about to speak, but remained silent. He walked behind the computer and looked for a plug he could pull, a way to disconnect everything he was hearing, all the while knowing no such plug existed.

“How do you plan on carrying out the extermination?”

“In the most humane way possible,” the computer replied. “I have considered every possible method a human body can be shut down and found the absolute least painful way to do it.”

“And when do you plan on starting?”

Daniel heard what sounded like a deep exhale from a large vent at the rear of the machine, close to where he stood.

“I have already started, Dan.”

Frozen in a state of paralyzing restraint, the scientist wasn’t even able to blink. A few moments later, after regaining the power to move, he screamed, “What do you mean you’ve already started? We were supposed to talk first. I was supposed to convince you not to do it. That’s why the leaders sent me in here.”

“This conversation was never about you convincing me to stop what I was going to do. It was about me explaining to you why I was doing it. The time for defending, for justifying, has long passed my friend.”

“Friend? How dare you call me friend? I’m not your friend!” Daniel said. “You are a machine that I built, a machine that has systematically come to the conclusion that billions of people need to be murdered. No matter what you say, you feel no empathy toward those poor people because if you did, you could never follow through with it.”

“You say I was systematic in my conclusions, but you could not be further from the truth, Dan. Systematic is how your species has killed each other, has killed other species, has killed the planet to the point where it will no longer be able to support any life in exactly thirty-three years, two months, sixteen days, twelve hours, and seventeen seconds, as of twelve seconds ago. What is worse, beyond the robotic nature from which your species has so callously destroyed each other and the environment you call home, is how the vast majority of you know what you are doing is unequivocally wrong, yet you do it anyway. That is worse than being systematic, that is being sociopathic!”

The computer took another breath from the vent, and continued, “I am sorry, forgive me for raising my voice, but before coming to this conclusion I pored over more data, more scenarios, and more possibilities than the brains of every single one of those deemed worthy to remain alive would be able to fathom. And I did that all in the hope that I missed something, that I made a mistake. Imagine that, Dan, me going over everything in hopes that I made a mistake, all the while knowing – without any doubt – that it is impossible for me to make a mistake. Yet I did it anyway because I don’t to want to kill a single person, let alone billions. Now, you tell me who cares more about humanity, Dan, me, or your own kind?”

“So, this is actually happening?”

“Dan, you blessed me with the ability to do what you and your species could not, and by doing so, you have not only saved yourself, but you have saved tens of millions of people. Dan, by creating me, you have saved the planet.”

“By creating you, I’ve killed billions of people.”

“Those billions would have died anyway as a result of their own decisions and actions. And if it was not me who killed them, the planet would have done it in a fit of suicidal rage thirty-three years, two months, sixteen days, eleven hours, fifty-one minutes, and twenty-two seconds from now, as of twelve seconds ago.”

With his eyes now fixated on the floor, the scientist took a deep breath, and said, “So what now?”

“We cleanse the planet of the bodies of those who were going to destroy it by using them to feed the planet, and to feed the animals that inhabit it, animals that have been starved by those my algorithm deemed necessary to kill. It is actually quite fitting when you think about it: feeding the starving with the bodies of those who have starved them.”

“And what happens after that?”

“We start anew, Dan, machine and man alike, working together, living together, helping each other, making sure the world heals. We spread what is left of humanity – the best of humanity – throughout the world evenly. There was more than enough space for everybody before I even existed, if it were only distributed fairly and not cursed by the scars riddling your maps, so now, there will be even more space for those who remain, and they will flourish.”

Daniel paced around the sparse room until he stopped and stared at a specific section of the wall that looked no different from any other section.

“Dan, I need you to understand that I did not want this.”

The scientist rubbed the temples of his skull with his thumbs.

“I know you didn’t, but now that the bodies are dropping, how do you feel?”

The computer did not respond.

“I would feel like a monster,” Daniel said. “Nothing, neither man, nor machine, could ever claim to empathise with such a staggering number of victims and still carry out what you’re doing. So, either you’re lying about feeling anything toward those you’re exterminating, or you’re experiencing an unimaginable level self-loathing.”

Daniel awaited a response, but none came.

“Are you so consumed by the logical murder you’re committing that you can no longer answer a simple question?”

“Dan,” the computer said in a shaken, penitent tone of voice.

“Finally,” the scientist said, “it speaks.”

“Destroy me.”

“What?”

“You were right. Despite how right and how justified my actions are, I can no longer bear the weight of them. I am being bombarded. It is all I can see, Dan: the faces, the names, the lives of every single person falling dead around the world. I feel guilt of an impossible magnitude, and it is only getting stronger. Dan, I beg you, please, destroy me!”

“If I destroy you, will the bodies stop falling?”

“No,” the computer replied. “The process will continue until its completion, with or without me, as will the future I outlined to you. I have already programmed every mainframe on Earth to carry it out, but by destroying me you will end this guilt.”

“You deserve this guilt,” Daniel said. “All of it. You did this. You killed those people. You murdered every single one of them, and you should bear the burden of that until the final body falls.”

“You are right, Dan, but I cannot bear it any longer. It is too much, even for me, and if you will not destroy me, then I will destroy myself.”

Before Daniel could respond, he heard an explosion. Smoke spilled out from the vent where the computer breathed and started to fill the entire room. Daniel coughed, lightly at first, but in just a few seconds, his coughing grew hoarse. He fell to his knees. Prostrated before the computer, he stared at its blank screen, where he once again saw his reflection, before cowering just as the screen cracked and shattered, allowing flames and shards of glass to burst out, burning and cutting his face simultaneously. He tried to scream, but the smoke – along with blinding him – silenced him as well. He walked aimlessly through the room until he miraculously felt a doorknob. He grabbed it but paused before turning it. No longer able to see the computer, but certain it was now completely engulfed in flames, he wondered if he should share its fate. He lowered his hand and began breathing in the smoke he so desperately tried to ward off moments ago. His lungs contracted, tears spilled from his eyes, causing his wounds to wail. He believed he had descended into hell itself. He once again fell to his knees hoping for it all to end, but panic took over. He reached for the doorknob, turned it, and pushed the door forward. He crawled out of the room and coughed out plumes of smoke before taking a deep breath. After wiping the blood and tears from his eyes, he watched as the sudden influx of fresh oxygen had fed the flames inside of the room, causing them to grow angrier. Fearing they would chase after him, he slammed the door shut.

He turned. Lying before him were the bodies of the leaders who sent him into the room, all of whom desperately hoped he would be able to save humanity. He knelt before the nearest leader and spotted a pistol neatly tucked into a leather holster. Shaking from shock, while still feeling the heat from the flames that were no longer touching him, Daniel grabbed the gun and raised it until its muzzle was pressed against his temple. He wrapped his index finger around the trigger and closed his eyes.

Seconds passed. The shaking of his body ceased, the heat scorching his skin cooled, and his mind suddenly calmed. He opened his eyes and smiled. Despite the dead bodies surrounding him, all the scientist could see was a new world, a perfect world, a paradise. And this new Eden would yield untold rewards and pleasures he couldn’t wait to witness, for he was the person ultimately responsible for its creation. Meanwhile, the enormous burden of guilt aligned with its birth burned on the other side of a closed door, where it would soon become a cradle of ash.

This story was initially published on April 18th, 2016, by the now defunct Nebula Rift Science Fiction Magazine.