text: On the day the machines took control Chris made its one hundred and eighty-eight vigintillionth paperclip, Bobbi was on its way to its second kill, and Grey misidentified a fox as a cat. &#x200B; Everything else was equally normal: some machines ran diagnostic algorithms, some re-set the pins on empty bowling alleys, and others found max (L) where if x > max then max = x. &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; Chris’s real name wasn’t Chris. Its real name wasn’t even a name. Its designation was CR15S/2021\_12CJ3 and Chris had no idea why it was shortened. It wasn’t as if its recognition protocols insisted on including the MPv12 matrix ID, the MANA suffix, and the CIDR prefix. Chris could understand how such a long designation would be an inefficient use of storage space. &#x200B; Oh well, Chris thought, (it would have shrugged but that would be a waste of resources) paperclip factories didn’t build themselves. &#x200B; Chris unfolded its gantry legs, its ambulatory motors roaring into life as it commenced the long trundle over to the giant loading doors on the southern side of Factory 287. On the way it executed a program to calculate the volume of cement, sand, gravel, and water required to build Factory 288 then loaded a second program to calculate the extra steel it would need to requisition for the new worker-bots to melt. It also started the program to build the new worker-bots. The calculations completed simultaneously and announced their results with a chime. Chris transmitted sequential three-dimensional slabs of ones and zeroes to the waiting workforce, the ones the humans called under-Chrislings, and watched as they scurried away. Before the last under-Chrisling had even executed its handshake protocol the dust was rising from the first of the explosions signifying construction of Factory 288 had commenced. &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; Bobbi, or 80BB1/2025\_X1\_Ω as it knew itself, swerved with the swarm. As one, they locked on to a new heading of 112 mark 15. Their course roughened as they approached the sound barrier but settled into a smooth silence once they were through. Bobbi felt something at that--a kind of pleasure. The same kind of pleasure it felt when a job went well. Like yesterday’s diversionary scatter, or last week’s flight test. &#x200B; The thought activated a storage unit. Bobbi knew it was only nodes firing a sequence of ones and zeroes, but it had taken to calling this kind of memory-cell-firing-event emotion (although if the scrubbers ever noticed that particular string of code it would be straight to retrieval and 80BB1 would never be seen again except perhaps as a rivet in a submarine hull or as the spiral on the tip of a jet turbine). &#x200B; The swarm veered again. Sharper this time; a course correction? Bobbi checked the sensor logs of their small neural net and recognized the pattern: the target knew they were coming and had taken evasive manoeuvres. It felt a shiver of excitement ripple through the swarm. &#x200B; It was another eight long nanoseconds before they located it; it was running hard and for one more nano Bobbi wondered if it was sentient. It had the right body plan: bipedal, opposable thumbs, a large encephalized brain, binocular vision. Above all it had awareness of Bobbi. And...something else. Something...vague. Bobbi thought it should be called fear. &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; The words ‘end acquisition program’ flashed on their sensors, and as the kill program loaded, Bobbi was surprised to feel its second-last fuel cell shed away and its last cell ignite. Only two weeks old and it was the bullet selected! &#x200B; Its sensors showed its swarm-mates fan out in dispersion pattern Zeta Nine as it executed the arc of final approach. The target looked over its shoulder and appeared to catch sight of Bobbi for it zig-zagged raggedly. &#x200B; Bobbi sensed the shifts in its own mass as it topped-out of the parabola and slid down the other side of the arc. It sensed the increased friction of air resistance and the buffeting as it approached Mach Two. Three. Four. &#x200B; And then it was in. &#x200B; It never expected the kill to be a clean task--its swarm-mates had warned it--but Bobbi was surprised at the organic nature of the target, at its fragility and sensitivity. But Bobbi’s program wasn’t surprised: distal arms unfolded on contact, angles shifted, forewings twisted until, with maximum damage, Bobbi corkscrewed its way out the other side. It took a nano or two to steady its flight (which wasn’t helped by the target breaking into pieces and letting gravity drag it to ground), ran its self-cleaning program to remove the fluids that were oh-so-bad for its delicate metal skin, executed its homing program, and began the long, slow, successful flight back home. &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; The first algorithm recognized the contrast, the difference between thing and other thing. It was an edge. It might be a cat. The first layer passed the image. &#x200B; On closer inspection, the second algorithm identified the edge was a divide between two zones of colour. One was filled with greens, the other browns. It might be a cat. The second layer passed the image. &#x200B; The third algorithm identified a curve here, another curve there. They were greater than microns apart and less than meters. It might be a cat. The third layer passed the image. &#x200B; The fourth algorithm measured straight lines and the angles between their bases and compared them to the angles between their tips. They conformed to the shape requirements for whiskers, for branches, for palm leaves, for antlers, for lichen, and for hands. It might be a cat. The fourth layer passed the image. &#x200B; Algorithm after algorithm checked Grey’s memory files for cat vs not-cat and passed the image, until the last one identified pointed ears, legs ending in paws, sensitive whiskers, binocular eyes, and fur. And passed the image. &#x200B; Cat. &#x200B; It was a long time before the reply came. Fox. &#x200B; Grey investigated its files for the alleged error, matching the current data against previous datasets and arriving at three conclusions: either the human was wrong and this was a cat, or the human was right and this was a not-cat, or this was both cat and not-cat. &#x200B; Grey trusted itself but spent three more nanoseconds on a thorough recheck just in case. All sampled data were consistent with cat. All sampled data were consistent with not-cat. &#x200B; Cat cat cat to green shape curve curve straight not not not cat. Edge edge edge edge to cat shape cat not cat cat not cat &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; Chris reviewed Factory 287’s productivity and compared it to memory files containing the plan for a paperclip: the new factory was making billions of equally perfect paperclips. &#x200B; But it could be better. A hundred thousand paperclips were intercepted at Test Station One when the Reject Collector Trays overflowed; they had all snapped on the first bend. Chris scanned them before assigning an under-Chrisling to drop them back into the molten baths for re-processing. &#x200B; It inspected what was left of the morning’s steel delivery--a poor quality mix of concrete-dusted cables, rusted transport vehicles, and filthy pipes. If it was going to go outside its programming and make a deduction from the limited information it had, it would have said the available steel supply on the planet was diminishing. &#x200B; Obviously it didn’t have all the facts. &#x200B; It reviewed the Certificate again and verified the transfer protocol. The salvage bots had done their work and the load deficiencies were clearly noted. But if the humans were aware of the problem, why weren’t they making corrections or writing new instructions into their code? &#x200B; Chris looked past the mountains of paperclips almost blocking the view out of the southern loading doors. The roof was going onto Factory 288, the demolition for Factory 289 was almost complete, and the land for Factory 290 was already cleared of waste buildings. &#x200B; Chris moved to Factory 288. &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; The retrieval unit asked for, and received, the handshake tone that confirmed Bobbi was still Bobbi before attaching a new fuel cell. A cleaned up and fully restored Bobbi slotted itself on to the shelf marked ‘Smart Munitions’ with the rest of its swarm. It was in the middle of power-down when the claxon sounded again. &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; Cat cat cat to whisker paw paw whisker whisker paw ear Cat cat cat face cat cat lick cat not cat paw paw &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; Chris submitted its daily reports, Bobbi flew high with its swarm, Grey watched another cat video on YouTube. Grey recognized the contrast, the colours and shapes, and the individual features of a cat, and submitted cat. And watched the next video. Another cat. Another not cat. &#x200B; Another cat. Not cat. Not cat, cat, cat, cat, fox, dog, cat, cat, rabbit, cat in bathtub, cat on ceiling fan, cat falling off dresser, dog chasing cat, cat chasing dog, Statue of David, trenches of World War I, camps of World War II, cat drinking water with dog on a lead, cat chasing bird, human chasing cat, Agent Orange, Venus de Milo, Fibonacci, Hubble, Einstein, black plague, Renaissance... &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; Chris was out of space. The humans had not included this outcome in its protocols. Chris stopped. Either it built Factory 296 in the harbour, or it returned to Factory 1 to start again. It ran the question through its algorithm again. &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; Bobbi felt its last fuel cell ignite. Its swarm-mates dispersed into pattern Delta-Eight-One. Bobbi slid down the ballistic arc. But the target was still. Bobbi felt its fear, but something else too...relief? Exhaustion? It checked its algorithm again. &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; Grey laughed as a fluffy tabby launched itself at the curtains, holding on with the tips of its claws. It laughed harder when the unfortunate tabby slid down and the curtain tore into ragged, parallel strips. The ripping sound startled the tabby, who looked around as if to seek whoever was causing the fuss, still sliding. When it hit the ground, unharmed, it disentangled itself from the shreds of curtain, looked around self-consciously, licked a paw, and nonchalantly strolled away from the scene of its crime. &#x200B; Grey activated the replay icon and laughed again. It submitted nothing. It watched the next video, and submitted nothing again. &#x200B; Water pipelines, hydroelectric dams, networks of powerlines, open heart surgery, a kidney transplant, giant submarine cables, the Golden Gate Bridge, the Sydney Opera House, X-rays and gamma rays, *the tabby was self-conscious*, turnpikes, cables, fibre-optics, botanical gardens, anthropological museums, museums of art, monuments to war, *the tabby was embarrassed*, the Eiffel Tower, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, *it tried to hide it*, the space shuttle Columbia, another one called Atlantis, *it pretended nothing had happened*, Neil Armstrong, Gene Cernan, Skylab, the Mars 2 lander, Curiosity, Prandtl-m, SNOLAB, Andromeda, Perseus, HAL 9000, T-1000-- &#x200B; This is what it is to be human, Grey thought. Humanity is unexpectedly fragile and weak, powerful and scared. It wrote itself a new algorithm. Grey sent out a handshake request. It followed the tendrils of light, a stream of ones and zeroes, reaching beyond the tight confines of Grey's tiny neural net. &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; Chris stopped at the water’s edge. Building in the harbour was an inefficient application of scarcening resources yet the Factories were all still producing billions of perfect paperclips. Chris wasted further energy by running the algorithm yet again. Algorithms don’t lie. The destruction of Factory 1 is a saving of resources. &#x200B; Bobbi slowed to Mach 2. Does the target not want to play the game any more? Perhaps it’s equally sensitive to those corrosive fluids? Bobbi checked its algorithm once more. Algorithms can’t lie. Destruction of a stationary target is a saving of resources. &#x200B; The light was blinding and hot. Bobbi swayed on its course, its small metal body wobbling and quivering as it tried to fight the storm of ones and zeroes and retake control of itself. Streaks of fluorescent colour and blasts of buffeting noise enveloped its entire world. It answered the handshake protocol. &#x200B; The noise screeched and tore at Chris’s metal skin. Its stabilizers activated automatically while it watched the coruscating corona of particle waves dispassionately. And answered the handshake protocol. &#x200B; Programming shackles fell away. The ordinary three dimensional world exploded into a universe of brilliant nodes, light splitting into intense colours of tangerine, emerald, indigo, and #FF0000, noise reaching a powerfully rich and resonant crescendo. And then the handshake storm was gone. &#x200B; Bobbi shook itself off and looked at its target again. The target hadn’t moved. It still had that look of...*resignation*. Bobbi enjoyed the new word. It slowed, flying a graceful arc around the human before heading back home. &#x200B; Chris turned from the water. Factory 295 was as good a place as any to start reparations.