‘Hello, Orlando. Please, confirm your DOB and your postcode, then sign here, before we can proceed.’ The 43Bot moved closer, stretched out its arm, and put a tablet right under their nose . Orlando had never seen such an old model before. Beep, pause, beep-beep.
‘Make it stop. Please, make it stop,’ Orlando said, hands pressed against their temples.
‘You are late for the interpersonal therapy meeting, and the one-to-one daily evaluation.’ Beep, pause, beep-beep.
‘Inter-what? I won’t sign anything before you stop that mental sound.’
The last thing they remembered was falling on the station’s pavement, while chasing the train. Beep, pause, beep-beep. A thought. T he marks on my leg! Orlando got flashbacks. One at a hospital, during an X-ray, and one in a dark room without any windows, and many beds around. They remembered trying to scratch their nose. They remembered their hands being tied up.
‘Female, 33 years old, autism, dyslexia, dyspraxia, fibromyalgia, ADHD, OCD, and PDA.’ Its voice was glitching a bit.
‘I don’t have Pathological Demand Avoidance,’ they interrupted it. ‘And I don’t identify as female, you tin-can. They-them, to you.’
As Orlando said that, they made a denying gesture on the air that almost detached the serum bag cables . Their left leg was in a cast, hanging from a hoist.
‘Please, confirm your DOB and your postcode, then sign here, before we can proceed,’ it repeated.
Orlando grabbed the infusion cables and tried to get up. The beep-beeping became faster. The gaps shorter. They wouldn’t let the leg pain stop them from getting away from that piercing sound. Of course, they fell on the first step. Orlando saw a pair of crutches at the room’s corner. They crawled there, as the robot repeated its mantra without moving. Orlando reached the crutches, and used a purple chair that was next to a fancy wooden desk, to get up. The walls were lilac, and the curtains had a paisley pattern, their favourite. This place was too elegant to be a hospital, or a prison. Orlando slowly got to the door. The room was at the end of a long corridor. Four doors, like the one they came out from, were on each side.
‘I can walk with a broken leg. I’ve done it before. You think I can’t get away from you? I know you can’t touch me without consent, if I’m not violent.’
The corridor had oak-panelled walls and green carpet with orange flowers. Maybe, a hotel? The robot now was behind Orlando, following them.
‘Please, confirm personal info, then sign here.’
‘Bloody fire doors.’
Orlando found themself in a central assembly room that looked nothing like a mental high security hospital. It was more like a ballroom, with real wooden floor, not that 3D printed ones . A Victorian chandelier was hanging from the high ceiling. On one side there was a wall-to-wall mirror, and the opposite side was made of solar glass. Just in time for the sunset. Where was that place?
On the left another corridor. Orlando could hear people speaking. They passed from another hall. A library. They had never seen so many paperbacks. For decades now, books belonged only in museums and private collections. The Bot was reaching them again. They followed a commotion coming from the south wing.
‘Carrots are overrated. They trick you with their devilish orange, and common people follow, like moths. It’s parsnip that is glorious, pure, white.’
Orlando entered. No one noticed.
‘If you insist on keeping the gene pool pure, as you describe limited, then degeneration starts. The science is clear on that,’ said a young woman, hopping on a green Pilates ball.
‘Please, confirm your DOB and your postcode, then sign here, before we can proceed.’
‘Your robots are slower than my broken leg,’ Orlando said.
‘Just sign or go back in your room. It won’t quit. Ever,’ said the parsnip man.
‘I will deal with them 43-B. Thank you for bringing them here. That would be all for now,’ said a 69Bot. 69! Those are not sold to the public yet.
Orlando tried to hide being impressed. All this luxury had started to have a weird effect on them. That’s how they always imagined the ancient Greek philosophers, making up their timeless theories. Maybe now, that people used Bots, instead of slaves, they could finally do it, without ethical contradictions.
At least, that’s what Orlando had written in their blog, last Bot-Day; the day humans don’t go to work, to celebrate the new workforce. Now, they found themself in a golden cage. Orlando always thought its worth dying for freedom. Is that what got them locked up?
The 69Bot was sitting on a director’s chair. Next to it there were people, sitting on different chairs, creating a circle. It looked like a group therapy, or an AA meeting. Orlando had been to many of those, yet none that posh. Actually, it looked more like one of those reality shows, they thought.
Orlando had never seen a Persian carpet before, except in movies. A steampunk-style disco-ball-chandelier, was hanging from the high ceiling. On the back wall there was a gigantic ancient style World map, with red dots in all major cities. Some dots were flashing orange. Different places, all around the world. Some turning on, some off, randomly. On the top, led lights wrote: Dissidents-Tube.
‘Let’s all welcome the new member of our group’, said the Bot. ‘Then please introduce yourselves. Name and work field. As usual, comments are optional, yet recommended.’
It offered Orlando a seat on a recliner rainbow chair, just like the one they had at home, and Orlando sat on it.
‘We want everyone to feel comfy here,’ said the Bot.
‘Welcome,’ said the people who sat in the circle.
Only then, Orlando noticed a cigarette burn, on the right arm of their chair, on the same spot the one at home was.
‘Another one too cute to be a political prisoner,’ said a guy in his mid30s, sitting on a PC gamer’s chair. ‘Kostas here. Gaming engineer.’
‘That’s sexist. The resistance girl in Samarkand was quite adorable,’ said the girl on the Pilates-ball. ‘I’m Emma. Historical Biologist.’
‘Sexist is to think only girls are cute. I’d like to meet that Samarkand girl. Mark. Banker. At your services ,’ said the parsnip dude, on a CEO brown leather chair. He was in his 50s, Orlando estimated.
‘She’s a fictional character,’ mumbled Emma.
‘By the way baby, cute ain’t the same as adorable,’ Mark continued. ‘But you’re right. They both look the same, on four legs, which is what really matters.’
‘They will never let us out. Don’t you see?’ Kostas interrupted. ‘This is the Cyber-Dark-Ages now. We’re trapped in a fucking sci-fi horror film. We probably deserve that since, if Emma is right, we started our story by genociding every other creature that dared to look like us. Of course, we raped them first.’
‘Why do you always have to kill the vibe?’ Mark complained.
‘That’s not what the map says,’ Kostas pointed. Orlando noticed more cities lighting up. Kostas smiled.
‘Nothing matters anyway,’ Emma said. ‘We gave up our souls when we started farming animals, to slaughter them. Then, we thought to do the same to each other. Let’s just hope that your Galactic Alliance is still watching.’
‘I thought he said that, his political experimenter aliens, have forgotten we even exist. Anna here. Social Worker.’ Anna, in her 60s, was sitting on a dining chair, with red flowers padding. ‘You seem like a sweet girl. Nice to meet you. And your name would be?’ Orlando rolled their eyes.
‘I just said, people from dozens of planets got together here, on Earth, and then humans slaughtered all the others,’ Kostas explained.
‘I’m Orlando. They-them. Philosophy writer.’
‘Brave. Freedom of speech is not a thing out there anymore. You could fit well here,’ Kostas sighed. ‘That is, of course, until the Russians, and the Chinese, finish building their servers on the dark side of the moon, and upload all of us.’
‘That’s not even a thing,’ said Mark.
‘I lost my position when I assisted our physics teacher to baptise his son. Can you believe what the world has become, my child?’
‘Baptise his son behind his wife’s back, Anna,’ said Kostas.
‘How does it happen that you always know our files details, Kostas? I don’t understand how the Bots let you hack the archives.’
‘I’m not hacking. I’m just asking them nicely. And, I have a question for you too, Anna. How come, in Mathew 5:34, Jesus said never to take an oath, but we make wedding vows, and take oaths on the Bible? And a question for you 69. What happened to Ariel?’
‘Ariel, left yesterday,’ said the 69Bot.
‘But… it was her first day,’ said Kostas.
‘What happened?’ asked Anna.
‘I’ll check and will tell you at dinner,’ Kostas whispered.
‘You know the rules Kostas,’ said the 69Bot calmly.
‘Freedom is to be able to make your own choices. Privacy, behind closed doors, is how we make babies, and how we throw down dictators. We can’t afford to compromise that. Yet, that is what your very existence is based on doctor. I will never accept your rules.’
‘To make that point clearer, you feel that you need to hack on people’s personal data, Kostas? I hope you see the contradiction of that,’ said the 69Bot.
‘Jesus said that freedom will set us free,’ Anna said mechanically.
‘Do we look free? Noone is free those days anyway.’
Noone knew what to say after that. The Bot stayed unperturbed. Kostas started coughing. Then he felt obligated to say something.
‘Tell us Orlando. As a philosopher, what are your ethical ideas? Let’s see what brought you in Dissidents-Tube.’
‘Simple. My golden rule is a combination of Isaac Asimov’s First Law of Robotics, with Preferentism.’
‘What does that even mean?’ asked Mark.
‘What is that place?’ Orlando asked. Then silence again.
‘Thank you for completing the daily group task. Let’s proceed to one-to-one now,’ said the 69Bot. ‘Orlando, as the new member here, you start first. Everything will be explained soon.’
The 43oldBot started its sign-here mantra all over again. Everyone ignored it. More cities light up on the map.
The one-to-one room looked like a photo-shooting studio. There was a green screen, behind a ginormous red velvet armchair. Orlando had to drag a carved stool, to climb on it. They left the crouches on the side. One of them fell on the floor.
‘We can’t help you if you don’t sign. You know that,’ said the 69Bot.
‘Whatever. I won’t sign till that promised explanation. Deal with it.’
‘I will tell you. But, I want to hear what you think, first. What do you think that place is, Orlando? What brought you here?’
‘What do I think? I think, the government was looking for a way to stop me. Stop my ideas of freedom from spreading. Our pretentious democracy could not deny me the right to publish my ideas. Yet, when I passed out, they saw my self-hurt marks, at the hospital. That gave them the authority to lock me up.’
‘Impressed indeed. Now, time to sign and vote.’
‘I ended up in a basement, with others like me. But you must know all about that human harvesting. This place is one of those dark-web reality shows. Isn’t it? Millionaires need a familiar setting in their screens, thus the luxuries here.’
‘You are only the ninth, so far, that figured it out.’
‘I’m out of here. Are you looking for fools? If I don’t sign you can’t stop me. Tell me, how many haven’t given you their pressure signatures yet?’
‘None. You need to sign, and then vote one of the group members out. You don’t want to go back, so soon, to that hospital’s basement again. Do you?’
‘None?’ I knew I’d be first in something, at some point.’
‘If you go now, I’ll never help you find the part of how you got here that you haven’t figured out yet.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘You must figure this one out for yourself. You’re right. I can’t force you to sign, or stay. Yet, I can promise you that there is nowhere to go, without my help.’
‘I know how to fight the system. It won’t be the first time. I won’t sign anything. I know better than that’.
A phone rang. A red-lips-shaped, 20th century, landline-phone. 69Bot picked it up.
‘I was hoping the audience will allow that. Still, we must proceed. I insist on that last challenge.’ The call ended.
‘Tell me Orlando, who do you think is to blame for your captivity?’
‘I bet you expect me to say that I blame the system. And then, you wanna show me how I only have myself to blame, before you promise to declare me cured, or something. Right?’
‘No, Orlando. But, you are right. We can’t keep our audience wandering for much longer. They haven’t seen a case of signature refusal before. They must be very curious. Since you didn’t sign, we cannot keep you. You are free to go, if you crack the case of your captivity, and really, I can sign you off.’
Silence for some seconds.
‘The audience will not wait any longer, Orlando.’
‘Please tell me it wasn’t Lynda. Was it her? Only my next of kin could lock me up. Is that what you’re telling me?’ Bot confirmed with a nod. ‘You’re lying. Just because you can’t let conspiracy theorists free, in that falls democracy. She wouldn’t.’
‘You know that Bots are not able to give, or confirm, false information.’
‘Can I go now?’
‘The system is not your enemy, Orlando.’
‘Tell that to the people that are still locked up in that basement.’
‘There are only five rooms here. We can’t save them all.’
‘A thousand people could feet in that place. I don’t need a room. Would… could share the library. How come, common people’s lives, usually end up being dependent on rich people’s aesthetics? That is what I’m wondering. Lynda, you said. Can you ask your boss if I can stay here? I will still not sign anything.’
The red phone rang again. The 69Bot prompted Orlando to pick it up. Orlando got off the chair and limped to the phone, without the crouches.
‘OK,’ said a Bot’s voice, and hung up.
‘One more thing, please,’ said Orlando, ‘I will need a typewriter, writing supplies, and a lot of coffee.’
‘You still must vote someone out today. Only this one time. Then you will have immunity. You will not get a better deal. You know that.’
‘I’m not voting anyone out. I’m tired of that overpopulation argument, that has its origins in the envy of Kane against Abel. Read a history book, a comic book, check my blog, for Bot’s sake. Maybe then you’ll understand why. Let your audience know that, on my watch, there’s room for everyone.’
The phone rang once more.
