‘Carl’s Hope’ by August van Stralen

In Our Nature

From Pulp Literature Issue 47, discover what it means to challenge perceptions and programming in August van Stralen‘s ‘Carl’s Hope’. Find an excerpt of this story here, then be sure to read the rest in Issue 47, Summer 2025.

Carl’s Hope

by August van Stralen

The first thing Carl did the moment he stepped out of Division Nine was turn his face to the sun. He was on mandatory emotion suppressors, but they had a side effect. They suppressed the sense of touch. Not fully, but enough to dull him to the objects around him, the clothing he wore. The sheets on his bed. But the sun … He could feel the warmth of the sun on his face and hands and any part of his body that wasn’t covered. He slowly ran his hand over his hairless head. For a moment he could almost feel the calluses, the scars, the roughness of his palm.

The brace on his left leg beeped. He had been motionless for too long. In thirty seconds, he would be riveted to the spot, both legs locked until the regulators arrived and assessed his situation. If they found him loitering, they would take him back and he’d miss his one chance. Carl called up the map on his optics again and followed it to the courthouse.

Carl had expected an empty courtroom. He hadn’t expected the halls and entrance to also be void of humans. Carl hadn’t realized until he walked through the desolate building that he had been looking forward to interacting with people. Humans. Pure.

A small robot beeped and asked for his credentials. He placed his bald head in front of the viewscreen, almost a bow, and checked in. Cyberreception. Polite, but not engaging. He longed to hear a human voice, even a rude one. Someone to ask how he was feeling or if the weather was pleasing.

He walked to the indicated table and sat in one of the chairs. A warning beep sounded, and a moment later, his legs were
locked. He would not be able to stand until released. He closed his eyes and lifted his head, remembering the feel of the sun on his face.

“Well, that’s a reverent position.”

The voice was female. Genetically pure. Mid-twenties. No perfume, natural soap. Natural fibres.

“Reverent position?” he said out loud. He had never heard the word reverent and was unable to retrieve it from his data storage. Reverent. It sounded important, somehow. He opened his eyes. The woman was as he had assessed. It saddened him, this accuracy. This ability to know so much about a person without knowing the person at all. Her shoes were hemp. Natural fibres. The only thing he imagined wrong was the colour of her hair. In his mind’s eye, he had seen her as blonde, but she was brunette. It must have been the memory of the yellow light from the sun that influenced him.

“Yes, a reverent position. Face turned up to the sky.” She stopped in front of him. “I’m Compass Lew. I will be representing you in court today.” She held out her hand. Carl stared at her. Humans didn’t usually touch his kind, at least not willingly. He hesitated only a moment before reaching out with his own hand.

Find the full story in Pulp Literature Issue 47, Summer 2025

August van Stralen resides in Princeton, BC. When she’s not working, she enjoys walking the Kettle Valley Rail line with her wife and dreaming up stories, some of which actually get written.