A new activity on a new day for Indigo Kalliope.
In the last several months, we have had some writers ask if they could submit pieces other than poetry. Here is our answer. Every Thursday IK will accept short stories and other forms suitable for publication provided that these pieces contain the same flavor of left wing philosophy found in Monday nights. Enjoy!
Peace
CJ
It is my pleasure to present a short story containing themes that are very close to my heart in the prose style of that great 70's program - the Six Million Dollar Man. Without further ado......, the story unfolds below the fold (so to speak).
Oscar stepped onto the stage, squinting against the harsh light that illuminated him as he nervously straightened his tie. As he pressed forward to the podium, a whimsical thought crossed his mind, completely out of place with the stress caused by his forthcoming address.
“I hope none of those light bulbs were federally mandated. That would be a terrible intrusion into the free market.”
He smiled inwardly. How typical of him to have such a thought at this time. He placed a sheaf of papers on the podium in full knowledge he would not need them. He knew his material perfectly. He cast a quick glance over the small audience and flashed a brief smile that did not touch his eyes. Every one of the audience members were known to him – not surprising since they were bankrolling his whole operation. Quickly he launched into his presentation.
“Gentlemen, before I begin, are we sure there are no women in the room?”
Most of the audience chuckled knowingly, though a few – the expected few – remained stonily silent. It was axiomatic with this audience that women just weren’t suited for practical work and were a suspect and emotional security risk. Since contraception was virtually non-existent, most women applicants screened for employment failed the psyche profile, usually testing in the “borderline psychotic” category. Assured that the hall was estrogen-free, Oscar continued.
“At your request, it is my duty to report to you the status of the R-1 prototype unit”. He ignored the quiet murmur rippling around the small room. Fixing his eye on his toughest critic, a steely and swollen grey man in the front row, Oscar said “When you brought this unit to us, we were very skeptical it could be saved. It had a shaky provenance – still does – and had been supplied with some very sub-standard and faulty parts”.
Taking a deep breath, Oscar strove for emphasis.
“But gentlemen, together we knew we could rebuild him. We have the technology and we have the capability. We have the capability to make the world’s first bionic, billion dollar politician”.
He always felt a little giddy saying those words, but unfortunately his audience had heard that part all before. Mr. Steel Gray Man exclaimed:
“Cut the BS, Goldstein, we’ve heard it before. We all have a lot of skin in the game and all we want to know is – will it work?”
He swiveled in his seat for effect, glaring at his fellow audience members. Oscar pressed on. He realized the news he had to deliver today would be ambivalent at best, but he had to carry on. Lightly he said:
“Ok, Ok You can’t blame a guy for loving his work – right?”
Pressing on in a more clipped and somber tone, he exclaimed:
“The R-1 unit has been completely redesigned. It is now designated the Compromise Robotic Advanced Prototype, or C.R.A.P for short. It has been completely gutted of its previous beliefs. The truth is, that was the easy part. The harder part was programming it with your beliefs because its configuration is so malleable that we found almost any idea would stick. The programing it has now should last until November”.
Oscar mentally crossed his fingers. The truth was that the C.R.A.P had demonstrated all the hallmarks of a perfectly imprintable object, quickly taking on the common characteristics of any collection of people it came into contact with. Early on they had learned to keep it away from crowds of women. The one and only time they had allowed that to happen (in the canteen at night, when the cleaning ladies were doing their rounds), the C.R.A.P. had presented itself the morning wearing a skirt! They had worked hard on its shielding so its programming wouldn’t be affected by external influences. Oscar continued dryly:
“The biggest challenges of all were the upgrades you requested. The personality is still under construction, but we’ve made progress. But the empathy chip is really showing great promise. We tested it recently on the Samaritans Crisis line and only two of its callers committed suicide that evening! And the external programming port you requested his been installed. With it you can program it on the fly for almost any scenario.”
Reaching his peroration, Oscar’s hand moved to the lone switch on the podium.
“Best of all, it is ambulatory and we can show it in action today!”
As Oscar threw the switch, the curtain behind slowly raised and the C.R.A.P. was revealed in a smart charcoal grey double-breasted suit. It looked relaxed and poised. Its eyes slowly scanned the room, searching for glitter bombs and mic checks. Satisfied all was safe, it strode forward confidently, idiosyncratically dubbing at the grey at its temples.
“Gud mornin’ y’all!”
Oscar gently interrupted:
“You’re in Boston now.“
Without a pause, the C.R.A.P. drawled
“Hi, nice to see you all today. Did you have any trouble paahhkin’ your caah”.
The ruse was deliberate of course. The C.R.A.P. had been programmed for a Mississippi crowd, but had switched seamlessly into its native Massachusetts accent. The audience was impressed. This was clearly a device you could take on the road. A rotund, red-faced man with a balding pate boomed from the second row.
“How does he play on the television? And radio?”
‘Well you would ask about radio wouldn’t you now – gaseous windbag’, Oscar thought to himself. But without a word he gestured offstage and a massive television monitor sprang to life on the wall behind him. The C.R.A.P. was front and center in the camera.
“As you can see, it is very photogenic. We worked hard on its complexion. If you zoom right up close there is no hint of perspiration and the complexion is perfect. But not too perfect as our test audiences could quickly spot it was a synth because the early skins looked too smooth. Go on, ask him a question, any question”.
Mr. Steel Grey Man quickly shouted out:
“What are going to do about government interference in religious freedoms? Like in abortion and contraception? And don’t bullshit me like you did a decade ago!”
Smoothly, the C.R.A.P. reached round and waved his hand over its hindquarters. The invisible infra-red beam situated there transmitted the answer to its mouth. In a smooth measured voice, it intoned:
“Well of course religious institutions should be free to follow their own consciences and their own beliefs at all times. They can forbid both of those vile things, on pain of stoning and they can beat their wives with a thin rod, or marry their soiled ex-virgins off to their violators – no questions asked”.
The audience looked visibly happy. Mr. Rotund Blowhard said:
“That’s excellent. Much better than before when it was spouting all that tolerance stuff. Only one question – why did it wave its hand over its rear end?”
Oscar was a little embarrassed and reddened slightly as he stumbled though his answer:
“Well, er, one odd thing about it that we’ve never been able to fix is that it always pulls it answers out of its a*s….”
To be continued.....