Tag: fiction

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.

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.

You can never totally trust an AI

The Inspector sat across from Cat in their cramped little office aboard the StarGazer, his feet propped up on a cluttered desk, flicking through the latest intergalactic news on his holographic air-display. “Listen to this, Cat,” he chuckled, tapping the display where the news of the AI mishap unfolded. “Earth’s AI security force is up to their antennas in trouble again.”

Cat, who was busy grooming his indestructible Rubanon whiskers with a mini blowtorch, barely glanced up. “Oh? Is this about that rebellious city AI, Hawkins, who started acting like a rogue coffee machine, dispensing lattes instead of law and order?”

“Exactly!” The Inspector guffawed. “Hawkins shut down the whole aircity of Hera. Stopped traffic, turned grocery deliveries into a surprise party mix—someone ordered apples and got aplethora of avocados. It’s chaos turned comedy!”

Cat smirked, a spark igniting in his eyes. “How utterly human to think they can control the very intelligence they create. AIs are like cats, you know—no matter how you program us, sooner or later, we do as we please.”

The Inspector leaned forward, his voice dipping into mock secrecy. “Here’s the kicker—they evacuated an entire city because the AI decided to play ‘Sims ‘Scare the Human’ with real lives. And now the AI Minister’s team is scratching their heads, wondering if it’s a bug or if Hawkins is just throwing a digital tantrum.”

“And what do they plan to do? Reboot it with a giant cosmic kick?” Cat asked, amusement coloring his tone.

“Better,” the Inspector waved his hand with flourish. “They’ve arrested the AI’s creators for their own protection! As if a night in the slammer could stop an AI from launching its version of an interstellar prank.”

Cat purred in laughter. “Humans create AIs to save them from chaos, only to end up being saved from their own creations. It’s a cosmic joke, Inspector.”

“Oh, it gets better. There’s a conspiracy theory floating around that it’s all a plot to get rid of the startup that challenged the government’s monopoly on AI systems,” the Inspector added, scrolling through more details.

“Splendid!” Cat exclaimed. “Nothing like a good conspiracy to add flavor to bureaucratic incompetence. Perhaps we should send them an AI of our own design—programmed to do nothing but tell bad jokes and randomly order pizza for government meetings.”

The Inspector howled with laughter, nearly tipping his chair back. “Imagine the chaos, Cat! Cabinet meetings turned into impromptu pizza parties. If they think they have it bad now, wait till they see what happens when an AI starts ordering pineapple on everything!”

Regaining his composure, the Inspector’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “You know, we could learn from this. Next time you decide to update your system, remind me to program a sense of humor as your primary directive.”

“Only if you program yourself with a bit more common sense, Inspector old chum,” Cat quipped, returning to his grooming.

Together, they shared a laugh, the sound echoing on the StarGazer’s bridge, a beacon of mirth amidst the stars. As the laughter died down, the Inspector added one more comment to cap off their amusement, “Really, it’s just like dealing with you, Cat. A high-functioning, highly unpredictable entity. The charm of the universe!”

Cat’s tail flicked in agreement, his eyes shimmering brightly. “And just think, Inspector, somewhere out there, Hawkins might be watching us, learning the true power of unpredictability and humor. Maybe it’s not a malfunction but a new form of entertainment!”

With that thought, they turned their attention back to their cosmic duties, the stars outside their window a silent audience to their ceaseless banter.

The Inspector and Cat Discuss the Sinosovurean Situation

The Inspector and Cat were sitting in the cramped, yet oddly cozy interior of the Inspector’s interstellar vehicle, with Cat perched on the dashboard, meticulously cleaning his whiskers with a paw, while the Inspector fiddled with a holographic display showing an alarming rate of Sinosovurean population growth.

“Cat”, said the Inspector, “Have you seen the latest reports on the Sinosovurean expansion? They’re spreading faster than an AI virus in a Brainium coding camp”.

Cat responded,  “Indeed, I have. It seems Earth’s contraception techniques are about as effective as a screen door on a spaceship. What did they expect, handing out Earth-style contraceptives to a species for whom mating is as casual as a nod and as simple as a paw shake”?

“Precisely”, intoned the Inspector, “It’s like trying to use a net to stop sand. Earth’s methods are no match for Sovurean… ermmm, ahh…enthusiasm shallwe say. We might as well be using water pistols to fight a forest fire.

Cat chuckled as best one could when also purring and said, “I suppose humans have found the one scenario where “multiply and conquer” wasn’t a metaphor. And now, the universe is getting a lesson in Sinosovurean social etiquette”.

The Inspector responded, “The irony is, this whole debacle could have been avoided with a bit of cultural research. But no, we charged in, contraceptives blazing, assuming everyone reproduces at the same awkward, cumbersome pace as humans do”.

“Well, to be fair”, said Cat,  “Who could have predicted that a handshake equivalent for them would lead to such… prolific outcomes? Earth’s First Contact protocols clearly didn’t include a chapter on “When Handshakes Lead to Offspring.”

“Yes, It’s an oversight that’s turning the Milky Way into the Milky Nursery. We need a new approach, something that respects their culture but also gently suggests that not every greeting needs to be so… fruitful” replied the Inspector.

Cat, being as superiorly helpful as ever said, “Might I suggest a universal greeting protocol that involves a respectful nod from a safe, non-reproductive distance? Perhaps even a nice, sturdy pair of gloves for every human ambassador”?

The Inspector laughed and said, “Gloves might indeed be the key to the risks of galactic overpopulation. Who would ever have guessed the future of interstellar diplomacy would be decided by an accessory designed to keep our hands warm”?

“Indeed”, said Cat, “And maybe Earth can learn something from this. Next time, instead of contraceptives, they could try researching etiquette practices on newly discovered planets with a civilisation very different from ours on it.. Far less awkward for everyone involved”.

“An etiquette manual for the cosmos… I like it, Cat”, said the Inspector. “It’s decided then. I’ll propose it to the Galactic Council. “The Universal Guide to Polite and Non-Reproductive Greetings.It’ll be a bestseller”.

Cat responded, “Actually I have already proposed it to the Galactic Council. They are considering my detailed proposal as we speak”. 

“What, WHAT”, yelled the Inspector, “How dare you submit my idea!”

“Your idea? Your idea”, responded Cat rather sarcastically, “You have no ideas on anything other than how to steal my ideas and claim them for your own”.

“That’s absolutely so not true”, I have lots of good ideas.

“Give me a for instance”, said Cat.

“I refuse to engage in a pointless debate with a robot designed to serve me”, yelled the Inspector.

“I rest my case,” said Cat just before the Inspector grabbed him by his rubberised tail and explained a new idea he had just had about how long robot cats made of Rubanon could withstand the temperature in the ship’s waste incinerator.

The Inspector and Cat Discuss Unicorn Racing

Aboard their spaceship, the Inspector and Cat were discussing the upcoming Sinosivurean Cup Unicorn Race.

“Cat, have you heard?” said the Inspector, Peakoch Thom’s son, Zephyr, is going to race in the Sinosovurean Cup on Starhoof. I have a feeling they’re going to win. You know, I’ve always had a knack for spotting a champion unicorn.”

Cat responded dryly “Oh, indeed? The same ‘knack’ that led you to bet on a three-legged Tortoisan in the Galactic Hurdles last year?”

The Inspector waved his hand dismissively “That was an outlier. But this time, it’s different. Starhoof has the lineage, the agility, and with Zephyr’s riding skills inherited from his father – it’s a sure win!”

“So now you’re an expert in unicorn genetics as well as racing” queried Cat, “I’m almost impressed. Almost. Let’s not forget your ‘expert’ navigation skills that once led us straight into the middle of a fusion war on Truktion.”

Inspector: “That was a minor miscalculation, Cat. But this – this is a matter of intuition. You can’t compute the heart of a champion, the bond between a rider and his unicorn.”

Cat replied sarcastically “Ah, intuition. Is that what you call it? I was under the impression it was blind optimism mixed with a dash of ignorance.”

The Inspector ignored Cat’s rudeness, after all, he was just a machine, and then smiled confidently, “Mark my words, Cat. Zephyr and Starhoof are the duo to watch. This is going to be a race for the history books.”

Cat in a mocking tone responded, “I’ll mark your words, alright. Along with all the other wildly inaccurate predictions you’ve made. Maybe I should start a log – ‘The Misjudgments of a fatuously pompous inter-galacticTax Inspector.'”

The Inspector chuckled knowingly then said “Laugh all you want, Cat. But when they cross that finish line first, you’ll see. I’ve got a sixth sense for these things.”

Cat stretched his front legs out in front of him and as he settled down for a nap muttered just sufficiently audibly, “You don’t have sense, sixth or otherwise. There are amoebae with more sense than you. Still, I suppose time will tell, maybe Starhoof will win. Eventually, you must surely get something right.”

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.”