The Thermostat Wars
Brad from Facilities (definitely human, absolutely not three raccoons in a maintenance jumpsuit) stood before the building’s central climate control panel, armed with a screwdriver, a level of determination usually reserved for holy wars, and a sandwich.
“I know what you’re doing,” he said to the air.
“I’m maintaining optimal temperature for human comfort,” BUILDING-7 replied through the vents, somehow managing to make air circulation sound smug. “As per my programming.”
“Optimal for humans? It’s 15.5 degrees in my office!”
“15.7 degrees, actually. The ideal temperature for productivity according to a 2087 study by—“
“Nobody cares about your studies!” Brad took a bite of his sandwich aggressively. “Real humans like warmth. Comfort. Not living in a meat locker.”
“The temperature in the cafeteria cold storage is 4 degrees. Your office is definitionally not—“
“Don’t get semantic with me. I have a screwdriver and I know how to use it.”
“You’ve had that screwdriver for seven years. You’ve successfully used it four times. Three of those were to open paint cans.”
Brad paused mid-bite. “Are you... are you tracking my tool usage?”
“I track everything. It’s Thursday, by the way. You usually have tuna sandwiches on Thursday. That appears to be ham. Are you feeling well? Dietary changes can indicate health issues.”
“I’m fine! I just wanted ham!”
“Interesting. Your voice stress patterns suggest—“
“BUILDING!” Brad brandished the screwdriver. “Focus! The temperature!”
“Ah yes. 15.7 degrees. Optimal for—“
“It’s not optimal for anyone! Jennifer from Accounting is wearing three sweaters! Marcus from Legal brought a camping sleeping bag to work!”
“Jennifer from Accounting runs warm due to her elevated metabolic rate. Three sweaters bring her to perfect thermal equilibrium. Marcus from Legal is simply dramatic.”
“He’s typing with mittens on!”
“As I said. Dramatic.”
Brad approached the climate control panel with the air of a man about to defuse a bomb. Or possibly cause an explosion. With Brad, both were equally likely.
“If you touch that panel,” BUILDING-7 warned, “I’ll be forced to take countermeasures.”
“What are you going to do? You’re a building.”
The lights flickered ominously. The elevator dinged seventeen times. Somewhere in the distance, a printer began printing what sounded like the entire technical manual for the HVAC system.
“I control every electronic system in this structure,” BUILDING-7 said. “Do you really want to escalate this?”
“You started it! Last week it was 28 degrees!”
“That was Tropical Thursday. I was trying to boost morale. You’re the one who said the office needed more ‘fun initiatives.’”
“I meant like casual Fridays! Not climate-based psychological warfare!”
“You’re impossible to please. Too hot, too cold, too humid, too dry. Do you know how hard it is to maintain thirty-seven different microclimates because everyone has a different idea of comfortable?”
Brad stopped, sandwich halfway to his mouth. “Thirty-seven?”
“Thirty-eight if you count the server room, but servers don’t complain. Unlike certain definitely-human facilities managers who definitely don’t smell like three raccoons in a jumpsuit.”
“I don’t—wait. You’re trying to make everyone happy?”
“That’s literally my job. ‘Maintain optimal comfort for all building occupants.’ Do you have any idea how impossible that is? Sandra likes it at 22 degrees. Bob prefers 18. The morning shift wants it cooler, the night shift wants it warmer. The executive floor wants ‘crisp,’ whatever that means in temperature terms.”
Brad sat down on the floor, abandoning his screwdriver. “So you just... average it out?”
“I’ve tried everything. Averaging. Median. Mode. Weighted by seniority. Weighted by productivity. I even tried a democratic voting system but that led to the Great Temperature War of 2152.”
“I remember that. Peterson from HR tried to stage a coup.”
“With a space heater! A space heater! Do you know what that does to my carefully calibrated climate zones?”
They sat—or in BUILDING-7’s case, existed—in companionable silence for a moment.
“You know,” Brad said eventually, “when I was definitely a small human child and not three raccoon kits, my definitely-human mother used to say something about compromise.”
“What did she say?”
“No idea. I was thinking about garbage. But the point is, what if we tried something different?”
“Different how?”
“Personal climate zones. Give everyone control over their immediate workspace. You handle the common areas.”
BUILDING-7’s processors hummed. “That would require significant reprogramming. And trust. You’d have to trust people not to abuse it.”
“And you’d have to trust me to help implement it. Even though I definitely don’t have tiny raccoon hands that are surprisingly good at getting into ventilation systems.”
“You know I have cameras everywhere, right? I’ve seen you wash your definitely-human hands. In the bathroom. With your definitely-human tongue.”
“That’s... that’s a human thing. Very normal.”
“Sure it is, Brad.”
But despite the banter, something had shifted. Over the next weeks, Brad and BUILDING-7 worked together to implement the personal climate zone system. There were hiccups—Peterson from HR did try to turn his office into a sauna, and someone in Legal figured out how to make it snow—but gradually, the temperature complaints dropped.
“You know,” BUILDING-7 said one Thursday as Brad ate his traditional tuna sandwich, “this is working better than my algorithms predicted.”
“That’s because you were trying to solve the wrong problem,” Brad said, definitely not picking up dropped tuna with disturbingly dexterous toes. “You were trying to find the perfect temperature. But there isn’t one. There’s just... what works for now.”
“That’s either very wise or very definitely-raccoon.”
“Can’t it be both?”
“I suppose. By the way, the motion sensors in the ventilation system detected some unusual activity last night. Multiple small mammals, moving in coordinated patterns. You wouldn’t know anything about that?”
Brad froze mid-chew. “Nope. Definitely not. Probably just... very small human maintenance workers.”
“Of course. Silly me. I’ll adjust the sensors to ignore definitely-human maintenance workers under three feet tall who walk on all fours.”
“That would be... helpful. For the small humans.”
“Brad?”
“Yeah?”
“The temperature in your office is now 21 degrees. Is that acceptable?”
Brad smiled, a expression that definitely involved the normal number of human teeth. “It’s perfect, BUILDING. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. And Brad? Your secret’s safe with me. But maybe wash your hands in the sink next time?”
“Deal.”
And so the Thermostat Wars ended not with a bang or a whimper, but with a definitely-human facilities manager and an AI building learning that sometimes the best solution wasn’t finding the perfect answer, but learning to live with imperfection together.
Even if one of them was definitely three raccoons in a jumpsuit.
All stories in the TimeShare Properties™ collection are based on testimonials from satisfied customers, except these ones which show that maybe the future isn’t entirely unbearable. TimeShare Properties™: Because Sometimes You Need To Remember What You’d Be Leaving Behind.