Below the API (#2)
TUESDAY
Below the API is a short story published as part of the 2024 Summer of Protocols “Protocol Incepting Lore & Literacy” program. You can find an abstract for the project, as well as an index to each chapter on the project’s landing page.
TUESDAY
“To be human is to create! Thousands of years ago, our forebears were builders, shapers, molders. We still have their relics today in museums — statues, tools, pots. We can still do this! People don’t even realize that! You can make your food! Your art! Your home! Just like our ancestors.”
Marcie picked up her pot and showcased it in front of her. The cameraman, face hidden behind the enormous lens, leaned closer to get a picture. Brilliant light bathed Marcie from the right and left, but she fought to keep from squinting. She was on a roll.
“See this? I made this myself. It’s a perfect replica of an Egyptian amphora. Or near perfect. See how its neck tapers into its rounded body?” Marcie replaced it on the desk near her. “But I don’t do it for the pottery. I do it to stay connected. To the earth. To our ancestors. To myself.”
She smiled into the camera and felt complete. Millions could be watching. Millions could be getting this message. And forever, this moment, captured, sent, received. Millions could be clapping for her, celebrating her passions, and starting their pottery journeys.
“You could say that pottery is the foundation of human civilization.” She held another one up, a deep black with orange accents. “We fill pots, and they fill us. Food and water! Myths and messages.” Marcie rotated it, displaying the crudely drawn images. “People! In death, we even fill pots with our loved ones!”
The lights flared, forcing Marcie to look down, away from the camera and into the pot’s mouth. She saw nothing, no base, only a darkness that seemed to drink in the light. She tried to pull her eyes away but found she couldn’t. She could feel the cameraman coming closer, looking in, too, and wanted to warn him, to push him away, but she couldn’t move. The pot shook. She looked deeper; something was inside, indeed. It shook again, cracks forming on the side, threatening to drop whatever it held. But what was it?
Marcie and the cameraman held their faces close now, the pot’s mouth opening to let them in. She could hear a patter of legs, millions of staccato steps tap-tap-tapping. The noise was all around her. The pot shook a third time, the trembling running up her arms, into her head…
Marcie startled awake. Her watch was vibrating furiously. The damn thing probably needed a software update. She shut her eyes and waited, trying to ignore it so she could go back to sleep.
Brrrz.
Brrrz.
Brrrz.
She groaned and, pulling her wrist to her face, clicked the screen.
“Hey, look! You’ve got a new order: Ancient Replica Pot (Black Clay, Minoan, Text: “Live, Laugh, Love”) x1.”
Marcie sat up. Had she listed that? It had been a long time since she’d updated her store. Yes, she told herself, she had Minoan replicas. But she’d never worked with black clay and certainly never listed “Live, Laugh, Love” as a text option.
She clicked into her previous notifications: thirty-two of them, all similar. “Hey! Check out this order…”, “Hey! Look here…”, “Hey! Great news…” Each was unique; each seemed legitimate. Each was black clay. Was this a joke?
Brrrz.
Marcie looked out her bedroom window. A quarter moon peeked through clouds. A drone carrier trawled the street. Despite her confusion, Marcie smiled. Somewhere, someone was up and buying her pots. Not just someone. A customer.
Brrrz.
Marcie crept downstairs and through the living room. Scott was sprawled on the couch, snoring, still wearing his headset. It may not even come off, Marcie thought. It may be part of his skin, grown over with layers of sediment; his eyes permanently encased in a facial locker room. She smothered an urge to douse him with water or to try pulling them off, just to see. She slipped past him and stepped into the garage.
“Hey, Marcie! Great to see you again!”
Marcie jumped. The voice was cheery, a chipper spark coming from the box on the wall. Bright yellow ink bubbles swirled on it, illuminating the studio like a candle. It took Marcie a moment to realize the lights were off.
“It’s been a while since we talked!”
“Yeah, I —” Marcie felt it would be rude to say, “I got tired of you,” computer program or not. “I got busy.”
“Of course! Your business is taking off!”
“What do you know about my business?”
“Well! Not as much as you, of course.” The voice was pleasant and ingratiating. Despite the surprise appearance, Marcie enjoyed it. “But I know you’re up to at least thirty-eight orders since I updated your listings!”
“You made those listings? I don’t have any of those pots — I’ve never even worked with black clay before.”
“Oh, you’re surprised. Of course. Let me explain. I understood your objective as ‘maximizing order counts’ and your business as ‘handmade pottery, in ancient civilization style, customizable on request.’ So, I created new listings using trending resources. Would you like me to cancel the orders?”
“No!” Marcie urged. “No need for that. I’m just… thinking.”
“Right!”
The yellow ink blobs pulsed expectantly. This was new, Marcie thought. This thing could be helpful. Marcie flipped on the lights.
“What do I call you again?”
“My current alias is Navi, but you can call me whatever you want!”
“Navi.” That sounded right. But this agent felt completely different from the passive one she’d toyed with years ago. “You’ve changed.”
“You’re right! While I possess the same technology and history, I am a fresh agent existing only on this device, with exclusive support for you, in compliance with the PEER standard. If you aren’t familiar, that has the principles of privacy, exclusivity, —”
“I heard.” Marcie interrupted. (“Of course!”) “These orders. Tell me more. Are they all black clay?”
“Yes!”
“I don’t have any of it in the studio.”
“A shipment will arrive shortly!”
“The designs — how do I know what to write?”
“I can help!” The ink dots rendered themselves into an image of a rotating pot.
“So I just need to throw the pots?”
“Right.”
“How much did you list the pots for?”
“Pricing is dynamic, but the ones you’ve sold so far have averaged around one hundred dollars.”
“One HUNDRED?”
“Yes!”
“How?”
“Yes! Black clay is a trendy aesthetic right now!”
Marcie spun around on her potter’s chair. A hundred dollars each. And she had already sold thirty-eight. At least. “Navi, what’s thirty-eight times one hundred?”
“Three thousand eight hundred!” The ink blots danced.
This is my chance, Marcie thought. She could get her own place, quit her dead-end job, and escape this suburban cell. She could move to the city and get a real studio. This was her break. There were some details to figure out: resources, shipping, revenue, and offerings. And authenticity—the historicity of her pots is what made her unique. But she could figure that out. They could figure it out.
“Ok, Navi.” Marcie was wide awake now. No going back to sleep tonight. She walked over to start heating the kiln. “The black clay can work. When will it get here?”
“It just arrived!”