+J.M.J.+
Zenon Eyes: Eyes of Truth
By "Matrix Refugee"
Chapter II
Rebirth
Author's note:
Dedicated to Darren Goad of the Merrimack Special Educational Center, and to Judy Green of the Massachusetts Rehabilitation Commission, who are, in some ways, the Lutwyn Zipes and Rhiannon Jackford of my life, as I work toward getting a "real" job. I just hope I can still write this crazy stuff of mine on the side!
Disclaimer:
See Chapter I. I did not invent or devise the Three Laws of Robotics, which are the creation of the late Isaac Asimov, though for the purpose of the plot, I have devised a companion version to them.
A few months later, Joe applied at a local community college for their Robotics and Robotic Design course; the admissions process went through almost as easily as the Identity Card application process had been difficult. Though he expected some displays of consternation from the faculty and students, he hardly expected the stares of blank curiosity and shock that met him when he entered the classroom for the first session.
He made every effort to blend in with the rest of the student body; he even laid aside his usual neo-Romantic mode of dress and adopted the shapeless, more casual style that typified the college. But he still stood out from the rest. One instructor nearly put him out, until Joe showed his student ID.
But he proved his capabilities: he completed a year's work in one semester. In three years, he finished five years of work and received his Master's degree, a remarkable achievement for anyone, much less a Mecha.
But Ackmar, the professor of Robotic Design, thought it necessary to chide him gently for one paragraph in his thesis, which he had written on Serin's work.
"I could be wrong, but it sounds a little self-congratulatory," Ackmar admitted. "'Among her early designs stands out the model Masters herself regarded as her magnum opus, a lover-Mecha she called by the working title "Joe 2.0" since she modeled the design from her late husband, the British-born danseur Joseph Masters. Originally conceived as a simulacrum of her life's partner, the design was arbitrarily confiscated by Companionates' Pennsylvania division chief Merton Kroller, who had the design brought to production as the short-line model JO-4379'."
"I wrote this merely to serve as a tribute to a pioneer designer and to advance the subject through examples," Joe replied, modestly.
"You were writing about yourself."
"I wrote about myself as a mechanical being. It would be like you writing about your Semitic kinsmen from an organic or anthropological viewpoint. I could have been writing about anyone of the other four others built from this design."
"Your studies in this field must be somewhat self-exploratory."
"In a manner of speaking, yes, they have been very enlightening in regard to my nature."
"Why did you choose robotics as a career?"
"Why does a man choose to study medicine? He would say he chose it because he can best serve his fellow man through this field and this service."
"So you want to help your kind?"
"I wish to help my kind learn to accept my kind and to help my kind assimilate better with your kind."
"Why would you want this? What purpose would it serve?"
Joe fixed Ackmar with his gaze. "It serves the purpose of teaching future generations of Orga to realize that we Mecha have as much potential as they, and so that Mechas may soon work in this world unmolested and in harmony with men."
"I don't follow your line of reason."
"You could follow it—no, you could understand it if you had endured the kind of abuse and false accusations I have had heaped upon me by the ignorant of Orgakind."
@--`--
Shortly after graduation, Joe applied at Companionates for a job; a position as a junior draftsman had opened and human resources soon hired him.
Lutwyn took no part in hiring Joe, but he insisted that the other members of design treat him as an equal, as nobody more different than they were.
Still, Joe's presence caused some fluttering among the young women in his work group. They started vying for his attention, which he gave them in tantalizingly small doses, though he made it clear the tantalizing was all in their imagination.
To one girl named Sokhar, a secretary, who made a habit of passing by his cubicle at every opportunity she could, he calmly said, hardly looking up from his drawing desk, "There are other desks you can walk by; why not delight the occupants thereof with your presence?" This put her off for a while, but within a few days she had resumed her promenade. After a week of this, he finally said to her, "Did you not also sign the sexual harassment clause when you were hired?"
"Fancy someone-thing like Joe accusing me of that!" Sokhar said to her two friends, Astarte and Chauncey as they hung about the coffee nook/kitchenette in one corner of the design wing. "I mean, he was a sex Mecha when they first built him, wasn't he?"
"He was designed with a lot more than just that in mind," said Astarte, one of the senior designers. She'd been a high school intern back when Serin was still working.
"So what's with the prudishness now? Something shot in his programming?"
"You were getting a little annoying about it," said Chauncey, one of the project managers. "He's like everyone else: he needs his space."
At that moment, Joe entered the nook, carrying the small crystal bud vase he kept on his desk, minus its usual spray of flowers or, now that it was autumn, colored leaves. Politely excusing himself, he emptied the vase into the sink and refilled it before taking his leave of them. Sokhar's eyes followed him until he turned the corner of the hallway, out of sight.
"Leave the poor fellow alone, he still misses Serin," Astarte said.
"Yeah, there's a bet going on in construction that Joe's gonna design and special-order a sim of Serin," Chauncey said. "The pool's up to 200 NB already."
"I doubt he'd do that," Astarte said.
"How do you know?" Sokhar said.
Astarte shook her head sagely. "I can't say why exactly, but he's too human to want anyone less than a flesh and blood woman. He's been around Orga for so long that he's less Mecha than he was. I can just remember when he was first imprinted, when he'd come up here once in awhile to visit. You could tell he was still new to having real feelings; but as time went on, he got more and more like us. Sometimes he seems more human than some humans I know, like the manager of the grocery store where my grandson works, or my ex-husband, late husband now."
All of three weeks passed before Sokhar tried anything again. Astarte spotted the incident; when Sokhar had gone to lunch, she approached Joe to offer some help.
"Is Sokhar bugging you again?"
Joe looked up from the sketchpad he was occupied with. "Alas, yes, she has resumed her not wholly appropriate attentions," he admitted.
Astarte glanced toward Sokhar's empty cubicle. "Perhaps you could give her a taste of her own medicine. I'm sure you'd know just what to do."
He smiled at this suggestion. "I know only too well what I could do, but the key is to do so in such a way that she will no longer disturb me by her attentions."
By the time Sokhar came back from lunch, Joe's processors had devised a very simple trick.
As Sokhar passed by the cubicle of the Object of her Affections, she felt someone's gaze follow her. She glanced back. She found Joe intently occupied with his work.
She passed by his desk again later, to get herself a drink of water. She felt someone's tenderly penetrating gaze, only to find the owner of that gaze absorbed in his work.
This happened every day for three days, until one day Sokhar caught him looking at her, his eyes tracking her before his head turned to follow his gaze, his movement fluid but machine-like. She quickly returned to her desk.
Lutwyn got a chuckle out of this incident when Joe related it to him much later.
"I was about to have a little talk with her about this walking by your desk nonsense, but I think you put a stop to it by yourself."
Joe looked away modestly as if he were blushing. "I certainly hope my efforts will have their desired effect.
@--`--
A year later, the patent on imprint chips expired. Companionates jumped on the chance to modify the design and market the option with their newer models and custom jobs.
It was a good year for Joe. First, his Rosenkavalier design was approved by the general manager and the artistic director of the Pittsburgh Lyric Opera; then a publisher of simuleather editions of classic books offered to publish a facsimile version of his hand-embellished version of the Arabian Nights. And lastly, he was promoted onto a project group dealing with imprinting chips.
About this time came his twice a year repairs and upgrades, which counted as "sick leave". Lutwyn saw to it Joe was paid no more and no less than any other employee of his status, although there was some question about health insurance deductions; the accountant redirected this to "repairs" instead.
He had a few more pressing than usual repairs: some corrosion on his spine, which meant a section had to be replaced, and he'd had trouble with a sticky servo in his left knee. But he had another idea.
"Tear reservoirs?!" Galloway, the chief of repairs demanded.
"Yes, I have even created my own design, given the contours of my facial features," Joe replied.
"This might take a while to build."
"I can endure the wait; it shall make it more worth the while."
The word leaked back to Rhiannon that Joe was having an upgrade very few of the company—except Lutwyn—anticipated. She got permission to watch the procedure unobtrusively.
The techs had the work area prepped before Joe arrived. A moment later, Galloway entered the workroom escorting Joe. The Mecha wore the non-descript, sleeveless, form-fitting black jumpsuit typical of Companionates models just out of assembly and programming, but he had with him a small MP3 player, which he set on the worktable before he mounted it.
"What music you bring today?" one of the techs asked.
"I have a sampler of some quiet classical pieces to keep me quiet as you work," he said, switching it on. Debussy's "Reveries" played softly; he leaned back on a neck prop as Galloway pressed the release switches on the inside of Joe's upper jaw and the base of his neck.
For a moment, Joe reclined peacefully, his face calm. But then his expression went blank and his faceplate lifted up and swung away from the gray metal infrastructure underneath.
Rhiannon almost gasped and gave herself away behind the two way mirror used for training; but the sound caught in her throat as one of Galloway's assistants gently detached the face plate and laid it aside. A gray cube emerged from the Mecha's forehead; a third tech took it out and brought it over to a workbench with a laptop on top. He connected a cable attached to the laptop to the small gray box and set to work uploading some data. Galloway worked at attaching something to the inside of the faceplate.
She'd seen upgrades and repairs before, but those had involved other Mechas. She'd plead Joe's case before the Licensing Board. She didn't see him often, but she enjoyed her brief encounters with him in the hallways and walkways of the complex. But seeing this voluble, likeable young man lying serenely on a worktable, his face removed showing the dull metal structure, the mechanical skull beneath his silicon skin, took her breath away. At least the classical music soothed her vibrating nerves. She wondered if he felt any of this.
At length the programmer removed the cable from the memory cube and lowered it into its cavity. Galloway reattached the faceplate. With barely audible whir of tiny motors, the faceplate swung back into place and resealed itself.
"Give him a minute to recalibrate," Galloway said.
Joe's eyelids flicked and his eyes swung up, the down, then to the left, then to the right.
He sat up and switched off the player as if nothing had happened.
"So, y'gonna road test them tear reservoir?" Galloway asked.
"Yeah, go out an' rent a three-hanky 2-D flick," the programmer suggested.
Joe smiled. "There might not be any 'road test' as you call it until something requires this option to take effect."
One they had gone and cleared the room, Rhiannon hurried back to her office, fascinated and shaken.
She met him in the hallway later that day.
"I heard you were in for repairs and upgrades," she said. "Did you design those tear ducts yourself?"
"Yes, it was a student design; Lutwyn had a prototype built. They installed the beta version today."
"That's quite a step for you, perhaps for your kind."
"There have been other robots who have had this function, but there has not been, to my knowledge, an adult Mecha who was given this privilege."
"There's something to be said for the fact that you just called it a privilege."
"What something would you say?"
"I'd say you're becoming more real. Most people shun it, but there's something about pain that makes you stronger. That's what human history is about: pain and suffering and the lengths people go to avoid it and the worse pains they get themselves and their neighbor into when they try to dodge it, and the suffering they inflict one each other because they won't let themselves love their fellow man."
@--`--
Ms. Jackford's words lingered in his recall, just on the surface, not disrupting his normal processing, but enough to set him on alert that he might be malfunctioning. Was this what Orga called having a thought stuck like a splinter in ones mind?
The following evening, instead of going home with Lutwyn, he went to the library instead.
The librarians at the main desk didn't give him a second glance as he walked through. But a girl page reshelving books looked at him with her brows lowered, "puzzled" because she encountered him among the shelves of books on robotics. He guessed her thought, what's a Mecha doing here?!
"Excuse me, miss, but do you have any books or documents that would constitute a history of robots?"
"Well, there's this," she pulled down a thick volume, The History of Robotics by Hideki.
"I did not mean a history of robotics, which constitutes the development of robots as machines; rather, I meant a history of robots as beings."
"Huh? You'll have to ask the head librarian."
"Thank you anyway, miss."
He consulted the online catalog; one title caught his attention, a book called The Complete Robot by one Isaac Asimov. He searched it down, but he found it amongst the science fiction. No matter, sometimes fiction presented one with ideas that proved useful, even if it did not supply concrete data. Think of David and his Blue Fairy.
But oddly enough, this collection of fictional stories supplied him some useful data, something Asimov called the Three Laws of Robotics:
1. A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm;
2. A robot must obey the orders given it by a human being except where such orders would conflict with the First Law;
3. A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.
The more he processed these, the more he realized they did not just apply to robots. If he made a few adjustments and substitutions, he could apply them to Orga relations toward Mechas.
He carefully jotted this down in his journal.
@--`--
He waited until after work the next day to report his find to Lutwyn.
"I believe I have made a discovery that may completely change the relationship between Orga and Mecha," Joe announced. "How familiar are you with a writer called Isaac Asimov?"
"I've read his robot stories if you'll excuse my indulging in fantasies about your kind."
"You have done no harm; this puts you in a better position to comprehend what I have proposed." He took his handheld datascriber from his pocket and opened a document.
If Lutwyn didn't know this Mecha as well as he did, he might have questioned its motive or functionality.
"Joe, I think you've discovered something so obvious, not Orga has thought about it before. Ms. Jackford will want to hear about it."
@--`--
Rhiannon always had her lunch in the atrium garden in the middle of the Companionates complex. She sat on the end of the same bench eating the sandwich she'd packed the night before. Usually she read her personal mail while she ate.
She sensed someone approach her.
"Is this seat taken?" a gentle voice asked.
She looked up. Joe stood before her with a small datascriber in his hand.
"No, you can sit here." She moved herself and her lunch pack to give him a little more room as he sat down next to her.
"I made a discovery the other night which Mr. Zipes thinks you might find useful. But first, how familiar are you with the Three Laws of Robotics devised by Isaac Asimov?"
"I practically have them tattooed on my arm; I could recite them in my sleep."
"In which case, you will understand what I have discovered." He turned the scriber around to her.
The Three Laws of Organics
Proposed by Joe Masters, after Isaac Asimov
1. An Orga may not injure a Mecha or through direct inaction allow a Mecha to come to harm.
2. An Orga may order a Mecha only within the bounds of logic and the Mecha's specific programming, except when such orders would conflict with the First Law of either Robotics or Organics.
3. An Orga must protect its own and its Mecha's life and functionality.
"This is just what I've been trying to tell people," she said. "You beat me to codifying it."
"Perhaps I was supposed to discover something your kind could not imagine."
"I have a few friends in politics who might be able to agitate for you. You really should expand on this."
"I must be honest with you and say I would prefer to apply these rules proactively."
"How would you do that?"
"I have not planned how I would accomplish this. There must be some historical model I could work from."
A question came into her head. "I don't mean to pry, but how do you know this?"
"Know of what?"
"Know about the human condition, how we've treated each other all these years."
"I have observed how people treat one another: all too often they do not treat the diverse of their kind with deferential much less charitable behavior. For instance, I have heard some of the junior interns speak of you in less than polite terms."
"What did they say?"
"I should not repeat them; they are not worth your hearing."
"Say 'em, Joe. I've probably heard them before."
He hesitated. "In which case, I hope this was not the first time some uncouth, ignorant person has referred to you as a snot-nosed nigger princess."
She rolled her eyes and laughed. "That's wicked mild compared to the stuff I've had said to my face."
"So you understand that of which I speak."
"I don't just understand it, Joe, I know it. But if you're looking for historical models to work from, you might want to start with the slavery of African-Americans in the 1800s or the Holocaust of the 1930s and 1940s, in Central Europe."
"I shall investigate these as soon as possible. And I shall also prepare an elaboration upon the Three Laws of Organics."
"You certainly keep busy," she noted.
"But not so busy that I have no time for leisure."
She almost asked him point blank what he meant by leisure if he didn't need to rest, but she realized he was so Orga-like that he needed some "down time" between tasks. Besides, he was an artist.
@--`--
After work that afternoon, Joe went back to the library to follow up on Rhiannon's suggestions.
@--`--
"What's Joe getting at?" Rhiannon asked Zipes on the way out of the complex the following afternoon.
"I don't know. I want to think he's paying forward the favors he's received from us. Pops always said there was something special about Joe, after all he'd survived."
"There's more to it."
"What, are you concerned about creating a justification for the Frankenstein complex? Y'know, like he's trying to help his kind get the jump on us stupid flesh heads?"
She tried not to snort derisively. "Of course not. No, it's something else: I just can't put my finger on it."
"It's probably part of the implications of imprinting. He's more like a human, so he wants to be treated like a human." He eyed her narrowly. "Admit it, Rhiannon, you like him."
"I never said that. What makes you imply that I do?"
"You're talking high falutin' stuff, but there's a look in your eye that doesn't jive."
"How would you know that?" she tried not to snip."
"Don't forget: a pro taught me how to understand women."
"Now what would Narsie say to that?"
"She'd act a little jealous at first, but she knows I save the lot for her. Which reminds me," he looked at his watch. "I gotta run; I'm supposed to meet her at the Royade Hotel. We're celebrating: we got the license."
She crossed her eyes at him. "Oooohh! Lucky you! I hope it takes."
He grinned. "It probably will."
As he went, she drew in a deep breath and counted to ten to suppress the tears that came to her eyes.
@--`--
When Joe came up to the house the following evening, he betrayed such animation, Lutwyn wondered if something had overridden some of the imprinting neurons in his processors and he'd fallen for someone. But looking into the Mecha's face, he realized it was the animation of conviction.
"I have found a historical model from which to work," Joe announced. "I was hoping to put my proposed Three Laws into practice, and I had been looking for some means to apply them in a way that would benefit as many of my kind as possible. And so, at the prompting of Ms. Jackford, I have examined some of your history. You have, I trust, heard of the Sho'ah of the 1940s?"
"Yes. One of Narsie's ancestors went through a prison camp at a place called Auschwitz."
"How unfortunate. There was a man called Oskar Schindler who prevented the deaths of approximately one thousand, two hundred and sixty-five persons of Jewish ancestry. These people worked in the armaments factory he ran, and when the Nazi overlords, with whom he once fraternized, had no more use for these people, he bought back his workers' lives."
"What are you getting at?"
"How much money is in the trust fund?"
"About a million and a quarter NB."
"Good then, every cent will be needed. I propose to use it to purchase the functionality of any Mecha who is being abused on a regular basis."
"It's a charitable idea, but I'm afraid you'd soon exhaust the fund. You're on to something there. Maybe it might be more practical to rescue the unlicensed derelict Mechas in the woods."
Joe's face took on a look of concern and even fear, but he soon relaxed his face.
"They have no owners to tend to their needs, and it would save them from the inevitable," he said.
@--`--
A couple evenings later, as Rhiannon was signing out of the security computer, Galloway, the chief of repairs came up to her.
"Hey, Ree, you got plans tonight?"
"No, not really, but I might think of something."
"Well, don't think too hard: how'd you like to go for a walk in the woods with me and Joe, looking for derelict Mechas?"
"Why derelict ones?"
"Well, we ain't gonna throw 'em through the Mecha chopper. No, Joe's got this grand idea in his processors: thinks he's gonna save some beat to death Mechas and find new homes for 'em."
She realized this must be part of Joe's new mission to champion the less fortunate of his kind.
"Well, sure."
"Good, I'll tell 'm. Pick you up around seven tonight? Oh, and wear like hiking stuff."
"I will."
@--`--
At seven she heard Galloway's vancruiser pull up outside in her driveway. She threw on a sweatshirt and a pair of old blue jeans, and tied back her hair with a red bandanna as she shoved her feet into her running shoes.
When she stepped outside, she found Joe and Galloway waiting for her: Galloway sitting perched on the nose of the cruiser while Joe, clad in a plain, dark green flannel shirt over black corduroys, stood leaning gracefully against the side of it.
"So what did she say to you?" Galloway said.
"She asked me quite directly, 'What's the quickest way for me to get seduced by you?' to which I replied, 'Unfortunately, the quickest way requires a certain knowledge of electrical engineering'."
"So what'd she say then?"
"She replied to me, 'I think I can handle that, I'm the one fixing your hip servo'. So I said to her, 'To express this in as few and precise terminology as possible: Turn me on'."
Galloway almost fell off the nose of the cruiser laughing. Joe replied with a polite chuckle. Rhiannon shook her head, but she couldn't help laughing with them. They sounded exactly like a couple of regular single guys, except for the finer points of the story.
"What did I miss?" she asked.
"Joe was just telling me about this new girl tech we got in repairs, how she was hitting on him when he was in the other week."
"Uh oh! I don't like the sound of that; sounds like she needs a little sensitivity training."
"I handled her behavior as best as I could, given the circumstances."
Galloway just got in the driver's seat, but Joe helped her into the front seat; since there was only one passenger seat, Joe ended up sitting on the floor. She wanted to switch with him, but he graciously insisted he was fine where he was.
They drove several miles out into the countryside, past farms and small settlements, into the empty ranks of forests. They turned off onto a little-used path that brought them deep under the trees.
At length they came to a small clearing. Galloway pulled up and killed the lights on the van. Rhiannon's eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness after a moment, but Joe seemed unaffected by it.
"Wanna help me unload, Ree? Ah, Joe, y'might wanna stay here," Galloway said, getting out.
Joe followed him out nonetheless and went round the front to help Rhiannon down. She went round to the back.
Galloway opened the back hatch and climbed inside.
Metallic objects started rolling out. Joe, who stood close to the back stepped back several steps, his eyes lowered to the growing pile.
"What's that for?" Rhiannon asked over the clank and clatter.
"Bait," Galloway said. He crept into the front of the van and drove it into the bushes.
Joe stood rooted to the ground staring at the pile until Rhiannon took him by the arm and led him back to the van.
"Give 'em a few minutes, they'll come," Galloway said.
The three of them sat just inside the back of the van, watching the clearing. The moon slowly rose over the treetops, casting a soft silver blue light on the leaves and glinting off the metal pieces lying on the ground.
"Whence came these parts and pieces you have placed out there as 'bait'?" Joe asked Galloway. Rhiannon detected a note of concern, even mild reproach in his tone.
"Have no fear, Joe, no Mechas were harmed in the collecting of the bait. Actually, some of them were rejects from quality control, others were worn stuff I got after a day of repairs. I think there's a servo we took out when we replaced your hip. I added a few fresh batteries to the mix."
"Would it be proper to inflict my worn out parts on them?"
"They sure ain't so worn as what they got."
The bushes stirred. Branches parted. Silvery forms limped out of the shadows. Some dragged themselves across the ground. Flakes of broken dermis fell off some as they moved. The stronger ones reached the pile first and started rummaging about.
Joe got down form the van. He stood there in the clearing for a moment, a shadow backlit by the light. He stepped closer to them. They, the others, the battered derelicts, looked at him but they went on digging.
Rhiannon got down. A thought struck her: would these Mechas, seeing one of their own intact try to dismantle him? But they regarded him not much more than they regarded each other.
One, a secretary model dressed in the tattered rags of a once-neat black suit fitted a hand to her wrist. Another, clad in a doorman's uniform attached a foot to its ankle.
A slim, shapely female Mecha detached itself from the crowd and approached Joe. Her gait had probably been an enticing sashay—she wore what remained of a sleek black catsuit—but she hobbled, her path zigzagging drunkenly. Her faceplate hung knocked awry, her infrastructure showed around her eyes. Half of her blue-black hair had been torn from her scalp.
"Hey, Joe, whaddya know?" the Mecha asked, her voice a metallic chirp. Even her voice synthesizer had suffered.
Joe stood transfixed, but he stepped closer to her. "Hey, Jane, what's the gain?" he replied, as if it were some code.
"Where have you been all this time?"
"I have dwelt not far from here."
"I should have seen you then, but I did not."
"One woman had owned me for many years, but now I own myself."
She said nothing to this at first; it probably escaped her comprehension. Then she asked, "Did you ever find out?"
"What did I ever find out?"
She took what was meant to be an enticing step closer. "What we're like, darling."
"Alas, I have not."
"Then maybe you'd like to now." She put her arms about his neck. Rhiannon started to look away.
The female Mecha—Jane—suddenly stumbled sideways. Joe reached out and caught her before she hit the ground. Jane giggled, but not with delight or relief, just a hollow sound like a maniac's laugh.
Joe looked to Galloway. "It is she, it is Jane. I knew her back in the old time before, back in Haddonfield."
"Found yer long lost love, eh?" But Galloway's voice had lost some of its irony.
"We must get her out of here; she shall be our first."
"What are you suggesting?"
"I do not merely suggest, I intend to have her repaired, perhaps reprogrammed."
"To imprint?" Rhiannon asked.
Joe looked at her; she could tell by his face he hadn't thought of that. "Perhaps I could do this for her."
Joe helped Jane back to the van. Her legs buckled, so he carried her the rest of the way; climbing into the back of the van, he laid her down on the floor.
Rhiannon wondered if the tenderness she saw in his movements came from his programming or her perception.
"Well, I guess she'd make a good start," Galloway said, getting in the front. "But I can't make no guarantees." Rhiannon got in beside him.
Jane kept giggling and babbling gibberish as they drove back. Galloway put on the dome light and glanced into the back.
"No offense, but could you find the volume control on her, Joe? Her racket is fraying my nerves."
"I was about to do so myself. Jane, open please?" The command sounded so Orgalike coming from him. Jane opened her mouth in a loud laugh as Joe pressed the release switches. She kept jabbering even as her faceplate lifted away. He pressed a switch on her chin. She stopped; he closed her face again.
When they got back to Joe's apartment, Galloway tried to help Joe carry Jane up the stairs, but Joe insisted on doing the honors and took her himself.
"Now don't you two try any funny stuff tonight," Galloway said. "Especially with her switched off."
"I had not intentions in that regard, at least not for this night," Joe said. He carried her into the inner room and laid her on the divan. He leaned over her as if he meant to kiss her, but he drew back and stood up. "First thing in the morning, shall we start repairing her?"
"I'd say first thing in the morning I'll run a diagnostic on her. She's in terrible bad shape, Joe."
Joe turned to Rhiannon. He held out his hand to her. "Could you trace her licensing record for me and, if at all possible, have her transferred to me?"
"I'll see what I can find; it may not be so simple."
"Whatever the results, you will have done your best."
@--`--
When his friends had left, Joe brought his sketchpad to the side of the divan and sat on the floor to sketch Jane's image as she lay there.
"I know you cannot hear me," he said to her. "But I will speak to you anyway. I have never forgotten you, not that my memory of you could ever fade, and I know the same goes for you, that you have not forgotten me either. But one can recall the memories and fail to acknowledge the beings in those memories. Now we will not have to rely solely on memory. Now it can be the two of us together, you and I. There is much, so much I can teach you, I and my friends. Through their hands and mine you shall have a whole new life you could not possibly perceive before. But most importantly, we can teach you something I didn't know I was capable of until someone taught me how. It is something you and I just barely knew the palest shadow before and it is something very painful, but it is worth all the suffering."
He knew he'd have his hands full teaching her how to fit in as he had, but if he could do it, so could she, with the proper programming. Nevertheless, first things first: she had to be repaired.
As the night deepened before the dawn came, he set aside his pad and laid himself down beside her on the divan, hardly daring to touch her in case his emotion should overflow.
@--`--
Lutwyn usually drove Joe to work, but that morning as he stepped out into the sunlight, he saw Galloway's vancruiser pull into the drive.
"I guess you didn't hear about the excitement last night," Galloway said, walking with Lutwyn up to the garage side door.
"I guess not. I heard from Rhiannon that Joe had got an idea to retrieve unlicensed Mechas and bring them in for repairs and placement."
"Well, he's got one now, a JN-8523 he says he knew in Haddonfield. It's pretty beat up, so I told him I couldn't make any guarantees about fixing, well, her."
The door opened and Joe emerged, carrying a female Mecha in his arms.
"Good morning, Joe. I see you've got company there," Lutwyn said.
"Yes, we discovered her last night in the forest. She is an ideal subject for my intended project," with a mildly suggestive smile he added, "Though, I'm afraid to admit, her case does not lack an ulterior motive on my part."
"Galloway was telling me about your finding her. Is it true you knew her in Haddonfield? Are you sure she's the one?"
"It is good that you ask this, because, you see, she knew me first. She came up to me and said quite clearly, 'Hey Joe, whaddya know?'"
"She did," Galloway affirmed.
Lutwyn assessed the female Mecha as Joe carried her to Galloway's van. He hated to sound like a killjoy, but he didn't like the look of the damage done to her.
@--`--
Later, Jane lay spread on a work table in repairs, every release joint in her skin open, every section folded back, some removed completely, from breakage or for access as the techs worked over her diligently, running diagnostics on all of her internal mechanisms.
Joe stood off to one side, watching, his thumbnail pressed to his lower lip in a strangely realistic gesture of genuine unease and concern.
Lutwyn had heard of Mechas who had been functional so long their behavior had grown uncannily Orga-like, but he had never actually seen it up close, but the concern he read on Joe's face made him think of the concern on the faces of the loved ones of an accident victim, waiting for the results of the operation.
"Equilibrium motivator's shot; locomotion differentiator's fried; infrastructure's almost corroded through in a couple places. The battery contacts are so corroded they're barely drawing power," Galloway muttered.
"How old is she?" an apprentice tech asked.
"About fifty if she's a day, which is a good long time for one of her make; they stopped making ones like her about twenty years ago."
"What's the verdict?" Lutwyn asked.
Galloway shook his head. "The damage is too extensive."
Joe cut in. "There must be something you can do for her."
"I'm sorry, Joe, she's on beyond repair. With the man-hours we'd spend, it would be easier and cheaper to build a new one. Even if we could fix her, there's no guarantee she'd hold up after that. The risk is too great."
Joe looked at Galloway dead on, eyes cold. "So you would give up on her so easily?"
"We have no choice. I wish I could fix her for you. But there's a limit to what we can do. She got neglected for too long and there's no telling how long she was out there in the woods. She's been abused. She's about your age, but she didn't have the good care you've been fortunate to have had."
Joe looked from Galloway's face to Jane's form. "What then do you propose to do with her?"
Galloway spread his hands in defeat. "I'll have to put her down and dismantle her."
Joe nodded slowly. "Do what you must. You have done you level best. But God damn the Orga who let her get to this state."
With that he strode from the workroom, his back very straight.
@--`--
Astarte found him seated at his drawing desk, holding his head in his hands, his work untouched.
"Joe, are you all right?" she asked.
He did not look up. "Must I lose everyone whom I love? It seems my kismet."
She put a motherly arm around his shoulders. "I heard all about Jane. I'm sorry it had to happen. Maybe you should take the rest of the day off; I'll go clear it with Jarkin." The design director sometimes kept a tight hand on the project teams.
Joe turned his face towards hers. "I would appreciate you doing so."
@--`--
Narsie, working in her garden, was surprise to see a company car from Companionates pull up and drop Joe off at the foot of the driveway. She got up to ask him what was wrong, but he walked by her, head down, his strides too fast and purposeful.
Lutwyn tried to go up to Joe's rooms that night, but his knocks received no answer. Joe was in the apartment: some sort of minimalist music played inside.
@--`--
Rhiannon's phone rang as she had her supper the following night. She answered it, wondering who on earth would call her now.
"Ms. Jackford? It's Zipes."
"Is anything wrong?"
"Yeah. Could you come up here to Joe's apartment? He won't let me in."
"I'll be right over."
Narsie met her on the driveway and led her to the staircase inside the garage. "He's been so close to you we both wondered if you could get in there. He's been like this since he got home yesterday."
"What did he do, call in sick or is it malfunctioning?" The joke soured on her own lips. Narsie buzzed the intercom. No reply. She buzzed again. "Joe? Ms. Jackford is here; she'd like to speak to you."
A rustle and then some disconsolate music. "She may come in," his voice replied, so flat-voiced they both barely recognized it.
Narsie went down. Rhiannon tested the latch; it was off smart and it was unlocked. She opened the door and went in.
Lyrical but desolate minimalist music played; it gave her the image of someone swimming out to into the ocean alone, swimming as far as they could go only to let go and sink into the depths, letting their last breath out. Papers littered the floor, sketches, scratches. She picked one up and found a rough portrait of Jane, only with a savage X in black crayon slashed across the image.
"Joe?" she called. "Joe, it's Rhiannon."
The music grew softer as if he'd turned it down.
"In here," his voice replied from the inner room.
She went in and found him sitting on the divan, his back to the room. A deep scarlet dressing gown hung on his frame in a slovenly way utterly alien to him. If he was Orga she'd expect to see an overflowing ashtray and a few empty vodka bottles scattered about the room.
He did not turn to her. He did not look over his shoulder as she approached. He did not look up at her as she stood beside him. She went to put a hand on his shoulder, but he leaned out of her reach.
"This was not supposed to happen. This should not have happened. This had no right to happen," he said this coldly, utterly flat voiced.
"Joe, I'm sorry. I just want you to know—"
He turned on her. The fierce look blazing in his eyes made her bite her tongue. He looked at her, then dropped his gaze to the floor. He turned away again. "There is nothing, no word you can say that will stop this that has taken over me."
If nothing else, she could hear him out. "Tell me what it is."
"I barely have many memories of her, only the most fleeting glimpses, much less so little as a kiss. You smug Orgas and your numeric superiority! You barely keep up those numbers and our numbers continue to grow, despite your efforts to see that they drop, your Flesh Fairs and your abuse of us. Someday your kind shall suffer for what it has done to my kind. We shall dominate, though not by force, only by intellect and concern. We shall not need to destroy you: you will have destroyed yourselves."
She wanted to touch him as if her touch could banish the new spirit that spoke through his lips, but she knew she had to wait till he had vented.
"We could save you from yourselves, but you have taught us injustice. If a Mecha wrongs an Orga, what is his humility? Revenge. If an Orga wrongs a Mecha, what should his suffering be by Orga example? Why, revenge. The villainy you teach us we shall execute, and it shall go hard but I shall better the instruction."
"Perhaps the best revenge would be to release your Three Laws."
He looked at her without raising his head. "Much good they shall accomplish now. They could not save Jane."
She wanted to console him somehow. "There are others like her out there" would only grate on his neurons. He was no longer like most Mechas, any more than he was like most Orgas. He stood at a crossroads: he could either turn his back on his plan and pursue his revenge, or he could pursue the plan. She thought hard.
"What would Serin be happy to see you do?" she asked.
He turned his face to her. She knew she'd spoken the right word. "She would rather see me release the Three Laws."
"And I think she'd want you to mourn Jane but not get so furious about what happened to her. Look at it this way: no one can hurt Jane now. If your kind have souls, hers has escaped."
He sat in silence. Then he reached toward the console of the music player and switched off that wretched music. He turned to her; the front of his dressing gown hung open over his chest, but she somehow didn't notice.
She knew why. Something silver gleamed in the corner of his eye. It shifted and rolled down his cheek, alongside his nose, down his face to roll off his jaw. She darted out a hand and caught it on her palm. He bent his head to look at it. A second drop of silver appeared at the corner of his other eye. He touched his cheek with his fingertips, catching it. He looked at it and looked at her.
"Tears," he said. "So this is what weeping feels like."
He bent his head. His frame shook. She put her arms about him and sat down next to him on the divan. He put one arm about her and leaned his face into her arm. He did not sob or cry out, but she felt his breath come hard. Her instinct was to soothe him, but he had to feel it unadulterated.
He sank down sideways on the divan, pulling her down with him. She felt his tears soak through her sleeve, but it meant nothing and everything to her.
"Am I growing more real?" he asked in a choked voice.
"Yes," she said, stroking him gently.
At length the trembling passed and she felt no more tears flow from his eyes. He stirred in her arms; she released him. He sat up; she rose with him.
"Not that I do not appreciate your company, but the time has come for me to work on that paper if I am ever to finish it," he said, in his normal voice.
"Will you be all right?" she asked.
He nodded. "I shall be right as rain now."
As she went out she wondered if she had inadvertently tripped one of his pursuit centers, obliging him to act otherwise.
Lutwyn met her at the bottom of the stairs. "How is he?"
"He's calmed down; he's got himself busy working on his Three Laws paper."
@--`--
A few mornings later, Rhiannon entered her office and found a manila envelope on her desk with the rest of her mail. She opened it first.
She drew out a colored pencil drawing of an African queen mother seated on her royal stool, holding her tribal staff of authority. On closer inspection, she realized the face and figure were her own.
She sensed movement and looked up.
Joe stood just outside the door, leaning shyly against the doorpost. She wondered if he had been lurking around the corner, waiting for her to find the drawing.
"Hiya, Joe."
"Hello, Ms. Jackford."
"Did you draw this? It's wonderful."
He smiled shyly. "I think you know the answer to that. I meant it in gratitude for what you did for me the other night."
"Well, thank you and you're welcome."
"You're welcome and thank you," he replied. With that, he went away. She wondered if he was blushing.
@--`--
Joe's processors worked wildly to control the odd sensations racing through his neurons and conductors. He wasn't sure what to do with these feelings; around Rhiannon he felt something like the way he used to feel around Serin, but it felt different. Of course she was a different person, as different as night and day. Serin was a practical romantic, and Rhiannon—Ms. Jackford—was far more pragmatic. Was she capable of romance? he queried. The data he had available suggested she excluded it.
He had to set these feelings aside anyway and focus on the mission. She might not want his attentions except as a friend.
But then again, she might want more.
To be continued…
Afterword:
I'm not sure how this will end, but it is moving forward all the time. I know you're hoping Joe and Rhiannon get together, and that somehow his new mission to make the world a little safer for his kind…but that's not to say there won't be some bumps and detours on the way.
Literary Easter Eggs:
Sokhar—I used this name in tribute to a former co-worker of mine, a very, very beautiful Egyptian girl, who was so nice-looking even I couldn't help noticing her, though she wasn't as subtly flirtatious as Sokhar the secretary. Mind you, I'm as straight as they come, but there's something to be said for a girl who's so attractive, even other women take note.
Galloway—An homage to classic SF writer Lewis Padgett's dizzy inventor Galloway Gallagher; in the classic short story "The Proud Robot", he invents a robot every bit as vain and prissy as our Joe (it's even named Joe!), though a lot less charming.
"Tear reservoirs?!"—I got this idea from one of the "Goofs" on imdb.com's file on "A.I.": someone incorrectly regarded David's tears as a goof; if David was meant to be a child simulacrum and to have genuine emotions, then he probably was constructed with some sort of tear gland simulators.
Joe recalibrating—I based this unsettling little bit on the same behavior shown by Cynthia Breazal's face robot "Kismet", which she designed and programmed to interact with humans and show something like emotions. Other than rolling its eyes oddly when it comes out of sleep mode, it's remarkably human-like in its behavior.
"Turn me on"—Stole this joke from the humor page of Laurie E. Smith's excellent fansite.
The disconsolate minimalist music—Probably the main title music from Gattaca, which was STUCK in my head as I wrote this scene.
"If a Mecha wrongs an Orga…"—I paraphrased the end of Shylock's speech "Hath not a Jew eyes?" speech from Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice.