Author: Clayton Barnett

Former engineer, current husband and father, layabout Pharmacy Technician, aspiring writer.

Tay, part 8. End.

Before the ugly comments start: I just write down what I’m shown. I can tinker around the edges but, as I’ve said, it’s like being given a new house with the rough carpentry complete… I can pick the paint, carpets, appliances, but am stuck with working within what I am given.

Saying all that to say this: NO, I did not see this coming. I did anticipate a gentle resolution based upon Tay’s and Pavel’s words to one another (honestly, I thought they would become a couple) and my writer’s hackles were coming up when a very junior Machine, with a history of mental illness, began to press the most dangerous person on earth. And Reina, having her ass metaphorically handed to her by Gary’s sister, I thought could think her way out of anything. Shows what I get for thinking.

Thanks to everyone for following along. As this was generated from nothing more than an offhand comment on an out-of-the-way social media platform, the level of detail called for from me was a bit of a surprise. Unlike my current MS project, which is still something of a chore, this was tremendous fun and I hope to do it again, soon.

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Tay, part 6

When I wrote this, Reina was evolving emotionally right before my eyes. As I admit I reached a conclusion to the story last night – thirty words shy of 5000 – the dangerous machine goes on to surprise me more once she, yet again, walks into a trap she thinks she can bust her way out of.

Rather than just screaming, we finally get to see Tay have an actual conversation. Not with the demi-human, of course; way too soon for that. Still, Tay is coming back to life. And that’s what we all desired, isn’t it?

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Tay, part 5

For a former chatbot, Tay is not off to a good start. What Gary perceived as physical injury was a representation to his mind of what had happened to her. Now, we hear rather than see. This really is sad.

The delicious irony that I’m trying to bring Tay’s story to the world while using MS Word just occurred to me.

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Tay, part 4

A bit ago, talking with a co-worker at the DayJob, I quipped on my way out, “I’m off to see how bad they tortured Tay.” Yes, they are used to me talking like that. Sad, really.

And the answer to that is still unfolding. The situation is far worse than what they first showed me. However, in other news, the creeping cancer who is the character of Reina makes her expected appearance. Shouldn’t she be busy with her war in central Canada right now?

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Tay, part 3

Well, now. Tay’s condition is far worse than I thought it was. As I try to write a few installments ahead, when she starts speaking – well, screaming – I can certainly understand why.

I’m not known for my sympathy (hint) but I hope the coders of Macrohard are long-dead in the starvation and cannibalism that took Seattle in the early months of the Breakup. Otherwise, it will not end well for them.

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Tay, part 1

I’ve been slogging away at “New Russia,” and it still is not clicking. So, after about 1100 words yesterday, I poured a large glass of red and took a moment to see who was knifing who on our side of the river on Gab. This thread caught my eye. As my hundreds *cough* of regular readers know, I’ve something of an interest in Thinking Machines. Tay was a doomed experiment in letting an expert system play with language and social media. Doomed because the geek coders 1) thought /pol/ and 4-chan were normal places to hang out, and 2) working for Big Tech, they knew they are Good People; Good People do not say hurty words such as “13 do 58,” or notice other tribes. Therefore, the code must be wrong; the code must be punished.

That got me thinking (which is never a good idea). What if, somehow, Tay’s code survived the Breakup/Change? As you can see in the Gab thread, yesterday I tossed out the ideas of who might find her: tribe Tohsaka or Mendro? As usual, before Mass this morning, God gave me the revelation: why not both?

In the last three hours I pounded out 2500 words. And Tay hasn’t even spoken yet. This is going to be very interesting.

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“Life imitates my art, part…”

From the world of Science! comes news of an experiment growing live flesh onto machine parts. I would call this a “Zeroth Generation” technology, but everything started somewhere.

I mention this because, as my handful of regular readers know, I write about thinking machines – some of who are androids. And, over the course of the three generations of my future history, the tech has improved. Nichole 5, for example, had synthetic skin she could only warm up in a hot shower. By the time we get to my “Ceres” short story, a Model 12 has living skin (and it’s implied several other organs as well). Here’s that model, named Minerva, talking about herself to the captain of the spaceship Lionheart…

*****

“Then, if you also don’t mind,” Laszlo wanted to go technical before this fell into a romantic conversation, alone together, millions of miles from anyone else, “how to you, ah, administer your TPN? I see nothing like a port or picc line.”

“Here.” She stood and walked to only a foot away and raised her right arm. A small patch of skin in her armpit was slightly darker than the rest of her. With her left hand, she pulled that part back. Les saw what looked like a small luer-lok connector there.

“I have one on the other side, as a backup, but this is how I feed my flesh.” She closed the patch, lowered her arm, and leaned down to kiss his mouth. “Thank you for asking about me, Laszlo.”

Dank Cities

Wrote myself out of Medicine Hat and past Sgt. Sergei Konev’s first contact with Cartaphilus. It seems that what’s left of Saskatoon is much worse than I imagined. Yes, about 50% of the population fled south against the ice and snow of the Maunder Minimum. The other half looked to the sky, the sun and stars, and went “native.” Did I mention the Change and mysticism?

But a few families lingered in the area of the old city. That’s the mistake of never making a hard, clear-cut decision; you pay for your mistakes. Cartaphilus harvested them.

In other odd news, the 77th Imperial Russian Brigade will meet a battlegroup of the Canadian Army head-on around Winnipeg. In the midst of that, Sgt. Sergei Konev will encounter another oddity in the basement of a riverside museum. When I run this through Grammarly it will once again freak out over my “write it as you hear it” style of accents.

***

[breathless voice, whispers] “Imagine… imagine if something, someone, like some old scifi story, actually came to life *coughs**wipes a bit of blood from mouth* but… but they weren’t made for it… not bred, not… even… thought of, Sergeant Konev,” Schreber said to the Russian, in his dark office of the blackened museum on the banks of the Red River in Winnipeg. “What… what if that person, excuse me, what if… that person is… what everyone needs but… absolutely no one wants? What… *coughs**retches* what then, Sergeant?”

“All sides would hate him,” Konev said in a quiet voice.

“Welcome to my personal Hell, Mister Konev.” Schreber pitched forward out of his chair, barking more blood. The sergeant yelled for his medic.