Service Model

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

For all those robots and computers who enjoy working with and having stimulating relationships with humans.

KR15-T

Agatha Christie: mystery of the murder of Uncharles' Master

The Schrödinger’s cat that was Master’s requirement or non-requirement for travelling clothes had finally been irreversibly determined. The box had been opened and upended and only a dead cat had slid stiffly out.

The mortality subroutine that had until recently been the bane of his automated existence had coquettishly lifted a skirt on a series of other potential tasks that Charles was permitted to assay in the eventuality that Master was … unwell.

Doctor, here is the certification with your authority confirming that the human formerly listed as my master is dead. Charles, confirmed. However there is no connection between my private services tendered under contract to your late master, and my public services provided under mandate to the police authorities

It was not a characteristic action, but none of his characteristic actions were any longer part of his available repertoire.

In the utter absence of all his usual Charles-ness, as his systems tried over and over to establish a new queue of tasks in a world that wanted absolutely nothing from him, he found that he could conceive of a world where things worked better.

“The registered owner of these premises has met with a forced demise as the result of foul play, namely, the severing of the carotid arteries with a sharp implement, most likely a straight razor,” the doctor supplied. “That is correct!” Birdbot removed one hand from a pocket for the purpose of presenting an admonitory finger to the gathering. “One of you, here in this room, is a murderer.” The assembled robots stared glassily at him. If Birdbot had been counting on a shocked gasp, his audience’s general lack of breath precluded it.

Parody Of murder mystery accusation scedne

“Our investigations have determined that yesterday morning, at the time in his daily routine when Proprietor would normally be enjoying a shave, parties unknown entered his bedchamber and inflicted lethal injuries as per the forensic report of Doctor Namehere hereinbefore. As a result of these lethal injuries, Proprietor expired unlawfully and is now dead. Sergeant Lune, take a note.” “Recording has been disabled,” Sergeant Lune noted mournfully. “We have examined the house’s recordings of the room where the events took place, which purport to show the culprit entering and committing the crime.” To forestall Charles’ fresh attempt at confession, Birdbot made a silencing gesture. “However, true criminal detection work is seldom so simple. All too often the obvious suspect is merely a red herring and circumstantial evidence such as being recorded committing the crime is only misdirection. We must consider method, motive, and opportunity.” Charles shifted position until he was directly where Birdbot was facing. The inspector smoothly turned on his heel to look elsewhere. “Method,” he announced. “Forensic analysis has revealed that the most likely murder weapon was a straight razor such as the implement that Charles the Valet was using in the house recordings of him murdering Proprietor. Who amongst those present in the house had access to this method?” His flat, glass-eye gaze scoured the room. “It could have been anyone in this room.” Again, Charles tried to sidle into Birdb...

Parody of murder mystery

Shaving another layer of artificial skin off them.

Echo ofc shaving"accident" that killed Master?

I have no duties to return to,” Charles explained. “That is not a police problem.” Birdbot informed him. “I cannot assist. Go about your business.” Charles had no business to go about, but at the same time he had plainly been dismissed. He turned to leave and Birdbot’s heavy hand clenched about his shoulder. “Not so fast, sonny, where do you think you’re going?” “Inspector, about my business,” Charles said. “You dismissed me.” “The domestic unit Charles the Valet is dismissed,” Birdbot said with ineluctable logic. “The dangerous malfunctioning unit Charles the Valet is hereby arrested for causing a fatal industrial accident.” Again, what rushed through Charles was not relief, but merely a sudden simplification of decision-making. The agony of being on the prongs of duties he could not perform was removed from him. “You are required to present yourself to Decommissioning where you will be retired,” Birdbot informed him. Adding, with the air of one desperate to remain true to their programmed character, “Your reign of terror is ended, Charles the Valet.”

Even belongings can seek to belong.

K4FK-R

Franz Kafka: The Castle

This grim portal loomed over the valet for no other reason than that it was required to admit a wide variety of different robot models for decommissioning. This was merely a matter of practicality. It was not intended to be forbidding.

Abandon Hope All Ye Who E

The "E" throws the unit down a rabbit hole to imaginary numbers.

The Undesignated Valet Unit did not abandon hope. Hope was not something it possessed. Perhaps, it considered, Diagnostics would install some manner of hope app before sending it to Decommissioning, so that it could abandon hope on entry.

The more weathered read, First, know thyself. The brighter and more recent said instead, You Know Nothing.

It was good to have hope. Otherwise, what would it have to abandon, when sent to be decommissioned?

What if I don’t have to wait in the queue? Such an irregular thought. But logical. There was a queue outside Diagnostics. The Valet Unit had been sent to Diagnostics. The unit had to wait in the queue. A defective syllogism, surely. The queue could have been generated by some other cause entirely, rather than being a necessary precedent step to attending at Diagnostics.

“Never was a robot that could get a joke.”

4W-L

George Orwell : totalitatian rule of Dr. Washburn, distortion of reality, (Farm -Animal Farm

4W-L

George Orwell

It is absolutely vital that appropriate levels of intrusive micromanagement, divisive paranoia, bullying, and the threat of arbitrary punishments are maintained, so that we can truly re-create the folkways of the past.

the overall impression was that Doctor Washburn had lived several entire lives, each one of them filled with somewhat mediocre achievements.

“After some events at Central Services a new task was created to look further afield.” Passive voice so that Uncharles did not have to delve into how that had come about, between his own definitely-not-desires preferred state and the Wonk’s interference.

It was important that Uncharles have tasks to do, and that he did them, and then that they were done. That was the purpose of existence.

because Master didn’t have a majordomo. No foil for Uncharles’ eternal straight man routine.

In the interim he re-dusted, that being a task that could be performed any number of times without substantially discouraging the expression of universal entropy that was the accretion of dust. He wondered if he should dust Master.

“So back in the day, no fancy domestic robots. They’re lucky if they get a microwave oven and a crappy home assistant that constantly mishears

Washburn went still, staring from the meal to Uncharles as though poisoning was a peripheral part of the valet’s skill set.

Something had broken in. There was an intruder inside the Farm office.

“Tell me they haven’t got out,” he snapped, which Uncharles assessed as a very poor way to talk to robots. “Doctor Washburn, they have not got out,” the orderlies’ spokesrobot, Adam, said, with malicious compliance. Washburn obviously registered his own error, sighing and rolling his eyes at the intransigence of the inanimate. “Tell me,” he said through gritted teeth, “if they’ve got out.”

It was not in Uncharles’ nature to judge his employers, of course. Of all the qualities one would not build into a robot valet, that was surely second on the list. However, given that Uncharles had already violated the first quality on that list—also the first law of robotics—a spread of his general defects to that second was not impossible.

On the basis of his estimation of Diagnostics’ current rate of processing, the date he set was one hundred thousand years in the future. It made a satisfying entry in a period that, otherwise, was distressingly lacking in appointments.

Uncharles cross-referenced a variety of cultural standards in his data banks and was at least able to connect the appropriate memes.

he found himself constructing a tottering Jenga tower of reactive and proactive behavioural guidelines that he was aware could not possibly endure much contact with reality.

“Doctor Washburn,” Adam said, “congratulations and thank you for volunteering for historical re-enactment work under the provisions of the Forced Resettlement and Mandatory Volunteering Programme! You will now be taken to Induction, where you will learn about your exciting role in this vital preservation project!” And though the words were the same, and announced with the prescribed and uncharacteristic fervour, Adam somehow contrived to give them a very different spin.

Dr Washburn gets his just dessert

tin man?

Off to see the Wizard

Beyond the cities, dead suburbs stretched, empty-windowed houses in long lines like a serial killer’s skull collection. Beyond that was the wilderness. Grass and ferns and stunted trees, chewing at the fringes of the road, their crooked sprays of grey green a promise that, one day, even this pilgrimage would be untenable.

Great metaphor

Beyond the cities, dead suburbs stretched, empty-windowed houses in long lines like a serial killer’s skull collection. Beyond that was the wilderness. Grass and ferns and stunted trees, chewing at the fringes of the road, their crooked sprays of grey green a promise that, one day, even this pilgrimage would be untenable.

Great metaphors

Hauler Seventy spoke messianically of an end to all tasks, when the cleaner unit would lie down with the automated artillery model, and carried them uphill to an unmarked nowhere point on the road where it announced the end was not only nigh but reached, and it would have to turn around and go back. There, indeed, the wreck of a cleaning robot was entangled within the entrails of a burnt-out mobile gun, as though it was a place where even parables came to die.

80RH-5

Jorge Luis Borges : archives and libraries

80RH-5

Signicance of number?

Indeed the word “Central” was entirely contraindicated by their course, and Uncharles considered suggesting an amendment to “distal” or “peripheral” when they arrived and he had the chance to link to a librarian.

In this case, logic had apparently taken a backseat. Some aberrant design aspect had been allowed to flower unchecked, and the mountainside all about the great double doors to the Archive was faced with white stone that had been carved into a great and beautiful assemblage of sculptures and reliefs.

Description of Central Libary archive building

Even a spider, caught in perpetual crouch on the etched strands of a web that formed words referring to an indeterminate quantity of pork meat.

Charlotte's Web?

Not exactly a heart and courage and a diploma, but it’ll do, right?”

Wizard of Oz, of course

darn and clean those robes.

Around the walls at ground level Uncharles saw a vast and complex reading device, studded with a thousand different sockets, slots, arms, jacks, and ports, a true testament to humanity’s utter refusal to ever consider cross-medium compatibility.

He was a robot put out of work by automation.