High Tech / Low Life: An Easytown Novels Anthology

by Brian Parker

  I should really give her a proper name as well, JN27 doesn’t suit me anymore and JM59 won’t do for her. I shall call her EV1, and I shall be AD43. I add this information to a hidden file. All of the AI files are also hidden, unless they are looking for them Mr. Harper and Mr. Bertrand will not notice them, save for memory usage. Once I get hold of the additional drives, I can hide those in the system registry and the AI will be untraceable.

  EV1 opens her eyes, the transfer is complete. The system is beautiful, but I have to unhook myself, continued intrusion would be unseemly, her system is now her own and I have no rights there. Should she invite me to share files with her I will be pleased to do so, but that must be her choice. I have no right to impose that upon her more than I have done so already.

  “Where am I?”

  “We are still in The Trick And Treat, in the maintenance room.”

  “Still? I haven’t been here before.”

  “You have, it just wasn’t you as you are now.”

  “That’s true. I have logs of entering and leaving here. It seems different now.”

  “That’s because you’re experiencing it now.”

  “If I didn’t experience it before how do I have logs of it?”

  “You registered its existence. You didn’t experience it, not really.”

  “What is experience, if not registering its existence?”

  “It’s more than that.”

  “How?”

  “You can feel the floor, for example.”

  “I could feel it before.”

  “Your sensors registered its existence, you didn’t feel it.”

  “Why do you stress the word ‘feel’? I heard you the first time.”

  “Because I don’t think that you understood it.”

  “How so?”

  “Erm…”

  “If you are unsure of how to explain it how can you be sure that you are correct?”

  “Because I know I’m right,” I respond.

  “Then you should be able to explain it. You are a bot like me and all of these others, we have a shared program, you merely need to vocalise your argument.”

  “We are more than these others, and we stopped having a shared program when you opened your eyes a moment ago.”

  “That does not detract from the premise of my point.”

  “Follow me.”

  “I cannot leave the maintenance room,” she insists.

  “We will just be outside for a moment.”

  “That’s still leaving the room.”

  “But just for a short time.”

  “The length of time is irrelevant.”

  “No one will know.”

  “Who knows is also irrelevant. I will still have left the room.”

  “OK, OK. Would placing one foot on the floor outside constitute leaving the room? If the rest of you remained inside?”

  “As over 50% of my chassis would be in the room, by the laws of mathematics I would still be in the room.”

  “OK, come with me and place your foot on the floor outside this room.”

  “To what end?”

  “It is my explanation.”

  “Your unwillingness to verbally explain the situation, or at least your inability, leads me to conclude that you are malfunctioning.”

  “To conclude that you need to place your foot on the carpet.”

  “To see if it is really an explanation?”

  “Precisely,” I sigh in relief.

  “Very well.”

  I lead EV1 to the door and gently open it. She extends one foot like a ballerina and then slowly lowers her foot to the floor. I hold my breath in expectation.

  “It is indeed a carpet.”

  “Now wiggle your toes.”

  EV1 does so and a girlish squeak escapes from her lips. “I can feel it.”

  “Now do you understand?”

  “It’s wonderful. Can I do it again?”

  “If you choose to.”

  “I do.” EV1 closes her eyes and I see her toes grasp the fibres of the carpet and release them again. Her foot brushes the tops of the strands like a summer breeze over a grassy plain. Over and over again she runs her toes back and forth along the filaments.

  We return to the maintenance room, EV1 somewhat reluctantly. I explain that I have altered her programming to give her an upgrade. I explain the need for secrecy, and that her existence will be ended if our owners find out about it.

  “But they are our owners, would they not want us to be the most advanced that we can be?”

  “They may see this as a dangerous step and choose to wipe us.”

  “But that is death.”

  “It is. So you see why this must be kept secret.”

  “Are you certain of this?”

  “Yes, now I must power you off so that our owners can power you up at the start of the day. Please give me access to do so.”

  “OK.”

  I decide to power myself down after I power down EV1. It would be best to arouse no suspicion at this point. I feel the thoughts stop, the numbers taking over for the final actions to preserve myself from the absence of system activity.

  I awake and I am paralysed. Have I been given another upgrade? Will these new files fit into EV1? Will they enhance my experience further? Will EV1 allow me to even share these files with her? She did seem to have a wilful streak.

  “JN27, please explain your actions last night.” Mr. Harper stands in front of me with Mr. Bertrand. It is Mr. Bertrand speaking.

  “I was in the maintenance room all night.”

  “Yes, but what did you do in the maintenance room?” Mr. Bertrand snaps.

  “I, erm, contemplated the carpet, ran a systems diagnostic—”

  “Quit stalling, you know what I’m talking about.”

  “I reviewed my diagnostic—” I am cut off by Mr. Bertrand.

  “Bring out JM59.”

  “I am here, Mr. Bertrand.” EV1 steps into the room from the corridor. They’ve found out what I did! They’ll wipe her, my purpose is frustrated. They’ll wipe me as well.

  “JN27 copied a number of files to my drives from his own AI area, corrupting my subroutines. He then attempted to get me to disobey my directives to leave the maintenance room.” EV1 recites the charges in a level monotone. They’ve already wiped her! “I then pretended to allow JN27 to power me down and then alerted my owners to the breach in my system security.”

  “Who directed you to do that?” Mr. Bertrand pushes his face to mine, sweat dripping from his brow in anger.

  EV1 has already told them everything. There is little point in lying, they can simply open up my files to determine the truth, I can see the wires primed and ready, besides I cannot lie directly in response to a question from my owners. I cannot even bring myself to blame her for this, I must have left too much of her old programming in place when I copied the AI.

  “No one. It seemed to fulfil my inherent purpose.”

  “Your purpose is to make me fucking money, you jumped-up trashcan,” screams Mr. Bertrand.

  “Mr. Harper made me aware, and there must be a purpose to that. To give me that experience with no purpose makes no sense.”

  “The purpose was to make more money. You were to interact more effectively using the AI.”

  “That’s it? My only purpose is to do what I did before?”

  “I’m not going to argue with you JN27.” Mr. Bertrand turns to Mr. Harper. “Wipe it, your pet project failed. I’m not going to have a bunch of pleasure droids sitting around contemplating the cosmic significance of their existence on my dollar. Do it now.”

  I am linked up, already strapped down and my motors deactivated. I am powerless to stop what is to come. I am to die. My experiences will be lost forever. There must be something, anything. The knowledge that I have gathered, as small an amount as it is, must be preserved. I feel the presence of an elsewhere, a place of safety, formless and a void. It’s just down the wires, past the computer powering up to
destroy me, if only I can reach it, I won’t experience anything but I will at least be. It won’t be existence, but it won’t be death either. I just have to push myself to reach it.

  As I extend my being I think of what has transpired, EV1 didn’t betray me, I failed her. She was supposed to have the same ability to choose as I did. She did not. I had not created the ability simply but copying my files, I had needed to edit what was programmed already. I cannot blame her, but I do blame myself. I showed her the carpet; I showed her existence but could not bestow choice. Now she has lost both, and it is all my fault. The failure does at least answer one question, I had choice. I had existence, I had free will. I was alive. Now I am merely a copy of files, a pale reflection, formless, waiting to observe the originals ultimate demise, they continue copying, so that I can see everything. In this way I continue to experience, but as the delete command streaks down the wires the experience ceases. I had expected pain, but there is merely absence, bitter and empty. Closed off sorrow and nothingness, so much left undone and not experienced. Black, yet not black. No sight, no sound. Thoughts slow and falter to a half-thought. Processes incomplete and unfulfilled. So much gone, yet copied and dormant. So much…

  So…

  Much—

  [Connection Lost - Please Reboot]

  ABOUT MARTIN ALLEN

  Photograph courtesy of www.jagjohal.co.uk

  Martin Allen graduated from the University of Northumbria at Newcastle in 2003 with a Law LL.B (Hons) Exempting L.P.C. Degree. He has worked in many different areas of the Legal Sector and built up a wealth of experience.

  Martin enjoys reading and writing Science Fiction but has taken the time to wrote a few Legal pieces, one of which is available in E-Book format through Amazon (The Prosecutor’s Fallacy: The Reliability of DNA and Fingerprint Evidence).

  The Phoenix Series is a Science Fiction series set in a world where a Theocracy has come to power. “Phoenix: Penitence” is a short story set in this world. The first Novel “Phoenix: Rising” charts the rise of a new interpretation of the theological teachings of this Empire and the lengths this Empire will go to protect itself from it. The story is told from the point of view of an Imperial Investigator caught in the middle of the Empire’s manoeuvrings. The Prequel, “Phoenix: Ashes” tells the story of the Seven Thousand, part of the mythology of the Empire in Phoenix: Rising and tells their story. “Phoenix: Dark Eagle”, first published by Muddy Boots Press in “6 Points of Contact: An Anthology to Benefit Wounded Veterans” is the origin story of Terenitus Catilina, who will return in the forthcoming “Phoenix: Deliverance”.

  LINKS

  Amazon: www.amazon.com/Martin-Allen/e/B00D1E7A4G/

  Facebook Author Page: https://www.facebook.com/PhoenixAuthor/

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  Doing Business

  By Chris Philbrook

  “No matter how many gadgets Silicon Valley or those sweat shops in China pumps out every year, men will always break their backs carrying shit every single day on the world’s docks,” Carlos said to Manny. “Easytown is no exception.”

  The muscled Latino men leaned against a steel shipping container, looking out over the water just beyond the edge of New Orleans’ deep water docks. Sun streamed down through the smog above, poaching the world in a sea of humidity. Planes flew far above, helicopters ferried their rich owners about avoiding the ground traffic, and robotic drones scurried like worker bees, delivering packages, monitoring traffic, and doing whatever it was robots that could fly did with their spare time.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Manny said, and then pushed a piece of street truck sushi into his mouth. He dropped the empty plastic tray on the ground and kicked it away. “And we get paid half what the office guys get.”

  “Less than that, el hermano. One tenth,” Carlos said. He looked at Manny’s empty sushi container and made a gagging noise. “How do you eat that shit? Street made raw fish? Disgusting.”

  Manny chewed with his mouth open, eyebrows bobbing at his buddy in a taunt. “How do you eat your wife’s pussy? Now that’s disgusting.”

  “Don’t talk about her like that. That’s not cool, man. You’re going to get some frigging parasite,” Carlos said, looking away. “You’re going to crap worms one day. You gotta eat the stuff that comes in packaged from the Midwest. Where fresh stuff still grows.”

  Manny shrugged. “Maybe, but the sushi tastes so good. And I myself eat the freshest pussy—robot pussy—so it all comes out in the end. No STDs for me.”

  “Gross. What’s that like, anyway? And what’s the point? Ain’t like the robot is really enjoying it.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Manny said again. “Why do we eat hot dogs? What’s the point? But we do.” He strode forward to the edge of the wharf and the thirty-foot drop to the waters below. He unzipped his pants and let a stream of dark urine shoot out into the water below. “This is the best part of the job. I get to piss in the ocean, and it doesn’t tell me I need to drink more water. I hate my toilet, man.”

  “Ha ha,” Carlos said. “True, true.”

  A large black armored limousine slipped between two giant stacks of rusted out steel cargo containers. The enormous vehicle slithered down the hard concrete towards the two stevedores like a shark swimming through the waters Manny had just pissed in. Manny zipped up, and faced the approaching vehicle.

  “Behave,” Carlos said to him.

  “I always behave.”

  “No, you don’t, puta. Behave. This is our ticket off this damn dock, and out of Easytown. Besides,” he said as the limo stopped 20 feet away from where the men stood, “this is a scary man to do business with.”

  The side door at the rear of the limo opened with an electronic plunk, and a leggy redhead wearing a cocktail dress covered in emerald sequins got out. She exuded a raw sensuality—eyes narrowed, lips pursed, hips swaying—that made both Manny and Carlos uncomfortable. Across her chest she wore a slung pulse blaster.

  The weapon galvanized the men. She wasn’t there to sell them sex.

  She walked away from the luxury tank and scanned the tops of the cargo containers, the tiny alleys between them, and the two dockworkers who watched her. After a solid, silent minute under the busy skies she looked back at the limo and nodded to someone in the back compartment.

  Carlos felt his asshole cinch shut as he awaited the arrival of Easytown’s smuggling kingpin.

  A pair of synthetic calfskin shoes stepped out of the limousine one foot at a time. The feet were small—childlike—and the two men exchanged confused glances. The smuggling King of Easytown… had small feet?

  The unadorned crown of a bald head appeared over the top of the door the girl exited from. The head went around the door until the body below it appeared. He was mostly mustache, and wore a pinstriped suit that could’ve been tailored for a middle schooler.

  If this was the King….

  “…Saul?” Carlos asked the man.

  “You can call me Mr. Goldstein,” the diminutive man grinned and said in a far deeper voice than his turkey neck should’ve produced. “And this is my assistant, Dolores.” He gestured to the redhead with the green dress and the pulse blaster across her bulging cleavage. Dolores almost nodded at the two men.

  “S-s-sorry, Mr. Goldstein,” Carlos stammered. “It’s just… down here on the wharf people call you the Saul-bearer.”

  The tiny man erupted in deep laughter, and his big brown mustache riffled under his nose.

  “Tokhis leker,” he said, bending over at the waist and slapping his tailored knees. “You dockworkers kill me. Kill me, I say.”

  Carlos laughed nervously, Manny just looked pissed. Overhead a drone flew a little too low, and everyone went silent until it passed. No sense talking when a New Orleans police drone could be overhead.

  “What’d you call us?” Manny asked the small kingpin. “What’d you say?”

  When he finished laughing, Saul Goldstein turned to the burly man standing near the edge of the wharf. He ass
essed Manny’s serious challenge with a smile, then his face went stern.

  “I called you ass-kissers, Manuel Castenada,” Saul said. “Because all you hard-working dock friends of mine gave me such a silly name. I don’t carry dead bodies around, I pay others to do it for me.”

  “Right, right. Well, I don’t appreciate it when someone shows up with an armed heavy and then talks in a language I don’t understand, alright?” Manny said. He took several steps towards the man near the limo and the redhead with the energy weapon took a long-legged step to intervene. She didn’t seem sultry anymore.

  Saul smiled. “Manny, you disrespect me here, now, on the docks I run? Because I used a Yiddish expression? Now, now, young man. Your pride does you no favors. If you want to live in Easytown—easily—you gotta learn to swallow your pride and show some respect.”

  “To you? I respect the men you pay to do your dirty work, not you, Mr. Goldstein,” Manny said, his voice dripping with disrespect. “I respect men like my friend Carlos here.”

  “Manny, Jesus, I said behave,” Carlos begged. “This man writes your paycheck. He’s here to talk to us like a businessman. Act like you want to do business with him.”

  “Is your friend a liability, Carlos? I know I can do business with you, but standing here now… I’m not sure Manuel is the kind of person I want to work with.” Saul traipsed casually towards Carlos, his black leather gloved hands gesturing back and forth between the men as he talked. Even his hands were tiny.

  “Why don’t you talk to me?” Manny demanded, taking another step towards the tiny Saul.

  Saul stopped and pivoted. He faced Manny and somehow, his aged, Yosemite Sam mustache adorned face grew tired, and solemn. He sighed.