Engines of Empathy (Drakeforth Series Book 1) Page 2
We stopped in front of a crystal lattice mounted in a steel and glass box. White sparks swirled in its core and a pulsing rainbow surged ceaselessly across the visible spectrum. Mulligrubs unbolted the front of the frame and his next words were drowned out by a discordant clatter. I shrugged helplessly at him.
‘A Godden Model Seven empathy engine!’ he shouted.
‘It’s beautiful!’ I bawled back, and I meant it. Modern empathy technology is designed for small devices. Seeing an antique display like this was rare.
Mulligrubs merely grunted and reached in to slide back a service panel on the base of the crystal matrix. The rattle immediately became louder. I watched the colours swirling and felt the gentle warmth emanating from the engine. I thought about the energy flowing from this core up through the pipes into every office, computer and appliance in the building.
Mulligrubs selected a wrench from his tool belt and slid his arm into the cavity below the service panel, working by touch. He looked at me. ‘They don’t tell the pool this, but engines die.’
I had never heard this admitted before. Of course it was technically possible, but in over one hundred years no engine had ever officially died. They broke down, or malfunctioned. Death seemed oddly final. The discordant noise eased and then stopped entirely as he worked.
‘Die?’ I asked, my voice suddenly loud in the stillness.
‘Yup, we are only just starting to see it. This old man is the second one of these I’ve been to this month. The last one was a Godden Model Six, running a cine-plex over in Tytal. By the time we got there the whole thing had shut down. A lot of unhappy sense-media patrons. They didn’t appreciate having their virtual reality experience disrupted.’
‘Sounds awful,’ I offered. ‘The neurological effects of being dropped out of a sensie could be quite devastating.’
Milligrubs nodded again. ‘It’s not something the company likes to talk about. An e-engine dying suggests that they are alive in the full sense.’
Life in the full sense. The idea of ‘degrees of life’ was common terminology and legally accepted. Twenty years ago a landmark case went before the courts where a woman’s application for a marriage license was denied due to the ruling that the groom, her refrigeration unit, had a ‘limited degree of life’. It had always struck me as odd that a court case had been needed to point out the obvious. Even the most sophisticated empathic devices were not considered alive. Even super-computers like KLOE, which was rumoured to have artificial intelligence, were an entirely different jar of jam.
‘Empathy engines aren’t alive, everyone knows that.’ I wanted to finish with a scoff, but Mulligrubs turned his head and looked at me in a way that dried that right up.
‘Really?’ he said. ‘You felt what anyone else would tell you was a pulse of empathic energy brought on by a surge in double-e flux, the empathic radiation that can cause an emotional response.’
I nodded. That was what I had always understood.
‘Bat-n-balls,’ the technician swore. ‘You connected with a living sentience.’
I shrugged. The idea of an empathy engine developing a sentience beyond the limit of its function was as ridiculous as the idea of ghosts in a haunted house.
‘Most folks wouldn’t have picked up on it.’ Mulligrubs fixed me with a steely gaze as his arm worked on some unseen component deep in the engine. ‘You ever had your empathy tested?’
‘I – well, you know. Not beyond the minimum required.’ I had of course undergone the training and measurement required for any customer services graduate. Such testing and grading enabled employers to ensure staff were assigned appropriately within the organisation.
‘What do you do for a career, Miss—?’
‘Pudding, Charlotte Pudding. I’m a computer psychologist. I programme computers to ensure optimum service environments and counsel users on inter-technology relations empowerment.’
‘You should get yourself fully assessed, Miss Pudding.’ Mulligrubs straightened up, withdrawing his arm from the rainbow matrix. Closing the service panel, he gave the outer casing a gentle pat and then pressed a business card into my hand.
‘Give this outfit a call. They do good testing. As for this old fellow, they should just let him go. He’s done enough.’ He replaced the steel and glass framed panel and bolted it into position. I stared at the swirling colours, not quite ready to walk away.
‘Mister Mulligrubs, we have a 12-7 over on Baleen.’ I jumped as the younger technician emerged into the engine bay from behind us.
‘Let’s go.’ Mulligrubs slipped the wrench into his utility belt. They escorted me back to the lift, which delivered them to the main exit and me to the fourth floor without incident. Only the presence of other passengers in the elevator car prevented me from saying ‘thank you’ to the lift when it stopped smoothly.
*
My job is pretty straightforward. Eight hours a day of assessing and diagnosing computer faults. It’s mostly simple stuff: users failing to connect at an ideal level of empathy to coerce optimal function, burnt-out memory chips, that kind of thing.
I sat at my desk and focused on thinking pleasant thoughts at the box in front of me. Logging in always took a while. The company’s computer system, like the building’s power source, was in need of an upgrade. I checked my messages, which mostly consisted of forwarded photographs of goldfish with amusing captions. Funny goldfish were one of those intermesh fads that, much like mouldy Yak’s Rennet cheese, had lost any novelty value and now only survived in the hands of the truly trend illiterate.
My schedule had me taking inbound phone calls for the morning. I connected to the phone queue and was rewarded with the beep and click of a live connection.
‘E-Tech Services Customer Support, you’re speaking with Charlotte. How can I help you?’
‘I need to know when she will be well again,’ a tremulous male voice said down the line.
‘When who will be well again, sir?’
‘Josephine,’ he replied.
‘Josephine?’
‘My Zycos P39 R3.’
‘Oh.’ Understanding dawned. ‘Do you have a job code or customer number?’
‘It’s Rail Footslap. With an “R”. They gave me a number. 836-J098.’
I tapped the details into the system. Footslap, R. His home computer was an E-Tech model Zycos, with a P39 empathy chip. I scanned over the case notes. The prognosis wasn’t good.
‘Mr Footslap, what did they tell you about Josephine at the branch office?’
‘They said she would be fine. I hear her at night. I wake up and I can hear her crying.’
I mentally glared at the technicians in the branch offices who deal with customers face to face. Smiling and saying everything will be fine is part of their standard customer interaction protocol. Once, during my induction training, I saw one of these people tell a woman with a cardboard carton containing the scorched remains of her exploded television that of course it could be repaired, and everything would be fine.
I took a breath and adjusted my tone. ‘Rail, I know this is a difficult time for you, but there are options available. We have a new range of Zycos systems, the P43 chips are faster, integrate better with existing home networks and—’
‘You’re telling me Josephine is dead!?’ Footslap wailed down the phone.
‘No, Rail, Josephine is not dead. She’s just in need of a rest. The demands of modern PAPPS put too much strain on older systems. It’s time to let her go on … a vacation, of sorts.’
A key skill in successful computer psychology counselling is to use various vocal techniques to manipulate callers into accepting the upgrades we are selling (with an affordable extended warranty) and achieve an optimal outcome for client and the company. By the time Rail Footslap hung up he had a new computer system on its way and a note on his file that a follow-up call would be required in a suspected case of Anthropomorphic Dissonance Syndrome, symptomised by over-attachment to an empathically powered device.
The morning passed at its usual glacial pace. Resolving technical issues over the phone to someone who can’t tell the difference between a monitor and a keyboard is a challenge comparable to conducting open-heart surgery using only a Pez dispenser while blindfolded and wearing welding gauntlets.
Then the headphone beeped in my ear. ‘E-Tech Services Customer Support, you’re speaking with Charlotte. How can I help you?’
‘Slavery,’ a voice whispered down the phone in a way that made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Every empathic device is powered by slavery.’
Oh, I thought. One of those people.
‘Sir, E-Tech Services operates within regulations. All our empathic energy is certified and numerous studies have proven that any device powered by double-e flux is neither sentient nor self-aware.’ I knew I sounded like I was reading this from a prepared script. Which I was. The number of weirdo calls like this was low, but we were instructed to never engage with people on a personal level on the topic of appliance sentience.
‘Those studies are a sham! They don’t want the pool to know what it is that powers our world!’
‘Sir, what people perceive as sentience is simply a natural phenomenon. The way we interact with double-e flux creates an empathic resonance. Which is why we say, stay positive and your appliances will too.’
My mind drifted as I talked. The list of challenges to my own ability to stay positive seemed to be growing every day. Maybe that was why my toaster had snapped and my car was in need of expensive servicing.
‘They are lying to us all,’ the man was spitting down the phone, ‘The truth can’t stay hidden forever. I speak for the machines and they cry out for justice!’
‘Sir,’ I said applying Frimms Non-Militant Condescension technique to my breathing to give enhanced emphasis to my speech. ‘You are mistaken. We—’
‘I beg your pardon,’ the caller interrupted. ‘But I won’t have you using your Callous-ethics brainpolishing techniques on me.’
I felt a start of guilt. Usually I can use vocal control to direct a conversation without the other person being aware of it.
He continued, ‘I have a tract here written by Saint Abderian that clearly sta—’
‘I understand you may believe what you are reading, sir, but the writings of Saint Abderian are frankly laughable.’ I added a cynical giggle to demonstrate. The line went dead.
*
I slipped out of the office during my lunch break. It always felt easier to run errands than to sit with my colleagues and try to navigate the confusing waters of social chit-chat.
I took my bag, toaster lying in state within, down to Lovely Appliances, the appliance superstore on Fender Avenue. Fridges and washing machines burbled cheerfully as I passed them. When I walked along a wall of big screen TVs they all came on in sequence and asked what I would like to watch. I hurried on and found a sales clerk gently polishing a tea-maker display.
‘Excuse me, I wonder if you can help me with something?’
‘Sure thing.’ He straightened up, his gaze stroking my chest. His name badge said ‘Hi I’m Bowmont How Can I Make Your Day Great?’
I set the bag on a display cabinet of remote controls that would sing when lost. ‘It’s my toaster. It’s started growling when I toast certain things, then it eats them.’
‘Them?’ Bowmont said carefully.
‘Yes. The toasted items. But only wholegrain bread.’
‘Growls, does it? And chews on the toast?’
‘Well, I don’t know if it chews on the toast, but it certainly doesn’t like to give it back.’
Bowmont drummed the fingernails of his left hand on the cabinet top. Each nail bore a tattooed letter. C-tap-A-tap-R-tap-B-tap-O-tap-N.
‘Got your receipt?’ he asked. The professional empathic interaction facilitator in me admired his style; the casual inflection and non-committal air to his pitch and vocal cadence. This guy would not switch on until he felt I might buy something.
‘Certainly.’ I handed the receipt over. Bowmont looked it over with the keen analysis of a winning lottery ticket holder. He took a deep breath. ‘Time for an upgrade.’
There it was, the switch from the bored disconnection of Callousthetics to Salamander’s Introductory Sales Pose.
‘Only if you can confirm that the purchase price of this toaster will be deducted from the cost of a replacement. I believe it is still under warranty.’
Bowmont’s eyes gleamed, I kept my face still. The trick to countering Salamander is to remain unemotional.
‘According to this receipt the warranty expired last month. We could give you a great discount.’ He tried to slip a Pylian Juncture into the phrasing of ‘great’, a technique said to have originated in the Arthurian monasteries of Kishkalia, where monks used it to convert peasants to Arthurianism hundreds of years ago. Bowmont didn’t quite have it down yet.
‘Fantastic. A discount of the full purchase price of my new toaster and warranty cover on the old one would be great.’ That, I thought viciously, is how you deliver a Pylian Juncture in a dialogue.
Bowmont blinked, and took the old toaster and my credit stick away without further comment. I waited while he spoke with a woman who seemed to be his manager. I waited until Bowmont returned with a freshly boxed new toaster, a fresh receipt, and my untouched credit stick.
‘Thank you for shopping with Lovely Appliances,’ he said.
Navigating the ebb and flow of pedestrians I made my way back to the Python building. Newer, more efficient buildings crammed the horizon, and they towered over the elderly Python. Dodging the cars that purred like a clowder of cats at each intersection, I got back to work in time to get logged in and ready to take calls for the afternoon.
*
When I got home that evening I checked my messages. The conversation between my machine and the only caller of the day replayed as I discussed a potential evening menu with my fridge.
‘No, she has just left,’ the answering machine repeated. ‘Would you care to leave a message?’
‘Miss Pudding, it’s Doctor Hydrangea calling. Could you give me a call regarding your latest test results?’
I closed the fridge and rested my head against the cool metal door while its artificial voice warned me that I was out of milk.
Chapter 2
The next day was Saturday, so I stayed home with the new toaster, which performed without fuss. The fridge expressed concern about my lack of commitment on the milk issue. I responded by switching off the reminder function and going into my office under the stairs.
I sat at the old roll-top desk amid the familiar clutter and thought about the Python building. Technician Mulligrubs’ words weighed heavily on my mind. The Godden Energy Corporation provided empathic energy. No one knew precisely how they made it. Like electricity and solar energy, it was just a natural phenomenon. Positive emotions improved empathic engine function, and the interface between user and machine could be enhanced by empathic training. For all that, the suggestion that there might be an actual living sentience in the Python building did not sit well with me. Worse, the idea of a building dying seemed … melodramatic. My toaster hadn’t died. It had just developed some sort of raging psychosis.
If only I could be replaced as conveniently as my toaster. Life and death would be so much easier that way. My experience with funerals was limited to making the arrangements after my parents’ passing. I felt bad that part of my grieving process had been the seething irritation of having to deal with distant relatives and my parents’ friends.
By comparison, being the deceased at a funeral seemed a lot easier: far less kerfuffle, and strangers wouldn’t be inclined to hug you constantly.
My own funeral would be a quiet affair. I had no living family except my brother, Ascott, and I hadn’t seen him since our parents’ funeral – just a single postcard from the Aardvark Archipelago, where he had gone to look at the fish.
Even with my half share of our small inheritance, the house belonged more to the bank than it did to me and anyone with a college degree similar to mine could step into my job with minimal training.
Sitting in my home office I thought about what Doctor Hydrangea would say if I called him back. I imagined his words would be sincere, practical and terminally depressing. Medical terms like inevitable decay of motor neurons sounded much nicer than being told you were sick and going to die. Your mind as sharp as ever while your physical body withered into a prison.
I consciously turned my thoughts to wondering what would happen when I died – sooner rather than later, if my automatic analysis of Doctor H’s phone message told me anything.
My greatest concern fell to the state of my home office. Aside from the drying bunches of computer circuitry suspended from the ceiling, there were racks of disconnected motherboards and fatherboards, all lying dormant on the shelves. After my death they would be packaged up and probably recycled. But what about the more personal items, like my desk?
I shuffled some papers about. Like my thoughts, the various sheets lacked a clear purpose or motivation. If I passed away and someone found this collection of doodles, jotted Haiku and random musings, I would die of embarrassment.
I swept the lot into a box and took them out the back door to the narrow alleyway where recycling bins clustered with an air of nonchalant bravado. I lifted the nearest lid and dumped the box’s contents inside.
‘Terracouth Drakeforths!’ The ranting man from the bus stop sprang up from the bin.
My discarded papers slid from Drakeforth in an A4 avalanche as he stared at me with wild eyes. I staggered back, mute with shock. He looked like a deranged jack-in-the-box, a toy my grandfather claimed he owned as a child. Of course such horrors were now banned under international law preventing children’s toys capable of causing psychological harm.
‘What? What the bingo are you doing in there, Mister Drakeforth?!’ I managed.
‘Research, Miss Pudding,’ he announced. Then he cast his eyes up and down the deserted alleyway. ‘Agents of Godden are everywhere,’ he muttered, and waggled his eyebrows in a complex motion.