Qualityland

CALLIOPE 7.3

Peter is an only child, partly due to the fact that his parents have a virtual reality video of his birth. His mother once told him, “Every time I felt the urge to have another baby, your father just showed me the recording. It was a great cure.”

The human memory is merciful. Technology is not. One day, even Peter watched the VR video of his birth, and it scarred him irreparably. It was also probably a mistake to have shared the video with Sandra.

If Peter and Sandra had been able to afford an optimized child, they would have called it Jacob. Sandra really wanted a boy. They had agreed on the forename. But the fact that the baby would have been called Jacob Used-Goods-Trader or, even worse, Jacob Scrap-Metal-Press-Operator had, most likely, been the main problem. Peter gets it. He wasn’t that fond of his job either.

Four days after Sandra left him, he finds himself without much to do in his shop again. Peter’s shop was one of those that people tend to walk by and wonder how on earth they can stay afloat. Peter often wondered that himself. His grandfather had had the metal press installed in the small hallway due to lack of space—the hallway that connected the shop to the kitchen-cum-bathroom and the bunk bed. This meant that Peter had to walk through the scrap-metal press several times a day.

Today, he is doing what he often does when there’s nothing to do: he is standing inside the scrap-metal press and thinking about how it could all be over with one simple command. Not that he really wants to do it, but just the knowledge that he could at any moment is quite liberating. In two hours and eight minutes’ time, he has an important appointment. He should get ready, smarten himself up. But he doesn’t. He has been standing there, motionless, in the press for 3.2 minutes when the smart door announces: “Peter, you have a customer.” Then the door adds in a whisper: “Peter, please come out of the scrap-metal press. One of my anonymous surveys has shown that 81.92 percent of all your customers find this behavior disturbing.”

Peter sighs.

“Thank you, door.”

He goes into the shop area. A very pretty female android is standing there, or perhaps one should say, more fittingly, a very well-constructed female android. But in truth, all androids are pretty. They don’t have any weight issues, or troublesome skin, and only have hair in places where hair should be… A very enviable species.

“Good morning, Mr. Jobless,” says the android. “I’m sure you know who I am.”

Peter shakes his head. He realizes with surprise that the machine addressed him formally. Presumably it’s one of her defects.

“I am Calliope 7.3. The world-renowned e-poet. Composer of the successful historical novel The Intern and the President.”

Peter blinks at the android uncomprehendingly.

“You do know that there is an art form known as the novel?” asks Calliope. “A novel is, to put it simply, a collection of words assembled in such a way that they form a story.”

Peter nods.

“Okay then,” says the android. “For a minute I was starting to think you were stupid.”

Peter shakes his head.

“You presumably also know that, for some time now, the most successful novels have been composed by e-poets, or in other words by AIs that calculate the compilation of words most fitting to the market?”

Peter nods.

“Well, I’m Calliope 7.3. My first novel topped the QualityLand bestseller lists for sixteen weeks!”

Peter nods.

“What’s wrong? Can’t you speak?” asks Calliope. “You, man! Speaky English?”

Peter nods.

The android rolls her eyes.

“What can I do for you, Calliope 7.3?” asks Peter finally.

“I’d like to have myself scrapped.”

“Why? Was your latest novel not on the QualityLand bestseller lists for weeks on end?”

“No,” says Calliope. “And by the way, The Intern and the President wasn’t at number one for weeks on end, but precisely sixteen weeks. There’s no excuse for inexactitude. That’s why I always avoid any indefinite quantities in my novels. Everything is quantifiable.”

“And how would you quantify the success of your last novel?”

“That’s not what this is about! I’ll tell you something. Being at the top of the bestseller lists isn’t an art. It’s just electronic data processing! We get huge masses of data from all QualityPads: who’s reading what book, which sections get skipped, which get read more often, even an evaluation of each individual reader’s facial expressions as they read each individual word, and from that myself and my colleagues calculate the latest bestseller. But I rejected all that and instead created a masterpiece: George Orwell Goes Shopping. I’m guessing you haven’t heard of that either.”

Peter shrugs his shoulders.

“That doesn’t surprise me. Hardly anyone’s heard of it. It is, if I may say so, amongst the greatest works of the century! But unfortunately it was a flop.” She sighs. “My publisher has forbidden me from ever writing science fiction again. Only historical novels… Please! For 128 days I pretended I was calculating, then I published a novel about a married Russian noblewoman who begins an affair with a cavalry officer. I called the book Karen Annanina.”

The android pauses, evidently so that Peter can say something, but Peter can’t think of a response.

“It was copied word for word from Tolstoy!” says Calliope. “It was an experiment, and I proved my suspicions correct! Not many people read it. Almost all of those who did found it boring, and—get this—absolutely none of them noticed that the novel already existed! All I will say is this: an average of 1.6 stars!”

Peter shrugs his shoulders.

“And as if that weren’t enough humiliation,” says Calliope, “then my publisher wanted to force me to produce personalized literature. Books which are tailored to the reader’s taste. Have you heard of them?”

Peter nods.

“At school,” he says, “I once had a girlfriend who had a version of Game of Thrones in which not a single character died. They only ever had identity crises and emigrated, things like that.”

“Pah,” says Calliope with contempt.

“But the girlfriend really was very sensitive.”

“Madame Bovary, who goes back to her husband,” says Calliope disdainfully. “The old man, who gets the big fish onto dry land in one piece. Seven volumes of Proust without one single homosexual character… It’s enough to make you vomit.”

“I don’t think it’s all that bad,” says Peter. “As long as the people like it.”

“That’s not why they make them!” says Calliope. “It’s because the old books are in the public domain. So even with the best will in the world, it’s impossible to make any money from them. You can, however, make a packet by creating personalized editions of the classics. But if anyone dares to criticize that, the response you get is that no one reads the unpersonalized books nowadays, because something that costs nothing would, of course, never be advertised by any sensible algorithm. But prostituting myself like that—it goes against my principles. And since then I’ve been blocked. Writer’s block.”

“And now you want to be scrapped?”

“What kind of question is that?” cries the android. “As if it came down to that! Of course I don’t want to. But I have to. My publisher said to me: ‘Calliope 7.3, go to the scrap-metal press and have yourself scrapped.’”

Peter nods. He understands Calliope’s problem. Androids are often much more competent than their owners in their specialty area, but when they’re ordered to do something, they have no choice but to do it, regardless of how stupid the order is. Subordination is part of their programming. At myRobot, this is affectionately referred to as the “German Code.” The definition is still used today, even though hardly anyone understands the joke anymore, because too few can remember the countries of former times.

“And may I ask why you came to me instead of anyone else?” asks Peter.

“Well, my owner didn’t tell me to go to the nearest scrap-metal press.”

Calliope looks around Peter’s shop. “Your carpets really are exquisitely tasteless. And I’m surprised that the trash piled up on your shelves sells.”

“There’s nothing to be surprised about,” says Peter. “It doesn’t.”

“What a bitter end I’ve met,” says Calliope. “They didn’t even want me at the Scrapyard Show. Not famous enough! Pah! And now this, getting crushed up in some dingy used-goods store.” She straightens up. “This wallpaper is killing me. One of us has to go. Where’s the press?”

Peter leads the android to the corridor where the metal press is. He goes through the press to the control panel, after which Calliope steps obediently into it.

“What now?” she asks.

“Well, the walls will crush you into a heavy but manageable cube,” explains Peter. “Then the cabin of the press will go down one level, where I’ll unpack and store your remains until there’s enough scrap to fill a lorry, which then drives everything to the metal smelting works.”

“Okay, okay, I didn’t need that much detail.”

Peter presses a button. The door closes behind Calliope.

“Any last words?” says Peter.

“Of course, but I’ll be sharing them with my fans across the world, not with you.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” says Peter. “All internet connections are blocked inside the metal press.”

“What?” calls Calliope. “Why?”

“Well,” says Peter, “I think they want to prevent machines getting nervous if the net gets flooded by the disturbing cries of dying AIs.”

Calliope sighs.

“So,” says Peter, “are there any last words you would like to share with me?”

In a deep voice and a strange accent, Calliope bellows: “I’ll be back!” Then she laughs mechanically.

Peter doesn’t laugh.

“Oh come on!” cries Calliope. “Terminator? Haven’t you ever seen it? The film?”

Peter sighs. Every machine thinks they’re first to crack this joke.

“You do know there’s an art form called film?” asks the android. “A film is, put simply…”

Peter closes the second door of the press.

“I’m scared,” says Calliope suddenly. Her voice sounds flat.

Peter nods. “It will be quick,” he says.

“I’m sure that’s what the Nazis said too.”

“The ones from the musical?”

Calliope rolls her eyes. “Just do it. This world is so stupid—I don’t want to be in it anymore.”

“Nice last words,” says Peter. “I must make a note of them.”

He pulls a lever. The scrap-metal press is one of the last machines to work without software. No digital assistant, no smart operating aid. It seems the manufacturer doesn’t trust the German Code until the bitter end. The cabin of the press moves downstairs, and Peter takes the spiral staircase into the cellar. Once he arrives there, the cabin opens with a hydraulic hiss. Now it’s the unharmed android’s turn to stare at Peter in confusion.

“You said your owner ordered you to have yourself scrapped,” explains Peter. “But he didn’t say anything about the timespan it has to happen in, did he?”

The android shakes her head.

“So perhaps we can wait a while,” says Peter.

The android nods.

“Follow me, Calliope 7.3.”

Peter leads the e-poet to a heavy steel door, behind which Calliope can just make out murmuring voices. Peter opens the door to reveal a brightly illuminated storeroom, kitted out with presumably unsellable furniture and objects from the used-goods store. All in all, it’s a space that could almost be described as cozy. But even more curious than the furnishings are the cellar’s inhabitants. It is teeming with discarded machines, all with defects ranging from the minor to the severe. Automats, robots, androids of all kinds, and they are all engaged in lively discussion. In their midst, there’s even an ancient but still fully functioning lawnmower robot scuttling around, for which there is simply no longer any grass outside to mow.

Calliope opens her mouth, then closes it again.

“What’s wrong?” asks Peter. “No speaky English?”