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- 11/24/2016
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Flash In The Pan - 1. Synthetic Pleasures
A response to Prompt 517: Technology has advanced so quickly that many homes now have robotic servants that cater to a family’s every need. Some people feel the robotic servants are stealing jobs, some can’t afford them, and others are leery of them. A new model has come out and you have been chosen as one of ten trial users. What is your servant like?
Be aware that there is quite frequent use of British English swear words.
Be aware that there is quite frequent use of British English swear words.
“Privacy!”
The walls of the room became a little more opaque. It was a pain to take his feed off-line as it seemed to attract hackers like sharks to fresh blood. However, these new model synths were rumoured to be very quick to detect offence or criticism. He didn't want the hassle of a complaint before he could effect certain alterations (not approved by the manufacturer). He was the only one who was going to be complaining today.
“Call Synthuserve.”
While he was waiting for the house to make the connection, his eyes lighted on the verimeter stripe on the wall opposite him. He stared at it morosely. Just because he was in business, it was compulsory to have one. It was no comfort to him that anyone holding public office also had to display one. Green was fine, yellow was allowable on occasion, orange was probably malpractice of some sort, and red was automatic trial and sentence.
The wall opposite brightened and a mildly 3-D image of a young woman appeared. She smiled brightly.
“Good morning, Mr Saunders. How can I help?”
David Saunders was old-fashioned in some ways and he was grudgingly pleased that they'd remembered his preferences. Except in one respect.
He scowled at the female. She looked briefly as if she was mentally reviewing something then she morphed into an equally smiley, slightly older young man.
That was better.
“Mr Saunders, how is your new synth? It's one of our newest models. Does he meet with your expectations?”
“He's a walking disaster. I wish to speak with a human.”
“I'm sure I'll be able to help you, Mr Saunders. What aspect of his ambulatory systems do you regard as being a disaster?”
Why did he always forget to regulate his language properly when dealing with synths? Surely their language and cognitive functions should be able to deal with statements like that?
David Saunders was very careful with his money, notoriously so. It shouldn't have been a surprise to him that any company he dealt with wouldn't necessarily be at the leading edge.
“My new synth is not working as I expected. Several modifications I requested have not been implemented. I wish to speak to a human.”
“I see you ordered the performer specification, and you insisted on the synth being able to both sing and dance. Quite unusual. In fact, it was made exactly to your order, according to a note here.”
“Well, OK, except the wretched thing …”
The synth looked at him with disapproval, then an automatic message played.
“You are reminded that all proceedings are recorded in full and may form the basis for criminal or civil actions.”
He gritted his teeth and then breathed in deeply through his nose.
“My apologies for any offence caused – it was unintentional.”
Despite his best efforts, the verimeter was edging into the yellow and looked as though it might keep going. With some difficulty, he cleared his facial expression and thoughts of any aggression, anger, contempt. He smiled apologetically at the synth and continued …
“My emotions got the better of me, I'm afraid. I was so looking forward to this new model that you can't blame me for feeling frustrated when I discovered he wasn't up to spec.”
Back out of the yellow, just.
He breathed an internal sigh of relief. He was about to insist again on speaking to a human when the synth he'd been talking to was abruptly replaced by somebody new. It was the same saleswoman who had originally sold him the new synth.
“Mr. Saunders, how is your synth settling in?”
Settling in?
“It can take a few days for a synth to adjust to a new environment and feel able to operate at their optimum capacity.”
“He won't have a few days. If these problems aren't sorted and soon, he'll out on his arse in no time.”
Why couldn't he keep control of his mouth?
The warning message played again.
Bollocks!
If he had one more warning during this transmission, he'd be in big trouble.
Think before opening mouth.
“Apologies, dear lady. A mere figure of speech. Nothing more.”
He smiled his best smile at her, full power. This covered over his thoughts …
Stupid cow. Why wasn't she at home, doing whatever the female of the species did there?
“Would you like to explain to me what exactly you think is wrong with your synth?”
“I asked for John Travolta and Grease …”
Trademarks, intellectual property rights and copyrights started scrolling in front of his eyes.
“ … and what did I get? Nothing like it! A feeble, pale travesty. And Elvis … Where was the grind?
I asked for twerking. He didn't understand what I wanted.”
The ownership statements were still partially blocking his vision. Their incessant scrolling was bloody irritating but he couldn't look away, otherwise it would be noted.
The saleswoman started on her explanation of just how much it cost to gain access to the copyright material he wanted. He filtered her out after a minute although outwardly he was careful to seem alert and attentive. The house would provide him with private, instant playback if it was needed.
His mind turned to other, darker things.
Michael Saunders saw himself as his houshold's pater familias – knowing what was best and not hesitating to impose discipline when and where necessary. Sexually, he assumed a daddy persona – firm, authorative, and occasionally dominating. What the mirror saw was a sweaty, overweight slob, prone to fits of rage and sexual frustration.
The twerking would have been by way of foreplay (for him, of course, not the synth). He was a little past his best, perhaps, but who wasn't in the real world? Then, when he'd managed to get it up, would have come the fucking. Permission wasn't needed, just the expected compliance of an obedient machine.
It wasn't great but still, better than a fleshlight, and the patches needed to alter the synths' operating systems weren't that expensive given their dark web origins. Groups campaigning for synth rights had seen to that.
He suddenly switched back on again, subconsciously aware that the subject had changed.
What on earth was the silly bitch on about now?
“Mr Saunders, our records show you to be the owner / employer of several other synths, yet they've never reported themselves for system checks or upgrades?”
Shit. Nosy cow, as well. Probably a member of … what was it called? The Alt-Hum Partnership? Something like that.
“As far as I'm aware, my synths have never felt the need to contact you ...”
Mostly because that piece of code was removed straight after delivery.
“ … and I'm not a great fan of upgrades. I prefer to stick to what I know.”
And any upgrades came from elsewhere.
The verimeter remained on the cusp between green and yellow.
That was quite acceptable given the current circumstances. He remembered to breathe evenly and slowly, thinking cool thoughts.
“As you're doubtless aware, it is now the company's policy to follow up on all synths, to check on their general condition and operating status.”
Shit. No, he wasn't. How had that happened?
“This has been implemented as a result of the following law being passed: it is a criminal offence to maltreat a synth, knowingly allow it to malfunction, or alter its operating code without permission from the manufacturer.”
Double shit.
He nodded, knowledgeably.
“Of course, good lady.”
He would have liked to continue but he knew the dangers too well. Verimeters were nigh on impossible to tamper with and it was moving into the yellow, again.
She glared at him suspiciously.
He took deep, concealed, calming breaths and projected certainty, compliance and the concern of a model employer. He'd known that something like this would happen at some point – he just wasn't quite prepared for it to be now.
OK … this was a high-risk strategy but if it worked, he'd be off the hook for some time.
“Here is a recording taken at their accommodation yesterday, as you can see from the video date stamp.”
The house obligingly played the doctored, fictional footage. It was going along nicely until the film juddered to a halt. The figures were frozen as if the feed was buffering, but then the pixels started dropping off the images as if someone was brushing them down vigorously.
What the fuck …?!
The doctored film was fading out, to be replaced by …
This can't be happening …?
… images taken in real time with a superimposed logo of a gremlin, laughing.
Bloody hackers!
What the new film showed wasn't funny – unrepaired synths with a variety of system malfunctions, some with physical damage as well, existing in unsafe conditions.
“Lies! Those are …”
Why couldn't he keep his mouth shut?
The verimeter moved decisively into the red.
The house made an announcement.
“Several law enforcement officers have arrived, Mr Saunders. I've let them in.”
With thanks to Parker Owens for his encouragement and help.
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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