Stanley Duncan's Robot
Genesis
David Ring III
Copyright © 2021 by David Ring III
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Worn Key Press, 2021
ISBN 9-7987039177-5-6
www.wornkeypress.com
For
Dad
Thank you for the nearly two decades of space I needed to heal. I know it wasn’t easy for you.
Acknowledgment
No work is ever my own. I have greatly benefited from numerous people, both directly and indirectly. I’d like to name a few of them — including myself. I’ve grown greatly over the five years since beginning this book, and both it and I have undergone many changes. I salute this progress, accepting that a book is never finished — only abandoned. So, I humbly give this unfinished book to the world with great appreciation for the journey it has taken me on.
Key-Bangers Bangkok and its members, including Delia Ray, Paul, Daniel, Saranit Vongkiatkajorn, Stephen Shaiken. Kyla Coby, and Chanon Wong. Your insights and energy are greatly appreciated. I deeply appreciate having been welcomed into your community.
Frank Kresen. Your editing skills continue to humble and inspire me. It feels like such an incredible gift every time I work with you.
Michelle Dunbar, Melissa Leibfritz, and Amanda Ann Larson. The direction you gave me in the early drafts of the novel completely reshaped this book and my ability as a writer. Thank you.
Suzanne Richeson, the president of my fan club. Thank you for your support and friendship.
Mom, Meredith, Marisa, and Kendra — I’ll always appreciate you even when the words go unspoken.
For all my friends — thank you for making this life more beautiful.
Contents
Acknowledgmentv
Chapter 11
Chapter 217
Chapter 326
Chapter 448
Chapter 558
Chapter 673
Chapter 798
Chapter 8123
Chapter 9153
Chapter 10169
Chapter 11186
Chapter 12206
Chapter 13218
Chapter 14247
Chapter 15 259
Chapter 16 279
Chapter 17289
Chapter 18 307
Chapter 19314
Chapter 20333
Chapter 21359
The human race might easily permit itself to drift into a position of such dependence on the machines that it would have no practical choice but to accept all of the machines’ decisions. As society and the problems that face it become more and more complex and machines become more and more intelligent, people will let machines make more of their decisions for them, simply because machine-made decisions will bring better results than man-made ones. Eventually a stage may be reached at which the decisions necessary to keep the system running will be so complex that human beings will be incapable of making them intelligently. At that stage the machines will be in effective control.
— Ted Kaczynski
Chapter 1
It was with no great malice that Stanley Duncan, one of the world’s greatest coders, decided to write a program that would eventually threaten the extinction of the human race. Disfigured hands raced across the keyboard, finishing the first line despite the unwavering concerns blaring in the back of his mind. These actions would not only jeopardize the world, as he postulated, but would compel a battle for the most precious thing he possessed — his soul.
Stanley had worked on numerous AI projects before, contributing heavily to the Fermi fleet, whose algorithms made it possible to revolutionize the transportation industry with autonomous cars, and creating a one-of-a-kind, nearly indestructible android security guard — he felt sorry for whoever broke into that billionaire’s house.
It was a combination of expertise and unwavering obsession that pushed forward his newest project, artificial general intelligence, allowing him to move on to the next stage in less than one year. The greatest gift he could ask for was being shipped to him today.
Excitement pushed Stanley out of his warm twin bed well before the irritatingly slow sun could illuminate the vast orchard of abandoned buildings that stretched across the city. His finger quickly tapped against the flat, black knob of the straight key, filling the room with electronic beeping as he broadcast about the cyborg’s arrival through Morse Code. Darting to his computer as if he were late to one of his old classes, Stanley’s hands twitched, repeatedly refreshing the browser. The GPS feed monitoring the delivery was in real time, but it had been disabled during aerospace travel. There were still several hours until its scheduled delivery. He cracked a rare smile and walked toward the window, staring out at the world like a terrible ghost.
In the quiet suburbs of Marshfield, Massachusetts, a thick blanket of snow had accumulated over the patches of frozen marshes that surrounded the empty condo parking lot. Myriads of white crystals sparkled under the soft light of the slim, crescent moon. An equally uncountable multitude of stars twinkled above. The lulling whispers of the distant tide could be faintly heard. All seemed peaceful until beer bottles shattered across the street. Writhing in pain, a man lay face down in the liquor-store parking lot. Stanley drew the curtains, his misshapen nose poking through the narrow slit in the synthetic cloth. A chill ran down his spine. Even after two decades of self-imposed isolation, he still wanted nothing to do with the dying world outside.
Stanley had purchased the world’s newest technological creation, a lab-grown cyborg, model MK888. DNA research had advanced to the point where scientists could create the perfect flesh-and-bones shell to house the revolutionary dual-brain system. Though it was visually indistinguishable from a human, some believed it was no more alive than a primitive android. Others felt that cyborgs were in the same category of beings as humans. Sentient and conscious, they deserved the same rights and privileges as humankind. Stanley was in the latter camp.
His finger beat rapidly against the sill as he sat and waited by his window perch. With his elite skills as a programmer, Stanley believed he could create the world’s most advanced life form. Much of the work had been done already, but there was a year’s testing and evaluating to be done before his master algorithm would be perfected.
Within a few minutes, a police cruiser rolled into the parking lot. A huge officer cracked open one of the discarded beers and guzzled it down.
Stanley drove his finger hard into the window.
“Despicable.”
The big man looked up, scowling.
Stanley’s heart froze.
The man smashed the bottle against the ground, crossing the empty road toward the condo.
Stanley pulled out two cigarettes. “Oh, my God,” he said to himself. He stepped backward, stumbling over a chair and face-planting on the carpet as he tried to break his fall. Looking around frantically, he lit one of the now-crooked cigarettes and took a deep drag. His mind raced thinking about what weapon to grab, where to hide —
as if he had forgotten about his secret entrance to the condo below or the dull voice telling him the officer wasn’t out to get him. That voice was crushed by the main condo door slamming shut. The condo shook, and the footsteps from the stairwell reverberated through the hall.
“Leticia, make him stop. Make him stop.” Stanley’s legs were barely working. He didn’t understand why he wasn’t escaping below.
“Command not understood. Analyzing.” He hadn’t expected his AI to do anything productive — not without being more explicit — but he was so scatterbrained, he could barely function.
The footfalls intensified like earthquakes before a volcanic eruption. Stanley focused, summoning his tremendous brainpower to think of a way to make the big, bad man go away. Scenarios flashed through his mind, but none of them were realistic. Like some caveman, he reached for the hardest object he could find — a pestle — and guarded the door. His body was shaking; his teeth were chattering.
“You like looking out the window, don’t you, Daffy Duncan?” boomed the man’s deep voice.
The words pissed Stanley off. It wasn’t because he was being made fun of — he was used to that. Stanley was as self-deprecating as they came. What really annoyed him was feeling so helpless. He had created machines that could destroy a small army, algorithms that powered the nation’s transportation, yet he was cowering behind a door with a pestle. And it wasn’t even a big pestle.
“Why don’t you open the door up so I can see that pretty face of yours?”
“I built the wall, but I made it four feet instead of three.” The words came out of Stanley before he could register what was happening.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Stanley paused. He wasn’t crazy; he was using a hypnosis technique that he had read about years ago. “The animals all respected it except for that German Shepherd — what was his name?”
The man’s radio transponder blared out. He swore and said, “You saw nothing.” The seismic assault faded in the distance.
With his back against the front door, Stanley listened to the officer’s retreat. He scurried over to the window and peeked out. The officer jogged to his car. Standing next to the door, he hesitated ever so shortly, glancing down at the prone man. For a second, Stanley thought that the officer was feeling sympathy. When the officer bolted toward the man, Stanley suddenly feared an attack. Finally, he realized, as the officer guzzled down another beer, that both of his assumptions were wrong. The officer tossed the man into the back seat. The screeching of the car as it shot out of the parking lot jolted Stanley back from the window. The pronounced beating of his heart continued for a long while.
Stanley wondered if Leticia had somehow intervened, leading the officer away. He had updated his household AI with the prototype code he was going to use for the cyborg, but without the synthetic-data-production capabilities of the dual-brain system, its functionality was extremely limited. The software would freeze, never converging on a result. It had to be a coincidence. “Leticia, what action was taken from the last command?”
“Memory overload. Core dumped.”
Stanley sighed. He noticed something outside the window and rushed over. A familiar family of four were walking down the street, brimming with happiness. Stanley knew the times they passed by his complex by heart, but, with all the excitement, he had almost forgotten to watch for them. The playful children stopped every now and then to clump together snow, toss snowballs, make frozen sculptures, and create other snow-filled bits of mischief. The parents stood by, watching. Not patiently — that word didn’t apply. They weren’t waiting; they were living.
Stanley was done waiting.
The light shifted; his eyes refocused. From the window, his own terrible image emerged. Half his face looked like it had been plastered together with crudely cut pieces of leather. He was blind in one eye, which was half covered by his drooping brow. Stanley had refused to get it replaced with a modern cybernetic enhancement, which would have restored his vision to normal — he did not deserve it.
This gruesome face was the price he paid for what he had done. His unforgivable failures. Regrets haunted him; calculations spun relentlessly through his mind. It had been a laboratory experiment gone horribly wrong. While he had survived, his student did not. Stanley’s scars, nightmares, and isolation were the cross he had to bear.
His finger streaked down the cold, moist window. Vibrations shook his body, shattering his thoughts. The family of four were gone, and all that was left of their presence were the barely perceptible tracks in the snow. The footprints slowly filled with fluffy snowflakes, quickly disappearing like all the little joys the world had ever given him, like the brief months of being engaged to one of the most beautiful and intelligent women he had ever met — before the accident.
Sucking in a half-dozen cigarettes, hours of eternity passed before a small blip showed up on the GPS map, indicating that the flight had landed safely at Logan Airport, thirty-seven minutes away. His nerves were shot. He couldn’t sit still. Needing to do something, he grabbed his laundry and headed into the hall.
Opening his condo door was like unsealing a tomb; nauseous vapors oozed out. Stanley smoked incessantly. It helped calm his mind, especially when he was nervous. Today, he had already gone through a pack and a half. Beyond cigarettes, alcohol, and caffeine, Stanley was drug free. He had never even tried fuse, the drug of choice for most people. It was said that once you tried it, you were more than likely to stay on it for the rest of your life. From what little life he saw beyond the windowpane, that’s exactly what a huge number of his townsmen had done.
His neighbor, Glenda, was walking slowly up the stairs. She was a gentle soul — the type of neighbor he had prayed for. Her short, straight, gray hair was cut evenly all around her head, resting above her blue eyes. Brief, intermittent tugs progressed her small, hunched body forward.
Stanley knew better than to help her. She wanted to struggle, to fight it out, never accepting his help. Still, he couldn’t help but want to do something for her. She was, after all, his only friend — if he could be so presumptuous. She had never called on Stanley at the condo. Her simple conversations in the hallway were enough to prevent him from completely losing his mind.
He watched her painfully slow ascent from the corner of his eye but said nothing for a long while. Cat hairs littered her red sweatsuit. There were too many to count — he really did try but gave up at around one hundred thirty-seven. He recognized the shorter, black and orange hairs of her calico cat and the long white hairs of her other cat. There were even a couple of longer white hairs that belonged to Glenda. Sometimes, on particularly exciting days, Stanley would catch foreign hairs that didn’t belong to any of them.
“Hello, Glenda. Lovely weather today.” Stanley offered a simple, genuine smile. His body was oriented so that she was looking at his right side, his normal side. That put people more at ease. Some people. With one small pivot, he could avoid the death gaze and that frantic shuffling of focus that occasionally but cursorily heaved toward him.
Saying nothing, she tugged herself up another two steps.
Even though it took her a long time to climb, being around her relaxed Stanley. He felt human, almost forgetting about his scars. He wanted to bake her cookies (her favorite was oatmeal), feed her runaway cats, whom he had seen grow up from kittens, or help her with her laundry. But he didn’t do any of that — didn’t even offer. The gift of companionship, the simple camaraderie as passersby in a condo they both lived in, was enough. Of course, he wanted more, but he wasn’t willing to risk that. Nor was he bold enough to impose his ghoulishness beyond what she had been so divine to entertain.
“Jesus, Stanley, when are you going to quit smoking? This hallway reeks.” She glanced ever so slightly in his direction, overlapping wrinkles threatening to swallow her face.
“You’re right — I should quit. But
it helps relax me.” Stanley watched her pull herself up. “How are Mittens and Boots?”
“They’re fine. Mittens nearly escaped this morning. She’s a frisky one. Can’t take my eye off her for a minute.”
“Where is she trying to go?”
“Out. Just out. She wasn’t going anywhere.”
They lived on one of Marshfield’s busiest streets. At least it used to be busy. The traffic had decreased every year, as if the world were slowly disappearing.
A painful memory of his cat Roxi clawed at Stanley’s heart. He could sneak a cigarette down in the laundry room. For now, he needed to think of something else. He saw the MK888 in his mind’s eye. “Right. Just out,” he said. The thought troubled Stanley. He and Mittens sought opposite worlds, and yet they had the same fundamental problem: they wanted to be free.
Glenda coughed, lightly, at first, and then more harshly. She coughed so hard her nearly transparent hand let go of the rail, sending her off balance.
Stanley darted forward, tossing his laundry to the side and grabbing her before she fell. A web of pliant bones shifted against his fingers. Face to face, the scent of lavender trickled through his nose. Fear beamed out of her eyes, like weaponized lasers. Even though he knew she would have fallen, that her old and frail body had neither the strength nor quickness to avoid injury on its own, even though he had saved her from a broken leg, hip, or worse, any good feelings he had from helping her were overshadowed by a sea of embarrassment and guilt. His fingers felt dirty. Her arm and shoulder hunched up defensively, and the fear that shone in her squinted eyes was as if an injury was still to come. She turned her head, but he’d already absorbed the blow. Looking away, he said softly, “I’m sorry.”
After picking up his laundry, he got halfway down the stairs before she called to him.
“Stanley — ”
He felt like a child about to be scolded. Staring at the worn green carpet, caressing his burnt hand with his normal one, he halted without looking up. Of course, he deserved it. He’d crossed the line, got into her personal space. But what would he do without Glenda?
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