Fiction Friday (4) - Tool

Tool

by Olivia Hofer

Note: A recent piece of flash fiction. I'm not entirely happy with the ending, and I wonder if perhaps the message is too on the nose.

Robert stared at the tool and scowled. He lifted his taser, ready to take it down. The tool looked up and stared back at him with wide human eyes. Fear darkened its blue irises.

It narrowed its eyes and focused on the taser, lifting strong metallic arms. “I’m not armed.” The voice was human, just like its eyes.

“Keep your hands where I can see them.” Robert spat. “Kneel.”

I’m not armed. The audacity. Robert spat again. The entire thing was a weapon.

“My brain is human,” the tool whispered. “I’m Brad.”

Robert huffed in reply. A human head screwed onto a wired, metallic body wearing a suit made of artificial skin didn’t make a tool a Brad. Granted, a human brain was better than an artificial one. At least Robert thought so.

The law was clear on this subject as well, but the judges were divided.

When was a human no longer a human? And how much of the original human had to remain to still be considered human?

Cases like Brad bounced from court to court.

But for now, human rights applied to all human brains.

Robert scoffed. That he disagreed with. The thing in front of him was a tool. Artificial spine and limbs. A body that survived without water, without food. Tools were unnaturally strong, unnaturally quick. They’d win every fight, every war. They couldn’t be allowed to roam the city—couldn’t be allowed to exist.

Not if Robert wanted his family to be safe.

“Are you police?” the tool asked.

Robert’s nostrils flared.

“Special ops? I have ID.”

Sniffing the air, Robert sneered. No sweat. He liked the stench of fear. Humans stank. Tools smelled of oil and metal, sometimes of burnt plastic.

Its knees creaked as it shifted, looking up at Robert. “Please. I have a family. Children. Human children.”

Robert blinked, lowered his taser. “You do?”

He’d joined the Anti-Tool Coalition a couple of weeks ago. An underground organisation with one aim only: step in where the law had failed.

A tool had attacked Robert’s wife, grabbed her handbag and run off. He’d been too fast for her, too fast even for the cameras. “He was a blur,” his wife had told police, and they’d said they’d check out every registered tool living nearby. But Robert knew what that meant…

Police didn’t have the manpower to tackle robberies, not when nobody was hurt.

“Two daughters,” the tool whispered. Its skinsuit was ripped on the back of its right hand, revealing wires instead of ligaments.

Robert cleared his throat. “How?”

“I wasn’t born like this, you know.” The tool sat back, hands behind its head. “You must know that most of us…” It fell silent, bit its lip like a human would, studying Robert with blue eyes. “Look at my phone. It’s in the left pocket of my jacket.”

Frowning, Robert raised his taser. He took a small step towards the tool.

You’re angry, aren’t you, Bob? Pete had asked after the robbery. Pete was a scrawny man with thin and oily hair who wore small, round glasses. They rarely spoke, but that week Pete introduced him to the Anti-Tool Coalition.

Never believe a tool. They lie. And before you know it, they’ll trick you. Never engage with a tool. Never speak to a tool. Protect yourself.

“Don’t move.” Robert pressed the taser against the tool’s chest and fumbled for its phone with his free hand. Taking three steps back, he tapped the screen. The smile of two girls greeted him. “Are these your daughters?”

The tool nodded. “Sarah and Anne. Sarah is six. She doesn’t remember…she doesn’t remember me before the accident, but Anne is nine. She complains that my knees are too hard to sit on.”

A smile tugged at Robert’s mouth. “Accident?”

And before you know it, they’ll trick you.

He pursed his lips and gripped the taser more tightly. “Actually, I don’t—”

“Army. Five years ago. Venezuela. My car went over a landmine.” The tool spoke quickly as though realising that Robert was about to cut him off.

“You were in the army?”

“Ten years. They paid for this.” It gestured towards its body with its chin.

“They don’t pay for upkeep?” Robert asked, pointing at the ripped skinsuit.

“It’s a one-off. I had to choose between a widow pension for my wife or a new body for me.” Brad lowered his eyes. “I’d asked for the pension, but my wife begged for them to bring me back.” Brad wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “What use am I to her like this? But I couldn’t…couldn’t let her down.”

Never speak to a tool.

Robert narrowed his eyes. “I was told there’d be an illegal trade tonight. Why are you here, Brad?”

“My knee joint is wearing out. I work as a delivery drone, but now that I’m slowing down, they’ll let me go. I was going to buy a new one.”

“On the black market…”

Brad nodded.

And before you know it, they’ll trick you.

Pete had introduced him to the director of the local Anti-Tool Coalition. They weren’t strictly legal, but the director, Thomas, a big burly man, shoulders and chest as wide as Robert’s wardrobe had shaken Robert’s hand firmly. “Welcome, welcome,” he’d said. “Pete told me about your wife. The government is dropping the ball on this issue. Soon, us natural humans will be the minority. And there’s no way to defend ourselves.” He’d not let go of Robert’s arm, and Robert had worried Thomas might pull it from its socket. “They’ll take our jobs, our women. They’ll take the country, and before we know it, we’ll be discarded. They’ll claim they’re better than us. But they’re not. They’re tools. Not human.”

Tools. Robert hadn’t heard the term before, but he’d liked it. A tool was something useful. Something that could be controlled, used, destroyed.

A tool wasn’t scary.

And a tool wasn’t human.

A tool could be thrown in the trash.

“Are you part of the Anti-Tool Coalition?” Brad asked.

Robert nodded.

“What happened?”

“My wife was robbed by…” Robert’s voice trailed off, and he shrugged.

“Natural humans are known to rob,” Brad whispered.

Don’t talk to them. Use your taser. Wait for the police. Say you’ve felt unsafe. They will let you go. They won’t look too deeply into the death of a tool. Police these days don’t have the manpower, and most don’t care.

“The news—”

“Have found a new culprit. I know. Look, it’s tough for us, and I get that we’re scary. Hell, I’d be scared, too.” Brad slowly stood, his hands in the air, palms facing Robert. “I just want to go home to my daughters.”

Robert nodded. He lowered the taser and before he could say anything else, the man in front of him turned into a blur. A small woosh, wind tousling his hair, then Brad was gone.

Robert grimaced, looked at the taser in his hands.

And before you know it, they’ll trick you.

But Robert wasn’t sure it was Brad who had tricked him.

He turned to leave, dropping the taser. A clatter echoed off the walls as he walked away.

Robert didn’t look back.

Fiction Friday (3) - One Last Meal

One Last Meal

by Olivia Hofer

Note: A small piece. An idea I've been meaning to explore but haven't yet.

I stare at the display before me and rub my hands on my orange trousers. Dark patches stain them along the seam. My heartbeat echoes in my ears. I swallow a painful lump.

I’d woken up for the last time.

I’d gone to bed for the last time.

How much had I already done for the last time without noticing? They really ought to warn you about this sort of thing.

“Make your choice, inmate.” The guard scowls at me.

Back when times were simpler, we’d be able to request one last meal. Bacon, eggs, maybe some pulled pork, or a steak topped with garlic butter. Those times are in the past, though.

We still get one last meal, of course, but it’s a virtual one—our physical bodies cross into the afterlife with grumbling, empty stomachs. Much cheaper for the government, and, they'd concluded, not a violation of human rights because we aren’t actually aware of it.

Our minds are plugged into the perfect last day. We get to choose a time, a place, and who we wish to take along.

One last day filled with wonder and joy before it’s all over.

Death is painless. No syringe, no deadly cocktail, no electric shocks. We are simply terminated while our minds are distracted, having a good time. Definitely preferable to facing the mother of the man I killed while I die.

Would it make her feel better to watch me squirm in a chair? Would seeing the terror and regret in my eyes soothe her pain? I doubt it.

I shift, scroll, squint.

What do I want to do with my final hours? Be an astronaut and fly a spaceship? Ride a unicorn? Join a band of dwarves and slay a dragon?

I trace the covers of the virtual realities available to my prison. They own a surprisingly varied selection. I could climb Mount Everest or dive to the bottom of the ocean. I could visit Paris or Hong Kong.

I could do so much more than my old life ever offered.

The guard smacks the back of my head, and I flinch. “I’m not missing my coffee break for you, asshole.”

I keep it simple and tap the screen, selecting a restaurant with a cow logo before picking my family as companions.

One last meal in the company of my loved ones. Steak topped with garlic butter.

Slaying dragons will have to wait for another life.

Fiction Friday (2) - Creaky

Note: This is a silly piece written for practice.

Creaky

by Olivia Hofer

Jay heard the creature before she spotted it.

It creaked in the corner under a desk, hidden behind two boxes. She pushed one to the side with her foot. It was heavy, filled to the brim with parts of a disassembled Tyrannosaurus.

Jay sighed. She'd been told that all AI had been turned off prior to the arrival of the clean-up crew, and that all they were required to do was find the dinosaurs, take them apart, stuff them into boxes and prepare them for removal.

Another creak, followed by a small squeak. "Turned off, my ass," she muttered. She definitely wasn't paid enough for this. Jay approached the corner, pushed the other box to the side and knelt.

Under the table sat a small raptor, its front leg bent at a weird angle, its head cocked sideways. It observed Jay with small, beady eyes, its tail curled around its hind legs.

She hesitated, waited for it to pounce and use its teeth, but it kept dangling its front leg, a miserable expression on its face.

"You were supposed to have been turned off," said Jay softly. She patted the raptor's head, and it showed her pointy teeth in return. "Woha, just trying to help." It cowered and pushed its bottom lip forward as if pouting. A guttural sound emerged from its mouth.

"I'm sorry little guy, but the park is being shut down."

The raptor lifted its leg once more, moved it back and forth as if to draw her attention to the broken joint. "Let me see," she said. She pulled on the small foot and clicked the joint back into place. "One moment." She retrieved a small bottle of WD-40 from her toolbox. She oiled the parts, bent the leg a few times and smiled. "There you go. All good."

The raptor jumped, inspected its leg and nipped her arm with enthusiasm. Its feathered neck glistened in the dim overhead light.

"Ouch. Look, it's not my fault the park is being shut down. Besides, you're not the only one experiencing a dreadful week."

The raptor whined softly, sat on its hind legs and pressed its head against her shoulder. A soft feather tickled her elbow. "My boyfriend ghosted me. Didn't even have the decency to break up with me, and now I'm talking to a robot dinosaur while working minimum wage. At least, you had a good run. I've seen you in the papers. You were a hit. Everybody loved you."

Jay thought the raptor attempted to smile, but that couldn't be. It wasn't made to smile. "It's not your fault people weren't visiting. Turns out no one is interested in perfectly safe creatures pretending to be dangerous when everyone knows they can be turned off by flicking a switch."

The raptor made a noise that sounded like a gasp and ducked.

"You didn't know you could be turned off just like that?"

It shook its head.

"See, I didn't know I could be ghosted just like that. One day he was living with me, and I cooked for him, the next day his stuff is gone, and he changed his number."

She absentmindedly stroked the raptor's head. The skin felt smooth under her touch. It purred. "You like that, don't you?"

It opened its mouth wide, exposing a row of impressive white teeth and a pointy tongue.

"I guess, I got some space at home with Brad gone."

Jay thought she saw a flicker in the raptor's eyes. "And you don't eat much, do you? Or at all, considering you're made of plastic or something."

It clucked much like a chicken and Jay laughed. "I will call you Creaky. Because of your gammy leg." She clapped. "We'll have so much fun."

Behind her, the door opened and slammed into the wall. "There's a time for breaks, but it ain't now."

Jay turned to face her boss. Spotting the raptor, he frowned and approached. “They told me all machinery had been turned off.” He grabbed it by its neck and ripped the head off. The cabling ripped with a sickening crunch, and Jay winced.

He gestured towards the boxes. "Once you're done, go and help Remy over at the museum. I'll load the truck." He wrinkled his nose. "I can't wait to leave. This place gives me the creeps."

He yanked on the raptor's legs before throwing the parts into an empty box.

Jay watched as he trudged out of the room, then turned and looked at the raptor's cabling dangling from its neck.

"Farewell, Creaky," she mumbled and proceeded to disassemble a Stegosaurus.

Fiction Friday (1) - Immediate Patch Required

Immediate Patch Required

by Olivia Hofer

The engineer narrowed his eyes as he studied H27.91. The small robot, a common household helper, was designed to look fairly human. He glanced at his notes. Third appointment in as many months.  “What’s the reason for your visit?”

“I think I might suffer from some loose screws,” the robot said quietly. He rattled his left arm, then pointed at it. “It keeps making that noise.”

“I told you the last time you were here, those are wires, and you're completely fine.”

“What about rust?”

“What about it?”

“Could that cause rattling?”

“Rust doesn't cause rattling.”

The robot’s expression was pained now, almost human. “They sometimes leave me outside in the rain at night. My leg creaks.” He lifted his leg and bent it a few times.

“I can give you some oil for that. Creaking is a normal sign of age.”

“Can't you run some diagnostics?”

“This is your third appointment in as many months. I've ran diagnostics twice. You're in top condition.” The engineer tried hard not to sound exasperated, but lately the H27 line had given him a headache. All of them worried they'd end up prematurely in a scrap yard. He made a note to check the software.

“Can you do nothing to help me? I can't stop worrying.”

The engineer sighed. “I fear there's something wrong with your software. We’ll hopefully have a
patch ready in a few weeks.”

“And until then?”

“Stop thinking about it. You're fine.”

“No rust?”

“No rust, I promise.”

The robot stood reluctantly as if wanting to say something else. He moved his rattling arm and creaking leg and mumbled, “No rust.”

The engineer watched him leave the room and scratched his head. Health anxiety in artificial intelligence. A first.

With a bit of luck he had found a subject for his PhD thesis.