Artificial(ish) Intelligence

Chapter 68

They hadn't said a word to her, ever since she'd stepped into the open-plan office. This wasn't particularly unusual, but the fact she'd skipped the previous day's work meant that someone should be saying something. Right? Especially Mr Borken, since he was still her direct superior.

Adelaide sat at her tidy desk and breathed out a sigh. It wasn't a fun process to be locked up in jail, even for a night. Since when did the hospital introduce robotic helpers? It should have been a mild-mannered old lady spoon-feeding soup, not the mechanised manifestation of Rambo, or Rocky, or someone more contemporary.

The multi-function colour laser printer to her side whirled up into motion as someone sent a print-job. It always took a moment to properly warm up. Still, it was a far superior model to the decrepit flotsam laying about in the corridors of the unused wing. You remember, the one that was able to print A3 documents at fifty-two ppm.

Adelaide rubbed her foot subconsciously. It was no longer swollen, at least, so she could fit into her heels with only the usual measure of pain.

Even if this wasn't the same machine, she gave it a glare.

"Lovelace!"

It was Mr Borken, and he was motioning her into his office. This wasn't the way he'd done it countless times before. Instead of that knowing smirk, which she now saw as irritating, he wore a serious expression, adorned with that pretentious raised mono-brow. As if they never shared an intimate relationship.

A computer scientist and engineer from R&D slipped out the office past Adelaide, relief written across their faces. Had they been spared the rod?

Once she'd taken a seat, he nodded to the door. She sighed, got up, closed it, and returned.

At length, Mr Borken smiled directly at her, until spying a small device made of composite material, about the size of a mouth and in the shape of two opposing bell curves. "Oh, sorry," he said, clearly not sorry, as he retrieved it, slowly lowering the object into a desk draw, as if this were an advertising spot.

Adelaide quickly realised this was the attachment the engineer from R&D had spoken about in the stairwell a few days back. It wasn't the AI at all, but a way to turn a selfiebot into a hands-free, er, massager, for lonely nights.

"As you know," said Mr Borken, getting back to business, "the company is undergoing a restructuring. This has entailed a detailed analysis of underutilised resources in all facets of the operation."

"Just get it out," said Adelaide, before realising how many times she'd uttered that same sentence in the past.

"You're fired," said Mr Borken, his lips rising up on the sides.

It hit her like a lead balloon. Or a lead fish. Or just a lead weight; perhaps the exact same one that cracked the seesaw, earlier in the story. She'd been expecting it, intellectually, especially after what happened to Maggie, but now that she was in this position it didn't sit well. When an event is in the future you can rationalise, play it out in your mind, but in the moment emotions rise to the surface. If I had to pick a colour, most would be raging reds.

"I built this," said Adelaide. "You'd have a dinky boutique business selling vanity drones if it wasn't for me."

"We value the contributions of all our employees at House of Paschar. But the reports are back and the automated haitch-arr system was a complete success -- ahum, close enough -- that your services are, alas, no longer required."

There was enough sarcasm in his little speech to satisfy Paige. And not a small amount of innuendo. He must have written this out beforehand and practised in front of a mirror like in the old days.