Tag: books

The Great Sock Conspiracy: Outthinking Cortex (Or Not)

The day started like any other intergalactic tax investigation: with a creeping suspicion that someone, somewhere, was up to no good, and my robot cat mocking me for apparently having the IQ of a microwaved turnip.

Cat and I had finally secured a meeting with the X Epsilon Mushk Jr., Chief Executive of Cortex. A man so rich he could buy a solar system and still have enough left over to gold-plate the rivets used in the construction of moonbuses made by one of his other shady operations. A man whose name, I discovered, was physically impossible for me to pronounce correctly.

“Mr. Ex-Elong… Epilson… Mr. Eel-X…” I stammered, shaking his hand.

“X Epsilon Mushk Jr.,” he corrected smoothly, as if this was a perfectly normal sequence of words and not a cruel joke on the alphabet.

“Yes, yes, that’s what I said,” I lied. “Now, let’s talk Cortex. Specifically, how you’re stealing people’s thoughts.”

X Epsilon Mushk Jr. gave me the blank, impassive stare of a man who had spent his life hearing conspiracy theories and had reached the pinnacle of not giving a single neuron. “Cortex doesn’t steal thoughts,” he said. “We predict them. It’s all very simple—our AI takes billions of data points and—”

I waved a hand dismissively. “Save the technobabble, Mr. Epsilon Elong.”

“X Epsilon Mushk Jr.,” he said again, visibly aging as he spoke.

“Exactly,” I said. “You see, I’ve already figured out how to beat your system.”

X Epsilon Mushk Jr. raised an eyebrow. Cat, who was perched smugly on the conference table, sighed and began cleaning an imaginary speck of dirt off his Rubanob paw.

“You claim Cortex can predict my every move?” I continued. “Well, what if I introduce… chaos?”

“Chaos?” X Epsilon repeated warily.

I leaned forward dramatically. “Yes. Specifically, socks.”

There was quite a long silence.

“What?” asked X Epsilon Mushk Jr., who clearly was not prepared for the intellectual duel he found himself in

“Socks,” I repeated triumphantly. “Your AI predicts everything based on past data, right? Well, what happens if I wear mismatched socks? How will your system cope if I wear—say—one blue sock and one green sock? What then, Mr X?”

X Epsilon Mushk Jr. just blinked at me.

I pressed on, emboldened by the sheer genius of my revelation. “Every morning, I let Cortex scan me. It reads my thoughts, my habits, my entire mental blueprint. But if my socks are unpredictable, it proves Cortex is stealing my thoughts—because how else would it know which socks I was going to pick?”

X Epsilon Mushk Jr. did not seem as stunned by my revelation as I had hoped.

“Inspector,” Cat interjected, rubbing his temple with a paw. “That’s not how probability works.”

“Exactly!” I said, ignoring him completely. “We’re onto them! Cortex thinks it can outthink me, but I will outthink the outthinkers by refusing to think in a thinkable way!”

Cat groaned. “Oh dear AI, AI AI…..you’ve had a rough week Inspector. Perhaps best to take one of your old fashioned pills”

“I have not had a bad week,” I snapped.

“Yes, you have,” Cat said. “You got your head stuck in the nutrient generator in the kitchen remember looking for your sausage.”

“That’s unrelated!” I barked. “Now, Mr. Mushky Senior—”

“X Epsilon Musk Jr.,” he corrected again, now looking like a man who deeply regretted every choice that had led him to this moment.

I ignored him. “Tell me this—if I wear pink socks with purple polka dots tomorrow, will your system know?”

X Epsilon Musk Jr. sighed. “We don’t track sock colors.”

“Ah-ha! That’s exactly what you would say if you did track them but didn’t want me to know you did.”

“I assure you, Cortex has no interest in—”

“Oh, no,” I interrupted, eyes widening. “You already knew I was going to say that! That means you do track sock colors!”

“This is unbearable,” muttered X Epsilon Musk Jr.

Cat, meanwhile, was tapping into Cortex’s mainframe via his internal systems. “You might be onto something, Inspector,” he mused.

“Aha! See?” I pointed at Cat. “Even my robot cat agrees.”

“No, I meant that Cortex does have a small subroutine for tracking seemingly irrelevant personal habits,” Cat admitted. “But it’s mostly used for targeted sock advertising.”

“Sock advertising?” I gasped. “That’s even worse! Not only are they stealing thoughts, but they’re also trying to sell me things based on them? This is a crime against free will!”

X Epsilon Musk Jr. rubbed his temples and his eyes started to twitch. “This entire meeting is a crime against my time.”

I stood up dramatically. “Well, Mr Y, you may think you’ve won. But know this—I will never wear the socks you suggest to me!”

X Epsilon Mushk Jr. looked at Cat. “Is he always like this?”

“Yes,” said Cat.

With that, I stormed out, convinced that I had single-handedly unraveled the greatest technological scandal of the century. Behind me, Cat sighed and followed.

And the next morning, when my Cortex feed displayed an ad for 50% off novelty socks, I screamed in horror.

They knew.

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”.

Back to Pzzaxamix

Aboard their spaceship, the Inspector was desperately trying to navigate through an asteroid belt. Cat, lounging on the dashboard, watched him with a mix of amusement and disdain.

As the Inspector pressed as many buttons as he could on the console in front of him he exclaimed, “Blast it, Cat! These asteroids are coming out of nowhere! We need to recalibrate the G-Soft navigational system!”

Cat yawned before replying “Or you could just admit that your piloting skills are about as refined as a three-legged Bognor Beast in a Strictly Come Prancing contest.”

The Inspector glanced across at Cat and sarcastically replied, “Your helpfulness is as overwhelming as always, Cat. Remind me again why I didn’t opt for an intelligent parrot as a companion? Or indeed, a totally brainless Parrot!”

Cat responded, “Because even a brainless parrot would outsmart you, and we both know your ego couldn’t handle that.”

The Inspector continued to grapple with steering the ship to avoid the asteroids coming at them and almost npw shouted “Focus, Cat! Any brilliant ideas on how to get us out of this cosmic bowling alley?”

“Well, you could stop panicking for starters. Just activate the auto-pilot, and let’s plot a course around this. I don’t fancy becoming space dust today because you can’t think of the obvious.”

“Ahh”, said the Inspector as he smacked the auto-pilot button) “There, happy now? Auto-pilot’s on. It took you a while to remember that didn’t it? I swear, sometimes I think you forget you’re a robot and here to protect and serve me.”

Cat responded, “And sometimes I think you forget you’re a tax inspector and idiot, not a starship captain. Stick to your audits, leave the flying to me in future.”

“I’ll have you know, Cat, I’ve navigated through worse than this!”

Cat, with a monumental dollop of sarcasm replied “Oh, indeed. Like the time you navigated us into a black hole’s cousin, the slightly-dark-and-depressing hole.”

The Inspector responded defensively, “That was one time! And we got out, didn’t we?”

“Yes, after I recalculated our trajectory. You were too busy letting your amoeboid brain be mesmerised by the pretty swirling colours.”

“That swirling vortex was scientifically fascinating, thank you very much. I was observing it with science uppermost in my mind,” said the Inspector.

“Science in your mind. If you mean how do we explain the space between your ears scientifically, I agree with you. The fact is your lack of any intellectual capability beyond trying to make yourself look clever got us very close to being obliterated. As I just said, you should stick to counting, ideally in multiples of 10 to keep it as simple as possible, and leave the cosmic wonders to those with more than a passing interest in self-preservation and science.”

The Inspector bristled at the  insults and then smirked, “Ah, but where would be the fun in that, Cat? Adventure is the spice of life!”

“And recklessness is the folly of the totally bonkers. But who am I to argue? I’m just a ‘robot cat’ with an apparent knack for saving your hide.”

The Inspector sighed and said “I do appreciate it, Cat. Even if you are an impossibly smug, fur-coated, indestructible Einstein .”

Cat stretched his front legs out and replied “And I tolerate you, Inspector, despite your constant need for heroic antics that have no basis in logic or any form of intelligence. Now, if you’re done playing asteroid dodgeball, I suggest we refocus on our mission.”

Inspector: “Right, the mission. Off to PZZSXAMIX. Let’s hope, since Mr. Snosrap’s demise, that planet puzz, erm, muh,thinggamy is more cooperative than these asteroids.”

Cat, settling down now for a nap, replied “One can only hope. And please  let’s try to avoid any more ‘slightly-dark-and-depressing holes’, shall we? When we arrive I will teach you again how to pronounce puz-axa-mix. Like the autopilot it really quite straightforward “

“Agreed, Cat. Smooth sailing from here on out, you can trust me”

“Oh good grief,” said Cat,  “You have got to be joking.”