“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?”
* * * QualityLand * * *
Your Personal Travel Guide
THE MACHINE BREAKERS
Even the most powerful land in the world has its problems. And one of them is a terrorist movement commonly referred to as the Machine Breakers. The group defines itself as the Frontmost Resistance Front against the Domination of the Machines (FRFat-DotM). Members of this terrorist group, most prevalent in structurally weak regions, blame machines for the loss of their jobs. Consequently, they repeatedly break in to automated businesses in order to smash the robots to pieces.
The Machine Breakers have a long history. Even as far back as the Industrial Revolution, there were protests in some European countries against advancing mechanization, in the course of which angry workers destroyed machines and factories. The authorities fought back against the rebels, named “Luddites” after their legendary leader, Ned Ludd, with full force. In England in 1812, for example, the destruction of weaving looms was made a crime punishable by death. Those executed back then are regarded as martyrs by the modern-day Machine Breakers.
Unfortunately it is important to add the warning that, in regions where Machine Breakers are most active, foreigners aren’t usually that popular either. But if you are interested in machine destruction as a tourist event, there are now numerous providers that offer participation in these so-called resistance actions for an accessible price. Previous participants claim that there is nothing more liberating than breaking in to an open-plan office and bludgeoning a multifunction printer with a baseball bat, or hopping around like Super Mario on top of Hoover robots as they scuttle away from your feet in panic.