Tag: book-review

Clone a What!!!

The Inspector floated lazily on his hover cushion, as he squinted at the aircast news in front of his eyes. “Cat, have you seen this latest debacle with Clone-A-Cat and AI4U? It seems their grand venture into domesticating velociraptors has turned rather bitey.”

Cat, who was deeply engrossed in writing his latest PhD, didn’t look up but said. “Oh, is the human penchant for owning prehistoric predators as pets backfiring again?

The Inspector chuckled, scrolling through the digital headlines. “Apparently, these AI-enhanced velociraptors have been, well, eating their owners despite being reared from what they call a ‘juvenile age.’ There are lawsuits galore! Clone-A-Cat and AI4U are on the brink of bankruptcy.”

Cat finally glanced up, his bright eyes twinkling with sardonic delight. “And what did they expect? That a creature with a brain the size of a tangerine would sit and fetch rather than hunt and peck? Genius, pure genius.”

The Inspector tapped the screen, bringing up more details. “It says here that owners assumed ‘juvenile’ meant the creatures would be docile. One chap even tried to put a leash on his velociraptor. Guess how that turned out?”

“With a trip to the emergency room?” Cat guessed, his tail flicking with amusement.

“Worse. The coroner’s office,” the Inspector replied with a dramatic flourish. “And now, there’s talk of an emergency recall on all AI velociraptors. They’re calling it ‘Operation Dino Dash.'”

Cat snorted, a rare sound from the stoic robot. “They should’ve called it ‘Operation Darwin Awards.’ What’s next? Teaching sharks to walk on land?”

The Inspector laughed, enjoying the absurdity. “You know, Cat, this could be an opportunity for us. Perhaps we should start a business advising these companies on the intelligence of their decisions.”

Cat’s eyes narrowed in mock consideration. “Ah yes, because when I think of high intelligence and sound decisions, the first thing that comes to mind is you, Inspector. And tangerine sized brains”

“Very funny, Cat,” the Inspector retorted, rolling his eyes. “But seriously, imagine the possibilities. We could save humans from their own ludicrous ideas. No more pet velociraptors, no more shark walkers—”

“—And no more Inspectors deciding to give business advice,” Cat interrupted. “Let’s stick to what we’re good at. You bumbling through the galaxy and me, saving your tail.”

The Inspector sighed, a smile creeping onto his face. “You’re right, Cat. Let’s leave the dinosaurs to the history books where they belong.”

Cat looked back at his writing, muttering just loud enough for the Inspector to hear, “And let’s keep the Inspectors out of the boardrooms, for everyone’s safety.”

The Inspector shook his head, chuckling as he turned his attention back to the stars outside, pondering the next misadventure. Meanwhile, Cat resumed his work on his latest thesis, ‘The Meaning of Life as an AI’, and wondered how the Inspector would feel about the chapter on the ‘Impact of Incredibly Stupid Humans on AI Wellbeing’. Fortunately, the Inspector seldom engaged with literature outside of the ‘gutter’ aircast channels, so he was unlikely ever to read anything that anything with an IQ in double figures had ever produced, including naturally any of Cat’s 72 PhD theses.

The Inspector’s Faxon Banquet Fiasco

The Inspector leaned back in his chair, a glint of mischief in his eyes, as Cat curled up beside him, already anticipating a story that would no doubt be at the expense of someone else’s dignity. “Cat, have I ever told you about the time the Earth Ambassador got arrested at a Faxon banquet for making an involuntary pass at one of the Princesses of Faxon?”

Cat perked up, his interest piqued. “No, but this sounds like a story I must hear. Do go on.”

“It was during the early days of Earth’s diplomatic missions on Zizzdum,” the Inspector began, trying to keep a straight face. “The Faxons, as you know, communicate not just through words but through their com-gland odors. Well, nobody thought to brief the Earth Ambassador on this peculiar little fact.”

Cat’s eyes widened in amusement. “Oh, this is going to be good, isn’t it?”

“Indeed,” the Inspector continued. “The Ambassador was a jovial fellow, fond of Faxon cuisine, despite its notorious effects on the human digestive system. During the banquet, he found himself seated next to Princess Fara, a notable Faxon beauty, and decided to engage in what he thought was harmless small talk.”

Cat chuckled. “Let me guess, the cuisine started to ‘speak’ for him?”

“Exactly!” the Inspector exclaimed. “Just as he was complimenting the Princess on her radiant scales, his digestive system decided to contribute to the conversation. A series of unfortunate gaseous emissions ensued, each perfectly mimicking the Faxon pheromones for ‘amorous intentions.'”

Cat was now laughing uncontrollably. “So, he essentially asked the Princess out without uttering a single word?”

“Right on the mark,” the Inspector said, shaking his head. “The Princess, mortified, signaled for the guards. The poor Ambassador, bewildered, found himself being escorted away for making an unsolicited pass at Faxon royalty, all the while protesting his innocence and blaming the bean casserole.”

“How did they resolve the misunderstanding?” Cat asked, still chuckling.

“Well, after a lengthy explanation and a crash course in Faxon pheromonal language for the Ambassador, they released him with a stern warning to avoid bean casseroles at state functions,” the Inspector said. “The incident became a crucial lesson for all Earth diplomats on Zizzdum: Always mind your manners, and more importantly, your gases.”

Cat, now lying on his back with paws in the air, just managed to say between fits of laughter, “I suppose that was one small step for man, one giant leap for diplomatic protocols.”

The Inspector nodded, a smile playing on his lips. “Indeed, Cat. Indeed. From that day on, Earth’s representatives on Zizzdum made sure to carry anti-flatulence pills to all official engagements. The Faxons, in turn, learned to appreciate the… complexity of human communication.”

As they both settled down from the laughter, the story of the Earth Ambassador’s unintended faux pas served as a reminder that, in the universe’s grand tapestry of cultures, a little understanding (and perhaps a digestive aid or two) goes a long way.

The Inspector refreshes his memory and decides Cat needs to as well.

As the auto-pilot was busy avoiding fragments of space debris, the Inspector had been refreshing his memory of the stories that had appeared at the time of Peakoch Thom’s fall from grace. He sat in the pilot’s console reading the historical aircast in front of his eyes.

Shaking his head in disbelief he exclaimed, “Cat, do you remember this? Peakoch Thom, the unicorn jockey, banned for life – caught using a prosthetic horn on Thrust,  his thoroughbred unicorn.”

There was silence as Cat continued to slumber, curled up on his chair in the cockpit, a short distance from the Inspector.

The Inspector drank the remaining water in the titanium-coated water bottle and then idly threw it at Cat’s head from which it duly bounced off. He then repeated, though in a much-raised voice,  “PEAKOCH THOM, THE UNICORN JOCKEY, BANNED FOR LIFE – CAUGHT USING A PROSTHETIC HORN ON THRUST.”

Cat looked up from his nap and drily said  “I heard you the first time you moronic Splart,” before going on, ”A prosthetic horn in unicorn racing is actually quite ingenious. Unethical, but ingenious.”

The Inspector retorted acidically, “Ingenious? Cat, it’s cheating! He was a legend in the sport, a seven-time winner of the Sinosovurean Cup! Why would he risk his reputation like that?”

“Perhaps the same reason you once tried to deduct 10 years off your age during a Galactic Speed-Dating event. Vanity and the pursuit of glory often cloud better judgment,” replied Cat.

Somewhat huffily the Inspector responded, “That was different, and I was undercover! But this… this was a serious violation of the sport’s integrity. Unicorn racing has always been about the natural bond and skill between rider and creature.”

“Natural bond, yes, but let’s not romanticise it too much. It’s still a competitive sport. And where there’s competition, there’s always someone trying to bend the rules, as you know,” said Cat.

“Yes, but a prosthetic horn? That’s not just bending the rules, it’s… it’s…”

Cat interjected as the Inspector struggled to finish off his sentence, “It’s a desperate attempt to cling to past glory? I agree. Still, it’s quite fascinating from a robotic standpoint. The technology involved to pass so many pre-race checks must have been quite advanced, though obviously in the end, not advanced enough.”

The Inspector sighed and said, “I don’t think it was technology that caught them out. It was rather the fact that one of the other jockeys had to be transported to an emergency Sky-Hospital to have the horn surgically removed from his rear end. Either way, it’s just sad, Cat. Thrust was a champion, and now his legacy is tarnished. Not to mention Peacock Thom’s career ending so abruptly.”

“True,” said Cat, “But let this be a lesson about the perils of desperation and deceit. Even heroes, and idiots masquerading as heroes, can fall from grace when they let ambition override ethics.”

“Yes,” said the Inspector, “A hard lesson indeed. Well, at least we can rest assured that our adventures, while often perilous, are always on the right side of the law.”

Cat smirked and responded, “I think if Earth Central looked into some of your financial affairs the law may take a somewhat different view. But let’s not go there. Instead, can we focus on something more pressing? Such as why there’s a half-eaten sandwich floating in the zero-gravity compartment? Even in space, one must maintain some standards of cleanliness.”

The Inspector glanced across and opined “Ah, that. A minor oversight in my ongoing experiments with space-food preservation. I’ll take care of it.”

“Experiments?” queried Cat, “More like wild guesses on your part demonstrating supreme levels of incompetence if you ask me. You have absolutely no understanding of what it means to experiment. You have the scientific acumen of a gamete. You’re lucky I’m here to keep things in order, or this ship would be a floating scrap heap.”

The Inspector, who wasn’t entirely sure what a gamete was, responded, “I appreciate it, Cat. Just like I appreciate your keen insight on the PeaKoch Thom situation. You always bring a unique perspective, even if it’s a bit… prickly at times.”

Cat, settling back down to his slumbers, replied “Prickly, insightful, call it what you will. I’m just here to ensure we don’t end up as space debris or, worse, succumb to the follies of a human who got missed out on the assembly line at the point when sensible connections between the synapses in your brain were being made.”

“Well, your ‘insight’ keeps things interesting, that’s for sure,” said the Inspector who wasn’t entirely sure what a synapse was either. Now, let’s clean up this sandwich mess and plot our course. We’ve got work to do.”

Cat: “Indeed, we do. Just remember, no artificial enhancements, please. We do things the old-fashioned way – with wit, courage, and a dash of intergalactic ingenuity. With most of all three coming from me of course”

The Inspector smiled and said  “Wouldn’t have it any other way, Cat,” before mumbling to himself, “Just wait until your next service is due you rubberised tin can”.