Stanley Duncan's Robot: Genesis

by David Ring III

  The music in his head changed. Dual violins sang anxiously as the other instruments waited to dance again.

  “Yes, Stanley. As part of the Developer’s Package, you may modify me whatever way you please.”

  The orchestra faded from his mind. It wasn’t quite the answer Stanley was looking for, but it certainly was a green light. After all the research and coding he had already done, the remaining work could be done within a year. Without ever needing to venture out into the dangerous world, Stanley could happily live the rest of his life securely nestled in his condo.

  Chapter 3

  It is customary to offer a grain of comfort, in the form of a statement that some peculiarly human characteristic could never be imitated by a machine. I cannot offer any such comfort, for I believe that no such bounds can be set.

  — Alan Turing

  With her shift ending at Paul’s, Shannon scrubbed the final dish and then rested against the sink. She was exhausted. Her swollen feet ached, and her back felt like it was going to break. A hot soak, breathing in lavender, and listening to one of her audiobooks would be a great way to end the night. Maybe Evan would massage her feet.

  She walked over to the bar and ordered a cranberry juice with soda water. It was last call, and the few remaining customers were trickling out.

  The young bartender was tall and thin. Tattoos covered his arms, and black studs wrapped around his stretched earlobes. His normally stylish hair was covered with a Red Sox cap.

  “What’s with the hat?”

  “Rocking a new look.” He winked at her.

  “I like you better without it.”

  “That’s cool.”

  She hoisted herself up on a stool, rubbing her big belly. There was something about the way young people acted nowadays that annoyed her. Growing up with digital nannies, they didn’t have the same respect for their elders.

  He glanced at her. “You look beat. Are you sure you should be working?”

  The question annoyed her. She wanted to stay at home, but Evan needed her here. “It’s nice to get out of the house.”

  He nodded, forcing a smile. They both knew she was full of it.

  The hat pissed her off. She leaned forward when he wasn’t looking and snatched it off his head. “That’s better.”

  His face reddened. “Give it back!”

  “Someone’s grumpy today.” The stench of newly fabricated synthetic material rushed into her nose as she slid the hat onto her head.

  He looked around anxiously. “Shannon, I’m not fucking around.”

  As he turned, she noticed a minuscule bald spot with a scar in the back of his head. Suddenly, it all clicked. “You got Stitched!”

  He yanked her arm and snatched the hat off her.

  “What the fuck!” She rubbed her arm.

  The door swung open, and Evan walked in from the street. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.” The bartender’s face reddened.

  “Shannon?”

  Though pissed off, she didn’t want Evan to overreact. “Yeah, it’s nothing.”

  The seriousness in his face remained. He wasn’t buying it.

  Shannon trembled, and her stomach burned. It took everything she had to force herself to stay still, quashing every violent thought of what Evan would do to this poor young man if he found out that he had laid his hands on her. “It’s nothing. We were just chatting about — ”

  “Baby, you’re panting like a hog in heat. Don’t insult my intelligence.”

  The bartender froze.

  Shannon shrugged. “It’s mommy stuff.”

  Evan stared at her.

  She felt like she was going through a body scan.

  “Evan,” called out a voice from across the room. “I saw him yank your girl like a ragdoll.”

  A chill blasted through her.

  Evan slammed his hand on the bar. “Is that true?”

  Terrified eyes dipped below the bill of the bartender’s cap.

  Shannon wrapped her arms around him from the side. “Evan — ”

  “Shut it!” he said, his steel-hard body refusing to yield its death-gaze.

  The bartender darted to the side.

  Evan grabbed him, dragging him across the bar, and slammed him on the floor.

  Her heart thundered.

  “I don’t like being lied to,” said Evan. “So, I’ll ask you one more time: What happened?”

  “I grabbed her because she wouldn’t give me my hat back.”

  Evan put his hand on her belly. “Are you okay?”

  “I’ve been working all day, Evan. My feet are aching. They’re so swollen that my shoes are about to pop off. So, no. I’m not okay. I need to get out of here and into a nice hot bath.”

  He slid in closer to her, his arm wrapping around her lower back. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?” The words were a gentle whisper, an apologetic breeze to wash over her weary self. Of course, it made her melt.

  She glanced away, her heartbeat slowing. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

  Evan kissed her. “Bother? I work hard so that you and everyone else can have a better life.”

  “I know you do.” She kissed him. “So, let’s get this weary mama home.”

  “Of course, babe.” Evan’s hand slid down and clasped hers.

  Shannon held back the tears of relief, refusing to look at the bartender for fear of drawing more attention to him. She picked up her purse and walked toward the door. Her arm pulled taut like a forgotten anchor amid a ship’s flight from a sudden storm, yanking her back with surprising ferocity.

  “In a few minutes.” Evan glanced down at the bartender, who was still on the floor, and yanked off his hat. “Why would this hat upset you so much?”

  “It didn’t. I was acting stupid and didn’t realize how hard I pulled her. It was my mistake, and I’m sorry.”

  Shannon pulled harder. “Evan, I’m not feeling well. Please drive me home.”

  Turning the bartender’s head with one hand, he saw the scar. “Is this what I think it is?”

  “It’s a Cerebral Stitch.”

  “Shannon, get me a knife.”

  Her stomach convulsed. “What are you going to do?”

  “Surgery,” he said, twisting and pinning the squirming bartender with ease. “Now, hurry up.”

  Shannon stood still.

  “Now, Shannon!”

  Tears formed in her eyes. Her hands shook as she opened up a drawer behind the bar. Her mind raced with ways to stop him, but she knew resistance was futile. She was powerless against him — couldn’t even lie, pull him away — she was useless. She grabbed the knife, some part of her screaming to use it. This was completely unacceptable. “Evan — ”

  “Quiet!” he yelled.

  She walked over toward him and raised the knife. His back was turned; his artery was exposed. All it would take was one good slice.

  The choice rose inside of her like a fork in the road. All she needed to do was say, “Yes,” to accept the path that the universe was suggesting she take. But all she could do was tighten her fingers around the blade and curse herself for being such a coward.

  Evan snatched the knife from her and pressed it against the back of the bartender’s head. Blood trickled onto the floor as he screamed.

  “Please, Evan,” yelled the bartender. “I’m sorry.”

  Her body felt heavy, and her vision darkened. It was impossible to breathe.

  “How long have I let you work here?” he asked.

  “Two years.” He had come in looking like a little punk who had skipped school, and yet Evan had given him a chance.

  “And in all that time, have I ever treated you unfairly?”

  “No. You’ve always been fair.” All the confidence in the bartender’s voice had fade
d, and what remained was the obedient and worn trill of a scared little boy.

  Shannon glanced over at the stupid hat that had caused all this, cursing herself for being so impulsive. She had seen the seriousness on the bartender’s face and yet ignored it. Even took pleasure in it. Was she really fit to be a mother? And Evan — rounds of convulsing gasps shook Shannon’s body as she imagined Evan being this cruel to his own son — he wouldn’t …

  “You know how I feel about these sins against God, so why on Earth would you do this to me?” Evan’s voice softened. His tone lowered to the loving father that she always knew he would be.

  “I don’t want to be a bartender forever,” he said as he pressed his hand against his face, his fingers half-covering his right eye. His words came out like a desperate plea.

  “And what do you want?”

  “I don’t know,” said the bartender, his tense eyes scanning the bar as if the answers had been written there, “but there has to be more to life than making drinks.”

  Chills pulsated down Shannon’s body. She, too, had once been a dreamer, and even now she wondered if she had become stuck in complacency.

  “You think that’s all you’re doing here?”

  “I know about the problems with machines. You’ve told me a hundred times that I’m doing my part. But, yeah, sometimes it feels like all I’m doing is making drinks. If I saw the machines attacking us, I’d step in immediately.”

  “And why do you think you don’t see them?”

  The bartender shrugged.

  “Because they know that the minute they appear as a threat, mankind will unite and destroy them. And so they have waged a silent war against us — and they’re fucking winning.”

  The bartender jolted from the sudden shout.

  “Every day that goes by, we lose another one to suicide or fuse — and this is coming from me.” Evan jabbed his finger into his chest. “I don’t want our men to choose fuse, but if it came down to a choice between that and suicide? You’re damn right I’m going to give them a chance to come back around. We need to survive. You’re a soldier in a war against the machines, in a war for survival. Filling up drinks is just as important as patrolling the streets. Part of that is because you have been given a purpose; you’ve found a reason to stay alive. But if you’re going to flip sides on us …”

  “Never. All I wanted was a better me.”

  “You think a few wires in your brain is going to do that?”

  “It’s made everyone else better.”

  “Like who?”

  The bartender fired off the names of several people, citing the incredible enhancements the Cerebral Stitch had given them. In another life, Shannon would have gotten Stitched, too.

  “And where are they now?” said Evan.

  “In Boston.”

  “Exactly! The whole thing’s a trick. Sure, you get some enhancements, but, sooner or later, you lose everything. Family and friends become meaningless. You abandon them all and hightail it to Boston — doing God knows what — never to return. And I’d rather kill you with my own hands than see you turn into one of them.”

  The bartender gazed off into the distance, his eyes continuing to search for an answer. Shannon could only imagine what he was feeling. There was certainly truth in Evan’s words. Why had all those supposedly greatly enhanced beings never bothered to return back home and help their fellow man out? Evan often talked about the war with the machines — was this really part of their ploy?

  “Is that what you want?” Evan’s voice was stern, like a judge asking a defendant to make his plea.

  “Of course not.”

  Evan poked him in the back of the head. “Then this needs to come out.”

  “I never meant to disrespect — ” The bartender fidgeted.

  “Shut up and stop moving,” said Evan. “If you lie still, there’ll be only a small incision. But if you struggle” — he held the knife to the bartender’s eyes — “there will be unpredictable consequences.”

  Shannon’s heart pounded, urging her to stop this madness. She stepped forward, and pain erupted into her stomach as if that knife had sliced into her. She screamed out, doubling over against the bar and sliding down to the floor. She wanted Evan to stop. The bartender had learned his lesson. Paralyzed by her own pain and fear, all she could do was cower in the corner and cry.

  The bartender stopped moving.

  “That’s better.” Evan pressed the knife against the back of his head. Blood trickled down. “Are you with mankind or the machines?”

  “Mankind!” said the frantic bartender.

  “Then I’ll give you a choice. I can perform the operation now, without anesthesia, or you can go to a hospital and get it done. Which would you prefer?”

  “The hospital! Please, Deputy — I’ll go right now.”

  Evan helped him up.

  “Everyone makes mistakes,” said Evan, embracing him with a hug. “And I’m no exception. It hurts me to treat you like this, but I know deeply that this is what needs to be done for our kind to survive. I’m not a bad guy, like so many of our blind and ignorant brothers think. I’m not a bully here to terrorize my fellow man to get my own way. I’m the captain of this team, and even if it takes you hating me to get us to win, I’m willing to sacrifice. But I do hope you’ll see and appreciate that, too, because one day I see you stepping up and doing the same.”

  The bartender nodded. “I do see that.”

  “Get yourself whole. We’ll be here waiting for you when you get back.”

  Shannon watched the bartender pick up his hat and leave. He didn’t dare even to glance at her. When she heard the front door shut, she looked down beyond her throbbing stomach and gasped — her jeans were stained in blood. She had only a few seconds before Evan came for her. Summoning the last of her energy, she texted the bartender a quick photo and a few words warning him to get out of town and never come back.

  One month later

  The Uno round came to an end. Stanley counted the value of his cards and added it to the total. “It’s hard work getting beat by you, Dan. You are quite the Uno player. How about we break for lunch?”

  Dan watched him speak, nodding occasionally but not conveying agreement. His eyes would bore intensely into Stanley’s, suddenly darting away at any irregular sound.

  This made Stanley very happy, for, previously, any time Dan didn’t understand something, he responded with a banal, preprogrammed, “I’m sorry, Stanley. I don’t understand …” Stanley, trying to share a few stories with Dan, was bombarded with these interjections. They drove him batty and had to go. A few edits to Dan’s code, and he was silent. He assumed the need to hyperfocus would balance out as Dan aged.

  Stanley had also programmed a new algorithm that enabled Dan to mimic him, or any interlocutor, through facial expressions, making their conversations feel much more real. When they talked, despite how he acted, Dan often had no clue what Stanley was saying. He might not even have had a clue that he had no clue. But Stanley was convinced that he did. He believed Dan had some form of consciousness. But congress refused to pass laws that would give cyborgs the civil rights they deserved. As far as the law was concerned, androids and cyborgs were merely pieces of property.

  “Dan, please prepare us lunch. Chicken burritos.”

  “Yes, of course, Stanley.”

  Dan had proven himself an amazing chef. He had cooked delicious meals from all regions of the world. He could spend hours working his magic to create Iranian delights, spicy Indian curries, or sweet southern pumpkin pies. There was certainly truth in the saying that the best way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. But it was more than the delicious food that had built their relationship. And even though Dan could and would cook complex meals, Stanley preferred his staple meal that had long kept him company: burritos.

  Stanley packed u
p the game and stacked it neatly on the table with the others. He spent most of his time interacting with Dan, as opposed to occasionally programming Dan through the computer or getting lost on the web.

  He felt like a kid again as he lay across the couch, thinking of all the things they could do together — if only the outside world were safer.

  The grill sizzled. The aroma hit Stanley’s nose. His stomach applauded noisily. It was so nice to have someone to eat with again. Stanley hadn’t cooked in years, not counting the occasional pouring of cereal and milk into his bowl. Delivery was too easy. Drones delivered his favorite food in less than thirty minutes. No need to see or talk to anyone — he simply hit a few buttons on his phone. But the urge to cook had been rekindled. Three days before, he’d made a vegetable soup for the two of them. Dan had watched. When it came to eating it, his lack of practice was quite evident. Thankfully, Dan remained admirably silent. Stanley sucked down as much as he could and then dumped the rest of it down the sink. Dan picked up his bowl and slurped the soup down noisily. He practically licked the bowl clean.

  Stanley stood up. “I’m going to get a load of laundry in before we eat.”

  Dan looked at him with a smile and then resumed cooking.

  In the hall, he saw Glenda fidgeting with her key. “Hello, Glenda.”

  She straightened up and turned around. The movement took so long that Stanley could have been halfway down to the laundry machine by the time she faced him. He patiently waited, watching her as if she were a morning sunrise slowly warming up the valley.

  A smile lit up across his face when she finally turned toward him. “Nice weather out today.”

  “Stanley, is that smell coming from your apartment?”

  He snorted twice, not smelling a thing. “My apartment? No, it can’t be. I gave up smoking last month.”

  “No, you crazy goose. Not cigarettes. It smells like food. Did you finally get a girlfriend?”