Less Than Human

by Maxine McArthur

  Logical conclusion: Man made a mistake and paid the price. Dangerous things, these big machines.

  Except that he had one smart-aleck expert who said there was a problem with the robot. Why trust her—because she’s a long-legged foreigner with skin like milk?

  He tipped his chair back until its wheels creaked, considering this.

  No, he trusted her opinion because she designed the robot, and her company made it, so it was in her interest not to find any problems. Yet she did. The robot should have gone to emergency stop but instead it went to halt. Therefore, someone must have tampered with it.

  Ishihara sat down, stared into the computer’s recognition sensor until the machine started up, and searched for the relevant file. If he took McGuire’s opinion seriously, he’d have to arrange another expert opinion to confirm it; he’d be knee deep in reports for weeks.

  McGuire hadn’t been sure, though. And it was a long way from a technical problem in how a robot stopped to suspecting something suspicious about the death. So why did he find himself unable to close the case?

  He found the transcripts of the interviews with the security company, the manager, and the technician, Sakaki.

  The dead man, Mito, was described by them all as “quiet.” The manager had added, “modest, thorough, always careful.” Ishihara hoped that when he died, he’d have made enough enemies to deserve a more colorful obituary.

  What was it one of Mito’s coworkers had said? “He was a by-the-book man. Started on the dot, checked out right on time.” In answer to a question about socializing, he added, “Mito hardly ever came out for a drink with us. Always had to get home. I mean, sure, it’s a good thing people have their own lives outside work … but you never really got to know Mito.”

  He flicked back one screen. Mito was a registered member of Happy Universe, one of the largest New Millennium Religions. This meant that the group would take all Mito’s assets, whatever they were. Anybody who knew him would realize that, so if he was killed, it wasn’t for money. It also explained his preference for a quiet home life—Happy U members spent most of their spare time praying.

  Mito had arrived at work just in time for the late shift at 10:30 P.M., as usual. Normally, the manager had added, Mito would spend most of his shift in the control booth. He’d go out and visually check the lines twice, probably at about midnight and again at 5:00 A.M. before the morning watch arrived.

  The factory itself was in the middle of Minato Ward gang territory, so none of the local thieves would break in for fear of offending the gang. And the security system, while not up-to-date, was sufficient to keep out casual intruders. One guard robot patrolled continuously, and a human security guard would check it at the beginning of each shift. Cameras kept a record of the exterior of the building, but not of the factory floor.

  Financially, Kawanishi Metalworks was barely hanging on. The company assembled auto and machine parts for two large manufacturers, and also did some work for a third. The owner was middle-aged, had a heart condition, and was gradually losing his urge to succeed. According to one of Mito’s workmates, the owner now left more and more to the managers. He hardly ever came to the factory, and rumor had it that he was playing the market in the hope of bailing the company out. Not a situation to promote confidence in the future.

  Mito seemed to have been content enough. Sakaki said he was “dependable” and “careful” but seemed to have a lot on his mind lately. When pressed as to whether Mito might have been tired and, therefore, have made a mistake, Sakaki stammered a bit and said he didn’t know.

  Ishihara frowned and turned back a couple of pages. What was Sakaki doing at the company on Saturday morning to be interviewed? His shift had finished at 10:30 the previous night, and his next shift wasn’t until Saturday night.

  He found the incident report recording and ran it on his desk screen. Here was Sakaki, looking distraught as he told Detective Yamaguchi what time he left the factory.

  “About 10:45, I think. I didn’t get changed because I always do my laundry on Saturdays.”

  Detective Yamaguchi: “Did you talk to Mito?”

  Sakaki: “I handed him the day report as usual. There wasn’t anything special on it.”

  Yamaguchi: “Why’d you have to work this weekend anyway?”

  Sakaki: “The manager told you. We had to finish a big contract.”

  Yamaguchi: “And you’re so keen that you came back to work a day early?”

  Sakaki: “I told you, I forgot it was Saturday. You get into a rhythm, you know? I came as far as the station before I realized. Then I thought, what the hell, I’ll go and pick up the magazine I left in my locker. When I get here, there are cops all over the place.”

  Not the most persuasive explanation Ishihara ever heard. Sergeant Yamaguchi, too, had noted in the Investigating Officer’s Notes that Sakaki “seems to be hiding something but there is no evidence to link this with Mito’s death, which would appear to be an accident.”

  McGuire didn’t think it was an accident. Blast the woman. He wondered if any of his usual informants had information about Kawanishi that might help.

  And speaking of McGuire … He checked his phone for new messages. Aha. Bon holiday or not, newspapers were working. His usual contact at Yominichi News had sent him the requested information.

  A few scanned newspaper cuttings, short biographic note. Too many damn roman letters.

  Eleanor McGuire, born Naha 1978, father U.S. serviceman, Navy. One younger sister. Father recalled to U.S. in 1992, discharged for health reasons (someone had noted “alcoholic” in the margin). Died 1995. McGuire entered Tokyo Industrial University, Mechanical Engineering faculty on a scholarship in ’96. The scholarship was revoked because of involvement in the student movement, but she still finished her degree in ’99. Returned to U.S., entered Ph.D. course at MIT but didn’t complete it due to illness, returned to Japan in 2002 to take up position as researcher at Tomita. Note in margin: “recruiting officer, N. Izumi.”

  The newspaper cuttings were arranged in chronological order. They ranged from a short piece about engineering students and the university, in which McGuire’s name was mentioned as the first female foreign student in a new department, to an article from a year ago in the SciTech section of a big daily. It was an actual interview with McGuire. She gave predictable answers to predictable questions, which disappointed Ishihara—he expected more from a foreigner. She was supposed to be part of the “Seikai creative boost,” whatever that meant, but all she said was things like, “It’s our goal to use mechatronics to assist the transition from a postindustrial society to an IT-integrated one.”

  He hadn’t found a mention of her in police records, at least in the computerized ones. He wasn’t going to rummage through paper archives, although if she’d been involved with the student movement, there might be a mention. It did mean that Tomita must have made a special effort to get her visa put through.

  She was married when she returned from the U.S. Masao Tanaka, student. Sounds like there’s a story there. Why wasn’t she calling herself Eleanor Tanaka? He flipped back several screens to a scan of a handwritten note about Tanaka. Born 1981 Hirano Ward, Osaka, father owned small business. No outstanding vices or distinguishing characteristics. Now lecturer in modern history at the Buddhist University. Hardly the husband you’d expect.

  A note on the bottom of Tanaka’s bio said “out of favor with admin for criticizing NMRs.” A lot of old-style Buddhists criticized New Millennial Religions, and they often ended up like Tanaka, in a dead-end job. One of the reasons the NMRs succeeded was that they were better at making money than the old religions, and could buy political influence.

  He ran a search for Tanaka in police records, no result as expected. The man was totally mediocre. Except, of course, that he married a gaijin.

  He’d call McGuire the following day and ask if she’d found any more technical evidence that Mito’s death wasn’t an accident. If not, the case was closed as far as h
e was concerned.

  “Oy, Ishihara.” The duty officer from upstairs beckoned him from the doorway. “We got some buddhas in a flat. I’ve called a team to meet us there. Let’s go.”

  Dead bodies on Sunday. Ishihara closed the McGuire file and flicked off the accident report. Criminals don’t take holidays.

  After the meal, Grandpa Tanaka disappeared upstairs for a nap, the signal that lunch was over. Grandma went to water the azaleas. Yoshiko very obviously asked Mari to help her in the kitchen without looking at Eleanor.

  Masao and Kazu, Mari’s father, were stretched out on the tatami mats with their eyes shut. Eleanor reached over to turn off the television, which had been annoying her with its inane chatter throughout the meal.

  “Eleanor-san?” Kazu sat up and regarded her with his serious stare. He was a short man with bulging eyes like a worried blowfish. “Can I get your opinion on something in the factory?”

  She blinked at him in surprise. “I suppose so.”

  Normally an unspoken rule kept Eleanor away from the Tanaka business. No one ever explained why. Perhaps it was because the machine tools they used were made by one of her firm’s rivals, and Grandpa Tanaka felt it would be uncomfortable for both of them. Or perhaps he didn’t want her snooping around. Or, more likely, he’d had enough of being the object of local gossip when his younger son married not only a foreigner, but also an older woman who worked as a mechanical engineer. Then again, maybe he just didn’t approve of women on the factory floor.

  Kazu had always followed Grandpa Tanaka’s wishes in his precise, undemanding way. Eleanor found it impossible to imagine why he might be disobeying now. She followed his bandy legs through the walkway and into the workshop.

  Kazu had been “adopted” by the Tanaka family upon his marriage to Yoshiko, and he now managed the business. Tanaka Manufacturing was a tiny supplier for one of the many subcontractors of a construction machinery manufacturer. Although the post-Quake Seikai reforms were fueling a construction boom, small suppliers seemed no better off. The only small businesses with any prospects were those with the technical savvy to keep up with the big companies, or at least to be useful to them. And, while Kazu knew how to operate the factory machinery and maintain the status quo, he certainly didn’t have the capacity to improve it.

  In the workshop Kazu switched on the lights and the overhead fans and led her between two rows of workbenches to the desk at the end of the room. There was a single hard drive and monitor on the desk, a common brand, slow but reliable. On one side stood the set of wooden pigeonholes dating from the Meiji period that Masao’s great-great-grandfather had used in his bicycle repair shop.

  Like every small Japanese machine shop Eleanor had ever seen, everything was spotless; floors neatly swept, all tools put away neatly, clean overalls and caps folded and placed ready on each worker’s locker. No film of dust was allowed to collect on the top of shelves or in corners under benches. Uplifting slogans and posters of peaceful scenery decorated all available wall space—a distinctly Grandpa Tanaka touch.

  “Sorry it’s so hot.” Kazu offered her the chair in front of the computer.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “The spot welder has been inaccurate several times this month and we can’t find out why.”

  “How long has it been working?” Eleanor typed up details of the robot’s programming. I haven’t looked at a welder for ten years, she thought, and this is the second one I’m examining in as many days.

  “Nearly two years now.” Kazu watched her fingers on the keys.

  “It’s rented, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, don’t they give you a free service every year?” She knew about the industrial robot rental scheme, aimed at small businesses that could not afford to buy one outright, but not the details.

  Kazu shifted uncomfortably. “It’s a long story … basically we can’t afford to get it repaired at the moment, but we can’t leave it idle. We’re in the middle of a big order.”

  “All right, then. Let’s look at the software …” It didn’t take long. “There’s no problem here.” She swung the swivel chair around and stared at the rest of the factory. “How is it malfunctioning?”

  He showed her some imperfect welds.

  “Looks like an alignment problem,” she said, moving over to study the robot itself. It stood between two benches for easy access—a cylindrical base, stocky body, and one long arm bent like an inverted L.

  “That’s what we thought, but we really don’t want to take it apart ourselves,” he said. “At least”—with a glimpse of sincerity—“I want to, but the boss doesn’t like the idea.” The word he used for Grandpa Tanaka was old-fashioned, meaning “master” rather than “employer,” the same word many women still used when referring to their husbands.

  Eleanor shifted so she could look him in the face. “Shall I try to fix it?” She didn’t mind trying a new family dynamic, but would Kazu?

  Kazu turned away from the eye contact, fidgeted, then met her gaze again. “I think that may be for me best. Thank you.”

  He sounded relieved and apprehensive at once.

  A sweaty hour or so later, they’d found the problem and jury-rigged a temporary solution.

  “If you take care when you’re feeding in the pieces,” Eleanor said to him as they drank tins of cold coffee from the vending machine that stood outside the shop, “you’ll have a couple of months’ grace. Then I really suggest you get a complete overhaul.”

  Kazu nodded, more cheerful than she had ever seen him, and she felt as relaxed with him as she’d ever been. This was the first time in fifteen years they had talked about anything that interested either of them. They shouldn’t have waited so long.

  “Eleanor-san?” Kazu paused in passing a rag over the table. “Have you ever thought of moving to small business? Wouldn’t you get more scope to do the research you want?”

  She kept replacing screwdrivers in their case. “Not really. My work needs considerable infrastructure. Besides, small businesses are so unstable that it wouldn’t be worth trying. Imagine completing all your basic research, then going bust before you could develop it.”

  Kazu started wiping again. “I see what you mean. But in small …”

  He was interrupted by Grandpa Tanaka flinging aside the sliding door with a bang.

  “Kazunori, what is the meaning of this?”

  Kazu opened his mouth and shut it again, looking more like a blowfish man ever.

  “Kazu asked me to take a look at some machinery that’s malfunctioning.” Eleanor wiped greasy hands on another rag. “It’s no big deal.”

  Grandpa ignored her. “You know I don’t like outsiders poking around in here.”

  Outsiders? For a moment Eleanor was speechless. For fifteen years this man had preached to her about the enlightened way Japanese families welcome their sons’ wives.

  “Well, Eleanor is family, you know,” Kazu mumbled, “And as she’s a better mechanic than I…”

  “That’s not what I mean, and you know it.” The two of them seemed to be operating on a separate wavelength of shared secrets, at which she could only guess.

  Kazu flung his rag on the workbench. Both Grandpa and Eleanor jumped.

  “If you’d start moving with the times, we might be able to afford to get it fixed properly,” he said bitterly.

  Eleanor had never heard Kazu talk this directly. All his polite nuances had gone.

  Grandpa bristled. “If by ‘moving with the times’ you mean accepting jobs outside our area of expertise, you’re setting us up for failure.”

  “How can you know when you’ve never tried?” Kazu’s voice rose in frustration. “You only deal with the same old companies, and half of them are going out of business anyway.”

  “I’ve seen you fail.” Grandpa seemed to think this was his trump card. “Didn’t you learn anything?”

  Eleanor was suddenly embarrassed for Kazu, for herself. Even embarrassed for
Grandpa, who was always so careful not to be emotional about anything, but was now red with rage. She backed out of the workshop into the relative coolness of the garden.

  Mari was sitting on the big rock under the twisted pine tree with her back to Eleanor, talking to someone on her phone. Eleanor caught a glimpse of the face in the phone—young and male.

  “… terrible. But are you sure? … okay, I’ll see you in an hour.”

  She got up and turned around. Her expression, soft and inward-looking, tightened when she saw Eleanor. She slipped the phone into her shorts pocket and ran her hand over her bob.

  “I have to go,” she said. “A friend just called. We, um, have an assignment due.”

  “You know, if you ever need to talk about anything …” Eleanor began.

  “Mari-chan!” Yoshiko opened the door. “We haven’t finished soaking the plums.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother. I just got an urgent call and I have to go back now.”

  “Is this because of the implants? Mari-chan, you know your father and I…”

  “No, Mother. I have to meet someone.” She pushed past Yoshiko. “I’ll get my bag.”

  Yoshiko looked at Eleanor as if it was her fault. “Did she say anything to you?”

  “She said she has an assignment due.”

  Yoshiko frowned disbelievingly. “Why didn’t she say that earlier? Where’s Kazu-san?”

  “In the workshop.” Eleanor didn’t mention the fight with Grandpa. Yoshiko would blame her for that, too.

  Yoshiko clicked her tongue in annoyance and went into the workshop.

  Mari rushed out the door, cramming her feet into sandals. “Mother, I’ll phone,” she yelled at the workshop door. “Nice seeing you, Aunt Eleanor,” she added, then clattered down the path and out the gate.

  Eleanor waved, but Mari didn’t look back.

  That night, back in the Betta, Eleanor couldn’t sleep. For once it wasn’t because of robots.

  “Masao?” She poked him gently in the ribs.

  He gave a barely awake grunt.

  “Doesn’t it bother you that Grandpa won’t let me help out in the workshop?”