Nano Man

by Dean C. Moore

  “Look at them lining up to shake his hand, and kiss his ring. When did he become the godfather of robotics?” Bateman said.

  Luderman, standing by his side, in a matching three thousand dollar suit, observing the same phenomenon, sighed. “You have to admit, this Disneyland take on housebots will have them occupying every home in America in no time, just when his competitors thought resistance to the idea would slow acceptance for years.”

  “The fact that, despite their humanoid shapes, they don’t look all that human, more like toys for all ages, doesn’t hurt either. Less feathers to get ruffled.”

  “His Robo-Lands, which he made sure to build right next to the Disneylands around the world, are drawing so much business away, that he’ll own them soon enough.”

  Bateman crossed his arms, his muscular physique threatening to burst through even the fine tailoring of the suit. “Personally I find it a little creepy that the Pirates of the Seven Seas robots along with the Haunted House robots, and even the Freddy-the-slasher bots, are doing so well precisely because they can act out such elaborate adult fantasies that even professional actors couldn’t replace them. Assuming anyone could afford to hire the actors. Because the thespians would need someone to feed them their lines.”

  “You’d think that’d earn him some pushback.”

  “Maybe if he’d thrown them into the real world, instead of keeping them in his theme parks, to play on people’s fears of obsolescence rather than their fantasies. Now that the fantasies have taken hold, everyone could care less about their fears.”

  Luderman took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Even with his head bowed, he towered over Bateman. “Explaining why we’re here today when the Berlin wall comes down between his theme parks and the real world. Now that there’s no one left to complain.”

  “This guy’s every move is calculated to lead to something else. This might be the end for us, but you can bet it’s just another milestone for him.”

  “Please tell me we have a way to relegate him to history rather than to the future,” Luderman said.

  “Funny you should ask.”

  THREE

  “Who’s the stiff?” Luderman asked, staring down at the body on the slab in the morgue.

  “One Agaton Serile,” Bateman informed him, not bothering to look at Luderman as that would have meant craning his neck uncomfortably; now there was one tall man. It would have required staring into those cold, fishy, dead eyes. The wrinkles in the sixtysome weathered skin of his face would be like a maze he’d never get out of from this close up. Though Luderman was considerably older, Bateman wasn’t sure even his muscular physique was up to the task of tackling this guy to the ground. But the real standout feature was the fact that Luderman had a minimalist body language and an expressionless face that made the corpse look curiously more alive.

  As owners of rival robotic companies, Bateman often wondered if Luderman would make a better enemy than a business partner. No doubt, no matter how far the pendulum swung from one side to the other, it’d always be a little of both.

  “What’s his claim to fame?” Luderman asked, scanning the mess that was Agaton’s dead face like a man who still had information to offer up. Secrets that could only be divined in the tea leaves-like reading of mangled flesh and bone.

  “Savant. Victim of Asperger’s, to be precise. Military engineer for Compton, one of your primary competitors.”

  “Ah, Compton is more of a subsidiary. Not into hard core robotics. So not really a competitor for me. But don’t let me interrupt you.”

  “Agaton’s wife is the real brains of the business. He just designs things; she turns those things into hefty profits and uses those profits to gobble up market share. My market share. Clearly she has aims that go well beyond military applications, even if he doesn’t.”

  “I gather he didn’t die of natural causes.”

  “Of course he did. He fell off a building and gravity did the killing. Though I might have helped him take the first step.”

  “So now what?”

  Bateman nodded to the guard standing by the door. The figure walked closer then stood at attention by their side. “Meet the new Agaton Serile.”

  “I gather he looks just like the old one. Kind of hard to tell from the mess the asphalt made of the original.”

  “He does.”

  “What about the Asperger’s?”

  “As it turns out, this is the first model we’ve produced with human-like emotions, and as it turns out, he isn’t all that human, yet. We’re hoping with time…”

  “Still, there’ll be differences, however subtle, that a wife is going to pick up on.”

  “We’re hoping she forgives them. Any sign that he might be improving, right?”

  “You don’t think the wife of a military engineer, whose chief preoccupation these days is robotics, isn’t going to get suspicious?”

  “They say love is blind.”

  “And what if it works? What will you have achieved?”

  Bateman shrugged. “Either this model will get better at emotions until it can just pass as normal, or, he’ll remain cute and endearing for all his deficits. Might even work in our favor as far as rolling out the prototype to the general public in a few years. After all, nothing smacks of intimidation more than a robot that can do everything better than you. But one who’s got a few wires crossed?”

  “Turning negatives into positives. I like your style.” Luderman studied the new Agaton, who smiled off cue. “He does seem a little emotionally retarded.”

  “This coming from a man who wears a permanent poker face.”

  Luderman grinned; even his smile seemed to have thirty different connotations, and counting. “Got me there. One of these days you’ll learn the strategic advantage of that.”

  “And what’s your in with the holographic memory guy?” Bateman asked, dismissing his guard with a nod, who went back to security duty standing by the door to the morgue.

  Luderman gestured for his bodyguard to come over. He’d been standing at the opposite end of the room, with his eyes intermittently on Bateman’s bodyguard, a.k.a. Agaton Serile back from the dead, in between madly keying his iPhone and going in and out of multiple screens. The guard walked over to them. “Meet Gorman Finch,” Luderman said.

  Without being prompted, Gorman slid the drawer closed on the original Agaton, and opened another door on the wall of silver doors, before sliding out a dead man who looked exactly like him. “I guess it’s true what they say about great minds,” Luderman said.

  “Well, there’s no denying they look alike,” Bateman said, bouncing his eyes between the dead Gorman Finch and the “live” one. “Only your model seems to have an acute sense of ADHD. Barely looks up from his iPhone.” Bateman leaned over Gorman’s shoulder. “Shit, he’s running like twelve apps simultaneously at speed-reading rates. Oh, yeah, he’ll blend just fine.”

  “The ADHD is an admitted offshoot of our robots built more for military applications than civilian use. All the same, people are known under pressure to develop ADHD all the time.”

  “What about his wife?” Bateman asked.

  Luderman shrugged. “If we can’t fool her, there are other ways to deal with her. The bigger challenge for both of these replacements is going to be the firms they oversee. That’s a lot of eyes on without someone getting suspicious.”

  “You think your guy is ready for this?”

  “You think yours is?”

  Bateman sighed. “I guess that’s the point of field testing. Worse comes to worst, we’ll squirrel them away to some psych ward, claim a mental breakdown, do the repairs there, and send them back. Considering how instrumental they are in their respective companies, can’t see anyone not forgiving the occasional fall from grace. And doesn’t everyone love a high ranking employee these days with a few headline grabbing deficits? The company earns goodwill points.”

  “Speaking of turning negatives into positives.”

  “Yes.�
�� If Agaton, his own prototype had a dull, forgettable face that was meant to blend, and perhaps advertise for his company that “anyone, even you, the common Joe, can make it to the top,” then Gorman was devilishly handsome, his looks no doubt meant to forgive a lot of sins, in the same way that the original climbed to the top, using a combination of salesmanship and sex appeal to get ahead in the world better than most.

  “Still don’t understand why you’re so hot to get an in with the holographic memory manufacturer,” Luderman said.

  Bateman grunted. “Inside one mind could be contained the entire storehouse of human knowledge, not just now, but any number of years out, even with the explosion of information in an information age.”

  Luderman’s face remained expressionless. “That capacity I already have with my own holographic prototypes.” Luderman studied Bateman’s face, which wasn’t as good at hiding secrets as his own. Bateman was very much regretting that fact now. “Oh, I see. Gorman’s research promises much more. They say the entire multiverse is contained within human memory, which also functions holographically. But the images are so damned dim and confused, that it takes a psychic or someone into Transcendental Meditation to get any kind of fix of what’s going on out there in the stars. Even then, the picture’s too fuzzy to be of much good. I’m guessing Gorman’s research promises to clear up that image quite a bit.”

  “You’re right about me learning to keep a better poker face.”

  Luderman smiled weakly. “Looks like we’re going to be even more in bed with one another than I had planned.”

  “Can’t see that hurts either of us, considering our overlapping interests.”

  “We’re done here. Now that we’re past the theoretical stage, it’s time to see how our plan holds up under the acid test of scrutiny from anyone who matters in their lives.”

  “And the bodies of the two in the morgue?”

  “We own the morgue. But they’ll be ash before we make it the rest of the way out of this building.” Luderman signaled his ADHD guy with a nod. Gorman must have squeezed in the order with one of his finger strokes across the iPhone, but only he could tell.

  Luderman and Batemen walked toward the door, shadowed by their bodyguards who would not be working in that capacity for much longer. They had just had the assignment for the day, in any case, as neither party saw much purpose in bringing along extra muscle. These prototypes, designed for another purpose entirely, could function well enough as bodyguards temporarily.

  “We should be looking to replace the CEOs of these companies, not the chief science officers,” Bateman said.

  “CEOs are themselves controlled by board members and shareholders. No, what we want is access to the powerhouses driving the firms, the crucibles of creativity. And soon we’ll have it.”

  “What if we have to do a factory recall of these things?” Bateman said.

  “When the brand image begins to tarnish, we’ll make sure to have the nexgen prototypes on line to step in, positioned in their respective companies so as to be best fitted to fill their shoes. Though, in this game, loyalty trumps performance.”

  Bateman figured he tacked on that last part for the benefit of the current prototypes overhearing their conversation. It was a nice touch.

  ***

  EARLIER THAT DAY…

  Agaton stared down at the city from the top of the skyscraper. He came up here once a day at the same time because his wife insisted he cultivate an appreciation for beauty. Mostly he counted lines. The lines framing each window times the number of windows.

  With the first splashes of rain, he shifted his attention to the water drops falling on the banister before him. Bless the rain. Counting the raindrops would preoccupy him a lot more fully.

  “Agaton? Agaton Serile?”

  Agaton turned to see a man who looked just like him glaring at him, pointing a gun. Agaton calmly took a few steps closer to him so he could see him better. “You’re more perfect, somehow, than me. The number of pores in your face are an even number, and they’re evenly spaced. Mine are an odd number, and they’re unevenly spaced. Your eyes are glassy, but they’re not glass. May I?” he said, extending his hand.

  “Sure, why not?” The gunman handed him the gun.

  Agaton fired at his eye. The bullet ricocheted at the angle already calculated by Agaton, to wedge in the wall. If this guy had come here to kill him, as he suspected, maybe someone would be clever enough to retrieve the bullet and use it as a clue to find his killer.

  He handed the gun back to the gunman. “As I suspected. Diamond glazing. Bionic eye. Why would someone build a robot replica of me?”

  “I’m sure if you think about it long enough the answer’ll come to you.”

  “But I’m a genius engineer. It’s the only time I get any reprieve from my autism. The only time my brain seems to work right. Surely, you can’t replicate that. If you could, in all likelihood, I’d have designed the chip. And I didn’t.”

  The gunman shrugged. “My head is filled with prototypes. Maybe not as good as yours. But I don’t think too many people exist who’re smart enough to tell the difference.”

  “Not yet. You might have more to fear from your own kind than from the likes of me, with the passage of time. I gather the gun isn’t for me, or you’d have used it already. Something tells me there’s nothing I can say that you’re particularly interested in.”

  “It’s just to coax you to take a step over the ledge.”

  “Oh, I see. And if I don’t?”

  “I’m strong enough to throw you over with one hand.”

  “But that would create a different trajectory, one that would expose murder under computer analysis.”

  “I can dangle you over the ledge, if you prefer.”

  “And my wife and kids?”

  “I’ll be playing you, only better.”

  “That’s good. They deserve better.” Agaton took a step closer to the gunman.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m six and a half steps from the ledge. I thought I’d make it an even seven.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “You might pass for me at that.” Agaton turned and marched the seven steps towards the ledge, climbed up on it.

  “Why are you hesitating?”

  “My wife wanted me to learn to appreciate beauty, like the beauty of this city.”

  The gunman stepped closer to see what he was looking at. “What’s she talking about?”

  “Have no idea,” he said, then jumped.

  ***

  Gorman went from table to table in the park, playing chess against all five players. He was even competing against some imaginary ones, using the chessboards at the other tables, still waiting for more masters to arrive. It was early morning yet. And it was cold. That meant the fans weren’t here, and nothing but the diehard enthusiasts, who’d usually occupy themselves with one another. But they knew Gorman, figured they’d get a more interesting game this way.

  He glanced up to see who was towering over the older man he’d just moved his white knight against. It was him. Generous black curly locks. Piercing emerald green eyes. Olive skin. He looked more perfect, more Greek, and more like Michelangelo’s statue of David than the statue. For a second Gorman had a strange sense of déjà vu. Was this him, only from the future? Maybe he’d invent time travel in another few years. God knows, it was on the docket. “Are you me?” he asked.

  “No, of course not.”

  “A clone?” He already knew that couldn’t be right either. He’d kept a close watch on cloning technologies. Only recent advances hinted at anything this good, and none of those technologies included spitting out someone virtually overnight.

  His doppelganger snapped the old man’s neck so quickly and imperceptibly, the other players, engrossed with making their next move, didn’t even notice. His twin propped the hold man up on his arm, resting his chin in his palm, as if he were merely contemplating his next move. Moved on to the next table. />
  “Why did you do that?”

  “Can’t have anyone reporting on what went on here today.”

  “You never answered my question,” Gorman said.

  “Do I really have to?” His double snapped the neck of the Chinese dissident who’d fled China so he could take up with the Occupy Movement people. Figured the percentages on survival were better, and with America being what it was these days, there might be even more issues to prattle on about.

  Gorman continued his playing against his dead opponents, carried over from the last table, their pieces now being moved by his doppelganger.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, when the twin pulled out his cell phone and keyed away on it with his thumb.

  “Shopping around for another home. Not sure I think much of the one you’re living in. Oh, and you can take your hand out of your pocket. I’ve already blocked the 911 call you were texting out.”

  “Mind if I write my wife a love letter while we settle whatever this is?”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  They were standing at the third table. “Hey, there’s two of you!” the teen said, looking up from his chessboard. “Though one seems like more than enough for now. Maybe when more people start showing up. How many boards can each of you handle, out of curiosity?”

  Gorman said, “Twelve.”

  His double replied at the same time, “two-hundred fifty six.”

  The teen whistled at his twin, but the sound was choked off as his neck was snapped. His double posed the teen as if he were staring at the board with his face level with the pieces, his chin perched on his closed fists, pushed together, as if he were giving himself a fist pump.

  “You’re moving your stock portfolio around so your wife and kids get more of a short term return while also ensuring they have what they need for the longterm,” his double said. “Nice touch. But not to worry, I have every intention of taking care of them.”