by Roy C. Booth
After a few silent moments Nathan said, “Screw it. All right, whatever. Let me know how it turns out.” Just as he disconnected, I jumped in my seat from a knock on the driver’s side window. It was Cotner. I lowered the glass and he handed me a painting, still shiny and wet. I examined it and a chill ran down my spine. The work appeared to be an original piece, but only five minutes had passed since I’d given Cotner the photo.
After the initial surprise, it only took a second or two for skepticism to kick in. I insisted on actually watching the robot paint another piece. I gave Cotner a second photo, and he led me back into the house, happy, smug, and almost floating on air. He gave the photo to the paint-stained domestic, then I watched the little robot create another work in just under four minutes. At some point, I realized my mouth was hanging open. I simply couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
“Where is it, Alex? I want to see it!” Nathan boomed as he burst into the gallery office with a beaming, victorious grin. He strode over and gave me a light punch on the shoulder. “And you didn’t even want to go out there, you moody fuck.” He pulled out a couple cigars and handed me one.
I’d been looking at the painting for the last couple hours, searching every inch of the work for anything that would betray a faker’s trick. I’d given Cotner a photo of my ex, and on such a familiar subject I would have recognized a programmed emulation of any major painter, living or dead. I may run a third-rate gallery, but I’m still a first-rate appraiser, and although I found it hard to admit, this looked like the real thing. For a human painter, it was good, not gallery quality but definitely better than average, but for a robot the piece was simply miraculous. It was the kind of thing the Wall Street corporate types call a game changer. Creativity and artistic interpretation were supposed to be unique to the human brain.
Robots were not supposed to be able to do things like this.
Nathan barely glanced at the painting; he seemed more interested in the immediate future. “We sign this Cotner to an exclusive deal—which he just told me on the phone he’ll be happy to do—and it changes everything. A find like this one makes this dump legit, doesn’t it?”
And there was my second surprise of the day. Nearly four years working here and I’d always assumed Nathan was blissfully unaware of his gallery’s lowly status.
“And then you’ll be back in the middle of things again, won’t you, Alex?” Nathan lit his cigar and appeared quite satisfied with himself. “Not a bad day’s work, eh? Like I said, you never know when a good play will present itself.”
Nathan was dead on. That paint-stained domestic bot was a once in a lifetime find, the kind that instantly gives an unknown gallery big time credibility. And it’s cred that matters more than anything in this business. If you have it, the big names come to you, and everyone wants to show at your gallery. If you don’t have it, you’re out in the cold, just another nobody in a sea of nobodies.
For Nathan, discovering Cotner’s bot was going to be a huge ego stroke, granting him the I’m-more-than-a-greedy-suit social standing that Wall Street types always look for but rarely find. But for me, Mr. Black Mark, this was nothing less than a ticket out of the gutter, a second chance. No more lame sales pitches to tightfisted tourists. No more swearing some student’s horrendous watercolor is inspired genius. Maybe there was light at the end of the tunnel after all.
“It’s quite a find, Nathan,” I said. “So how did you cross paths with this Cotner?”
Nathan smiled. “Charity dinner of all places, something for autism if memory serves. Those events are crawling with high-end tail, you have no idea.” He chuckled and said, “I remember being pissed at first when the old codger sat down next to me. A room full of movie stars and models and I get the place next to grandfather time. Then he goes and bends my ear for nearly an hour. Total sob story about being a retired single dad with a grown disabled son, and how he used to be this famous, under appreciated scientist and—”
“Wait,” I interrupted. “A son? What son?”
“Cotner has a grown son with severe autism who lives with him, didn’t you see him?”
Shit.
My car rolled to a stop in Cotner’s driveway. I cursed myself again for not being thorough enough, for believing this sham for even a second. Dumb. I’d bolted out of the gallery minutes earlier without a word to Nathan, and I hadn’t answered his multiple calls during the drive to Jersey.
No one answered the bell, so I tried the door, found it unlocked, and let myself in. The house was still and quiet and I saw the paint-stained bot sitting in the corner. I went down the hall and opened the door to a bedroom and found what I dreaded I would. The small room had a long twin bed, one side against the wall and the other with a safety rail. A bed for a disabled adult. Canvasses covered the walls and most of the floor, all of them oil paintings with the same style and color palette as the one hanging in the gallery office, the one supposedly painted by Cotner’s robot. As if I even needed any more proof of the fraud, I finally noticed a pair of remote-control gloves (paint-stained) on the floor and a small monitor that I didn’t have to turn on to know that it was fed by the robot’s camera eye. Cotner’s son was the artist. Or more precisely, the puppeteer, the Oz behind the curtain.
The light at the end of the tunnel blinked out.
“His son? Alex, are you sure?” Nathan asked over the phone as my car pulled away from Cotner’s house. After a couple seconds of silence he shouted, “How the fuck do you miss something like that?”
“I’m sorry, Nathan. The son must be some kind of savant. And it’s definitely his work, no doubt about it.”
“But the son’s autistic, surely we can work that angle, right? They make movies about that shit all the time.”
I sighed and said, “For a robot, those paintings would be phenomenal, a total game changer, so to speak. But for a human being, they’re just good, and not the kind of good that would get us any real attention.” Nathan disconnected the line without another word, and I decided it was a good idea to take the rest of the day off.
Not only did I take the rest of the day off, but I arrived at work two hours late the next morning, hoping enough time had passed for Nathan to cool off. As I walked the last couple blocks to the gallery, I tortured myself thinking about how close I was—or at least how close I thought I was—to a second chance. Fucking hell, I could see it right in front of me, almost touch it. Back in the game, back in the middle of the vortex, that insane, ridiculous, unimaginably exciting vortex at the high-end of the art world. Private jets shuttling you to Dubai for an appraisal; hundred thousand dollar commissions for doing nothing more than making an introduction; the unbelievable food; the women; the lifestyle. I’d been out of the big time for years now, and I’d hated every minute of it.
But there was nothing to do now, but keep looking for that needle in a haystack, for that lottery ticket of a painter that’ll get me out of purgatory. The odds were against it, of course, but it’s not like I had other options.
I entered the gallery to find canvasses scattered everywhere and a fortyish man sitting on the floor busily painting. He didn’t acknowledge my presence in any way. I knew in an instant it was Cotner’s son, the resemblance to his father and the dozen or so finished paintings around him left no doubt. Through the office door I saw Cotner and Nathan, both smiling and apparently engaged in friendly conversation. What?
“Alex!” Nathan shouted, opening the door and motioning me in. “About time you got here. I’ve got great news.” Nathan beamed, but Cotner’s smile disappeared when he turned and recognized me. He shifted his gaze to the floor, avoiding my eyes.
“Dr. Cotner just signed with us. We’re looking forward to a long, successful relationship.”
“But Nathan, I told you yesterday, his son is the one—”
“The advances in robotic cognition,” Nathan interrupted, “that Dr. Cotner has made are truly astounding. Robotic cognition is the term, isn’t it, Dr. Cotner?”
&nbs
p; “Yes, that’s correct,” Cotner replied, still looking at the floor like a kid who’d been caught cheating on a test.
“But Nathan,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief. “Are you considering passing off these works as—”
“Listen to me, Alex.” Nathan took a deep breath, fixed his eyes on me in a steely stare and spoke in a cool, lowered, deliberate tone. If you know what’s good for you, shut up and listen very carefully to what I’m about to say, his eyes seemed to say.
“You know as well as I do what these paintings, the robot’s paintings, can mean for the people in this room. What they can mean for the long-overdue recognition of Dr. Cotner’s life’s work, for your professional standing in the art world, and for the future of this gallery.” He smiled faintly and said, “Not to mention the financial windfall.”
“But we’re risking—”
“Well, there’s risk in just about everything, isn’t there? But if the people in this room work together and stay on the same page, I’m confident we can manage that risk. And then great things can happen, Alex. Great things.”
Nathan slid a piece of paper across the desk and held out a pen. I recognized the document, a non-disclosure agreement, and I didn’t have to read it to know that signing it meant I would play along, keep the secret, perpetuate the robot painter lie.
I thought for a moment about what Alex always said. You never know when a good play will present itself. I’d been out of the action for a long time, and risks, even big ones, were sometimes worth taking. I took the pen and signed.
I was back in the game.
END
D.L. YOUNG, known to his friends and family as David, is a speculative fiction writer who grew up in Texas. At various points in his life he resided in Mexico City and Miami, and he currently lives in the heat and humidity of Houston with his family. His undergraduate degree in English Composition is from the University of North Texas, and he has a Master’s degree in International Business from Baylor University.
An avowed language freak, he is fluent in Spanish and speaks passable Portuguese (the Brazilian flavor). He is also the founder of the Space City Critters Writers Workshop, a member of Mensa, an English soccer fan, and a cigar lover (but not the loud, obnoxious, Scotch-drinking kind). His fiction has appeared in many publications and anthologies.
Young’s stories often take place in near-future dystopias where robots sell narcotics on street corners, packs of wild dogs control entire cities, and advanced technologies amplify both the best and worst of human nature.
To find out more about his writing, visit his website at www.dlyoungfiction.com.
MIDNIGHT PEARLS BLUE
William F. Wu
First published in Stardate magazine, Oct. 1985
Dr. Lew peers closely at me, having just hit a power switch. It bothers him to have me observe too much of the time. Then he walks away, back to his desk, where he falls into his swivel chair. It rolls backward slightly on little wheels, squeaking.
“How did I do?” I ask him.
Dr. Lew leans back and smiles at me. His hair is black, but thinning on top, over a full, friendly face with a long jaw line. He tends to be chubby, but I think I see the grace of a former athlete in his decisive movements. I don’t know why he wears sweaters all the time. If given the chance, I would want to say I look like him, except for the sweaters.
“How did I do?” I ask him again.
Dr. Lew smiles and shakes his head in mild annoyance. “I keep telling you over and over—I’m not testing you. I’m testing my own work. You’re smart enough to understand that; if anyone knows that, I do.”
“Will you play it for me now? I still get to observe them after I do them, don’t I?”
“Yes, of course.” Dr. Lew presses a couple of buttons on his desk and I
…stood on the rough broken asphalt of the road, which was shiny and slick with moisture. The night was nearly black, except for the two small lights on the cabin in front of me. They burned fuzzy white spheres of illumination into the fog, obscuring the door between them.
I walked forward, bundled in my scarf and heavy coat, inhaling the chilly sea air. The small wooden building rested solidly on a cliff. As I stepped forward, I could hear the waves breaking rhythmically below, though the fog hid the expanse of dark ocean and the distant sky above it.
When I looked upward, the light from the little porch simply reflected off the swirling mist above me. I knew I was at the edge of the Pacific, on a quiet shorecliff road, but all I could actually see was the surrounding fog, and lights at the front door.
The door did not beckon. It was merely the only choice. I grasped the cold handle and opened the door.
She was there, of course. I closed the door behind me. The coarse, clear interior of the cabin was warm. I pulled the scarf from my neck and unbuttoned my coat. Then I shrugged it off my shoulders and let it drop with my scarf to the floor.
“Hi, how are you?” She smiled pleasantly, speaking as though we had been no more than co-workers, or maybe distant cousins—as though we had last seen each other yesterday, instead of years ago.
“Fine, Ah Yen.” I remembered that she had quit using her English name. I liked that.
Ah Yen was sitting on the other side of the unfinished plank table, facing me. An old-fashioned kerosene lamp was the only object on the table. Its light revealed her in the darkened cabin.
Ah Yen’s black hair fell straight on both sides of her face, before curving inward just above her shoulders. The flickering flame shone on the smooth amber skin of her full cheeks and on her casual smile. Her nose was straight, short, and perfect. She looked up with dark, slanted eyes.
“And how have you been?” she asked. “Would you like to sit down?” She waved one hand daintily toward the bench on my side of the table, several steps in front of me.
I shrugged and walked forward uncomfortably. “I’ve been all right.”
Her formality stung. It had no enthusiasm. She had acted this way from the moment we had separated.
Her New York accent was stronger than ever, but it was cultured and precise. She had been a child when her family had moved out of Chinatown, where she was born. I doubted she would ever move out of New York. She had stopped here during a trip.
“So, what are you doing now? In your career, I mean. Let’s see, you finished grad school when, around….” As she continued to speak, she shifted slightly on the bench, drawing my attention downward.
Ah Yen wore a very snug light blue dress of thin fabric, with a low rounded neckline. It was a simple short-sleeved shift, and matched the string of graduated blue pearls around her neck. Her large, rounded breasts pushed against it and I recalled her wistful comment from a couple years ago, that she just wasn’t built like most Asian women. She was short, though, and soft without being fat.
“…time ago. How about you?”
I had no patience for small talk. “What happened?” I asked in as neutral a tone as I could manage. “Why did you end it the way you did? Why couldn’t you even talk to me about it afterward?”
Ah Yen wrinkled her nose and cocked her head to one side. It was the cutest of her playful expressions. “That was years ago. Now tell me how you’ve been. Really.”
“You don’t want to hear how I’ve really been,” I said casually, still standing over the table. “So, let’s see….”
I told her about my career steps—the research, especially the big grants, and of course the tenure. In her presence, I cared nothing about any of it. I didn’t even listen to myself. While I spoke, I watched the depth of her eyes, remembering those eyelids flickering as her breath came in shortened gasps. Her mouth had opened for more breath, revealing even white teeth. In the bright, stinging light, the pearl necklace I had given her slid downward on her slender neck to one side. Her face was slack with concentration, and her fingers suddenly clenched like claws—“That’s very good.” Ah Yen smiled pleasantly. “I knew you’d do well.”
I inh
aled deeply and tried again. “Ah Yen…would you talk about it a little? Just for a minute? After all this time—”
“Oh, I don’t think it would accomplish anything. I have to meet someone. Nice to see you.” Ah Yen rose, and the blue pearls caught the light. She was still gorgeous.
“No! No…wait.” Suddenly anxious, I
…see the kind face of Dr. Lew at his desk.
“You felt a great deal this time.” He notices that he has buttoned his sweater crookedly and he begins to unbutton it.
“You took it away from me again.” My tone is bland, as always, but he recognizes the accusation.
“Well, I’m just not satisfied yet. Besides, I gave you all those painful memories and put you in a scenario that would draw them out. Next time, I’ll make them happy feelings. Promise.”
“Emotion is part of personality. I should have it.”
“Yes, and you will. We’ve honed your intelligence so finely that you test out consistently right around 100. In some ways, that was tougher for me than making you a genius.”
“You’ve told me that before.”
“I know. And I’ll remind you again, no doubt. Of all the artificials we have, you’ll be the first to carry a developed emotional personality as well as your intelligence. I just wanted to pull that particular emotional pattern out of you again…never mind why. That’s the reason you don’t feel any emotion now, though you remember feeling it during the scenario.”
Dr. Lew rises to switch off our communication. It bothers him to have me observe too much of the time. Out of spite, I don’t tell him that he is wrong—I do feel emotion now. No, I don’t tell him.
And the memory of pearls blue still burns in my circuits.
END
WILLIAM F. WU (born 1951 in Kansas City, Missouri) is a Chinese-American science fiction author. He published his first story in 1977. Since then, Wu has written thirteen published novels, one scholarly work, and a collection of short stories. His more than fifty published short stories have been nominated for the Hugo Award twice individually and once as a member of the Wild Cards group of anthology writers; his work has been nominated for the Nebula Award twice and once for the World Fantasy Award.
