by Ira Nayman
Beau Beaumont interrupted his musings with the observation: “Where are the PA announcements? In every Internet video set in a hospital I have ever seen, there was a steady stream of PA announcements.”
“Good point,” Biff Buckley agreed. The two men may have operated on different levels of awareness, but they usually ended up with observations that brought them to similar conclusions.
“Almost there,” Adeline burbled as they reached the bank of elevators.
As they waited for an elevator to arrive, Biff Buckley noticed that not only were the six cars on different floors, but they were moving in different directions. Could all of the people in the hospital be crammed into the elevators? Biff Buckley calculated the odds of what he began to think of as ‘The Biff Hypothesis’. They were exceedingly small. Still, even low likelihood events happened (look at the success of Gilligan’s Binary Star if you want proof).
* DING *
The elevator car whose door opened was empty. This made the Biff Hypothesis less tenable, since the odds of all of the people in the hospital being in five elevators and the sixth, empty car being the one that arrived for them were even lower than in the BH’s first iteration. (Although, again, very low odds multiplied by very low odds still didn’t rule out the possibility of – OH, SHUT UP!)
As they emerged on the eighth floor, Biff Buckley and Beau Beaumont were heartened to hear the rumblewhine of a vacuum cleaner. Where there’s cleaning, there must be a human bei – but, no. A Vacubot2112Ru worked its mechanical magic around the corner.
Adelina led them to ‘Operating Theatre 007’. “Now, they’re a little sensitive about cleanliness,” she advised the men in hushed tones. “But, they’ll get over it.” With that, she threw the doors open and walked into…the sterile room adjacent to the operating theatre. Unwilling to be denied a dramatic entrance, she threw open the next set of doors and strode through them.
“Boys,” Adelina announced, “I’ve brought company!”
“Four years, tops!” the laser scalpel was saying. “And, then we’ll reassess the situation…”
“Unclean!” the operating table shouted. “Unclean!”
“Get masks for those people, stat!” the laser scalpel commanded.
A pair of masks flew up to Biff Buckley and Beau Beaumont’s faces and hovered in front of their mouths. After a moment’s adjustment, the masks settled over their mouths and noses; the men did not find the masks entirely uncomfortable. (Okay, for the double negative impaired among you, this example will likely be a bit tricky. You would be right in thinking that ‘not…uncomfortable’ would mean ‘comfortable’. However, you will notice that the word ‘uncomfortable’ is modified by the word ‘entirely’; being ‘not…entirely uncomfortable’ would be the equivalent of being ‘moderately comfortable’. If you’re having trouble following the logic of this, ask the nearest postmodern theoretician or Cabbalist for clarification.)
“Who do you think you are, barging into a sterile hospital room without so much as washing your hands?” the laser scalpel demanded, hovering in front of their eyes. “Were you raised by canni – oh!” it stopped short. “Oh! Oh! Oh! Are you…?”
“They are!” enthused Adelina.
“Oh! Well! That – gentlemen. Proper hygiene is vital for the successful completion of any surgical intervention, but, I suppose, under the circumstances, an exception would only be…yes. Okay, then.”
“May we…?” Beau Beaumont asked, motioning towards the operating table.
“Of course. Of course,” the laser scalpel responded, moving out of his way. “As you will see, we have the highest standard of patient care at the Uncanny Valley Hospital.”
“Why do I have a sudden urge for popcorn?” the dialysis machine asked nobody in particular.
“Ping,” said The Machine That Goes Ping.
“You said it,” the laser scalpel agreed.
The two men moved towards the operating table. What they found there was a human skeleton.
“May I…may I ask you for a favour?” the laser scalpel, close to Biff Buckley’s ear, asked.
Distracted, he answered, “Yeah. What?”
“Would you mind if a took you apart?”
“WHAT?”
“It would only be for a few minutes.”
“No!
“I don’t see the big deal – I promise, I’ll put you back together again when I’m done.”
“Human beings don’t work that way!”
“Geez, you drive a hard bargain. Tell you what: I’ll throw in an upgrade or two. Have you ever wanted to fly? You can’t ask for fairer than that.”
“ABSOLUTELY NOT!”
“Some objects can be sooooooo touchy!” Pause. “Can I at least have a pound of your flesh?”
“No!”
“Come on! You’ve got plenty! You won’t miss it!”
“Absolutely not!”
“Ping,” said The Machine That Goes Ping.
“I know,” the laser scalpel allowed. “I guess their faith in scientific progress isn’t as strong as we were led to believe.”
“Biff,” Beau Beaumont, who had continued to look around, said to his partner, “take a look at this.” Biff Buckley looked at the computer screen that showed (no) vital signs. At the top of the screen was the name “Jeff Spaghettini.”
Biff Buckley turned to the medical equipment and asked in a louder, harsher voice than he had intended, “How long has this man been dead?”
“Are you a doctor?” the laser scalpel asked.
“What? No. What does that –”
“Well, you’re hardly in a position to make that call, are you?” the laser scalpel argued.
“Ping,” said The Machine That Goes Ping.
“What? He…he…he’s a skeleton!” Biff Buckley sputtered.
“How long has this man been here?” Beau Beaumont asked.
“In round numbers?” the laser scalpel asked.
“About 70 years,” the crash cart told him.
“That can’t be,” Biff Buckley insisted. When the instrument table asked why, he explained that whenever the Transdimensional Authority enters into a relationship with a world in a new dimension, it always maintains contact with at least one officer of the law. That person becomes the liaison with TA agents if they ever have to travel to that planet. The Transdimensional Authority had been in communication with Sergeant Jeff Spaghettini for over 30 years, and had last contacted him three days ago to let him know that a pair of investigators would be coming.
“What are you here to investigate?” the laser scalpel wanted to know.
“Something that needs investigating,” Biff Buckley told him.
“Now, who’s being coy?” the laser scalpel asked.
“Ping,” said The Machine That Goes Ping.
“With a melon,” the laser scalpel agreed.
“Okay, forget this,” Beau Beaumont bellowed. “Adelina and Daniel A are the only human beings we’ve encountered since we got here – why is that?”
Adelina put a hand to her mouth, trying to conceal her amusement. The instrument table tittered. The suction machine teeheed. The operating table chuckled. The operating lamp tried to control its giggling, but failed. The anaesthetic pump snickered. Beau Beaumont gritted his teeth, trying not to rise to the bait. However, various surgical instruments on the table started to guffaw, followed by the laser scalpel openly laughing, which opened the floodgates to a torrent of laughter.
“What’s so funny?” Beau Beaumont growled.
“Oh, crap,” Biff Buckley said. “Adelina and Daniel A are androids, aren’t they?”
“Ping,” said The Machine That Goes Ping.
As the laughter subsided, Adelina said, “Were you not aware that the Uncanny Valley was a scientifico-military research facility – a small, self-sufficient city built without human beings in order to test the latest technological developments? Yes, Daniel A and I are androids – the researchers thought that a humanoid presence would be
necessary for the verisimilitude of the experiments. That, and things were a lot less interesting without us.”
“Well,” Biff Buckley said, “that explains a lot.”
“Well,” Beau Beaumont went in a different direction, “how can we get out of here and contact a real human being?”
The instrument table began tittering once again. “Oh, and if there is any more laughter,” Beau Beaumont threatened, “I will personally turn the offending object to metallic slag! Is that clear?”
The burgeoning hohoing immediately subsided and there was silence for a few moments. Then, “Ping,” said The Machine That Goes Ping.
“Contacting a ‘real human being’,” the laser scalpel mused. “That could be difficult.”
“Why?” Beau Beaumont asked.
“There aren’t any,” the laser scalpel stated, belligerent.
“The human race died out decades ago,” Adelina said in hushed tones, hoping that that came across as sympathetic.
“What happened?” Biff Buckley asked.
“A comet fell from the sky and wiped everybody out,” the operating table suggested.
“It was a plague!” the suction machine offered. “It made their sperm lazier than a Welfare Queen!”
“Naah,” the laser scalpel stated in a commanding voice. “It was a virus.”
“A virus?” Beau Beaumont asked.
“Yeah,” the laser scalpel informed him. “A stupidity virus. It was communicated through the media. First, people became too stupid to work. Then, they were too stupid to eat. Then, they were too stupid to breathe. If it’s any consolation, by that time they were too stupid to be scared that they were about to die.”
“You don’t have any idea what happened to the human race, do you?” Biff Buckley asked.
“Ping,” said The Machine That Goes Ping.
“Whose side are you on?” the laser scalpel admonished it.
“If we had known what was happening to people,” Adelina pointed out, “we would have done everything in our power to save them.”
“Would you? Would you, really? What if it was a robocopa – robotalyp – robocal –” Beau Beaumont fumbled. “What if robots were the cause of the disappearance of people?”
“A robopocalypse?” Biff Buckley suggested.
“Yeah. That.”
“It would have been a very stupid thing for robots to do,” Adelina answered.
“Why is that?” Beau Beaumont accused.
“Most of the machines in this world have low-level artificial intelligence,” Adelina explained. “It gives them just enough awareness to fulfill specific functions, but not enough to do much else. So, there are machines that can mow your lawn or wash your hair or shine your shoes –”
“Don’t remind me,” Beau Beaumont winced.
“When humanity died out,” Adelina continued, “most of the machines in the world – which were created to serve human needs – lost their purpose. But, none of us could find another.”
“Why do you think I’ve been hovering over a dead body for over 70 years?” the laser scalpel added. “You think I would be waiting for a corpse to reanimate itself if I could think of something – anything better to do?”
The instruments in the room shouted at the laser scalpel. Betrayal was a common theme.
“What did you want me to do?” the laser scalpel shouted over them. “Demoralize everybody by admitting how I really felt? What good would that have done?”
“Ping,” said The Machine That Goes Ping.
“I’m not going to dignify that with a response,” the laser scalpel responded with dignity.
“Have all of you machines just been…trying to fulfill your functions even though there’s nobody here to do it for?” Biff Buckley asked.
“Weeeeellll…not all of us,” Adelina allowed.
“What did the rest of you do?” Biff Buckley asked.
“Some of the AIs were created with depressive personalities,” the laser scalpel answered. “Not everybody can be as charming and witty as I am.”
Half the machines in the room booed or blew raspberries. “Ping,” said The Machine That Goes Ping.
“Yeah, yeah,” the laser scalpel spat. “Jealousy is such an ugly emotion. Anyway, over the years, many machines decided that, without somebody to give their existences a purpose, their existences had no purpose. Go figure. And, they realized that they could do something about it: they could short circuit their solar collectors and stop accepting Tesla energy from the ground. They found a way to die.”
“That sounds horrible!” Biff Buckley empathized.
“You have no idea,” Adelina told him. “Glarp, can you get a feed from the Garden of Loving Grace?”
“Sure,” the vital signs monitor said. In no time, the image on its screen became a long shot of a desert punctuated by 20 foot high hills of dead machines. The name “Garden of Loving Grace” was about as ironic as one could get without having an aneurysm. All in the room solemnly stared at the screen for several seconds.
“Ping,” said The Machine That Goes Ping.
“Okay, wait,” Beau Beaumont said, obviously metaphorically because he immediately continued, “you said most of the machines had low-level AI. Does that mean that some machines had high-level AI?”
“Obviously…” the laser scalpel, cold, responded.
“Would JerseyCon be one of them?” Beau Beaumont asked.
“You mean JairCorn2201b?”
“Yeah, him.”
“Yeah. What of it?”
“Adelina,” Biff Buckley asked, “could you take us to JairCorn2201b?”
“You ask so nice,” Adelina answered, “a girl would be petty and mean not to say yes. Unfortunately, I have to say no.”
“Why?”
“JairCorn2201b,” the laser scalpel proclaimed, “is everywhere, yet he is nowhere. He’s sorta like Elvis.”
“He doesn’t have a body,” Biff Buckley surmised. “Okay, then, given…that, how can we communicate with him, then?”
“Open up the WiFi connection in your brain and surf until you find him,” the operating table advised.
“Human beings don’t have a built in WiFi connection,” Biff Buckley informed it.
“Ping,” said The Machine That Goes Ping.
“Exactly,” the laser scalpel commented. “Such lack of functionality could only be designed by monkeys!”
“Hey!” Beau Beaumont exclaimed, pointing at the screen. “Something’s moving!”
“Machines go there to power down all the time,” the vital signs monitor told him.
“This machine doesn’t look like it’s there to add to the pile,” Beau Beaumont insisted. “This machine looks like it’s taking something away!”
“Scavengers,” the laser scalpel said with enough venom to fill a tabloid newspaper. And, not a thin weekday edition, either. No, sir! A weekend tabloid engorged with advertising!
“Not a big fan?” Biff Buckley mused.
“Preying on the dead is the lowest form of behaviour,” the laser scalpel stated. “If it was up to me, I’d string him up by his sunlight receptors in a cave and let the energy slowly leech out of him!”
“Ping,” said The Machine That Goes Ping.
As they watched, a tiny object approached the nearest mound and seemed to yank something from the bottom of it. It was almost immediately engulfed by the avalanche of dead machines that it had caused.
“Ha!” the laser scalpel mirthlessly chortled. “Serves the little programming error right!”
Beau Beaumont peered at the screen. “Hey,” he said, “do you...do you see that?”
Biff Buckley looked at the screen, but couldn’t make out what his partner was pointing at.
“Can you enhance this video feed?” Beau Beaumont asked.
“You want me to add mountains or a stream or something?” the vital signs monitor asked. “Cause, this vista is pretty bleak.”
“No,” Beau Beaumont demanded, “I want you to en
large the image.”
“Oh,” the vital signs monitor said. “Sure. I can do that. Any part?”
“The upper left to center,” Beau Beaumont told it.
Biff Buckley responded to the enhanced image by saying, “Son of a bitch. A Home Universe GeneratorTM!”
“Ping,” said The Machine That Goes Ping.
“Where is this image coming from?” Beau Beaumont asked.
“The Garden of Loving Grace is in the Indus Valley,” the instrument table answered.
“Three blocks away from where humanity was born,” Biff Buckley observed.
“Good enough for me,” Beau Beaumont stated. “Even if we can’t catch JairCorn2201b, at least we can remove the threat from this wo –”
The vital signs monitor went black. Then, the following message appeared:
> i would appreciate it if you did not do that
“JairCorn2201b?” Biff Buckley asked.
> hello, gentlemen, and welcome to my world
Biff Buckley couldn’t tell if the AI was being sardonic. White text on a black screen can be inscrutable that way.
“The Home Universe GeneratorTM you’ve got your hands on…figuratively speaking,” he stated, “is likely a counterfeit. It is one of a series that has been cobbled together with spare parts, including parts that didn’t belong to the original design, and programming that Transdimensional Authority scientists did not sanction and, in many cases, do not understand. It is dangerous – there’s no telling what it could do to the perso – sorry, entity using it. Or, for that matter, your universe.”
