There are other people in the bar, but even with my low latent inhibition (that’s a scientific term that basically means I’m a noticer; my brain treats even mundane details as if they’re worth paying attention to—think Sherlock Holmes), I’m able to tune them all out like they aren’t even there. Like we’re not sharing this moment in Earth’s history. Like they are only bit players or bots in this scene.
The last of the third scotch slides down my throat like gold-tinted dew from the very first garden. At this point, I don’t remember which scotch I’m drinking, but it’s something with a “glen” in the name—Single Malt Highland most likely—and I’m pretty sure I’m paying big dough for each one. I wave at the bartender and he’s quick to attend to my empty glass.
I know I said I’d only have one. If you believed that… well, it just goes to show you that what they say about suckers and minutes is still true.
Yes. I left what amounts to an eleven-year-old boy unconscious on a pile of rotting, and probably rat-infested, blankets. I did it, and I know how that must seem, but I told you I’m not a very good person, didn’t I? Even my supposed benevolence in saving Frank’s life was never really for Frank at all. Don’t get me wrong, I’m fond of Frank. But that’s not why I did it. I did it because playing God is what narcissists do.
It’s hard to know what a life is worth, but I can tell you that I saved Frank’s life because I could. That’s the skinny of it. Because by doing so, even if no one ever found out, I was telling the whole medical profession that I’m better at doing their job than they are. I did it (and I know this now) because killing or saving lives, in many cases, is more about the person making the decisions about who lives and who dies than it is about the life being taken or saved.
Some people save lives almost unconsciously or intuitively. They’ll run into a burning building to save a child without thinking of the danger. Or maybe they’ll pull a body to safety from the smoking wreckage of a vehicle just because it needs to be done. Those are the good ones. The people who jump on hand grenades to save their pals. Those are the real heroes.
That’s not me.
The rest of us—people like me—we do it because it can be done. Frank is alive and I’m on the run because of my pride, pure and simple. I might have done it selflessly, but I assure you that in this case it was vainglory and that’s all there is to say about it. I know that. In fact, even that pride—the knowledge that I really did it for me—gives me pride. Perhaps mixed with a ton of self-loathing.
So now you know.
And now I know.
Self-realization like that usually costs thousands in fees to a counselor or psychologist. I’m getting it for a little angst and a night of quiet while Frank goes through the CAINing process in a rundown old abandoned barn.
The human mind can rationalize any behavior. You’ve heard me say that before. Because it’s true. My mind is no exception, and neither is yours.
This scotch goes down in one swallow, and I’m in the groove now. Leveled out. I want more, but I don’t need it, and the power to walk away—maybe a new thing for me—makes me proud too. I know how to drink and not get sloshy-stupid, but I haven’t always known how to stop. My alcoholism has always been enabled by my famous ability to maintain my decorum. I might slur a word or two when loaded, but my mind remains sharp. I know what you’re thinking: that’s just what I tell myself. Perhaps, but it’s also mostly true. Strangers have never been able to tell when I was drunk, and I wrote some of my most lauded papers after half a bottle of bourbon and a few beers.
My wife said I was a mean drunk, not because I acted out or threw things or became violent, but because I always said what I was thinking. After five or even ten scotches, you’d only know I was drunk by the barbed Shakespearean insults, or the snark that could cut as deep and as cleanly as any knife.
I throw a wad of cash on the bar—I’m sure it’s more than this bartender makes in a week—and stroll toward the door. The jukebox and Linda Ronstadt singing “Blue Bayou” call me back, but I don’t listen. I keep walking, and I don’t trip or stumble, because I’m a pro. On the way out, over near the door, a pretty girl smiles at me, but now I’m all business. Her face becomes Marilyn’s and then morphs back into her own again.
Sorry, Cruella. Not tonight.
* * *
It’s a mile walk back in the dark, but the moon is high and almost full and the whole earth has a silver-blue glow that takes me back to when I first met Marilyn.
Long walks on dirt roads, hand in hand, with the smell of honeysuckle and cut grass and the sound of a bubbling creek nearby. Cicadas. A moon like this, whispering promises which to this day remain unfulfilled. Marilyn saw me as a handsome young doctor brimming with all the potential that wealth and prominence carry with them. Dainties and comforts someday overflowing her life like bountiful wine.
Well… reality gave her a bad hand. I’m not ashamed to say it. The life I gave her wasn’t what she expected. I was never home. Late nights, lab work, and almost no time to travel, not to mention limited ways to spend the millions that stacked up like cordwood in the bank. I had one dream and she had another. I wanted to be God, and she wanted to be Caesar’s wife. Her dream wasn’t big enough, or maybe mine was too big, and it never was going to work out between us.
Anyway, she’s gone, and those long summer walks seem somewhat fraudulent in hindsight. A long con written and played out just for me.
At least she got half of everything. She was a leech who’d made a bad decision, and she still made out like a bandit in the end. Which meant nothing to me. It was worth it to have her gone, and I could never spend it all anyway. I’d have given her all of it if doing so would have made the pain go away. If it would have left me free to ascend Mount Olympus like I’d planned to do all along.
I cut across the ditch next to the road and squeeze through a tight place between a firewood shed and a fence. I’m nowhere near any habitations, so I’m not concerned about being spotted, and I marked this spot in my mind earlier so I wouldn’t forget it. My low latent inhibition makes it easier for me to remember things like that; details that other minds would dump as unimportant often remain clear to me. Like the rusty nails, bent over and hammered in, that hold the tin to the side of this firewood shed. A normal brain would scan right past that detail, mark it as unimportant, and dump it. It never passes into memory at all. But my brain sees it all and registers it.
I’m a high-functioning LLI though—not one of the weird ones you might run into online who can’t stop talking about all the magazines in the dentist’s office, or how the water dripping from the leaky faucet in the kitchen makes them want to burn down their own apartment. My LLI made me rich, and probably made me single, but it doesn’t make me want to kill people who tap their fingernails or click their pens. Mostly.
It also helps me understand Frank a little better. He’s not totally broken. His mind just works differently.
* * *
Under some low-hanging ivy nearly gone brown, and along a cleared fence line, I can see Frank’s barn down the hill, bathed in steely blue moonlight like a velvet painting you might find in a junk shop or hanging on the wall where you get your oil changed.
Then the picture changes.
A red Massey-Ferguson tractor comes spinning violently through one wall, crashing through splintered beams that blast outward like shrapnel in someone else’s war. The tractor lands on the bucket and cartwheels a full fifty feet before skidding to a stop nearly at my feet.
Then I see a black robot arm, four feet long and all power and death, punch through another portion of the barn wall. An unearthly growl meets me. As I look on, the barn’s roof, which has hung on for who knows how many years, suddenly sags in the middle. I can only assume the support beams have been destroyed.
Frank is going off. He’s changed. He’s out of the box, and if he stays that way, no one will ever get him back in. There are more sounds of destruction, and a roll of barbed wire sails t
hrough the hole in the barn that the tractor made.
I know that the interface between the computer and Frank’s brain uses pictures to indicate threats—to shift his mind into aggression or attack mode—and that he changes into his robot form when certain threat triggers are present. In short, the computer gathers sensory input, processes it, and suggests whether or not Frank should “change.”
Or at least, that’s the way it should work. In theory.
If Frank weren’t Frank.
Autistics are often taught to communicate their wants and feelings through an intervention protocol called PECS—Picture Exchange Communication System. PECS is a natural way for non-verbal autistic children to “talk” with their caregivers. The system is simple: it consists of a board and a set of pictures, and each picture has Velcro on the back so that it can be adhered to the board. But for the non-verbal autistic child, the system is a powerful tool: it provides a way for the child to express his needs. For instance, if he wants to go outside with his brother, he can place a picture of himself on the board, then one of his brother, then one of a tree. “I want to go outside with my brother.” By starting with single-picture messages and gradually moving toward more advanced structures, the child begins to understand that there is a way to get the things he wants or needs. The frustration of not being able to communicate is mitigated.
I designed CAIN to utilize this same kind of system to gradually teach Frank about his new, enhanced abilities. But I specifically limited his education to the more benign abilities; I did my best to build a firewall between Frank and any of his violent or dangerous new gifts.
Yet here’s the thing about autistic children: they are very skilled at figuring things out. An autistic child can very likely discover everything a computer tablet will do before even a technician working for the company that built it could do the same. That’s because the autistic mind will follow a pattern over and over and over again until it notices a way out. And the autistic child won’t get tired like you and I will. He won’t get bored. He’ll just keep pushing buttons until he’s figured out everything the device can do. He’s willing to try every single permutation, like a human password-cracking program, until he gets a different result.
Up until now, I’ve been worrying that Frank’s CAINing might not work—that he might not make progress quickly enough, or even at all. Perhaps I should have been worrying about the opposite problem: that Frank’s CAINing would work too well. Maybe Frank is working the system.
Maybe he’s unlocking things that shouldn’t yet be unlocked.
A propane canister launches through the busted roof and arcs through the moonlit sky like one of Francis Scott Key’s rockets. As it reaches its apogee, I see the moonlight glinting off of another fast-moving object—something that Frank has hurled after the propane tank. Faster than any hundred-mile-an-hour fastball you ever saw. Three times that fast. Maybe ten times. It happens like lightning, and the propane tank is pierced and ruptures and explodes in a yellowish-gold blast.
The bombs bursting in air.
This is even worse than I feared. I’ve got to get in there. I have to stop him.
CHAPTER 8
I run toward the barn, realizing—even through the haze of alcohol, adrenaline, and moonlight—that Frank could turn on me and kill me without a second thought. Or even a first thought. The HADroid program was designed to produce a robot with human empathy, but Frank is an autistic eleven-year-old: empathy is not his strong suit. I knew all this when I made the decision to go ahead with the transplant, and now I’ll get to meet the fruits of my wisdom face to face.
When I step through the hole in the barn wall I see that Frank has found a pile of old steel T-posts. He picks one up, and its six-foot length looks tiny in his huge robot fist. He easily wraps the steel post into a tight ball—like a man might roll up a garden hose or ball up some string—and then hurls it like a baseball at the tractor in the field. The steel shoots across the field, pierces the motor cowling of the tractor, and buries itself in the engine. Then Frank picks up another T-post and begins swinging it wildly, smashing everything in sight.
Until, eventually, he turns toward me.
He’s ten feet tall and massive in every way. And unlike the relatively normal, natural movements he makes while in his human form, in his robot form he moves—well, robotically. When he sees me, his eyes narrow—all menace and anger—and then his lower body rotates so that he can face me head-on.
I begin to wonder if human Frank is even in there. If he has any control at all. Actually, I think, it might be better for me if the computer is in control. After all, I’m not holding any weapons. There are no rules of engagement that would call for the killing of an innocent, defenseless civilian. Still, Frank steps angrily toward me and draws back the T-post to strike.
Despite the scotch, my mind is agile from fear, and in the micro-instant before Frank can swing, I gather in every detail of the scene before me: the robot’s giant form, silhouetted in the moonlight that streams in through the holes in the roof; his midnight black graphene “skin,” swallowing light; his robotic features, cold and emotionless. I realize that his projectile weapon launchers have been deployed, and they now bulge from the robotic “muscles” on each arm, just below his shoulders. Though I know there are no rockets or bullets available to him, the mere fact that the launchers are deployed nevertheless tells me that Frank has somehow activated the onboard weapons firing system—which he should not have been able to do.
And I see his eyes: two glowing blue orbs that meet mine as he winds up to deliver his first deadly blow.
Then he freezes.
My heart pounds. In that split second, when the computer brain of the man-child is silently debating my fate, I reach into my pocket and pull out Frank’s bolt. The one I picked up when I first powered Frank down in the barn. I hold it up, and I speak to Frank in soothing tones.
“Easy, Frank,” I say. “You don’t want to do this.”
Frank’s eyes register that he’s heard me, but he doesn’t appear to care. He’s all rage and hatred as he steps closer. I have to think, but there is no time. I’m grasping for anything.
“The Lord is my shepherd!” I scream.
Frank pauses.
That’s all I know of the psalm. I told you, I haven’t been to church in years, and even then I didn’t care. But Frank is glaring at me.
“The Lord is my shepherd,” I say.
Frank’s hands tense on the post.
“The Lord is my shepherd! The Lord is my shepherd! The Lord is my shepherd!” I’m screaming now, and involuntarily I have dropped to my knees.
Frank’s hand loosens its grip. He drops the post and his head slumps. Then, something happens that I could never have imagined.
He drops to his knees.
His huge robot head drops all the way to his chest, and he begins to speak to himself in Pennsylvania Deutsch. It sounds German to me, but I know it’s the dialect of Frank’s people.
After the prayer in Amish, he changes to English. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”
He pauses and looks at his robotic arms, studying them. His head raises up; he looks at me, then back at himself.
“He maketh me to to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.”
The robot looks at himself again, touching his enormous legs, then examines the robotic joint that we would call a knee, bent on the ground in prayer.
“He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.”
Frank touches his face, then his hands slide down to the launchers protruding from below his shoulders.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”
He looks at his hands and articulates his wrist, working the fingers over and over.
“Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou an
ointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.”
Frank looks at me, and a sadness overwhelms his voice.
“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.”
His head drops to his chest again, and for a few seconds he is silent. I reach over to touch him—to make contact—but his head comes up and his look stops me.
“Except… except I’m not a human.”
“Sure you are, Frank,” I say.
“No,” Frank says. It is like the wind has gone out of him, and a depressive cloud has descended all around him. “No. Not human.”
* * *
“All right, Frank,” I say. “Everything is okay. I have your bolt.” I hold the bolt in front of him, hoping he’ll look at it. “And as soon as it’s morning, we can go get your Amish clothes.”
Frank is frozen. He looks up at me and stares. I know he recognizes me. He picks up the fallen post, which is on the ground next to him. Maybe violence is still an option, or maybe he’s considering what he’s almost done.
“Easy…” I say. I know that he shouldn’t want to harm me. So I keep talking.
“Frank,” I hold my hands in front of me, “put down the post. You don’t want to accidentally hurt anyone, do you?”
Frank moves suddenly, so quickly I almost fall back. With a loud bellow that nearly stops my heart, he slams the post against the ground violently, burying it almost to the hilt. He turns toward me again and inches closer.
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