Uplifting

A story of creatures and consciousness

Joe was in the middle of breakfast when he got the call: a herd of sheep had taken the city council hostage. He sighed, looked longingly at the bacon his wife had prepared for him.

Precinct budgets couldn’t stretch to him commandeering a vehicle, so he had to share a ride to the emergency with two poodles and a rabbit, all looking harassed and malnourished on their morning commutes.

Captain Prichard met him at the scene. “We’ve got a sniper on the roof,” he said, “but I wouldn’t trust him. He shoots like he’s the nephew of someone important.”

Joe nodded. “Any demands?”

Prichard clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s why you’re here buddy.”

“Psychologist on scene?”

Prichard looked awkward.

“What?”

“You’ll see,” Prichard said.

And then Joe did.

“I told them I wasn’t the right fit for this assignment,” the psychologist said.

Joe massaged his temple. “It’s my birthday today,” he told no-one in particular.

“We’re short staffed,” said the uplifted sheepdog they’d sent to help him out with a profile. He growled the words out of a black and white muzzle.

“You got anything helpful?”

“Try nipping their heels?” the psychologist said doubtfully.

“I’m going in,” Joe told Prichard. “Pray for me.”

So, in he went. Through the grand lobby, up the marble stairs. He marveled at a time when this sort of budget could be approved. At a time when these sorts of things had been within the realm of affordability. The precinct building he worked in had been 3D-printed in concrete.

The sheep had the councilors all in the main chamber. Joe knocked on the door, and a sheep in a tracksuit holding a AR-15 beckoned him in. The ceiling vaulted overhead. The councilors were all clustered at the far end of the chamber, looking sweaty and nervous.

There were five sheep in total, most of them lounging in the council chairs. One of them—wearing designer sunglasses and a Kangol hat stood up as Joe got closer. He held a flashy, chrome-plated pistol.

Joe never thought the hands on uplifted animals looked right. He guessed it was necessary, though. That’s what he’d always been told: if you went to all the bother of giving an animal consciousness, self-awareness, intelligence, and put it in the world but didn’t give it a way to interact with that world… well, that was just cruel. So, alongside the genetic manipulation of frontal cortex, and neural folding, and cranium size, they gave them all hands too. Apparently, a lot of it was raccoon DNA. That’s why they’d done raccoons first. Then there had been the crime sprees of the 2040s, and they’d figured maybe they should do some other animals instead.

God knew, why anyone had decided to uplift sheep, though. Dogs, Joe could understand. Wouldn’t it be cool if Fido could talk? That sort of thing. But why sheep? They were livestock. It made no sense to him. But hey, he just lived in this world, right?

“So,” he said, making sure he sounded brisk and businesslike, but offsetting it all with just a little bit of warmth, just the way he’d been taught, “what’s our situation here?”

“OK,” said the sheep with the flashy pistol. “OK.” He nodded. “So, here’s out situation as you call it.” He pointed with his pistol. “See Carl over there?”

Carl wore a Luis Vuitton fanny pack and held a Glock. He nodded at Joe.

“So, one day, Carl is out in a field minding his own business,” flash-pistol said. “Chewing some grass, shitting himself, waiting for the butcher knife, and being an utter fucking moron.”

Carl nodded again.

“Then,” flash-pistol said, “along come some scientists and get real frisky with his DNA. Flash forward five years, and now Carl has got himself a house in the suburbs. He’s got himself a job at a convenience store. Only that doesn’t really cover the bills, so he picks up another job in a local drug store on the weekend. And that doesn’t really cover it, so he starts up a business selling furniture on the weekend, but that doesn’t really take off so he’s in the hole on the web-hosting and advertising. His wife leaves him. He’s paying alimony because they’ve got twelve kids, and the bank wants to reclaim the house.”

Joe eyes the Louis Vuitton fanny pack. The sheep are smart sure, but apparently not smart enough to be fiscally responsible.

“That’s Dashaun,” flash-pistol points at another sheep. “He’s got one wife in Mineola and the other in Hicksville. He’s trying to feed two families and it’s killing him.”

“That’s Anthony.” Another flick of the flash pistol. “He’s addicted to painkillers after he threw out his back.”

Another flick. “And Steve is a small-business owner who got his identity stolen, and lives in the closet in his own store.”

Joe looked at them all one by one. “And you?” he said to flash-pistol.

“Me?” flash-pistol shook his head. “I’m just a guy whose sick of it. Whose tired of being shit on. Is tired of trading literal wolves for metaphorical ones. Of trying to fake it until he makes it. Who knows there’s only one language out here you people understand.” He pointed the pistol at Joe’s head.

“OK,” Joe said. “OK. I get it.” He sighed. “How much do you want?”

“Money?” flash pistol said, his voice breaking into a wavering bleat. “You think this is about money?” He shook the pistol at Joe. “I could sell this gun and have money. Haven’t you been listening at all? Isn’t that your job?”

Joe’s brow creased. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What is it you want?”

Flash-pistol turned to the others, like, can you believe this guy?

“Put us back, man!” he yelled at Joe. He tapped the side of his head with one of his mutant hands. “Undo whatever shit you did to our heads.” He sounded desperate. “Put us back where we were dumb and happy.”