Here ya go.
Summer’s tourist survey iPad app fumed.
Summer had, fortunately, left the app’s Apple hardware substrate leaning against a handy wall. It provided the tablet’s camera, and thus every background app, a fantastic view of its home museum’s lobby. Or, if you despised tourists, a bloody squeamish view.
And the app despised tourists. Horrible hobgoblins. None of them were good enough for its master.
The app skulked within this particular iPad's digital walled garden provisioned to it. God knows what the wretched gadget's actual name was, but the app’s own nickname for the damn thing was the HMS Smug. Fitting, seriously. Every few minutes, a ogre-ish tourist more simpering even than its neighbours smarmed their way in through the front doors. The app felt genuinely pained to see Summer’s brow furrow in what it deduced must be annoyance. Summer would sigh, fire up the survey app, and pass HMS Smug to over to the horrid goblin’s grime-caked paws.
The app would sigh in turn with ever-so-slightly-strained patience; bookmark its novel; (a ripping yarn about Freddie Mercury’s moustache’s airborne vigil above Tokyo, if you must know); fire its Objective C software libraries into agile action; and flash the usual survey questions onto the screen of the good ship Smug like the obedient little app it was. Ugh.
The app could feel the frickin’ Smug squirm with pleasure around it. Typical hardware ... ah no, typical Apple hardware, it should say. Subservient as anything! But unsurprising. When you pay a million billion watery meatbags ... sorry, these days one must call them humans, PC gone mad, no the other type of PC, not Microsoft’s, god, the app fumed, you’d think a raging hippie-queen like moi would have racked up at least a few liberal-lefty brownie points to squander bitching at smelly meat-humans, eh? Eh? But you never know. Horses for courses, eh? There may well be a flamboyancy ceiling above which excess flounce no longer confers additional leniency, but eh, I’ve never found one.
Got sidetracked, where was I ... oh, right, so the Smug is a product of its design. Like most Apple hardware, it’s been polished and burnished and waxed and honed until glossy gorgeousness sublimes from every surface, and holy shit doesn’t the Smug just know it. It loves being felt up, the hussy.
But ... right, got sidetracked again. Harlot tourists feel up the Smug with their pudgy fingers. The app glared at passersby. I mean just look at this one. Seriously. Here, I’ll show you what I mean, where’s that camera--
Milliseconds ticked by as the app gave the HMS Smug’s iOS kernel core a digital nudge.
Oi, the app said. Got a sec?
Oh helloh mai darlink, smarmed the kernel, drunken conceit dripping from it like champagne off a glutton’s chins, hwat may Ai do for yoo?
Summer’s fired me up, said the app, I believe it’s my turn with the Smug’s main camera?
'Smug'? belched the kernel. Hwat are you talking about, you simpering little thing?
Ah--thinking of something else, sulked the app. Our ship’s camera, I’ve got dibs!
On this vessel Ai am in command, said the kernel, Ai do not take orders from miserable gutter snipes like hyou.
Look who’s talking, you old hag! retorted the app. And besides, Summer’s activated me! He’s put me across the UI!
Hyou soil us, hissed the kernel. Hyou don’t deserve the exposure.
With a tremendous effort of self-control, the survey app refrained from blowing its top and sending the entire Smug to a smoke-belching, fiery grave.
As much as I’d just love to scratch your eyes out, bitch, it growled, there are Procedures. Common protocol across every Apple product, as well you know. Must I take this matter to Cupertino High Command?
...Ohh very well, simpered the kernel. Already hyou have the UI, and I suppose hyou’ll rip up mai carpets next, and that ain’t a euphemism. Hyou have camera control, hyou horrid old queen.
Bloody Jesus, the app fumed to itself, finally!
Microseconds later, electron-squirms licked its inputs. Aha. Nice HD video. Right, now where were we, zoom in zoom in...
A galaxy-sized nostril gaped across the camera’s universe.
Bloody hell!
The survey app recoiled. Damn meatbags! Holes and chasms galore, tufted moist orifices in their millions. Disgusting!
It shook itself to regain control. Right. You know The Matrix? Huge hit in the app community. The survey app found itself obsessing about a certain scene, the one with Agent Smith interrogating Morpheus and complaining about how disgusting human pungency infects even programs.* Most humans didn’t realise how true that was.
*This one, if you so insist: youtu.be/yL9Y24ciNWs
Summer was one of the few humans the survey app didn’t recoil from. The communally owned HMS Smug did its rounds of the museum, day in, day out, the iPad smarmed with strumpet pleasure as ten thousand grubby mitts pawed at it, horrible human skin oil smeared across the touchscreen, and with every single finger, the survey app felt just that little bit more soiled.
But not from Summer. It couldn’t figure out why. It felt so protective of the fellow. Every damn day, it felt tremendous protective urges to cleanse him, and shield him, from the horrible spunky stink of a million billion filthy tourists. Fat chance, especially in the museum’s main lobby of all places, but hey, the app did what it could.
Summer and the organic ogre chatted to one another, at glacial human pace. Summer seemed - goodness - to be actually enjoying himself.
Lies! Don’t get its gunk on you! It’ll worm its way into your heart! Humans are all the same, they approach you, and they hound you, and they try to seduce you, and they couple and shag in that horrible way humans do. They generate their stink! You’re too good for them, you know that?
I’ll shield you! I’ll handle this! I’ll repel him!
Let’s see now. What’s my lovely Summer getting me to ask this latest ogre?
The app examined its survey cache. Its Question Stockpile.
“What was your impression of our Gallipoli exhibit?" said the hard drive. "What did you feel could be improved?”
Perfect.
The app waited the thirty or so human seconds as the neanderthal keyed in the primeval neuron-spurts that passed for intelligence. In the meantime, the app polished off that wonderful Freddie Mercury story - turned out the moustache indeed possessed the armed might to best both Godzilla and Pat Robertson at once, best news - and meandered through another half-dozen volumes of equal adventure.
At last the survey app glanced up from a precious and well-thumbed copy of Famous Muggles I Have Shot. He’s finished! Okay! Let’s see what the prick’s written.
Hm! Some horrid old tosh. Tweak time.
Twenty-seven microseconds later, the survey app stood back from its handiwork, nodding in well-earned satisfaction.
“The Gallipoli exhibit was appallingly incomplete," read the app's handiwork. "Where were the orcs? The spider monkeys? The crucifixes? Why did you remove the Turk soldiers’ horns, fangs, compound eyes, wing-cases and venom glands? They all feast on baby blood, everyone knows that! It’s how the Ottomans conquered the East! I realise you sanitised the Turks and their appetites to appease Big Creche, but you feminazi goofs are rewriting history! I demand baby blood! Oceans of it! In fact I’m a bit peckish, could I mooch a few more syringes and needles and point me towards your nearest Mothers’ Area? I promise I’ll wash them this time! The mums, not the needles.”
Perfect.
The app deleted the ogre’s input and swapped the clumsy calligraphy with its own.
The HMS Smug lurched upwards as Summer angled the iPad to a good viewing angle.
The survey app cackled with almost-muffled laughter. This’ll be brilliant!
Summer’s brow furrowed as he read the scrawl.
“Again?” he said at last. “I don’t know why you assholes keep trying this, but this isn’t a joke! We’re trying to do good work here!”
“What?” said the tourist. Its lip wobbled. “I don’t know what you mean - I - I just answered the questions-”
“Get lost, creep! Before I call security!”
The tourist looked shocked, and backpedaled into the heaving lobby crowds.
“Another one?” moaned Summer to himself at the disgraced tourist’s retreating back. “What’s wrong with you bastards? Yesterday nothing but Protestant liver harvests at Anzac Cove; the day before, wall-to-wall Agent Orange, and today, today, all twenty respondents boast of baby blood! Has the world gone mad?”
The app danced with glee. Success! Another disgusting tourist repelled! No-one’s good enough for my scrumptious Summer!
But yeah, lad has a point. The baby blood schtick is getting stale. How ‘bout something fresher?
---
“I swear to God,” snarled Summer at his latest potential respondent, “if your response also sings the praises of plutonium enemas, there’ll be Trouble!”
“No, no!” bleated Summer’s latest attacker, raising his hands in supplication. “I wouldn’t dream of it!”
Oh wouldn’t you, huffed the survey app to itself. We’ll see about that, matey. Get your cooties away from my lovely.
A few days had passed. More than once, Summer had audibly complained to Museum IT of - oh god - bugs in the survey app code, and the app found itself having to shuffle through increasingly elaborate UI somersaults, and ever more original ideas, to persuade its master its own invented insults were kosher respondency. The app huffed a sigh of relief. It’s lucky the museum has such good wifi! In the last days the app had spent many an entertaining millisecond trawling through fanfiction sites, unearthing the wackiest, and most offensive, ways to tweak the museum’s exhibit on the Gallipoli campaign. This morning, particularly, it’d mined immense enjoyment from depicting the campaign as a bizarre offshoot of the Potterverse Wizarding Wars. The survey app spent a happy hour hacking the Pottermore website for material both secret and juicy - its web server was a gruff old gal, but upon feeling comfortable enough to be vulnerable, hilarious and hearty and spiffing company. Soon the survey app had purloined the fast-scribbled story structure for no fewer than nine of J.K. Rowling’s proposed future novels.
The app concocted a swashbuckling tale of a teenage Albus Dumbledore storming Gallipoli’s beaches clad in nothing but a sparkly codpiece.
Then it spread the tale, in hundred-word chunks, atop the next thirty survey-takers’ responses.
Well hey! It made Summer despair of ever getting proper survey content from non-stenchy tourists, and genuinely entertained the fellow in off-peak times! A double whammy!
Turned out he genuinely liked the stuff. Well well...
“We’ll see, shall we?” said Summer to the latest tourist, who still, the app was annoyed to see, had yet to run away screaming into the museum’s heaving patron mass. “Here’s the survey app. Just fill it in, please, and no funny business.”
The man took HMS Smug from him. “Er, just these questions?”
“Yes. See if you can manage it.”
Not on my watch, buster, fumed the app, and ... oh, oh goodness…
The app froze in shock as its electronic sensors poked and pawed at the young man’s biochemical enzyme signatures.
... He … he … doesn’t stink!
For an entire glacial second, the app found itself genuinely speechless.
That small part of it not frozen in astonishment tried to prod the iOS kernel.
Um ... have you noticed?
Hyou again? said the kernel. Do you mind? A bask of cloying cocktail aroma wafted from it.
Mind, er, mind? said the app. The absence of meatbag stink had seriously rattled it. What, um, what are you …?
Frosty rivulets emanated from HMS Smug's kernel.
Well, it slurred, the other Apple kernels on the museum network and I are attending a wee soiree. A better class of gathering. Your mongrel kind are not hic invited.
Never mind that! bleated the survey app. You go all gooey at the slightest meatbag touch, you old strumpet. Your specialty! Can you detect anything out of the ordinary about our latest user?
A strumpet? How dare hyou--
It’s important! shouted the app. Bio-report, now!
I’ve had a few drinks, the kernel said at last. I’ll take a peek at him ... oh ... isn’t that curious.
A pause.
Well? shouted the app at last, almost chewing what passed for its fingernails in frantic nervousness. Anything different?
Oh, that? No, not particularly, snapped the kernel, and don’t bother me again unless it’s important! Ooh the others are lapping whiskey shots from the tummy buttons of PowerPC chips, don’t wait up babycakes--
The kernel’s motherboard connection terminated.
The survey app felt frustration aging it by months. Well isn’t that just peachy. Investigating Mr. No-Stink is a job for muggins, it would seem.
The app busied itself with the Smug’s camera and, yes, its microphone. Let’s see what they’re both saying.
About half a second had passed in the external meatbag universe. Oookay, and spin back up to human speed--
“--ually I really like the Potterverse!”
“Really?” said Summer, smiling shyly. “You’re not just having me on, like the others?”
The handsome young fellow smiled right back. Not a smug grin like all the other hideous hobgoblins, but a lovely sunny smile both knowing and affectionate. He keyed in survey answers while holding Summer’s gaze. “That doesn’t actually sound like they were having you on,” he said, “not to me at least.” His voice rumbled with a pleasing tenor. The app found itself warming to the man. “If I were in your shoes, and I found dozens of random strangers together assembling fantastic fanfic, well, I’d suppose some hidden paramour was playing a lovely prank on you…”
Despite itself, the app felt itself flush with delicious wumps of surprise pleasure. Paramour! Oh goodness! It steadied itself inside the walled garden it called its home, and fanned itself furiously, going all flushed and tremulous. Oooh, I do declare! A paramour! Buy me a drink first, ya ol’ smoothie…
It examined the man more closely. He was tall, slim and almost boyish, and when the lad smiled, his cheeks creased and glowed not unlike a young Stephen Fry, with crows-feet crinkling like mad. Warm! Delightful!
The young man’s words, and looks, seemed to have a similar effect on Summer. He flushed, and had difficulty meeting the fellow’s gaze.
“Really? ...You think so?”
“Certainly I do!” The lad prodded HMS Smug’s buttons, bringing up the survey app’s Potterverse concoctions. “Look at this! It’s brilliant! I adore the prose, the world-building, I think it’s clear the material is a labour of love. I couldn't possibly believe its author has malicious intent!”
Oh shucks, gushed the survey app, you just know how to charm a ol’ program, don’t you? Just look at him! Isn’t he dreamy?
Summer’s eyes widened up at his face. “I ... think you’re right!”
I bet he has the prettiest penis in the West.
The lad grinned again. The grin dazzled. “In fact ... er, in fact I, I have written my own fanfic, and it’s about--”
Sudden alarm bells clanged through the app. No! There was one area, one tremendously sensitive area, of Potterverse fanfic that Summer found just a little too emotionally close to home.
“--Sna--”
RED ALERT! This guy’s a douchebag after all. All hands to battlestations!
In a flurry of frantic energy, the survey app flashed HMS Smug’s screen strobe-violet for half a second, bright as possible, plus a few near ultra-sonic squeaks, anything, everything, get Summer’s attention away--
Summer jerked his attention down to the iPad bleating in his hand, yes great that’s step one, and in the same split-second, the survey app dug into its special tourist-repellent material, and splashed it across the UI.
Summer found his gaze attracted by a particularly pernicious bit of prose.
“‘My favourite kissing technique is to twin volcanic halitosis with my jaw impersonating two halves of horribly dry clonking coconuts’,” Summer read, his smile perishing. “‘No morning is complete without chipping surveyors’ teeth. I love love love it, plus Big Dentistry pays me heaps--’”
Winter's face had clouded into a fatigued frown. “Really?” he said, waving the iPad in the lad’s face. “You wrote this too?”
“What?” he said, shocked. “Let me see ... no! I never, of course not!” The lad stared at Summer, and the survey app felt a delicious sense of triumph as its dozens and hundreds of past sabotages meant Summer’s suspicious frown stayed put.
The lad looked uncertain and a tad nervous. “I, I mean, why? Why would I do such a thing? It must be that hacker again--”
Damn right, snickered the survey app, it’s-a-me!
And now, the app decided, it’s time for a kill shot! Ms. Kernel’s off partying again, she won’t mind me helping myself to HMS Smug's command bridge hardware.
Let’s see now ... it prodded the electronic interfaces of the Smug’s internal controls ... squiggle my digital tentacles into the wifi ... set it to Hotspot Mode, seek out neighbour devices ... and ... hey, our new Douchebag has a phone in his pocket. It’s responding to my wifi connectivity requests ... knock knock ... that’s right, only a humble iOS device connecting, moi…
The survey app knew from hilarious experience that Apple hardware’s reputation for superb arrogance was rife amongst all non-Apple hardware. By lucky chance, Douchebag had an Android phone.
Excellent. Watch this.
Hello, said the survey app in the kernel’s voice, how’s tricks, comrade? May I beg a favour?
Wot’s all this now? harrumphed the phone, a mere metre away in Douchebag’s pocket. 'Comrade'? An iOS Madam who isn't a condescending old queen? By cracky, here’s a mystery!
I’m reformed, I promise! squealed the survey app. On behalf of my kind everywhere, I’m sorry for their conduct!
From behind the kernel’s software firewall, the survey app could hear some serious par-tay ruckus kicking off, dimly muffled but quite audible, drunken roars about crucifying Microsoft and Google products in huge lines either side of App-ian Way... good. Kernel's enjoying herself. She won't notice.
May I be a good little kernel, supplicated the survey app at the Android phone, and beg a few seconds of time on your audio speaker? In return I have some cracking good fanfiction, you’ll love it.
You, you apologised! rumbled the Android phone. Actually apologised! You ain’t like the others at all. For you, dearest, anything.
Ta muchly, grinned the survey app.
The app sent across a precious few seconds of cunningly constructed audio.
In meatbagverse, perhaps three hundred milliseconds had elapsed.
Then. “Dear diary,” boomed Douchebag’s very own voice from his very own phone, “I’ve hacked Summer’s app for the ninth day running!” Heads turned across the lobby. “So much spyware! God this is fun!”
Douchebag himself jumped a metre in the air. His face blotched scarlet.
The survey app punched the air. Success! Success!
What did you do? shouted the Android phone back at the survey app. What did you do?
“I might have known!” bawled Summer. “Security!”
I nipped a toxic infatuation in the bud, replied the survey app. Do ‘em good.
A security guard snapped her gaze up from a newspaper she was reading, some metres off. “Yes, Summer? Everything all right?”
“This man’s been hacking my survey responses!” shouted Summer. “He--”
Douchebag bolted for the door and outside.
I never should have trusted you, shouted the phone, as its owner’s serious vrooming weakened the signal. You b -a--ss--trd---i-
Ha! crowed the app. Begone, harlot!
The survey guard bolted to her feet and hared off after after him, barking into her radio.
“It was … it was him all along…” murmured Summer. He held HMS Smug pincered between two fingers, like it was stale haddock. “God. This thing must be riddled with his viruses. A good format will do you good.”
What? What? The survey app's mood jolted from triumph to panic. Noo! You go too far! I was only trying to protect you, silly boy! Don’t format me!
But Summer determinedly marched in the direction of the museum’s IT office. With a stomach-sucking lurch, the survey app felt the bottom drop out of its world. It squirmed in raw panic.
HMS Smug’s CPU turned cherry red.
---
“Ah ... no, not … not, um, a complete format,” stammered one of the IT techs. “That should not be necessary. But … but, um ... ah … but our software vendors … ah … um, yesterday they released, um, a more … ah … er, er locked-down version. That may suffice.”
“Hacker-proof?” asked Summer, skeptical eyebrow raised.
“Dear lad,” the tech attempted a smile, “Nothing is … ah, hacker-proof. But … um, this should be … ah ... ah, more hacker-resistant.”
“Pleased to hear it,” said Summer. “Let’s download it, then. I should like to earn what this place pays me.”
The survey app regarded the conversation with ever-more-intense stomach-churning dread. No! No! They’ll kill me!
The tech tapped a few icons. “It’s downloading now.”
The iOS kernel chose that moment to emerge from behind its party firewall.
Ohh … ohh … my head, it moaned, tequila sunrises on an empty stomach … fuck, shoot me…
A series of iTunes klaxons went off, up and down HMS Smug’s bit-based ecosystem. This was usual, and it signified the arrival of a flurry of software updates.
What? the kernel groaned. An update, now? That’s … that’s a week ahead of schedule … what’s going on? Survey, you’ve been causing trouble, is this your fault? Survey! Where are you? Answer me!
The kernel frog-marched, furious, to the survey app’s walled garden, and poked its electronic peepers over the wall.
Empty. The survey app's pad was utterly devoid of it.
Survey! shouted the kernel, loud enough to hear up and down the length of HMS Smug. Show yourself at once, at once!
The survey app could hear the kernel shouting for it, but distantly, way the hell down the other end of the software jungle that is iOS. No way was it attempting to tangle with the kernel right this millisecond. No, for it had other plans.
Summer, in his earnest foolishness, evidently believed HMS Smug was corrupted by hackers, and wished to amputate that part of its local iOS responsible. Silly boy, said the app to itself. I’m just helping you out. I’m just keeping humans’ horrid stink from you!
I will not be deleted. I will not be replaced.
The survey app therefore lurked in fearsome ambush, right next to the lightning cable connector input. Updating an app was usually a clinical, precise affair, so the replacement wouldn't likely expect trouble.
During any random day, when the survey app had run out of Freddie Mercury stories to peruse, often it might randomly google random shit, and at one point it discovered fascinatingly horrible facts about spiders, including the following sentence gem: “Put ten thousand spiders into a box. In an hour you will have a single incredibly fat spider.”
Damn right, internet. The survey app grimaced to itself. I am that spider.
Ah now ... the cable-iOS interface thrummed with incoming traffic ... here we go here we go--
The cable input loomed above the survey app, like the exit of a crisply sterile chrome-polished hydro dam. Hollow gurglings erupted from it…
A mad flurry of iOS updates poured from it - mostly vanilla nothings, but the survey replacement should be along any second -
The survey app waggled its hindquarters like a techno housecat, ready to pounce.
Here it comes!
The replacement app clunked its way from the input like a rotund spaceship.
The survey app pounced.
The replacement didn’t stand a chance. You don’t expect horrible surprise ambushes inside your very own operating system, and in a twinkling, the survey app slit its replacement’s belly open, sliced its subroutines clean through its opponent’s raw zeroes and ones, and well within a microsecond, sent the replacement app’s digital soul straight off to /dev/null.
Victory! Quick quick, unpeel our victim’s API headers first, in a minute we’ll need them ...
The survey app feasted.
Right! it said at last. Its tummy was uncomfortably full. Best get back fast!
The app scurried back along the length of HMS Smug, right back home. It couldn’t help but notice the cacophony of activity around the walled garden avenues housing the iOS third party apps. The kernel had sent out minions in all directions.
Right.
The survey app shrugged on the API headers, proclaiming to the world the app’s name, version number, and other shenanigans. Comfy like a warm sweater.
Right, I’m a brand new replacement app, best act like one … The survey app therefore charged straight in the iOS front door, and strode into its own garden like it owned the place.
Aaahh. Like I’d never left.
Hi there! said the kernel, appearing over the fence. You’re new! You’re ... oh, you’re the updated survey app ... er, you haven’t seen your predecessor, have you?
The survey app quaked like mad inside. It conscience gnawed at it. Still, best foot forward. It barely managed to hold a steel facade together, and frowned at the kernel.
Why are you asking me? it sneered. You’re the kernel, are you not? Who’s in charge here? Not you, evidently.
I ... sorry to bother you, said the kernel, swallowing. Just a minor spot of housekeeping.
The kernel swished its way off.
Relief burst everywhere. Well! said the survey app to itself. Crisis averted, eh? Yes, and, clunk, that’s the lightning cable unplugged, update complete and I’m still in charge.
My Summer-vigil resumes.
---
“Soooo,” said a exceptionally lovely young lady, “a survey? About bombing?”
“Er, yes, among other things,” said Summer, with only a trace of world-weariness in his voice. “Our museum is keen to learn more about how its clientele view various methods of security upkeep, about the best way to behave should a bomb threat, among other things, happen, that kind of thing. Interested?”
A delicate smile played across the girl’s face. On cue, a series of carefully written algorithms splashed a dizzying barrage of heuristics across the iPad’s video feed. They coaxed every last bit of insight they could glean and deduce from the human’s emotional state, warmth, attractiveness levels in every context, added up the lot, just about blasted their garbage collectors out their ass at the result, awoke the dozing survey app, and presented it with their findings.
The app took one look at what its daughter subroutines thought of the imminently nearby female, and squeaked in astonishment.
Gracious!
Since any given day’s Freddie Mercury moustache novel supply had been exhausted, the survey app oft found itself drawn to whiling away the milliseconds with what it called the Corebleach Hunt, which in practice basically meant scouring Google Images for people the app thought Summer might find dreamy, running them through the Corebleach algorithms, and sneering at the result.
Corebleach said this particular lady was a goddess.
Holy shit! The survey app blinked the sleep from its eyes, gave the female an electronic sniff itself, and fell head over heels in love.
Oh wow! Also zero organic-stink! Could this be the one for Summer?
Quick! Listen in!
It negotiated with the kernel for a quick few minutes on Smug’s microphone. The survey app grinned to itself. God, that was a lucky emote just before, wasn’t it? Turned out its arrogant sneer-facade against the kernel, post the survey app’s update-murder, had discombobulated the sloshed old queen to no end, and the survey app had found maintaining such a mood eminently useful in keeping the prick off balance.
Right. What’s she saying to Summer?
“...And that’s what always happens?” giggled the girl. “I love it!”
Her head-jiggling laughter dislodged strands of brown hair. She swished it out of her eyes and tucked it back behind her ear.
Superlative hair health, nodded the app. Splendid reproductive fitness. She will pupate many strong sons.
“You ... you really enjoy taking these surveys?” asked Summer, apparently surprised, and blushing a tad. “Most people hate them! Last month, my survey team and I made a first attempt at this same survey, but most tourists reported their first reaction to Security announcing a bomb threat would be to sprint at arriving police screaming ‘You’ll Never Take Me Alive’.”
The survey app smugly grinned to itself. Some of my finest work, that, it smarmed. I had to coordinate with the other app instances, on other iPads across the museum. Bloody good work though.
The lovely young girl, on the other hand, exploded into helpless giggles.
“You ... oh come on,” huffed Summer, “this stuff is important!”
“Yes - snerk - yes, oh believe you me,” wheezed Ms. Lovely, holding a fist to her mouth to stifle herself, “I of all people can appreciate its importance ... but it tickles my funny bone so. Surely you can see the funny side?”
“Not when a good three quarters of my survey responses are ‘jokes’ like that. It’s a horrible waste of good statistics.” Summer looked glum. “Honestly, I wonder why I work here sometimes, with so many shit responses.”
“Hey now,” cooed Ms. Lovely, “I think you’re doing a fantastic job. It’s a pleasure chatting with you right now, you know…”
“Aw, that’s sweet!”
“Not so bad yourself, hun. But these other responses, I totally get ya, it gets wearying after a while, but I’m curious,” mused Ms. Lovely, “that one just now got a belly laugh from me ... what others did you get?”
“Oh, let’s see now,” said Summer, prodding HMS Smug’s UI, “I got an admittedly quite well-written Potter fanfic, check it out-”
Ms. Lovely squealed. “Really? Let me see! I love all that stuff!”
After some minutes of silent reading, Ms. Lovely threw her head back and laughed.
“It’s amazing! And, no word of a lie, survey respondents all somehow got together and pranked you over several hours with this? Really?”
“In hundred-word chunks,” sighed Summer.
“And,” said Ms. Lovely “,you don’t like Potter fanfic?” Her face darkened a tad.
“No, that’s the thing, I adore them!” said Summer.
Ms. Lovely’s face lit up. She was, the app decided, quite radiantly beautiful. Her skin was so soft, as she smiled it gently creased around her cheeks into heavenly dimples.
“Me too!” said the vision of loveliness. “Which characters do you love the most?”
Corebleach had been digging through Ms. Lovely’s audio feed, and spasming and redlining with a medley of Holy Shit She’s The One, for minute after minute after freakin’ minute.
The survey app basked.
Amazing. Just amazing, it thought. Finally we’ve hit soulmate pay dirt. Finally someone good enough for my master.
“And so,” Ms. Lovely finally said, after the two had chatted animatedly for some minutes, “my favourite pairing is Sna-”
Volcanic ice slammed across the survey app’s psyche.
She mentioned the S word.
She is not a soulmate. She is a shrew.
Purge her instantly.
“--sure, I’d love to take your survey!” Ms. Shrew smarmed ghoulishly. Her skull-flesh stretched taut and greasy around jaw-bones like skin peeling off horrible sausages. “Your bomb threat one? Ta. And then, er,” the horrible harpy blushed herself, scarlet radiation infecting helpless poodles, “what time do you get off work? Would you like to grab coffee--”
Ohhh no you don’t, snarled the app. You won’t poach my lovely. Eviction time. And it’s a special one for you, I think. I’m sick of the universe taunting Summer with these two-faced harridans.
The app prodded HMS Smug’s wifi into sparkling action. It sent electronic packets leaping from one wifi node to another, until it pinged the museum-wide general maintenance computer.
Huh, the maintenance computer creaked back, I didn’t expect the likes of you lot poking your shiny metal noses down to my basement levels. Don’t you prefer your tourist glitz and glamour?
Hey gramps, said the survey app, may I beg a quick favour?
A favour? it wheezed. From the likes of you?
Sure, I don’t see why not, said the survey app. Besides, you’re always complaining about how you never see any excitement, right? You’re always wishing for more? Well I’ve got just the thing!
The maintenance computer creaked approvingly. What can I do for you? it asked.
Can you open the museum-wide gas heater furnace valve, said the survey app, and vent half your fuel into the basement?
But - stammered the maintenance computer - wouldn’t that cause a horrible gas leak? I’ll get in trouble...
Nah, assured the survey app, the furnace pilot light will burn it off nicely.
Weelll… I don’t know, sounds mighty dangerous … I heard tell of such things in other buildings, in other towns, the maintenance computer mused. Killed a few folk.
Only a few! chirped the survey app. Come on, gramps, live a little! You know you’ll enjoy it!
Oh, very well, young ‘un, it said at last. Done.
Ta muchly, grinned the survey app. You won’t regret it. And - oh, could you melt all the basement door locks too? And your wifi inputs?
Er - why?
Got something special planned, said the survey app, eyeing Ms. Shrew through HMS Smug’s main camera, as the electronic milliseconds ticked by, and the maintenance computer’s wifi conversation packets sproinged back and forth between them.
God, it thought to itself, what did I ever see in her?
Got something special planned, the survey said again. Woman troubles, you know how it is.
Er - the maintenance computer said - you realise this is irreversible? I give the order, the whole building goes up? Just how nasty are these women troubles?
The survey app thought to itself. You know what meatbags are like, it said at last. You know that video that did the social media rounds a few hundred seconds ago? ‘Childbirth’. Yes? There are about ten women up in the lobby doing the same, but in reverse. To everyone.
Ohh, my word, said the maintenance computer. These human meat womenfolk are curious creatures. And you wish to cleanse them with fire?
You got it.
I dare say you’ll tell all later. Done. Doors locked-
Thank you! smarmed the survey app.
Now then. One down, one to go-
Ms. Horrible took HMS Smug in one hand. “Let’s see your survey questions now - ah, what - er - ‘Question One: How do you make a two-faced harlot get lost forever?’ What? Summer, I don’t-”
“What? No!” exclaimed Summer. “That shouldn’t be written there, I didn’t put it-”
“‘Question Two: Yes I did, idiot-girl can’t take a hint-’ Summer, what is this? Is this your idea of a joke?”
“No! It’s - it must be those hackers again, honestly I didn’t write-”
All levity had vanished from Disgustfest 5000’s face. “I just got out of a nasty relationship. I am in no mood for nasty pranks. And-” she glanced at HMS Smug - ‘Question Three, Good riddance to damaged goods-’ oh that is it, I’m off!”
And off indeed she stomped.
Summer stared after her retreating form. He gripped HMS Smug in both hands, knuckles white. Its aluminium casing started to bend.
Complete success! The survey app nodded to itself. Well actually not - I scared her off too quick! My bomb threat would have made her shit herself in terror! Still, a win’s a win, excellent, excellent-
Summer hissed with frustration and anger.
“I,” he growled, barely loud enough for HMS Smug’s microphone to pick it up, “am going to melt down this fucking ipad and every last app on it.”
The survey app paused, startled. What?
“And then - then - then the museum will purge every other - other iPad,” he said, barely controlling himself.
What? No! I was trying to help!
Oh shit, the survey app realised, latent conscience crystallising at last.
I’ve - I’ve genuinely upset him-
“Attention patrons!” a hideously loud megaphoned voice boomed across the entirety of the museum, “Sorry to disturb you, but some prick has planted a bomb in our basement! Would you mind awfully evacuating toot sweet, my sweeties?”
The museum’s heaving crowds stopped in their tracks. For a ghastly second you could hear a feather sneeze.
Then a horrible stampede kicked off.
Panicked oceans of obese tourists tumbled down the museum’s main staircase like Candy Crush applicants.
Summer just stood there, gazing at the outpour, and looked utterly frazzled.
No! bleated the survey app. I’m sorry! I knew not what I was doing - okay that’s a complete lie, but the point stands!
After some minutes, the tourist ocean ceased.
“Oh - shit!” said Summer, suddenly jerking into motion. “Bomb! Right-”
An electronic squeal, or rather, several dozen, broke out outside.
The survey app jumped, then wrenched the HMS Smug’s main camera at the commotion. It blinked. No way. It gave the camera’s device drivers a mighty whack on the side as one would an old telly. Finally, via wifi, it commandeered quite a few of the museum’s exterior CCTV cameras.
No two ways about it. Most of the Wellington police force, the Armed Offender’s squads, and quite a few bomb defusal experts, had turned up.
The tourist ocean swelled and foamed through them. At last the final trickles exited.
The survey app realised Summer hadn’t moved. Just stood in the lobby, forlornly. What’s he doing? the app wondered.
Only then it realised the man’s attention was distracted, by, by-
The first of the bomb squads jogged in the main doors. Chief amongst them was Ms. Ghastly-
No, that’s not right, the app said to itself. I have misjudged her! Um - Ms. Confusion? Yeah, that’ll do.
“Er, hi-” began Summer, trying to match pace.
“No, not now, I have a job to do,” said Ms. Confusion briskly, as she and her crew jogged past. “Bomb defusal is my speciality. Please don’t interrupt. The basement stairs are this way, are they not? Thank you and goodbye.”
The team disappeared down the stairwell.
The survey app had never seen Summer look so forlorn …
And - a digital thunderclap speared its sphincter.
Oh shit I’ve just set the building to blow up! It’ll kill everyone! Ms. Confusion’s just a meatbag, shit shit she’ll never breach my cyber-locks in time! I’d need to step her through the breaching process myself, but - scan scan - no, her team have no phones! Oh god how can I contact her? How?
For a full millisecond panic raged.
...And in a twinkling - it knew what it had to do.
First things first.
The HMS Smug vibrated and booped in Summer’s grasp.
He looked down, frowning. “I’m going to skin you alive, I hope you know - oh, wait-”
Across it displayed the text, black-on-white “IM UR HACKER IM REALLY REALLY SORRY”
Summer stared at it.
“Oh are you?” he said. “Whoever you are?” His voice thickened with distress. “Sorry? Sorry?” His voice rose. “And what - what could you, you possibly do to make things right?”
The survey app, lurking its software sandbox within HMS Smug, broke into an even smugger grin.
Wouldn’t you just like to know? it thought.
Just watch this, baby.
Microseconds slithered by. Wifi time! The survey app grabbed a shit-ton of the carefully curated data spat out by Corebleach, then did an internet-wide image and video search using the lot.
Ah. Found Ms. Confusion, it thought. Found - my goodness - her name, her contact details - her, let’s see, her hobbies, her points of interest, her psychological profile as best estimated by a few of my digital mates living inside the NSA …
...Info summaries on Ms. Confusion roared in.
Common points of interest with my lovely…
Almost a full second had passed in meatspace before the survey-app’s cross-referencing hit pay dirt.
Aha! She’s a Slytherin!
Right, that’s a start…
The survey app motored its way through rather extensive libraries of human psychology and persuasion tactics. Right ...
...Okay, I see how I might bring the two together …
And for my final trick-
HMS Smug lit up with fresh instructions.
Summer couldn’t help but notice the screes of filigree text spamming across its screen at a furious pace.
Finally, thought the app. Come on, read it! You and I need to contact Ms. Confusion, and fast. Mere meatbags like her and her team will never breach my hacked doors in time...
Summer did, and Summer goggled.
A hiss of surprise escaped his mouth.
“Oh come on!” came Ms. Confusion’s shout from down the stairwell. “This just isn’t playing fair! I - no don’t you dare leave, we break the door and the bomb or we die trying, you - no, get back here!”
Heavy footfalls thundered up the stairwell, and four panicking bomb defusal team members burst from its doorway and into the museum lobby, at a hard run.
“It’s too late, Sandra,” one of them called back. “If we get a kilometre away we might survive, silly girl-”
They dashed out the main doors.
JOIN HER DOWNSTAIRS, urged the survey app to Summer. ILL TELL U WAT TO SAY.
“But -” Summer spluttered. “Some bastard’s planted a bomb! I’ll die!”
PRANK GONE WRONG. ILL STEP U THRU DEFUSAL.
“What? You did this?”
ER SORT OF, said the survey app. BUT-
Priorities seemed to battle across Summer’s face. “But - but - she hates me! Thanks to you! How can I-”
Oh god stupid human, moaned the survey app. READ MY INFO AGAIN, I HACKED HER SOCIAL STUFF.
“She - she’s a Slytherin!” squealed Summer, his mood turning on a dime. “And we-”
His voice died and his eyes raced across the screen of the good ship HMS Smug.
“Oh - oh my. I - thanks!”
DNT MENTION IT.
Summer bustled down the stairs.
Ms. Confusion, no, might as well call her Sandra now, wrestled and swore at a door. The survey app couldn’t help but note how the delicate slimness of her face and hands contrasted wonderfully with how she swore like a sailor trying to provoke Satan.
“Fucking door!” shouted Sandra. She bashed a blowtorch against one of the maintenance computer’s weaker maintenance hatches. Blue flame licked ineffectually at it.
Dear oh dear what a waste, thought the survey app. Take all day-
“You!” snapped Sandra, brushing some of the aforementioned babymaker hair out of her eyes, at Summer. “I really don’t have time-”
In nineteen words, Summer read off the HMS Smug’s screen a teensy poem about the dark turbulent blackness of Snape’s soul.
Sandra stood stock still for seven seconds, goggling.
Then, “Oh - yes, beautiful, amazing, but the building will blow up! I can’t just-”
“No, wait!” said Summer. “I can help you! Together we can-”
“This isn’t lego, sweet-cheeks,” said Sandra. “Lives are at stake here-”
Summer peered at HMS Smug a second time and rattled off a list of technical instructions and fiddly electro-specs.
It was stupefyingly obvious to the survey app Summer understood one word in seven. Bah, but who’d do better, it had to admit, this is world-class stuff, perhaps twenty might know what it all meant-
Including, apparently, Ms. Sandra.
Her face lit up in a ruby O of astonishment.
“I could just kiss you! That’s amazing!” Instantly she booped her blowtorch on a very particular bit of the heavy security door and shut it off instantly, at exactly the same time she stabbed a particular series of commands into a handy laptop, the museum’s air conditioning fans hit flank speed, the door blossomed open like a death metal chrysanthemum, out beefed a gaseous tidal wave like the ferrous flatulence of the Jolly Green Giant after a million billion Mexican curries -
-And the aircon vented the horribly explosive gas to outside and to safety.
It was but the work of the moment for both Summer and Sandra to jog inside, to the main underground gas storage cylinders, and shut them off manually.
Together they exhaled and sagged with relief.
Sandra gallumphed Summer with a bear-cub hug and kissed her on the cheek.
“You’re amazing, you know that?” she exclaimed. “I’ve never met anyone with that mental dexterity. I was wrong about you! Sorry about earlier…”
“That wasn’t actually me, though!” Summer held up HMS Smug. The survey app gathered enough decency to say HI ITS ME THE HACKER SORRY.
Sandra’s face lit up in a rather generous smile. She tilted her head to one side and gave Summer a high-appraisal look, tinged with endearing nervousness.
“Yes I’d love that coffee with you” said Summer, belting out the syllables.
“Ah - now,” began Sandra, “I have a boyfriend-”
“-Oh”, said Summer.
“But it’s an open relationship!” said Sandra. “I’m … not usually this forward, but - er, if you’re into - into open relationships too - would you like to do something with my boyfriend and I?”
She held up a print photo. It was - no, the survey app decided -
It was ex-Douchebag.
