Supply, Demand, and Armageddon
By Michelle Ann King
I was working on Nebula’s database when my father walked into the lab, accompanied by a woman I didn’t know. “Remi, have you got a minute?” he said.
Before I could say “No,” my phone chirped, announcing the arrival of another email.
“More fan mail?” he said, giving me an enquiring smile.
I briefly closed my eyes. Fan mail. God help me, fan mail.
Marketing had recently decided we all needed to have photographs on the company website, and since I’d missed the deadline for providing a picture, my father had helpfully done it for me — which meant the Calden International About Us page now included a picture of me from my holiday collection, wearing a strapless yellow sundress.
“What?” he’d said, when I objected. “It’s a nice picture. Most of the others look like mug shots.”
I’d had a replacement photo taken the next morning, at a booth in the station. It looked exactly like a mug shot. I sent it straight to the web team, but apparently there was a queue for updates.
My phone chirped again.
“You know that’s a compliment, don’t you?” he said, reading over my shoulder. “It’s an American way of saying attractive.”
“I know what it means,” I said, deleting the message. Phone screens are so touch-sensitive it’s hard to stab at them with any force, but I tried my best.
He shook his head sadly. “For someone who’s supposed to be interested in people’s feelings, you have a very anti-social attitude.”
Stab. Chirp. Stab.
“I am interested in people’s feelings,” I said. “The composition and construction of emotion is fascinating. Actual people, however, tend to be a pain in the arse — which is why I work with robots. And speaking of work, I’ve got a lot to do, so…”
I tried to shoo him towards the door, but he didn’t move.
“I want to introduce you to Vania Lisle,” he said, indicating the woman standing next to him. “She’s done a lot of music videos, as well as that wonderful web series about the clockwork dragon. It was very popular among the under-fives.”
The woman stepped forward and smiled. She was tall, with sharp cheekbones, blue-black hair and a huge carry case slung over her shoulder. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said.
I shook her outstretched hand, feeling a little mystified. My father had brought people to the lab before, but they were usually the kind of people who worked with spreadsheets and calculators, not clockwork dragons. “Remi Calden. I’m pleased to meet you, too.”
Nebula trundled out from behind me, whirring softly. “And I am Nebula,” it said, angling a sensor lens up at Vania. “Judgement regarding pleasure level of meeting currently reserved pending further data.”
Vania stepped back, almost tripping over her own feet. “Dear God, what the hell is that?”
“Oh, don’t worry,” my father said smoothly, taking her elbow. “That’s not the model we’ll be featuring on the show.”
“Show?” I said. “What show?” I looked from him to Vania. “What’s going on?”
He cleared his throat and brushed a speck of something invisible off his sleeve. “What I need you to remember, Remi, is that this is a business. A commercial enterprise, not an academic one. Which means all departments, including yours, have to undergo a regular review of their cost-benefit ratios and practical applications in the marketplace. And after reviewing the Nebula project, I’ve determined a need for some directional changes.”
“I see,” I said, then shook my head. “No, actually, I don’t. What does that mean?”
“It means you need to start making money. I’ve hired Vania because we’ve identified an opportunity to increase our appeal to an important target demographic, which we can then leverage into creating a reputation for the company as a provider of innovative, interactive social entertainment, whilst creating advance demand for the merchandise.”
I ran this sentence through my head a couple of times but failed to make any sense of it. “Sorry, but you’re going to have to translate that one, too.”
He let out an impatient sigh. “She’s going to help you create a series of promotional features that will publicise a new range of high-quality interactive entertainment products.”
Finally, I got it. “Toys.”
“Exactly, yes. There’s tremendous potential in this robot of yours, Remi. It demonstrates a level of interactive responsiveness that beats everything else currently on the market. All the kids will want one.”
He peered down at Nebula. “Well, not one like this, obviously. The commercial versions will be much more attractive. Disproportionately large eyes, that’s the key. People go ga-ga for big googly eyes. It’s an evolutionary thing. Babies, kittens, koalas… it’s why everyone loves them.”
Nebula whirred. “I am an autonomous psycho-mimetic robotic research unit,” it said. “I am not a toy.”
“And I’m a scientist,” I added. “Not a kids’ TV presenter. The answer’s no, Dad. Absolutely not.”
“Now, Remi, I know you don’t mean that.”
“I can assure you I—”
“I know that because if you did mean it, I’d be forced to remind you that although you’re my daughter and I love you, you’re also an employee of Calden International and therefore contractually obliged to perform such work or assignments as are deemed necessary. Should you refuse such an assignment your contract becomes subject to termination, with all intellectual and physical properties associated with your projects reverting to sole ownership of the company. And I know you wouldn’t want to make me say something like that, would you?”
This time, I managed the translation on my own. Moral of the story: always check the small print, even when it comes to family. Even? Especially.
“Would you, Remi?”
I sighed. “No, Dad.”
He patted my shoulder. “Good girl. Okay, Vania, over to you.”
She’d been setting up a lighting rig on a tripod, and now took a hand-held camcorder out of the carry case. “Great. I thought we could start with—”
She broke off as Nebula extended a metal sensor arm that sent the camcorder flying out of her hands, then crashed into the tripod and tipped it over.
“What the hell?” Vania said.
The camera and lighting rig hit the floor, and Nebula immediately started rumbling over the top of them. “Mobility problem detected. Sensors indicate presence of foreign particles in internal gears. Control of motor functions inhibited.”
Something inside the camera popped explosively. Nebula made a sound that could have been the word “Oops,” then powered down.
My father shook a piece of shattered glass off his shoe. “I’m so sorry,” he said to Vania. “I’ll send someone out to replace your equipment straight away. Out of my daughter’s budget, naturally.”
He fixed me with a glare. “Whatever just happened, make sure you fix it before we go into mass production. We can’t take the risk of kids losing control of their models like that. The liability exposure would be horrendous.”
He strode off, yelling for his PA, while I lifted Nebula onto the workbench.
“Do you want to tell me what that was about?” I asked.
An antenna poked through the access panel. “Foreign particles in—”
“The gears, yes. So you said. Except you don’t have any gears.”
The antenna withdrew. “Initiating diagnostics. No communication possible while scan in progress. Please hold.”
There was a loud click, and it began to play Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.
Vania grabbed my arm. “This project,” she said, frowning deeply. “Nebula. What exactly is it about? What are you trying to do?”
“I’m trying to create an algorithmic-based, non-organic analogue of the mammalian limbic system in order to replicate the informational processing of human emotional responses.”
She blew out a breath. “Suddenly, I see the family resemblance. Could you try that again in English?”
I thought about it. “I’m trying to develop a machine that understands feelings.”
She gave me a look I couldn’t read. “A robot that feels?”
“No. Machines can’t have emotional experiences the way we can. But what they can do is learn to recognise, interpret, and react to them. A computer, after all, is basically just a very powerful, very fast, analysing machine. So Nebula uses an intricate array of sensors to capture information — microexpressions, skin lividity, pupil dilation, eye movement, speed of heartbeat, posture, all the empirical data it can get hold of — collates it, feeds it into a specialised database, then analyses that data and compares it to previous results in order to extrapolate context and calculate an appropriate response.”
Vania rubbed her forehead. “Okay. I think I get it. So after Nebula observed and interpreted the situation here, she calculated that destroying my camera was the appropriate action to take.”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “Yeah, okay, fair point. Clearly, I still have a way to go yet. There must have been some kind of glitch, so—” I stopped, because she was giving me a strange look. “What?”
“I wasn’t being sarcastic. I meant what I said — she thought it was the right thing to do, in the circumstances. Don’t you see?” She searched my face. “No. You don’t, do you?”
I shook my head.
“I think you have achieved your goal.” She let out a tiny snort of laughter. “The robot seems to have more emotional insight than either you or your father, anyway.”
Was it pity, that look? Wonder? Both?
“The robot was trying to stand up for you, Remi. You were being railroaded into something you didn’t want to do, so she tried to get you out of it by sabotaging the shoot.”
“Oh,” I said. That actually did make sense. “If you’re right, then… well, that’s great. That means it was able to—”
Vania gripped my arm again, tighter. “No, it’s not. It’s not great at all.”
“Ow. What? Why? What do you mean?”
Now the look was definitely disbelief. “Seriously? Have you never watched a single science fiction film in your entire life?” She shook her head. “I’ve seen this story before, Remi, and it doesn’t end well.”
I laughed. “Come on. We’re talking about a piece of research equipment, not a… a dalek, or whatever. Nebula doesn’t want to take over the world.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But either way, could you say the same for your father?”
I thought about that. “Probably not, but what’s that got to do with it?”
“He doesn’t realise what you’ve done either, yet. But he will. And then it won’t be supermarkets and toy shops he’ll be trying to sell these things to, it’ll be foreign arms dealers, the intelligence services, and the military-industrial complex. And you know what happens after that, don’t you? We all end up living in an Arnold Schwarzenegger film.”
“I haven’t actually seen many Schwarzenegger films,” I said. “I’m more of a Liam Neeson fan.”
Vania gave me that look again. “That really wasn’t the important part of the analogy.”
“No, okay. Sorry. But…” I shrugged. “I’m not sure what you want me to say.”
“How about that you’ll stop developing technology that could lead to the utter annihilation of the human race?”
My phone chirped. Mail received, the notification said. From: A Fan. Subject: Hi, Sexy!!!
I looked back at Vania. “Can I think about it?”
She started to say something but was cut off by my father barrelling back into the lab with his PA, who was laden with boxes of new camera equipment.
“Here you are, girls,” he said, smiling bountifully at Vania. “Take your pick, and we can get back on schedule.”
“I’m sorry, Mr Calden,” Vania said. “Remi was just telling me that the Nebula model is broken beyond repair. We won’t be able to use it at all. For anything. Ever again.” She gave me a piercing look. “Isn’t that right, Remi?”
“Well—”
My father shrugged. “It won’t make any difference; we weren’t going to be using that one anyway. It would have given the kids nightmares.” He scooped Nebula off the workbench and thrust it into the arms of his PA. “Jamie, get rid of this, will you?”
“Oh,” I said, holding up a hand. “Ah. Er—”
Jamie stopped and looked back at me with an enquiring expression. “Yes, Remi?”
Vania stood on my foot, grinding the heel of her boot into my toe.
I dropped my hand. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”
Vania smiled brightly. “Great. Let’s get back to the show, then. Remi, why don’t we start with you explaining how everything the robots do is governed by remote control and pre-programming, and how very, very far away you are from developing anything close to true autonomy?”
“Good idea,” my father said. “Here, you can demonstrate with one of the new models.”
He handed me a white, gleaming robot that looked a bit like a koala. It blinked big, disproportionately large eyes at me and declared, “I love science!”
He looked at his watch. “Right. I’m going into a conference with Marketing, so send me the video when you’re done, and I’ll run it past the focus group.”
He left the lab as Vania set up her new camera and hoisted it to her shoulder. “I’ll need some background footage for the credits sequence,” she said. “I’m thinking of a time-lapse idea, show the progression from spec drawings to circuit boards to finished product, that kind of thing — you must have some old stuff lying around, from the early stages?” She looked around, then headed for the door at the rear of the lab. “Is this a storage room? Have you got anything like that in here?”
“Ah, no. That’s not — Vania, wait. You really don’t want to go in there,” I said, but she’d already opened the door.
The robots inside all stopped and swivelled their sensors towards her. “Hello,” said the nearest. “I am Nebula Two. Pleased to meet you.”
Another scuttled forward. “I am Nebula Seventeen. Greetings.”
“Hello,” said a third, bumping her foot. “I am Nebula Eighty-Four. New research subjects—” It paused, whirred, then continued, “New friends are always welcome.”
“You appear pale and somewhat shaken,” said Nebula Seventeen. “This is possibly symptomatic of low blood sugar. Would you like a biscuit?” The metal panel in its midsection opened, and a plate of chocolate Hob Nobs slid out.
“Hey,” I said, as Nebula Forty-Three circled behind her and extended an extraction unit. “No collecting DNA. I’ve told you, that’s rude.”
Nebula Forty-Three retracted the unit with a snap. “Apologies.”
I offered Vania a tentative smile. “They mean well, honestly. They’re just not quite as well-socialised as the original.”
“Would you like to stay and socialise with us?” Nebula Eighty-Four asked. “We like to watch Arnold Schwarzeneggar films.”
“Thank you,” Vania said faintly, edging away. “That’s very kind of you. But I really have to go now.”
She backed up slowly until she reached the door, then turned and fled.
“Come back soon,” called Nebula Two, but she was already gone.
My father dropped by the lab a couple of hours later, to tell me Vania had quit. Her agent had called to say she’d decided to give up film-making in favour of running post-apocalyptic survival training courses.
“Strange career choice,” he mused. “I wonder what could have brought that on?”
“I have no idea,” I said.
“Although…” He was checking something on his phone. “It looks like there’s money in it. Not just training courses, but equipment too. Portable water tanks, medical kits, freeze-dried food packs, weapons, underground shelters… you know, the end of the world looks like it could be quite a profitable business.”
He carried on scrolling through the information on the screen. “But do you know what none of these places seem to be selling? Not one?”
I shook my head.
“Robots! Just think how useful apocalypse-ready robots could be. They could explore toxic environments, repair machinery, perform battlefield surgery, kill zombies… all the self-respecting doomsday preppers will want one.”
He pointed at me. “There’s a gap in the market here, Remi, and I want you to fill it.”
“What about this?” I said, picking up the koala robot sitting on the workbench. “And the promotional videos?”
He shook his head impatiently, plucked the koala out of my hand and tossed it aside. “Forget about toys and gadgets. Armageddon’s clearly where the money is. I want you to make this your priority from now on, Remi.” He tapped at his phone. “Okay, I’m setting up a meeting with Manufacturing to talk about production schedules. So come on, get to work, there’s a good girl.”
When I didn’t move, he frowned. “What? Is there a problem, Remi?”
In the pocket of my lab coat, my phone let out its New Message! chirp.
I shook my head. “No, Dad,” I said. Then I opened the access panel of the nearest Nebula and did as I was told.
This story originally appeared in Wyldblood Magazine in April 2022.
Michelle Ann King is from Essex, England. She is a writer of speculative, crime, and horror fiction whose work has appeared in over a hundred different magazines and anthologies, including Strange Horizons, Flash Fiction Online, Interzone, and Black Static. Her short story collections are available from Amazon and other online retailers, in ebook and paperback format. Full details and links to her published works can be found at her website: www.transientcactus.co.uk
Loved this!