Less Than Human

by Maxine McArthur

  A flash of something like elation crossed his face. “Do you mean collaboration involving the artificial synapses I referred to in my mails?”

  “That’s right. I was thinking, if we could concentrate on getting the neural network connections stable, then we could integrate them with the robot system at a later stage.”

  Akita nodded, but she had the impression he wasn’t really listening.

  He drew his hands apart, then brought them together. “I am so glad we have the chance to bring our paths together again. Many are the paths but all converge on the Way.” The archaic syllables sounded vaguely familiar.

  “Ancient Chinese,” he added smugly. “One of the Taoist sages.”

  “So you are interested? I can’t tell you what kind of a consultancy fee Tomita will pay you …” She handed him the pages from her bag. “Here’s an overview of what we’ve been doing.”

  The barman’s assistant knelt beside the table and placed before them several dishes: raw tuna and trevally, steamed eel, shellfish boiled in their shells, and miso soup with tiny clams.

  Akita nodded thanks. He took the pages from Eleanor, but barely passed his eyes over them before placing them on the mat beside him. “I am interested in working with you again, McGuire-san. You have a great talent for the mechanics of research.”

  “Thank you … I think.” She took a mouthful of sashimi to cover her confusion.

  “But I must say I consider it my duty to wean you from this immature desire to create a humanlike robot.” He touched his chopsticks on the little ceramic holders shaped like blowfish. “McGuire-san, why do you think we still have waiters to bring us our food?”

  Eleanor grimaced sourly. “I know, you don’t think humanoid robots are the way to go, but …”

  “Because humans do it better than we can build a machine to.” Akita looked at her, head on one side. He had a fleshy nose, large for a Japanese, and very dark brown eyes, almost black. The whites were bloodshot, as though he’d been swimming in an overchlorinated pool. “You have not told me why you want to build your perfect robot.”

  “I suppose because nobody has ever done it before,” she said.

  Akita smiled, an expressive, un-Japanese smile. It shocked her more than anything he’d said. “The Guinness Book of Records is full of things that people do for the first time.”

  “I mean, it offers a significant challenge,” she said, scowling.

  “Some might say an impossible one.”

  “So you’ve gone over to the short-term view as well? That humanoid robots are a waste of time and resources?”

  “No. I take an extremely long-term view.” His hands clenched and opened on the tabletop. “I think you want to build a humanoid robot to get closer to God.”

  Eleanor began to have doubts about collaborating with him. “If God built like we do, the world would have fallen to pieces long ago.”

  “I didn’t say play God. By creating a being in humanity’s image, but a being that is perfect and immortal, you honor humanity and therefore honor its creator.”

  “I don’t try and improve on humanity.”

  Akita sat up very straight. “If you could, what would you have your robot do—walk?” He waited until Eleanor nodded. “Interact with humans?” Nod. “Manipulate any material in a normal environment?” Nod. “React to the environment?”

  “That’s the aspect of the project I was hoping we could …”

  “Please, do not escape into the practical,” interrupted Akita. “I am talking of the great generalities here. I mean you would like your robot to see, feel, and decide on action, wouldn’t you?”

  “Of course, but …”

  “And is the ultimate use for your robots to be slaves to humanity?”

  Ishihara had intimated the same thing. That’s the question, isn’t it? We’re talking self-awareness. A self-aware machine isn’t going to want to stand in a department store elevator and say “welcome” all day. It won’t be used as a museum guide or novelty toy.

  “By dealing with a machine’s self-awareness,” she said, “we have to face our own self-awareness.”

  “Exactly,” said Akita. “And that’s not a goal that the rationalists can or want to comprehend. No wonder they cut your funding.”

  He made it sound like a conspiracy.

  “Look, I just want to make something that works,” she said.

  He smiled at her again, in a way that made her neck hot with discomfort. She ate some eel, annoyed at her reaction. She really needed Akita’s help; she should try and understand him…

  “What do you see as the future direction, then?” she said finally.

  “This.” He glanced over at the other customers before stripping the glove from his right hand.

  The hand was a prosthetic. No, “prosthetic” was the wrong word. The hand was obviously artificial. No false skin covered the biometal bones and polymer sinews. They shone bone white and silver and gunmetal gray. As he opened and closed his fist she could see the intricate tangled balls of microfibers in their mucoid casing.

  His eyes watching her reaction, Akita opened the hand wide. From first and second fingers sprang long, flexible tubes that explored the surface beside his arm. The slim white tongues licked the table and traced the outline of the sake bottle.

  Eleanor realized her mouth was open.

  Akita chuckled and, with another glance at the counter, retracted the tubes and replaced his glove. “I’ve made some improvements to my original design. I don’t need it to look like an ordinary hand. That used to frustrate me, you know? How people wanted their artificial hands to look like everyone else’s. Such a waste of potential.”

  Eleanor found her voice. “Did you have an accident? Where did you get it done? Why haven’t we seen reports of this?”

  “A friend of mine is a surgeon. He did it because he has an interest in the field. But he is sadly in the minority.” His eyes shone with the passion she remembered. “You will be interested to know that its function is not solely manipulatory. It incorporates a direct silicon interface.”

  Eleanor caught his excitement. “That’s amazing. You can activate a computer directly?”

  “Something like that.”

  “It’s not commercially viable though, is it?” She imagined the cost and the social problems associated with implants—lack of acceptance, medical and insurance complications …

  He smiled again. “Ever practical, McGuire-san. At present, no, it is not being developed in a commercial direction. Although a greatly simplified VR version is possible.”

  “What kind of modifications do you need on the hardware?”

  He poured them both more sake. “You are welcome to come and see the results of my research anytime you like. I have a working model with me in Okayama. However, tonight we should consider the problems you are experiencing in your research and how we may solve them.”

  “Kampai,” he added, raising his cup. “To the future.”

  “To the future.” This time she clicked their cups together.

  * * *

  Eleanor’s pleasure at talking to Akita about her research—it wasn’t often she had the chance to discuss it with someone outside Tomita who actually understood—dissipated soon after she left him. The whole evening seemed slightly out of focus. That hand of his … an amazing thing. She had so many questions about it that she couldn’t begin to put them in order. She would definitely go and see what he’d been doing, and soon.

  But something about him made her edgy, something personal. Was he attracted to her? He didn’t behave like any of the men she knew who had professed to being fascinated by a gaijin. They had all made their “fascination” plain by the end of the first few drinks.

  Even when she arrived at the Betta’s cool, comforting passages she didn’t feel settled. Ridiculously, she kept looking for the wayward cleanbot that she’d spotted twice before, but all the robots were behaving normally.

  As she reached her doorway, a voice call
ed her name from the direction of the elevator. It was Akita.

  “I forgot to give you this,” he panted, out of breath, presumably from chasing her along the corridors. His face was quite red. “This” was a business card, but without the usual digital code on one side. She would have to input the number instead of swiping the card in her phone.

  “It’s the number of the friend I’m staying with,” he explained. “He didn’t want me to give it to just anyone.” The name on the card was Yusuke Hatta, the address a number in the Zecom Betta.

  “How did you get in?” she said. “You’re supposed to call me from the front entry. Unless you’re chipped as a resident, the elevator won’t take you up.”

  He smiled. “McGuire-san, you’re still more Japanese than we Japanese are. You know very well how such ID systems can be bypassed or adjusted for new users.” He bowed, then turned and waved over his shoulder. “Nothing is un-crackable.”

  She watched him disappear around the corner. The lift doors swished open and shut. Nothing, indeed.

  “I met Akita-kun today. Do you remember him?”

  Masao nodded around a mouthful of noodles. “Big, sulky-looking man. I thought he quit Tomita?”

  She laid her chopsticks on the top of the bowl, which was still half-full. She’d told Masao she didn’t want a late snack.

  “He did quit, years ago. He went on to Zecom, then he quit there, too. Seems like he’s teaching in a rural university.” Which one, he didn’t say.

  “Why the reunion?”

  “Izumi thinks if we put together a research proposal on a particular area of the Sam project, there’s a chance it might be implemented. One of the most promising areas is sensory processing, which is something Akita used to work on and still seems to be. I wanted to know if he was open to collaboration.”

  “Is his university open, you mean.” Masao finished his noodles. He picked up his own empty plate, tipped the contents of Eleanor’s plate into the recycler, and left both plates in the sink for the automatic washer to finish.

  “You think his university might not want him doing another job?”

  “If it’s anything like our place, it’s possible.” Masao stood behind her and massaged her neck absentmindedly. “Was he changed?”

  “He was, a bit. Intense in a different kind of way. Mmm, more to the left … he’s got an artificial hand.”

  Masao’s hands paused for a second. “My God, what happened?”

  “He wouldn’t say. Funny—he used to work on prosthetics, and now he has one.”

  “He always was pretty intense, wasn’t he? You were always complaining how he didn’t share computer time fairly.”

  “I’d forgotten that.” Masao’s fingers reached under her hair and she half-closed her eyes in pleasure.

  “I asked if he’d changed,” he said, “because I ran into a man the other day that used to work in Islamic history. He’s gone off to farm oranges in Shizuoka. Says he realized what he had here wasn’t what he wanted.” He sat down. “Your turn.”

  Eleanor sighed and stood behind him. Massaging Masao always left her hands sore—his back and shoulder muscles were a dense surface impervious to pressure.

  “We’re getting to that age when you never know if people are going to stay in their groove,” he went on. “You talked the other day about leaving Tomita and working with Kazu. You’d never have said that a couple of years ago.”

  He was right. She dug in her fingers with more force man usual. She could taste an unaccustomed panic at the thought of the year ahead of her at Tomita, then another, then another. All those years, and what to show at the end of it—more canceled projects? The past is dead, and the only thing the future holds is death.

  “Masao?”

  “Hmm? A little lower.”

  “Do you believe people have souls?”

  His muscles tightened under her hands. They hadn’t talked about religion for years. Or love, or desire, or happiness, she thought with dismay. She’d been too damn busy.

  “I know that Buddhism says we aren’t reborn as the same individuals,” she kept going, a little nervous now. “We’re reborn as new, right?”

  “According to what we’ve done in previous lives, yes.” Masao kept his gaze ahead.

  “What about our memories?”

  “Do you remember your previous lives?” She could feel him grin.

  “Oh. But what are we if not our memories, our experiences?”

  “Our actions,” he said softly. “That’s what karma is—what we do. Anyway”—he swiveled in his chair to face her—”if what you mean by ‘soul’ is the thing that’s reborn, then not only people have souls. All living things die and are reborn.”

  “All that has form, dies,” she said softly. “Even robots. Even Sam Number Five in Journey to Life. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t human. If he had consciousness, he could achieve rebirth.”

  He swiveled in his chair, surprised. “That’s right. Why the sudden interest?”

  She shifted awkwardly. “I was doing some research into that group Mari’s with—the Silver Angels. And I started thinking about … other things.”

  He chuckled and drew her to him, pulling her down onto his lap. How long had it been since they last sat like this?

  “Ellie, if you get one of those moving-out-of-the-groove impulses, don’t ignore it. Change is a good thing.”

  “It’s nothing to do with work.”

  He hugged her so hard that her elbows dug into her sides. “That’s what you think.”

  She slept badly that night. She had a dream that there’d been another earthquake, only this time it was everywhere. Smoke rose in a haze over the horizon as she stood in front of the rubble of the Betta with Masao. These were supposed to be quakeproof, she said. What happens now?

  And her eyes opened. She lay still until her heart stopped thudding and wondered if the Bettas were as safe as they were supposed to be. One of the main causes of damage in the Great Quake and the Kobe quake before it in 1995 was the way construction companies had cut corners to finish buildings in time for deadlines, leading to weakened structures. The Bettas were supposed to have stricter controls, but she wondered.

  Look how easily Akita entered. Theoretically, the fingerprint and retina ID systems were possible to crack, and the microchip recognition even less secure. But it required inside knowledge of the overall system, and the Bettas were supposed to have layers upon layers of security redundancies to protect that. If Akita could do it, anyone with specialized system knowledge could get in. They could interfere with the environmental systems, stop the air conditioners … or, more insidiously, reprogram it to include toxic gases.

  Masao breathed as calmly as always beside her, but she felt no peace. The cool, smooth walls seemed like a prison. Her chest felt tight, and she was sweating. Could the windows be opened? She’d never tried. Surely there would be emergency latches, in case of fire.

  She rolled out of the futon, taking care not to disturb Masao, and padded to the window. The glass was dimmed in preparation for morning glare, so she couldn’t see anything outside except a few blurred lights.

  There must be an emergency catch. Her fingers, shaking with urgency, scrabbled along the line of the lower sill. Betta safety and security closed in like a vice. Akita’s voice in her head, Nothing is uncrackable. Sweat soaked a line down the center of her back.

  Where was the damn catch? If there was a fire or an earthquake, how would people find … with a moan of relief, she felt an indented area in one corner under the sill. Under a hinged cover was a tiny leverlike device.

  It wouldn’t open, she didn’t have the strength. Was the air really growing staler or was it her imagination?

  “Ellie? What’s the matter?” Masao’s voice from the floor.

  “Open this. Please.”

  The futon rustled, his feet slapped on tatami then his comforting bulk was beside her, his hand warm on her waist.

  “Open what, the window?”
/>   “Yes.”

  “Why? We’ll get fined.”

  “Please.” She tried to take deep, long breaths but they got caught halfway in.

  Masao’s hand left her waist and with a click-clunk, the window slid outward about ten centimeters. Tepid, moist air touched their stomachs. A warning light on the wall above began to blink, and if Eleanor had not canceled the apartment’s vocal function after they moved in, a voice would now be asking them to close the window.

  She relaxed immediately, and almost as immediately began to feel a fool.

  “What was all that about?” Masao put his arms around her. “You’re sweating. Are you sick?”

  She shook her head and allowed herself to almost fall into him. They subsided onto the floor under the window, breathing humid air laden with the exhaust of countless air conditioners.

  Her safe house was no longer safe.

  Thursday morning. Ishihara stretched his legs the full width of the passageway and lit another cigarette. New regulations said he couldn’t smoke in the office and had to use a segregated section of the corridor. He’d damn well use the whole section, then.

  He wondered how Mikuni was proceeding with the Zecom case. Ishihara didn’t pretend to understand the contents of Nakamura’s files, but as far as the police were concerned, if Nakamura had been blackmailing Yui for money or anything else, Yui had a motive for killing. And at the moment he was the only suspect.

  Nakamura might have threatened to reveal that Yui copied research from … wherever it was. Nakamura hadn’t been specific, which was what infuriated McGuire. Maybe Nakamura wasn’t sure himself. It didn’t matter, as long as Yui thought Nakamura knew.

  Ishihara shifted from one side of his bum to the other on the hard bench. Both sides were equally uncomfortable.

  Nakamura decided he would take the credit for the new system by taking it to Tomita. He made a mistake when testing it and killed Mito. The day manager at Kawanishi Metalworks had identified Nakamura as the technician who had serviced the Zecom robot on August 12. Nakamura must have planted the device on the Tomita robot then.