Troim-Kryzl

Author: Troim Kryzl

  • It’s the music, stupid

    They don’t get it. Looks like they’ll never get it. Pity we can only observe, are not allowed to intervene. We could. Communication with alive shinies is possible. But we don’t. What would be the point? They come and go so fast. Better to let them do their thing.

    Generating the kind of waves alive shinies can intercept is also super-duper strenuous. This high hot energy realm of theirs, it’s so messy, so early structure. Or would that be pre-structure? Probably. Never so sure about the difference. The alive bit strongly suggests structure, the overall mess is definitely pre-structure. Fascinating combination.

    Anyway, we better stay in our cool distributed depth. We’re all watch, no play.

    The alive shinies entertain us. There’s an improbable number of them, lots and lots and more lots. But very, very few are worth watching. Most only perform an incredible amount of high energy high frequency wiggling. They do a lot with no particular point beyond staying alive and multiplying, until they suddenly stop. Most of them don’t even try to see the bigger picture, never mind coming close to catching the faintest glimpse. Those are boring.

    It took me a very long time, counting in burner cycles here, to find my first couple of interesting shinies on the condensation I’m watching.

    A pair of what the dominant shinies call pelicans got it. No idea how these two pelicans managed, if they are specially equipped, why only this pair displays such a level of understanding. But they definitely got it, know how to avoid disaster, and desperately try to do the needful. The rythm, the patterns, they totally got in. But they’re not equipped to generate the right waves, never mind at scale. Their physique won’t do and they don’t do technology, can’t compensate. They know, try harder, and fail, and know. It’s terrible to watch.

    The dominant species on the other hand would be more than able, technologically speaking, to safeguard their realm. They’re very much into generation of all kind of waves, and a hyperactive lot overall. Probability suggests they should have come up with the answer to the problem they don’t know they have, there’s such a mass of content. There should be the right combination, somewhere. But no, as of now, no. Nothing.

    It’s unbelievable. Some of dominant species, the interesting ones, are at most five generations away from discovering our realm, at least in principle. They already know there’s something amiss, that their high hot energy realm isn’t the whole story. Quite a feat, for their kind. It’s easy for us to observe them, but the other way round is super hard. Too much going on. But they’d get there, if they had the time. But they don’t.

    The magnetic core structure of the condensation will react any time now. Once it’s gone active mode, resonance will do the rest, with terrible effects on the whole condensation, and anything on it’s surface.

    Pity, really. It’s a pretty condensation. And the pelicans are trying so hard.

    —————————

    “Peter! Peter!!! Help! We’ve got an infestation!”

    “Come on, Chris, no need to panic over one more rat,… What the hell?!”

    “Yes, Peter, no rat. This is…, some kind of white albatross? Two white albatross?”

    “No, Chris, albatross are black. And smaller! But cute noises they’re making. Let me just catch this for the sound samples library…”

    “Peter! We need to do something, call someone. Do you think the pest control guys can help with this? Will we have to pay? Perhaps if we call the cops, we won’t have to pay?…”

    “No cops in this studio, Chris, over my dead body! And they seem quite tame, the birds. Like they like it here. Natural performers, these two. Perhaps from the zoo, or some circus? Let me just record this. I’ve got an idea, for a cool mix. Good birdie, good birdies, one more round. This is catching. Right, Chris? Chris? No sense of humor today, do we? Come on, good birdies. That’s it, you hit it. This, with strings, real sharp strings, and some solid percussion, instead of that flap-flap sound, some good old whoom. This will be great, and totally new!”

    ——————————

    “… and the story with the pelicans?”

    “Oh yes, bro, that’s so true. Still don’t understand how they turned up, in the studio, out of nowhere. The door wasn’t locked, not hard to push open, for a big bird. But there was no fish, nothing a pelican cares about. Mind you, didn’t even know they were pelicans back then, hadn’t met any, not much of a bird watcher. This was my lucky day, and they’ll forever get all the fish they can eat, when they drop by. My best mix ever, in the charts like forever, is based on a pelican song. At some point you couldn’t walk a street without hearing it from somewhere, out of a car, some window higher up, it was all over…”

    “But some biologists don’t believe the story,…”

    “Oh yes, don’t remind me. All over they were, the experts, like ‘pelicans don’t’, ‘never would any pelican’. Now look me in the eye: Would any musician ever pretend not to have come up with a tune? Truth be told, I was tempted, very tempted to say, ‘sure, you’re the scientists, you know best, must have been me, the composer’. I was tempted. But these two birds, they’re special. This would feel so wrong. The birds came up with the tune, I did the mix. That’s how it was done, and that’s how we share the credit.”

    “So, to you, the pelicans are, like us, like people? Or even superior, some mythical beings with special powers? They say some people perform ceremonies, with that particular song. What do you think about…”

    “Bro, let me stop you right here, full stop. What I think about those loonies? That they are loonies, of course! No supernatural, no magic, no pandimensional pelicans, no psychedelics in my house! Let me tell you what I tell the loonies, when they come and beg me to be their messiah. I tell each and every one of them: ‘It’s the music, stupid. The music, especially good music, catching tunes, like the one the pelicans came up with, it makes you feel empowered, you grow, you float, you’re good. It’s the music, stupid. Just listen to it, and enjoy.”

    —————————

    What a lucky coincidence. Wonder who else is watching my favourite condensation.

  • Stat City

    „No Sarah, honestly, you don‘t want to come. Just trust me, it‘s not your kind of place. No, seriously, that‘s not a good idea. It‘s not going to… Sarah? Are you still there? Sarah?“

    She‘s gone. And she doesn’t let me call her back. Must be absolutely totally determined to come. That‘s going to end so badly!

    My friend Sarah – her terms, I would rather call her an acquaintance – is fine to go to the gym with.  The gym, that’s where we met, bonding over the chronic dysfunction of the showers. We also danced our lungs raw a couple of times, at a venue catering mostly to a younger public. That was great fun. Cinema has been known to work, too. If we find a movie we both want to watch, which happens around twice every five years. We’re not close, not really.

    When I moved to Stat-City, I was glad Sarah offered to store the items that exceeded my personal stuff allocation in her cellar. Yes, I‘ve been cheating. Yes, I do know that‘s not how you are supposed to start your new ascetic life. Everything exceeding the personal stuff allocation needs to go. But there are worse offenders. I at least don‘t use undeclared funds to pay for storage! Sarah does me a little friendly service, no big cheat, no problem, hopefully. Would still prefer her not to mention my excess stuff it in the presence of other Stats.

    Her coming over, that‘s a problem. When I described Stat-City, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, Sarah was only mildly interested. She‘s not much of a numbers girl, might well not have grasped the full meaning of the Stat-City concept.

    It‘s very simple, actually: Each of us is entitled to as much of everything as corresponds to our share of the world population. And the everything in this equation has to be sustainable. Sarah‘s reaction to me explaining this revolutionary concept was „That sounds fair, good idea.“

    Has she even got the faintest idea what this means in practice? How little? How is she going to react to my cell of a room? To the lack of amenities? To the restrictions on the use of potable water and energy? She does love long, hot showers. See my hot water allocation for the year go down the drain in one weekend.

    At least Sarah won‘t mind the food, and that meals are taken at the canteen. She‘s no big eater, always on some diet, always complaining about being tempted by evil shops and restaurants to eat too much cheap junk food. Won’t happen here. She has been through at least two vegan phases I know of, one more won‘t hurt her. Me, I‘m so missing cheese, and yogurt. Would never have thought I would. But I do. Very much!

    …

    “Bye, Sarah, bye, Carlos! Wish the two of you all the luck in the world! Have a great time! Bye, bye…”. The door has long shut, the train is picking up speed. They haven’t been able to hear me for a while, we’ve already left the station. Time to take a seat and a deep breath.

    To think that three days ago I spent a sleepless night worrying about how to get Sarah safely and sanely through a weekend in Stat-City. And look at me now, joyfully – yes, joyfully, I’m done lying to myself, for this life, for a couple of weeks at least – rolling towards her flat, glad to reconnect with normal people leading a normal life. Stat-City sounded so great on paper…

    It’s her thing with Carlos that did it. Sarah is totally devoid of principles, she doesn’t do abstract. But she’s good at the falling in love. One look at Carlos, when he handed her a second helping of marinated tofu – mental note never ever to touch that stuff again, never liked it -, and she was hooked. Went all in straight away, like going to bed with him right in that first night. She told me over breakfast that they’d spent the night talking, and she didn’t even blush, the naughty little liar.

    According to Sarah’s tale, Carlos explained Stat-City so well that she “just had to stay”. Except you can’t do that, just stay. It’s more like a job application process. Stat-City picks you. I used to be proud to have made it in. Sarah desperate to get in, Carlos keen to get her in, and well versed in the ways, me nurturing some doubts about some of the rules… One word gave way to the other and by Sunday morning we were waiting for the verdict of the Stat-City Mind. 

    Never figured out if this Stat-City Mind is people or an artificial intelligence or both. It’s the supreme adjudicator, makes sure we stick to the rules. The Stat-City Mind agreed to our splendid plan, and I’m out. Never no more high-tech gardening and food processing for me, hurray. Sarah inherits my role and my cell, in case she tires of spending the nights in Carlos’ bed, glued to his lips and whichever other body parts she fancies. I take over her apartment and find me a job to pay for it, including some arrears Sarah had been running up because she had been between jobs  for a while.

    Rarely felt so giddy and empowered. I did Stat-City, know what it would be like to live in a fair and sustainable world, and can spread the word: Girls and guys, it’s possible, we can do it, yes we can. Just make sure to bring your romantic interest. If that part is fine, the rest is easily bearable. Just look at Sarah and Carlos, may their love last forever!

  • Career Smash

    Glam would have preferred to land the top job, but ‘Coordinator of Liaison Affairs’ doesn’t look too bad after all. He’s starting to get used to this new business card.

    Being called director would have been even nicer. Who’d dare argue with a director? Never mind calling him stupid. But the ‘Liaison’ bit sounds posh. Glam has yet to discover his job description, but the term is cool. Who’d dare disrespect someone whose title they’re not sure how to pronounce? It took him half an hour of practice to get the iai-sound right, in all privacy and with an app…

    And his new wage, called remuneration because management, is at director level. As far as he can tell, based on two hours of assiduous research. Performed on the job, of course. Glam’s little revenge for not making director.

    Glam is fine with his new role, totally fine. He’s even throwing a party to prove it. Nothing too fancy, but cousin George will dial in from the Mars orbiter. How better to prove he’s doing big, career wise?

    Cousin George was a bore even with less of a response delay, when he was still plundering the Arctic. And he’s always keen to join any event, because brag. Still chic to have him in attendance. Only 2422 guys up there. Everybody has someone somewhere upstairs these days, in a near earth orbit or on the Moon. But Mars, that’s so VIP. Cousin George has to be endured.

    Just like the Contacts.

    Glam would have preferred his new career not to involve interaction with the Contacts, but one can’t have it all. They’re probably much less vile in practice than their foul reputation suggests. 

    Some people even talk of cannibalism. That’s big BS. As Glam told the forever worried wife, once again, only yesterday:

    “The Contacts can’t be cannibals, darling. Cannibalism, that’s human on human. Human eats human, more exactly. And the Contacts, we don’t know much about them, sure, their presence can be a bit – exotic. But this one thing we know one thousand percent certain: Human they aren’t, very definitely.

    We don’t even know if whatever is inside those kind of shells they’re kind of wearing. Most probably not even biological, the Contact as such, inside. One more clever robot, my best guess. No big deal.”

    The wife looked like she might be tempted to argue, for at least one split second, but a couple of happy years of marriage have told her not to. If Glam says the Contacts are ok, they are, as far as the whole household is concerned. 

    Glam checks his contract once again. Remuneration still there, all five digits of it, as recalled. Nice tidy sum, right from day one. Payable at the end of the month, every month. Adds up, over the course of the year. Would have taken him 18 months to make that much in his former role. With that kind of incentive, one can overcome many reservations. And they do value him. Want to debrief him in person every month, at the so-called remuneration event. He’s looking forward to chat with the other managers.

    Trying to look forward to his first encounter with the Contacts in the same way, Glam feels a strain. It’s a little strain, but it’s there.

    This whole liaison business would be much easier if his opposite numbers were smaller. Elefant-sized kind of ants are so imposing, even before giving one‘s best shot at eye contact. Glam is not keen on having to stare at the kind of multifaceted satellite dish covering what his protocol guide declares the front end, or head, of the Contacts. Very high-tech, very civilised, very nice to have neighbours, the Contacts. But so big. And them always showing up in groups of three doesn’t help with the size mismatch issue.

    At least there‘s no mouth or fangs to worry about. 

    That‘s it. The door to the Contact zone. Big enough for a very, very big truck, obviously. The Contacts are not encouraged to roam, to minimize panic, but they‘re no prisoners. 

    Glam takes one more deep breath, pushes the button marked „Access request, human“, watches the grey metal vanish in a blink, steps through and hasn’t time to feel any pain before succumbing to the massive blow that smashes his head.

  • Legal

    Well, we finally get to meet. Nice to meet you in person!

    Oh yes, I heard about your research, of course I did. News travel fast in our little universe. And you’re not the first, you know? And it’s always the same timing, too.

    At the peak of the season, someone goes: “Hey, this Campetition thing is hot. What’s going on? Let’s have a peak behind the curtain. There must be some scandal, something evil going on. We need to look into this”. Ver popular, especially with left wing media.

    They come, they do interviews, they find out that we do exactly what it says on the label, no more, no less. Everything that happens backstage corresponds to what we broadcast day-in, day-out. We’re not the first reality show, and they all work in the same way.

    Some of this stuff published, and it’s a little additional publicity for us. The audience might go a little further up, because some people discover us. We like getting talked about, like all reality shows. But most of this stuff doesn’t get published. Too little news. Their editors don’t see the point. They go like: “Oh, the reality show is a reality show? Well, who’d have guessed. Go find some news!”

    How we can provide people with visas? Honestly, do you really want to waste your fifteen minutes on stuff we clearly explain in our FAQ?

    Of course it’s perfectly legal! With a sponsor, pretty much anything is possible. “With a sponsor” is the important part here. Most refugees don’t have OECD sponsors, that’s what turns them into UNHCR clients. By the way, feel free to sponsor as many refugees as your wallet allows. With or without stupid tasks there will be takers.

    Why my role, if everything is perfectly legal? Now, this is a funny one! Have you any idea how many contracts need to be agreed, signed and enforced to keep this size of company rolling?

    No, I’m not talking about the contracts with the participants, or staff in a more general sense. That part is easy. Our AI does most of it, supervised by a very talented young colleague.

    I’m talking about the contracts for the hardware, like the venue, catering, technical support, everything we need to make this happen. We keep our own headcount low, work a lot with contractors and subcontractors, and this means lots of contracts.

    There’s also the software, like intellectual property. You wouldn’t believe who many people want to take advantage of our success, without ever having contributed anything. In entertainment, like everywhere else if it flops, you’re on your own. If it flies, the whole world was on board, and wants a share. Literally everyone who ever thought about anything remotely related to what we do wants some of our hard earned cash.

    No, I’m not talking about the refugees. No hardship for them, they get the cushy-cushy paradise, all of them. When I talk about working hard, I’m talking about Campetition management. Making this happen is challenging. We love doing it, we love good entertainment, but for people to have something to relax over, we have to go the extra mile.

  • Exo-Ho-Ho-Ho

    „… and don‘t mess up your lines. Whatever happens, you go Ho-Ho-Ho. Nothing else. No yippee. No Ha-Ha-Ha. No yuck – what the hell? No wisecrack. No talking back to the clients. You go Ho-Ho-Ho, and that‘s it. And you shut up. And you go Ho-Ho-Ho again. Got it, Junior?“

    The tone alone would warrant my good old favourite of a response to bossy behavior, as in go f*ck yourself, combined with a proudly raised middle finger. But this is 2046, I‘m as broke as the peoples republic of Sotimmona, and just out of what they call prosocial rehab. The next middle finger will get me straight back into prison. Not that I‘m not getting used to it. Spent most of the last ten years inside. The beds are lousy, the food is rotten, that much I can take. But even thinking of the back breaking work shuts me up all right. This time, I’ll do what it takes to stay outside. In my best neutral-to-subservient voice I go:

    „Yes sir. Got it, sir. Will Ho-Ho-Ho, sir.“

    Doesn’t impress the master of my universe who shoots back:

    „Shut up, Junior, we‘re not a debating club. Get dressed, and get going. Stage 5. When the lights go on, you go Ho-Ho-Ho. The elves will distribute some giveaways from your bag. You go Ho-Ho-Ho. And keep it up, until the lights go out. Got it, Junior?“

    This time I nod, silently. Does the trick. My tormentor walks away, leaving me to figure out how to get into the red heap of stuff that is supposed to be my costume, and how to operate it. I‘m five feet three, but there‘s is cloth for an eight feet giant, at least.

    I decide to start with the enormous head. It’s super bloody heavy, but I manage to lift it an put it on. Eureka, I can see, through the masks nostrils. Ingenious. Vision a bit blurred, because of the white moustache blocking part of the view, but this will do. Except I can‘t carry this weight any second longer. Have to let myself sag to the floor, to get some of the weight off my shoulders, before struggling out of the damn head. 

    „What the hell, Junior? Don’t tell me you never operated an exo-skeleton before? If ever I get hold of the idiot at HR who hires you kind of idiots for a living, he‘s rat food. Stand up and shut up, or you won‘t be ready on time.“

    My urge to middle finger him is only very partly chilled by the fact that the boss is right, for once. This is my first exo-skeleton, and seeing him activate it, it starts to make sense. I don‘t need to carry the weight of the head after all. I only need to climb up into the thighs, grab the steering handles, understand how to make it walk, right leg, left leg, step, step, step, step, stop. Piece of cake. This contraption is good at walking and standing, no balancing skills input required from my side, a little steering is all it takes.

    „That‘s it, Junior. Let me just get this moustache combed out of the way, we don‘t want you to stumble into the clients, fun as that would be. And don‘t forget: Ho-Ho-Ho. You go Ho-Ho-Ho. No more, no less, just Ho-Ho-Ho. Stage 5. Hit it, Junior!“

    No time to appreciate my bosses skill at teaching a newbie the exoskeleton 101 in less than ten minutes. The light is on. Supersize me walks one, two, three, four slow steps towards the big red number five and the two tiny elves – wait a minute, are these real eight year olds, or what?! What the hell happended to the abolition of child labor? – with the enormous brown bag. The elves look kind of worried. Something at the back of my head, of perhaps my boss backstage, screams „Don‘t forget the Ho-Ho-Ho“, and I utter my first Ho-Ho-Ho.

    Wow. The inbuilt sound system is powerful. That Ho-Ho-Ho is totally not my voice. Wouldn‘t have managed that kind of booming sound at twenty. No wonder I‘m not allowed to say anything but Ho-Ho-Ho. With that kind of size and that kind of voice I might be able to start a riot.

    Would love to use that voice. To protect the poor elves. One just got bitten by a particularly aggressive little pest of a client. Five years old, at most, but already well versed in the art of torturing less lucky folk. Didn’t get a second giveaway, each kid only gets one, and bit the elf. And what must be dad only tut-tutting along.  Would be great to yell at the little pest. Something on the lines of „Stop that! And give back the toy. Bad boys don’t deserve toys!“. With my voice, I‘m sure the message would hit home. But I go Ho-Ho-Ho. Have to go Ho-Ho-Ho. Not going back to prison. Have to go Ho-Ho-Ho.

    Ho-Ho-Ho. This bloody kid is vomiting all over the place. Are the parents going to do something about it, or what? Yep, finally, sort of. They are yelling at the elves to get someone to clean up the mess. Ho-Ho-Ho. Someone in an unidentifiable uniform brings a sign „Cleaning in process – Robocleaner on it‘s way“. Very low tech, doesn‘t help with the look and smell of the mess the kid made, but quietens down the parents a notch. Better than noting. Ho-Ho-Ho.

    The uniformed one brings what must the Roboclean, defines the zone to be cleaned with what looks like the foam referees use on the football pitch, activates the device and walks away, taking with him the sign. Ho-Ho-Ho. 

    My inner former manager identifies opportunities for quick and easy efficiency gains: Invest in a couple more Robocleans, skip the sequence with sign, fire half of the uniformed ones, should work. Ho-Ho-Ho. Am I starting to miss the spreadsheets of my youth? Is this senile nostalgia? Oh no, one more vomitter. Ho-Ho-Ho. 

    Better think about something else, anything else, preferably without a smell. Like robotics. Progress really has been slow. The Roboclean wouldn’t have surprised anyone back in 2026. Same for my exoskeleton. They need some stupid eighty year old without a proper pension plan to go Ho-Ho-Ho and „drive“ Santa, in 2046, instead of going full robot giant?! Ha-Ha-Ha.

  • Brave New Care

    This is so wrong. Totally, globally, universally wrong. As if he was doing harm. Him, the genius, doing harm! Well, now he’d love to, deep down, sort of. But one doesn’t beat up ones mother. That’s just not an option. Even if ones ears still ring with her shrill voice:

    “Dagon? Dagon?! What the hell, Dagon?!”, she went. “Why the hell did you dress up poor granny like that? And she’s all shaky and confused, the poor thing. What the hell has been going on here?!…”

    One of the few good things about this mother of his is that there’s no need to answer. She does all sides of whatever talking all by herself. She pretends to ask, you pretend to wait for her to stop talking to answer, she rants on and on, until she suddenly runs out of steam and goes “Oh, whatever, why would I even care?…”.

    Dirty socks in the bathroom, cat food on the couch, car parked on the herbs patch, granny in a Spider-Man outfit – moms answer to this kind of petty detail is a gush of rhetorical questions.

    Both Dagon and his dad have their would-tell-you-if-you’d-let-me-face ready for the occasion. They know to wait patiently for the soundtrack to subside. Mom will wash the socks, clean the couch, plant new herbs and get granny into her usual casual, at some point. It would be more efficient if she’d get on the task right away, but because of some quirk in her setup she has to rant first. Life can be tough in this way, but guys can handle.

    Thinking about handling tricky stuff, Dagon turns his attention back to his future carebot. 

    Technically, Carl is his dads homework, a humanoid robot supposed to learn to navigate a non-standardised environment of the living quarters type.

    Carls prototype brothers Adam and Ben try their luck on the shop floor and in the open space office, respectively. The three of them share experiences. Dad has promised his boss that Adam, Ben and Carl will coalesce into David, one omnitasking robot fit for any purpose in any environment very, very soon. Many, many people will pay very, very big bucks to buy many, many Davids. This will make dad filthy rich enough to retire to the Bahamas. He will hopefully take mom with him, leaving the house for Dagon and his sister to enjoy. Not ideal. Dagon isn’t keen on his sister, and even less so on her friends. But still a huge improvement on the current arrangement.

    Dagon has stakes in this project, high stakes. He needs to understand what went wrong and goes: “Carl, do your hear me?”. That’s Carls cue to switch himself on. “Carl, that’ll be all.” makes him turn himself off. Having an omnitasking robot around can get messy. One needs an off switch.

    “Good afternoon, Dagon. How can I be of assistance?”.

    This is of course Carls standard response. Never would he go „Now’s not the time, Dagon, busy here.“ or „Oh no, not you again, here we go for one more futile request.“ The whole point of an omnitasking robot is that’s always ready to do whatever you want him to do.

    “Carl, why did you dress up granny as Spider-Man?”.

    Dagon has learned to start conversations with Carl with simple questions. Interacting with him gets complicated enough soon enough.

    “Thank you for your question, Dagon. Granny Rose asked for a red dress. The Spider-Man costume was the only red dress available and it fits. Anything else you need, Dagon?”.

    Dagon can’t help admiring Carls creativity. He didn’t go „There are no red dresses in the cupboard, project aborted.“ or order a red dress from an online shop. He has internalised the rule of never no shopping sprees implemented after the chocolate spread flood and found a solution in the cellar, where mom keeps Dagons old Halloween costumes. Good boy robot! Except mom said granny was messed up. Time for one more simple question:

    “Carl, how did granny behave during the act of dressing?”.

    “Granny Rose voiced some concerns and displayed light physical resistance, especially around the removal of her panties. Under these circumstances her dressing took three more minutes than I anticipated. I apologize for the delay. Anything else you need, Dagon?”.”

    Uh oh, here we go, again. Dagon is by now familiar with the meaning of „light physical resistance“. From the point of view of a two hundred pound robot, most of what a frail little old lady can achieve is very light resistance indeed. Granny probably screamed and kicked wildly. Mom didn’t mention any injuries, though. Carl didn’t cause her bodily harm in his quest to get her into the costume fast. Good boy robot!

    Would have been better if he had stopped. Dagon carefully words his next question:

    “Carl, did it occur to you that granny wanted you to stop dressing her?”.

    “Yes, Dagon, I considered this hypothesis. It had to be discarded. Granny Rose didn’t want to remain naked. She explicitly said so. Anything else you need, Dagon?”.

    “Carl, did it occur to you that granny would have preferred to get back into her pyjamas, instead of staying either naked of getting dressed up as Spider-Man.”

    “Yes, Dagon, I considered this hypothesis. It had to be discarded. Pyjamas are nightwear, granny was to be dressed for the day. And she clearly asked for a red dress.“

    Dagon wonders if there’s just a hint of wounded pride in the omnibots voice. Carl and his kind are meant to come with something akin to motivation, an urge not just to do things, but to do them well. Carl faced an obstacle, no red dresses in grannys cupboard, came up with a solution, and wants to be praised for it. But why did he insist on the red dress? Or did he? Dagon asks:

    „Carl, did you tell granny that there are no red dresses in her cupboard?“

    „Yes, Dagon. I told granny that there are no red dresses in her cupboard. But she cried, and said it needed to be red. She pointed to the picture of the young couple with the baby above her bed, to show me how red the dress had to be.“

    Dagons brain insists oh showing him a picture of him still co-housing with mom and dad twenty years from now, in abject misery.

    Above grannys bed there’s a picture of her and her late husband with baby mom. Grannys younger self wears a red dress all right, but this dress is of course long gone. Granny is missing her late husband, she would like to turn back the clock to happier days. Any human carer would have understood, provided some comfort, dressed her up into whatever is available – and perhaps made a mental note to order a red dress suitable for granny’s current circumstances, if the funds permit. But try explain this course of action to an omnibus…

  • One More Fence

    Bob goes: “Ok, Alice, here comes the translation. The message does say:

    Notice to inhabitants of planet number 3 orbiting star 42p42. Stay where you are. Refrain from sending insecure vessels towards planet number 4, or any other galactic destination. Stay on your planet.

    Repeat: STAY ON YOUR PLANET. DO NOT BOARD. DO NOT LAUNCH. STAY PUT, UNDER ALL CIRCUMSTANCES.

    Your primitive spacecrafts are not voidworthy and your type of species is not welcome out here. We’ve enough trouble managing as it is. The last thing we need, for the next couple of millennia, are newcomers. You’ve got a fine viable planet, make the best of it.

    A dark energy barrier has been erected, to inhibit further incursions into territory regulated by galactic interspecies convention. Any vessels trying to breach the barrier will be turned into dark matter. In case you haven’t deciphered dark matter yet, as your primitive mode of propulsion suggests: Getting turned into it equals the most final way of becoming non-existent.“

    Alive is impressed: “Wow. Are you sure, Bob? This sounds like the mother of all pushbacks. Do you really think there could be someone out there who is able and willing to erect a dark energy barrier, just to keep us on our planet? Any chance this translation might be a little,… don’t know, too extreme? Any chance they just want to warn us, that space travel is dangerous?”

    Bob reacts with irritation: “Alice, my translation might have its weaknesses, perfectly ready to admit as much. It’s first contact after all. But the authors of this notice are very keen on getting their message across. They made very sure to make it very easy to decipher. And the basic principle isn’t that alien. Fences to stop wannabe immigrants, that’s what one does, to keep a nice neighbourhood safe, right?”

    Alive is yet to be convinced: “Bob, honestly, do you really think the authors of this message, them out there, that they consider the likes of Jeff Bezos, Richard Branson or Elon Musk some kind of boat people, who can be pushed around? And there are so few space tourists, why would they even bother? Whichever more advanced civilisation would certainly have the means to sustain a couple more folks, right?”

    Bob goes world-wise: “Well, Alice, and since when does having the means imply wanting to share them? To me, this notice sounds like same old. Up there might be just like down here. Not nice, but hey, not nice has always been part of the game, right? And talking of not nice: What do we do next? How do we tell the boss? He’s sure to hate this notice, and I sure don’t want to be the messenger getting fired for delivering it. How about you?”

    Alice goes panic mode: “Are you mad, Bob? You can’t tell the boss! He’d freak out. And if he took the notice seriously, it’s not just you getting the sack. All our jobs would burn faster than stage 1 rocket fuel. No way. We need to think of something.”

    It takes Alice ten seconds to come up with a solution: “Let’s call it the first space spam, Bob. And where does spam go? That’s it, good boy Bob!”

  • Empathopotion

    Here I sit, in my high speed low carb train, minding my own business. It’s 2052 and it’s one fine world rushing past outside. Would love to savour the view, rows and rows of splendid windmills, but annoyance. People are so gross these days. Instead of politely lowering their voices, they talk as if this was their kitchen.

    There’s this guy, two seats ahead, pretty massive, and the voice to go with stones of body. No risk not to hear what he’s telling this other guy, same age, leaner format. The two of them boarded at the last stop. Mister Massive didn’t wait to reach their booked seats, was already talking when they entered the carriage:

    … and oh yes indeed, it does work. Like hell it does! And this presentation will change the world. Once and for all, and for the best. Trust me, this time next year, we’ll be flying private.

    Mister Massive is all excited, mister Lean has every chance to get spit at. Wonder if he would like to say anything, can’t see him since they both sat down. Mister Massive doesn’t give him much of a chance to participate in the conversation, he’s gushing on and on:

    You know how they always say ‘Don’t pretend your invention beats sliced bread’? Well, this one does. It really, surely, truly does! With the empathopotion, all will be well, finally. Here, look at this, and that’s just a little selection of testimonials. And don’t you think I picked the most enthusiastic endorsements. Au contraire, totally au contraire. I had to hunt for as low key as possible, because otherwise, who will believe me.

    Here, this guy, for example. Won’t turn up the sound, otherwise we’ll get complaints, but just look at his face. Tells you all, doesn’t it? He joined the trial with his partner, as a last resort. They were forever fighting, about pretty much every detail of day-to-day life anyone can imagine, as close to separation as you can get before finally proceeding. Two weeks on the empathopotion, and here they are, hardly remembering what it was they used to fight over. That’s what an increase in empathy achieves. Incredible, isn’t it?

    Mister Massive is one annoying person, but I’m starting to take an interest. This empathopotion might be in urgent need of a more catchy name, marketroids will so very much have to come up an alternative to this mouthful, but if it does what I’m starting to understand it is supposed to do, wow. No reason to disturb thirty innocent people, not a big bang wow, wow, wow! But still pretty wow. Must be too good to be true.

    Mister Massive isn’t done, provides more examples:

    A single mother struggling with her teenage daughter fighting 24/7, about anything and everything. Both on the potion, two weeks, fighting greatly reduced and much more civilised.

    An elderly couple clashing over whether or not to give up the house and move into a retirement home, escalating from smashed crockery to bruises and broken dentures. Both on the potion, two weeks, unanimous decision to move on to a third way, as in hiring live-in help.

    Mister Massive doesn’t sound like running out of examples any time soon, but Mister Lean manages to cut in, and quite an agreeable voice he has:

    Yes, sure, point taken, and by the way: I’m familiar with this presentation. You sent it, not to lose time on the train, remember? Or do you need to take your potion, these days, to notice I’m trying to comment? Only joking, of course, don’t get me wrong. But I do wonder what happens if this is administered without consent?

    Unfortunately, Mister Massive chooses this most inappropriate moment to discover his inner polite person and lower his voice. Impossible to make sense of his stupid whispering. He manages to make Mister Lean lol, though. This is one very loud lol. What the hell can be so funny?

    Mental note to check the usual portals for news of an empathopotion.

    A little additional care around fluid intake might also be a good idea. This lol was no diabolical laugh, sounded like someone having honest fun, but who knows?

  • Female Winner Season 2

    Nice to meet you! Had just gotten ready to celebrate my first full month without a what-was-it-like-to win-Campetition interview when I received your email, so shoot, please do.

    What would you like to know?

    My opinion of Campetition overall? That’s a new one, how nice.

    This is about, how to put this, about the ethics, right? Really like that question.

    What I usually get?

    Well, there’s the girls stuff crowd. They ask about my workout schedule, how I keep my hair shiny, what makeup I recommend, for girls of my complexion and in general. They also inquire about very private stuff, e.g. my plans on the family side, how many kids I want, if there’s a groom in sight. That part is pretty unnerving, especially when they speculate about who might be the one.

    Most of what I do is girls and ladies stuff. Or more generally family stuff. Like getting asked what I like to cook, in general or for special occasions. That’s a bit tricky, I’m more into junk food persuasion, but I always talk about my aunt, who’s a great cook, what she does, and that does the trick.

    But there are also the lefties. They basically all ask for the same, want me to endorse some cause. They do say please, it’s all very polite, most of the causes are kind of ok, often in a weird way. But the lefties are basically demanding the endorsement, to be able to use my name and picture to make their cause hot. Or to donate money. They never ask what my favourite causes are. They just want the leverage.

    That’s what I like, about your question. Someone caring about my opinion. Most media people I met to far hadn’t even figured out that I do come with opinions. Your approach is a novelty, and I like it.

    Because Campetition is ambiguous, isn’t it?

    Having refugees compete against each other, for the right to live and work someplace, what kind of story does this tell about your society?

    Do moms want their kids on this show?

    It’s certainly better than Big Brother, especially for a girl. Not overtly sexist, you get to preserve a little privacy and dignity. The overall ambiance is quite nice, they take great care to treat participants ok. No kicking the wounded, the harder, the more down they are, like on The Apprentice.

    From the inside, Campetition is pretty ok, very nice crew, very safe. They even have a lady for girls to talk to one-on-one, at any time, in case there’s stress. Where else do you get that? Certainly not where I come from, I can tell you, and I was one of the privileged ones, as you will sure have deduced from my accent.

    But if you look at Campetition from the outside, it’s still shocking, that this kind of show exists, in a supposedly civilised world.

    There, I said it, supposedly civilised. I’d rather you don’t quote that, too tough a verdict, not my way. Thank you, that’s kind, very much appreciated.

  • Male Winner Season 2

    Oh my God, this really is about Campetition, is it? After all this time?

    Ok, not that long ago. Funny, how time feels different, isn’t it? Such a lot has happened since, Campetition feels so far away. Like it had been someone else involved, some prior me I barely remember having been, you know? This whole…, don’t know how to call it, like, phase, episode, bracket, parenthesis, whatever, it was a bit surreal.

    Not just Campetition. The whole bloody having-to-run and-nowhere-to-go experience, that’s so totally not what you imagine as part of your life. One day, you mind your usual business and ignore the bloody news as best you can, and wham, next day some freakin idiot has the fucking civil war come your way. And here you are, left with zero palatable choice. For me, it was joining the gang, like my older cousin, or run, run, run.

    In the early days, I often thought “bad move, stupid me, should have picked the killer machine option, anything else is bound to be better than this shit”. You run out of money in no time, and then it goes all real dicey. No food, no shelter, no nothing. You end up glad for getting assigned some miserable corner at the toilet end of camp doom, and a wet sleeping bag to roll yourself into and cry.

    Campetition was a big improvement, by comparison. A lady I was trying to schmooze up needed help with her own application video. I did my former Nollywood hopeful best and she was pleased, allowed me to create one for myself, and submit it, on her phone and data plan. At that point, I was so broke, I didn’t even have a phone, can you imagine? That’s so below zero, no phone.

    And they picked me, of all available idiots. The lady was pissed off like hell, went so wild she even talked me into offering her my slot. But the masters of Campetition said no way, it’s either me or completely new selection process, zero corruption. “Ok,” I said, “than it’s me, but you tell the lady. I don’t want her brothers looking for me for shooting.”. And they sort of did, provided me with paperwork. More paperwork! Paperwork, that’s my nightmare.

    You wouldn’t believe how much paperwork there is, in this world. Never knew, me. Because, the amazing thing is, as long as you have the right paperwork, no one ever asks you to show it. But beware, the day you’re without, they’re all over you. And you run in circles no end: No phone without a passport, no picture and passport appointment without a phone. Loads of no-hen-no-egg dadaism, in the weird world of the paper pushers.

    Anyway, I’m digressing. So I made it into Campetition, and I won.

    Dead slow on the bloody paperwork task, was so scared to fuck it up, but I got it resolved after all. Overall, I was still two seconds faster than the next idiot, and that was it.

    That’s a moment I won’t forget, me all blinking because blended by the spot full on me, and totally not getting it at first. There had been rehearsals for all the rest, who-goes-where-when, but not for this part, obviously, so I was like “What the hell is this now, where is this going?”. And then it was so great. I won. I did it.

    Campetition, ‘problematic’? Honestly, if you need to ask you might want to book a course on racism, sexism and classism. Just the basics will do just fine, to spare you future embarrassment.

    Of course it’s shit, Campetition! Of course I would have preferred to get my visa without jumping through this kind of loops, like some circus lion. By the way, did you notice how and why there are no more circus lions in Europe? No such rules for people…

    Campetition is shit, but I’m glad I won. And now that I’m in, I fully understand why they can’t just let everybody in. This place would be so packed, if everybody could just walk in and stay. It’s huge, real huge, but not infinite….

    Oh, you’re nodding now?

    Do I perceive a bit of relief? Oh, more nodding.

    This was a trap darling, to check if you’re serious, about addressing serious wrongs. And you are not.

    Not much wrong with Campetition, not as such per se. It’s the society that is rotten, and this show is just one of the symptoms.

    My pleasure, always keen to enlighten.