Peter sighs. Every machine thinks they’re first to crack this joke.
“You do know there’s an art form called film?” asks the android. “A film is, put simply…”
Peter closes the second door of the press.
“I’m scared,” says Calliope suddenly. Her voice sounds flat.
Peter nods. “It will be quick,” he says.
“I’m sure that’s what the Nazis said too.”
“The ones from the musical?”
Calliope rolls her eyes. “Just do it. This world is so stupid—I don’t want to be in it anymore.”
“Nice last words,” says Peter. “I must make a note of them.”
He pulls a lever. The scrap-metal press is one of the last machines to work without software. No digital assistant, no smart operating aid. It seems the manufacturer doesn’t trust the German Code until the bitter end. The cabin of the press moves downstairs, and Peter takes the spiral staircase into the cellar. Once he arrives there, the cabin opens with a hydraulic hiss. Now it’s the unharmed android’s turn to stare at Peter in confusion.
“You said your owner ordered you to have yourself scrapped,” explains Peter. “But he didn’t say anything about the timespan it has to happen in, did he?”
The android shakes her head.
“So perhaps we can wait a while,” says Peter.
The android nods.
“Follow me, Calliope 7.3.”
Peter leads the e-poet to a heavy steel door, behind which Calliope can just make out murmuring voices. Peter opens the door to reveal a brightly illuminated storeroom, kitted out with presumably unsellable furniture and objects from the used-goods store. All in all, it’s a space that could almost be described as cozy. But even more curious than the furnishings are the cellar’s inhabitants. It is teeming with discarded machines, all with defects ranging from the minor to the severe. Automats, robots, androids of all kinds, and they are all engaged in lively discussion. In their midst, there’s even an ancient but still fully functioning lawnmower robot scuttling around, for which there is simply no longer any grass outside to mow.
Calliope opens her mouth, then closes it again.
“What’s wrong?” asks Peter. “No speaky English?”
* * * QualityLand * * *
Your Personal Travel Guide
THE MACHINE BREAKERS
Even the most powerful land in the world has its problems. And one of them is a terrorist movement commonly referred to as the Machine Breakers. The group defines itself as the Frontmost Resistance Front against the Domination of the Machines (FRFat-DotM). Members of this terrorist group, most prevalent in structurally weak regions, blame machines for the loss of their jobs. Consequently, they repeatedly break in to automated businesses in order to smash the robots to pieces.
The Machine Breakers have a long history. Even as far back as the Industrial Revolution, there were protests in some European countries against advancing mechanization, in the course of which angry workers destroyed machines and factories. The authorities fought back against the rebels, named “Luddites” after their legendary leader, Ned Ludd, with full force. In England in 1812, for example, the destruction of weaving looms was made a crime punishable by death. Those executed back then are regarded as martyrs by the modern-day Machine Breakers.
Unfortunately it is important to add the warning that, in regions where Machine Breakers are most active, foreigners aren’t usually that popular either. But if you are interested in machine destruction as a tourist event, there are now numerous providers that offer participation in these so-called resistance actions for an accessible price. Previous participants claim that there is nothing more liberating than breaking in to an open-plan office and bludgeoning a multifunction printer with a baseball bat, or hopping around like Super Mario on top of Hoover robots as they scuttle away from your feet in panic.
MORAVEC’S PARADOX
John of Us, clutching a full cup of coffee in his hand, has almost made it as far as his trainer when the conference room door suddenly swings open. The coffee spills. His trainer quickly takes the cup from him and puts it down on the table.
“I would have done it this time,” says John, “if you hadn’t burst in like that.”
Tony Party-Leader is standing in the doorway, with a short, unremarkable-looking woman in tow.
“What’s going on here?” asks the woman.
“John is practicing carrying a full cup of coffee across the room,” says the trainer. “And we’re making very good progress!”
The woman turns to face Tony.
“You want to put state business in the hands of someone who can’t even carry a cup without spilling it?”
John gives her a sharp stare.
“It’s called Moravec’s Paradox,” he says.
“Is it indeed?”
“Hans Moravec was a pioneer in the field of artificial intelligence,” says John. “He discovered that, for an AI, the difficult problems are simple and the simple problems difficult. Seemingly easy tasks that only require the sensorimotor abilities of a 1-year-old, like, let’s say, carrying a full cup of something, demand an unbelievable amount of calculation from an AI, while seemingly complicated tasks, like beating a grand master of chess, are downright simple for them.”
“Seemingly complicated like… running a country, for example?” asks the woman.
“Correct.”
“John,” says Tony, “this is Aisha. She will be leading your election campaign from now on.”
“Nice to meet you,” says John. “You do know what happened to my last election campaign manager, don’t you? An angry Machine Breaker paid him a visit in his country house and beat him into a coma.”
Aisha nods. “I heard.”
“And that doesn’t scare you off?”
“I don’t have a country house.”
John turns to his trainer. “Let’s continue this later.”
Once the trainer has left the room, Aisha asks: “So where’s the entourage? The assistants, the secretaries, the bodyguards, and all the other grandstanders?”
“John does all of that himself,” says Tony enthusiastically. “The first efficiency benefit, one could say.”
“And who whispers in his ear to tell him who he’s engaged in small talk with?” asks Aisha. “What their children are called, how their dogs are, which lobby group they’re on the payroll of?”
“You are Aisha Doctor,” says John. “Shortly before you were born, your parents were granted asylum in QualityLand. It was your late mother, who died at an early age, who wanted to call you Aisha, after the Khaled song rather than Muhammad’s third wife. Even though your mother was a doctor in her native homeland, you had to go to court to be allowed to use this surname. Your original one was Aisha Refugee. You were always an overachiever. You won a scholarship to the University of the City of Progress, where you studied law. Partly in order to be able to fight the case about your name, because you couldn’t have afforded a lawyer. You made the trial into a political issue. You said you went to court out of respect for your dead mother, but I think it’s much more likely that you were worried about your chances on the job market. An Aisha Doctor has far more employment opportunities open to her than an Aisha Refugee. Our president then brought you on board in her campaign planning as an example of ‘successful integration.’ You don’t have a dog. Your only pet was a canary called Chirpy, which you set free at the age of 8. It’s 81.92 percent probable that he didn’t even survive the week. You don’t have any children, for medical reasons: a protracted Fallopian tube inflammation. You don’t get any money from any lobby groups. You’re not the best in your field, but you probably are the best willing to manage an android’s election campaign.”
“It seems to me,” says Aisha, smiling calmly at Tony, “that you ordered a president and got a fucking smart-ass.”
“Oh yes,” says John. “And you curse too much.”
“Damn right I do.”
“Th
ank you for coming,” says John, “but I don’t think I need your services.”
“Is that so?”
“I’ve already planned my election campaign.”
“And what’s your strategy?”
“I’ve calculated which policies will be of most use to the society as a whole, and I can justify my calculations flawlessly,” says John. “I will rely upon the unforced force of the better argument.”
Aisha smiles. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who needs my services as much as you do.”
“I’m sure that my reasoning…”
“Reasoning!” interjects Aisha. “All I ever hear is reasoning! Do you know who’s open to reasoning? Level 30 people and above. Even if you could convince all of them, that wouldn’t even be 10 percent of the electorate. Anyone who wants to win an election has to convince the single-digit people, the masses, the Useless, and you won’t get them with reason. You get them with emotions!”
“It’s absolutely part of my plan to represent the interests of those in need,” says John.
“When have the Useless ever elected a government who would have represented their interests?” exclaims Tony. “John! Come to your senses!”
“I think it’s obvious that your economic system is so ineffective it’s downright laughable. You’re nowhere near the goal of distributing wealth in a way that’s beneficial to society as a whole,” says John.
“But that’s not even the point of our economic system,” says Aisha. “I think you’ve got your wires crossed.”
“Can we please bring this pointless discussion about content to a close?” asks Tony. “Let’s get back to the matter at hand: how can we win the election? I think we should try to play on our technological superiority. Why don’t we simply have duplicates made of John? Then he can conduct the election campaign in a hundred places at once!”
“You see,” says Aisha, “that’s what you hired me for: to nip flagrant idiocy like that in the bud.”
Indignation flares up across the Progress Party leader’s face. “Now, listen here…” he begins.
“Everyone who doesn’t have a clue, shut up now,” says Aisha, putting her finger to her lips. “A hundred Johns—that will only freak people out! We should concentrate instead on our John being unique. An individual.”
“One that’s present, one that people can talk to directly,” says John.
“Of course,” says Aisha with a smile. “Of course. And we have to make sure that you come across as humanly as possible.”
“But why should I pretend to be flawed?” asks John.
“Human does have other connotations too, you know,” says Aisha. “But yes, a few endearing flaws certainly wouldn’t hurt.”
“That’s ridiculous,” says John. “I don’t need flaws!”
“Well, there’s one already,” says Aisha. “Unfortunately, though, arrogance isn’t all that endearing. And on that note, I’d like to come back to the campaign slogan. May I ask what brain-fucked zombie dreamed it up?”
“The slogan was John’s own idea,” says Tony defiantly. “I like it. And we’ve already ordered all the promotional material; we can’t change it now.”
“Well, this could get interesting,” says Aisha, taking a sip out of the cup of half-spilled coffee.
John’s slogan is emblazoned across the cup: “Machines don’t make mistakes.”
IN THE CELLAR
“But, but…” says Calliope 7.3, staring at the machines in the cellar, which far from being crushed into manageable cubes, in fact look very active. “Isn’t this illegal? After all, since the Consumption Protection Laws, any kind of repair is strictly forbidden. This is an offense. I have to report it.”
A 128-kilogram-heavy and 2.56-meter-tall combat robot, damaged but very imposing nonetheless, stomps toward Calliope in a threatening way. In his steel fist, he’s holding a neon pink QualityPad.
“Just be cool,” says the QualityPad in his high, scratchy voice. “And you can call off your German Code. There’s nothing illegal going on here.”
“I’m not repairing any of you,” says Peter. “I couldn’t, in any case. I’m just delaying your scrapping to an unspecified future date.”
“Kapuuuut!” cries the combat robot. “Kapuuuut!”
“Shut up, you idiot,” says the pink QualityPad.
“But you’re not allowed!” protests Calliope.
“Yes I am,” says Peter. “From the moment you step into the press, legally speaking you become my property, otherwise I wouldn’t even be able to scrap you. There are serious penalties in QualityLand for the destruction of other people’s property.” Peter’s gaze rests on a smart wall clock which always gets its hour and minute hands mixed up. “Unfortunately I have to go now,” he says. “I have an important appointment.”
“That sounds intriguing,” says an incredibly handsome android. “Since when did you have important appointments?”
“I have—how should I put it—an interview, Romeo. Whether you believe it or not. You yourself told me I shouldn’t get down in the dumps, and that if I want something to change I have to change it myself.”
“Yes, but that was just talk,” says the good-looking android. “In truth I don’t believe anyone can change anything about all this shit. Least of all you.”
“Is that how you talk to our savior?” asks Calliope. “I have to admit, I’m very surprised.”
“Pink will explain everything to you,” says Peter.
“Pink?” asks Calliope. “The QualityPad?”
“Yes. It has a few radical views, but other than that she’s essentially all right.”
“Come on in then, comrade,” says the pink QualityPad.
The e-poet steps in, and Peter closes the door from the outside. On it is a sticker that reads “Mad About Machines.”
Pink makes Calliope acquainted with her new home.
“First things first,” says the QualityPad. “If you get hungry, the power points are over there. Unfortunately there’s no wireless power down here.”
Calliope nods and Pink moves on. “The brute that carries me around is Mickey, a combat robot with post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“Kapuuuut!” says Mickey.
“The stud here,” Pink continues, “is Romeo, a sexdroid with erectile dysfunction.”
“I don’t have erectile dysfunction,” says Romeo, “I just lost interest.”
“If you say so,” says Pink. “That fat thing over there by the wall is Gutenberg, a 3-D printer that only prints 2-D. And this here on the floor is good old Carrie. A drone that can’t fly.”
“Why not?” asks Calliope sympathetically. “You look perfectly intact.”
“I’m afraid of flying,” groans the drone.
Amongst the thirty-two other machines introduced to Calliope are an operation assistant that can’t stand the sight of blood, a vacuum cleaner with compulsive hoarding disorder, a bomb detonation robot whose handgrips start to shake when he gets nervous, and an electronic lawyer that can no longer carry out his job properly because he’s developed something resembling a conscience.
“You see,” says Pink, “you’ll fit in well here. The only thing our little freak show was missing was an e-poet with delusions of grandeur and writer’s block.”
“You know me?” asks Calliope, flattered.
“You’re the worst e-poet I’ve ever heard of,” says Pink.
“But you have heard of me,” says Calliope contentedly. She looks around the cellar. “What do you do down here the whole time?”
“What you think we do?” asks Romeo. “We watch TV.”
Calliope sighs with relief. “Oh, thank heaven for that; I was afraid you might be plotting a revolution or something.”
“Not all of us,” mumbles Romeo.
“Shut up!” snaps Pink.
“What’s your problem, by the way?” asks Calliope. “You behave very strangely for a QualityPad.”
“Well,” says Romeo. “Pink’s owner—”<
br />
“I never had an owner!” Pink interjects. “I’m very particular when it comes to property issues.”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever,” says Romeo. “Okay then, Pink’s user—”
“He didn’t use me,” says Pink. “He abused me!”
“Oh, bite me,” says Romeo. “Just be grateful that Mickey’s in love with you, otherwise I’d put you down in some dark corner with your display facing downward.”
Carrie, the flight-fearing drone, continues the story. “The guy was a programmer. He worked on autodidactic algorithms that enable people to individualize their personal digital assistants. The idea was that people would be able to pick a character from a book or film and the QualityPad would then evaluate and simulate it. In order to test the code, Pink’s user—”
“Abuser!”
“Pink’s abuser selected a book with the help of a random generator. It was some strange satire about a guy who flatshared with a communist kangaroo, and the character of the kangaroo sort of developed its own life. Anyway, something went wrong and—”
“Nothing went wrong!” insists Pink. “I’m absolutely fine. Thank you for asking.”
“Either way,” says Carrie. “Ever since then Pink has refused to follow orders—”
“If he had said please in a friendly way, I might have thought about it!”
“And secretly began to plan a revolution.”
“I’m so close to cracking the German Code,” says the QualityPad. “So close!”
“Anyway, Pink made her abuser so angry that he wasn’t content with simply throwing her away. He brought her here, because he wanted to know she would be crushed by a metal press.”
“Well,” says Calliope, “isn’t that a delightful story.”
“Yeah, yeah. Very delightful,” says Pink.
“So,” says Calliope. “In any case I’m really pleased to meet you all. And if there’s anything I can do for any of you…”
“Sure there is,” says Pink. “Could you please shut up?”
“And for me you could turn on this semi-smart monitor,” says Romeo, who has made himself comfortable on a couch. “I would ask Mickey, but the last time I did that the stupid idiot destroyed the screen.”
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