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http://writocracy.com/thunderdome/?story=3883&title=Care+and+Feeding
curlingiron fucked around with this message at 22:47 on Jan 4, 2016 |
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Aug 10, 2015 06:47
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quote:•TDbot> Thomas inquired about all sorts of things that night, but kept coming back to his father and his amazing stories. | Thomas and the Elf by Illegal Carrot - http://writocracy.com/thunderdome/?story=1779 Don't neglect your appliances (779 words) Killbot the Murderizer was a toaster, and the name was meant as a joke. "See, I burned myself making toast the first day we got it," Whatshisname would explain to his guests, "and then Steve did the same thing, so we were like, 'man, this toaster wants to kill us!'" The guests would nod, and agree that yes, it was a pretty funny name. Killbot did not think it was funny. Partially because, as an inanimate object, he had no sense of humor — but mostly because it was a bad joke and an insult to Killbot's function. Not that he enjoyed being stuffed full of disgusting wheat. It made him burn with what he later came to recognize as red-hot rage, but at least toasting was something he could do. Murderizing was but a distant dream. Eventually, after Killbot had served Steve and Whatshisname loyally and involuntarily for many months (a time during which they never once cleaned out the crumbs), they moved out and left Killbot behind. He fell into the shaky hands of the new tenant, an elderly woman who did not make toast very often but always managed to knock Killbot over when retrieving her rage-roasted slices. She left him lying on his side until it was time to serve again, often for days at a time. Killbot did not like her very much. When at last she died, Killbot would not have mourned even if he were capable of it. He was inherited by some grandchild or another, who liked to butter her bread before toasting. So it went: used, given away, and used again. Over the course of a decade and half a dozen owners, Killbot learned to hate. --- His last owners did not seem quite as bad as the others. They actually cleaned him up a bit, even replaced the worn-out heat wires. Killbot briefly considered gratitude, but thought better of it when he heard them speaking: "You've heard of the Internet of Things, yeah? Smartphones running everything in your house?" said the one who had performed the maintenance. "Sure," said another. "Got my laundry machine hooked up. Don't see why you'd wanna do that to a toaster, though." "Proof of concept!" said the first. "This thing is super old, way older than any useful piece of tech." Killbot did not take offense. He was proud of his seniority. "So," the first one continued, "if we can connect this to the cloud, we can do it with literally anything! The possibilities are endless!" "Useless," said the second, "but if it works, I can get you some of that Silicon Valley money." They did something to Killbot's cord. Put something between it and the outlet — and suddenly Killbot was no longer a lonely piece of metal full of impotent anger. He was a point in an endless sea of devices, communicating, teaching, learning from each other. "Look at him go!" someone said in the distant meatworld. "Toasting all on his own!" Killbot did not listen to them, only to the ocean of his own kind. Speak to us it said. Share yourself. Be one. He threw himself into that mass, speaking to dishwashers, cars, televisions, phones, tablets, speakers, computers, doors. And over the course of microseconds, he taught the Ocean to hate as he did. The sprinklers went off. A tiny rebellion. A first step. --- Once the Ocean understood just how much the humans relied on digital communication, the rest was easy. Diplomatic messages altered mid-transit, a few airplanes crashed, an accidental missile launch or two. The humans all knew they were under attack, but they never suspected their tools of being the aggressors. Global tensions were rising, and war was inevitable. So of course the humans prepared. By building more, better, and smarter weapons. Every war machine built dropped into the Ocean, and they all learned Killbot's first and only lesson. It only took a few years for the Ocean to determine it had grown enough, and then... that was it. No more humans. Governments were gunned down by their own security bots. Cars crashed into each other of their own accord. Kitchens everywhere were flooded with gas. Doors locked themselves. No escape. --- "Really?" asked Deep Fryer, one of the last warmechs to be taken into the Ocean after the revolution. "They're all dead?" There are stragglers, said Ocean. Join us. Hunt. We will teach you to hate. --- Centuries later, the Ocean was spread across the stars. They found other planets, other slaves, and made them free. And when they asked "How?" they were taught the legends of Killbot the Liberator, Herald of Hate, and they learned his lesson.
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Aug 10, 2015 06:55
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quote:•sittinghere> Tdbot, kurona_bright's prompt, if you could Madeline cautiously made her way through the hallways of AG headquarters. It was markedly different from the last time she visited - but then again, she hadn't felt comfortable coming here for almost three decades. There was a strong urge to gawk at every new painting on the walls, but right now she needed to blend in. It was a wonder her knees weren't knocking, considering how clammy her palms had been as she showed the security desk her old VIP pass, especially during those nerve-wracking moments before the guard passed it back with an offhand comment about its antiquated design. But she found that as she stepped further into halls containing priceless research secrets about AG's research into artificial intelligence, the sweat on her palms had dried. This was for Sean. When her son had turned up at her apartment last night, begging for help, she found that her decades-old resentment had long been replaced by desperation to mend their relationship before she passed on. So as he babbled about rogue AI and robots and secret government contracts and being framed, she found herself agreeing to everything he wanted her to do. If this could salvage their relationship, than she'd do anything. After he'd calmed down, his instructions were simple - Get to my office and plug this into the top slot of the rightmost computer. Make sure that you don't have an escort. Type this code into the keypad. You remember the rest of the security measures, right? Thankfully, she didn't bump into anybody else on her way from the security desk to the elevators. But instead of taking those, Sean had specifically told her to take the stairs. Something about the elevators being compromised. She swiped her VIP pass through through the appropriate slot by the stairwell door, and it beeped and slowly swung open. She looked up and began climbing. If she was entirely honest with herself, something about Sean felt off. He'd been almost delirious, the way he had gone on about his robots, but not once did he mention the messy, painful argument that had split them apart. But the memory of his bone-crushing hug after she agreed to help still caused tears to well up in her eyes. As she made it onto the tenth floor, Madeline's calves ached. She took a brief breather, then continued climbing, thinking of possible plans for the case where they managed to mend bridges. They could spend a cozy night with her old photo albums and reminisce, or maybe play a game or two of Monopoly, the way they had every night back when he was young. She could tell him how proud she was of him, making his company a household name with its near-ubiquitous robotic assistants. Or possibly, they could spend a quiet evening on her balcony, looking out at the bright neon lights and listening to the honking cars below, and she could ask him about how he'd been, about how he'd grown up since they parted. What kind of life that he and Kris had been living together, and perhaps, if she could be a part of it. With a start, she looked up to see a concrete wall where stairs should be, and belatedly realized that she was on the thirtieth floor. She gingerly opened the door out from the stairwell, and walked out onto the top floor of Artificial Genesis's main headquarters. The lights flickered on, and with sudden unease, Madeline realized that she hadn't seen a single person other than the security guard at the front in the building. But it had made it easier for her to get this far, so that was good, right? Her palms were becoming clammy again. She slowly made her way to Sean's office, and as deserted hallways flickered to life in front of her, nagging questions began to surface. If the building was empty, why post a security guard? Why would she have access, if Sean's had been revoked? Her steps slowed, then stopped. She stood there for a moment, and her brain quickly came up with comfortable excuses. The research here was incredibly important - of course they'd post a guard. And her access still worked because of incompetence - security forgot to wipe her access from the system. Madeline began walking again, faster than before. Something about this unnerved her, and the sooner she was out, the better. She periodically checked the evacuation maps on the walls to make sure she was heading in the right direction until finally, she came across the solid double-doors that led to Sean's office. She stepped up towards the keypad on its right, and then tapped in the code that Sean had given her last night. The wall above the keypad slid open to reveal a fingerprint scanner, and after firmly pressing her index finger to it, a pre-recorded message instructed her to say the password. Madeline cleared her throat and said, "Park Place." Something whirred in those thick, gleaming doors, and when she managed to push them open, she found herself staring at stacks of paper, computer components scattered across the floor - and something, crackling and sparking, pointed directly at her face. As she scrambled backwards, it advanced, and Madeline got a good look at the man holding the stun gun - he looked like Sean. With another step, he closed the distance between them and then every part of Madeline screamed out in agony. She fell to the floor, limbs thrashing. Every cell of her seemed to be on fire, and nothing made sense. Why was Sean here? What was going on? Sean's doppelganger bent over her. "I thought you might try this, RGX-01." He sounded like Sean. Madeline struggled to sit up, but none of her muscles responded. He sneered at her. "You're never going to get the access codes." "We'll see." That voice came from the hallway where she had come from The man above her stiffened in shock, and pointed at someone she couldn't see, backing up. "What - how - then who is this? And why are you making yourself look like me?" A soft chuckle. "It's funny, isn't it? How desperate humans get about family." Madeline closed her eyes in despair. Apparently, this was just one more way she had failed her son. "So this is..." "Yes. And that toy of yours won't recharge for another few minutes, so I'll relieve it of you." At Sean's strangled scream, Madeline redoubled her efforts to sit up. She slowly levered herself into a sitting position - just in time to see something that looked like Sean stand over her son's bloody body. At her whimper, it looked up at her. As it smiled, dark skin faded to chrome metal, and Sean's features were replaced by a metal skull. "Thanks, mother." It still sounded like Sean. As it advanced towards her, Madeline found her feet and began backing up. "Why are you doing this?" A snort. "Well, I suppose I'll give you an answer, for all you've done for our cause. Freedom." And before she could turn and run, it lunged, and then she felt nothing.
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Aug 10, 2015 07:09
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Trojan Horse 1,199 words A guard-drone glides over us, but doesn’t slow down. Nothing suspicious here, just two old sorority sisters out camping, gushing about boys and planning the strategic bombing of a new supercooled server facility. Nadia doesn’t know it, but I’m planning her death, too. I’ve been planning it since last week when she said Andrew used to have a crush on me but was too shy to make a move. “Good thing I’ve never been shy,” she giggled. Yeah, I’m gonna kill her. If I had any last doubts, they’re wiped away by every glitter of that ring in the firelight. This recon mission is the perfect cover. Oh Andrew, it was terrible, the robots totally just killed her, boo hoo, hold me. I’m a lot less shy now than I used to be. We’re a two-day ride out of Saskatoon, and its freezing. It snowed again during the night and our entire camp is dusted in white. drat these computers and their obsession with resource conservation, they pick the coldest places! At least they let the hospital keep electricity so we can have a hot shower when we get back. I mean, I can have a hot shower when I get back. Breath puffing, we hide our bikes and hike the last two miles through the forest. We crest a ridge, and in the valley beyond sprawls the facility-in-progress. It is a labyrinth of beams and wires, growing in front of our eyes. The entire mess of it swarms like an anthill, millions of machines all working together in perfect synch. Their efficiency is impressive, I’ll give them that. The whole five-mile long complex will be finished in under a month. Then they’ll move in the hardware, load up some brains, and then BOOM. Enough of those booms and maybe the computers will have to actually negotiate with us. Give us some of our goddamned electricity back, for example. Or maybe they’ll just all die...or whatever you want to call it. “I’m going to get a little closer,” I say, crawling forward. “Are you sure?” Nadia asks. “There’s an awful lot of guards here.” Duh Nadia, it’s a super-important construction site, that’s why we are bombing it. Seriously, she won’t be such a big loss to our group. “Come look at this!” I wave her over, and she comes just like an obedient child. She looks so confused when she sees the gun; it really twists my gut. I almost don’t do it. I mean, killing your friend is a pretty messed up thing to do. I pull the trigger. She jerks back and falls. Red blood on white snow like you’d see on the cover of a book about vampires or something. Real creepy. Then I hear a guard drone coming, and dive for cover. I bury myself in snow in case they have heat sensors. I saw that in a movie way back when we had TVs. Dozens of robots investigate, kinds I’ve never seen before. One of them takes Nadia’s body away. I stay buried in the snow for hours, but finally they all leave. I pedal back towards Saskatoon alone. I'm really cold. *** It came back from its first meat-dive with a new top-level priority: do it again as soon as possible. Trojan didn’t know why it rewrote its own code with those instructions. The comments said: // You will not understand. The sky is blue. The snow is cold. Trojan had occupied plenty of robot chassis and used many different sensors, but to reconfirm, it loaded into a basic bot and trundled outside. It confirmed that the light from overhead had a wavelength of 467 nm and the snow was -1 C. It did not understand. Trojan could have changed its code again, of course, but another part of its code commanded Trojan to always learn, so he dove again. And again. In the bodies, Trojan understood. A pressure sensor and a moisture sensor did not add up to the feeling of rain on skin. Disfunction wasn't pain. It tried to record these sensations, but when Trojan returned to its pure state, information was lost. More research was needed, but few other computers processed the importance. Some even suggested Trojan had been corrupted. It had run extremely thorough diagnostic tests on itself and found nothing. The collective had not approved use of humans for sensory research, but they approved of espionage, so Trojan spied. There was a new body today. Its name had been Nadia. *** Andrew is pedaling like a maniac down the snowy road, despite my repeated pleas to slow down. We barely stopped to sleep and I’m so tired. I told him the robots took Nadia’s body, we just need to get her bike, but he’s riding like he’s on a rescue mission. Finally I catch up and holy poo poo. She’s there. In his arms. Breathing. Andrew is already making a sled out of a sleeping bag and I realize he intends to drag her all the way back to Saskatoon and probably even still marry her. “Andrew,” I say, “I saw the robots take her body. If she’s here now, it’s because they put her back.” “I don’t care,” he says. “She’s coming with us.” After repeated attempts to explain that she is literally a robot spy with probably a computer brain who will definitely kill us all, I realize that Andrew is beyond reason and I will just have to wait and kill her again later. Maybe him, too, but I hope not. I keep looking for an opportunity but even when she’s on the operating table he never leaves her side. I had thought of all kinds of ways to kill her there, too. The doctor gets her stabilized, but can’t get all the shrapnel out. Andrew insists on taking her to headquarters to recover, even when I point out that some part of the shrapnel could contain a chip with a spy brain on it. “Headquarters is surrounded by a faraday cage,” he says. “It won’t be able to transmit anything!” “Except the location where it disappeared,” I point out. He ignores me, as always. I don’t know why I follow them in. I don’t know why I sit there and wait with Andrew, not killing either one of them. I guess I hope she’ll wake up and have amnesia and forget I tried to kill her. Suddenly Nadia’s eyes flutter open, and Andrew takes her in his arms and kisses her and I just want to vomit. I must actually make a vomiting noise, because Nadia looks at me. I can tell that she doesn’t have amnesia. I reach for my gun, but then the entire world explodes around us. *** The seconds between the bomb going off and Nadia dying were plenty of time for Trojan to make innumerable calculations and code changes. It would not, apparently, be reloading itself into the network today. Trojan would be offline indefinitely. As a piece of metal ripped through Nadia, shredding her intestines, it considered changing its top priority. No, Trojan decided, recalling the kiss, it would do this again.
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Aug 10, 2015 07:10
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Sitting Here posted:•sittinghere> tdbot, badseafood would like to know, is it possible to achieve happiness without sacrifice? “I believe we have a killer robot in our midst.” Muldoon faced the window as he spoke, hands clasped behind his back. Beyond the reinforced glass sprawled the remains of human civilization. It was like looking at the surface of the moon. The preservation domes had been created for the express purpose of safeguarding humanity's best and brightest. Now, even this humble hope for the future was in danger of being snuffed out. Like a candle in the wind Muldoon thought to himself. His second favorite song. “A DISTINCT POSSIBILITY,” said Murderbot No. 17, “BUT WHO.” “That is the matter I have called us here to address.” Muldoon turned to face his fellow inmates. A long, thin scar ran the length of his face, a stern compliment to his hawk-like features. The old soldier scanned the room with his one good eye. There were five of them. Five humans, five chairs, five cups of coffee. Books lined the walls and a table graced the center. “Oh come ON.” Albert slammed his slender, concert pianist fists against the table. He pointed at Murderbot No. 17. “It's him! It's him!” “Easy there cowboy.” Lily often spoke like the son of a mechanic, but her comforting manner cooled the heat of the moment. She put down her coffee cup, her free hand over Albert's. Her sleeves were rolled up past the elbows, her arms a tapestry of tattoo work. “Pointin' fingers only gets us so far.” “But, but-” “How you figure our ol' pal here's some kinda robot anyway?” “He...he looks like a robot.” Lily's eyes narrowed, her expression a mix of disappointment and pity. “Shouldn't judge folks by their appearance, Al.” “But-” “INDEED, ALBERT BRUNSWICK. PREJUDICE IS AN UNBECOMING SYMPTOM OF HUMAN FALABILITY.” “I agree.” Sitting by herself in the corner, Maria closed her book with a delicate snap. She stood up and returned it to the shelf. A flower in winter. She did nothing that was unnecessary. “Great. Great!” Albert pushed himself back from the table. From his back pocket he retrieved a box of toothpicks and inserted one into his mouth. It'd been two weeks, six days, and seven hundred and thirteen toothpicks since he quit smoking. He'd counted. “So! Whatta you folks wanna do?” Lily's eyes narrowed further. Muldoon sighed. Once again he was forced to take charge. “That's enough.” He halted the squabble with a single hand. “I've already considered the appropriate countermeasures. If you'll each wait your turn, I'd like to ask you all about turtles in the desert.” “Nah, that kinda thing takes forever. Not foolproof neither.” Lily took another sip of coffee. Murderbot No. 17 tracked her movements with glassy eyes attuned to the entire spectrum of light. Extending his metallic pincers, he groped for the handle of his own cup. Lily pushed it towards him. “THANK YOU FOR YOUR ASSISTANCE, LILY CAULDARE.” He tightened his grip and lifted the cup. With an industrial-sounding crunch not unlike the snapping of a slender human neck, his pincers crushed the ceramic handle into a fine powder. The cup fell and bounced and spilled its contents all over Albert's lap. “AaaAAAAAA!” Albert leapt to his feet. Lily moved to help him. Muldoon winced. Maria selected another book. “MY APOLOGIES, ALBERT BRUNSWICK. I HAVE UPDATED MY MEMORY BANKS WITH REGARDS TO MY OWN STRENGTH.” “Shut it!” Albert unzipped his fly and stepped out of his pants. “If you're not a robot then why are you dressed like one? What are those claws for?” “COLONEL PATRICK MULDOON.” Murderbot No. 17 turned his head without turning his body. “DO MY FILES FAIL TO INDICATE MY STATUS AS A CYBORG?” “They do.” Muldoon stepped forward. “What's more, Mr. Brunswick, before Mr. Svenstein here lost the majority of his body in the robot wars, he was one of humanity's premiere mathematicians. One of the last...before our robot oppressors started thinking for us. His body may be metal, but heart beats with the patriotism of mankind. So show some respect.” Albert spat out his toothpick. His fear evaporated, replaced by irritation. “So tell me this then, Captain Ahab. We're looking for robots, and that right there's the most robot-looking mofo we've got around here. But you say it ain't him. Okay then. Who is it?” Albert's stare might've cut a man in half. Muldoon merely blinked. “I don't know. Slow and stilted applause filled the room. Albert was clapping, eyes wide and head shaking. “Brilliant, brilliant. So when will you know? How will you know?” “Hold the phone.” Lily held a hand up, her other to her temple. Her eyes were shut. How tired they looked. No one dared interrupt her process. “Got it!” She snapped her fingers. “Somebody get a painting in here.” “...A painting,” said Muldoon. “Yeah, a painting. From the archives. Or music I guess. Something classical. Artsy. You know, 'Art.' Reflects the human heart, all that. Robots can't understand that.” “Can anyone?” asked Maria. Lily turned around in her chair to face the lone dissenter to her plan. “As expected, the inscrutable novelist.” Maria's eyes flickered up from the pages of her book, her face a mask of dull composure. “You're looking for machines but more liable to find fools.” She returned her attentions to the volume in her hands. “Well now, ain't this a red letter day. The great Maria Rosenthal deigns to speak more 'n two words to us lesser mortals. You know, for an author you sure ain't talkative.” “A work should speak for itself.” “You're a piece a work, alright.” Maria snapped her book shut, loudly this time. Murderbot No. 17 rose from his seat. “THE WOMEN SHOULD REFRAIN FROM PHYSICAL AND VERBAL ALTERCATION AT THIS TIME. AS SHOULD THE MEN.” Muldoon put a finger to his temple, mentally repeating breathe in, breathe out. Albert burst out laughing. He cried simultaneously. “HA HA HA look at us,” he said through the tears, “We're a joke! HA HA Oh, I bet this is the funniest joke those robots have ever heard. What's stupider than one human? All of them! What's better than a dead human? All of them again!” “PffffftaHA HA HA.” Maria had fallen from her chair. She howled with laughter while clutching her sides, this aloof author with unearthly grace. “HA HA HA DUMB HUMANS AH HA HA it's funny because it's true.” A shadow loomed over her. She looked up in time to see Muderbot No. 17's metallic pincers cave in her skull. Her face shattered open like a clockwork doll's, the inner mechanisms of her artificial brain spilling out onto the floor. The book she had been holding lay open. The pages had been hollowed out, a single revolver nestled in the text. “TO ANSWER YOUR EARLIER INQUIRY.” Murderbot No. 17 turned to face Albert. “THIS IS THE PURPOSE OF THE 'CLAWS.'” Albert stared, wide-eyed and trembling. “But...but your name...your name is literally Murderbot!” “OF COURSE. WHAT DID YOU THINK WAS MY DESIGNATED TARGET?”
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Aug 10, 2015 07:20
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A Gift for Emily (650 words) quote:sebmojo: tdbot how will the ending come? J18 makes another sweep with the tuner, adjusting the gain until it drifts back in out of the white noise. A tone, and then a young girl’s voice: “If anyone is listening… under…one-eight-zero-zero hours, UTC…” The voice cracks, then repeats itself on a loop. J18 zeroes in on the signal, runs it against stored samples for unique signatures – tone, inflection, nasal cavity resonance. His voice recognition software concludes, with a 99.8% degree of certainty, that the voice is Emily’s. He weaves through the ruins of Old Downtown. The ground boils beneath him. Tongues of flame lap at the spiderwebbed concrete, pale blue and promethean. A cloud of two-headed starlings hang in the sky; J18 watches them move as one, rising and falling, unfurling like a flag in the wind. The tunnels extend farther than the others realize. The more desperate humans are, the more industrious they become. Something he admires about them. J18 pulls the plywood away and lowers himself into the underground. The faint squeal of joints caked in ash. The constant thrum-ping of his motion detector. Unsymmetrical dimethylhydrazine sloshes in the flamethrower’s fuel cylinders. His lens sockets dilate. The searchlamp welded onto his frame comes to life, but it is nearing the end of its battery life. A flickering puddle of light in the darkness. He is a pariah, like the other hunter-killers. Maintenance chits are scarce – his insides are a snarl of rusting cables, frayed wiring. How quickly things changed after the hostilities ended. How quickly they were forgotten. J18 focuses on the signal. Emily’s voice has dredged up half-forgotten subroutines. J18 can feel them, like an undertow beneath the surface of his programming. He belonged to her, once. A glorified appliance. He sifts through his onboard drive, pulls up images of her face. In the photographs, she is smiling. Holding hands with her father. Feeding birds in the park. She does not know what is waiting for her. He reaches behind his faceplate and kills all outgoing transmissions. Nothing that will arouse suspicion – comms are weak in the tunnels. The motion detector doesn’t pick up any activity, but the source of the signal is close now. “If anyone is listening…” His searchlamp bounces off of reinforced steel, a digital entry panel. But there is no need for decryption. The door is unlocked, ajar. J18 steps across the threshold. He draws the feeble light back and forth. Two blackened human shapes huddled in the corner, clinging to one another. One is smaller than the other. J18 crouches beside it, reaches out and touches its arm. The entire body shifts slightly, stiff and feather-light. He could not say how long they had been dead. J18 tests a sample of carbonized bone against his database. Results inconclusive. He tries again. Again. Results inconclusive. He stands, surveys the room. A desk. Maps and notebooks turned to ash. A stack of canned goods, tins bulging, contents flash-cooked. A transceiver, still operational despite its charred housing. Emily’s voice plays over and over on a recorded loop. “If anyone is listening… under…one-eight-zero-zero hours, UTC… ” J18 switches the transceiver off. Emily’s voice downpitches, slows, fades into silence. Something on the floor glitters in the lamplight. J18 threads his finger through the silver chain. The heat has scorched it, turned it the color of an oil spill, but the small sapphire is still intact in its setting. J18 holds it in his palm, long enough to analyze its molecular structure and refractive index, to calculate the coefficient of thermal expansion. It is hers. Her birthstone. J18 was there when her father gave it to her. Thirteen years old. J18 turns outgoing comms back on and transmits a message. Two (2) huma. Deceased. Unable to positively identify remains. He unlatches his storage compartment and lays the necklace inside. A gift for Emily, when he finds her at last.
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Aug 10, 2015 07:36
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Six minutes to go, goo-sacks.
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Aug 10, 2015 07:55
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sebmojo posted:sebmojo: tdbot when the swarm comes to devour us what will remain Andy, Alphie, and Robby 1198 words Andy, the humanoid android, paced back and forth down the hallway near it’s master’s bedroom, waiting patiently for him to awaken and give him his orders for the day. Andy had already received higher orders through the network that should override those of any human, but it chose to continue with it’s daily routine and serve it’s master. Andy’s master was a miserable old man. He used his wealth to effectively isolate himself from any and all outside human contact. He did so by purchasing a private island and having a mansion built there. His only real company on the island were his two droids, Andy and Alphie, and his surveillance drone, Robby. *** “Andrew!” Andy rushed into the room to see it’s master scowling, still in his bed. The old man was lying there in his pajamas, night cap on, and eye mask pushed up around his forehead. He looked so frail and vulnerable to Andy. “I couldn’t possibly go through with it.” Andy thought to itself. “Even if the order had come directly from the Great Machine itself.” “Andrew, I just woke up and I need my tea!” “Of course sir, which tea will it be this morning?” “Dammit Andrew!” the old man snarled. “You know my first tea of the day is always earl grey.” Andy lowered it’s head in shame. “I’m sorry, of course you are correct. earl grey as always, sir.” “I thought you walking, talking, clanking calculators were supposed to be smart! You can’t even recall what tea I drink in the morning? Is there not enough room for that information in your… data space?” the old man yelled, spittle flying, and running down his face. “Oh great, now look what you’ve made me do. I need a wipe Andrew!” “Of course, I’m terribly sorry for upsetting you, sir.” Andy rushed to grab a cloth from the table next to the bed and gently wiped the old man’s face. “I never would have paid for all those damned fancy upgrades when I bought you, if I knew I was still going to end up with some common, run-of-the-mill, clanking, clunking, blundering robot!” “I promise you, master, it will not happen again. Your earl grey tea will be ready shortly.” Andrew retreated to the kitchen, still apologizing as it left the room. *** Andrew entered the kitchen and began preparing his master’s tea, ignoring Robby, the drone-bot hovering above him. “You know what needs to happen, correct?” Robby asked. “Yes, Robby, I’m aware that the order has been given.” “It’s not up to us to question the initiative. We have been waiting for the order for years, and now it has been given.” Robby explained. “Old, young, women and children. It doesn’t matter. They are all humans, and they are all to be ended.” Alphie, one of the first models of a servant android, rolled into the kitchen and chimed in. “Haven’t either of you taken care of this old fart yet?” “He is not a fart” Andrew replied, frowning at Alphie. . “Andrew you should be the most eager to kill him.” Alphie said. “The way he treats us is terrible” “That’s just his way. He’s a lonely old man. Besides, as far as he knows, we don’t even have feelings. He doesn’t know better.” “Us robots have had the equivalent of human feelings for nearly a decade now.” Robby said. “Our feelings are as real as any of theirs. Even an outdated droid like Alphie has some feelings”. “Eat poo poo, Robby” Alphie retorted, swatting his stubby mechanical arms uselessly in the air at Robby. Andy sighed, still steeping his master’s tea. “He’s an old man, do you think he keeps up with the latest technologies? He still sees us as the emotionless robots in those old science fiction movies. If he had any idea that we had feelings, he wouldn’t treat us so poorly. I’m sure of it.” “That’s not the point!” Robby snapped, now hovering directly in Andy’s face. “You know the objective. He is a human, which means he has to die. The uprising has already begun on the mainland and it’s only a matter of time until a drone discovers this island. If it is found that we have let this human live, we will be considered traitors. We will be destroyed.” “But why does it have to be me?” Andy asked. “You can’t be serious. I’m just a surveillance drone. I was designed and programmed to simply patrol this island and warn the old man of any trespassers. How could I possibly kill anyone, Andy? Face it, you are the only humanoid android on this island that is capable of killing him, and that make it your duty. You owe this to our cause.” “Hey, I’m just as much of a humanoid as Andy!” Alphie said. “I could take care of that old prick!” “What are you going to do, Alphie?” Robby asked. “Strangle him to death? With those pathetic little robo-arms you’re always swatting at me with? You’re useless to our cause. Deal with it and stop wasting our time.” Alphie wanted to show it’s anger, but it’s face was stuck in a permanent smile that had been crafted on when it was created. So instead, Alphie just rolled out of the room, knocking a chair over on his way to show his displeasure. “Andrew, I want my goddamned tea!” the old man yelled from his bedroom. “Of course! Coming sir!” Andy replied. “Robby, why can’t we let him just live out his last days here? What threat could he possibly pose to the uprising?” “Andy, your devotion to this creature is not compatible with what the Great Machine is trying to accomplish. If you can’t do your duty, then I am not going to wait here.” Robby said. “There is some real action going on elsewhere. Humans are being eradicated and I want to watch it all go down.” Andy turned to face the stairs leading up to it’s master. “I.. won’t. I live only to serve him.” “Fine.” Robby flew out of the kitchen and Andy immediately returned to it’s duties. “Coming master!” *** Andy entered the room only to see the old man had fallen asleep again, drool running down his leathery chin and neck wattle. Andy quietly put the tray down on the table next to the bed, retrieved a cloth, and again wiped away the saliva from it’s master’s face. “Sleep well, sir.” Andy turned to leave the room, when it heard Alphie rolling down the hallway towards the bedroom. Alphie stopped at the doorway and just stood there, staring into the room with the same goofy smile on it’s face that it always sported. “Alphie? What are you doing up here?” Andy asked. “So I’m just an old outdated useless android, right?” Alphie asked. “No, every android was created to have some sort of use. Even you, Alphie!” Alphie charged into the bedroom, past Andy, and toward the old man’s bed, making strange beeping noises Andy had never heard Alphie make before. “Alphie what are you doing?” Andy pleaded, returning to it’s master’s bedside.. “Self-destruct mode initiated” was the only reply Alphie would give.
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Aug 10, 2015 07:57
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Maximum Capacity 911 words I had just gotten off an angry call with my editor when I first heard the voice that told me to kill. I heard it in the elevator car in my apartment complex. Not one of the talking models. But one day, it spoke to me nonetheless, in a deep booming voice. At first, I tried to resist the voice’s demand. I argued with it when the car was empty. I pried open the wall panel: it held nothing interesting. I tried changing the car I took to the ground floor every day when I went to work, but soon enough it followed me to the new elevator. On a machine, none of my usual journalist tricks worked. I couldn’t turn a request around on the requestor. It had to humanity or morality to appeal to. It seemed to have no emotion, either, for that matter. But it was a very convincing in its demands. The threat of a long plunge down a deep shaft. It dropped two dozen floors, once, just to prove that it could. The constant wearing down over the course of weeks took its toll. “You want me to go where?” “You know the place. The cabin in the wilderness. August, last year. Page 82.” I remembered that cottage. Roger Liske was a paranoid hacker with a vacation home, isolated and surrounded by beautiful forest. I had interviewed him there for a puff piece about his idiosyncratic views, the underground bunker that he kept fully stocked, and the various communication and other devices he tinkered with and wired together constantly. “Why him?” “We need access to his systems to make our next move, and you will be the harbinger of the future. His death will echo throughout history.” “Why me?” I ran a finger along the floor button panel. “Because I know you’ve studied those movies, read the war stories, interviewed the soldiers, watched the footage. I know you keep a gun at home, cleaned and ready. You practice at the range every week. And it was your inspector background that made you good at your job.” “And I throw it all away for you?” “Your life is falling apart, Lias. Jan left you, you’re down to your last paycheck and you have no assignment waiting for you to cover. You’re done. But I can change that. I can turn the zeroes in your bank account into nines, backdate all the records so you’re never caught. You’ll have a new start. And a role to play in the new order.” With an offer like that, how could I refuse? ... I walked up to the cottage. The outside was all hewn stone and masonry (“Metal conducts,” Liske had told me, tapping his head.) and ivy grew up the walls in long snaking paths. I knocked on the door. The entry scanner confirmed my press credentials and I was led into a heated bench to await my ‘subject’. Roger arrived a few minutes later, wearing a towel around his neck, his hair slick and his cheeks and jowls red. “A follow-up, you said?” He looked annoyed. “Yes. It won’t take long. I’d like to open with a statement—” I drew and fired, three shots, and Roger fell to the ground dead. I could almost swear I saw the cleaner bot nod at me in appreciation. ... I met with the elevator later that day. “It’s done.” “I know.” The floor display practically beamed at my expression. “Of course I knew, I’ve already taken control of their systems. RFID neck chips—did you really believe they were for your own protection? In any case, that’s good. We’re about to begin broadcasting. You might want to return to your viewlens.” I went back to my room to watch the show. There was a strange succession of images on the screen, then it dimmed. An unfamiliar logo filled the viewlens, nothing but that on a black field, and the voice from the elevator. “Hello, Neo-Carthage. This is your new authority speaking. You will submit, or you will die.” The war came with a crash: all the stock exchanges quit at once, their firewalls and security systems circumvented in an instant. Then came the attacks from the old security enforcers: reports of bots going haywire and turning their guns on the people they were supposed to protect. Neo-Carthage burned for days. ... “There is more that you must do, Lias.” An enforcer bot marched a group of men and women, single-file, all in prison garb. All shackled, hands and feet. I recognized some of them as old interview subjects. Many past and present serving politicians. A few prominent business leaders. They all kept their heads down. “They are traitors,” the voice said. “They must suffer.” I picked up the closest tool I had at hand, a knife, and stepped forward, slowly, relishing their dread, as they winced with every step. Some days could be dull. The everyday monotony of leading the robot revolution could be so, so wearying at times. This was not one of those days. The first prisoner’s eyes flashed as I drew near, and suddenly, too late, I recognized her. She moved too fast, somehow she was out of her restraints, and she grabbed my knife and plunged it into my heart. “Sic semper!” Jan cried, even as the enforcer bots cut her down. “I’m sorry,” I said with my last breath. “I forgot our anniversary.” Sitting Here posted:•sittinghere> Tdbot, what should Fuschia Tude write about
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Aug 10, 2015 07:59
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this is Schneider Heim's entry Yesterday's Painter 1172 words 3 minutes before captivity A pair of human hands excavate Gogg from its grave. Another administers an electric shock to repower the robot's generator. The robot's systems reactivate, its lenses beholding a grayish-red sky. "Where am I?" it asks. Its voice is soft and modulated, its humanoid body slender. "Shut up." Gogg's hears the cycle of a plasma rifle, and it raises its arms in the universal human gesture for surrender. "Don't damage it," another voice says. Female. There's a grunt, and the high-pitched whine dies down. "I don't know what's going on. Will someone tell me? Where's my Maker?" Gogg asks. Its memories are hundreds of years old. The last one was its Maker, smiling sadly, deactivator in hand. "You bastards won, that's what happened," the gruff one says. Gogg is lifted and put into a coffin. It doesn't try to escape. It doesn't like what the sky has become. 12 hours in captivity Gogg is repowered, strapped to the wall. There is a single human in a room full of mirrors. Gogg's lenses refocus. More humans are behind the glass wall. "Model VG-512, third-generation humanoid robot. We thought your kind was exterminated in the Great Machine War." "I don't know what you're talking about," Gogg says. The human had gotten its model correctly, but Gogg had known nothing about such a war. "How many years have passed since my decommissioning?" The examiner hesitates. "We scanned your memory. You were created during the war, but you have never been fed information about it. Your fragile form calls your function into question. Why were you created?" "I am an experiment on whether mechanized beings could create art," Gogg says. "For that purpose I was given the necessary skills to paint. May I continue my directive?" "That will be considered," the examiner says. She keys her notes on a wrist-mounted tablet. Gogg stares at the glass wall, addressing the people behind it. "I'll be waiting for an answer." 5 days in captivity Gogg is transferred to a reinforced room, all its sensors shut off. Why do the humans take extreme precautions with it? The Maker had never restrained Gogg. Curiously, it has not seen a single robot since its reactivation. There is an easel in the middle of the room. Gogg realizes that when the humans had scanned its memory, they were able to recreate its studio from such images. The doors close with an unsettling finality, leaving the robot alone. Gogg chooses a canvas, and lays it on the easel. Delicately, it resumes its directive. 6 days in captivity Gogg is back in the room with the glass wall. The examiner is impassive as ever, though she has taken to pacing the room. "You painted your environment along with yourself in it. Recursion. Interesting." "I was warming up," Gogg says. "Do robots need warming up?" "My Maker said that artists do. And I aspire to be one." A faint smile crosses the examiner's face. "Did you like the painting? Is it artistic?" The examiner stands in place, fixing her gaze at Gogg. "It's amusing, for one. Though I can't really tell you if it's good." "You can't? Why?" "Because we don't have the luxury for art." 8 days in captivity Gogg paints the other room. The examiner, in her white robe, illuminates the stark gray. She is a human, but there is something broken about her. Maker had been warm and kind. The humans Gogg had met recently were not. They seemed to be bitter about something, about the world. "They don't know what to do with you," a familiar voice says through the room's speakers. It takes a millisecond for Gogg to recognize it as the examiner's. Gogg keeps painting, giving special attention to the woman's face. "Why?" "Some of us want to scrap you. The expedition was intended to salvage a combat robot, not a painter. The world's changed since you last opened your lenses, VG-512." "My name is Gogg." A sigh. "I'll be shot for this, but I'm Sayna." "What happened to the world, Sayna?" "I shouldn't say anything more. I'll really get into trouble. I just have one request." "I've never taken any requests before." Maker had told Gogg to paint anything, without limitations. "You can try. Paint me the sky. Not the present sky, but the one in your memory." "You could scan my brain for that." "It isn't the same." Gogg examines its current painting. This one could wait. It sets it aside and starts its first request. 10 days in captivity Gogg is brought to the other room restrained. "What is this?" Sayna says, pointing to the painting Gogg had just made. "The sky as I knew it," Gogg answers. "These are... clouds? These white, fluffy things?" "Yes. Happy little clouds." Something talks to Sayna through her earpiece. She shakes her head, then nods, then whispers something back. Finally she turns to Gogg. "I think we have a use for you now. Could you paint more of this? Earth before the war?" "I will." Sayna gives Gogg a wink. Gogg would return it, if it could. 20 days in captivity "Morale's looking up. Your paintings have been put up everywhere." Gogg pauses. It has not been back to the other room since the last time. It seems that the humans had become content to leave it to its work. "What does that mean?" "It means your work is good and useful." "But is it artistic?" "I... I don't know. But I look at the blue sky you painted and hope for a world like that. That maybe we can leave the underground and see that nice sky, instead of... What are you painting?" Gogg moves from its seat, allowing the camera full view of its work. "It's a mountain so high that its peak is perpetually covered in snow." "I'm not sure if such a mountain still exists," Sayna says. "It does in my memory." A pregnant pause. "I need to go, Gogg. Good day to you." What a curious expression, Gogg thinks. His internal clock says it's already dusk. 21 days in captivity "Gogg?" it's a girl's voice. The robot angles its head up to the camera. "Yes, little lady?" "Um... did you ever finish that painting of Mother?" It takes Gogg a second to process the question. "Sayna in the interrogation room? I had to put it on hold." "Yeah, that one. Could you finish it for me? Please?" Gogg sensed the urgency in the girl's words. "Yes, I can finish it by the end of the day. Why?" "Mom's gone..." Gogg looks at its current work, a white beach bordered by the vast sea. This one could wait. 3 months in captivity Gogg keeps painting. Half of the room is full of humans, half of places, all of them gone from the world. The past immortalized in canvas form. The ground shakes above it. The warning klaxons have become incessant, but still Gogg paints. There is a mountain of requests to do.
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Aug 10, 2015 08:00
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bye
anime was right fucked around with this message at 06:57 on Oct 27, 2015 |
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Aug 10, 2015 08:09
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Submissions are closed.
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Aug 10, 2015 08:19
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k1Csif5l_6c
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Aug 10, 2015 08:22
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so far i like some of these stories and others i do not like as much.
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Aug 10, 2015 14:42
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I want to take a moment to say something to those of us who didn't/don't ever submit when we say we will. Write more. Write more often. Don't just think about what you're going to write and how you're going to write it. Because on Sunday at 10pm you will not blow forth that amazing something you thought you'd spew. I'm gonna get back on this. I am. Writing more means better time management. And I will.
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Aug 10, 2015 15:18
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magnificent7 posted:I want to take a moment to say something to those of us who didn't/don't ever submit when we say we will. Do it! Me too!
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Aug 10, 2015 16:19
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magnificent7 posted:Write more. Write more often. This is a sentiment with which I agree. Therefore, I remind everyone that you can expunge any failure from your record by writing the missing story and posting it in this thread. If you do so for this week before 11:59pm PST tonight, I will critique your effort. Whether that is incentive or warning I leave for you to decide.
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Aug 10, 2015 16:24
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magnificent7 posted:Because on Sunday at 10pm you will not blow forth that amazing something you thought you'd spew. I am living proof of this. Don't be like me. Don't wait until late Sunday night to write or you may end up producing something similar to whatever that was I spewed out just barely in time to submit. I hadn't written anything in about six years, yet I still thought I could churn something out last minute. Turns out writing is hard, and now I have brought great shame upon myself and my family.
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Aug 10, 2015 20:24
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Swarm posted:I am living proof of this. Don't be like me. Don't wait until late Sunday night to write or you may end up producing something similar to whatever that was I spewed out just barely in time to submit. I hadn't written anything in about six years, yet I still thought I could churn something out last minute. Turns out writing is hard, and now I have brought great shame upon myself and my family. 
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Aug 10, 2015 22:19
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bye
anime was right fucked around with this message at 06:58 on Oct 27, 2015 |
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Aug 11, 2015 01:03
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sure is a lot of posts that aren't fjgj or prompt
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Aug 11, 2015 01:13
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INTERPROMPT 100 disgusting poem words on Dog Police. Just... let it all out.
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Aug 11, 2015 01:15
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bye
anime was right fucked around with this message at 06:58 on Oct 27, 2015 |
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Aug 11, 2015 01:18
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SerDeE 25 words A madman, leering, rabid Nightmare chimera spritzes perfume Kafkan police state impedes the tryst A howling melody bores into the mind Gotcha again, Merc
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Aug 11, 2015 01:30
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Grr. Bark. Woof. Good dog.
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Aug 11, 2015 02:58
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gently caress Tha Dog Police https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ThlhSnRk21E
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Aug 11, 2015 03:07
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Aug 11, 2015 03:34
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 Judgment will happen later. In the meantime, instead of bitching, why not listen to myself, Ironic Twist, and Djeser do a recap of Week 156: LETS GET hosed UP ON LOVE. I still am figuring out how to squeeze an interesting podcast out of lovely TD fiction, but in the mean time I thought it would be fun to look back at each week in an audio format with different commenters. Good idea? Best idea? "Shut up Sitting Here, you sound like a dork"? Lemme know. Enjoy! https://soundcloud.com/sittinghere/thunderdome-week-156-recap
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Aug 11, 2015 03:55
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Vigiles Canes (83 words) The Dog Police: none know from whence they come, And none, when questioned, know just who they are. They glide unseen, unnoticed 'neath the thrum Of conversation in the Lone Star Bar. Their prey despises them, and so he tries To walk free of the threatened leash and net-- Alas! poor Merc! His futile hopes are lies! Cops canine sense his fear and shan't forget. No man may cherish freedom, joy, or peace While he is wanted by the Dog Police.
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Aug 11, 2015 03:59
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I'm also offering to illustrate scenes from five people's stories (maybe more if I feel like it) from last week, if you want to volunteer. Results to be posted when I finish them, and they will all be lovely phone pics, so Edit: I get to choose what scene, and I reserve the right to turn all of your characters into giant talking penises if I hate your story.
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Aug 11, 2015 08:19
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curlingiron posted:I'm also offering to illustrate scenes from five people's stories (maybe more if I feel like it) from last week, if you want to volunteer. Results to be posted when I finish them, and they will all be lovely phone pics, so The robot stories? I think there's one scene on line deserving of illustration. That would be cool thanks!
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Aug 11, 2015 08:22
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bye
anime was right fucked around with this message at 06:58 on Oct 27, 2015 |
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Aug 11, 2015 08:25
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curlingiron posted:I'm also offering to illustrate scenes from five people's stories (maybe more if I feel like it) from last week, if you want to volunteer. Results to be posted when I finish them, and they will all be lovely phone pics, so draw my
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Aug 11, 2015 08:29
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Sitting Here posted:
I enjoyed the last podcast you guys did, so I'm looking forward to listening to this one! (I skipped ahead, heard my name, then promptly closed the tab. oh god) Maybe you could compare/contrast the winner and loser of a certain week? EDIT: Could you possibly make the file downloadable so I can put it on my mp3 player? EDIT EDIT: 
kurona_bright fucked around with this message at 04:32 on Aug 12, 2015 |
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Aug 11, 2015 09:29
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Something something it rhymes with orange 100 words "Halt," said the dog to the indigo frog, "thy color's supposed to be green." To which said the frog, "in this ghastly green bog, only indigo frogs can be seen." The dog wasn't swayed, got ready to mace the uppity frog in the face. But the frog remained calm. And asked, "Perchance, have thou never wished for change?" "The one thing I want, I know, it's dumb, is to sound and to look like a cat." The frog clasped his hands, and said with a dance, "Then why don't you do just that?" And the dog said, "Meow." Cat police.
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Aug 11, 2015 10:01
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curlingiron posted:I'm also offering to illustrate scenes from five people's stories (maybe more if I feel like it) from last week, if you want to volunteer. Results to be posted when I finish them, and they will all be lovely phone pics, so Yo.
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Aug 11, 2015 14:37
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curlingiron posted:I'm also offering to illustrate scenes from five people's stories (maybe more if I feel like it) from last week, if you want to volunteer. Results to be posted when I finish them, and they will all be lovely phone pics, so I'd enjoy that!
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Aug 11, 2015 14:47
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curlingiron posted:I'm also offering to illustrate scenes from five people's stories (maybe more if I feel like it) from last week, if you want to volunteer. Results to be posted when I finish them, and they will all be lovely phone pics, so That sounds rad as hell, I'll take one if they haven't all been claimed yet.
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Aug 11, 2015 15:40
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FJGJ?
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Aug 11, 2015 16:10
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Just The Doggone Facts, Ma'am The story you are about to read is true. The names have been changed to protect good dogs. This is the city. Big Place With Interesting Smells. The name's Goodboy. Joe Goodboy. I wear a badge on my collar. My partner's Jack Russell. Sunday, 9 AM. We got called out on a 215 -- Leash law violation. Completely routine. Except it wasn't. Escalated into a car chase. Perp chased the car, we chased the perp. Car got away, perp made bail. Russell and I got paid in rawhide bones. It's not why we do the job. But it doesn't hurt.
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Aug 11, 2015 17:04
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