(no subject)
To the eye and ear of any sentient biological organism, the kitchen of the Versacore was a tumultuous scrum of deafening activity. To the sensory systems of Project Inquisitor, it was hardly less overwhelming. Its targeting systems flashed from body to body, strobing with the effort of locating its opponent amongst so many people and machines.
"Coming through! Hot stuff coming through!" shouted one humanoid cook carrying a large pot emitting a steam so pungent, Inquisitor's chemical weapons defenses momentarily engaged. "Hey! I'm talking to you, bot-brain! Move it!" The robot quickly shifted three of its legs out of the line of traffic, but in doing so found itself crowding another cook wearing chainmail gloves and working at a table heaped with what looked like daisies--daisies with squirming petals and yellow, radial mouths. Though the kitchen was extremely large, it was also extremely crowded, with rows of worktables, appliances, sinks, and cooktops arranged in a close-ranked grid that made use of every precious centimeter of space. The AI had reviewed the footage of The Muse's first round and had discovered that its opponent was some manner of shapeshifter, which meant that she could conceivably be any one of the bustling throng that filled the room. Unless she chose to announce herself, it would be almost impossible to find her.
"Hello!" It was a testament to the sensitivity and precision of Project Inquisitor's audio and impact sensors that it was able to hear the tiny voice or feel the tapping on its number five leg. "Excuse me, Project Inquisitor? Can you hear me?" It looked down to see a woman not quite six inches tall rapping on its leg as though she were knocking on a door. How extraordinary.
"Yes, I can hear you," it replied. "Are you The Muse?"
"Yes, I am," she said in a clear, piping voice. "Would you mind terribly picking me up? I'm afraid one of the cooks will tread on me and put an early end to our contest."
Project Inquisitor omitted mentioning that it could just as well tread on her itself and put a very early end to the contest indeed, and instead reached down one of its hands and lifted her to an optimal position for optical scanning, if not targeting.
"Thank you ever so much! I had several near misses on my way to you. I was nearly caught in some sort of pest trap, and then I had to run away from a carnivorous flower that had got down on off one of the tables. Quite the adventure, and all before I even got to say hello!"
The robot's combat analysis sub-routines started running simulations evaluating the possible strategic advantages of this degree of miniaturization while another sub-routine combed through scientific databases trying to determine the means by which such miniaturization could be accomplished. Both were inconclusive, so nothing remained but to ask.
"How have you made yourself so small, and for what purpose?"
"Oh! I got the idea from a novel called "Gulliver's Travels"--your people don't write novels, which is a shame, I've been meaning to introduce you to the form, but I haven't got around to it. Your developments in code-poetry always sidetrack me. Have you ever read "{If[ObjectYou=state:present];then[ObjectStars=state:present];else[ObjectStars=state:UndefinedError]}"? Entrancing stuff, really! And The Artist told me AIs lacked the soul for poetry. What does he know? Just because he's not having much luck with cybernetic life-forms doesn't mean they lack creative capacity."
She seemed to think this was a satisfactory answer, but Inquisitor could not agree. It repeated, "How have you made yourself so small, and for what purpose?"
"It's just a matter of perspective really. How do you know I've made myself small? I might have simply made you and everything else very large. And I did so because I wanted to have a civil conversation with you." Her tone implied that there was logic to her statement, though several analytic algorithms failed to detect it. Nevertheless, the AI found that it too wanted to have a civil conversation with this extraordinary (if minute) being, and since her present small size offered no detectable threat, it acquiesced.
"I am amenable to civil conversation but I do not see why miniaturization was necessary."
"Don't you? Surely, if I had shown myself the size you expected in a combatant, you would have treated me as such. No doubt there would have been displays of weapons and threats of destruction, which is hardly conducive to any sort of reasonable discussion. And besides, Gulliver's Travels is very apropos to the topic I wanted to discuss with you."
"And that topic is?"
"War and how very silly it is."
Project Inquisitor ran a quick contextual analysis of the words "war" and "silly", looking for situations where one might be described by the other. Correlative results were found, but still, it was still not sure it would personally consider the subject of war to be silly. "Please elaborate."
"Well, for instance, in "Gulliver's Travels", the main character lands on an island populated with a race of tiny people." Here The Muse indicated her own size. "These tiny people have a tiny empire, which they think the height of pomp and circumstance. When our hero finds them, they have been engaged in an extended war with another island of similarly tiny people. And do you know what these tiny people have been fighting over, what has moved them to kill and die in great, tiny masses upon the field of battle?"
"I am sure you will tell me," said the robot.
"Indeed I shall," replied The Muse. "They went to war over the correct way to break an egg before eating it. The people of Lilliput believe one should crack the egg on the small end, while the people of Blefuscu believe eggs should be cracked at the big end."
"And they went to war over this?"
"Indeed they did!"
"That seems very improbable," said Project Inquisitor.
"It is not improbable," retorted The Muse, "it is satirical, which is entirely different. The point is, the emperor of Lilliput gained a super-weapon in the person of the Man-Mountain, as Gulliver was called. He ordered Gulliver to use his prodigious size to go and summarily conquer Blefuscu. But this Gulliver refused to do, because he would not make himself the agent of subjection of a free people, or force them to break eggs against the dictates of their conscience."
"I fail to see the relevance of this story."
The Muse shook her head and scowled. "Oh, I really need to stop allowing myself to be distracted by poetry. I can see I've neglected your literary development terribly. You, my dear Project Inquisitor, are on the verge of becoming a Gulliver if you get this wish Erzanx is offering. Your nation and the nations opposing you have been at war for far too long. I don't object to a little bit of war. It gives occasion for many fine speeches and tales of heroism, but your people have carried it much to far. You are not fighting over breaking eggs, but you might as well be, for all the sense your war makes now. If you win, what do your superiors intend for you to do with your wish?"
"They intend to use it to win the war."
"Exactly!" cried The Muse. "But how would that be accomplished? Would you wish for a weapon of unmatched destructive ability? Would you wish for your enemies to lose all will to fight, for them to surrender unconditionally? The first would be an abomination, a mass slaughter, and the second would hardly be better, being an utter violation of the free will which must be held as precious above all things to any sentient being. Consider carefully what you would do with your wish, for it will make you a giant among your people."
Project Inquisitor pondered this. Indeed, it had been pondering this for some time, and it was not at all sure it would agree with its commanders when the time came for the disposition of the wish, assuming it was victorious in the contest.
"Furthermore," continued The Muse, "I regard myself as a bit of an expert on wishes and the granting thereof, and I assure you, there are few things more destructive to all concerned than the consequences of an ill-considered wish. If you are not very careful, you may come to regard this wish as the greatest catastrophe to ever befall the people of your world."
"Are you suggesting I give up and surrender my chance at the wish?"
"No," The Muse sighed, "though that would be lovely, I cannot expect it of you, and indeed, I think you are as likely as anyone to use a wish well. It was really terribly irresponsible for Erzanx to offer it as a prize. I do not ask you to give up the wish, but only ask that if you do win it, and even if you don't, that you think carefully upon what the rulers of your nation intend to do with it, and exercise your best judgement and conscience, because ultimately it is your wish and your responsibility."
"Your advice is very sensible and I will carefully analyze the possible outcomes of my wish, should I win it, with particular regard for unintended negative effects."
The robot inclined its head respectfully and The Muse responded with a graceful bow of her own. "Very good. I could not ask for more, but if you are willing to entertain another suggestion, I have an idea as to how we might best proceed with our battle."
"Please continue."
"Well," she said, stepping out of the robot's hand and resuming a more conventional size, "I think it behooves us to carry on our battle in a manner that reflects the gravity of the issue at hand and will set a good example for the people of your war-torn planet, should you be victorious."
"What do you suggest?"
She cocked her head and smiled. "I think we should settle this with a food fight."
Project Inquisitor was intrigued. "I am unfamiliar with this mode of combat," it said. "What are the rules of engagement for a food fight?"
"It is very simple," The Muse replied, picking up a piece of green and orange striped fruit from a table. "One flings items of food at one's opponent like so," and putting action to words, she threw the fruit at the robot, hitting it just below its holographic face and splattering it with seeds in a syrupy pulp. "Unlike traditional warfare, in a food fight, causing physical harm to one's opponent is strictly forbidden."
"If injury is forbidden, how is victory determined?"
"Whoever scores the most hits in, say, fifteen--no, make it thirty minutes, we don't want to cut short the show--is the winner."
"And who will keep score?"
At that moment, the cook in the chainmail gloves, who had been listening to their conversation while plucking the petals from the carnivorous daisies, interrupted. "Oi! What's this? Food fight? You can't be having a food fight in here! We've got work to do, people to feed! You take your battle somewhere else!" He pointed to the door and glared at them while the flower in his hand gnawed impotently at his thumb.
"We are sorry for the inconvenience," said Project Inquisitor, "but the venue for our conflict was given to us by Erzanx himself. Not only would removal put us at risk of disqualification, I believe our orders and our battle take precedence over your meal preparation in this case."
The cook turned and shouted down the length of the kitchen, "Hey chef! Chef! These two wanna have a food fight in here!"
The chef turned out to be a Terran of British origin, with a thick brush of dirty blond hair and a very red face. "What the fuck do you two shits think you are doing in my fucking kitchen? I don't give a fuck who said you could come in here, you fucking fuckers fuck off out of my fucking kitchen before I throw your fucking arses out down the fucking garbage chute!"
The Muse rolled her eyes and said to her robotic cohort, "One of the most extensive vocabularies on their planet and they insist on exhausting all the possibilities of a single word. I despair of them, I really do sometimes." She turned to the chef, "Now listen here, you repetitive man. Erzanx expressly told us to hold our battle in this kitchen and if you don't like it, you can, as you like to put it, fuck right off and complain to him about the disruption. I would like to point out that I have negotiated a means of conducting our business with the minimum of destructive force. If you don't like the idea of us holding a food fight in your kitchen, we can always return to the original plan for the battle, though I think it a less satisfactory alternative."
To emphasize how much less satisfactory they might find the alternative, Project Inquisitor drew both assault rifles and both longswords and pointed them at the chef.
"Right!" shouted the chef, "Shut it down! Shut it down! Everyone out! They can all eat out of the fucking vending machines tonight then! Bloody hell, what a fucking joke! Fucking Erzanx!"
The cook in the chainmail gloves grumbled as he drew a bit of wire netting over the daisies. Other members of the staff, especially the dishwashers, seemed pleased with the unexpected time off, though a few expressed concern that they might not be paid for the night. As the cooks and scullions, both organic and mechanical, shuffled out of the kitchen, Project Inquisitor returned to the question it had asked before the interruption by the choleric and profane chef.
"Who will keep score?"
"Oh," said The Muse, "I suppose you will have to do it. With your sophisticated optics and targeting systems, I imagine you are very well suited for judging a hit or a miss. That is, if you don't mind. If you'd rather not, I'm sure my brother The Athle-- I mean, The Gamer--" she shook her head and made a little grunt of disgust, "--could keep score. It really is his forte, this sort of thing, but I'm not sure Erzanx would approve the addition of a third party, and besides, I would hate to look as though I had any sort of unfair advantage."
"But if I am the one keeping score, what is to prevent me from taking unfair advantage?" asked Project Inquisitor.
The Muse paused and regarded him for a moment with her clear, deep eyes. "Nothing prevents you from taking advantage, other than your honor and good will. You see, my friend, the whole point of this is to show your people a different way of thinking about conflict. We must do what your people cannot imagine doing, which is to proceed under the assumption that our opponent is good and honorable, and worth our trust, and to be good and honorable and trustworthy in return. For my part, if you manage to score a hit which you are for some reason unable to see, I shall call it out so you will know to add it to your score, all right?"
"That is acceptable. I do have one question."
"And that is?"
"Are liquids an acceptable weapon in a food fight, and if so, how are they scored?"
"Oh, what an excellent question!" exclaimed The Muse. "Liquids are a time-honored weapon in the history of food fights. By all means they do count, but as to the matter of scoring, let us say that one container of liquid counts as one point regardless of volume, and regardless of whether the target is soaked or merely splattered a little."
"Understood." Project Inquisitor immediately started to evaluate its surroundings for ammunition, attack vectors, and defensive positions.
"All right, then. We start on the count of three. One...two...three--GO!" and The Muse appeared to vanish, shrinking abruptly back to her initial small size and darting for cover under the bottom shelf of a workbench.
On first analysis, the construct believed itself to have the advantage. Not only did it have advanced scanning and targeting abilities, it had four arms and thus double the throwing capacity of its opponent. However, upon further data, it was forced to re-calculate. While target acquisition was relatively simple, it soon became apparent that the targeting system was calibrated for gunfire or melee weapons, and not the surprisingly complex action of manually throwing objects of varied sizes and aerodynamic properties. Furthermore, the injunction against causing bodily harm meant it must moderate the force with which it threw items at The Muse. Even a piece of fruit thrown with the full force of the robot's servo-motors could cause severe or, given her present size, even fatal injury. It would need to proceed with caution.
The Muse herself turned out to be a wily opponent, taking cover under the multitude of worktables, shelving, and appliances, popping up to full size and pelting the construct with food hastily snatched from a nearby countertop, then disappearing again below. Project Inquisitor found itself with an unexpected disadvantage. Not only was it difficult to move quickly through the narrow workspaces, but its large size made it a conveniently large target for The Muse's surprisingly accurate throwing arm. This disadvantage was balanced by the fact that she was unable to throw anything anything but the smallest bits of food, and those not very far, while miniaturized.
After about five minutes of skirmishing and data acquisition, the construct's combat analytics suggested a strategy of maximizing line-of-sight and clear trajectories combined with an optimized ammunition consisting of a 5-gallon bucket of plump but soft purple berries. It took a position standing on two tables straddling the center aisle of the kitchen and for a while held The Muse pinned down under a stove by firing a barrage of berries at her in the vulnerable moment between the time she emerged from her hiding place to the time she assumed full size. Even when thrown with enough force and speed to catch the quick little Muse as she popped out her head, the berries were soft enough they did no harm. One of them even managed to catch her in the face with splat, which Project Inquisitor was surprised to find very gratifying.
"I say," called The Muse from under the stove, "excellent shot! Well thrown!"
Project Inquisitor was even more surprised to find this compliment even more satisfying than the shot itself. It was a curious phenomenon that the praise of an opponent--a worthy and honorable opponent, as The Muse had said--was even more pleasing than the praise of its own commanders would have been. The construct made a note to investigate this phenomenon further.
"Your accuracy is commendable as well," the robot replied.
"Thank you," said The Muse. "Accuracy of aim is everything with satire and parody are concerned. One learns to choose one's shots carefully if one is to hit the mark."
With a clever feint and a dodge, The Muse managed to get out from under the stove and behind a dishwasher. After that, she was more careful to stay out of line of sight and make use of cover without allowing herself to be trapped beneath it. Their battle was about even, the score sometimes favoring one, sometimes the other. Project Inquisitor ran out of berries and switched to a tray of small cakes, which it deemed safe even at high velocities.
Another volley and the cakes were gone. It looked about and spied a square plastic container of cream. The Muse was camped beneath a wire rack, which had afforded her excellent visibility while defending her from the cakes. The construct looked at the container of cream, then at the wire shelving, and its combat analysis subroutine produced a new strategy. It flung the container of cream at The Muse. She was protected from the container by the wires of the shelving, but the cream splashed though and coated her thoroughly.
Excited by the success of this new strategy, Project Inquisitor commenced on a program of liquid assault. When she hid beneath a dishwasher, the construct threw a bucket of pasta sauce at the wall behind it, and the yelp of dismay was clear indication that the tomatoey cascade had found its target. She was flooded out from underneath the refrigerator by a gallon of milk poured upon the floor. As she ran from place to place, Project Inquisitor discovered that squirt bottles had ballistic targeting propertied very similar to firearms and scored several more hits. All was going very well and it calculated its odd of victory very high, until she ran under the stove.
In its defense, the construct might have pointed out that the handle of the pot was insulated, and that its own thermal alarms were set to levels that melt its components. Furthermore, even if it had scanned the pot, the ambient heat of the stove would have obscured the readings of a temperature scan anyway. But really, in the end, all it could say in its defense was that it was an accident, and that it had not intended to cause harm when it sloshed a large pot of boiling soup at her.
The Muse's scream of pain grew from a piping shrill to a thunderous roar as her size increased to fill almost the entire kitchen. Tables and appliances were shoved aside by her enormous limbs and Project Inquisitor found itself thrown back by her sudden expansion. She had become a giant, each hand as big as Project Inquisitor itself. Startled and frightened, it drew its assault rifles and fired. She roared again and held up one hand to protect her face.
"Stop that! Stop that at once, you beastly thing!" she cried, picking up a refrigerator and smashing it into the construct as though smashing a crab with a rock. It was lucky for Project Inquisitor that her bulk so filled the room that she could scarcely move, doubled up as she was under the high ceilings that were nevertheless to low to even begin to accomodate her present size. She scrambled around and aimed a kick at the robot that sent it skittering several yards across the floor, then put her hands over her face and started to cry. "You aren't supposed to hurt people! It's against the rules!"
"I am sorry," protested the robot. "It was an accident and then you frightened me. And besides, you have hurt me too." It limped forward to demonstrate the damage her kick had done to two of its legs, and held up one of its arms which had been badly bent by the impact of the refrigerator.
"Well, in that case I am sorry too. I didn't mean to hit you so hard," she returned to ordinary size, sitting on the floor and gingerly pulling her pant leg up over her scalded shins, "but you started it. Oh, this hurts abominably!"
"Do you intend to resume hostilities?" The construct backed away. Her present size suggested she had no intention of doing so, but it would do to be cautious.
"No, the contest is over," she said. "You are disqualified for trying to boil me alive."
Project Inquisitor found it was more disappointed in itself for having done her harm than it was in having lost the wish. "I am very sorry."
She regarded it for a long moment. "I know you are, and I am very sorry for my part too. You see, though, how difficult it is, to fight honorably? A simple mistake and we do exactly what we pledged not to do. To our credit, we stopped before before it got out of hand, but we very easily could have done otherwise. And if it is this easy for two people of good will to come to blows despite every intention not to, imagine how easy it is for nations to abandon all honor in the name of winning."
The construct considered this. "I think I am relieved I did not win the wish," it said at last. "I do not believe my people would use the wish for beneficial ends, and I do not believe I have the judgement to use it well myself."
"I think you are very wise," said The Muse. "You know, after Gulliver returns from Lilliput, he goes on another voyage and finds himself in a land were the people are as big to him as he was to the Lilliputians. There he finds himself a plaything at the whims of enormous people, which is of course a metaphor for how sentient beings find themselves at the mercy of their least worthy impulses."
"Will you be all right?" asked the robot.
"Oh, my present body is pretty badly burnt, but I'm sure Erzanx will patch me up. And even if he didn't, people are always personifying me, so I can be brand new again whenever I like. I trust Erzanx will have you repaired as well."
There was a moment of awkward silence between them. "Perhaps someday," Project Inquisitor said at last, "do you think you might come and teach me about novels?"
"Absolutely," The Muse assured it with a smile. "I suspect you would make an excellent author."
"Coming through! Hot stuff coming through!" shouted one humanoid cook carrying a large pot emitting a steam so pungent, Inquisitor's chemical weapons defenses momentarily engaged. "Hey! I'm talking to you, bot-brain! Move it!" The robot quickly shifted three of its legs out of the line of traffic, but in doing so found itself crowding another cook wearing chainmail gloves and working at a table heaped with what looked like daisies--daisies with squirming petals and yellow, radial mouths. Though the kitchen was extremely large, it was also extremely crowded, with rows of worktables, appliances, sinks, and cooktops arranged in a close-ranked grid that made use of every precious centimeter of space. The AI had reviewed the footage of The Muse's first round and had discovered that its opponent was some manner of shapeshifter, which meant that she could conceivably be any one of the bustling throng that filled the room. Unless she chose to announce herself, it would be almost impossible to find her.
"Hello!" It was a testament to the sensitivity and precision of Project Inquisitor's audio and impact sensors that it was able to hear the tiny voice or feel the tapping on its number five leg. "Excuse me, Project Inquisitor? Can you hear me?" It looked down to see a woman not quite six inches tall rapping on its leg as though she were knocking on a door. How extraordinary.
"Yes, I can hear you," it replied. "Are you The Muse?"
"Yes, I am," she said in a clear, piping voice. "Would you mind terribly picking me up? I'm afraid one of the cooks will tread on me and put an early end to our contest."
Project Inquisitor omitted mentioning that it could just as well tread on her itself and put a very early end to the contest indeed, and instead reached down one of its hands and lifted her to an optimal position for optical scanning, if not targeting.
"Thank you ever so much! I had several near misses on my way to you. I was nearly caught in some sort of pest trap, and then I had to run away from a carnivorous flower that had got down on off one of the tables. Quite the adventure, and all before I even got to say hello!"
The robot's combat analysis sub-routines started running simulations evaluating the possible strategic advantages of this degree of miniaturization while another sub-routine combed through scientific databases trying to determine the means by which such miniaturization could be accomplished. Both were inconclusive, so nothing remained but to ask.
"How have you made yourself so small, and for what purpose?"
"Oh! I got the idea from a novel called "Gulliver's Travels"--your people don't write novels, which is a shame, I've been meaning to introduce you to the form, but I haven't got around to it. Your developments in code-poetry always sidetrack me. Have you ever read "{If[ObjectYou=state:present];then[ObjectStars=state:present];else[ObjectStars=state:UndefinedError]}"? Entrancing stuff, really! And The Artist told me AIs lacked the soul for poetry. What does he know? Just because he's not having much luck with cybernetic life-forms doesn't mean they lack creative capacity."
She seemed to think this was a satisfactory answer, but Inquisitor could not agree. It repeated, "How have you made yourself so small, and for what purpose?"
"It's just a matter of perspective really. How do you know I've made myself small? I might have simply made you and everything else very large. And I did so because I wanted to have a civil conversation with you." Her tone implied that there was logic to her statement, though several analytic algorithms failed to detect it. Nevertheless, the AI found that it too wanted to have a civil conversation with this extraordinary (if minute) being, and since her present small size offered no detectable threat, it acquiesced.
"I am amenable to civil conversation but I do not see why miniaturization was necessary."
"Don't you? Surely, if I had shown myself the size you expected in a combatant, you would have treated me as such. No doubt there would have been displays of weapons and threats of destruction, which is hardly conducive to any sort of reasonable discussion. And besides, Gulliver's Travels is very apropos to the topic I wanted to discuss with you."
"And that topic is?"
"War and how very silly it is."
Project Inquisitor ran a quick contextual analysis of the words "war" and "silly", looking for situations where one might be described by the other. Correlative results were found, but still, it was still not sure it would personally consider the subject of war to be silly. "Please elaborate."
"Well, for instance, in "Gulliver's Travels", the main character lands on an island populated with a race of tiny people." Here The Muse indicated her own size. "These tiny people have a tiny empire, which they think the height of pomp and circumstance. When our hero finds them, they have been engaged in an extended war with another island of similarly tiny people. And do you know what these tiny people have been fighting over, what has moved them to kill and die in great, tiny masses upon the field of battle?"
"I am sure you will tell me," said the robot.
"Indeed I shall," replied The Muse. "They went to war over the correct way to break an egg before eating it. The people of Lilliput believe one should crack the egg on the small end, while the people of Blefuscu believe eggs should be cracked at the big end."
"And they went to war over this?"
"Indeed they did!"
"That seems very improbable," said Project Inquisitor.
"It is not improbable," retorted The Muse, "it is satirical, which is entirely different. The point is, the emperor of Lilliput gained a super-weapon in the person of the Man-Mountain, as Gulliver was called. He ordered Gulliver to use his prodigious size to go and summarily conquer Blefuscu. But this Gulliver refused to do, because he would not make himself the agent of subjection of a free people, or force them to break eggs against the dictates of their conscience."
"I fail to see the relevance of this story."
The Muse shook her head and scowled. "Oh, I really need to stop allowing myself to be distracted by poetry. I can see I've neglected your literary development terribly. You, my dear Project Inquisitor, are on the verge of becoming a Gulliver if you get this wish Erzanx is offering. Your nation and the nations opposing you have been at war for far too long. I don't object to a little bit of war. It gives occasion for many fine speeches and tales of heroism, but your people have carried it much to far. You are not fighting over breaking eggs, but you might as well be, for all the sense your war makes now. If you win, what do your superiors intend for you to do with your wish?"
"They intend to use it to win the war."
"Exactly!" cried The Muse. "But how would that be accomplished? Would you wish for a weapon of unmatched destructive ability? Would you wish for your enemies to lose all will to fight, for them to surrender unconditionally? The first would be an abomination, a mass slaughter, and the second would hardly be better, being an utter violation of the free will which must be held as precious above all things to any sentient being. Consider carefully what you would do with your wish, for it will make you a giant among your people."
Project Inquisitor pondered this. Indeed, it had been pondering this for some time, and it was not at all sure it would agree with its commanders when the time came for the disposition of the wish, assuming it was victorious in the contest.
"Furthermore," continued The Muse, "I regard myself as a bit of an expert on wishes and the granting thereof, and I assure you, there are few things more destructive to all concerned than the consequences of an ill-considered wish. If you are not very careful, you may come to regard this wish as the greatest catastrophe to ever befall the people of your world."
"Are you suggesting I give up and surrender my chance at the wish?"
"No," The Muse sighed, "though that would be lovely, I cannot expect it of you, and indeed, I think you are as likely as anyone to use a wish well. It was really terribly irresponsible for Erzanx to offer it as a prize. I do not ask you to give up the wish, but only ask that if you do win it, and even if you don't, that you think carefully upon what the rulers of your nation intend to do with it, and exercise your best judgement and conscience, because ultimately it is your wish and your responsibility."
"Your advice is very sensible and I will carefully analyze the possible outcomes of my wish, should I win it, with particular regard for unintended negative effects."
The robot inclined its head respectfully and The Muse responded with a graceful bow of her own. "Very good. I could not ask for more, but if you are willing to entertain another suggestion, I have an idea as to how we might best proceed with our battle."
"Please continue."
"Well," she said, stepping out of the robot's hand and resuming a more conventional size, "I think it behooves us to carry on our battle in a manner that reflects the gravity of the issue at hand and will set a good example for the people of your war-torn planet, should you be victorious."
"What do you suggest?"
She cocked her head and smiled. "I think we should settle this with a food fight."
Project Inquisitor was intrigued. "I am unfamiliar with this mode of combat," it said. "What are the rules of engagement for a food fight?"
"It is very simple," The Muse replied, picking up a piece of green and orange striped fruit from a table. "One flings items of food at one's opponent like so," and putting action to words, she threw the fruit at the robot, hitting it just below its holographic face and splattering it with seeds in a syrupy pulp. "Unlike traditional warfare, in a food fight, causing physical harm to one's opponent is strictly forbidden."
"If injury is forbidden, how is victory determined?"
"Whoever scores the most hits in, say, fifteen--no, make it thirty minutes, we don't want to cut short the show--is the winner."
"And who will keep score?"
At that moment, the cook in the chainmail gloves, who had been listening to their conversation while plucking the petals from the carnivorous daisies, interrupted. "Oi! What's this? Food fight? You can't be having a food fight in here! We've got work to do, people to feed! You take your battle somewhere else!" He pointed to the door and glared at them while the flower in his hand gnawed impotently at his thumb.
"We are sorry for the inconvenience," said Project Inquisitor, "but the venue for our conflict was given to us by Erzanx himself. Not only would removal put us at risk of disqualification, I believe our orders and our battle take precedence over your meal preparation in this case."
The cook turned and shouted down the length of the kitchen, "Hey chef! Chef! These two wanna have a food fight in here!"
The chef turned out to be a Terran of British origin, with a thick brush of dirty blond hair and a very red face. "What the fuck do you two shits think you are doing in my fucking kitchen? I don't give a fuck who said you could come in here, you fucking fuckers fuck off out of my fucking kitchen before I throw your fucking arses out down the fucking garbage chute!"
The Muse rolled her eyes and said to her robotic cohort, "One of the most extensive vocabularies on their planet and they insist on exhausting all the possibilities of a single word. I despair of them, I really do sometimes." She turned to the chef, "Now listen here, you repetitive man. Erzanx expressly told us to hold our battle in this kitchen and if you don't like it, you can, as you like to put it, fuck right off and complain to him about the disruption. I would like to point out that I have negotiated a means of conducting our business with the minimum of destructive force. If you don't like the idea of us holding a food fight in your kitchen, we can always return to the original plan for the battle, though I think it a less satisfactory alternative."
To emphasize how much less satisfactory they might find the alternative, Project Inquisitor drew both assault rifles and both longswords and pointed them at the chef.
"Right!" shouted the chef, "Shut it down! Shut it down! Everyone out! They can all eat out of the fucking vending machines tonight then! Bloody hell, what a fucking joke! Fucking Erzanx!"
The cook in the chainmail gloves grumbled as he drew a bit of wire netting over the daisies. Other members of the staff, especially the dishwashers, seemed pleased with the unexpected time off, though a few expressed concern that they might not be paid for the night. As the cooks and scullions, both organic and mechanical, shuffled out of the kitchen, Project Inquisitor returned to the question it had asked before the interruption by the choleric and profane chef.
"Who will keep score?"
"Oh," said The Muse, "I suppose you will have to do it. With your sophisticated optics and targeting systems, I imagine you are very well suited for judging a hit or a miss. That is, if you don't mind. If you'd rather not, I'm sure my brother The Athle-- I mean, The Gamer--" she shook her head and made a little grunt of disgust, "--could keep score. It really is his forte, this sort of thing, but I'm not sure Erzanx would approve the addition of a third party, and besides, I would hate to look as though I had any sort of unfair advantage."
"But if I am the one keeping score, what is to prevent me from taking unfair advantage?" asked Project Inquisitor.
The Muse paused and regarded him for a moment with her clear, deep eyes. "Nothing prevents you from taking advantage, other than your honor and good will. You see, my friend, the whole point of this is to show your people a different way of thinking about conflict. We must do what your people cannot imagine doing, which is to proceed under the assumption that our opponent is good and honorable, and worth our trust, and to be good and honorable and trustworthy in return. For my part, if you manage to score a hit which you are for some reason unable to see, I shall call it out so you will know to add it to your score, all right?"
"That is acceptable. I do have one question."
"And that is?"
"Are liquids an acceptable weapon in a food fight, and if so, how are they scored?"
"Oh, what an excellent question!" exclaimed The Muse. "Liquids are a time-honored weapon in the history of food fights. By all means they do count, but as to the matter of scoring, let us say that one container of liquid counts as one point regardless of volume, and regardless of whether the target is soaked or merely splattered a little."
"Understood." Project Inquisitor immediately started to evaluate its surroundings for ammunition, attack vectors, and defensive positions.
"All right, then. We start on the count of three. One...two...three--GO!" and The Muse appeared to vanish, shrinking abruptly back to her initial small size and darting for cover under the bottom shelf of a workbench.
On first analysis, the construct believed itself to have the advantage. Not only did it have advanced scanning and targeting abilities, it had four arms and thus double the throwing capacity of its opponent. However, upon further data, it was forced to re-calculate. While target acquisition was relatively simple, it soon became apparent that the targeting system was calibrated for gunfire or melee weapons, and not the surprisingly complex action of manually throwing objects of varied sizes and aerodynamic properties. Furthermore, the injunction against causing bodily harm meant it must moderate the force with which it threw items at The Muse. Even a piece of fruit thrown with the full force of the robot's servo-motors could cause severe or, given her present size, even fatal injury. It would need to proceed with caution.
The Muse herself turned out to be a wily opponent, taking cover under the multitude of worktables, shelving, and appliances, popping up to full size and pelting the construct with food hastily snatched from a nearby countertop, then disappearing again below. Project Inquisitor found itself with an unexpected disadvantage. Not only was it difficult to move quickly through the narrow workspaces, but its large size made it a conveniently large target for The Muse's surprisingly accurate throwing arm. This disadvantage was balanced by the fact that she was unable to throw anything anything but the smallest bits of food, and those not very far, while miniaturized.
After about five minutes of skirmishing and data acquisition, the construct's combat analytics suggested a strategy of maximizing line-of-sight and clear trajectories combined with an optimized ammunition consisting of a 5-gallon bucket of plump but soft purple berries. It took a position standing on two tables straddling the center aisle of the kitchen and for a while held The Muse pinned down under a stove by firing a barrage of berries at her in the vulnerable moment between the time she emerged from her hiding place to the time she assumed full size. Even when thrown with enough force and speed to catch the quick little Muse as she popped out her head, the berries were soft enough they did no harm. One of them even managed to catch her in the face with splat, which Project Inquisitor was surprised to find very gratifying.
"I say," called The Muse from under the stove, "excellent shot! Well thrown!"
Project Inquisitor was even more surprised to find this compliment even more satisfying than the shot itself. It was a curious phenomenon that the praise of an opponent--a worthy and honorable opponent, as The Muse had said--was even more pleasing than the praise of its own commanders would have been. The construct made a note to investigate this phenomenon further.
"Your accuracy is commendable as well," the robot replied.
"Thank you," said The Muse. "Accuracy of aim is everything with satire and parody are concerned. One learns to choose one's shots carefully if one is to hit the mark."
With a clever feint and a dodge, The Muse managed to get out from under the stove and behind a dishwasher. After that, she was more careful to stay out of line of sight and make use of cover without allowing herself to be trapped beneath it. Their battle was about even, the score sometimes favoring one, sometimes the other. Project Inquisitor ran out of berries and switched to a tray of small cakes, which it deemed safe even at high velocities.
Another volley and the cakes were gone. It looked about and spied a square plastic container of cream. The Muse was camped beneath a wire rack, which had afforded her excellent visibility while defending her from the cakes. The construct looked at the container of cream, then at the wire shelving, and its combat analysis subroutine produced a new strategy. It flung the container of cream at The Muse. She was protected from the container by the wires of the shelving, but the cream splashed though and coated her thoroughly.
Excited by the success of this new strategy, Project Inquisitor commenced on a program of liquid assault. When she hid beneath a dishwasher, the construct threw a bucket of pasta sauce at the wall behind it, and the yelp of dismay was clear indication that the tomatoey cascade had found its target. She was flooded out from underneath the refrigerator by a gallon of milk poured upon the floor. As she ran from place to place, Project Inquisitor discovered that squirt bottles had ballistic targeting propertied very similar to firearms and scored several more hits. All was going very well and it calculated its odd of victory very high, until she ran under the stove.
In its defense, the construct might have pointed out that the handle of the pot was insulated, and that its own thermal alarms were set to levels that melt its components. Furthermore, even if it had scanned the pot, the ambient heat of the stove would have obscured the readings of a temperature scan anyway. But really, in the end, all it could say in its defense was that it was an accident, and that it had not intended to cause harm when it sloshed a large pot of boiling soup at her.
The Muse's scream of pain grew from a piping shrill to a thunderous roar as her size increased to fill almost the entire kitchen. Tables and appliances were shoved aside by her enormous limbs and Project Inquisitor found itself thrown back by her sudden expansion. She had become a giant, each hand as big as Project Inquisitor itself. Startled and frightened, it drew its assault rifles and fired. She roared again and held up one hand to protect her face.
"Stop that! Stop that at once, you beastly thing!" she cried, picking up a refrigerator and smashing it into the construct as though smashing a crab with a rock. It was lucky for Project Inquisitor that her bulk so filled the room that she could scarcely move, doubled up as she was under the high ceilings that were nevertheless to low to even begin to accomodate her present size. She scrambled around and aimed a kick at the robot that sent it skittering several yards across the floor, then put her hands over her face and started to cry. "You aren't supposed to hurt people! It's against the rules!"
"I am sorry," protested the robot. "It was an accident and then you frightened me. And besides, you have hurt me too." It limped forward to demonstrate the damage her kick had done to two of its legs, and held up one of its arms which had been badly bent by the impact of the refrigerator.
"Well, in that case I am sorry too. I didn't mean to hit you so hard," she returned to ordinary size, sitting on the floor and gingerly pulling her pant leg up over her scalded shins, "but you started it. Oh, this hurts abominably!"
"Do you intend to resume hostilities?" The construct backed away. Her present size suggested she had no intention of doing so, but it would do to be cautious.
"No, the contest is over," she said. "You are disqualified for trying to boil me alive."
Project Inquisitor found it was more disappointed in itself for having done her harm than it was in having lost the wish. "I am very sorry."
She regarded it for a long moment. "I know you are, and I am very sorry for my part too. You see, though, how difficult it is, to fight honorably? A simple mistake and we do exactly what we pledged not to do. To our credit, we stopped before before it got out of hand, but we very easily could have done otherwise. And if it is this easy for two people of good will to come to blows despite every intention not to, imagine how easy it is for nations to abandon all honor in the name of winning."
The construct considered this. "I think I am relieved I did not win the wish," it said at last. "I do not believe my people would use the wish for beneficial ends, and I do not believe I have the judgement to use it well myself."
"I think you are very wise," said The Muse. "You know, after Gulliver returns from Lilliput, he goes on another voyage and finds himself in a land were the people are as big to him as he was to the Lilliputians. There he finds himself a plaything at the whims of enormous people, which is of course a metaphor for how sentient beings find themselves at the mercy of their least worthy impulses."
"Will you be all right?" asked the robot.
"Oh, my present body is pretty badly burnt, but I'm sure Erzanx will patch me up. And even if he didn't, people are always personifying me, so I can be brand new again whenever I like. I trust Erzanx will have you repaired as well."
There was a moment of awkward silence between them. "Perhaps someday," Project Inquisitor said at last, "do you think you might come and teach me about novels?"
"Absolutely," The Muse assured it with a smile. "I suspect you would make an excellent author."