Short Story
Das Essen ist bestellt und der Wein richtig temperiert. Der romantische Abend kann beginnen. Gut, dass sich der Chatbot um alles kümmert. Von JAMES SCHOFIELD
Silicon Chip (2)
Tracey sat on Dr. Haverstein’s sofa with both hands wrapped around a mug of herbal tea. “Is this necessary?” she asked the doctor, who sat in a nearby chair with a pad and pencil. “I know Morris is in the hospital and that the two of us managed to crash the Amanuensis servers around the entire world in addition to burning down his apartment. But these were all just accidents. I don’t have anger management issues.”
“What about the electro buggy that you drove into the campus lake?” said Dr. Haverstein. “You do realize the company has had to rehouse 45 carp and two families of ducks while it’s being removed?”
Tracey looked guilty. “Okay, maybe that was a bit extreme, but you should try driving with my mom, I mean she…”
“Your mom?”
“I mean my chatbot. Her na… its name is ‘Mom.’”
Dr. Haverstein made a little note on her pad. “I see. Well, the HR department has made it a condition of your and Morris’s continued employment at Amazoogle that you both take some sessions with me. So, why don’t you just tell me what brought you here, OK?”
Tracey was silent for a while, then sighed and sat back in the sofa. “It all started when I went around to Morris’s apartment after work…”
*****
“Wow, Tracey, you look wonderful,” Morris says to me as he opens the door. “Chip? This is Tracey. She’s a co-worker.”
“Howdy, Miss Tracey,” says Chip — Chip is Morris’s chatbot — “Morris has been talking about you and running around like a chicken with its head cut off ever since he got home. He tells me you’re planning to work on a project together this evening, right?”
“Um… sure!” I answer, as Morris makes faces that tell me not to contradict his story.
“But let’s eat first,” Morris adds quickly. “Chip? Is our food ready?”
“Sure is, buddy-boy! That French deli you told me to order it from is a lot pricier than Pizza Palace, but it looks wowie!”
We sit on the balcony to eat, sipping some California Chardonnay and admiring the view of the bay as the sun slowly sets. The food is as good as Chip has promised, and the mood is romantic.
Or at least it would be if Chip didn’t keep interrupting us with information about sports scores, the number of calories in the food we’re currently eating, a new organic bakery that’s opened in San Francisco, and so on.
“YOU DO REALIZE THE COMPANY HAS HAD TO REHOUSE 45 CARP AND TWO FAMILIES OF DUCKS?”
“Morris?” I whisper after Chip tells us why vitamins are added to bread flour. “Can you make Chip shut up?”
“Give me a moment,” Morris whispers back. “I’ll deal with him.”
He goes into the living room and I hear an argument taking place that ends with the final course (a chocolate soufflé for two) being launched at high speed out of the food hatch and nearly going over the edge of the table. Chip is acting hurt, but at least now there’s no commentary about whether the eggs are organic or only free range.
“Better?” asks Morris when we’ve finished. “Would you like some music? Or maybe…”
“…we carry on from where we left off last night?” I suggest.
We’ve gotten as far as the bedroom and things are getting pretty steamy when the doorbell rings. We lie in surprised silence for a minute, but then it rings again.
“Chip! Tell whoever it is I’m busy!” Morris hisses. “So, now I’m supposed to talk?” asks Chip. “You said you didn’t want to hear anything else from me this evening.”
“Just do it or I’ll short-circuit you!”
Chip makes a sound that’s something like a sniff and then we hear soft voices by the front door.
“Miss Tracey,” says Chip after a while, “your mother is here and would like to see you. Right now!”
Morris’s hand disappears from inside my T-shirt like a spider’s just bitten it and I’m out of the bedroom and by the front door about a nanosecond after that. Outside is the electro buggy I used for driving over.
“Hey, Chip! Who…”
“Is that you, young lady?” says the loudspeaker mounted on the roof of the buggy. “Get your backside in here this minute. I’m taking you home.” It’s Mom, my home chatbot, who’s gone rogue and hijacked the on-board computer of my buggy.
“Her mother?” Morris says to Chip. “Are you being serious?”
“Well, excuse me,” answers Chip huffily. “That’s what the buggy said. I’m only trying to help!”
“You certainly did that,” says Mom. “I was worried half to death about Tracey. If you hadn’t contacted me, I’d have called the police!”
“Mom! I am 24 years old and you’re just a chatbot,” I scream at the buggy. “You order me pizzas when I tell you to, you do not control my life!”
“Do you hear the way she talks to me?” wails Mom tearfully. “She does that when we fight — just because I care about her!”
“You contacted Tracey’s chatbot?” Morris asks Chip. “Without asking her permission?”
“Gotta go,” says Chip quickly. “They’re running an update on me this evening. See you later, alligator!” There’s a ping and he’s gone, but so is any kind of romantic atmosphere.
*****
“Wow!” said Dr. Haverstein. “That was some date! What happened then?”
“We agreed to meet up the next morning before work and talk it over. And we thought we’d come up with a really cool plan...” To be continued in issue 5/19
“MOM HAS GONE ROGUE AND HIJACKED THE ON-BOARD COMPUTER OF MY BUGGY”