Below the API (#5)
FRIDAY
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.
The front door slapped into place behind Marcie as she set down the stack of boxes on the delivery pad. The shipments were discreet, just cardboard boxes with QR codes Marcie had slapped on. Gone were the days of public addresses and logos on boxes. Marcie wondered who was on the other end of that code. What would the house look like, and where would the pot be displayed? She’d look into it when she had time, she promised herself. Some other time.
A twinge of pain ripped through her back as she stood up, grimacing. She was doing more than she should. At the same time, those ached muscles were also getting toned. It was progress.
She looked down the street, hoping to see the delivery trawler. It would be a treat to see her first orders go out—maybe Navi could keep track of it.
Instead, she saw only the line of houses. Boxes, big people boxes. Set there, unlabeled, as if by some giant artisan who had sat at his workbench, assembling them, one after another, then plopping them down in a line. To make so many boxes, so many of the same thing, would make such a master’s mind numb. It would forget itself and turn intention into protocol—foundation, frame, finish, sell; foundation, frame, finish, sell; foundation, frame, finish, sell…
Marcie returned to the studio for the last load. Black dust from sanding clouded the studio, filling Marcie’s lungs as she walked in. Marcie hadn’t had time to clean this week. The wheel was flaked with residue, and the floor was gritty and littered with shipping materials. On the wall, Marcie’s “originals,” as she had started to call them, were beginning to get coated with dust.
Even so, she admired them. They were not outright better, but they were more thorough and careful than her recent work. Gone were the individual flourishes and design touches. Black clay, black clay, that’s what the people cared about. She had replaced the cuneiform and glyphs with her own: slash, slash, left, right. It was a personal script lacking history or meaning, a signature born of the need to produce, not the heart. It looked great glazed on black, though.
“Hey! Way to go!” Navi chimed, blots swirling. “Your first shipment!”
“Almost. One more trip.” Marcie stacked the last boxes. “Then I’m taking a break.”
“Great idea! You’re five minutes ahead of schedule!”
“Only five?”
“You’re doing great! We’re 73% of the way to our quota today. We’re five minutes ahead of finishing by 9 PM.”
Marcie grabbed the boxes and kicked the door closed. (“Lift with your back!” Navi called.) Walking past the back patio, she saw Scott lounging on a folding chair, smoking a cigar. Interesting. Scott outside was not a common sight. Something was up.
When she had dropped off the boxes, she grabbed a glass of water, threw back a couple of aspirin, and lathered her hands. She decided to give her creditor an update. A little gloating was in order as well. She pulled back the sliding door.
“First shipment’s going out now,” Marcie said casually. “Should be getting the first payments in a couple of days.”
“That’s nice.”
“Rate I’m going, I’ll easily have the money next week.”
Scott took a drag, turned to his sister, and exhaled. “I don’t need it, you know.”
Marcie dodged the smoke. “You don’t need it, as in, ‘Don’t repay me?’”
“No, I want the money. It’s pennies, though. That’s what I meant.” He took another drag.
“Five thousand dollars is not pennies to you. You’re in a ten-dollar lawn chair smoking a twelve-dollar cigar.”
“My surroundings do not reflect my standing.”
“They certainly reek of it.”
“So you’ve got some people—if they are people— buying your pots.” He leaned back in his chair and gazed at the feeble patch of grass they called a lawn. “Great for you, keep the garage, whatever. But run along. I’m busy.”
“You aren’t doing anything.”
“I’m watching my moves.”
“Sounds tough.”
“Markets are wild today if you need to know. I’m up 15% already… and boom. Still going up.” Scott stood up. He was shorter than Marcie, although his girth gave him plenty of presence. “I’ve cracked it wide open, sis. I’ll let you in on the secret, too. Not like you’re a threat or anything.”
Brrrz. It was Navi: “MC! Five minutes are wrapping up!”
Marcie decided to ignore it. “If you want to talk, talk.”
“So—take stocks. Stocks are just one big game of chicken. It’s just a gamble against stupid people: you’ve got to sell when the price is higher than you bought. It doesn’t matter if anything is happening underneath as long as you do that one thing. Are you following?”
“I’m not an idiot, Scott.”
“Well, prices increase when there’s a sudden change in demand. The more sudden, the better. If you can track changes in demand, then you know what’s going to increase the price and what to buy. The problem is that people are morons. They barely know what they want.”
Marcie was getting impatient. “And?”
“It’s not the humans who are demanding things now, Marcie. They’re too lazy. They used to read magazines and all that crap to come up with their ideas. Now, they leave it to their ants. The ants are doing the demanding.”
“So you ask the ants what to buy?”
“No, you don’t ’ask the ants.’ That’s illegal, and they’re morons anyway. They wouldn’t be able to tell you explicitly what they want anyway.” A drag. “But, ants talk. Talk, talk, talk, that’s all they do. So I listen. That’s the alpha.”
“Sitting in a lawn chair, listening to bots talk to each other,” Marcie said. “Sounds like a great business strategy.”
“Ape brain. Didn’t think you’d get it.” Scott waved her off and turned back to the yard. ”Doesn’t matter.”
Brrrz. Navi again: “Hey! We’re five minutes behind now!”
“Looks like the boss is calling,” Scott said.
“Assistant,” Marcie corrected. “Maybe with all that alpha you’ve got, you can afford a shower this week.”
“You’re one to talk.”
Marcie flipped him off as she slid open the porch door shut and shuffled back to the garage.