David Ring III - Stanley Duncan's Robot

“What’s wrong?” Stanley’s mind raced over the interactions of the day, searching for the words that had upset Dan. “Was it the sign at the restaurant? Those people are jerks.”

Dan chopped up slices of pork on a long wooden cutting board. “No, it’s not that.”

Stanley scuttled to the table. “Then, what is it?”

“Earlier you said I was born in Japan.”

“That’s right. I bought you from the Shinto Corporation. Although I met you when you were already a man, I watched you grow up.”

“About that. You see, thanks to the improvements you’ve made, I’ve been able to go through previously inaccessible experiences in my brains. I have memories of being in Japan and flying over to the USA with Hiro Mori — but they are not real.”

“Of course, they’re real. I watched the GPS from my computer. I met Hiro.”

“But that’s wrong.”

Stanley shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“I’ve done extensive testing. I was made in Boston.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. Why would they falsify your memories?”

Turning around, Dan stood in front of the refrigerator and shook the Romanesco broccoli. “That is a good question.”

Morning came and woke Stanley with a smile. He stumbled bleary-eyed into the bathroom, pondering Dan’s earlier comments about not being made in Japan. Doubting it was a glitch in his software, the background story must have been some sort of marketing gimmick by the company.

“Good evening, Stanley,” said Leticia. “Adjusting the water to 100 degrees Fahrenheit.”

Warm water rained down on him. His hand passed under a dispenser, white foam automatically flowing down to his fingers. Massaging it into his hair and skin, he became lost in thought, caught in a daydream. Flashes of happiness burst like July 4th fireworks on the Charles River. The endless stream of water flowed through his hair, draining the shampoo suds that he mindlessly reapplied.

“Fifteen minutes have passed,” said Leticia.

Stanley had completely lost focus. He didn’t remember what he had cleaned. He filled his hands with soap, reapplied the foam, and then rinsed himself off. Reaching for a towel, he took a minute to think about his memory lapse. Was he being forgetful, or was something going on that he didn’t understand?

His heart warmed as he thought about discussing it with Dan over a cup of tea.

Stepping onto the warmed tiles, he dried off and then used the towel to clear the mirror. His two halves, burned and unburned, stared back at him. For the first time, both seemed beautiful. Life was worth living. He, Stanley Duncan, was a part of the world. He had a right to be here, to enjoy life, to be happy.

Touching his scars, he thought about how insignificant they seemed and how utterly ridiculous he had been. He burst out laughing at how preposterous it had been to judge himself so harshly all these years.

A great, joyous warmth spread over his body.

Life was good.

Stanley hummed as he slid on his dark-navy flannel pajamas and walked to the kitchen. He stared through the two cups as he waited for the water to boil, feeling as if he was weightless, floating someplace far away, where nothing really mattered, and everything was okay.

Glowing, he placed the two steaming cups of chamomile on the coffee table and took a seat next to Dan. “What else do you remember about the laboratory you were created in?”

“There were other cyborgs.”

“The same model as you?”

“No, these were human-born. Beautiful men and women with Cerebral Stitches. None of them looked Japanese.”

“That doesn’t sound real. Are you sure this wasn’t a dream?”

“How do I know if any of my memories are real? Couldn’t they have falsified all my memories? How do I know this is real?”

“Of course, it’s real.”

“Yeah, but how do I know?”

“You just do. You feel it.”

Dan shrugged.

“This is real. And when we go outside, you’d better take it seriously.”

“Don’t worry, Stanley. I’ll protect you if anything happens.”

“No! If there is any sign of trouble — that’s it. We go home.”

The Fermi dropped them off at an empty parking lot. Stanley strolled inside, and, suddenly, the excitement he was feeling to be in a library again, to smell that old-paper-aroma knowledge, vanished as if someone had punched him in the gut and knocked the wind out of him. It was certainly incomparable to MIT’s science library, where towering shelves were filled with the perfected words of great men and women throughout history, a living body of knowledge that continued to grow and inspire. Sauntering down those dusty aisles, it was not uncommon for him to be filled with a mighty cheer — as if Tesla himself had passed through his body and whispered into his ear. But here, in this so-called “library,” there were no books to be seen. Not a single piece of paper or drop of ink, the lifeblood of knowledge for generations before him. Much in the same way that the written word had stifled oral tradition, digital storage had completely eradicated the need for books. Without consideration, Stanley turned to his hybrid companion and said, “Where are all the books?”

A hoarse voice sounded behind them. “Gone. Burned during the riots of the Great Layoff.”

“What a travesty,” said Stanley, turning around to see who had spoken.

A squat man with a crew cut approached, staring at Stanley with unbroken intensity. A thin, vertical scar cut deeply along both sides of one of his slightly mismatched eyes. He shoved his hand forward. “Jean Morrison, library director.”

Stanley introduced himself and Dan.

“We have more literature and media than ever before, but it’s all digital. Is there anything I can help you find?”

“Frank Depetrio sent us. He wants—”

“I know what Frank wants.” Morrison sighed; the long raspy flow of air from his lungs exploded into a coughing fit. “Still looking for answers that don’t exist. Questions that haunt him.”

“What do you mean?” asked Dan.

The director invited them to sit at a table. “Frank has sent you here to find out who is behind the creation of fuse.”

Stanley nodded, feeling strange. “That’s right.”

“But there is nothing that I can tell you that I haven’t already told him.”

“Frank wants Stanley to hear it. He’s a genius.”

“He values our analytical skills,” said Stanley.

The director laughed.

“Something funny?” Stanley wanted this to be over as fast as possible.

“Come on, now. I thought you were a genius.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s ironic. Frank doesn’t care about who invented fuse. Not really. He’s sent you on a wild-goose chase. I’ve told him time and time again who’s responsible for the creation of fuse. But if you’re as brilliant as you say you are, you’ve clearly missed the real mystery.”

Stanley did not like the way he was being talked to one bit, and he was one insult away from grabbing Dan and going home. “You’re talking nonsense.”

“Yes. It’s all nonsense, depending on how you see it.”

“And how do you see it?” asked Dan.

The man held up his finger and pointed to Dan. “With anxious anticipation. You see, I’m old enough to have witnessed it all time and time again, intelligent enough to have recognized the patterns, and skilled enough to prepare for the end of days. I’ve been battle-ready for years, but this war is being fought on a different level. The government and big business have been tightening their stranglehold, solidifying the oligarchy, and furthering the separation in classes.”