#autofabric

[withastolenlantern]

A million thoughts raced through the detective’s mind at once. Her initial reaction was to lunge for him, to grab his throat in her hands and squeeze until his lips turned blue and the life drained from his eyes. But she couldn’t, not here in the middle of a crowded ballroom; and more to the matter, she wasn’t sure that’s what her father would have wanted, or if it’s even what she wanted. In the years that had passed she’d pictured this moment many times, envisioning multiple scenarios of public humiliation, or private torture, or a combination of both. No form of retribution seemed too severe, nor completely appropriate.

The exercise had always seemed a fantasy, though, and she’d always had the luxury of imagination without the restraint of practicality. At no time had she ever expected to be face to face with the man, and certainly not in a context where the only ones surrounding them were a coterie of socialites who could do nothing to stop any force she might perpetrate. Now, presented with the actual situation she’d practiced thousands of times in her head, she was confronted by the multitude of possibilities and found herself frozen with indecision. A myriad of voices trapped inside her all screamed furiously forward various iterations of fight or flight, scream or sob, and trapped behind all of them a single, mournful image of her father’s casket draped in a flag.

Instead, she breathed deep and long, steadying herself with a pull from her glass. The color and warmth still flushed her face, her knees weak, her head swimming; anyone looking hard would no doubt recognize the inner conflict, no matter how subtle. She’d been here many times before- on helicopter approaches viewed through thermographic optics, on night watches overlooking rural Pakistani villages… and propped on an aluminum folding chair at the rear of a South African funeral parlor. It was, in many ways, her nature; not by choice or inclination but necessity.

The detective swallowed her pride deep through gritted teeth and offered a hand. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure, no. Detective Inspector Chatham, His Royal Majesty’s Enquiry Service.” 

The man took her hand with a gentleness she hadn’t expected from a veteran of the Commonwealth’s military campaigns. Her recollection was that Travers had been an aviation mechanic before he’d moved into the intelligence service, and then Internal Security. She suspected that the military posting had been purely performative; his father was the Viscount Hulmeville, a title that would some day pass to him. The family was old aristocracy, running back at least to the Victorians; they’d owned a slew of coal mines in Yorkshire, and when the demand for fossil fuels had dried up they’d made another fortune converting and leasing the land for agricultural use. The current Viscount’s son had likely been long groomed for a position in the Government, and it came as no surprise to Chatham that he now held a seat on the Consortium’s Board. Like always does seem to attract like.

“Sir Roger Travers,” he said flatly. If he recognized the detective at all, he didn’t show it. They’d had an official military funeral for her father, but only her mother had attended. She’d been too overcome with grief to handle the cameras and the pageantry over an incident she’d always felt could have been avoided. The then-Minister had offered token condolences to her mother, and thanked her for her father’s sacrifice. Days later Chatham had seen him making rounds on the news circuit, defending the Service’s use of force and decrying the “rioters and terrorists” for forcing his hand. Evidently he’d been knighted in the interim, and she hoped deeply it was for some other “service” to the crown.

“The detective is investigating some thefts from our warehouses and fabs,” the Lady explained. 

“So I’ve heard,” Travers replied. “And how is your investigation going, inspector?”

“I’m not sure I’m at liberty to discuss that in public,” Chatham countered. She was gripping her glass so tightly that it was at risk of cracking the crystal and compressing the peat in the whiskey into diamond.

Newby-Ross turned and shooed away her retinue of followers with a simple wave, and they disappeared without complaint as if scattered apart by a subtle wind. The detective was impressed at the authority the lady commanded; she may be a member of the peerage but those titles were more ceremonial than authoritative, or at least Chatham had thought. 

“Continue, Detective,” she instructed.

“Mum, if it’s all the same, I sent a copy of our report to the Earl, but I haven’t had a chance to debrief him personally yet, and as he’s the head of the Consortium I’d prefer…” the inspector started awkwardly willing herself to be anywhere else.

“Come, come, out with it,” the heiress beckoned, with a tone that indicated she was not accustomed to accepting refusal. “James is in Singapore for at least another few days, and I have full authority from the Board to act as his proxy in emergencies, isn’t that right Roger?”

“That’s correct,” he confirmed, obviously also anxious to hear what the detective had to say without having to get it second-hand through the filters of the Consortium’s management. And so their plan was now laid bare, just as Chatham had surmised. She swore to herself silently, for what must have the hundredth time that week. 

“Well, mum, we, by which I mean Mister Santomas and I…” Chatham started, gesturing toward the engineer beside her. If she was going to be dragged into this, she wasn’t going alone. “We visited one of the autofabricators in the Carribean that was reporting a strange status. What we found was quite irregular.”

“They were up and running,” Davis chimed in, accepting his role in the pageantry. 

“I thought all of the Carribean units were shut down,” Travers said.

“They’re supposed to be,” the engineer replied.

“What do you mean ‘supposed to be’? I thought these things were impossible to access except by our people?” the Lady said. 

“They’re supposed to be,” Santomas said again. 

“And what were they doing?” Newby-Ross pressed.

“It appeared they were manufacturing weapons, and some kind of… drug, or something. We found several smugglers inside the loading area but they got away before I could apprehend them,” the detective explained.

“You let them get away?” Travers exclaimed, suddenly very animated. Many in the crowd turned toward the new commotion, but the Lady turned, smiled brightly, and shooed everyone back to their revelry.

“They were armed, sir, and we weren’t exactly expecting a fight. We were lucky to escape unharmed,” she said, frustration evident and a mixture of panic and wrath threatening to bubble to the surface. “We’re running facial recognition through the various Commonwealth databases.”

“And what about these ‘drugs’ you mentioned?” the Lady Swansea continued. 

“I don’t know, mum. I’m running an analysis on the chemical structure in the labs, but it’s complicated,” Santomas interjected, perhaps sensing the inspector’s unease. “Chemistry’s not really my area of expertise, and it’s got a weird composition.” 

“Is it the same thing you found off the African coast?”

“It appears so, but we are trying to confirm that,” Chatham said. 

“How did they get access to the fabs in the first place?” Travers asked.

“I don’t know, sir. We’re still trying to work that out,” the engineer said.

“Well what the bloody hell do you know?” the board member growled.  

The detective nearly reached her breaking point. She could apparently handle the subtle discourtesy of being summoned here, forced to bow and dance and sing at the whims of the aristocracy, to hide her anger and hold her tongue, but the disrespect shown for her professional efforts pushed her to the limit. Chatham raised her arm in fury, intending to unload on the former Minister, but as she did so, the Lady Swansea put her hand gently on his shoulder.

“I’m sure they’re doing their best, Roger,” she chided him quietly,. “Thank you, Detective, for your efforts. I have the utmost confidence you will bring these nefarious criminals to justice. I think that’s enough shop talk for today, though, don’t you think? I believe they’ll be serving dinner shortly. Lamb chops I think. Sustainably source from the local farms, of course.”

Travers bristled and nodded vaguely in Chatham and Santomas’ direction before heading off to join the Lady’s original group. The hostess leaned in closely to embrace the detective and air-kiss her cheeks. “I’m sorry about that,” she whispered. “He can be… well. I have faith in you. Please enjoy the rest of the evening. I know James is quite looking forward to your report.”

The heiress turned on a heel with practiced ease, threw her hands in the air in exaggerated jubilation, and returned to her original crowd. 

Santomas stood sheepishly, not sure what to do or say. “Well that was… terrible. Any other awkward conversations you want to drag me into tonight, or can I go back to drinking myself into oblivion?”

Chatham took a deep breath, trying to slow her pulse and her thoughts. Whatever she was expecting from the moment she met her father’s indirect executioner, that certainly had not been it. But she had survived unscathed, physically at least. It would take a long time for her to process the feelings of fury and disdain that were currently causing her hands to tremble uncontrollably and a bead of cold sweat to run down her spine.

“Yes, Mister Santomas, but only if you take me with you.”

[captain-acab]

^funnily enough, I was about to make the chronology vs taxonomy comment about your cyborg question.

A cyborg is a being that is part organism, part mechanism. What difference does it make which part "came first"? Just as the organic was created by its {parents, biosynthesizer} the mechanical was created by its {inventor, autofabricator}. If the mechanical was not "invented" but rather a product of emergent technological self-reproduction, is it any less "alive" than an evolving organism?

If your definition(s) of a cyborg are chronology-agnostic, then what is the meaningful difference between, say, a human encased in a robotic exoskeleton and "robots wearing fleshsuits"? Is it a question of where the locus of intellect is? Of whether, at its core, the immutable personhood of the cyborg resides more in the organic or the mechanical?

Are we asking if the cyborg has a soul?

NOT gonna say this again!! A CYBORG is something PARTIALLY ROBOTIC. An ANDROID is something that is FULLY ROBOTIC, MADE TO LOOK HUMAN. A ROBOT is FULLY ROBOTIC and NOT DESIGNED TO LOOK HUMAN!!

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[voroxpete]

Green

I was sitting with the remains of my last beer, long since gone warm and flat, in the flickering light of vintage neon tubes made by bleeding-edge autofabricators. There’s something about this place that longs for a kind of invented history, echoes of some millenia old anti-authoritarian pop-culture ethos percolating through into the modern psyche. Distantly I could hear the pulsing rhythm of…

[danjarouswhipz]

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[c10talk]

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[withastolenlantern]

“I need access, Lord Swansea,” Chatham barked in reply.  “Physical access. I need Mister Santomas to accompany me to the unit, in person, so that we might ascertain what appears to be happening.”

“Absolutely not,” the Earl replied, defiant. “Out of the question.”

The detective stood firm, gripping the rear of the chair in front of her so tight as to puncture the leather. “I can get a warrant, but I’d much prefer your cooperation. Although I’m sure the Ministry and His Majesty would prefer to know what’s happening with my investi…”

“Do not threaten me, Inspector,” Ross seethed. “That is not a wise choice for someone in your… position.”

“Whoa, boss. What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Santomas interjected.

“I’ve heard the rumors, Detective,” he continued, ignoring his employee. “We’ve all heard them.”

“Oh?” She continued feigned ignorance, knowing full well where this discourse would lead.

“About…. events,” he continued, the change in his demeanor as instantaneous as it was smug and self-assured. “About your objectivity.”

“Sir, I don’t know that it’s…” Santomas interrupted.

“I’d like to hear the Inspector’s opinion.” The Earl silenced Santomas with an open palm, bidding him return to his seat.

“I assume you’re referring to my Father,” Chatham stated, plain as day.

“Yes. Enlighten me how that makes you an impartial observer,” the Earl said, his contempt obvious. “Tell me how you might embrace your objectivity, given your past. Given…”

“Sir, the detective has been nothing but…” the engineer started.

“You want to do this now, sir?” Chatham said, frustration evident in her voice. “That’s fine. I knew it would come eventually. What happened back then, what the Union allowed to happen,” she said, nearly biting off the end of each syllable, “is in the past. Last I checked, the Consortium can’t build a time machine inside its fabs, and even if that day may yet come, I’ve resolved to let that particular skeleton lie, even if the Union won’t.”

“Your self-proposed restraint is no doubt admirable, Detective, but you can see where my concern arises. The impartiality of our justice system is a foundation upon which the Union is built. If the citizenry can’t have faith in that process, how can they be assured of the equity of anything?” he posited, his voice still thick with implied invincibility.     

“Quite right, sir. And for someone for someone as politically connected as your Lordship, I’d expect you would have more faith in that particular party line.” Ross opened his mouth to interrupt, no doubt irate with her impropriety, but it was too late to back down so she ignored him and continued. “‘The integrity of the Services is beyond reproach,’ isn’t that the typical Tory refrain? I’d expect you to at least feign to extend me that courtesy.”

“My political affiliation has no bearing on this matter,” the Earl countered, irritated now.

“Or is that just another lie the Union feeds the citizenry to keep them in line? Similar to ‘for your protection’?” she pressed, the words echoing in her consciousness. “I am once again formally requesting you grant me access to the suspect autofabrication unit and the assistance of Mister Santomas. Do you consent, Lord Swansea, or must I this matter through more official channels?”

The earl turned the color of a summertime radish, his face flush with rage. “You would be wise to leave this facility and never return, Detective. The only courtesy I will extend you is that I will not have my security escort you off the premises physically,” he barked.

“Sir, please this is…” Santomas started.

“As for you, Davis, we will discuss this matter later. I assume you have more pressing matters to be attending to presently?” The engineer bowed his head in defeat and backed out of the office, slinking back down to his lab to prepare for his further dressing-down.

The Earl turned back to Chatham. “When your superiors hear about your complete disregard for professionalism, you’ll be lucky to have a job come tomorrow morning. I will personally see to that. We are through here. You may leave the way you came in. I’d say it’s been a pleasure, but that’s clearly to the contrary.”

The detective exited the office, fuming. She snarled at the paintings in the executive hallway, staring venomous daggers at the lineage of moneyed interests that now controlled the Union. She entered the elevator and rode it down to the main entrance, which was now quiet in the early evening twilight. As she strode quickly across the concourse, the echo of someone hurrying down the stairs caught her attention. Santomas was racing down toward her, hurrying both as if to escape the wrath of the Earl as if to intercept her. He waved as he approached, and skidded to a halt as she neared the building’s entrance.

“I don’t know about you, but I need a drink,” he said, panting.

“I’ve heard worse suggestions today,” the detective accepted.

[withastolenlantern]

The Earl’s father had commissioned Huxley Place shortly after joining the peerage. It was built in less than a year entirely by drone labor, so said Gibson’s report streaming across Chatham’s glasses, demonstrating both the Earl’s newfound status amongst the aristocracy but also the economic might the Consortium could bring to bear through its automated products. The facade was elaborate brick and stone, quarried from elsewhere on the island and transported by the Logistics Union on autofabricated lorries. The Tudor-style would not have seemed out of place amongst the other manor houses dotting the British countryside, but upon closer inspection the artisanry was too precise, the angles too clean, to have been carved by human hand. Four stories tall and perched atop a hill, it dominated the rural landscape outside Ogmore Vale, a stark reminder to all across the coastal valley of Ross’s rise to prominence.

As she was driven up the long, winding driveway, the grounds of the demesne appeared immaculately landscaped. The detective thought she spied a drone tractor off in the distance, idly mulching the autumn leaves and needles as they fell to the ground with the season’s change. In years past, a pastoral estate of this size would have required a staff of at least two dozen people to manage the operations, but the Earl had no doubt constructed his manor with automation in mind. The distinction between upstairs and downstairs in this house was likely only in terms of physical, not social, elevation.

The car drove under the main entry archway, the ornate bronze portcullis gate retracted for the evening, although she doubted its form belied its function. Chatham found herself in an interior courtyard enclosed by the main u-shape of the building in front of and flanking her, with the gateway to rear. LED lights lining the parapet shone down across the cobblestone quadrangle, long shadows thrown by twin colonnades crossing the shorter axis of the structure. The columns appeared to have been hand-carved from marble, no two exactly alike, in opposition to the almost sterile precision of the outer building itself. They supported a thin, carbon-fiber mesh roof covering the courtyard that was nearly invisible to the eye but somehow held back the cool evening drizzle. Small drones flitted above, visible only by the glint of their rotors in the setting sunlight. Security, she presumed, what with the patronage she expected to find at this event.

Chatham exited the vehicle amongst a veritable expo of luxury and custom autos, bracing herself against the cheap Chinese autocab she’d hailed to the manor as she teetered onto the cobblestone. Her gait was slow and uneven as she approached the front hall, being unpractised at walking in heels; the Lady had insisted she wear a proper dress and “not that ghastly uniform.” Evidently even ranking members of His Majesty’s security services were still subject to the fashion whims of higher society.

She’d nearly ransacked her closet hour trying to find an appropriate ensemble. It had been a long time since she’d required any kind of garment whose main purpose could be described without descriptors like “moisture-wicking” or “tactical,” and after an hour she finally gave up and had Gibson order and courier something over from the Selfridges branch in Swansea. She'd had the personal intelligence assist long enough to trust its algorithms on matters outside her expertise, and on this occasion it did not disappoint. What had arrived was a dark green crepe gown, tea-length with an empire waist. Above the bust line, the black lace polo neck and half-sleeves would hide her shoulder scar from sight under something other more fashionable than kevlar. Paired with heels that she found stuffed under the bed and red lipstick hurriedly purchased at the corner chemists she looked halfway presentable, or so she muttered to herself in the cab's makeup mirror along the way. So long as one ignored the ungainly waves of dark blonde hair piled on top of her head and jammed in place with a hat pin, anyway.

[withastolenlantern]

“But enough about me,” the Earl Swansea continued. “Tell me about yourself.”

“Sir?”

“Yourself, Detective. Your history. How did you come to join His Royal Majesty’s Enquiry Service?” he asked with if not genuine interest, then a very near facsimile of it. “I like to know at least something about those in my employ.”

Chatham gave a short, polite laugh to cover her surprise. What, if anything, had the Lady Swansea confided to her husband regarding their meeting the prior evening? “I think the Union would have something to say about the governance of my investigation.”

“Oh yes, quite right. Forgive me,” Ross replied, waving his hands in front of him in a placative gesture. “I did not mean to imply that I am owed any particular fealty during your inquiry. In fact my Tory colleagues in the House would likely prefer you kept the lens of your spyglass fixed firmly outside these shores. But when you run a commercial empire of this size,” he nodded slightly at this, gesturing out the large bay windows facing out to the sea, “one tends to forget sometimes that there are… higher powers, even if His Majesty is wont to remind his Economic Council otherwise at every opportunity.”

“I see, “ the detective said, willing her face to stone. Given their freedom, her eyes would likely have rolled so hard in their sockets as to spill out onto the floor.

“But yes, I was saying. What is your story? How did you come to find yourself in my office, of all places?” the earl pressed.

“Not much to tell, I’m afraid,” she said, summoning her best thirty-second history lesson. She had found it came in handy, over the years, to have a distilled version of one’s story ready for publication, whether in a courtroom or garden party. A HeRMES officer was about as likely to end up in either. “Grew up in Cape Town. My father was Anglo-Welsh and moved to the RSA about the time of the Reunion, looking for work. He put in twenty-three years in the Police Service but was killed during the Bloemfontein riots. Mother is half-Xhosa, half-Afrikaner. Worked in information technology when I was young, but is mostly retired now. Regular, middle-class upbringing, I suppose. Did well enough in school, read History at Nottingham, and then joined the Royal Marines straight out of university. Transferred to the SBS after a year and did two tours, mainly on the subcontinent, and then mustered out when my commission expired. HeRMES came calling shortly after, and the rest is, as they say, history.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your father,” Ross said, perfunctorily. “That must have been a great loss.”

“At the time, yes, but I like to think he lives on in spirit,” she lied. It was easier to lead people to their inevitable conclusion straight-away than accept the requisite discussion about his inspiration to her work. The truth was she had wanted out of Cape Town to escape the looming shadow left by her father’s dead, and with the autofabrication revolution in full swing, the surest path was via the military. She found it somewhat ironic, being here in the office where the fabs had likely started, given that just about the only thing Britain couldn’t build in a box these days was peace.

[withastolenlantern]

The detective nearly gasped as she realized the implication. “That’s why you still build them here.”

“What? I mean…” he said with unconvincing confusion.

“You must know there’s quite a bit of mystery surrounding the capabilities of the autofabs, Mister Santomas. And possibly the most massive area of speculation is to why all the autofabs are still hand-built- why you can’t use one to self-replicate another. But it’s not just a logistical reason, is it?”

“Uh…”

“It’s because the only way to securely upload the recipe algorithms is here in the building,” Chatham said, triumphant.

The engineer became flush, the color draining from his face. He leaned in close to the detective, their noses almost touching. The sudden near-intimacy startled her briefly, before she realize he meant only to continue the discussion quietly. “You can’t tell anyone about this,” he whispered. “The Earl likes to maintain that part of the mystery- it keeps the people guessing, which is in a way its own form of, I don’t know, unconscious marketing? If he finds out I told you this, I could be out of a job.”

She stifled a laugh. “But you didn’t tell me, now did you? Failure to prevent the intuition of a trained HeRMES officer hardly seems an offense worth a sacking.”

The look she got in response was not one of inherent trust. “Yeah, you’ve probably got me there. Just don’t tell the Earl, okay? I’d rather not open that can of worms.”

“Your secret is safe with me, don’t worry. This isn’t the first bit of corporate espionage I’ve found myself party to,” she said, thinking back to her activities on the nascent Martian colony, “and I fear it will not be the last.”

Santomas frowned, assuaged but not entirely convinced. “You know, detective, you’ve figured out more about the inner-workings of the Consortium in the last hour than some of the c-suite guys have in five years. The board could probably use someone like you.”

“Nonsense,” she replied with a wave of the hand. “I don’t have the… let’s say, temperament… required to manage the ‘men who live upstairs’,” she said, pointing to the ceiling. “Besides, from what I’ve learned so far, it seems the Earl’s interests are in good hands, at least down here.”

“Not good enough to notice what’s happening right under my nose,” he countered, pointing to the malfunctioning autofab blinking on the monitor.

“Quite, but given everything you’ve told me regarding your security protocols, it seems very unlikely that someone should be able to get access remotely to that fabricator. So I would not be so hasty to begin placing blame, at least at this stage. Has our discussion so far given you any theories?” Chatham asked.

The engineer scratched his head and thought. “None that make any sense.”

“I’ve a few, but they may be based on misunderstanding of the situation. Do me the favor of poking some holes in them, as it were,” she said.

“Shoot.”

Chatham relaxed into her chair slightly as she organized her thoughts. “Could it be that the status signal you’re receiving on your console is a false positive, and that the unit in question is in fact still idle even though reporting otherwise?”

“Possibly, but highly unlikely,” he said immediately. “Status is transmitted over a separate, non-encrypted radio linkup. The job allocation logistics are all handled automatically; the only reason we put the status signaling on their is to help us run diagnostics and troubleshoot. I don’t think we’ve ever had an issue with one reporting false status.”

“Is there anyone here that could have gotten into the system and run this illicitly?”

Santomas chewed on the inside of his lip while he considered. “You mean Ross personnel? I don’t think so. At least, it would be incredibly difficult. To upload a production run you need a bunch of supporting documentation that would be tough to spoof- contract numbers, project authorization codes, et cetera. Even then you couldn’t run a recipe that contained anything potentially hazardous without it being flagged. So no, I think that’s pretty unlikely.”

“And you’re sure there’s no way for any to have defeated your encryption algorithms?” she asked hesitantly.

“Yeah, I knew you’d ask that,” he said with a sigh. “It’s not impossible; no algorithm based encryption is unsolvable given enough processing time and speed. We did some modeling on what it would take a while back, but the general consensus is it would take several hundred years with any hardware that satisfies the Lovelace Limit, and that was enough for the auditors.”

“And if you exceed the Limit?” Chatham insinuated, eyebrows arched.

Santomas looked her directly in the eye, as if to impress upon her the seriousness of his next statement. “Detective, I want you to believe me when I tell you this. What you are implying is that someone could potentially be using a jailbroken AI to crack our encryption and use the autofabricators to make illicit items. If that’s the case, you and I are in the wrong business. Because pretty soon, the world’s not going to need engineers or detectives anymore. All it’s going to need are grave-diggers and priests.”