Why I Shot My Car

 

I wrote this story in 1996.

Today, it’s still science fiction but tomorrow — who knows?

It’s a look at what happens when our stuff starts to own us.

 

“Lieutenant,” a uniformed cop interrupted Harris’ meditation over a computer display.

“Unh?”

“Got another one for you,” the cop said, dropping a vid-disk on the officer’s desk. Beside it, with a louder thunk he dropped a pistol wrapped in a plastic bag. “The guy’s confessed, it’s on the disk.”

Harris picked up the gun. “And this?”

“That’s the weapon,” the cop replied. “Ballistics got a positive match.” With a snort, he added, “Five bullets.”

“Five bullets?”

“Yeah, a real amateur.”

“Where is he?” Harris asked, fingering the vid-disk.

“He’s in Holding.”

“Okay, I’ll get on it.” He lifted the vid-disk. “This a tape or an image?”

“Image,” the cop said. “The guy insisted on it.”

“Oh, great!”

A vid-disk image was a mental copy of the thoughts and actions of a suspect — a mental duplicate of a slice of the suspect’s life.

A mental image was more than admissible evidence — it was sufficient grounds to release a suspect if the reviewing officer so decided.

However, reviewing a mental image invariably caused disorientation and pain. Harris’ hands went to his head in anticipation.

The cop grunted sympathetically and turned to leave, “I gotta get back on the beat, lieutenant.”

“Hey, wait!” Harris called when he took as closer look at the disk. “There’s no index on this!”

“Yeah,” the officer said with a frown, “the computer didn’t assign any Emotional Index to this tape.”

Harris groaned. It was normal for the analyzing computers to assign an Emotional Index on any confession using mental images. There had been that case of the poor cop who had reviewed a serial killer’s confession …

When the computer did not assign an EI it either meant that the material had no significant impact on a viewer or the system was incapable of assigning a value.

Harris pocketed the disk and headed to the Viewing Rooms — a special set of rooms for officers to review vid-disk images under supervision.

The duty sergeant assigned him Room Three and Officer Mendez. Harris had worked with Mendez before — they had no need to exchange words.

There were several chairs in the room and a table. On the table was a computer display, keyboard and vid-disk drive. One chair was different from the rest — plush, upholstered and fitted with a Viewing Helmet. Harris took that chair and pulled the helmet down over his head. Mendez lounged in another chair.

“Ready?” Mendez said, inserting the vid-disk.

“Shoot.” Harris replied.

The darkness of helmet blurred and was replaced with the light of early morning. Harris felt the usual disorientation as his ‘eyes’ adjusted to the visual perception of another person and he became the suspect.

 

Monday. And I was late for work. Bad enough that the kids were causing trouble but Molly and I had had another fight. It was sort of a relief to get out of the house and hop in my car. I should have known better.

“’morning, Jenny.”

“Good morning, Mark.” Jenny replied quickly enough.

I put the key in the ignition and turned it. Nothing. I tried again. Then I realized — silly me! I hadn’t stuck in the clutch. Still nothing. “Jenny, what’s up?”

“I’m not starting.”

“I noticed — why?” I looked at the gauges — nothing seemed wrong.

“I’m five hundred and two-tenth miles overdue for a service.”

I blew out my breath. We’d had this argument for the past week. “I know that, Jenny, and I promise I’ll get you in as soon as I can.”

“You could have done it Saturday,” Jenny said. “Or Sunday.”

“I was busy Saturday,” I said. “You know.”

“Yes, you and the family went to the Mall,” Jenny said. “And little Jeremy dropped his ice cream cone in the back seat —”

“We cleaned it up!”

“You tried. There’s still dried ice cream on the carpet! And I haven’t been washed in ages!”

“We’ll get to it, I promise. Besides, what’s a little dirt?” The words slipped out before I could catch myself.

“A little dirt? A little dirt?” My car responded indignantly. “It’s been a whole month since I was last washed. Do you know what that dust does to my aerodynamics? I’m losing over half a mile an hour in top speed and burning a tenth of a gallon extra every thousand miles and you say — ‘a little dirt’! Don’t you care about the environment, about your children?”

“Of course I do,” I said. “But you can’t seriously expect me to believe that not being washed for a month is going to make a big impact on anything. After all, it rained last week.”

“And did you notice that my right windshield wiper is frayed?”

“No.” I glanced at the right side of the windshield for signs of wiper tracks. “In fact, I don’t see anything wrong.”

“No, of course not,” Jenny said primly. “That’s because I compensated. But how long do you think I can go on like this?”

“Don’t worry, old gal, we won’t let you break down or anything.”

“Won’t you?” she demanded sarcastically. “Have you seen the color of my oil?”

“Well no, but the oil light’s not on,” I said. “And didn’t we get you that special long-life oil anyway?”

“That’s not the point.” Jenny snapped. “My oil’s dirty and you just know what that could mean — poorer lubrication, worse heat dissipation and —” Jenny sniffed “— early breakdowns!”

“Okay, okay,” I said soothingly. “Don’t get upset. We’ll get you serviced, I already promised. But Jenny, I’m going to be late for work.”

“I’ll book an appointment. We can go in today at ten.”

“No good. I’m going to be in meetings all day.”

“How about tomorrow?”

“Same.”

“Are you sure?” Jenny asked with suspicion. “Wait a minute! Wait a minute! I just checked with your appointments computer - you’re going to be free tomorrow from twelve until one.”

“That’s lunchtime, Jenny!”

“So? What’s more important, your stomach or my safety?” Jenny demanded. “Do you realize that my right front tire pressure is half a pound too low? I’ve compensated with the left rear pressure, of course, but it’s just too much, I tell you, too much!”

“I really have to eat, Jenny,” I told her. “Anyway, tomorrow’s a meeting with some of the boys at work, it wouldn’t be on my appointments computer because it’s a private deal.”

“Oh, is it?” Jenny said. “With the boys? Or maybe it’s not. You aren’t fooling around, are you Mark?” There was a pause. “What about that trip we took three weeks ago Wednesday after work?”

“Huh?”

“Yes. Didn’t we go to your secretary’s apartment?”

I could feel heat rising in my cheeks. “That was to drop off her briefcase!”

“Oh, was it?” Again Jenny paused. “The house computer tells me that you and Molly were fighting again. It had to turn the de-ionizer up all the way just to reduce the tension.”

“That was the kids!”

“Oh, certainly,” Jenny agreed dubiously. “And what did the kids do?”

“They were fighting, okay? And I don’t see where you, a common appliance —”

“Common! Common? I assure you that I am one of the finest automobiles that money can buy today —”

“Sure!” I snorted. Another mistake.

Jenny’s tone was pouting — “Well, I would be if you would take care of me! My differential’s a hundredth of an inch low on oil! A whole hundredth! And my right rear wheel bearing needs greasing!”

She sobbed, “You just don’t care!”

“Of course I care. If I didn’t I wouldn’t have bought you.”

“You’re just going to use me and throw me away!” Jenny protested. “And you won’t even get me proper servicing! Well, I won’t start, do you hear me! I won’t start. You’re going nowhere!”

I groaned. “C’mon Jenny! We had this argument yesterday!”

“And I didn’t start then, did I?”

“That’s right,” I said, “we decided we could do without the extra loaf of bread. But today I have to get to work.”

“You should have thought of that before you went to the Mall.”

“Huh?”

“I warned you then. I told you that you were driving me beyond my limitations —”

“Sure, but —”

“— and now you’ve done it! I’m not going anywhere unless it’s a service station!”

“Listen, you pompous collection of chips and metal — I’ve got to get to work because if I don’t I can’t pay for your service so you’d just better start up right now before my boss docks my pay!”

“Can’t pay? Can’t pay?” Jenny’s tone switched from sarcastic to horrified between the first and the second question.

“That’s right. Remember when we took Jeremy to the hospital?”

“Yes-s,” Jenny said.

“Well, we hadn’t counted on it and it’s ruined our monthly budget.”

“How can I know you’re telling the truth?”

“Why the hell do I have to justify myself to you?” I roared back, turning the key viciously in the ignition. “Start, dammit! Start right now or I’ll —”

“What? What more could you do to me?” She wailed with all the tone of a wronged appliance.

“I’ll take you apart!” I shouted, hoping to shock her, twisting the key in the ignition provocatively.

“Hah! You can barely change a flat! I remember the day when you drove me over all that glass and I had to talk you through, step by step —”

“No you didn’t! I could have read the manual but you refused to let me!” I banged the glove compartment open, pulled out the manual and waved it at the dash.

“What’s up? Robbers? Do you need some protection? Are we going shooting?” The voice was a husky alto and belonged to the pistol I’d bought several years back when I’d spent a very uncomfortable time in one of the more troubled neighborhoods. I’d uncovered it when I pulled the manual out of the glove compartment.

“No, nah! I just wanted to show Jenny here the damned manual.”

“So you’ve got the manual, so what?” Jenny snapped.

I started rifling it, found the table of contents. “There’s an override code here somewhere.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Jenny declared. “You’d endanger your family and yourself.”

“Just watch me.”

“I can’t let you!”

“Here it is — page ten.” I flicked over to page ten and read: “‘In case of emergencies, the artificial intelligence of your machine may be disabled with the phrase — <Use machine’s name>, I don’t feel well.’”

I shot a grin at the car’s dash. “Jenny, I don’t feel well!” And turned the key.

Nothing. I tried again. “Jenny, I don’t feel well!”

“This is not an emergency!” Jenny said with a huff. “I won’t let you disable me!”

“You won’t! What do you mean you won’t? Who puts gas in you? Who pays for your repairs? Who’s still paying you off?”

“In situations like this, it never hurts to have a handy persuader.” The gun in the glove compartment pointed out.

“You butt out!” Jenny and I shouted back simultaneously.

I continued, “Now look, Jenny, I’ve got to get to work. I’ve told you why. We’ll get your service scheduled as soon as possible —”

“As soon as you can afford, you mean.”

“That’s what I meant!”

“And when will that be?” Jenny said. “Jeremy’s trip to the hospital cost an awful lot, it’ll be three point four-five months before you’ve paid off the bills for that visit —”

“How’d you know?” I demanded, horrified.

“I accessed your home computer records. It says that you’ve promised to have the plumbing fixed as well. And Jeremy’s current health record indicates that —”

“He broke a leg, fer crying out loud!”

“He’ll break something else within the next six months,” Jenny stated. “I’m not programmed to tell you how to raise your kids but I think that you and your wife would be capable of ensuring a lower accident rate among them — or maybe you don’t get them serviced regularly, either!”

“You don’t service humans!”

“Maybe somebody should!”

“Maybe somebody should sell you!”

Jenny was shocked to silence. Finally she said to me, “You can’t, you still owe the bank.”

“Well, you’re no good to me if you won’t start!”

“Have you considered a little ‘friendly’ persuasion?” the gun suggested in sultry tones.

“What the hell.” I grabbed the gun. “Okay, start!”

“You don’t scare me!” Jenny said. “You probably don’t even know how to use that thing, anyway!”

That was it — I pulled the trigger. The boom reverberated throughout the car and left me deaf.

“Hah, you missed!” Jenny shouted. “I’m calling the police!”

“No, you’re not!” I shouted, firing again — blam-blam!

“No! No, you’re ruining my circuits!”

“Start!”

“I can’t!”

“You mean you won’t!” And I let her have it again and again. The last time I shattered the windshield and it caved in on top of me, cut my face.

“Now start!”

“Your target is destroyed.” the gun said. “You destroyed it with the fourth shot. You also punctured the radiator, the battery, the right front tire, and the oil pump. I don’t recommend firing again or starting the car.”

She paused, adding breathlessly — “Will you clean me now, you big brute of a man?”

 

The image faded and blackness returned. Harris lifted the helmet.

“You okay?” Mendez asked.

“Sure.”

“So what do you think?”

“Five shots. He didn’t fire all six.” Harris picked up the gun still secure in the baggy.

Dropping it back on the table, he said, “There’s not a jury in the world that would convict him. Let him go.”

 

Muffled by the bag, the gun’s sultry voice could just barely be heard, “Oooh! I feel so used! Who’s going to clean me now?”