Fin

by Larry Enright

  “The number of Cybernites at any given time is calculated based on need, Agent Murphy,” said Fin. “Human birth rates have been steadily declining for the last hundred years despite Council’s best efforts. Your population has reached critical mass. There are simply not enough of you left to fulfill the city’s needs.”

  “We were fine before you and we’ll be just fine after you’re gone.”

  “Be that as it may, Cybernites provide valuable services to the community. We do the jobs you either no longer aspire to or that are inherently dangerous.”

  “Tell that to my buddy, Jack. He was a high-wire welder. Yeah, maybe it was dangerous, but it was all he knew and it paid the bills. Now he’s got nothing but a wife, four kids, and a welfare check. What have you got to say about that, robot? And stop looking at me with those damn creepy blue eyes of yours.”

  Fin looked down.

  Stein said, “The Pasties are the worst. Every time one of them looks at me with that white-on-white shit, I want to put a bullet in its head.”

  Fin tried to apologize, but Murphy cut him off. “I don’t want to hear that you’re sorry. You and your mechanical buddies are what’s wrong with this city.”

  “Ease up, Murph,” said Clayborn.

  “Why the hell should I, Ben? He’s a Cy. He’s your damn partner for God’s sake.”

  “Look on the bright side,” Clayborn said. “You know how I go through partners like you go through cheap booze.”

  “I am only here to help,” said Fin.

  Murphy spat, “We don’t need your help.”

  “I do not mean to be disrespectful, Agent Murphy.”

  “Why? Because it’s a crime and I could recycle you on the spot?”

  “I was merely going to beg to differ, sir.”

  “You can beg all you want. I don’t care.”

  Stein said, “Did you see on the news that we took a real beating up north? A hundred good men, twenty kilometers of buffer zone, and six hundred bots lost to those Eastern Bloc bastards. Maybe Blue boy here would like to man up and go fight this damn war with the rest of his robot buddies.”

  “Cybernites were not designed for war,” said Fin. “Further, the Artificial Intelligence Act forbids it.”

  “You’ve got an answer for everything, don’t you?” Murphy said.

  “Only when appropriate, sir.”

  Murphy pulled out his gun, an SIA-issued Pulser, and pressed it against Fin’s temple. “Got an answer for this?”

  “The intentional murder without cause of any Cybernite more advanced than a Gray or White is considered a homicide under the law, Agent Murphy. Homicide is a capital offense even for humans.”

  Murphy put his gun away. “It’s not a homicide because you’re not a man. I like to call it a robotomy.”

  The three men laughed.

  “Nice haircut, blue boy,” said Stein.

  “I have no hair,” Fin replied.

  “That was a joke, or didn’t they program you for that?”

  “Yes, I understand now. Very amusing, sir.”

  “So, listen. You’ve got your Drabs, the common laborers, right?” Stein said.

  “I prefer to call them by their proper name,” said Fin. “They are the Grays.”

  “Whatever. And your Pasties are what: factory workers, assembly line stiffs, the robots who do the more advanced stuff.”

  “And welders,” Murphy grumbled.

  “Right,” Stein nodded.

  “The Whites were designed to have the strength of a Gray with greater manual dexterity, if that is what you mean,” said Fin, “but they are not robots.”

  Stein ignored him and went on, “And your Slimers are maids, whores, whatever.”

  “Again, not to be disrespectful, but I find referring to Yellows as Slimers particularly offensive,” said Fin. “I have a very dear friend who is a Yellow.”

  “Watch it, Blue,” said Clayborn. “Your toes are on that red line we talked about. What’s your point, Stein?”

  Stein continued, “As I was saying, then you got your Voms, those Green pukes. They’re like waiters, secretaries, shit like that. That’s the four Council-approved Cy colors. So, what’s with your pet, Ben? What’s with the Blue? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That means he’s smart,” Clayborn replied, “like a walking data warehouse. And he’s special.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Take a look at his neck.”

  Stein took a closer look at Fin’s neck and the word ‘FIN’ tattooed on it. “Where’s your number?”

  “I am an unnumbered prototype,” Fin replied. “My bio-encoding is in my name.”

  “What about your series? They’re up to a hundred now, right? What series are you?”

  “I have neither number nor series, Agent Stein.”

  “That ain't right. Every Cy’s got a series.”

  “How about we call him Number Two?” said Murphy.

  “Why two?” said Fin.

  “Because you mean shit to us.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “No, you wouldn’t, would you?”

  “What kind of name is Fin anyway?” said Stein.

  “It stands for Fibrous Intelligent Neurosynthetic,” Fin replied. “My internals represent a totally new design. The acronym was determined to be easier for humans to say and remember. In one of the ancient languages it also means the end.”

  “Which end? The butt end?” said Murphy.

  Again, they laughed.

  Stein said, “Got a last name, Fin?”

  “Cybernites do not use last names.”

  “I just figured since you’re so special . . .”

  Fin thought a moment. “We are not given surnames because, strictly speaking, we have no natural lineage like humans do. I suppose, if anything, it would be Shepherd. Dr. Noah Shepherd created the Cybernites. He is my father. He is the Ancient One.”

  “A.K.A. the has-been Old Fart. Am I right, boys?” Murphy said.

  They clinked their glasses.

  “His proper title is Ancient One, Agent Murphy,” said Fin. "His contributions to society are unmatched.”

  “Big deal. My kid puts kit-bots together and he’s ten.”

  “Your son is not Periculum’s savior.”

  “Doc Shepherd a dirty old man who should have died three hundred years ago. Just sayin'.”

  “I’m not so sure he’s even a man,” said Stein. “It’s not natural someone hanging on that long. Plenty of people I know think he’s not from around here.”

  “What? Like he’s an alien or something?” Clayborn laughed.

  “Yeah, an illegal alien.”

  “I heard he’s all spare parts now, more Cy than man,” said Murphy.

  “He’s got the credits for it, that’s for sure,” said Stein. “Speaking of which, how’s the new knee, Ben?”

  “How do you think?” said Clayborn. “Our shitty government insurance only covers second-rate polyclonic bullshit replacements. I couldn’t afford the deductible for anything better.”

  “And there you have it,” said Murphy. “It’s all about the money. Always has been. Always will be.”

  The waiter came over to the table with a tray of snacks. When Clayborn told Fin to help himself, Fin declined.

  “I’m giving you permission to eat real food,” Clayborn said.

  “Thank you, sir, but I would prefer not to.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I forgot. You only eat that Reconstitute slop, don’t you?”

  Stein grimaced. “I tried that Recon shit once on a dare. Never again.”

  Fin looked puzzled. “Reconstitute was designed for Cybernites. It is formulated from minerals and nutrients extracted from recycled food and waste materials. It is an extremely efficient use of resources.”

  “They’re not talking about efficiency, Blue,” said Clayborn. “They’re saying that the shit you eat looks and tastes like shit because guess what? It’s made from shit.”

&n
bsp; “But sir, the harmful components have all been removed and it is given an artificial flavor that scientists have determined in clinical trials to be palatable.”

  “Whatever. How about something to drink then?”

  “No, thank you, sir.”

  “He doesn’t drink either?” Murphy said.

  Clayborn replied, “Not booze. You don’t want to see him drunk, Murph. It’s not a pretty sight, especially when he’s upchucking Recon.”

  Fin shrugged off their laughs. “I have found alcoholic beverages to be more irritating than pleasurable.”

  Clayborn explained, “What he means is that when he drinks that synthetic crap they make for Cys, he gets these sores in his mouth.”

  “I have one now," Fin said, rubbing his tender jaw.

  “That’s not a problem here because they don’t serve Cy booze here,” said Murphy. “Want to know why?”

  “I already know why, Agent Murphy. Might I point out that the species-based discrimination practiced by this establishment is not exactly in line with the spirit of the law?”

  “Ask me if I give a shit.”

  Fin set his Commlink on the table. Stein picked it up and looked at the screen. “What’s this?” he said. “This doesn’t look like Agency business to me.”

  “Storing non-Agency files on an SIA-issued Commlink is not against regulations,” Fin pointed out.

  “It depends on the file. This is that Word trash Council banned under the Sedition Act, isn’t it?”

  “The Word is the word of God, Agent Stein,” Fin replied.

  “Council's the only God around here, robot boy. They decreed that three hundred years ago when they decided believing in something you couldn’t scientifically prove wasn’t good for the cause. This is just some bullshit written by a religious fanatic.”

  Fin said, “What you are describing as excrement is something many humans and Cybernites still believe.”

  “Believing in something doesn’t make it fact, but a Council decree does make it illegal. Looks like you were right about losing another partner, Ben.” Stein tapped his shoulder holster. “Should I do the honors?”

  They laughed.

  Fin said, “Dr. Shepherd personally authorized the transfer of this copy from the Library of Council. He recorded it himself a very long time ago. I can show you the digital certificate of authorization, if you like.”

  “Don’t bother.” Stein flipped through the document. “Three persons in one God? What the hell does that mean?”

  “Unclear, sir. The concept of the Trinity is a mystery.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet. You shall not kill,” Stein read. “This is what you call the word of God?”

  “It is one of his commandments, sir.”

  “It’s bullshit. In this world, it’s kill or be killed. They should have taught you that at the academy. Oh, that’s right. You didn’t go through training, did you? You went straight from the assembly line to a desk outside Ben’s office.”

  “It is wrong to kill another.”

  “Says who? Your God?”

  “From a practical perspective murder tears at the very fabric of society. Council has several decrees covering that subject. And in religious terms, yes, God has told us it is a sin.”

  “Then explain to me how something that is a sin has kept this city afloat for over four hundred years. If we stopped killing those Eastern Bloc bastards what do you think would happen?”

  “The Word tells us that if we choose peace, God will reward us with peace."

  “You can’t be serious."

  “You’re a Godder, Blue?” said Clayborn. “I thought you were all about the science.”

  “I look to science for the practical, sir. I look to God for inspiration and hope.”

  Murphy said, “There is no God.”

  “How do you know?” Fin asked. “By definition, God is not a physical being. Therefore his existence can be neither proved nor disproved scientifically.”

  “I’ll tell you how I know. Because if there was a God, he would never have made you Cys.”

  “God did not create the Cybernites. You did.”

  “Then I guess that makes me your God. So how about I command you to just shut up about it, OK?”

  Stein raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

  “Come on, Blue," Clayborn said. "You don’t seriously believe in that God crap, do you?”

  “I do struggle with the concept of a just God in an unjust world, sir.”

  “That's because there is no God," said Stein. "Or haven’t you been listening?”

  “I have been, but what you are saying makes no sense to me.”

  “You trying to pick a fight, robot?” said Murphy.

  Fin said, “It is illegal for me to do so, and I apologize if it seemed like I was. I was merely pointing out my inability to comprehend. That is why I read The Word.”

  “Screw your Word.” Murphy tapped his shoulder holster. “The only God I need is right here.”

  More drinks came.

  Clayborn downed his and ordered another. “Blue here has something for you,” he said. “It might be worth your checking into.”

  “Not interested,” said Murphy.

  “Just listen, Murph. Go ahead, Blue.”

  Fin explained about the missing evidence. The two Internal Affairs agents exchanged glances.

  “Your reactions indicate that you have some knowledge of this situation,” Fin said. “Do you already have a suspect?”

  “Yeah, we got one,” said Murphy. “You.”

  “But I am the one bringing this to your attention.”

  “Do you know how many times a dirty agent has brought us something just to throw us off the scent? In this business, the first informant is always suspect number one.”

  “I can assure you that in this case your suspicions are misplaced.”

  “Is that right?”

  “What Blue means,” said Clayborn, “is that he’s programmed to be one hundred percent loyal to the SIA.”

  Murphy said, “Loyalty’s a commodity, Ben. It can be bought and sold like anything else.”

  “Not his. He’s a Cy. Remember? He’s a robot programmed to do a job. That’s all he knows.”

  “I am not a robot, sir,” Fin said.

  “Shut up, Blue. I’m trying to help you out here.”

  “I understand that, sir, but Cybernites think independently. Within established parameters, we have free will. Robots do not.”

  Murphy took out his Commlink and waved it in Fin’s face. “How about I download your kill code? How about I turn off your free will program? Then we’ll see who thinks independently and who’s the dancing robot freak.”

  “While you’re at it, make him dance over to the bar and get me another drink,” Stein said.

  “Agent Murphy,” said Fin. “Good cause and a warrant are required for the release of a Cybernite override code.”

  “And you think I don’t have good cause?” Murphy replied.

  “What I think is irrelevant. You do not have a warrant.”

  “But I know a judge who’ll give me one just like that.”

  “Wrong place, wrong time, Murph,” said Clayborn. “Just listen to Blue for a minute, would you?”

  “Fine. Have it your way.”

  Fin handed Murphy a piece of paper with a list of names on it. “Perhaps this will help clarify the matter.”

  “Polypaper?” Murphy looked over the list. “Who uses paper anymore?”

  “I do,” said Clayborn.

  “You and the dinosaurs," said Murphy. "Are you still color coding your files, Ben?”

  “Yes, he is,” Fin replied. “And I find his system quite incomprehensible.”

  Stein and Murphy laughed.

  Clayborn scowled. “You’ll pay for that one, Blue.”

  “My apologies,” Fin said. “I used paper because I was reluctant to enter the data into our system, Agent Murphy, considering that someone on the inside is responsible.”<
br />
  “So, what am I looking at?” Murphy said.

  “Beside each agent’s name is their role in this case. I have also noted beside their names their roles in past cases involving missing evidence. Do you see the pattern?”

  Murphy looked up from the list. “Yeah, I do. FYI, Mr. ‘I’m Blue Because I’m Smarter Than You,’ we’ve had a couple of these bozos in our sights for quite a while.”

  “Why have you not arrested them?”

  “Two words—hard evidence—as in we don’t have any.”

  “Might I make a suggestion?”

  Clayborn interjected. “That’s enough, Blue. They don’t need you doing their job for them.”

  “I am only trying to help.”

  “That’s OK,” said Murphy. “I’d like to hear what Robo Agent has to say. Go ahead. Enlighten us.”

  Fin went on, “Can we agree that the remaining untraceable counterfeit credits are in jeopardy?”

  “That’s a good bet,” said Murphy.

  “Then I believe we can also agree that we have been presented with a unique opportunity to discover the ones who removed the first million, which in turn could produce evidence to connect them to these prior crimes.”

  “What kind of opportunity?”

  “The opportunity to let them steal the remaining five million and catch them in the act.”

  “Just how do you propose to do that?”

  “I have taken the liberty of treating the remaining credits with a commercial nanotracer, one that is non-standard for SIA, one that no agent would normally think to use or test for. Each batch of tracers emits a unique signal. That is how humans keep track of their domestic robots, Agent Murphy. When the perpetrators handle the money packs, some of the tracer will transfer to them. The rest will remain on the credits, directly linking the criminals to the contraband. This will give you the hard evidence you require. The number at the bottom of that sheet of paper is the particular signature of the nanotracer I used.”

  Murphy nodded. “I have to admit that’s good work, Fin.”

  “I’ll bet that hurt to say,” said Clayborn.

  “Trust me. You have no idea.”

  “Believe me, I do. Blue’s got a knack for finding something on just about every case that makes me look like a total idiot.”