Warrior vs. Machine

...in which Xena trains The Machine, and a startling weakness is revealed.

I discover Xena coaching The Machine on an elliptical trainer in the fitness center. Xena is swigging from a water bottle and speaking urgently to The Machine, banging her hand for emphasis on the elliptical’s digital readout. “Move it! Move it! The prime directive is to MOVE IT!” Seeing me, she straightens up. “The trick,” she stage whispers, conspiratorially, “is not to let the rest of that rabble program The Machine.”

Since getting everyone together last night proved a little counterproductive, I’ve decided to seek them out in pairs. Maybe they’ll open up more without pressure from everyone else. Also, I’m interested in what they do all day. And the people they choose to hang out with of their own volition has to say something about who might be in collusion with whom, right?

“So I wonder if I might talk to you for a few minutes, if you have the time,” I say. The Machine, panting, looks obediently at Xena, who waves it on. “Talk and ellipt at the same time. You’ve got brain power enough for that.” To me, she nods. “Go ahead, Detective.”

“What’s going on here, exactly?” I ask, whipping out my notebook.

The Warrior Princess throws her shoulders back proudly. “We are taking over this operation,” she states. “No matter what you figure out about who caused to happen, it’s going to come back to this: not enough exercise. That lapse will cease immediately, and The Machine is now under my control. Every time one of those cry Betties back there get a hold of this magnificent creature, it’s back on the couch-and-BBQ-Potato-Chip diet we all go. It’s disgusting. Any one of them could be responsible for the crime you’re investigating – they’re all GUILTY until proven innocent, in my book.”

“And Machine, how do you feel?”
::I FEEL WITH MY NERVOUS SYSTEM, COMMONLY VIA MY CARPAL PHALANGES. I ALSO USE PROPRIOCEPTORS LOCATED IN MY MUSCLES AND LIGAMENTS TO LOCATE MY BODY IN THREE DIMENSIONAL SPACE::

“Uh, no…. I meant, do you have any ideas as to who our criminal might be?”
:: THIS HAS NO BEARING ON MY ACTIVITY. THE CONCEPTS OF JUSTICE AND PUNISHMENT ARE ABSTRACTIONS THAT ARE NOT REQUIRED FOR ONGOING OPERATION. THEREFORE, I DO NOT HAVE AN OPINION::

I look at Xena helplessly. “It always sounds like that,” she shrugs.

“One more question, then, Machine: what do you like to do?”
The Machine swivels her head to peer at me through rivulets of sweat, uncomprehending. I try again. “Given all prime directives from the past 10 years, which one most closely satisfies the original prime directive?”
The Machine calculates for a nanosecond, then replies ::TO WALK::
“What??” Xena yelps. “What kind of pansy ass directive is that? Whoever programmed that original directive had no drive! No power! No WILL TO SUCCEED!”
::TO WALK WAS NOT THE ORIGINAL PRIME DIRECTIVE:: The Machine clarifies.

We wait expectantly.

I cough. “Er…what was the original prime directive, then?”
::THE ORIGINAL PRIME DIRECTIVE WAS – KEEP GOING ONE MORE::

“Walking is the closest thing to, uh, keeping going one more, Machine?”
::THE MACHINE FINDS THAT IT CAN OBEY THE ORIGINAL PRIME DIRECTIVE FOR MAXIMUM TIME LENGTH AND WITH MINIMUM MAINTENANCE DELAY WHEN IT OBEYS THE SUB-DIRECTIVE :TO WALK: IT SATISFIES ALL PARAMETERS::

I pursue the line of inquiry, though so far it is proving to be baffling. I ask it, “Who programmed the original prime directive?”

::THE TEACHER::

We contemplate that for a minute. Xena finally shakes her head. “What is this, a Zen Koan? We don’t have time for this nonsense. I need to get back to work here.”

“One more – Machine, what has the Prime Directive been since the beginning of the year?”

::THURSDAY MORNING, THE PRIME DIRECTIVE HAS BEEN: LEARN SCRUM. AT ALL OTHER TIMES, THE PRIME DIRECTIVE HAS BEEN: SIT ON THE COUCH AND WATCH AMAZON PRIME::

This, at least, makes some sense in the context of our crime. I file away The Machine’s previous riddle and turn to the Warrior Princess. “Training The Machine is your job?”
“It is now,” she sighs. “Otherwise I hardly have anything to do anymore, except play volleyball on Thursday nights, and even then Eppy usually has to come along.  In the summer I don't even do that.”

“And when was the last time you worked regularly?”
“Years! Not since my firefighting job ended in ’96. Those were the days! Six summers in Alaska, hiking through burning forests, carrying 60 lb Mark II pumps on packboards, eating undercooked steak for dinner…that was the LIFE!” she remembers with relish. “Off season I could usually snag a construction job or paint houses or something, you know, to keep me outdoors. Oh, and the traveling! Hikes in the Himalayas, kayaking in Valdez Harbor, skydiving, a brief stint in Haiti with a wicked heavy sledgehammer and some 18" thick concrete to smash…you name it.”

“And The Machine helped you then?”

“Well, mostly just on the longer hikes, and of course with the driving, you know. That’s a hell of a commute, back and forth to Delta Junction from Chicago. This one time, we drove there in three days flat! Cindee did all of the singing, of course. Isn’t that right, Mac?”

The Machine whirs briefly. ::IN 74 HOURS AND 38 MINUTES, TO BE PRECISE. NOT INCLUDING TIME SPENT CHANGING A FLAT TIRE IN BRITISH COLUMBIA. I ALSO SANG SEVERAL BILLY JOEL SONGS WHEN DRIVING AT 3:00 A.M. THROUGH MONTANA::

“Yeah, details. Anyway, now I’m just the coach around here, and hardly even that. I’ve helped the Professor out on a few tests during school, when she was between grades in a class and needed to buckle down; but it’s pretty much just me and The Machine here, most of the time.”

“How long has it been doing this today?” I ask, eyeing the sweat pouring off The Machine, pooling in little rivulets on the mat below. “And you never think that you are, you know, driving her kind of hard?”

“Don’t tell me you’re one of them! Jane and the Professor have already told me we can’t speed train anymore because of what happened to its knee last time, but look at it go! 60 minutes of bootcamp and 75 minutes of elliptical, and still going strong - never a complaint out of it!”

I peer up at The Machine, who remains expressionless. The knee injury…that’s familiar. Hm. I check my notes. Here it is: the knee injury from running a marathon, 6 months after starting running for the first time. That run took six hours, the last 2 of which were painful hobbling from undertraining and running too fast...Yup, this has Xena written all over it. Suddenly something becomes very clear, and I address The Machine once more. “Is The Machine running at optimal efficiency right now?”

::NO. THE MACHINE HAS CRITICAL FATIGUE IN HISTORICALLY WEAK LEFT PATELLAR LIGAMENT, AND DANGEROUS TIGHTNESS IN BOTH SETS OF HAMSTRINGS. MODERATE DEHYDRATION WILL COMMENCE IN 27 MINUTES. LIKELIHOOD OF ENSUING OVER-TRAINING MAINTENANCE DELAY APPROACHES 70%::

Xena stares, mouth agape. I stand with my hands on my hips glaring, exasperated and accusatory. The Machine continues its elliptical progression, whirring gently. Belatedly, Xena gives the direction. “HALT, Machine. Let’s cool it down and call it a day.”

“You cause over-training maintenance delays!” I blurt indignantly. “The Machine can’t keep up with you, and you need to let go of your glory days, missy, or you’re going to get us into a world of hurt. Didn’t it occur to you that this could have contributed to the problem?”

Xena draws herself up to her full height, with some dignity, tossing her hair back. “I do not break down. Why would I assume anyone else does? Unless they are whining snivelers like that brood out there...ah, speak of the devil,” she intones, as the Professor comes scurrying in.

“Xena, how much butter is a smear?” the Professor twits nervously.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You wrote that the Kashi blueberry waffle you had this morning had a “smear” of butter on it, but that’s not a scientific metric, nor can I locate it in the Food Diary.”
“Well, I don’t know, I just grabbed the stick of butter from the fridge and, like, smeared it around on the waffle.”
“Was it an ounce? A tablespoon?”
“Nowhere near a tablespoon...not even really a teaspoon. It barely dented the butter stick.”

Just then, Jane swings by with a basketful of clean laundry and pokes her head in the door. “Professor, please make sure the Machine is stretching properly after today’s decathalon.”
“Ah, Jane, just in time: can you tell me how much butter is in a smear?”
Xena jumps in defensively. “It was nowhere near a teaspoon. Like a tenth of that.”
“And the Food Diary has only a tablespoon option?” Jane asks, head cocked. The Professor nods.
“Well then: a tablespoon is three teaspoons, and Xena approximates that she used a tenth of a teaspoon, so a smear is one/tenth of one/third of a tablespoon, or 1/30th.”
“Excellent, thank you!” The Professor smiles with relief, then turns and waggles a finger at Xena. “And none of your eye rolling, you! If you weren’t so addicted to dairy this wouldn’t have been an issue!” I can hear Jane laugh as she heads down the hall.

Xena reddens. The Professor, eyes sparkling, is quick to capitalize on the warrior's clear embarrassment, indicating Xena with a tilt of her head. “Oh yes! You haven’t heard about our Princess’s cheese issues? And if you want to know why we’re all drinking those whey Target protein shakes, ask Miss Betcha Can’t Drink Just One Litre of Chocolate Milk over here!” She chuckles craftily, then scampers for the door, as Xena starts after her murderously, clenching and unclenching her fists. She looks at me, scowls, and looks away, muttering “What? WHAT? Dairy is calcium, and calcium makes you STRONG. We all need to be STRONG.” She barks at The Machine. “Machine! Get down off of there and go stretch until the Professor needs you this afternoon for lunch!”

::UNABLE TO COMPLY. RIGHT LATERAL PLANTAR NERVE IS COMPROMISED. RIGHT FOOT IS ASLEEP. FALLING OVER IS IMMINENT::

“Thank you for a very interesting chat, ladies,” I say, as Xena is helping The Machine back to the floor, scolding it - for not speaking up? for having a weak lateral plantar nerves? Slipping out quietly, I repair to my office to write up some notes.