That which is measured

That which is measured, improves.

Janet O’Steen, Ireland’s foremost logodisciplinarian finished typing the sentence and then sat back.  She looked at her laptop – new – and admired its sleek keyboard, its polished screen, and its attempt to be so thin as to be considered anorexic by other laptops.  Then she looked beyond it, at the word-processing program on the screen, and considered the sentence that she’d just typed.

She’d spent the morning measuring for curtains, and she was a little worried that the old curtains might have improved by the time she returned home, at which point she might have to keep them.  That would save her money, true, but she had seen some rather nice black and red curtains that reminded her of a sunburned tiger (she still swore that she’d seen one in the County Kilkenny Safari park one summer in the 1970s), and liked the idea of having a tiger in the living room.  Still, she had now committed to buying the curtains in her mind, so perhaps if the old curtains had improved she could move them to a different room.

“Oh, what a lovely sentiment!”  The soft, polite voice was like nails on a blackboard to Janet, reminding her far too much of her mother.  She controlled a snarl and turned in her seat to see who was talking.  Behind her, facing away from her, was a young woman holding a broken fortune cookie in one hand and a little strip of paper in the other.  To her side was a proper pram, an actual perambulator that was as big as a small woman and could fit six babies at once with a little bit of tetris-style packing.  Naturally it was blocking the aisle of the coffee-shop, occluding access to the tiny toilet, and contained only one small child.

“What’s a lovely sentiment?” asked Janet, torn between annoyance that the speaker hadn’t been reading over her shoulder and relief that she now didn’t have to explain what she meant to anyone.  It was, in her opinion, the reader’s job to work when they picked up a book.  Modern authors, who stopped and explained all the difficult words to their readers, and put in glossaries and appendices and maps and translations were, she felt, pandering to the thick, unwashed masses; the common quagmire.

“This fortune cookie,” said the young woman, half-turning to face Janet.  She held out the strip of paper.  “Look, it says that I will meet a gentleman in distress today!”

“It’s a fortune cookie,” said Janet, her annoyance growing at what was obvious credulity of the part of this woman.  “They’re randomly generated by computer somewhere.  They’re utterly meaningless.”

“To you,” retorted the woman.  “I intend to make this fortune happen, and then I can be pleased that it came true.  If I ran home and hid until tomorrow then I’m sure you’d be delighted to meet me here and point out how you were right; will you now meet me here tomorrow and be shown that you were wrong?”

“No,” said Janet swiftly, spotting the trap.  “You’re going to go looking for a gentleman as soon as you leave the shop, aren’t you?”

The young woman laughed gently.  “Aye, that I am,” she said.  “And then I’ll run over his foot with my perambulator and to be sure, he’ll be in distress then!”

Janet smiled despite herself, finding a kindred spirit with this woman and her quiet, pleasing baby.

“So now you know that I spend my time running over members of the gentry and then boasting about it in coffee shops across the county,” said the young woman.  “So what is that you do then?”

“I’m an author,” said Janet immediately, who believed in self-publicity, all the harder since her publicist had contracted mouth-cankers and had gone on long-term sick leave.

“Are you writing at the moment?”

“Of course!”  Janet looked slightly put-out, and then seeing an opening to start talking about herself, seized it.  “I’m writing a new book at the moment that shall be set in Canterbury and will follow the trials and tribulations of a young girl born into a society family who nevertheless dreams of being a surveyor.  Her mother, who in her youth seduced minor members of the nobility and contracted a slow-acting, drug-resistant form of syphilis, is in the third, brain-eating stages though and won’t hear of her daughter doing anything other than coming out with the other young girls at the Debutantes Ball.  Jane, the daughter in question, fears that her mother intends to set her up with a syphilitic noble son as a means of controlling her, and longs to find a way to leave home and join the Ordnance Survey.  She has romantic notions of sharing a theodolite with a handsome young man with a November beard, and sleeping in a quiet tent some hundred yards away from him at night. When she’s lonely, she cuddles her ruler.”

The young woman’s eyes had grown wide as she listened.  “You wrote Bride of Prejudice!” she said suddenly.  “I read that book so many times!  It was my absolute favourite for years.”

“What’s your favourite now?” asked Janet, unable to accept a compliment if she could dig up an insult.

“The cat that walked into walls,” said the young woman.  “Only two parts have been serialised in the magazines so far, but it’s absolutely amazing.  Arbutternot is almost a hero of mine.”

“Sounds like something to go on toast,” muttered Janet, her heart only slightly bitten by dark jealousy.  “Jane, in my story, finds that the only way to improve things is to measure them.”

“Sounds kinky,” said the young woman with an approving nod.  “I bet her young man enjoys that!”

“With a theodolite!” snapped Jane.

The young woman got up to move her perambulator out of an agonised-looking gentleman’s way, somehow managing to run over his foot in the process.  He yelped, hopped briefly, then flushed crimson as something started leaking down his trouser leg.  He raced for the toilet, leaving tiny golden puddles behind him.

“That sounds painful,” she said, sounding a little thoughtful.  “There you go, my dear, one distressed gentleman.”

The Turing Observer

"We need you to be a Turing Observer."  The man who spoke was quiet but authoritative, his manner suggesting subtly that he wasn't expecting me to say no.  I looked at him again, my eyes raking across him as I tried to work out what I was talking to.  He was wearing a dark-blue Italian wool suit with a nearly invisible pin-stripe and creases so sharp that they could only have been ironed in that morning.  Or he was a robot and didn't fidget, sit awkwardly or do any of the other hundred small things that caused humans to rumple their clothes.  His fingernails were manicured, so he either cared about his appearance – not unusual in his line of work – or he was a robot and they mostly kept themselves looking manicured.  He was wearing a signet ring on the little finger of his left hand, which seemed quite human until you knew that a lot of robots were now copying humans for their outward appearances and had picked up on small, distinguishing things like jewellery, freckles and key-jangling as easy, low-cost ways to fit in better.  His shoes were black and shiny enough to reflect nearby objects.  His eyes were hazel and looked slightly too wet, but that could as easily be an eye infection.  He was very, very hard to judge.
"What's one of those then?" I asked.  I knew what a Turing Observer was, it was a human hired by the artificial intelligences that oversee Turing tests, checking that the test was conducted fairly and judged correctly.  They claimed that there had to be both an AI and a human observer for fairness, but some of us knew that the real reason was that they were afraid that the humans were cheating.  And there was the crux of the matter: the Turing Observer was never told if the test subject was human or robot, so if you declared the test failed, and the AI Observer agreed, you might just have declared a human incapable of appearing human.
It gave people nightmares, and they rarely lasted more than a month or two in the job.  But if there were two AI observers, somehow the humans never failed, and the AIs had decided that the humans must be cheating somehow.
The man explained all this to me in clipped, dry tones, speaking a little bit fast, and hinting only very, very slightly at an accent.  Italian, I thought.  Again, it could be a robot, but it could also be what it appeared to be: a clever man with a lots of years of experience in dealing with people and handling difficult situations.  No comment that I must know what a Turing Observer was, which suggested a lot of patience if he was truly human.
"Turing as in...?" I said, testing a little further.
"Alan Turing, the British – you know, we have run background checks on you.  We know that you know all this.  Do you really need to hear me tell you?"
"I guess not," I said, smiling.  Again, borderline human/AI.  "It's not a light decision to take," I said.  "Would you like a coffee while I think about it?"
"I'm vegan," he said straight away.  "I like coffee, but it would need to be fairtrade really."
"They serve Kopi Luwak," I said, "though it's incredibly expensive.  You can't get much closer to vegan than that, I should think."
"The stuff that's pre-digested by civet cats?"  He frowned, and I automatically counted the wrinkles.  AIs had a slight preference to prime numbers, but this guy's head wrinkled into six slightly uneven furrows.
"Yes, but since the cats eat the coffee cherries, and aren't caged or in any other way coerced into eating them, and everything after that is pretty much manual labour, there's no animals harmed or exploited in the production of the coffee."
He thought about this, and as he did a tiny little tic appeared under his left eye and vibrated for a couple of seconds until he reached up and rubbed it.
"Sounds like it's worth a taste," he said.  "You're paying, right?"
"And you're a robot," I said, standing up to go to the counter.  He put out a hand to stop me.
"How?" he asked.
"Serial number first," I said.  "Confirm it for me."
"XJS6001-10189-5.88," he said, speaking rapidly and so quietly he was nearly whispering.  My phone automatically recorded the number and beeped, so I touched the Confirm icon and it came back nearly instantaneously: welder-droid in a factory in New Hampshire.  Had an arm, but definitely no face, no feet, and no expensive wool suit.
"Right," I said, knowing that I'd not looked at the phone for long enough for him to think I'd done anything but check the Yes/No display.  "You've got servo-motor stiffness that humans just don't show."
"Of course," he said, nodding his head, suddenly slightly jerky.  "You did extremely well to spot that.  You are, of course, no longer qualified to be a Turing Observer now."
"Of course," I said, contriving an expression of dismay with a hint of happiness behind it.  "I'm sorry."
"Don't be," he said, and left as abruptly as he'd arrived.
I looked around the coffee shop and sipped my coffee, and thought some more about him.  He was a robot, and he'd lied about the serial number to see how I'd react.  He was far too perfect to be human and showed too little interest in coffee crapped out by some kind of cat.  Even the most perfect vegan would have had more of an opinion on it than he had.
And I didn't want to be a Turing Observer again.  I'd hated having to fail humans, but I'd hated having to pass the AIs as well, because they were changing what it meant to be human.  Soon only the AIs would be able to be human enough to pass, and then they'd be free to redefine humanity in their own image.  I didn't much look forward to that day.

Coffee morning

She's thinking about her homework; she left the book on the breakfast counter instead of putting in her bag, and now she's thinking that if she hadn't done that, she could be doing her homework now.  It's boring, but it's surface level.  There'll be something more interesting a little deeper.  And so I push....
Ah, now we have something.  A figure, male maybe?  They usually are.  He comes into focus briefly and then shudders and hazes out again.  She doesn't want to think about him, which makes me all the more curious, so I push a little harder.
Ah, resolution at last.  It's not a man, it's a woman, a little older than her, wearing a bra and a skirt with toothpaste stains near the knee.  Ah, there's a toothbrush in her mouth as well, and a little foam on her lips.  She's leaning over the book on the counter, and spit-and-toothpaste are dripping on the book.
"Whatcha readin' this for, Marry?" she says.  "I thought we agreed it out; you're just clever enough as you are."
The woman hazes out again and a I feel a little pressure back.  She really doesn't like thinking about this woman.  I wonder about her name briefly, and then realise that with an American accent Mary can become Marry.
"I saw you looking over at me," says a light voice, just a hint of a tremor in it.  Someone nervous, not used to approaching strangers.  I open my eyes, and the girl whose thoughts I've been dipping into is standing on the other side of the café table, her satchel hanging loosely from her hand by its strap.  She's favouring her left leg, and to compensate she's tilted her head slightly to the right.  Her eyes are brown, wide and sparkly, and her skin looks soft.
"I looked at everybody, darlin'," I say, broadening my speech into a drawl, going for somewhere in the Deep South.  It was a stupid idea really, I can't keep an accent up for long, just like I can't keep myself from popping into people's thoughts for long either.
"I saw that too," she says.  "Is this seat taken?"  She gestures with casual indifference, someone who's sitting down because it's easier than standing.  Not yet inviting herself into my company, still waiting for an offer.
"Only by any as wants it," I say.  That doesn't sound right to my ears, so I throw a "Y'all" on to the end of it.  That sounds worse, but she doesn't seem to notice.  She sits down, shuffling the seat so that its rusted metal feet scrape on the scored tiles on the floor.
"I think I know you," she says now, leaning in to me slightly, her eyes raking across my face with an intensity that makes me sit back and sit up, stop slouching and start paying more attention.  There's something very intense about this woman.  "I think I dreamt about you.  Last night."
I force a smile, and then a laugh.  It sounds hollow, and I hope she doesn't notice.  "I should think you'd have better things to dream about than me," I say.  "I'm just passing the time here in the warm until they kick me out in the cold, and then I'll find another café and another coffee.  I sometimes think I'm just waiting here in this life holding a place for someone else, someone who's a little late to the party."
She's not listening, she's still searching my face, looking for something, so I dip back into her thoughts to see what she's looking for.
Oh sweet Jesus, she did dream about me last night, the dream is uppermost in her mind right now.  There I am, lying on my back on some kind of hospital gurney, strapped down at the wrists and ankles, and the woman with the toothpaste is leaning over me holding a knife of some kind.  She's saying something, but I can't hear what she's saying, there's too much noise, a siren of some kind, blaring like an emergency klaxon.  I look around, wondering where the woman I'm talking to is – people always inhabit their own dreams, whether they realise it or not – but I can't find her.  The toothpaste woman raises her arm and her sleeve falls back slightly, revealing a tattoo on her wrist, three numbers: 616.
"I dreamt you and I were in a library," she says, and I'll pulled back out of her thoughts to find that she's now looking down at the table top and talking to me.  Lying to me.  "You were showing me a book you thought I'd like."
"Well now, that can't be me," I say.  "I can't read, never have been able to.  My Mammie didn't feel that letters and numbers were entirely holy, for all that the Bible she slept with used them freely.  All that educatin' stuff was for God, and not for His children."
"The library is two blocks from here," she says, still not looking up.  "I thought... I know it sounds strange, but in the dream I really, really wanted that book.  Would you... would you mind coming with me?  It'll only take a few minutes, and perhaps that book is important to me."
She reaches out for my hand, and in doing so reveals her wrist.  A tattoo is there, the numbers 919.
"And how many names do you have?" I say softly, my voice barely more than the exhalation of air.
She looks at me, aware that she's somehow revealed herself without knowing how, and her face twists into a snarl.  She seizes my coffee cup and throws the contents into my face; the stone-cold coffee splashes like a fragrant wave on a choppy sea, and then I'm on my feet and running for the door.

Hounds of Love

I shone the pocket torch on the lock, scanning it back and forth to build up an image in my mind of what I was looking at. The torch's beam was a circle about as large as my thumbprint, to reduce the chances of anyone else seeing the light. Bill, standing behind be and holding the velvet-lined leather bag with our tools in, sighed softly, reflectively.
"You know, it'd be kind of cool to own a kennel," he said quietly. I held my hand out, and he dropped an electronic probe into it.
"You can get them from garden centres, I think," I said. "Or build your own of course, it's not like they're big or difficult. Hell, maybe we could go the whole hog and get an architect to design us one!"
"Not that kind of kennel! A kennel, like a stable. A collection of dogs."
"I'm pretty sure they're called packs," I said. The tool beeped softly, confirming that there was a voltage flowing somewhere inside the lock. I handed it back to Bill and asked for an isolator core.
"Well, whatever they're called. It'd be pretty cool to own one of them. What architect?"
"James," I said, realising I needed a fixative as well. Bill located it in the toolbag. "Why do you want this pack of dogs then? They'll probably view you as the runt of the litter and dominate you completely. Oh... this isn't your Temple of Love again, is it?"
"No! Jesus, a guy dares to dream and you go and drag his dreams down to the sewers. No, these are Hounds of Love."
I finished locking the isolator core in place and indicated I needed a nine volt battery. My silence was eloquent enough.
"Not like that Temple! No, these are Hounds of Love. I'd hire them out to people who wanted to find love, a girlfriend, or a boyfriend, and the dogs would race off and find people who could be compatible. Then, like Lassie they'd communicate, and people would say things like, 'What's that? There's someone who loves me waiting to meet me?'"
"Bill," I said in as even a tone as I could manage. "Think about this. You're proposing to let loose a pack of dogs who'll pounce on people, pinning them to the ground and slobbering on them, to tell them that a complete stranger is infatuated with them and plans to lock them in a small room and do unspeakable things to them day after day after day–" The lock clicked and I shut up. A moment later, a very quiet hiss told me that the voltage in the lock had shut off.
"Impact punch," I said, holding my hand out.
"You make everything sound bad," said Bill. "It wouldn't be like that."
"I've seen you trying to train things," I said, grunting slightly as I worked on the lock. "It would be exactly like that. And exactly those kinds of people would be your customers. And I don't make everything sound bad, just things you're doing. Which reminds me, how's the mushroom girl?"
"What mushroom girl?" He sounded genuinely puzzled.
"Chanterelle? Shi'itake? Morel?" I guessed. The lock pinged unexpectedly and I scanned the torch rapidly over it again, and discovered that what I'd expected to be reinforced and anodised was actually a cheap aluminium cover.
"Oh, Morel. No, I'm seeing Pomodoro now. Her name means 'Golden Apple,' how beautiful is that?"
I stifled a giggle and wrenched. The lock resisted for a moment and then slid out into my hand. I handed it back to Bill, and opened the door.
"Is she red-faced and slightly overweight?" I said. We walked down the corridor, our footsteps clicking slightly on the tiles.
"Well... hey, why?"
"Pomodoro means tomato in Italian, so I'd imagine she's red and squishy. Jesus, Bill, you're paying for these girls. Can't you afford ones with real names?"
He said nothing, but the corridor had widened into a room now, an exhibition space with the painting that we'd come to liberate standing on steel easels. We had work to do.

Love is a temple

"Love is a temple," said Bill. He was leaning his chair back on two legs, staring up at the ceiling and tapping his pen against his teeth.
"A temple to which god?" I asked. The espresso machine was whistling oddly and I tapped the pressure gauge.
"Um, the god of love, of course."
"Which one? There are a few."
"Well...," Bill shrugged, nearly catapulting himself backwards off his chair. "Cupid then, he's the one you get on Valentine's Day."
"The little kid with wings? That doesn't sound like the kind of love I'd want to see."
"Hey, not like that!"
I tapped the pressure gauge again and the little needle rose. I thought it might be sticking. "Look, if you want a temple to kiddie-fiddling, be my guest. Just don't invite me to come and watch. Or worship, for that matter."
"It's not a kiddie-fiddler temple!" Bill's chair came back down onto four legs with a clatter. "It's a temple of love, pure and unsullied."
"Involving children."
"NO! Look, it's from a song, alright? You know, 'Love is a temple, love is a shrine,'?"
"You get yours at the five and dime," I continued, nodding my head and checking the pipes at the back of the espresso machine. They were quivering, which seemed like a bad sign.
"What?"
"Well, you do," I said. "That one last week, for example."
"Morel, you mean."
"She has a name now? Well, she must have given you change from a ten, or she was ripping you off. Hang on, a morel's a type of mushroom!"
"Shut up. Just shut up, and don't pretend you don't hire the odd working girl now and 'then."
"Of course I don't, I don't like girls that way." I tapped the pressure gauge harder; the whistling's pitch was increasing and making me uncomfortable. "And yours aren't just odd, they're factory rejects. Morel looked like she had to shave places humans don't have hair. Is she going to be in this temple of yours?"
"Look, there's no damn temple any more, ok? Just shut up about it."
"Closed down already? That's the problem with organised religion these days, there's no staying power. Now, you take your classical Judaistic beliefs... ok, actually I think we should leave."
"My coffee?" Bill stood up, and I dodged past him, heading for where we'd forced the coffee-shop window.
"Something's blocked in there," I called, as he realised what I was doing. "I'm pretty sure it's like Morel!"
"Like Morel?"
"Going to blow!"