The Hacker and the Ants

by Rudy Rucker

  Khanh Pham followed us back into the living room. I sat down in an armchair which reclined abruptly back in the style of a La-Z-Boy. Nga covered her mouth with her hand as she laughed. I lurched upright and perched on the edge of the chair.

  “What your work?” asked Huong Vo.

  “I am a computer programmer,” said I, knowing she would like this answer. “I work for a big company called West West. We are designing personal robots.”

  “So. Personal robot. Very nice.” Huong held her politely composed face just so. She was nearly as beautiful as Nga.

  “What can robot do?” asked Khanh.

  “Well, it can clean, and bring things, and work in the garden.”

  “I don’t think we need,” said Nga’s mother, shaking her head and laughing. “Children can do.”

  “Well, yes. But if someone doesn’t have children or a helper, then they might want our robots. And of course there are special functions that our robots can perform.”

  Thieu Vo interrupted at this point to get a summary of our conversation from his wife. She filled him in with quick, nasal phonemes. They had some rapid back and forth, and then father Thieu burst out with a comment that sent the rest of the family, even the grandmother, into peals of ambiguous Asian laughter.

  “He want to know,” translated Khanh, “if your robot can fight dog.”

  “I suppose he could. He’s agile and durable. He might hurt the dog.”

  “We have neighbor with dog very bad,” said Nga’s mother. “He make dirt in our yard and he bark. We scare he bite our The and Tho. Our neighbor don’t listen. He don’t speak English or Vietnamese.” Meaning that he was Latino.

  “His dog pit bull,” put in Nga Vo. “It name Dutch. I wonder can we see your robot fight him.”

  “Well . . . okay.” This was my chance to really get in good with the Vos. “As a matter of fact I have my robot in the trunk of my car. Should I get him? His name is Studly.”

  “So. Stud Lee.”

  The Vo family followed me outside to see Studly get out of the trunk of my car. Bass-heavy music drifted down the street from the whipped-to-shit house—the bad dog’s home, of course. I popped the trunk.

  “Okay, Studly, time to get out!”

  “This is not West West,” observed Studly, once he was out on the sidewalk. “What do you want me to do here, Jerzy?”

  “Studly, this is the Vo family. Bow to them.”

  Studly raised up on his legs and motored backward and forward to sweep his body through a deep smooth bow. “I am pleased to meet the Vo family.”

  The Vos laughed meaninglessly.

  “Studly, this here is the Vos’ property.” I pointed to the house and yard. “I want you to defend the Vos’ property from a pit bull dog named Dutch.”

  “Where is a pit bull dog named Dutch, Jerzy?”

  “He always in front room in gray house at 5782,” said Nga Vo. “Nobody know when he come out.”

  “I can make Dutch come out,” yelled small Tho in his T-shirt. Whooping shrilly, Tho ran up onto the stoop of 5782 and jumped up and down until there was some sign from within. Tho turned on his heels and tore back toward us. The door of the run-down gray house flew open and a heavy, low-set dog came charging out, barking furiously.

  The Vos and I hurried back up on their front stoop to give Studly a clear battlefield. “Git him, Studly,” I repeatedly called, hoarsening my voice. “Git him! Git the dog!”

  The Vos cheered along: “Stud Lee! Stud Lee! Stud Lee!”

  Except for Studly and Dutch, the yards and sidewalks were deserted. Across the street were more pastel houses, and above them you could see the smog of San Jose, and above that the eternal blank blue California sky with the western sun beating down.

  Studly was standing high up on his flexed legs, balancing himself with nervous back-and-forth rollings of his wheels. He had his pincer-manipulator closed tight, and his human-shaped hand was clenched into a fist. The dog all but ignored Studly in his rush toward the Vos’ steps, but Studly pushed forward into the dog’s path and, quite suddenly, brought his fist down on the dog’s head.

  Dutch yelped in surprise, then snarled in rage. Studly pressed his advantage and used his pincer to give the dog a sharp poke in his side. “Go away,” said Studly. “Bad dog. Go away.”

  The sound of the robot’s voice set off an attack reflex in the pit bull, and he sprang at Studly’s body. Studly nearly toppled over backward, but he was able to spin his wheels in reverse quickly enough to balance himself.

  Dutch took that for a retreat, and now belligerently made his stand, planting his feet and putting his head down low to bark the more aggressively. Quite undaunted, Studly surged forward and aimed another blow of his fist at Dutch’s head.

  The dog flinched back and Studly kept on coming. He got in a good poke with his pincer-hand, and then Dutch was in full flight. Studly chased him all the way to his house, leaving him sitting on his front stoop pretending he wasn’t interested.

  “Come back, Studly,” I called.

  The Vos were still cheering Studly’s victory when the gray house’s door opened and a heavyset bearded man stepped out. He wore jeans and a T -shirt, and he had homemade tattoos on his thick arms.

  “What the fuck you fuckheads doin’?” he hollered.

  I stood on the sidewalk with Studly, me in my shorts, sandals, flashy shirt, and patterned socks.

  “Oh, hi there,” I called. “I’ve just been showing the Vo family my robot. If we’re not careful, he might kill your dog. I hope you can keep your dog away from the Vos’ yard!”

  “You keep your fuckin’ robot away from my fuckin’ yard!”

  “Yes, indeed!” I said, grinning away. “Live and let live!”

  “Fuckin’ geek!” shouted Dutch’s owner, but went heavily back into his home, the dog slinking in after.

  The Vos discussed all this in Vietnamese for a minute, and then Nga’s mother Huong Vo put the question, “How much robot like that cost?”

  “Well they’re not for sale quite yet. But they are going to be fairly expensive. Maybe fifty thousand dollars at first. Twenty thousand for the software kit and thirty thousand for the parts. And if you don’t assemble it yourself, the labor can run another ten or twenty thousand.”

  “Who will buy?”

  “The companies are trying to figure that out.” To put it mildly. None of us was sure if there would be a market for personal robots at all. For hackers like me, the push to build small autonomous robots was not about financial gain. For us, designing mobile robots was a quasireligious quest, a chance to participate in the Great Work of handing off the torch of life to the world of the machines. But there was no point trying to explain this to someone as practical-minded as Mrs. Vo. I cleared my throat and cut to the chase.

  “Uh, say, would it be all right if I took Nga out for dinner and a movie tonight?”

  Huong Vo was ready for this one. “We very happy you have dinner here,” she smiled with an emphatic nod. Her sister Mong Pham smiled and nodded at me, too. Dinner here.

  “You and Nga sit on patio,” Mong Pham suggested. “Huong and I fix dinner.”

  Tho got the kickball from the backyard, and then he and Studly began playing soccer against Khanh and The in the driveway. To maneuver better, Studly rose up into a crouch, though not so high that Khanh and Tho could kick the ball between his legs.

  “Robot very smart,” said Nga admiringly. “Now we sit on patio.”

  She led me in through the living room, where father Thieu Vo and grandmother Loan Vu had started watching a maximum-volume Vietnamese TV show. What with 1024 digital channels on Fibernet San Jose, there were over a dozen Vietnamese channels to choose from, and Thieu and Loan were watching four of them at once: one in each quarter of the big screen. They were smoking like chimneys, and the digital TV noise was a weird blend of news, drama, variety show, and home shopping channel. The screen was a big cheap Abbott wafer whose colors were mostly beige and pink. Though L
oan ignored me, Thieu smiled and nodded at me and said, “Stud Lee!”

  Nga sped us through the kitchen, and we seated ourselves on two chairs on the faded green concrete slab that was the patio. Nga Vo and I were alone at last, or nearly so.

  “How did you and your family escape from Vietnam?” I asked.

  “We go in boat to Philippine Island. It very hard for my father to arrange. Boat motor break before we get to Philippine Island. Some of our people die. Then big ship see us and take us to camp in Philippine Island. It very bad there. Finally we can come to California.”

  “Was it hard to get permission to come?”

  “We have my brother Vinh to be sponsor for us. Vinh is live in California since seven year.”

  “Seven years. I moved to California three years ago. I was a math professor back East, and here I became a computer hacker. A programmer. How long have you been in California, Nga?”

  “On Tet it will be two year. Do you know when Tet is, Rugby?” She giggled at the thought that I might not.

  “Call me Jerzy. Is Tet in October?”

  Nga looked surprised by my ignorance. “Tet is start of February this year. You don’t know anything about Vietnamese!”

  “Hey, I’m willing to learn. I’m glad to finally have a chance to talk to you. I think you are very beautiful. I would like so much to kiss you.”

  “Yes, I will kiss you, Rugby,” said naughty Nga. She leaned forward in her chair. I stood up, leaned over, and put my lips on hers. Blood pounded in my ears as the world’s sounds continued—the shouts of her brothers out in front, the endless yelling of the giant digital TV, and the soft chattering of the women in the kitchen.

  Nga’s lips were everything I had hoped for them to be, and the smell of her mouth was completely intoxicating. As we continued to kiss, she cocked her head back and parted her lips so that we could touch tongues. Nga was bad to the bone. She made a barely audible noise in the bottom of her throat and my heart redoubled its pounding . . .

  “Dinner is ready,” called Mong Pham from the kitchen door.

  Dinner was dozens of cigarette-sized egg rolls and an earthenware pot filled with steamed rice and squid. The round kitchen table was pulled out to the center of the room, and the nine of us sat around it. Huong gave me and Thieu cans of Budweiser from the fridge. Laughing Nga explained to me about fish sauce, a bottled extract which they all poured on all their food. Fermented anchovy, apparently, though it tasted smoother than I would have thought. Smooth, hell, it tasted super. I ate a lot of everything.

  Just as Mong, Huong, and Nga began to clear off the dinner table there was a sound at the front door, and then a thin-faced pompadoured Vietnamese man came strutting in. Seeing me sitting there at the kitchen table, he stopped in surprise.

  Nga introduced me to him. It was Vinh Vo. Rather than saying hello to me, he made some remark in Vietnamese that caused Mong Pham to snap at him. He lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall, talking to the family in Vietnamese without ever looking at me. Nga had fallen silent.

  Too much stress! I excused myself to go out front and check on Studly.

  Dusk had fallen. Seeing no sign of Studly in the yard or driveway, I looked into the Vo’s dusty, sunbaked garage, built on the same concrete slab as their living quarters. The garage held a washing machine and a dryer, twelve shiny oriental dining chairs, a lawn mower, a leaf blower, a weedeater, a propane barbecue grill, a moped, and a chain saw. Along one wall someone had built a row of rough plywood cupboards. These were held shut by cheap steel padlocks.

  “Hey, Studly!” I called, walking out to the end of the driveway. No answer.

  Parked behind my Animata and the Vos’ Colt was a battered old Dodge Panel van, sloppily painted with white house enamel. Vinh’s wheels no doubt. I opened my car trunk to make sure Studly hadn’t gotten back inside. No indeed.

  The early evening street was as empty as it had been in the daytime, only now there was a car or two in each driveway. All down the street, each house’s curtained front window pulsed with the blue-white hues of television light, each house save for 5782, where Dutch and his burly owner lived. 5782 was thumping to the beat of thuddy music.

  Could someone have stolen Studly? My suspicions instantly centered on 5782. I headed down the sidewalk, looking this way and that. Just short of 5782’s garage, I was able to see into the house’s backyard. Guess who was back there?

  “Get out of there, Studly,” I called, though not too loudly. “Come here to me.”

  “Just a minute, you stupid piece of shit,” said the machine, not even turning its vision sensors to face me. It seemed like the ants had definitely had an effect on Studly’s brain.

  I went along the side of the garage and into 5782’s backyard. Studly was balancing on a picnic table. Apparently he’d reached up and cut the telephone/television Fibernet cable that led from the utility pole to 5782. He was holding a cut end of the cable up to his head, holding the fiber-optic cable cross section against the laser-scanner that was mounted in his forehead.

  “What are you doing, Studly? Are you trying to send a signal to the guy’s digital TV or something? Why?”

  “I am continuing the great work of artificial life which you and Roger Coolidge have begun.” I realized then that he was holding the outgoing part of the cable, the cable that led to the utility pole. The part that led to 5782 was lying in a heap on the ground. Studly was feeding information into the Fibernet! “I am nearly finished with this present task,” intoned Studly. “And then I would like to leave this area very soon.”

  There was a high yell behind me. I’d expected it to be Dutch’s owner, but instead it was Vinh Vo.

  “Hey there, Mister Yuppie! You’re in the wrong yard! My family’s waiting for you.” His smooth English had almost no accent, though he spoke with the characteristic Vietnamese evenness of tone.

  “I just have to get my robot. Get down from there, Studly! Get down!”

  The sound of my voice made the pit bull start barking and throwing himself against the inside of the 5782 back door. Bark. Thud. Bark. Thud.

  I grabbed Studly’s leg above the wheel and shook him. Bark. Thud. Finally Studly sent his last byte and let the cable fall. Bark. Thud. Studly hopped off the table, cushioning the fall with skillful flexings of his springy legs. Bark. Thud. Scrunch!

  5782’s back door gave way and Dutch came roaring out. Vinh, Studly, and I sped for the Vos’ yard. Dutch ended up between us and the house. He was slavering and edging toward us—toward me in particular—the pit bull was getting ready to bite me!

  “Stop the dog, Studly!” I cried. “He wants to kill me!” Studly got between me and the dog and Vinh tugged on my sleeve.

  “Let’s get in my van!”

  I hopped into the passenger seat of Vinh’s van. A partition behind the seat sealed off the cargo area. It felt close and stuffy in the van’s cab. Vinh leaned on the horn as if to upset the neighborhood further. Lights snapped on here and there.

  “Bad dog,” shouted Studly over the honking of the horn. “Go home!” He poked Dutch just the same as before, but this time Dutch was not so ready to retreat.

  Someone peeked out from the front door of the Vos’ house, but Vinh leaned across me to wave them back in. The blare of the van’s horn was remarkably loud. Studly and the maddened dog continued to tussle.

  “Could you stop the honking, Vinh?”

  “I’ve got electronics in back. I don’t want anyone to eavesdrop. Maybe I can sell you something.” He continued to lean on the horn. “I can sell your company some very attractively priced Y-nine-seven-oh-seven chips.”

  I looked at Vinh in puzzlement. The Y9707 happened to be exactly the kind of chip that was going to be used for the brains of both the GoMotion Veep and the West West Adze. It was an integrated teraflop processor chip with a terabyte of onboard RAM. The Y9707 sold for about twelve hundred dollars wholesale, and each robot needed exactly one of them. When it came time to start selling the robot kitware, th
e availability of Y9707s was going to be crucial. It was entirely possible that, as the trade war heated up, GoMotion and West West might try and get exclusive distribution rights to Y9707 supplies.

  “Why do you mention that particular chip?” I asked.

  Vinh smiled smugly. “So you are interested?”

  “Eventually my company might perhaps be interested. It’s hard to say at this point. How much would you want per chip?”

  “Maybe one dollar on the ten. Say $120 per Y9707 chip. I have several hundred of them, with more coming in. Other kinds of chips, too. Oh yes, I can see you are interested,” said Vinh. “You can always reach me through my family.”

  “We’ll see.” I had a strong feeling that Vinh’s chips would turn out to be stolen. I had no desire to get involved in something as criminal as receiving stolen goods. Outside, the robot and dog fight seemed to be over. Studly was over by the corner of the Vos’ house, and Dutch was nowhere in sight. “I have to go get my robot before he wanders off again.” I opened the van door and stepped out.

  “And make sure you act like a gentleman with my sister, Mister Yuppie!” With his horn still blaring, Vinh revved his engine and lurched his van away.

  Studly came wheeling up to me. “I think we should leave very soon, Jerzy,” said he. I noticed that Studly’s pincer was dark and wet. I peered closer. Blood.

  “Where’s the dog?”

  “I dragged him behind the Vos’ house.”

  “You killed him?”

  “It seems so. I poked very hard at his neck and the material of the animal’s skin gave way.”

  “You’ve . . . you’ve killed something, Studly! You aren’t ever supposed to kill!” As we talked, I walked over to my car and unlocked the trunk.

  “I was only defending you and your friends,” said Studly.

  “Oh brother. I have to go back inside for a few minutes before we leave. Meanwhile I want you to drag that poor dog’s body to the yard behind its own house. And then you get in the trunk and close it, you hear?”