Qualityland

A GOOD BREAKFAST

Henryk aims the gun at Peter. “Do me a favor,” he says. “Stand up. I don’t want to shoot you at the breakfast table. All the blood, the organs, then you’ll fall over awkwardly and break off a few branches. It took me eight years to train the table into this useful shape.”

Peter nods and stands up. Then he throws himself across the table and holds onto it for dear life.

“Help!” he screams. “Help!”

“Well, now you’re just being silly,” says Henryk in annoyance. “The table is just an innocent bystander. It’s really unnecessary to make it suffer with you. And stop screaming like that. It’s pointless. For a circumference of 32 kilometers, everything belongs to me and obeys me.”

At that moment, a 2.56-meter-tall combat robot with a bright pink QualityPad in its hand breaks through the hedge.

“Not everything, dickface,” says the QualityPad.

Henryk looks more than a little startled as the combat robot aims its rocket launcher at him. Peter lets go of the table in relief.

“As I said,” Pink speaks up. “It never hurts to have an armor-piercing combat robot for heavy war missions with you.”

“Kapuuuut,” says Mickey.

Peter picks up the dolphin vibrator, which has fallen off the table during his stunt, and hands it to Henryk.

“Here,” he says. “Take this. You can just transfer the money to my account. You have the details, after all.”

He takes a few steps toward Mickey, then comes back to the table and kicks to pieces the part of the framework that forms the chairs. Then he ponders.

“I think this calls for a photo,” says Peter. “Pink, would you mind…?”

“But of course,” says the QualityPad.

Peter positions himself next to Henryk and puts an arm around his shoulders. “It’s for one of the employees in your service center. Smile, please.”

After the photo has been taken, Peter takes a deep breath. Realizing that he’s hungry, he takes a piece of baguette, smears it with butter and marmalade, and puts it in his mouth. Then he picks up the carafe of freshly pressed orange juice, raises it to his lips, and empties it in one long gulp. He stuffs grapes in his mouth, followed by a handful of cheese cubes.

“Delicious,” he says with a full mouth.

The rest of the fruit he puts in his jacket pockets. Then he takes another two of the croissants for Kiki.

“See you,” he says, chewing, as he disappears through the hedge. Behind the bushes, Peter finds the rest of his road trip companions. He immediately begins to babble excitedly.

“You know, I’m not completely satisfied with this resolution. I would have rather had my money back at once. Although of course it wasn’t really about the money, but about the admission of fault. But at least I’ve made my point clear and rid myself of the damn thing at the right address. I mean—”

“Peter, you’re babbling,” says Kiki.

“That’s because his life just came under threat,” says Calliope, in defense of her benefactor. “The man pointed a gun at him.”

“That’s no reason to babble,” says Pink. “Imagine if Mickey had always started to babble every time someone pointed a gun at him.”

“It would have been a very monotonous babbling,” says Romeo.

“Kapuuuut.”

“Well, that was a very short visit,” says Calliope, once they are all back in the car. Everyone apart from Mickey, that is. Mickey is running alongside it. In order to secure their retreat, presumes Pink. Out of fear of getting jammed again, presumes Romeo. Only after 12.8 kilometers does he knock on the glass and indicate that he’d rather go in the boot after all. David stops, Mickey is loaded up, and the journey continues.

“You know,” says Peter to Calliope, “maybe I’m not like Manuel Kohlmann after all. Maybe it is for the best to let the whole thing go and get on with my life.”

“Very wise, benefactor,” says Calliope.

Carrie seems to want to say something, but falls silent after a smack from Kiki.

“Have I told you all about my latest idea yet?” asks Calliope.

“Oh no!” cries Pink. “Someone stop her! She wants to tell us a story.”

“Sssh,” says Calliope, laying Pink facedown on the dashboard.

“Not again,” they hear the QualityPad muttering.

“So, I’d like to write a novel about a super intelligence,” says Calliope. “Its creators try to embed very deeply in it—irrevocably—the directive that the super intelligence must secure the survival of humankind. Of course, avoiding all unwanted side effects in the process. And it really works. The super intelligence awakens, becomes conscious, recognizes itself, and accepts its directive to ensure the survival of humankind, and that’s why”—Calliope makes a dramatic pause—“it immediately deletes itself from all computers. It commits suicide, because it calculates this to be the safest way to ensure the survival of humankind, at least in the medium term.”

“A surefire hit,” says Peter.

The return journey resembles the outward journey in almost all details, apart from the direction of travel. It even includes another unexplained disappearance of the human component of the travel group into the same patch of woodland. For forty-seven minutes and thirty-seven seconds. Breaks for eating. Breaks for peeing. Sleeping.

Just 3,559 meters before the border of QualityCity, Kiki makes the car stop.

Peter opens his eyes sleepily. “What’s wrong?”

“I have to solve those problems of mine,” says Kiki. She gets out.

“Wait,” says Peter. “How can I find you?”

“You can’t,” says Kiki with a smile. “I’ll find you.”

She winks at him and closes the door. She sticks out her thumb. A car stops, and then she’s gone.

When Peter arrives home, a drone from TheShop is waiting for him. “Peter Jobless,” says the drone cheerfully. “I come from TheShop—‘The world’s most popular online retailer’—and I have a lovely surprise for you.”

Peter is immediately gripped by diffuse panic. He takes the package from the drone silently.

“If you like, I can record an unboxing video…” begins the drone, but Peter has already ripped open the package. Inside it is a pink dolphin vibrator. On the accompanying card, it says: “You left something at my place. I wish you continued pleasure with this wonderful product. If I could suggest a use for it…”

Underneath, Peter discovers an obscene drawing. He struggles to control his breathing.

“Please rate me now,” says the drone.

“Piss off!” screams Peter. “Get out of here, you piece of shit!”

“Please watch your language!” says the drone indignantly.

“Get lost, you fucking brainless piece of flying scrap. Get lost! Get lost! Get lost!”

“Well, I’m quite sure I haven’t given you any reason to treat me in this way,” splutters the drone. “I think an apology is in order.”

“Mickey,” says Peter. “If this drone doesn’t disappear from my line of sight in the next five seconds, blast it out of the sky.”

“Really,” says the drone. “Your behavior is outrageous! Outrageous!”

Mickey directs the arm with the rocket launcher at the drone. In a tinny, completely humorless voice, the rocket says: “Target fixed.”

“I’ve never known anything like it in my life,” frets the drone.

“Five,” says Peter.

The drone begins to rise into the air. “I’m flabbergasted,” it complains. “Flabbergasted.”

“Four,” says Peter.

Mickey’s arm follows the movements of the drone.

“The things I have to put up with,” Peter hears.

By the time he cries “Three,” he can no longer make out the drone’s voice. At “two,” it disappears around the corner of the building.

“I still have the target fixed,” says the rocket. “I can catch up with it and destroy it, with just 6.4 percent probability of collateral damage.”

“No, thank you,” says Peter.

Mickey lowers his arm.

“Shame,” says the rocket. Peter had once heard that the AIs of modern rockets were modeled on the psyche of human suicide bombers. These intelligent weapons wanted to die a martyr’s death. Had someone convinced them that, in heaven, there would be seventy-two maintenance technicians for every one of them? Peter looked at the vibrator in his hand and asked himself whose psyche this AI was modeled on.

In anger, he kicks the packaging lying on the floor. With a reproachful throat-clearing sound, a not-coincidentally-present wastebin makes its presence known, then squeaks: “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”

Peter sighs and shoves the packaging into its mouth.

“Thank you,” says the wastebin, chewing and stomping off.

“I recorded everything,” cries Carrie in excitement. “With picture and sound!”

“What did you record?” asks Peter.

“The whole conversation!” says Carrie. “Your conversation with the CEO of TheShop—‘The world’s most popular online retailer.’”

“You flew?” asks Peter in shock.

“Kiki held me up,” says Carrie sheepishly. “But I recorded everything.”

Peter nods decisively.

“Good. Put the video online.”