Less Than Human

by Maxine McArthur

  “Who’s the leader?” said Beppu. “And why haven’t we heard of them?”

  Inspector Funo raised a neatly plucked eyebrow at the rudeness. She looked like someone had puked on her shiny black shoes.

  “The leader,” she said slowly and precisely, “calls himself Adam.”

  Oh great, thought Ishihara. The Christian groups are the most confusing. “I never heard of him,” he said. “What does he preach?”

  Funo tightened her lips, then relented. “We don’t have a lot of information. The group’s very close-knit. What we do have is inferred, mainly from Net chat rooms. Our experts sift through material, and they’ve found postings that fit the group’s profile. But we can’t be sure the people who post messages are group members.”

  “And?” prompted Ishihara.

  “It’s a typical New Millennium group—predict the end of the world through cataclysmic event, personal cleansing through meditation, value of natural healing, rejection of consumerism …” She made them all sound like exotic diseases. “They want to use technology to achieve some posthuman state. The group is atypical because they don’t have a legal existence and they don’t solicit funds. We don’t know where they get their money.”

  “So they haven’t made any actual threats,” said Ishihara, “But you’re worried because if they do, they may have some capability of carrying them out?”

  Funo hesitated. “That’s right. And today’s deaths indicate that whatever they’re doing isn’t safe. Our priority at the moment is to find Adam’s real identity. You have not yet been informed of the group’s details because we haven’t decided whether they are to be treated as a cult and therefore fall within the jurisdiction of Religious Affairs, or whether they are a terrorist group and, therefore, will be handled by Home Defense.”

  “Terrorist?” said Ishihara. He knew he looked as dumbfounded as Beppu and Kusatsu. How could those flimsy, gaudy bodies be terrorists?

  Inspector Funo paused as the stretcher-bearers maneuvered out the door and past them. Two bodies to a stretcher.

  “Unfortunately the details may only be released on a need-to-know basis.” She sounded cheerful for the first time. “Therefore, Prefectural Office will be taking over this investigation. We will, as usual, require liaison officers to be appointed from the local station and will require an incident room to be set aside there. My men will arrive shortly.”

  She bobbed her head. “I’m sure we’ll work well together.”

  Ishihara wasn’t sure at all. He consoled himself with the thought that in police manga, the young female detective is almost always rescued at the end by her more experienced male colleague.

  Eleanor left her apartment on Monday morning puffy-eyed and irritable. In the old days she’d have blamed her disturbed night on the heat, but the Betta nights were cool and comfortable. Must be the unfinished business with that welder and the prospect of a long day’s work ahead, getting Sam ready for the budget committee display.

  There weren’t many people in the corridors at six-thirty. Masao hadn’t even grunted in his sleep when she said she was leaving early. Simulated morning light streamed through the corridors, and cheerful music played just at the level of hearing. The ubiquitous cleanbots were still gathered in herds about their recharge stations, out of the way of passersby in small bays at certain intersections.

  As she waited for the elevator she noticed one cleanbot marooned by itself near the wall, like a discarded ball with wheels. Perhaps it was the same one that had malfunctioned the other night. She crouched down to check its charge light. Green, which meant fully charged. Strange. She nudged it with her foot, but it didn’t move, nor did any of its flaps open so it could raise arms or sensors. Definitely malfunctioning. She rummaged in the bottom of her handbag and found a sweet wrapper, which she dropped right in front of the bat’s base sensors. After a ten-second delay, it sucked up the wrapper belatedly, then kept going, following the line of the wall until the corridor curved out of sight.

  The elevator pinged at her. Do you wish to descend? it inquired in a polite female voice. Eleanor got in hurriedly. As the doors closed she thought she saw the cleanbot reappear. I must remember to tell management about it tonight.

  In the lower, main commuting corridor the music was louder, and advertising jingles dopplered in and out of hearing as she passed.

  Buy your new Generation S phone implant today and receive a free tattoo!

  Where will your next holiday be? Make it the blue waves of Tottori.

  Be the first girl in your office with the Miss Elegance look.

  Two girls in blue high school sailor suits stood in front of this last wall advertisement, giggling and ordering with their phones at the interface. Eleanor wondered whether the makeup would be delivered to their school or to their homes, and what their parents thought about it. She couldn’t see Yoshiko letting Mari order goods from a public ad.

  The corridor bots here were busy, zooming neatly in and out of people’s way if they needed to cross from one side of the corridor to the other. She found herself checking their herd behavior, then stopped, shaking her head at the idiocy. As if a cleaning robot would follow her. You have other things to worry about, she told herself.

  In the train a man in a pink short-sleeved shirt and green string tie was sitting in her favorite seat, and all the other seats were occupied. She leaned against the doors and watched the roofs and crossings rattle past. Everything outside baked in the heat, while the fan blew a draft of icy cold air down her neck.

  Many of the faces in the carriage were familiar, all residents of her Betta who took the same train every day. Sleepy faces, faces with a sheen of sweat, a keen face bent over a textbook. One or two people were completely asleep, hunched over bags on their laps or drooping to one side.

  What would it be like to work in your own business next to home, like Grandpa and Kazu? She knew it wasn’t a matter of pleasing oneself—more like being a Ping-Pong ball bounced continuously between contractors, customers, and suppliers. But at least they didn’t have piles of senseless administrative work. Like the report she had to write on the Kawanishi Metalworks incident. She swore she’d finish that business with the welder by nine; otherwise, she’d be unable to concentrate on Sam.

  The train doors swooshed open, and she retreated farther into the carriage to avoid being squashed by people entering at Amagasaki. In summer everyone left home early to avoid the heat.

  A schoolgirl dodged through the crowd as she walked up the carriage, her bare legs in white socks and loafers balancing effortlessly against the train’s motion. She didn’t even stop reading her comic.

  How do we do it so easily? Eleanor would have traded five years of her life to be able to make a robot that walked like that.

  It’s not done easily, she conceded. It takes years of continual practice for a child to learn to walk. Yet they want us to produce a robot that can walk in six months, a year. As well as integrate all the other systems. We don’t give it enough time to practice. After my accident … she fingered the scar hidden under her long hair … I practiced like hell.

  Practice had been the only thing that got her through. She’d done nothing for months but practice simple tasks. In retrospect, it seemed ridiculous, but at the time it was exhausting, and the victories were so very small. Nobody understood how long it took. People tried to conceal expressions of pity, frustration, or disgust as she spent minutes passing change to a shop assistant or stammering her destination to a bus driver.

  Caged in the slowness of her own tongue and reflexes, she watched her peers get offered the interesting jobs and knew that by the time she recovered it would be too late; more brilliant young minds would roll along. Maybe that was when it started, the desire to build a robot body that wouldn’t break down. She didn’t want to return to those dreary days of pulling speech, limbs, thought together, but if it would help her coordinate Sam …

  There was another message from Akita waiting for her. Tempted simply
to delete, she ran her eyes over it, then stopped and read it from the beginning.

  Sender: A

  Subject: A query

  Eleanor-san

  I am still awaiting your reply to my previous message, subject ‘catching up.’ I would very much like to see you, as I have some more information about my new synaptic converter, which you will find fascinating.

  Until we meet, I have a question for you to consider about your research. I am interested in how you have pursued the idea of a humanoid robot, and a little disappointed also. There are many avenues more worth pursuit. What is the final goal of your research? What will your humanoid robots be used for—slaves to human beings? Companions?

  I look forward to discussing the matter with you in person.

  Eleanor deleted the message with a savage jab at the keyboard. Far more satisfying than voice command.

  How dare Akita question her research goals, sitting in his country university where they probably didn’t even know the meaning of R&D …

  “Recall deleted e-mail.”

  She typed her reply, not wanting to be overheard.

  Akita-san

  Before you question other people’s research goals, you should declare your own. What are you working on now? You sent me some interesting snippets of information, but as far as I know, they could be years old. Where do you stand that you question my goals?

  McGuire

  That should make him think. If he wanted to insult her, why didn’t he call? Vanity, perhaps. He’d always worried how he looked. He probably didn’t want her to see his middle-aged paunch or balding head.

  She sent the message and tried to put him out of her head. She had enough to do already.

  “Industrial Lab Four? This is McGuire, of Systems Two.”

  The screen activated. “Nishino here. You’re early.” Her colleague in charge of large industrial robots was as stolid and inflexible as his machines.

  Eleanor nodded acknowledgment of the pleasantry. “I’ve got a T56 welder here …”

  “The Kawanishi welder?” Nishino interrupted. “Why is it in your lab?”

  “As there was nobody here in your lab on Saturday, I responded to the call,” said Eleanor stiffly. “The transport people probably had my name when they picked it up.”

  “I’ll send somebody around to take a look.” Nishino leaned forward, and the viewer was filled with his broad, red face. He seemed to think she couldn’t see him otherwise. “The checkup is only a formality, isn’t it? Human error, I was told.”

  “In a way,” Eleanor said. “I wanted to ask you about the welder’s ID. Why doesn’t it match the one on record?”

  He stared at her. “Of course it matches the record.”

  Eleanor sighed. “When I compare the two, the ID tail is different.”

  Sweat shone off Nishino’s forehead. This was potentially a major problem—how could manufacturers keep track of their products if mistakes like this happened?

  “I’ll get someone on it.”

  Eleanor nodded. “I’m sure the number was just entered incorrectly in the first place.” And should have been picked up a dozen times since then, she didn’t add.

  Nishino wiped his upper lip with a blue handkerchief. “How about we look into that while you finish the accident report?”

  “Deal,” said Eleanor. “I’ll send you my notes.” She cut the link and sent Nishino the file. She could finish the report as soon as he’d finished. She hoped there wasn’t a problem with any other robot’s ID processing. The industry would be in a real mess if robots weren’t “themselves.”

  On the other hand, if the robot wasn’t itself, maybe that explained why it didn’t act like itself. Was she looking at a virus—or a person—that could change a robot’s identity? Theoretically, it was impossible. Any attempt to do so would destroy the base programs first, then initiate barriers to prevent rewriting. No one at Kawanishi had the expertise, as far as she knew. So it must have been someone from outside. They could have placed a time-lag device in the robot sometime before the incident.

  Kawanishi’s maintenance logs should show who accessed the robot recently. She called Kawanishi’s number. The day shift manager answered, on audio only.

  He wasn’t sure when the last maintenance was done. He’d ask the technician to check. Now? Well, if she wanted to waste phone time … she just wanted to check the access logs, right? He thought the police already did that. Eleanor repeated she wasn’t from the police, she was with Tomita.

  The floor manager’s verb endings rose a level in politeness. They’d never had a problem with a Tomita robot before. He hoped she could find out what happened. They didn’t want to have to get rid of their other Tomita machines.

  Eleanor assured him that wouldn’t be necessary. She merely wanted to know who serviced the robot last and when it was done.

  The floor manager would let her talk to the technician in charge of maintenance. The manager would appreciate it if Eleanor didn’t use up too much of the technician’s time.

  The technician had a young voice with nasal Osaka intonation. He told her that nobody on the floor was allowed access to the welder’s controller except the floor managers.

  “The last time the controller was checked …” He paused, and Eleanor could hear him tapping keys.

  “Opened?” she said.

  “No, just checked visually. We make sure it’s secure. The last time was August 2. Security checks are always done at the beginning of the month. Makes it easy for everyone to remember.”

  “You haven’t had a visit from our tech?”

  “Not since, oh, early July. Our other welder is a Zecom machine. It was properly checked on the twelfth. Maybe you guys should be as thorough as Zecom.”

  Zecom was the biggest manufacturer in the field. They could afford to send their technicians out more frequently.

  “What sort of checkup?”

  “The usual, I suppose. He was here most of the day. Nice bloke.”

  “Thank you.” She closed the connection and sat staring at the speakers for a while. Nobody at the factory had checked the Tomita welder’s controller since the beginning of August. And nobody had opened it since the Tomita technician last visited in July. But the blank in the log showed that the robot was tampered with at least an hour before Mito’s death. Which should have been impossible. She groaned inwardly.

  Why didn’t Mito notice sooner that the robot had stopped?

  All controllers were linked on the factory network, so the foreman could see how each job progressed and which machines were at which workstation. The floor manager hadn’t mentioned any other machines being off-line. But she hadn’t asked, either.

  She called Kawanishi again and spoke to the same duty technician. He said they had no other machines with problems.

  “How about the other welder, the Zecom one—is it working normally?” she said.

  “I can’t tell you that.” The technician sounded almost cheerful.

  “Look, all I’m doing is trying to make sure a similar accident doesn’t happen again.”

  “No, I mean I can’t check the other welder because Zecom recalled it.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. They brought a replacement along, too.” This last was a dig at Tomita, which hadn’t yet organized a replacement—because Eleanor hadn’t finished the report.

  “This is the number they said to call.” He gave her a number with a long-distance prefix.

  “Thanks.” She closed the connection. Zecom might just be playing the public relations game, demonstrating that they put safety first and were prepared to take a loss if it was necessary to protect lives. But a company as large as Zecom wouldn’t bother about a customer as minor as Kawanishi, especially not in these times of stringent budgets. Since the Seikai boom began to slow, everyone feared a return to the depression of the early 2000s. Zecom would be no exception.

  Zecom might have recalled their welder because they thought it had b
een affected by whatever happened to the Tomita welder. The two companies were rivals in a number of fields, including industrial robotics. Zecom was where Akita had gone after he left Tomita. He hadn’t stayed there long, obviously. Too much of a prima donna, she thought waspishly.

  After a moment’s hesitation, she tapped Zecom’s number. It was nearly nine o’clock; somebody should be there.

  “Robotics lab. What’s the problem?” The whining voice sounded unpleasantly familiar. The other person to leave Tomita for Zecom. The one she didn’t want to have to ask for favors.

  “Hello, Nakamura-san. This is McGuire, from Tomita.”

  “My goodness. McGuire-san.” Nakamura sounded less surprised than she expected. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Yes, it has. How’s everything there?”

  “Wonderful. I’ve got a very fulfilling job here.”

  And you were totally neglected and downtrodden here, Eleanor said to herself. “Excellent. Um, the reason I’m calling is that we recalled one of our robots, a T56 welder, because of an accident. You might have seen it in the papers. We’re sure it was human error, but I have found a couple of m … minor discrepancies in the controller log …” She inwardly cursed her stumbling tongue.

  “Why are you calling here, then?” Nakamura interrupted.

  “Because you … I mean, Zecom, recalled one of your 316 Series welders that was also at the factory.

  “I don’t know anything about that.” Nakamura’s tone grew more pompous. “I’ve moved on from simple industrial stuff. This is our main research lab, you know.”

  Eleanor gritted her teeth. “Yes, I know. But the floor manager at Kawanishi—that’s the factory where the accident happened—he said the Zecom people gave him this number to call if he had any queries.”

  Short silence. She wished she could see his face. “Can you activate your video?”

  “Sorry, we can’t show outsiders our lab.” He cleared his throat with a self-conscious eh-hem, another of his little habits.

  “So, is your 316 from Kawanishi there or not?”

  “I’ll go and check. As a personal favor to you.”