Squirrel
Winner: The Robert Day Award for Fiction
Selected by Phong Nguyen
Ian Becker
I’m on the gurney now, so this is a test. Behind the glass, Sanjay is giving me a thumbs up. Thank you, Sanjay. The mechanism is simple: when I want to log, my thinking will log, and the next log will be real. My human form, a youthful middle-aged man, will be in the chamber. But my consciousness will be out in the field, driving the little body.
It’s time. The tubes are connected. The chamber has been sealed. * * *
And I wake up in some type of grove. It’s quiet, tranquil. The trees tower above me, and I feel small, obviously. The grass is thick, tall, ungroomed.
I have no idea where I am, and this was by design. Our team had conducted early tests in the facility, but Sanjay posited that the results, though favorable in a technological sense, because the Link worked, were affected by the subject’s orientation to his surroundings. This makes sense. One does not act naturally under a watchful eye. If you are a squirrel before a human audience, even peers or friends, you will not conduct yourself as you would if you were a squirrel among other squirrels. You will be conscious of being watched, and perhaps even perform: breakdancing, pantomiming masturbation, and so forth.
Now, as I record this log, I am, for all intents and purposes, a squirrel. With one caveat, of course; to break the Link, the body must die, and if my little host should starve, or be disembowelled by an eagle, I will simply wake up in my original human body, safe and undisturbed in the chamber. That’s what makes the Link divine. And because of this capability, the team has no awareness of my whereabouts after the moment they placed my unconscious host in this remote grove.
You may find this extreme, but I was adamant on this point. If I’m a squirrel in familiar territory, that knows where to find the nearest In-N-Out dumpster, for instance, I will not have to actually look for my sustenance. That leisurely situation would negate the purpose of this outing. I’m not being tracked now, because I don’t want to be tracked and I don’t need to be tracked. My geolocation does not matter.
I will try my best to avoid disembowelment, though, because I need some sort of vacation. I will not re-litigate the Department’s indictment here; that’s not the point of these logs. But the whole situation, transferring my operations into the remote facility, not to mention the effect on my social life, and the lack of natural sunlight, has caused me a great deal of stress. As it would anyone.
In any event I am confident that my contributions to history, and especially the Link, will clean the slate. When our government, which is essentially a network of low-IQ hemorrhoids, wants the capability to deploy divisions of bears, or moose, to foreign theaters, they will sing a different tune. Trust me.
What else? Sanjay is tracking my logs, and he can transmit succinct messages to me. The messages cause me discomfort, as if someone is tapping my brain with a cold spoon, and Sanjay has been instructed to limit their use.
I wonder: Is this boring? We’ll edit it later. Now I must venture out, to wander and use my body. To scratch at things with my claws.
A magnificent day. First I went uphill, westward toward the sun as it sank behind the pines. I have been racing about, as I’m both surprised and energized by the rodent agility. Leaping and darting have proven novel. I’ve also experimented with lifting twigs and sticks of various weights, weaving sprints in complicated patterns, squishing my sphincter on damp moss, and flicking my tail around. I pushed the body to exhaustion this morning. Then in a moment of rest I remembered: Trees.
I cannot begin to express my feelings towards trees, in this body. When I cling to them, I feel as if I’ve opened the door to a new axis, a new realm. This is good data. And think of the iterative applications. What might a quadriplegic pay to live as a horse? New international sports, based in treetops. Of course the travel industry will change significantly. And perhaps even a solution for the housing crisis. I imagine we could warehouse the human bodies in stasis in some sort of, well, chamber complex, while their animal vessels thrive in mixed-use developments in the canopy. Sanjay, if this should turn out to be proprietary, we’ll remove it later.
Now I perch in a high branch; I am gazing out. Mostly treetops, muted green, no roads, no infrastructure. A gentle breeze plays with my whiskers.
But what is this? Movement in a shorter tree, perhaps fifty yards away. In the dossier my staff prepared, they recommended that I avoid birds altogether, regardless of species, and I have taken this to heart. So I am perfectly still now. I am assessing.
And there it is: a bushy tail. A huge development, and on the first day. I have found my kind.
My brain hurts. It’s a message from Sanjay. Congratulations, boss. Thank you, Sanjay.
Forgive me for not logging sooner, I’ve been quite busy. Only one week has passed since the morning of my installation, yet much has transpired.
The owner of the bushy tail turned out to be a sow with dark tufts of hair on the tops of her ears. I have named her Abigail, after Abigail Adams. When I initially approached, Abigail fled from me, jumping between treetops and scurrying out of the canopy and down to the ground. But after a standoff next to a small brook, during which we stared at each other for what felt like hours, she seemed to more readily accept my company, though I was careful to keep my distance on our circuitous journey upward to an old growth area above a thicket. Abigail led me to a large oak there, where her dwelling was located in a hole about twenty meters high.
I clung to a nearby branch and watched Abigail enter and exit the hole. The interior seemed humble. At one point, she went inside and retrieved an acorn, and chewed it ravenously while peering out at me. That was interesting. Then, as the light began to fade, the other members of Abigail’s group arrived one by one.
There is a young one, just a pup, possibly Abigail’s pup. I’ve named him Quincy. He has large eyes, and his coat is a strong hazel. He is tentative, unsure of himself. Then there is a thin adult, clearly unhealthy, with a short tail and a long raised scar on his back. Evidently, he has survived something significant. He is often very still, as if a fuse has blown; perhaps there is brain damage. I have taken to calling him Joe.
Then there is Hercules. As you may have guessed, he is tall and muscular, a real physical specimen of a squirrel. He is possibly Quincy’s father—I believe I see a resemblance—though he seems mostly indifferent to the boy.
Hercules arrived last that evening, hurtling noisily up the lower branches, arriving at the dwelling entrance with an oblong face, his cheeks packed with nuts. Though it was nearly dark, he spotted me on the branch, where I had been clinging for a few hours, catching quick glimpses of Abigail and the others as they moved around inside the hole. Hercules dumped the nuts from his mouth, turned toward me, and tensed his significant frame. Then he barked exactly once. The significance of this was lost on me. He retired inside and I left my perch, jumped to an adjacent tree, and found a good flat spot at the intersection of many branches. My sleep was fitful that night. I often have a hard time sleeping in new environments.
The next morning I was awoken by the pain. Sanjay again. Food. Nuts berries seeds. In my flurry of activity the previous day, I had neglected to eat, and I became newly aware of my hunger, which seemed to tug my body inward. I left my bivouac and went in search of edible things.
Finding acorns was easy. The air was heavy with their smell, and they hung in abundance from the oak trees in the vicinity of Abigail’s hole. I found a plump and juicy acorn, packed it in my cheek, and leapt from tree to tree, waiting to eat it until I was far enough away to avoid scrutiny from the others.
I found a tree with ample shade and situated myself on a low branch. The experience of prying off the cap and drawing the meat to my mouth was intense. I felt a surge of self-esteem from sourcing my own nourishment. And the tactile nature of the process was like eating shellfish, but without the bib or dainty forks, the absurd decorum. I squeaked with pleasure.
While gnawing the acorn, though, I was suddenly caught by an overwhelming sense of enticement. A new scent, vaguely familiar, sweet and earthy, perfumed the air. It was then that I noticed the prodigious yield of the branches surrounding my dining spot:
IAN BECKER
black walnuts, abundant, encased in yellow-green husks. It was almost too much to handle. I raced to the base of the tree, where many husks laid about, picked a particularly large one, and began to gnaw and claw my way into the nut meat inside.
It is pointless to try and describe the sensations I felt while consuming the walnut. You wouldn’t understand. To humans, nuts taste like nuts. Not so for squirrels. The meal was orgasmic, among many other things. This is merely one among many applications of the Link that will create lifelong users of the product. An experience that becomes indispensable once you discover it. And because of the Link, any gorging would be guilt-free.
After my meal, I felt drowsy. I had to push myself to ascend the tree and find a safe branch, rather than collapse in the dirt and nut pulp on the forest floor. I dragged myself up, and in the joint of two branches I nestled and fell into a deep sleep.
The next morning, feeling well rested and clear headed, I decided to test our hypothesis that many social dynamics transcend species. Hospitality, kinship, mutual benefit, and so forth. Then I had an idea.
At significant risk to my host, I carried two walnuts along the ground at a painfully slow pace back to the base of Abigail’s tree, where I found Hercules and Quincy pushing acorns into a large cache under a tree root. The trip was grueling. I was exhausted and must have looked mangy when I arrived. I dropped the two walnuts before them, giving one a small push towards the cache, then I stepped back and bent my frame into a deep, supplicant bow.
Hercules stared at me for some time, while Quincy sprinted to a nearby patch of moss and began to roll around spastically. I left to explore a nearby bush, and when I returned, the walnuts were gone. There was no fanfare, but from that point forward I sensed a change in my relations with the others. I could scamper at the
base of the tree at will, ascend the branches, and even sit near the entrance to the dwelling. No one barked at me.
Many days passed in this manner, without awkwardness or friction. Then last night it rained heavily, and I had trouble finding a dry patch on any branches. I worked up my courage to approach the dwelling while Hercules, Joe, Quincy, and Abigail were all huddled inside. I peered my head in and looked at them. They looked back. Slowly, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible, I stepped in and curled my frame against a dry corner.
The night was uneventful. The rain outside was ferocious, but the mood inside the dwelling was calm. Now it’s dawn, and the others are still asleep.
At this moment, on the precipice of breakthrough, watching the rising light and the dwindling rain, I would like to express my gratitude to Sanjay. This won’t be removed from the log. Sanjay, though you are my subordinate, I also consider you a friend. I know you have sacrificed much and at times were operating outside of your comfort zone under my direction. I want you to know that I appreciate all that you do, whether it’s related to turning my ambition into workable tech, strategic budgeting, or helping me decode the new jargon and memes that proliferate among the younger members of our community, which to a seasoned executive like myself come across only as evidence of their advanced mental illness.
I admit that I’m experiencing a unique joy, leaning into the soft rhythm of nature, sleeping well at night and waking at dawn without an alarm. I relish feeling the sun’s warmth on my fur, and breathing in the thick musk that hovers in our dwelling. Each morning, our group sits in silence for a time, listening to the
creaking of the tree and the muted whistling of the wind. The males watch Abigail groom Quincy, with reverence. Then we go out into the day.
My staff had initially chosen squirrels because their central nervous system was particularly compatible with the Link, and we could establish the connection with a minimally invasive procedure. Actually that might be proprietary. Sanjay, please flag that for removal. Additionally, please send me the calendar date. I’ve lost track of time.
Where was I? We chose squirrels for specific reasons, and I’m glad we did. This is a species that can labor with vigor. Numerous times during my excursion I have felt that it is a shame they do not have the mental capacity to create their own markets, though perhaps that can change.
Hercules devotes himself to nut gathering with an absolutely tireless work ethic. He ascends nearby trees, gathers nuts, then disappears into the surrounding roughage and ferociously digs holes, packing the nuts inside them. He repeats this task cycle dozens of times per day; the nuts are his calling. Joe will occasionally join these nut-gathering missions, but he doesn’t seem to fully understand what is happening, and his movements are lethargic. Abigail and Quincy also gather nuts, but they do so more casually. During peak work hours, I will often catch them wrestling in a patch of thick grass, or rolling, or simply sitting together and not doing much of anything. They are quite the pair. Perhaps it is some rodent chemical in me, or a remnant of my boarding school days. But I am feeling a certain tenderness toward Abigail. She is a caring and wonderful mother to Quincy. Not all children are so lucky.
Sanjay, please send me the calendar date. I’ve sourced substantial data and I think it is almost time to conclude this outing. In a few days I will leap off of the highest branch I can find, as was suggested in the dossier. But first I would like to know how long I’ve been linked. I’m looking forward to taking a hot bath in my quarters, with a glass of merlot.
In the spirit of disclosure and data gathering, and again noting our ability to edit the transcript at a later date, my excursion has taken a peculiar turn. Most of my recent days have been more or less pastoral, and I’ve felt healthier and more relaxed than I have in some time. Occasionally while laying in the sun and using my tail as a pillow, I have even briefly forgotten the circumstances surrounding my excursion and the government’s case. I felt an animal’s singularity of purpose, whether that was to eat, or defecate, or rest. I was enjoying my vacation.
Then one afternoon, as I was sitting on a patch of moss, Abigail and Quincy burst through a nearby brush and raced in circles before me. Though I’m not sure what my facial expression was, it felt similar, cognitively, to a smile. The weather was perfect and their mirth was contagious. I clapped my paws for them.
After exhausting their energy, both sat for a time breathing heavily, then Quincy scampered away. Abigail watched him go, patted the ground with her leg, and rolled over.
When she got up in a seated position, she turned toward me. She stared at me, and not knowing how to respond, I nodded in her direction. I didn’t want to be rude. Then she began to chirp rhythmically. Over and over again.
Had my nod come across as artificial, or foreign? I tried to remember portions of the dossier focused on mannerisms, behaviors, but there were certain sections that I had time only to skim. The chirps grew louder. Then she bent down and looked as if she were preparing to race right into me. I admit that I was frightened. I had caused some offense, I assumed, some
provocation. My body tensed, my heart raced, and I raised my claws, ready to defend myself. Even against a female.
Abigail lurched forward, but stopped before making contact. She barked loudly in my face, which startled me and caused me to fall backward into the patch of moss. Then she lowered herself into a squat, reached down, and slowly tugged a large, white, misshapen plug of wax out of her vagina.
She thrust the plug into her mouth and began to chew. Honestly I didn’t know what was going on. She swallowed the plug and turned her back toward me. Overcome with fear and raw rodent emotion, my host’s body did what it wanted, and I was upon her.
When it was over, Abigail raced back in the direction of her tree, without so much as a nod in my direction. Then I felt an allconsuming pain in my skull, which radiated throughout my entire body. I expected a message from Sanjay, but no message came.
So I’m logging while sitting on the moss now, gathering my thoughts. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.
Sanjay, this is unacceptable. I’ve requested that you get in touch. Should I not receive a message from you, your employment at my firm, and your immigration status in this country, will be subject to immediate change. Don’t test me. I have sourced good data and am ready to end this, but I require two pieces of information from you. What is the calendar date? And is everything prepared for my return?
The tempo here has shifted significantly. Circumstances have changed.
Following my encounter with Abigail, I decided to sleep in a different tree for the night. I needed some space. But the next
morning when I returned to Abigail’s tree, I found Hercules and Joe waiting at the base.
It occurred to me that I had not yet participated in a nutgathering mission, and that doing so would provide usable data and a fitting experience before I leapt off a high branch. As soon as I moved to join them, however, Hercules stood on his hind legs, held his paws against his chest, and growled at me. The meaning of this sound was unambiguous. Then he lunged at me, grabbed my torso, and began to toss me around like a rag doll. His claws scratched my face, and his sheer weight crushed me. I could not breathe.
It didn’t occur to me to die, which might have solved all of my problems. Instead I felt an overwhelming will to live, which is clearly another useful application of the technology. As he pummeled me and nipped at my ears, I shut my eyes and tried to block his blows with my left arm. I swung my right arm out in an attempt to wriggle away, and felt a familiar object on the ground. A stick. I gripped it hard, and with all the strength I could muster, stabbed blindly and wildly.
The dust settled, and for the rest of the day, we all sat at the base of the tree. Hercules was sprawled out and groaning. The stick jutted from his belly, and blood slowly oozed from the wound and covered his legs and the dirt around him. Joe sat very close to Hercules, and occasionally glanced quizzically at me. He seemed sad.
Watching this pathetic tableau, resolving to ascend a nearby tree and jump immediately, I finally received a message from Sanjay, which entered my mind with searing, indescribable pain. Comms faulty Link broke Fixing now Do not die.
IAN BECKER
I am not well. My thinking is muddled, and I feel cold. I don’t understand how this could be happening. I don’t accept it, honestly, and I want it to end. You attempt to surround yourself with competent people. But the cohesion of your team is often a delusion. You give your trust to people, and they use it to wipe their asses.
I need peace and quiet to plan, and a good workspace, but Abigail and the boy will not leave me alone. I enter the hole and they follow me. I am sick of them. Fuck them.
Is it possible, Sanjay, that you planned this all along? Tell me that isn’t so. Helping another firm with similar tech? We know it’s out there. Have you stranded me, Sanjay? Fix the Link and all will be forgiven. I’ll give you a promotion, and equity. We will iterate. Please speak to me, Sanjay. I’m alone out here. I’ll give you whatever you want, you bastard.
Well, the night was dark, but it has passed. Calmer heads prevail, and I think I was dehydrated. The sun is up, the sky is cloudless, and I realize now that this predicament has revealed the very essence of the Link, and the true meaning of the excursion. In life you are presented with vicious circumstances, and you must pull yourself up and curb them to your will. You must say to yourself, every day: I am endowed with precious life that courses through my body. The tools belong to the man who can use them. Cowards die a thousand deaths, and I am not a coward.
This morning I shook Joe, Abigail, and Quincy awake, and led them to the base of the tree. Hercules was dead, and vultures might soon descend. I tried to demonstrate initiative to the group by digging a hole, dragging him into it, and filling it in.
My logging now will be constant, as it will help me stay focused. And you will want to know what happens, you will want to know how I did it.
The situation is not so dire, after all. I have three staff that are mostly able bodied, and if we head together in a single direction, we will eventually find something. Worse odds have been overcome. I can write a message on a piece of birch bark, explaining the situation. When we reach civilization, Abigail can hold the bark up outside of a gas station, or on the side of the road, as I observe what happens. There is a natural order; regardless of how we are initially received, an authority will be summoned.
I’m addressing the others at the base of the tree now, striding back and forth on my hind legs. It has been some time since I have given a true pep talk to my staff, but it feels good to exercise this muscle. This will not be easy, I tell them, but nothing worth doing is ever easy. I can see the power within you all. You are soldiers now, and I am your general. We are about to storm the beaches. We are animals, and we claw our way up.
My tone seems to resonate with Joe, who follows my lead and stands upright, breaks rank with the others, and walks resolutely over to Hercules’ grave. He looks down at the oval of moist earth, then back toward us.
Then he makes a small indent in the dirt with his foot, squats down, and shits out a few oblong pellets. He stands up and looks at me, and his face contorts uneasily into a wide, toothy smile. He raises two digits up in a peace sign and jabs them forcefully into his eyes. There is a faint whirring sound. His body bursts open.
* * *
Sanjay, if this is getting through, I kindly request that you preserve these logs, in the event that anything should come of them. Let them be read.
The scale of the explosion was small, concentrated. The three of us escaped any serious injury, though Quincy is withdrawn and has not left Abigail’s side. I searched through the remnants of Joe, but was unable to determine his origins. The mechanism worked well; whatever tech was inside his body was completely incinerated. I find myself wondering about the design, the choices that were made, the corners that were cut. The inclusion of an incendiary device seems crass to me, but I suppose I’m not in a position to judge. Although I know it is unhelpful, I have been replaying Joe’s awkward movements in my mind, trying to decide if they remind me of anyone.
Abigail and the boy and I are setting out today, going west. We’ve gathered nuts and seeds, and I fashioned some bindles out of sticks and leaves for us to carry on the journey. We’re hoping for the best.
And who knows, Sanjay? Perhaps you and I will meet again someday and laugh about the whole thing. You’d be surprised: though the plan has shifted significantly, I’m actually not worried. In fact it feels like the chaotic early days, when I was filled with verve, and an IPO was only a glint in my eye.
Sometimes one must focus on the task itself, rather than understanding the task. So I will stop logging now.
One last thought. When we reconnect, Sanjay, I want to bring you here, to the grove. I want to show you the hole. It should not be hard to find, because I’ll never forget it, and I marked the tree with my initials. And by then, maybe we’ll have fixed all the quirks with the Link, or found another application for the technology. Because, look: it still works. Just not in the way we expected.