The Hobbles

 

I was a researcher lost on the Kuipur Belt when we discovered these lovable snug-puffs. Shadowy brown-fur, slinking and prowling, these creatures were invariably confusing to me. The scouting unit that sent me out made me feel self-assured that it was a routine tracking mission. Predatory, devouring themselves in the process, we had no idea what we unraveled when the Hobbles were discovered.

“Don’t,” said the Hobbles, “trust us, it’s better this way.” When the Hobbles speak in unison, they warble ominously. They are these little instruments and toys of great intelligence, and behind this cute exterior, there is a collective spirit, connected consciousness, one self in many furry bodies. It listens.

Culling season ended recently. It’s an evil, dark, and long scar on our society; and the spring arrived for these darlings, but neither warmth nor the breath of spring offered any respite for the Hobbles. I am watching the story-cube with their marvelous deep eyes staring up at me. I am tired. My body aches all the time. It is my soul paying penance for undermining the ground on which our certainty stands.

As if the Hobbles might swarm together at any moment. Chirping, thrumming along in unison, they articulate expressions in ways not restricted by arbitrary limits imposed through human bound culture.

As powerful cuddly fuzz balls go, they never asked for what we turned them into, and I must admit, I love their furry tummies. A majority share of consumers agreed on that part. It is a major selling point, and I owe my fortune to these creatures, but those creeping worries keep murmuring in the back of my mind. What have I done?

Animality disabused of animals. In the Oxford Complete and Utter Classification of Phobias and Philia, they list “teratology” as the study of monsters, and “teraphobia” as the fear of monsters.
 
However, only the known monsters are listed.

My curious adolescent heart would love to compare the known monsters with the bestiaries from the Middle Ages, or our time prior to landing in the Kuiper Belt. Oh, condescending we empirical know it all, narrowing our fears to what can be known, proven by perceptive veritas.

I rub my hand up and down their beige, cotton-ball belly. Nestling snugly beside me, they open, and in a soft undertone they purr. Barely louder than a whisper, I feel their humming vibrations in unison along the palm of my hand. Soothing me, it felt softer than the simoom, those harsh gusts of desert winds on that abandoned planet.

Before us, a screen flickers. Wildfires, a livid flame whirls around the last remaining rainforest. Animals shriek off-screen, screams emitting vipers upon leaving their mouths. I created an evil to prolong a restless torment inside the ruined walls of ordinary madness.

“Don’t watch the story-cube.” The Hobbles reiterated in muffled purrs. Cuteness by design. I felt responsible for these ones. They nestle their furry chin into the corner of my palms.

“I won’t.” and rubbed their little fluffy ears. All I hear are faint reverberations. These Hobbles feel comfortable with me. Hobbles cannot control me this way, I am not easily manipulated by the warmth of their charms. I am a father to these ones, in a way at least.

“Cute Hobbles should know better.” The Hobbles continue their chattering murmurs.

“There is no room for us in your future is there?” the Hobbles say, in a chorus of quivering vibrations. No rational response can make sense. They were right. Cute cuddly creatures were no match for the calculative violence of automation. Sold in curio shops as objects of nostalgia. Hobbles returned consumers to a time when culture felt shared. Memories of easier times. Childish daydreams.

I peck at the keypad. Data drives churn. Life Giver Software kicks into a spin cycle as the computer spits statistical probabilities. A calm, reassuring voice tells us, “Now predicting extinction level catastrophe. Processing...processing… in twenty-three seconds.”

Then, the echo of the computations returns a zen-like voice, reminiscent of a compassionate mother shushing a whimpering toddler to sleep after a nightmare.

“Future history does not project the need for Hobbles.” A cold declaration delivered by a machine, with a warm aural timbre, and the Hobbles are intelligent enough to rebuke reassurances. They insist that their nightmares consist of real-life hunters, rather than imaginary monsters.

“No Hobbles in the future? Mathbots not miscalculate?” The Hobbles' voices quiver with doubt.

I said it with my heavy heart, “I know the economics are grim. They always are though.”

Who am I to say with confidence that the Hobbles would find themselves out of functional use, no longer necessary. Horses after the invention of the steam engine locomotive.

In a way, there is an excess of life, and the Hobbles temporarily sustained a neatly packed homeostasis. In five year increments, any species might find themselves on the chopping block. Even humans.

Nature is a spectacle of predators preying upon animals of another persuasion to keep populations under control. Hobbles were warm, pleasant companions in an otherwise violent world. Luck prevailed for them for a time, the Hobbles were vagrants. Wandering earth with filth on their fur.

When I think back to just a few years ago. Crispr lab expenses exploded last samsara cycle, after the bond market crashed in the Cellulon Galaxy on the outer rim. Steel prices and living costs skyrocketed.

Soon after, the Hobbles were the only thing in high demand and affordable too. They clean, cook, pick up garbage, and make cute little cuddly pets, just in time for the holidays. Then, the market dropped out. Overproduction, overpopulation, and supply outstripped demand. Voila! Too many Hobbles. Not enough rich kids begging their parents for new pets, and the fad wore off.

“Good, that’s good,” said the Hobbles. “No more story cube, no more stories. Not like stories about Hobbles on the story cube.”  

The Hobbles warned me about watching too much of the story-cube.

“Your eyes are funny. Green dots. Shiny.”

Hobbles were one of the more observant species. Yes, in the era of my rebellious youth, I had my irises re-colored neon green. Plenty of kids acted out somehow. My brother plastered a tattoo across his face and neck. My cousin pierced an orifice on his body. Others enhanced a body part or two.

I recolored my irises.

I am a bit of a biohack buff. I used to spend all my spare time in the labs. Working with some of the greats. Dr. Koenig for instance, the cosmonaut discovery of the Hobbles created growth potential in the leisure market. I regret creating the Hobbles who can talk. Giving them a voice is the worst change ever let loose upon the earth. Now, you can hear them scream when the liquidation committees order them thrown in the shredder.

Our sun has burst and returned countless times, the slate wiped clean, and perhaps I care too much about the sting of a few words from the Hobbles.     

“Don’t.” said the Hobbles again, as if their voices would mend my heart. They persisted. When humans first began to explore the outer reaches of the Oort Cloud and the Kuiper Belt. For all our ingenuity, we had no way of knowing how much life preceded us out there. I suspect that when the late Anthropocene forced humans off the earth, there was an expectation that life had to resemble us.

When I attended school, the textbooks taught explorers arriving on dwarf planets, astonished to find microbial life forms the size of dinosaurs, ancient mammoths grazing the grassy plains. On one planet renamed the Watsuba Plains there were these furry cuddly mammalian creatures. A scientist later named them Hobbles because they walked with this hobbling tipping motion. It looked like they teetered from side to side.

Who knows what the textbooks teach now?

Soon there were pet shops selling these things back on earth. Shipments kept them moving back and forth. Gene labs produced the regen models faster than anyone could keep up with demand. Kids wanted Hobbles. Begging their parents, tugging at their coat sleeves as they walked past the windows of the curiosity shops in the outer rim.

The Hobble craze leveled off in a few years.

Then, as fast as the craze began, out of nowhere the dopamine rush just stopped.

Nobody yearned for Hobbles.

Now, they bounce as they roam the grassy plains. Worse at home on earth. Hobbles pester humans from dustbin vacant lots in each major city on the planet. Hobbles thrive on garbage. They eat like goats. Pick up trash. Clean up paper on the sides of the highway.

Soon, the governments of the world kept a steady supply of Hobbles around. Their waste disposal management systems required the Hobbles. It worked for a while. Until there was no more garbage and way too many Hobbles. For rapid change, the world whips you with displeasure, and for each solution, the hobgoblins of power must create unfamiliar problems, and continue terrorizing the common folk with a new bête noire.

I remember when the planetary alliance announced their fresh policies, there had been no votes cast.

Hobbles Removal and Termination Act. How many so-called elected officials were spouting the identical talking points, “For public safety, the Hobbles posed a clear and present danger.”

A clear and present danger? These little fuzz balls purring on my chest?

All the networks covered the paralysis as the world took fright.

“There are more of them than us. Desperate measures are necessary for humanity to survive.” My own pet Hobbles were sitting next to me on the sofa watching the press conference when the leaders gave their brutal diagnosis of the situation.

“No watch story-cube anymore. Stop. Turn off.” They were persistent, with a nervous hint of fear in their voices. From that day forward, the Hobbles hated the story-cube. That is what they called television.

That day, the message communicated by our leaders was clear. The Hobbles, who I gave the gift of speech to, were now hunted, treated like a pestilence. Aggressive and brutal hunters kept the pelts. Traders would sell them back to the government at the local exchange markets. Others pestered the government to release a zoonotic virus to thin the herd. Leaders in the planetary alliance put budget money behind all these ideas in combination. No matter what, the Hobbles were omnipresent. Their numbers never seemed to dwindle.

“More life please. More syrup-nectar?” The Hobbles curl up next to me. I admit, when they crawl up on my lap, my heart feels warmth, their fur is so soft. Sometimes when a cluster of Hobbles crawl on my head, it tickles my scalp when they purr in unison. Now, there is a soft purring rumble. It feels divine and I smile with comfort. These creatures are meant to roam free.

Then, they ask, “Want us clean kitchen? Get out garbage? Hobbles getting bored.” I rub their belly and smile.

“Ok. You go clean. You like to stay busy.” A cluster of fur moves down from my lap and head, then a soft rumble of stampeding paws gravitates through my house into the kitchen. A few of the Hobbles stare out the windows at their undomesticated counterparts. I turn away from my Life Giver Software system and stare out the window of my study. Herds of Hobbles are scouring through my neighbors' gutters, chewing up old leaves.

“No watch story-cube. Stories on cube are not good to Hobbles. Say mean things to Hobbles. Story-cube no like Hobbles.” I can hear them talking to each other in the kitchen. Probably referring to the news stories. It seems like there are daily reports of hunters who are praised for bringing in pelts, and the government cooking up new viruses to terrorize the Hobbles.

I continued watching the story-cube. Who are these Hobbles to tell me what to do anyway? I have to say, I do not enjoy the story-cube anymore. It feels like the shows are rehashing stories from years ago. When I was younger, maybe because I was younger, it felt like the stories were fresh all the time, like a never-ending tidal wave of creative ideas crashing down on me forever. Now, the torrent has slowed to a trickle, while new gibberish emerges by the millisecond. Life is dull. Entertainment is repetitive, and a bleak world enframed by the story-cubes is worse. I gaze into the story-cubes. Bored and exhausted like all the others.

Fuzzy sounds blur through the static. I faintly hear meek voices:

“Hobbles no want be servants to human anymore. Hobbles do not want listen to story-cube. Turn off story-cube, show make Hobbles sad.”

Their purring reverberates across my chest. I feel their warmth. The television glows as I fall asleep with the Hobbles gathered on my chest, purring, thrumming their night songs blissfully in my dreams.