David Ring III - Stanley Duncan's Robot

Brad laughed, effortlessly shoving the weakling to the floor. “Pathetic. What sort of man gets overpowered by a cripple?”

“Knock it off,” said Shannon, helping him up.

“A cripple? No, far from it. He was one of the strongest men I’ve ever met. Launched me right into a wall.”

“And damaged your memory. Teddy Perkins is a cripple and the son of a whore.”

Larry shook his head. “If you say so.”

Shannon stood next to Brad, her hand in her purse.

“So, you’re telling me that Teddy Perkins — the paraplegic — was up and walking as if I hadn’t shattered his cowardly spine?”

“That’s what I’m saying. And he kind of looks like you, so that’s why I thought—”

“He’s not my goddamn son,” shouted Brad, walking over and grabbing the war hammer.

“Run!” Shannon grabbed Larry.

Cratos shocked him with the cattle prod, knocking him to the ground. “I don’t think so.”

Brad stood over Larry, the war-hammer resting on his shoulder. “He must have had cybernetic surgery. Changed his face to look like mine. He’s obsessed.” Brad’s voice was cracking. Inwardly, he could see the mistake that he and Evan had made in rushing to judgment about who had killed Michaels. Teddy must have killed Michaels, thinking it was him, Brad thought. He pointed to Larry. “Tell me he’s not my son.”

“He’s not your son.” Larry’s voice was weak.

“Louder,” said Brad, slamming the war-hammer down. Concrete blasted from the floor, inches away from Larry’s knee.

“Leave him alone.” Shannon tried to intervene, but Cratos stopped her with a threatening wave of the cattle prod.

“He’s not—” the words passed through Larry’s lips like a whisper as he passed out.

“Pathetic.” Brad’s face twitched. “Cratos, prepare an audience. I’ll be back with a fresh toy to play with.”

Outside Stanley’s condo, an unkempt protester held his sign up. “Stop the abominations. No-bots, not robots.” Long, greasy hair sank down to his chin, mixing in with his unkempt beard and mustache. Multiple layers of sweatsuits and a jacket made him look like a vagabond.

Stanley pulled back the curtain. “He’s still out there.”

Dan peered out. “All this because they claim one of my kind committed murder? Where’s the proof? And even if they did, humans kill each other every day. Do they have to register to go outside, too?”

Stanley thought about the assassination code he had been forced to give to Sergeant Wilcox, but he was too embarrassed to tell Dan. He had effectively given the most anti-AI group in the USA the instruction manual for creating an army of AI assassins. “If malware is effecting AI, it needs to be stopped.”

“Well, let’s demand that all human programmers register, too.”

Stanley looked away.

“And what about human vices? Are they not like malware?”

“There are so many differences. First, a fleet of androids could storm the nation with the hit of a button. You can’t say the same about humans.”

“Are you so sure? People get all fired up after watching a video or reading the news, and all of that can be faked with a few clicks.”

The protester’s shouts grew louder.

“I don’t get it,” said Stanley. “What sort of an idiot chooses to bite the hand that feeds him?”

“Does he really choose it?”

“Of course, he does. Everyone does.”

“I don’t.”

“Well, you’re different.”

“That protester didn’t choose, either.”

Stanley didn’t agree. Although emotion pushed a person toward one course of action, they still had a choice. That protester may have suffered great loss, but he chose to go stand outside Stanley’s condo and harass him. All the people who came to Jean Morrison had been given a choice, and many of them took the easy way out. The repercussions of losing so much led people to doing odd things. Sometimes insane things. But not Stanley. He knew it had been his fault, and he needed to atone.

Outside, the protester was thrashing about, screaming at nobody. It was as if this whole idiotic show was meant to piss Stanley off — and it was working.

“He’s gone mad,” said Stanley.

The protester turned around as if he knew they were talking about him, his overgrown facial hair sinking down into a frown as he gave them the middle finger.

Stanley shook his head. “There is something very wrong here.”

“Do you think he is connected with the police?”

As Stanley hovered over the board games, he recalled how simpler things had been a few months ago. For their sake, he needed to get his program, the Android Peacekeepers, up and operational as soon as possible. “I’d bet on it.”

“I still can’t believe the government passed a bill requiring all androids and cyborgs to register and wear identification while outside. It’s insane. Do you know what that reminds me of?”

Stanley knew his German history, but it was too terrible to say. “Something must be done about this.”

“If you’re going to ask me to start wearing the helmet, the answer is ‘No.’”

Stanley had pressured him to try on the high-grade military helmet, which Dan finally did. Pictures were taken, but Dan said it was the last time he was ever going to wear it. It made him look unapproachable and took away from his message of peace and acceptance. “No, not that. I’ve been thinking, though. Jean Morrison was right. Despite what you and the principal said, I believe what we’re doing is not enough.”

“How so?”

“The government has everything controlled and set up in the way they want it. Change is too difficult. The legal routes are not in our favor; those who should protect us are out to get us. The old generation is too old to care. The new ones are too unmotivated or dumb. Everyone else is either a fusehead or has become part of this unfixable system.”

“Not sure if I completely agree with that.”

“But it’s roughly true.”

Dan crossed his arms. “You might need to take some time off from speaking with Jean Morrison.”

“The point is,” continued Stanley, “we can work as hard as we want to get people to hear our message, but it’s futile. The system is rigged against us. We can’t win.”

“Revolutions take time, Stanley.”

“But this one isn’t going to happen unless we raise the ante.”

“You have a plan?”

Stanley smiled nervously. “Technology has changed the world. I press a button on my phone and get food delivered to my door in thirty minutes.”

“Or you have your lovely sentient machine slave over a hot stove for you.”

“You do make some amazing everything.”

Dan grinned. “Are you hungry, by the way? I was thinking of making potato skins. They’d be done in an hour.”

“I’m fine.” The words came out automatically, and then a fierce hunger rose inside of him. “Actually, go ahead. That sounds good.”

Dan went into the kitchen to prepare the food. “Leticia, preheat oven for potato skins.” The oven turned on and began to heat up.

Stanley followed him, removing a few sheets of paper from the table and sitting down. “People don’t drive anymore — except those stubborn cops. Cars drive themselves, and transportation is so much safer and more efficient. People don’t really own cars anymore. We utilize car services. My Fermi is out there now driving someone around.

“Most aspects of our existence have changed immensely over a short period of time, yet the Police Department is practically the same.”

“Absolute power corrupts absolutely,” said Dan, scrubbing the potatoes.

“Now imagine if the police were more like Fermi or our food apps. What if all we needed to do was press a button on our phones and we would have help. Real help, unbiased and incorruptible. Complete transparency through the blockchain. An android police force with officers who communicate instantly with each other. They patrol the streets, have access to a database of every criminal in the world, and don’t fear or feel pain. Imagine how safe we would be.”