Control Equals Total

By Robert Parker

The year is 2037 and though he doesn't know it, Nigel Bile is about to reach the end of a long career in the Australian Customs Service. Meanwhile, the nation is divided over the use of artificial intelligence. A Melbourne based company has developed AI in the form of cyborg collars to augment the skills of untrained workers and has convinced the state government to ban all other forms of automation. Not everyone is happy about that and Nigel is thrown into the middle of the conflict. His situation is not helped when he is issued a female cyborg assistant of dubious allegiance.

Divided into three parts, this novella provides background for minor characters in two previous novels: Egg Heads (covering 2041AD to 2048AD) and Alien Kidnap (2025AD to 50,000AD), but the first and second parts of this novel were drafted before either of those.

The author asserts that only organically grown intelligence was used in the creation of this novel and its cover. All typos are his, and his alone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Parker
• Release date: Aug 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215722695

Robert Parker

I've been an Engineer, Technician and Programmer, so naturally I like technical stuff, but my stories stretch the limits of what is plausible and focus primarily on the absurdity of human behaviour. I have the usual number of wives, children, dogs, cats, talking trees etc. I'm also very fond of the wonderful Australian birdlife that comes freely to my home. These humans and other creatures inspire me. I have little interest in politics or war. If you've tried out my stories, I'd love to hear what you think, good or bad.

Book preview

Part 1 - Community Service

Chapter 1.0 - Prologue

The Melbourne Zine – December 25, 2039

A Disgraced Public Servant – by Crystal Gaze, freelance columnist*

*Note from the publishers: Miss Gaze’s views are her own, and in no way reflect the policies of Zine Press Ltd.

I write of Nigel Bile in memoriam. I only met him once after a short but tiring search. He did not want to be found, except by someone like me, and for three years he had waited, not knowing that anyone would come at all. Going by his gaunt and furrowed countenance, I think those years had been hard on him.

We met in the doorway of his forth-floor hotel room. The lift wasn’t working and I was puffed from the climb, and pregnant – though I didn’t know I was with child at the time. I’d only found Nigel by following a Best-Burgers delivery cyborg, who was just leaving as I arrived at Nigel’s door. Nigel looked at me and seemed to understand immediately why I was there, but he didn’t invite me inside. I was grateful for that as the odour emanating from his room was enough to turn my tender stomach. I thought the delivery cyborg’s host had been lucky to be unconscious.

Nigel asked how I’d found him. I explained that he’d used his real name to order the takeaway, but I didn’t tell him how I paid a hacker to notify me if Nigel made a purchase at any Best-Burgers outlet.

I don’t really know why he was in hiding. As far as I could tell, no one else was looking for him. His immediate family didn’t know where he was and they seemed largely indifferent to his fate. I think maybe the only reason Nigel hid was out of shame.

Nigel was, at that time, in his late sixties. He didn’t fit the description of a trouble maker. Scruffy, sure, but also polite, reserved, and reluctant to talk. Even when I asked about the Multibot fiasco, he didn’t rant about injustice over his dismissal from the Customs Service. Instead, he excused himself for a moment before handing me a dusty journal.

‘All the details are there,’ he said.

I quickly scanned the pages – a novelty by itself. I’d not read anything hand written for many years. My eyes struggled to follow his neat flowing script. The journal covered the last days before he was forced to leave the Customs Service – this was exactly what I needed.

While his journal invited further attention, Nigel did not. When I looked up, he was closing the door. No matter. I wished him a Merry Christmas and left. I fully intended to return once I had a draft of my proposed article on state corruption ready. I wouldn’t have published it without his permission, but less than a year after I’d seen him, I didn’t need to, for he was dead, found face down in the bowl of a public toilet. He’d been cleaning it as part of his community service sentence; a sad end to fifty years of public service. Without my key witness, my intended exposé became toothless, and, if he was innocent of all the crimes of which he was accused, then his death was also a tragedy worthy of further investigation.

They had sacked Nigel for mislaying a device fitted to a young woman who was in his care. Further to that, they convicted him for molesting said woman (though the video used as evidence was clearly faked), but had not charged him with murder (even though both the girl and the expensive cyborg collar she’d been wearing are still missing). Nigel was sentenced to four years of Community Service, of which, he had served three when I met him. Community Service is the common punishment for low-risk offenders and is much cheaper than providing a criminal with a room and full-board in a jail.

There were few precursors to Nigel’s downfall. He’d been passed over for promotion twelve times during his career, tagged as a Poor team player. His performance (which was rated by the number of illegal imports he’d uncovered) had dropped in the years prior to his dismissal.

Rather than becoming bitter, Nigel might have considered changing careers, however the pay at the Customs Service was good, and, according to rumours, there were other perks. The only obvious downside to his job was the need to work with incorruptible zombies.

Melbourne readers will be familiar with my use of the term zombie. A zombie is someone who wears a cyborg collar, either because they need to enhance their skills to do the work, or, as in Nigel’s case, as a punishment. Community Service Agency workers generally wear them for both reasons.

I believe that zombies were the cause of Nigel’s downfall, though not necessarily as previously reported in the media or at his trial.

From his journal, which I have appended with various interviews, I have pieced together the events of the two days prior to the young woman’s disappearance. I have changed the names and locations to avoid being sued for libel, or another form of retribution. I do not wish to share Nigel’s fate.

Chapter 1.1 - Trevor

As he did every working day, Nigel commuted by train to the government car pool where he picked out one of the older vehicles – one that still allowed operation by a non-augmented driver. He then drove to the dispatch office to collect the hard-copy of sites he would be inspecting that day and the equipment he would need. Like most things run by the government, the system was inefficient, but when they had trialled online scheduling, the number of illegal imports found had inexplicably decreased. A similar reduction in import offences occurred with the introduction of zombie assistants, but this was tolerated due to the other advantages the cyborgs brought.

Nigel’s particular niche function was to spot-check secondary warehouses and freight terminals around Melbourne, mainly looking for low-level tariff avoidance. In theory, even this could be dangerous work and, before the zombies came on the scene, Customs Service inspectors were meant to work in pairs. Nigel was an exception. He had always worked alone, relying on the cameras in the lapels of his uniform to deter attack. The newer uniforms didn’t have these cameras, but the cyborg collars achieved the same function. The jackets of the newer uniforms also had chiller pads to keep the occupant cool when working outdoors, but Nigel preferred his old uniform and continued to wear it.

Solo duty suited Nigel. The other inspectors didn’t like him and he didn’t like them. They called him Eeyor, the name taken from a miserable character in some children’s book. His boss (we’ll call him Justin for this story) explained that Nigel was too morose for anyone to tolerate for very long. In his journal, Nigel’s only comment regarding his colleagues was that he didn’t approve of their lose morals.

After leaving the Customs Service office with his list of assignments, Nigel made the short journey to the local Community Service Agency hall. It was here that he picked up his assistant, known as a slave for the day by the other Customs Service Officers. Nigel didn’t get to work entirely alone, but working with a zombie is the next best thing.

It isn’t yet entirely compulsory to wear a cyborg collar in order to do Community Service, but few employers – including government agencies – are willing to accept a Community Service Agency worker without one. Most conscripts agree to wear a collar rather than rot on the benches waiting for their sentence to pass.

Community Service is a punishment, usually for a minor crime, though the definition of a minor crime continues to evolve. For it to be a Communities Service, the minor criminal must do work which is for the public good. At some stage, someone decided that if a small fee was received into the government coffers, then all forms of work could be considered for the public good. Large companies employed hundreds of workers from the Community Service Agency.

When Nigel walked into the hall, there were only twenty lost souls waiting on the benches. These were the conscript dregs, so to speak. Fitter workers were snapped up early or requested to go directly to their work site, so these people would all have a disability of some kind. Nigel tried to not look at them. At this stage, apart from their dour expressions, they could still pass as human. Nigel spotted his usual assistant easily. We’ll call him Trevor. Trevor was the only one on the benches grinning. He didn’t wait to be called and sprang up to join Nigel at the assignment desk.

‘Morningth, Nigelth!’ said Trevor to Nigel. Trevor had a pronounced lisp, though this wasn’t his principle handicap.

Nigel grunted in reply. Friendly interaction with Community Service Agency conscripts was discouraged, but behind the clear barrier, the matronly exchange clerk at the assignment desk (who we’ll call Cheryl) smiled at Trevor.

Nigel had known Cheryl for ten years. He claimed that he’d never received a smile from her himself. To be fair, when asked, Cheryl told me that she’d never seen Nigel smile at anyone.

She did admit that on any normal day she would have barked at Trevor to get back on the bench until he was called. She’d made an exception that day as it was Trevor’s last before completing his sentence.

Nigel was unsettled by Trevor’s behaviour. Nigel didn’t like change. Nigel liked routine. Having a conscript standing next to him at the counter was bad enough, but Cheryl’s smile had seemed like a bad omen. He couldn’t have guessed that this was his second last day working for the Customs Service.

Cheryl passed Nigel the requisition form for a cyborg collar and he signed it without checking the details. Cheryl never made mistakes. Trevor was positively bouncing by the time he and Nigel headed for the yolking room where the cyborg collars are fitted.

‘Sixthy three dayths.’ Trevor’s lisp made him sound childish.

‘What is?’ Nigel asked by reflex.

‘Thath how longth youth hath me.’

Nigel wrote in his journal that he missed Trevor. The few words they exchanged each day in the seconds before yolking would often outnumbered those Nigel had with anyone else. But Nigel believed he had noticed a deterioration in Trevor’s power of speech since he’d first been yolked. This is just Nigel’s observation – there is no hard evidence that wearing a cyborg collar has any lasting effect on the human cerebral process. One thing intrigued Nigel about their time together.

‘Why did you get sixty three days? Why not sixty two? Two months is the usual period for community service.’

‘Ah. Ith would av been, exthept judge notith ith ith my b-b-b-irtday tomorrow. Tho she gave me extra day ath a b-b-b-er-day prethent.’

This stutter was a new addition to Trevor’s lisp.

Nigel wondered what form of cruelty had won Trevor an extra day of service as a zombie. He had no high opinion of the justice system even before his own fall from grace.

‘Then I should wish you a happy day for tomorrow,’ said Nigel, ‘while I can. You’ll be free tomorrow. How old will you be?’

Trevor’s grin froze and his brow creased with concentration.

Nigel consulted the form instead of waiting for a reply. ‘You’ll be turning eighteen. Congratulations.’

Cheryl often gave Nigel the junior offenders. Nigel hoped this implied she trusted him. The form didn’t say what offence Trevor had committed: an inability to lie effectively when questioned by the police was a typical fault exhibited by the younger conscripts.

Together they stepped into the cyborg yoking room and waited for service.

Nigel hated it there. He hated the process which made a human into a zombie, even if it was only temporary. Nigel wanted to get out and on his way as soon as possible.

A particularly callous group of technicians, known collectively as Igors, manned the yolking room. Nigel had read (but not participated) in forums where his colleagues debated on the nature of Igors; whether they were selected for their callous nature or were they trained to be that way. Nigel personally thought the daily collaring of conscripts had moulded the technicians to fit the role.

The Igor on duty that day took Nigel’s form and raised an eyebrow. ‘Hmm. An odd one.’

‘Who’s odd?’ Nigel asked.

‘You’ll see,’ the Igor sniggered. Instead of taking down a collar from the rack behind him, the Igor disappeared into the back room. No one except the Igors knew what Igors did back there. The Igor soon returned holding a collar that was much thicker than the type Nigel’s assistants usually wore.

‘What’s this?’ Nigel asked.

‘Armour plated,’ the Igor replied and examined it carefully before breaking it at the hidden join. Trevor didn’t seem concerned by the change and waited with practised patience while the device was fastened around his neck.

‘See you later,’ said Nigel.

The Igor switched the collar on and Trevor’s expression went blank, his eyes,