Archive for the ‘Rudi Dornemann’ Category
Tales of the Future #1: The Robot and the Hive
Monday, November 26th, 2007
There was a robot who lived on the edge of a forest that covered what had once been an industrial park. The robot farmed histo-adaptive replacement organs – kidneys and livers mostly, spleens every once in a while. The business didn’t make much money, but it kept the robot in power and spare parts. Monitoring all the chemical and temperature variables suited the robot’s temperament, and, in the evenings, the woods were peaceful.
In the next sector, there lived a clone hive. There were dozens of them, all the same, and they worked day and night at three or four different businesses at the same time – light assembly, personalized cake decoration, transcription, bonded courier services, and more. Like most hives, they weren’t good at everything, but once they found what they were good at, they kept doing at it, and soon they did it very well. They multiplied and reinvested, and within a few years, they owned everything for three sectors around.
They sent the buyout offer via their own courier, and a second clone went along because that was protocol in any business situation, since the sight of a second identical person waiting in the car reinforced the idea that the whole hive was behind the message.
The psychology was wasted on the robot, but the letter was logically set out in a numbered table format that it found easy to process. He particularly admired the paragraph that talked about how an organization that followed an exponential-growth economic model could coexist with boutique enterprises founded on a stasis-capitalist model.
The courier said he could wait a few minutes for an answer, or he could return at another, more convenient time.
“Is your car networked?” asked the robot.
“Certainly,” said the clone. “We can transmit your answer to our legal staff in moments.”
The robot stood in its doorway. A bird chirped in the woods; another answered. Several moments passed.
“It’s a good price,” said the courier. “What do you think? What’s your answer?”
“I do not need an answer,” said the robot. “I have used your vehicle to speak to the others of my model. We all have a little savings that we can pool.”
“We can outbid any counter-offer,” said the clone in the car.
“You misunderstand,” said the robot. “We have bought your hive, all its assets, everything.”
The clones’ car chimed that a message was waiting for them.
“Now,” said the robot. “The spleen tank needs cleaning, it is a lovely evening, and I am going for a walk. You’ll find brushes and scrapers on the workbench.”
A Winter’s Fantasy
Tuesday, November 20th, 2007
As we expected, the hard part was getting the ice skates on the alligator.
On our first few attempts, no one lost any fingers, although Edmund and I each gained a few bandages. We were getting the hang of things by the end of the morning, and would have persevered in the afternoon with, I am sure, eventual success, had our lunchtime discovery not made further beast-wrangling moot. There, in the winter garden, behind a clutch of potted cycads brought back by one of professor Ogdred’s expeditions, was an alligator. Stuffed. A settee, in fact, with green velvet cushions and a carved ebony back. There was line of buttons down the middle of the cushions in place of the original ridges.
“Perfect,” said Edmund.
“Exactly what she wants,” I said.
We were careful to carry it out the east door, since the alligator – the live one – was already in a sulk after the morning’s exertions; trooping past the herpetarium window with the taxidermied remains of one of its cousins seemed unwise.
We made our way through the frozen gardens. The veiled statues of weeping ladies were jeweled with tears of ice. The giant stone hand was gloved in snow. The wind hissing through the bare branches of the trees might have been the snickering of ghosts.
We lashed the skates to the alligator’s feet. Edmund sucked his finger where he’d scraped it on one of the claws. We pushed the settee out from the shore of the frozen pond, skidded around getting into our seats, and then built up speed by polling gondolier style with sharpened sticks.
When we glided by the gazebo, the fur- and scarf-wrapped card players looked up. The countess was looking at us as she extracted the envelope from her folds of her sleeve and slid it across the table to her sister, with whom the count had forbidden her to have any private contact. She winked, and we knew that she’d keep us in hot cocoa and smuggled trinkets through the spring, as long as we kept up the distractions.
(After Gorey)