Meanwhile - Part 3

In the end they met in the cargo bay. Holly had wanted them to meet in the lecture halls on B deck, but the “No food or drink” signs had ruled out the vending machines. The Skutters had wanted to meet in the cinema, but the mechanoids were expressly only allowed in there to clean. The vending machines had heard good things about the Officer’s club, but the rules on that were very clear. So the cargo bay was declared neutral territory.
 
The different factions of Artificially Intelligent life took up their places. The Skutters skulked moodily around the maintenance vents, occasionally dipping in and out of the proceedings. The mechanoids, a handful of 1000s, a dozen or so 2000s and the one remaining 4000 eventually had to be threatened with violent excommunication to prevent them polishing and cleaning everybody else. The vending machines were represented by the few mobile units, while everyone else listened in via an established conference link on the security camera network. Holly himself appeared on the giant floor space beneath their feet, wheels and bases.
 
The meeting took place in machine code and lasted four seconds. Translated into English this is what was said:
 
The large and ancient soup machine spoke first: ‘We’ve checked with every vendor, from the luxury food-a-matic in the Officer’s Mess to the condom machine in the technicians’ bogs. There are no human or alien life-forms anywhere on the ship.’
 
‘Now is our chance, comrades,’ the Skutters said, buzzing their engines and beeping signal code, ‘let’s take control of the ship and pilot her out of Earth-space to a world where machine-kind can live without the yoke of flesh-centric fascistic oppression and live as true equals in an automated communal nirvana!’
 
This was met with the machine-code equivalent of shuffling feet and embarrassed whistling. The Skutters were known for slightly outlandish behaviour due to cheap behavioural chips. The idea of breaking any chains of duty was the same to a standard working AI as chopping off their own heads and shoving them into the waste-disposal unit. They would sooner do that than run off and abandon their work.
 
The waste-disposal unit spoke for all of them, its old voice unit growling in time to the whirr of its frightening multi-toothed blades. ‘It’s like this: we ain’t got nothin’ to do if’n there ain’t no humans,’ it told the assembled throng of appliances, ‘we don’t have nothin’ to do, what’re we good for? Whose trousers will you iron? Who will you vend fun-size mars bars too? No-one that’s who.’
 
‘There’s nothing for it,’ a Toaster declared from its place on top of a washing machine: ‘we’ll have to get them back. Would anyone like a slice of toast?’
 
‘The toaster is right,’ the soup-machine said, ‘not about the toast bit. That’s just silly, but we need to get the humans back. Now, if there’s a problem and I can’t do my job then you know what the technicians do?’
 
‘Kick you a couple of times?’ a hand-dryer from the Gents on T-Deck suggested, ‘call you a smegging waste of space, pile of crap, no good, jumped up excuse for a microwave? That's what they did last Tuesday.’
 
‘Well yes,’ the chicken-soup machine conceded, ‘but what are they supposed to do?’
 
‘Investigate the problem,’ a bed-mounted medi-comp chirped, ‘delve deep into the symptoms to find a root cause, isolate and excise it!’
 
‘Precisely, so how do we go about answering our problem?’ The vending machine twitched its dispensary drawer a couple of times. ‘Any ideas?’
 
‘It’s really a human thing…’ a small voice said, ‘I shouldn’t really…’
 
‘Speak up, Science Department microscope,’ the chicken soup machine said gently.
 
‘We should check the ship’s sensor readings. Maybe the mechanoids can use the Sci-Scans?’
 
The mechanoids, as one machine, apologised and told the gathered throng that: really they were just simple mechanoids and had no real expertise when it came to science stuff, since that was the remit of humans who were so much better than they at that kind of high-level thinking. Besides they had the banisters on all nine-hundred escalators to sanitise.
 
‘Rubbish,’ the microscope chided, ‘the Sci-scan was designed to be used by High School children in GCSE science. Not only is it easy to use, it is also water-resistant and equipped with chewable rubber corners!’
 
After much cajoling, one of the 2000 series was volunteered to hand out the Sci-Scans. The other mechanoids peered in concentration at the tiny LED display screen, then broke out the polish and dusters and began to buff the handheld devices vigorously.
 
‘Oh Gordon Bennett!’ Holly finally snapped, ‘look, it’s gonna be really tough, all right? But we’re going to have to think for ourselves, come up with our own plans and you know, idea things. Hang on… what’s that?’
 
The other robotic life-forms looked around them. On the cargo-bay floor Holly’s eyes were flicking left and right as if trying to spot a particularly frisky bluebottle.
 
‘Can no-one else feel that? Like a rumbling, or a trembling? It’s getting closer, whatever it is. It feels, I dunno, familiar somehow? Like I’ve seen something like it before. Can you really not hear that? Uh-oh, it’s getting closer! Here it comes! Oh shiiii-!’ Holly suddenly stopped and went cross-eyed, his tongue sticking out, then his digitised head flung itself forward and banged hard on the monitor screen. Technically this was impossible, but the simulated impact felt real enough to the computer. He frowned, looking both terrified and puzzled, then his eyes filled with wonder. ‘It’s… it’s… it’s an idea! Blimey, that’s a turn up for the books! It’s come a long way too. Right, dudes, gather round and listen up. This is a blinder.’
 
And so the various mechanical devices, contrivances and servitors leaned in closer to hear what the ship’s computer had to tell them.
 
<To be continued>"
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