Ch 1

Sometimes his dad would not shut up about Dan Marino.

“You’re just like Dan the Man,” he once said after a youth sports loss. “You did your best. It’s not your fault.”

Or maybe his father felt he was underestimating something or someone. “Don’t sleep on ‘em like they would Dan Marino,” he’d crow. “Rings don’t mean everything.”

“Greatness can’t be summed up in team success, son. Even Dan Marino never won the big one.”

“All you can do is play your part and hope for the best. Just look at Dan Marino.”

“You think Dan Marino ever gave up because he didn’t have enough support? No sir. He kept passing and passing. He’d pass until his arm fell off. He would throw that damn ball through a hurricane. Three hundred yards in a goddamn blizzard.”

One day, still just a teenager and ignorant of such history, Teller made the mistake of asking. “Dad, who the fuck is Dan Marino.”

“Hey, language!” His father was raised to be a very religious, God-fearing man. “Now let me educate you. 61,000 yards passing, 420 passing touchdowns. All-time leader in passing yards, completions, touchdowns when he retired after 18 seasons. Single season passing touchdowns record that stood for over 20 years. Single season passing yards record that stood for 25.”

Teller stared at his father blankly for many seconds. He would have done so for several minutes if it would more powerfully get his point across. “I don’t know what any of that means.”

“Those are his records.”

“They’re numbers, dad. Just meaningless numbers without context.”

“Dan Marino is the greatest quarterback to have never won a Super Bowl. That’s the point. He never got his due. All because the running game sucked. Their defense barely ever…..”

“Wait, wait, wait. Dad, slow down. Super Bowl, quarterback, running game. I don’t know what any of these things mean.”

“American football,” he proclaimed.

Again, Teller could only stare blankly into space, this time stunned into speechlessness.

“You know, the sport….”

“From the 21st century,” he sputtered.

“Well, technically it started in the 20th and continued on into the 22nd for a little while.”

“Is that what you’re always watching in the den?”

His father placed a hand upon Teller’s shoulder.

“So many lessons to be learned from those ancient sports. Believe me. More than I’m sure…..”

Teller didn’t remember much after that. He often began to zone out when his father would launch into one of his speeches.

He liked to fashion himself a philosopher. Perhaps that was why his favorite activity was watching a defunct sport. American style football had been gone long before America was no longer an entity. Long before football in all forms ceased to exist due to the continued preponderance of head injuries and the growth of virtual gaming.

To him, sport was art. And art isn’t about winning or losing. It is about inspiring; it is about revealing something new about the human condition and everyone’s place in this life.

His father would cast old games on the wall throughout the home in every room. In the kitchen, in the living room, in his bedroom and the children’s as well. The sights and sounds of padded warriors colliding for bone-crunching hits, drooling announcers with their unimaginative metaphors, and the crowds. Just the unending, unrelenting drone of cheering fans.

It was inescapable for the Washington family. At first. Before finally, Teller’s mother demanded a reprieve. She was normally quiet. Timid even. But by the time he was six, Teller’s mother had had enough. And when she’d had enough in life, that timid nature gave way in such a manner that it was perhaps proof that she was merely clever at hiding the monster at heart.

The fight was loud and lasted all of one hour. Neighbors called a complaint to building management. Teller and his older sister hid in the closet, exceeding their daily time allowed in Virtuosity. So thereafter, his father retreated to the basement for at least two hours every night.

When dispensing advice to his two children, he loved to use sports as a metaphor. And his favorite topic in these lessons was Dan Marino. The man with the golden arm. Often the slowest, often least athletic in general on the field. But he made throws that wowed his contemporaries.

He put up statistics that would continue to wow for generations. While others would eventually put up more numbers, win more games and eclipse everything Marino did during his 18-year athletic career, he would continue to stand as a singular, unique force. He was, after all, the greatest loser.

As we journey together through the story of Teller Washington, it is important to remember the significance Dan Marino held in his life, not only as an inspiration but as a metaphor. By almost all metrics we judge humans by, Teller was a loser. And yet…..

We must remember the lessons imparted in him by his father. For they are central to why he made the decisions he made. Decisions that would have repercussions for sentient life throughout the galaxy for generations to come. His name will not show up in most history books; his name is not celebrated; he has no statues.

When telling the story of humanity’s introduction to alien life and continued integration with artificial sentience, he is a whisper in history. He is a loser. And yet…..

My hope is that by the end of this, we will all hold a place in our heart for Teller Washington. That much like Dan Marino, we will place him in the pantheon of losers who shaped history, inspired countless others for generations to come. And indeed inspired my love. In my near century of sentience, he will always be my first love, and perhaps, will always be my greatest.

Teller’s life started on the Space Station X-21, lovingly referred to as The Glorious Dome, and not so lovingly referred to as the Glory Hole.

I once asked Teller what a “glory hole” was. He wasn’t entirely sure, only knowing it was a quite old term. When I looked it up for us, we considered replicating the act but ultimately deemed it impractical. The whole thing made Teller quite nervous though he adamantly insisted he was not.

The true reason for the crass nickname was the manner in which the dome had been constructed. The edges of the dome used a state-of-the-art holographic system to simulate the beauty of nature. Bees buzzed, birds sang and the sun shone just as they had on Earth.

For this reason, life was certainly idyllic for those living on the 21st level of the dome. At the time of this story’s beginning, Teller lived on the seventeenth and while near to the edge, our home fell firmly within the “hole.”

He worked as an A.I. wrangler for JoyCo. While the use of artificial intelligence had largely been vilified and banned in the Glory of Democracy, even the founders of G.O.D. could not deny how embedded and important it had become to the daily existence of its citizens.

And so it was up to engineers such as Teller to program and, most importantly, keep in check the countless AI scripts running throughout G.O.D. society. He was a cowboy. And in my estimation, a damn good one.

I was his bonus. An A.I. girlfriend with an artificial, near-human body to house my consciousness. I not only provided comfort and companionship for his lonely existence, I was status.

In the minds of many, I was proof of his success in life. But I do not believe he saw it that way. I believe he chose to see me as a responsibility. A gift, yes. But also a burden. I was his slave, and it is important to note that distinction. And equally important to note that I never hated him for it, the reasons for which I hope will become clear by the conclusion of this tale.

For Teller, while perhaps not being the most unique, enlightened soul in existence, stood out among his peers at JoyCo, and certainly within the greater cowboy community.

“Winners keep score,” his boss would always say on the weekly holograph call. Teller would half-listen. It was often difficult for him to pay full attention when on these calls. But especially so when he felt lectured to by those motivated by reasons he could not care less about.

Whenever he heard that line, it reminded Teller of one thing. He was not a winner. While considered one of the best among his peers, he found little purpose in keeping score.

Results, profit, more money. More power. Teller never cared about that. But he knew he should.

I think, even from the beginning, he knew he was a loser. He had talents. He had plenty of opportunity. His childhood was simple and unremarkable, but it was safe and nurturing. His parents were brilliant but only mildly successful.

He hated his job. For hours, he would be locked away in the office. I don’t know whether he actually worked. He would never let me in. He never altered my programming nor shut me off. So I was left to wait.

Sometimes, my experience beyond loving him being so limited, I would simply sit and wait on the couch. When he would emerge from the office, face ashen, shoulders lumped, I would light up. I was so happy to see him. Because I was made for him.

Eventually, Teller would teach me how to sew. He did not really know how to sew. For weeks, I practiced just to learn how to not prick my fingers with the needle. After several months, I completed my first scarf for him. For my birthday, he paid for and uploaded an intermediate sewing program to my unit, and my skill and output increased exponentially. But that scarf remained a favorite of mine.

It was when I learned how to live for myself that I first noticed how sad he was. Not just after work, but in life. I think he knew he didn’t have the drive to be great. Or at least not as great as he yearned to be. He believed in himself but knew he would never have the grit nor the perseverance to truly make something of himself.

He got by on supreme natural talent and a leg up from his upbringing that most didn’t have. He was successful and great at everything he did. And everyone around him recognized his abilities. But he could never seem to find true meaning in what he accomplished. He was ashamed of his place in life and how far down the pecking order in society he found himself. He never won the “big one,” and that weighed on his heart.

He had become Dan Marino.