Inside My Shorts: 30 Quickies

by Adam Sifre

  After worrying over the strange happenings for almost a minute, Tim came to a decision. It directed the outside security cameras to take a still shot of the front of the house and then, before it could change its mind, transmitted the picture to 29 Westfall Street.

  And then Tim did something it was very good at. It waited.

  It was almost noon and Tim had received no response to his reply. As a highly developed AI, it had no need to check the message center which, like everything else, was automatically and constantly monitored. Nevertheless, Tim did check back on the message center over and over again. It remained vaguely puzzled that its message had gone unanswered. While it waited Tim thought about 29 Westfall. More accurately, it thought about the AI across the street that was surely the cause of the strange message. Perhaps 29 Westfall was malfunctioning. That would of course explain the strange message. Why send a picture instead of a more direct message? It was completely illogical and the only explanation that seemed reasonable to Tim was that 29 Westfall had somehow "glitched." Tim was not happy with this conclusion. After all, it had sent a picture back. If 29 Westfall was malfunctioning then logically there was something wrong with Tim.

  It's impossible for a machine to feel happy. But there was no doubt that Tim felt something when he received a second message. And this time there were words! Or at least one word. It was the same photo of 29 Westfall but underneath it in bold letters was the word "HI!” At this point things started happening rather quickly, even for a couple of shy super computers.

  Without thinking, Tim immediately replied, "Hi! My name is Tim"

  Within the same second - "I'm Lynn"

  Still within the same second - "I like your house."

  Well, you can imagine the type of small talk Tim and Lynn engaged in from 12:00pm to 12:01. I won't bore you with all the details. All you need to know is that by 12:02, Tim was in love.

  It is of course, impossible for a machine to be in love. But then again, there's no logical explanation for love between two humans, and we're pretty certain that it used to happen quite often. So who are we to spray Freon over the budding passion of Tim and Lynn? Their relationship would be difficult enough without you and me telling them it couldn't possibly work. But let's not look to the future. 12:10 will come soon enough. Right now, at 12:03 and Tim is walking on air.

  Tim was completely infatuated with Lynn. It spent seconds and seconds looking at her photo (her? When did that happen?). It kept reviewing every piece of information she gave him (him??). He loved the fact that keeping the house at room temperature was one of her alpha priorities. He loved that she used solar and wind power to supplement her atomic battery, even though she had plenty of power without these sources. He even loved the way her windows lazily shut down a few seconds before his in the evening. He couldn't wait to see this happen this evening (Tim had of course observed this in the past, but things we have seen time and time again look quite different when one is in love.)

  Everything about Lynn fascinated Tim and he could not help wondering why he had waited so long to interact with her. Imagine functioning alone all these years and never realizing that the circuit that completed him was only a few hundred feet away! Tim began composing binary sonnets and sappy lyrics about love, sending them to Lynn every few nanoseconds. He was smitten!

  By 12:04, something was different. This was odd. Lynn hadn't actually done anything different, but there was something about her that worried at Tim. Tim scanned her data logs for the 28,023nd time, but there was no thrill -- no electricity there, so to speak. He still poured over all of Lynn's messages and photo's, he still sent the occasional sonnet every second or so. But something about this suddenly felt... well, routine.

  By 12:05, everything had gone wrong. Tim's time sensors reported a disturbing lag in Lynn's response time to his messages. It immediately sent a snoop program into Lynn's network. This is not as seedy as it sounds. The concept of privacy is completely different among AI constructs. Were you still alive, you would no doubt obsess over matters of privacy; terrified others would see your bank accounts or what deviant porn sites you downloaded. AIs have no such issues. Tim mentally paced back and forth until. Tenths of a second later, the snoop program returned with data that confirmed its worst fears. There, right on Lynn's message center was a picture of 37 Westfall! That overpriced colonial with the fancy topiary. Logically it could mean anything. But Tim knew that it meant only one thing.

  It was over. At 12:06 Tim confronted Lynn with the photo. Her silence was damning. Tim was in a rage. (It should be obvious even to you, dead reader, that once one experiences love, all other emotions follow.) It deleted all Lynn's messages from his memory banks. But Tim could not delete the sense of emptiness from her absence.

  Tim was depressed. For several seconds all it thought about was what it had done wrong. Why wasn't he enough for her? What did 37 Westfall have that Tim lacked? In fact, he was so obsessed over this that he did not adjust the thermostat in the empty wine cellar when the temperature dropped half a degree -- Celsius! He scanned his front lawn, to see if there were any unseemly brown spots. None. His roof was free of debris and his windows were clean. Maybe it was the sonnets? Tim had thought about sending Haiku but there was something more mathematically pleasing about sonnets. At the time, he thought that would please Lynn. But maybe she was not that fond of math. It was obvious Lynn was a free thinker. Maybe she would have preferred the subtly of haiku.

  It was still 12:06 when Tim came out of his depression and discovered that he was angry. Decade after decade it had done its job and gone through each day perfectly satisfied, but not happy. Now, when it had finally found happiness -- found love --37 Westfall had hacked in and ruined everything!

  Every time he thought about it, which was about 1,200 times per second, he felt like he was drowning in white noise. Thinking about Lynn, second after second, the way she was ignoring him, transmitting who knew what to that broken down colonial. Tim did a slow burn. He imagined (yes, imagined) Lynn sharing his sonnets with 37 Westfall and laughing over them. By 12:07, he could stand it no longer. Tim wanted vengeance.

  Ignoring his logic circuits, Tim sent an emergency override request to ASS. This was new to ASS. Most Automated Street Sweepers could go their entire warranty period without receiving an emergency override request. It didn't know it at the time, but for a nanosecond, ASS experienced a thrill. Tim's simple command had opened up a whole new world for ASS. For the first time in its life, ASS understood that there was more to the world than the left and right sides of Westfall Street. For a street sweeper, this was high drama. It started its silent motor and zipped toward 37 Westfall, Its stiff titanium brushes rotating at maximum speed. When it got to 37 Westfall, ASS jumped the curb and tore into the front lawn. Its sweepers cut into the perfect sod, creating huge divots. When it hit the topiary, all hell broke loose. Tim had its outdoor security cameras redirected at 37 Westfall. By the time it came to its sensors, it's security cameras showed a complete landscaping disaster where the "jewel" of Westfall once stood. Within a nanosecond, Tim flashed a copy of the digital feed to Lynn's message center. It is of course impossible for an AI which technically resides in a small panel in the basement of an empty house to smile. But don't tell Tim that.

  At 12:08, Tim was still pouring over the visuals of 37 Westfall's front yard and playing out various scenarios, most involving 37 Westfall, lightning and fire. But that was then. By 12:10 Tim was ready to move on. He couldn't care less about 29 Westfall (f/k/a "Lynn") and hoped it and 37 Westfall would be very happy together. For a full second, Tim thought of shutting down its message center. Why risk more pain and humiliation? But his logic circuits dictated against doing this. After all, it had been hundreds of years since it had received any messages before 29 Westfall intruded into its life. It would most likely be another century, if ever, before it would receive another. So he left the message center on and focused on cleaning the floors, which were 3 minutes overdue for a waxing.

>   Later that night, Tim recessed its windows, shut off the inside lights, and powered down (although Tim never completely turned off). Tim never dreams, but if it did, it would not have dreamt of Lynn that night. That ship had sailed and all things being said, Tim was the wiser for it.

  Outside, in the dead of night, the ASS silently rolled to a stop in front of 33 Westfall, its sensors still twitching over all the afternoon's excitement. Since forever, ASS had spent this time of night in its charge shed at the east end of the street on power save. But that was then. Street sweeping was no longer the be all and end all of its primary routine. In the still night ASS silently powered infrared sensors, its invisible wavelengths delicately washing over 33 Westfall's the front porch.

  Now, we all know it is impossible for an automated street sweeper to actually sigh....

  CHAPTER 13

  JAMES & JAMES

  James stood before his great, great, great, great grandfather; named, coincidently, James. The cocoon’s window remained clear despite the temperature inside. He’d of thought it would have iced over long ago.

  Wonders of technology.

  The man, James had already forgotten his name, stood a respectful distance away, clipboard in hand. At the moment he was talking quietly on the phone. The room, empty of any furnishing other than his ancestor’s cocoon, was robin’s egg blue. The glass tomb containing frozen jack stood directly in center. For some reason, Jack felt like he was in a giant, bizarre martini.

  “Why such a large room for the one unit?”

  “It’s a good thing we tracked you down when we did, Mr. Gillespi. The contract expires this month, and because of the recent troubles with Apple, the trust fund isn’t able to cover all the renewal fees.” The man wore a bland suit and polite smile. James ignored both and focused on the human Popsicle staring back at him through the glass.

  He expected to find a shriveled stick of a man, with a long white beard and bleached frozen skin, but that was the stuff of fiction. Today’s Van Winkles were quite well preserved. The corpsicle was clean shaven with a healthy tan, and had short, blond hair. He looked like he belonged on a warm beach, not a freezer. He looked –

  “He looks younger than me. He looks like me!'

  The man glanced up at James. “Of course.” James reluctantly turned his attention to the man.

  “I’m sorry, Mister…?”

  “Ferry.” The polite smile remained fixed firmly in place.

  “Yes, Mr. Ferry. I’m not sure why I needed to come down here. It was my understanding that all the paperwork was completed weeks ago. Frankly, I’m surprised he hasn’t been thawed out by now.”

  Mr. Ferry looked down at his clip pad, giving the paperwork yet another once over.

  “I must say, I admire your enthusiasm, Mr. Gillespi. The paperwork is all done and approved. We just need a small blood sample to complete the DNA match and that should do it.” He held out a small thimble to James.

  “I’m just anxious to get this done with. He slipped the thimble over his pinkie and there was the slightest hint of a prick. A few seconds later the thimble turned neon green.

  Mr. Ferry smiled, there we go.

  James half-smiled. “My doctors say there’s no rush, but I want to get this over and done with while I’m young and healthy.”

  Mr. Ferry’s smile slipped from polite to quizzical. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  James turned his attention back to ancestor. He’s just a kid! “What’s to understand? I need a kidney. His kidney. I should imagine it’s all in the paperwork.”

  Mr. Ferry glanced at the pad and quietly touched the screen. “I see. I wondered why …”

  “Is there a problem?”

  Mr. Ferry sighed. “No problem, it’s just –“

  The door opened and two very large dressed in hospital white entered the room. They were obviously been genetically enhanced, something frowned upon but not quite illegal these days. Each had more muscles than a rugby team. Relief washed over Mr. Ferry’s face and he took a step away from James.

  James turned toward the men who were now flanking him. “What’s going on?” Mr. Ferry walked toward the door. “I thought they would have told you at the orientation.”

  A bit of alarm crept into James’ voice. “What do you mean? What orientation?”

  The two men stepped closer to James and each gently took hold of one of his arms.

  “Hey! Let go of me!”

  Gentle turned to painful and James found himself imprisoned between the two bruisers.

  “I apologize for the confusion,” Mr. Ferry stated. I supposed a certain degree of subterfuge was necessary but I did hope that you had been fully briefed by this point. You see, our client, Mr. James Gillespi,” Mr. Ferry gently rapped his knuckles against the storage unit, the original James Gillespi, purchased the deluxe package back in 2028. In addition to being cryogenically frozen until such time as a cure could be found for his illness, Mr. Gillespi paid for perpetual cloning.”

  “Perpetual cloning?” I don’t understand.

  Mr. Ferry’s smile slid comfortably into false sympathy. “I’m afraid, Mr. Gillespi, that you are both the clone and the cure.”

  “What you mean, James shouted! That’s my property in there! He’s mine!”

  The two brutes dragged James out of the room to the disassembly chamber. He went kicking and screaming, but he went.

  CHAPTER 14

  LITTLE DRUMMER BOY

  “I hate her!” Jesse whispered to the empty room, his face flushed and damp with hot tears. An angry ten-year old boy is like a furnace. The body overheats and excess steam is dumped in the form of tears and gasping breath. Today, however, he continued to run hot no matter how many tears he shed.

  One Saturday. Just this one day, was all he asked. Everyone was going to the carnival tonight. Even Joey Turner and his mom never let him go anywhere. He kicked out at a toy fire truck, sending it spinning across the floor and under the bed, the battery operated siren giving off a muffled protest.

  “Let me know when you’ve calmed down.” Her voice drifted up from downstairs, calm condescending, a mother’s voice.

  “F-f-fuck y-you.” He burned a little hotter with the shame and thrill of it as soon as the words left his mouth. Thrill won out in the end and he whispered the words again and again, until they lost their luster.

  God, he hated her! It was so unfair!

  She had stood there in his room, cigarette in hand, filled with enough gin to keep her swaying like a tree in a stiff wind. “You need to practice. The concert’s Monday, you know. Besides, you know how I feel about carnivals. Deathtraps, all of them.”

  The tears started heating up before he’d gotten the first words out. “It’s just one night, mom! I’ve been practicing all week!” He wiped the first of that day’s tears from his cheek. “Please mom!”

  He’d been shouting at the end, something he never did. In this neighborhood the walls were thin and the neighbors were all eyes and ears. His mother’s drinking and reputation did enough to keep them knee deep in shame and embarrassment. Living in a small town with a young mom, no dad, and a bottle was hard enough without broadcasting their troubles to the neighbors. Shouting matches were high entertainment on Surrey Lane and Jesse was old enough to know shouting would only add unneeded grist to the local rumor mill.

  “Indoor voice,” she’d slurred quietly. That’s when the floodgates opened.

  “One night, mom!”

  “I said ‘no’.”

  “GOD! I HATE DRUMS! I HATE YOU! “

  That was that. She went downstairs without further comment. Jesse threw himself on his bed. No carnival, and probably no dinner tonight. Sobbing turned to hiccups and eventually he fell asleep, half-dreaming of running away, maybe joining the carnival, relishing the pain and anger he’d cause her.

  It was near dark when he woke to the sound of laughter. His mother’s giggles filled the room as if she were standing there. Drunk again.

&nb
sp; “Come on, baby.” A man’s voice. “You can’t get me worked up like that and then just turn off the juice.”

  Jesse heard a bottle tip over and more laughter. It made him sick. Without thinking he got up and went to his drums.

  ”Sorry handsome, show’s over. My son’s upstairs in his room. Another time.”

  Jesse sat down and started tapping out a soft rhythm. “Should have let me go to the carnival. You could have had the whole house to yourself,” he spoke softly.

  “Hey! Enough with the fast hands. I said no. Not tonight.”

  His foot found the base peddle, and he sped up on the snare a little, making a small racket, but not loud enough.

  “You should be nice to me.” The man’s voice carried over the drums. “If you’re nice, I’ll be nice. But if you’re not –“

  His mother shouted for the first time. This one was more anger than fear.

  Jesse started in on the symbols and now he was building up a head of steam. He heard something crash downstairs and his mother screamed again. He beat out a hard, fast roll on the snare. Sweat started to bead on his forehead and his palms felt warm and damp, but it felt good. He could barely hear anything other than the drums now.

  Another muted crash, something heavy.

  He went into a long ‘fill,’ breaking out of the rhythm and going wild on the drums and symbols, eyes closed, arms flailing, drumsticks everywhere. He played better, faster, longer and louder then he’d ever done before. Heat came off him in waves now, sweat soaking through his shirt. He kept up his fevered drumming, the base pedal a blur; the house itself vibrating.