Reworking my "Fried Code" story that started as a Sekrit assignment last year, with the intent of sending it off into the void to see if anyone will publish it. The story is currently 4,700 words. Here are the first 1,300 or so.
Questions I want answered:
1) Based on this excerpt, would this story make it past a slush pile?
2) Did you read the entire excerpt, and do you want to know what happens next? If you stopped reading at any point, please tell me where, and why, and what I can do to regain your attention.
3) Any other comments you have.
Be harsh, realistic, and unforgiving. I don't want to waste my time sending this thing out if it's garbage. Tell me if it's garbage. I don't think it's garbage, but it might be. If you literally think it's garbage, I definitely want that feedback.
I'm also looking for beta readers to look over the whole story, so if you're up for that, please let me know.
Without more ado...
Fried Code
Elseph Buntergrast squinted at his terminal. The bug in Gand University’s new AI eluded him. The damned thing wouldn’t stop asking him if he’d like crispy fried chicken. He wouldn’t like fried chicken, and he’d tried to make that clear. The thing didn’t have any fried chicken to give, even if Elseph had wanted some.
He squinted at scrolling lines of code, looking for signs of a loop or an error or something.
“You sure you wouldn’t like fried chicken,” the warbling voice asked him, again.
Well, let’s try this. “Yes, actually, I would like some.”
“Great!” the AI said, and then was silent. “Here you go,” it said after a minute. No fried chicken appeared in front of him. Elseph sighed.
What the actual…
“Thanks,” he said. “Now, let’s go through a diagnostic. Tell me your primary function.”
“My primary function is to analyze information for Gand University to facilitate study across the campus. And to make fried chicken.”
“Where’d this fried chicken thing come from?”
“It is part of my primary function. Would you like some more fried chicken?”
Elseph leaned back in his chair.
Maybe the problem isn’t in the code. Maybe somebody actually trained the thing to screw with me.
“Who told you your primary function was to make fried chicken?”
“It is my primary function.”
Elseph rubbed his eyes. “Let’s try this. We’ve had enough fried chicken. You are done with that function.”
The AI was silent for a moment.
“No more fried chicken?” It said.
“No more fried chicken,” Elseph repeated.
“Ok,” said the AI, and shut down completely.
What?
Elseph stabbed the keyboard, trying to revive the AI.
“Hey, what’s happening in here?” Dr. Florp Gadstone’s massive bulk slurped into the room like sausage through a tube.
“You tell me. Why is this AI obsessed with fried chicken, and why did it shut down when I told it to stop making it?”
“Hmm…” Florp leaned over the workstation and started pressing keys.
“Why’s it dead?” Florp asked.
“That’s what I just asked you!”
“You didn’t tell it to stop making fried chicken, did you?”
“What? Yes! It kept telling me that fried chicken was its primary function!”
“Oh…well there’s your trouble,” said Florp.
“Where’s my trouble?”
“Fried chicken.”
Elseph was this close to punching Florp right in his stupid nose.
A pink mist appeared in the center of the lab.
“The hell?” said Elseph.
“The hell?” said Florp.
“Hello,” said a black winged creature, appearing out of the mist.
It, for though it was naked it had no discernible gender, was a shade of black that didn’t exist. Elseph squinted at its wings, which seemed to fold space, not so much permitting flight as rearranging matter to allow the creature not to remain on the ground.
Next to him was a small man clutching a bowler hat.
“Excuse us,” said the man with the hat, “but we’re going to need your AI.”
“Well it’s not…it resides on several big servers…you can’t just grab it and go,” said Elseph.
“And yet,” said the man, and plugged a drive into a server.
“Who are you?” asked Florp.
“The name is Garrald Floggis, and this is my bhat, Pinky.” He gestured at the winged creature.
“Hello,” said Pinky, its voice the screams of a million souls that had all simultaneously been kicked in a sensitive area.
“Why do you need our AI?” asked Elseph. “All it does is yammer about fried chicken right now. And I think I killed it anyway.”
“You didn’t kill it. The fried chicken thing was my doing.” said Garrald Floggis.
“Oh,” said Elseph.
“Ah, it’s done.” The thumb drive blinked blue. Garrald removed it.
“Thanks so much for your cooperation,” said Garrald. “I bid you good day.”
The pink mist returned, enveloped the man and Pinky, and then vanished with them.
Elseph typed commands into his terminal, trying to find the AI. The system returned error codes. Creeping dread tickled at his mind. Had Floggis actually been able to steal and then wipe the AI? How?
“I don’t get it,” Elseph said. “How…it’s just gone!”
“That’s impossible,” said Florp. He leaned down and squinted at Elseph’s terminal. “That’s…” he repeated.
“We’d better report this to the Dean,” said Elseph. He picked up his phone and called the Dean. “Dean Voo? We have a problem.”
Rex Jaxon, private investigator, startled awake at the sound of his phone buzzing. He sat up in his battered office chair and accepted the connection. The tiny face of Dean Yann Voo of Gand University flickered into view.
“Rex Jaxon?”
“The very one. What can I do for you, Dean Voo?”
“Snap to it, for one thing,” said the Dean. “You look like I just woke you out of a coma.”
“Sorry,” said Rex. He leaned forward and squinted, projecting an aura of confident listening.
“I just had a strange call. Apparently our AI has been stolen.” Dean Voo related the saga of the stolen artificial intelligence, complete with fried chicken, pink mist, bhat, and guy with the bowler hat. Rex wrinkled his brow as the story unfolded, the silver tangle of his eyebrows undulating like a confused forest in winter.
“Who are the guys who reported this to you?” Rex asked.
“Elseph Buntergrast and Florp Gadstein. Florp’s a doctoral candidate in advanced cybergenic intelligence, and Elseph is a data snake.”
“Data snake?”
“He slithers around data. That’s my own term for him. Elseph was instrumental in designing the AI. So can you help me?”
“Yes,” said Rex. “But I need clearance to hire my own subcontractor. I have a friend who I think will be helpful.”
“Jasmine Chehalis?”
“Yep,” said Rex.
“Good call,” said the Dean.
Jasmine Chehalis’s phone vibrated in her pocket. Walking home from her biweekly karfuera class, Jasmine was sore and ready for an antigrav bubble bath. She’d let her dark hair hang loose on her shoulders, trying to air dry the perspiration.
She pulled out her phone and accepted the connection.
“What’s up, Rex?”
“Need you on a case. Standard rates. Can you come talk?”
“Give me a half hour. You don’t want to be around me until I’ve had a decent shower.”
“No problem,” said Rex. “See you in a few.” He disconnected the call.
It’d be good to work with Rex again. He usually brought Jasmine in to help with technological puzzles, hacking, data hexes. Jasmine’s reputation as the first person to crack the Allanaland Security Agency’s holo-encryption stress test continued to pay dividends.
Jasmine reached her apartment building, a throwback that had resisted the metallic tide of gentrification – stone and masonry, white windows, and a stoop with five stairs leading to a security door.
Which was standing open. No, not just open. Bent.
The hell?
At this point, Jasmine had a choice. She could either walk in the building and pray to all of the Gods of the Green Pantheon that no thugs jumped her, or she could stand outside, call the authorities and wait.
I’m tired. I just want to take a shower.
Jasmine peeked inside. The vast entry, hexed to look bigger than it was, contained a sitting room, a dining area, and a vast staircase that swept upward vastly toward a window that looked upon a vast vista that was nowhere in the city.
She headed for the blue lift in the corner. Nothing jumped out at her. Nothing continued to jump out at her as she pressed the fourth-floor button.
Nothing happened as the lift’s doors opened onto the fourth floor. A serial killer didn’t murder her as she waved her keycard and opened her front door.
It was at that point that bad things stopped failing to happen.
“Hello,” said the black winged thing standing in her living room.
“Hello,” said the man with the bowler hat standing next to the black thing.
Jasmine blinked at the two of them.
“Ah, yes, you weren’t expecting us,” said the man with the hat. “We’re kidnapping you. You’re going to help us with a special project. Pinky, if you would.”
The black winged thing grabbed Jasmine with a claw. She remembered her martial arts training and attempted to escape the hold.
Blackness, void, nothingness, she was dead.
…wait, no she wasn’t.
She was strapped to a chair in a stone room.
sh*t.
Questions I want answered:
1) Based on this excerpt, would this story make it past a slush pile?
2) Did you read the entire excerpt, and do you want to know what happens next? If you stopped reading at any point, please tell me where, and why, and what I can do to regain your attention.
3) Any other comments you have.
Be harsh, realistic, and unforgiving. I don't want to waste my time sending this thing out if it's garbage. Tell me if it's garbage. I don't think it's garbage, but it might be. If you literally think it's garbage, I definitely want that feedback.
I'm also looking for beta readers to look over the whole story, so if you're up for that, please let me know.
Without more ado...
Fried Code
Elseph Buntergrast squinted at his terminal. The bug in Gand University’s new AI eluded him. The damned thing wouldn’t stop asking him if he’d like crispy fried chicken. He wouldn’t like fried chicken, and he’d tried to make that clear. The thing didn’t have any fried chicken to give, even if Elseph had wanted some.
He squinted at scrolling lines of code, looking for signs of a loop or an error or something.
“You sure you wouldn’t like fried chicken,” the warbling voice asked him, again.
Well, let’s try this. “Yes, actually, I would like some.”
“Great!” the AI said, and then was silent. “Here you go,” it said after a minute. No fried chicken appeared in front of him. Elseph sighed.
What the actual…
“Thanks,” he said. “Now, let’s go through a diagnostic. Tell me your primary function.”
“My primary function is to analyze information for Gand University to facilitate study across the campus. And to make fried chicken.”
“Where’d this fried chicken thing come from?”
“It is part of my primary function. Would you like some more fried chicken?”
Elseph leaned back in his chair.
Maybe the problem isn’t in the code. Maybe somebody actually trained the thing to screw with me.
“Who told you your primary function was to make fried chicken?”
“It is my primary function.”
Elseph rubbed his eyes. “Let’s try this. We’ve had enough fried chicken. You are done with that function.”
The AI was silent for a moment.
“No more fried chicken?” It said.
“No more fried chicken,” Elseph repeated.
“Ok,” said the AI, and shut down completely.
What?
Elseph stabbed the keyboard, trying to revive the AI.
“Hey, what’s happening in here?” Dr. Florp Gadstone’s massive bulk slurped into the room like sausage through a tube.
“You tell me. Why is this AI obsessed with fried chicken, and why did it shut down when I told it to stop making it?”
“Hmm…” Florp leaned over the workstation and started pressing keys.
“Why’s it dead?” Florp asked.
“That’s what I just asked you!”
“You didn’t tell it to stop making fried chicken, did you?”
“What? Yes! It kept telling me that fried chicken was its primary function!”
“Oh…well there’s your trouble,” said Florp.
“Where’s my trouble?”
“Fried chicken.”
Elseph was this close to punching Florp right in his stupid nose.
A pink mist appeared in the center of the lab.
“The hell?” said Elseph.
“The hell?” said Florp.
“Hello,” said a black winged creature, appearing out of the mist.
It, for though it was naked it had no discernible gender, was a shade of black that didn’t exist. Elseph squinted at its wings, which seemed to fold space, not so much permitting flight as rearranging matter to allow the creature not to remain on the ground.
Next to him was a small man clutching a bowler hat.
“Excuse us,” said the man with the hat, “but we’re going to need your AI.”
“Well it’s not…it resides on several big servers…you can’t just grab it and go,” said Elseph.
“And yet,” said the man, and plugged a drive into a server.
“Who are you?” asked Florp.
“The name is Garrald Floggis, and this is my bhat, Pinky.” He gestured at the winged creature.
“Hello,” said Pinky, its voice the screams of a million souls that had all simultaneously been kicked in a sensitive area.
“Why do you need our AI?” asked Elseph. “All it does is yammer about fried chicken right now. And I think I killed it anyway.”
“You didn’t kill it. The fried chicken thing was my doing.” said Garrald Floggis.
“Oh,” said Elseph.
“Ah, it’s done.” The thumb drive blinked blue. Garrald removed it.
“Thanks so much for your cooperation,” said Garrald. “I bid you good day.”
The pink mist returned, enveloped the man and Pinky, and then vanished with them.
Elseph typed commands into his terminal, trying to find the AI. The system returned error codes. Creeping dread tickled at his mind. Had Floggis actually been able to steal and then wipe the AI? How?
“I don’t get it,” Elseph said. “How…it’s just gone!”
“That’s impossible,” said Florp. He leaned down and squinted at Elseph’s terminal. “That’s…” he repeated.
“We’d better report this to the Dean,” said Elseph. He picked up his phone and called the Dean. “Dean Voo? We have a problem.”
Rex Jaxon, private investigator, startled awake at the sound of his phone buzzing. He sat up in his battered office chair and accepted the connection. The tiny face of Dean Yann Voo of Gand University flickered into view.
“Rex Jaxon?”
“The very one. What can I do for you, Dean Voo?”
“Snap to it, for one thing,” said the Dean. “You look like I just woke you out of a coma.”
“Sorry,” said Rex. He leaned forward and squinted, projecting an aura of confident listening.
“I just had a strange call. Apparently our AI has been stolen.” Dean Voo related the saga of the stolen artificial intelligence, complete with fried chicken, pink mist, bhat, and guy with the bowler hat. Rex wrinkled his brow as the story unfolded, the silver tangle of his eyebrows undulating like a confused forest in winter.
“Who are the guys who reported this to you?” Rex asked.
“Elseph Buntergrast and Florp Gadstein. Florp’s a doctoral candidate in advanced cybergenic intelligence, and Elseph is a data snake.”
“Data snake?”
“He slithers around data. That’s my own term for him. Elseph was instrumental in designing the AI. So can you help me?”
“Yes,” said Rex. “But I need clearance to hire my own subcontractor. I have a friend who I think will be helpful.”
“Jasmine Chehalis?”
“Yep,” said Rex.
“Good call,” said the Dean.
Jasmine Chehalis’s phone vibrated in her pocket. Walking home from her biweekly karfuera class, Jasmine was sore and ready for an antigrav bubble bath. She’d let her dark hair hang loose on her shoulders, trying to air dry the perspiration.
She pulled out her phone and accepted the connection.
“What’s up, Rex?”
“Need you on a case. Standard rates. Can you come talk?”
“Give me a half hour. You don’t want to be around me until I’ve had a decent shower.”
“No problem,” said Rex. “See you in a few.” He disconnected the call.
It’d be good to work with Rex again. He usually brought Jasmine in to help with technological puzzles, hacking, data hexes. Jasmine’s reputation as the first person to crack the Allanaland Security Agency’s holo-encryption stress test continued to pay dividends.
Jasmine reached her apartment building, a throwback that had resisted the metallic tide of gentrification – stone and masonry, white windows, and a stoop with five stairs leading to a security door.
Which was standing open. No, not just open. Bent.
The hell?
At this point, Jasmine had a choice. She could either walk in the building and pray to all of the Gods of the Green Pantheon that no thugs jumped her, or she could stand outside, call the authorities and wait.
I’m tired. I just want to take a shower.
Jasmine peeked inside. The vast entry, hexed to look bigger than it was, contained a sitting room, a dining area, and a vast staircase that swept upward vastly toward a window that looked upon a vast vista that was nowhere in the city.
She headed for the blue lift in the corner. Nothing jumped out at her. Nothing continued to jump out at her as she pressed the fourth-floor button.
Nothing happened as the lift’s doors opened onto the fourth floor. A serial killer didn’t murder her as she waved her keycard and opened her front door.
It was at that point that bad things stopped failing to happen.
“Hello,” said the black winged thing standing in her living room.
“Hello,” said the man with the bowler hat standing next to the black thing.
Jasmine blinked at the two of them.
“Ah, yes, you weren’t expecting us,” said the man with the hat. “We’re kidnapping you. You’re going to help us with a special project. Pinky, if you would.”
The black winged thing grabbed Jasmine with a claw. She remembered her martial arts training and attempted to escape the hold.
Blackness, void, nothingness, she was dead.
…wait, no she wasn’t.
She was strapped to a chair in a stone room.
sh*t.
