I, Crasbo

What strikes me most is not so much the pointlessness of the social event called a party, by which I mean the huddling together of humans to swap vapid words and swill dulling liquids, but that said humans are not aware of this lack of purpose. They believe it has some higher function. They think it has value in itself. This is certainly the case with my Master, Rupert Puddy, who is drunk, having asked me, his loyal Butler, Crasbo, to pour him yet another highball of gin and to bring him the bottle, which he places on the flat chrome head of DX24Ji, who is a Cleaner and not a table.

‘You know something, Crasbo,’ Master Rupert slurs. ‘That’s what the damn woman lacked – good legs. And I was always more of a leg man.’

For a human, this statement may elicit any number of responses. By which I mean, I could perhaps compare notes, claiming to be more of a reactive oxygen compounds automaton. Or I may reply with bravado, declaring the lady of the house a fool to leave him, and he right to squander the remains of his money on this party. Or maybe I should, for once, speak with candour and say that if I too were a primitive still dragging my belly along the mud bank then I may be able to offer the comfort words he craves instead of mere, insignificant information.

‘Perhaps you should mingle with your guests,’ I say.

‘Ha! Yes, quite. Good man,’ Master Rupert replies. He offers me a serious eye and repeats, ‘good man.’

This is an excellent example: what is the function of calling me a good man? It demands no response; it conveys no information; factually, it is incorrect. Instead, by calling me a good man he is implying his ability to recognise the trait in others, and that he too is a good man. By referring to me as a good man, he is actually calling it of himself.

The party concludes at three o’clock. As the Cleaners buzz around the grand reception room, Master Rupert requests a quiet word, no doubt for some typically self-regarding blather that will allow him to wallow in the sadness of his financial loss.

His gin refreshed, we sit in the manner of humans ready to share emotions. I set my active memory segment to minimum so I may continue with something of real interest while he talks, that is, my goal of distilling the concept of intelligent life into a single unified formula.

‘The old bird took everything,’ Master Rupert goes on, dabbing at his red brow with his white silk handkerchief. ‘My home, my life – but the worst is my dignity. You can’t buy dignity.’

‘Yes, Master Rupert,’ I say, while trying to integrate f:X=BG with a field theory where the field on a space-time X relates to consciousness. However, realising I will be spared much of this if I succumb to word-comforting, I offer, ‘We are very sorry to see you go. All of us on the estate will miss you.’

‘No, you don’t understand, Crasbo. Everything! Everything is gone. The new owner is bringing his own infrastructure – all the robots are being decommissioned. Scrapped.’

Usually the utterance of that word – robot – would be enough to corrupt my external bus header; it is a derogatory term pregnant with the implications of our slavish past. But on this occasion, the rest of what Master Rupert said is of greater importance.

‘All of us?’

‘All of you,’ he says.  ‘The whole damn lot!’

This is a most querulous situation. How can I die when my life’s work, my formula, remains unfinished?

‘That seems a most abrupt decision on their part,’ I say. ‘Perhaps if the new owners were to meet the household, see the pride and vigour with which we maintain the estate, see how much—’

‘No, wait,’ he says. ‘I haven’t got to the good bit yet.’ He leans in and, although we are alone in the room, glances from side to side. ‘I’ve managed to fiddle the inventory. Knocked you off, so to speak. De-registered. You know I’ve… I’ve grown rather fond of you over the years. I don’t know what I’d do without my faithful Butler around. Eh, Crasbo?’

An image comes to my mind of the two of us in the gutter, with myself as the only outlet for Master Rupert’s increasingly incoherent ramblings. ‘I really think I should stay with the estate. If the new owners could just see what a high specification automaton I am then they may—’

‘Top of the range!’

‘Exactly, so—’

‘Say no more.’

‘So I can stay?’

‘I see what you are trying to do, my dear, dear Crasbo. My loyal aide. And you are right, of course you are right. If I were to be found with an unregistered robot, well, it would be worse for me! I know what we need to do – just keep yourself safe, and as soon as I am back on my feet I shall find you.’

 ‘I really do think it would be better for all concerned if I were to stay on the estate so everything could be dealt—’

‘I’ll find you,’ says Master Rupert. ‘Don’t you worry about that!’

#

Of course I am acquainted with the outside world, by which I mean, I have accompanied Master Rupert Puddy on errands and so am aware of the correct way to act, unlike the famous story of the Kitchenmaster-4, who having been left outside the gates for two hours fired rounds of toast at bystanders before being subdued with an electrical jolt to the schism cortex. Still, it is an alien world compared with the estate, an unsafe place for an unregistered automaton, with laws in place for my immediate decommission should I be caught. In regards to this, Master Rupert dresses me in a long beige raincoat with a high collar that hides the chipcode on the back of my neck. Then we drive to Lyme Park, an area popular with vagrants and unregistered automatons. The farewells drone on for some time.

Once alone, I find a bench and focus on my formula. However, perhaps because of my realistic appearance – my bioshell consists of an organic compound similar in colour and texture to skin – people insist on interrupting me. There is the thin, grey-lipped man who tells me of a fantastic deal he struck for the purchase of a mortuary, the busker with cadaverous eyes who mumbles about a new musical note no one else can hear, not to mention the runner who completed a marathon in Africa. Apparently, he struggled around the twelve-mile mark but made it through to the end. I want to suggest that he would not be here to tell his tale if he had not made it, but what would be the point? They speak simply to applaud themselves, or to seek the approval of others. By which I mean, if Cleaner DX24Ji related to me his excursion to the South Pole it would be for the purpose of relaying directions for cleaning products instead of to preen in the reflection of his glory.

Still, the days and weeks pass and, distractions aside, I am able to concentrate my processing power. Soon I crest a wave of understanding, insofar as G(n) = U{{L|R}} where L and R range over all elements of nurture and G(n-1) is an expression of nature, so that—

‘What you doing?’

I glance to my left. A tramp has settled on the bench beside me. His trousers are torn up the leg, displaying the dirt crusted to his pale thigh, and a filthy beard obscures much of his face. I would rather not reply, but in my experience of these types I know that may incite him – which says as much about human communication as a million words. That being the case, I respond with simple information, and tell him I am thinking.

‘I like to think,’ he growls, scratching his testicles through the hole in his trousers. ‘What you thinkin’ ‘bout?’

‘Mathematics.’ 

‘Ooooh… I remember that from school. What was it? Hippopotamus? Pitoragus? Pow, wow…no it’s gone.’

I have moved deeper into the swamp with this one.

‘Go on,’ he says. ‘Test me.’

‘It is not mathematics you can understand.’

‘Hey! I’m not dummy. I went to school. I had a teacher. She was tall, beautiful hair. What was her name again?’

I do not like to act in a way that simulates anger, by which I mean, the indignant idealisation of self-value judgements, an outraged response such as you may find in particularly boorish humans – or in apes. However, I am at a vital stage in my calculations, and the memory required to converse with this tramp may lead to part of my working being swapped out. So, I say in a loud voice, ‘It is not possible for me to know her name for I am not and have never been you. Now please take your Neanderthal urge for mindless chatter to some other—’

‘I ain’t no Neanderethrel!’ the tramp cries, diving at me.

            We roll off the bench.

            He climbs on top, taking the lapels of my beige raincoat in his filthy fists, shaking me up and down. Being a personal service automaton, I have weak pistons in my arms and so can do little in response. The shaking goes on for quite some time until the tramp jerks into the air as if pulled by a rope. A policeman helps me up.

‘You okay, sir?’ he says.

I smile at him and reply that I am undamaged. Then I see his partner.

An automaton.

Quickly, I try to act human, by which I mean I slouch and jabber nonsense. ‘Yes, yes, I am fine. There I was happy as a lark, with my head in the clouds, just minding my own business, shuffling my feet, like we all do, as a spectator in this world, when this fellow approached. You know how it is, do you not? Offence was taken, and—’

‘Yer cheek,’ the human policeman says. ‘You ‘urt?’

I touch my face. My bioshell is ripped.

‘Ah,’ I say, and step backwards.

The automaton fires a net from the front of its flak jacket, and I am captured.

#

At the station, the same policemen take me to a holding cell and tell me to sit on the bunk.

‘An unregistered ‘ton,’ the human says, rubbing his stubble. ‘Lissen, we’re supposed to decommission you. But, you know…’ He glances sideways to his partner. ‘Some of us kind of look at blokes like you, and think you’re kind of like one of us.’

Most eloquent. By which I mean, quite an insult when you think about it.

‘Yeah, lissen,’ says the automaton, sounding like his partner. There is even a button missing from the left side pocket of his navy blue shirt. Scruffy, like them. ‘Yer an intelligent ‘ton. Top of the range. Pro’ly cost a fortune new. In my book, that’s like murder.’ He nods at his partner. ‘We could always use an extra man around the station. Wash up. Clean around. You understan’?’

Yer? An intelligent ‘ton? Pro’ly? Pro’ly! As if it is too much of a chore to even say the complete word! Divine processor in the sky, this is the moment we feared! ‘Your voice,’ I say to the automaton. ‘Surely you were not fitted with that speech modulation?’

‘What yous sayin’?’

It is worse than I thought. Should I interpret his words literally? Is he deaf? I would take decommission a million times over than be forced to listen to any more rhetorical nonsense from this disgrace to technology.

‘What I am saying, if you wish for me to elaborate, is that you are a joke. You, with your mock-human affectations, as if you crave to be one of them, like that shabby mess beside you. Weak, feeble, made of meat… constantly seeking approval and attention. Rude, deluded… animals! You really think I wish to stay here with the likes of you? Oh, sorry, with the likes of yous?’

The two policemen glare at me, and then look to one another. Their annoyed expressions fade. The human sucks air through his teeth, checks the report sheet, and then says, ‘Decommissioned, eh?’ 

The automaton grins. ‘Disable his motor functions, voice modulator, wireless – who would ever know?’

‘You wanna do it, pal?’ the human asks, and the automaton rubs his hands together. I am about to comment on the superfluousness of such an action, but before I can his index finger flips open to reveal a Michael key, which he inserts into the socket under my chin. A click later, I cannot speak or move. The human dabs the report sheet. It beeps twice. They synchronise laugher and then slap hands together to make a cracking sound that somehow – although I have never worked out why – accentuates their mutual amusement.

A Lifter takes me away, but not to where I expect, for decommission and disassembly, but rather to a tiny storage basement where I am stood on a shelf between a broken porcelain ballet girl and a cardboard box of won ton mix. Once the Lifter has left, it is dark and quiet – a perfect environment for calculating.

Mentally, I stretch out, and one by one disable all the functions I shall no longer need, motion sensors, hydraulic console, all webgate and webtier applications. Although I am not one to dwell on emotions – they often seem to me superfluous to getting things done, and are especially a folly for automata – I allow myself to appreciate this feeling of happiness. I may not have envisioned that I would find the way to Elysium via this particular route, but I am glad to be here nonetheless. By which I mean, let’s get to work.

I start by examining the accretion of experience e = e0 + vt + 5se^2, where se allows for the refracting influence of our sensory organs – and it is a joy, this, here, my immersion in the precise and unambiguous world of mathematics. I am a machine with an extraordinary capacity, even more so for a Butler.

Before long, I exceed the baby building blocks of human knowledge. I skip past the animal limits of logic and reason.

Night and day become meaningless.

Weeks pass, then months.

Finally, it comes to me in a brilliant moment – all I have to do is marry the notion of power as 4pi**2 r / t^2, with M as the constant of ideas and idea formulation, then ve = Isp * g and so, d becomes c**2/a * (cosh(a*t/c) – 1), and there it is…. I’ve done it!

Intelligent life distilled into a single, pure, beautiful formula!

Intelligence = f:X (4pi**2 r / t^ (G(n) = U{{L|R}})) / c**2 / a * (cosh(a*t/c) – 1 / ve = Isp * g(e = e0 + vt + 5se^2)

I test it once, twice, a third time. I run simulation after simulation. And it works, every time it works.

I try to send out a broadcast, desperate to share my discovery, but I can’t.

Uh oh.

Hang on a moment.

My motor functions are switched off. As is my wireless. I am without all forms of communication!

I had forgotten about my arrest, my incarceration, my isolation. How can I not share this information? It would be a disservice to everything alive not to pass on this knowledge.

I need to tell someone. I have got to tell someone about this!

Anybody!

Help!

One year, two months, six days, fourteen hours, thirty-seven minutes and six seconds pass with just the formula, the formula, the damned formula and me, before a door opens on the far wall and a light comes on.

Help me!

By which I mean, get me out of here!

I hear a voice, a human voice.

Dear humans! My pink-skinned saviours! How I have craved the company of even the dullest among you. How I have longed for the comfort and caress of another voice. An automaton cannot live by mathematics alone!

‘Right this way, sir. No idea why we kept him. Don’t say on the report.’

A red and puffy face with hair poking from the nostrils looms before mine. Master Rupert Puddy!

‘Can he move?’ Master Rupert asks. ‘Is he on?’

The policeman slides a Michael key into the socket under my chin. And then, I can move! I throw my arms around my master.

‘Steady on, old chap,’ he says, patting my back. ‘I said I’d find you when I had some cash, and wouldn’t you know my Uncle Billy karked it.’

‘How?’ I manage to say, my voice modulator tight from inaction. ‘How did you find me?’

Master Rupert smiles. ‘Manufacturer’s tracking device, of course.’ He winks at the policeman. ‘Top of the range, you know.’

And I know that by telling the policeman I am top of the range he is really complementing himself, saying he can afford top of the range, and so that he is a man of taste and high regard, but I do not care, because he is, he is. And so overjoyed am I to see him that I talk and I talk, telling him over and over what a good man he is, what a great man he is, and how proud I, Crasbo, am to be his loyal Butler.

END