by Michael McDuffee © 2018
Terrence McNamara slammed the paper down on his desk, fury pouring out of his hazel eyes.
“Gerry!”
Gerry came jogging obediently into his boss’s office. “Yes, Ter?”
“My apologies, Ter. I was going to tell you at this morning’s meeting. It is only 8:15. I am working on our response statement and possible strategies right now.”
That was Gerry. Good old reliable Gerry. It would take a bolt of lightning to get him to forgo the schedule. Of course, that comes with the territory when you work day in and day out with robots.
“Gerry, you know I want news of this magnitude brought to my attention immediately, no matter when you catch it. I don’t care if it’s 3AM and we have a press conference that morning. I need to know these things or I can’t do my job.”
“I understand, Ter. My apologies.” Gerry turned rigidly on his heel and walked, stiffly, back to work. There were several good reasons he hadn’t told Terrence, but Gerry knew that Terrence didn’t want to hear them now.
Terrence was still fuming, but not over Gerry. Gerry just happened to be in the neighborhood, and one of his less endearing human vices was to take out his anger on those around him. He explained that to Gerry once, and that was all it took for Gerry never to complain about it. That was twenty-six years ago. It had been a tough week, and he had made damn sure to stay away from any human coworkers and robot coworkers that hadn’t been briefed on his indiscretions.
Terrence glanced back down at today’s Inquirer.
“The American Firearm Association announced last night that they would financially and legally support all law-abiding citizens who choose to act within the rights granted in the Texas - New Mexico – Arizona area laws and engage in the practice known as “Robot Hunting.” The AFA has long opposed the introduction of robotic labor and rights for any artificial beings. The well known Robot Hunting laws were enacted first in Texas in 2149, demoting robots to the status of animals and thereby making it legal to shoot them for sport. The AFA’s quest to reduce the status of robots nationwide scored an important victory last Tuesday when the Philadelphia Municipal Court found a man not guilty of murder after shooting a robot into a state beyond repair. The court ruled that since no humans were injured or killed, the act constituted only property damage. City law in Philadelphia does not differentiate between man and robot, but the AFA seized on the fact that robots are not specifically included. Robots had previously been given equal rights only by the city’s tradition of broad interpretation of the law. This highly controversial ruling has been appealed to the Philadelphia Appellate Court by the NAAAI, the National Association for the Advancement of Artificial Intelligence. The appeal will take place in late September or early October.”
How could those bastards openly advocate murder? A long time ago, Terrence tried to read through the AFA literature on the matter, but he could never even see the origin of their premises. They argue that robots are not life, but what is life if not the existence of true intelligence? Damn it! Terrence reached into his drawer and pulled out his anxiety pills for the week. Xanax Lite? Gerry must have switched them with his regulars; he was always doing things like that to look out for Terrence’s health. Terrence took two of them. He needed to calm down or else he would look like nothing but a raving lunatic at the 1:00 press conference. He wanted to be raving, but not a lunatic. The public would expect outrage from Terrence McNamara, well-known President and spokesperson of the NAAAI, but he needed to seem above these AFA people (as he certainly was).
“Gerry!” he yelled again, this time with less anger.
Gerry calmly walked into Terrence’s office this time. “Yes, Ter?”
“It goes without saying, but I need to issue a lockdown command until we can get definite legal protection for our employees. No robotic staff members are to leave the premises under any circumstance without my express permission.”
“Who will be your bodyguard?”
“Just reprogram a couple of the security automatons. The AFA doesn’t have a problem with artificial beings, just ones that have a brain,” Terrence said, massaging his temples. He looked up at his longtime friend, a shining silver humanoid figurine he had known since he was in college. “Oh, and bump up the staff meeting to 9:30 and the press conference to noon.”
“Do you still want me with you at the press conference?”
“Of course, Gerry. I don’t know if I could deliver a speech without you by my side.”
“Hey, Ter?”
“Yeah?”
“Relax. We’ll get these AFA bastards yet… there’s more, but I’ll tell you in the boardroom.”
“Thanks Gerry. I’ll see you in an hour.”
“Later Ter.”
Terrence sat back at his desk, waiting for his medication to start working. He had to rewrite his speech to address the new threat; that was a given. What could he say? We’re going to start shooting AFA members in self-defense of our robots? It would be two months till the appeal of the verdict of City of Philadelphia v. Embers, the court case mentioned before. The robot killed used to make cheesesteaks in a kiosk on 33rd. His name was Thomas, and he made the best steaks in the city, or so the Philly Food Guide had said for the past ten years. Terrence would sometimes make a trip across the Schuylkill River from his Broad Street office just to get lunch there. That Embers bastard had just walked up one day during the off hours with an assault rifle and blasted Thomas to pieces. How could the city only convict him of property damage? Never mind Terrence’s outrage over the fact that the assault rifle was legal thanks to the efforts of the AFA. Murder was murder. He had half a mind to walk into a gun shop, legally purchase a rifle, and just go to town on their offices on 13th. He fantasized about leaving a note saying, “You are the ones who make sure law-abiding citizens such as myself can do this. Rot in hell.”
Think about the speech, Terrence, not your morbid fantasies, he said to himself. How could things be falling apart now? It had been looking so good until the AFA people came to town. Following the invention of true AI in 2143, Philadelphia became the world capital of robotics. The main reason for that had been that Philly, unlike most cities in the overwhelmingly conservative country, had placed no restriction whatsoever on robotic research and production. New York was still the most populated city in the world as it had been for centuries, but if you counted robots, Philly was nearly one and a half times the size of the very humanist New York. New York was union-saturated, and it was nearly impossible for a robot to get a job. New York, of course, was mild in its policies compared to the other major municipalities. At least there, robots could (in theory) walk the streets free of harassment. Robots were all but forbidden in Boston, Washington, and Atlanta. Going west, it got worse. Nothing more advanced than an automaton was allowed into Texas, the only state from the old days of the US that still retained its identity as a state. Chicago was more or less like New York, Terrence had to admit; it was a big union town too. The unions didn’t want robots destroyed, at least not openly; they only wanted to make sure that robots didn’t take jobs from humans. LA never had many robots just as a matter of “personal taste,” but Terrence hardly expected anything rational from Hollywood.
In response to Philadelphia’s laws, or rather its lack thereof, regarding robotics, the AFA moved their headquarters to Center City, just a few blocks from the NAAAI. Terrence had laughed when they moved in ten years ago. He thought the good people of Philly would tar and feather the bastards and run them out of town with their own rifles. He thought wrong. Turns out there was a small wedge of support for them in this otherwise peaceful city. In ten years, they had managed to change local gun laws to allow for greater availability of assault rifles and automatic weapons, and lifted some of the more intense background check requirements at gun shops.
Philadelphia had long taken a policy of giving robots almost all rights that humans had, a fact Terrence was very proud of. It was never written into the law because of a legislative push led by Mayor Jonathan Green in 2145, when he argued that the laws already included protection and rights for all people, and that anything that thought and acted like a person was one. The city that invented AI cheerfully supported the idea, and so fifty years passed with Philadelphia as the world capital of robot life.
Terrence was certain Embers would be convicted of murder at his retrial, but that didn’t take away the sting from the initial ruling. The AFA even had the gall to show up and protest at a memorial service for Thomas, sometimes firing shots into the air.
A knock on his door woke Terrence from his thinking. It was Raul, his robot secretary. “Sir, it is 9:28.”
“Thank you, Raul. I’ll be right in.” Terrence loved the fact that robots were so damn punctual. Raul always got him two minutes before every meeting, so he could walk in fashionably late (a few seconds). It was his executive privilege. He rolled up the morning’s paper and headed for the boardroom. The rest of the board was already seated when he entered. They were a mix of robots and humans, with an automaton to take the minutes of each meeting.
“Alright people, we need to figure out how to address the AFA threat that has just been made on all of your lives. I think today’s press conference should be about nothing else. I want the PR team to meet with me after this to help me write a hell of a speech that will rally an already sympathetic city to our side. But before I get carried away, Gerry, you said you had something for me.”
The robot rose as Terrence took a seat. “Yes, Mr. McNamara, I do. First, rather alarming statistics that you may wish to know of prior to writing your speech. It appears our dear city isn’t as sympathetic as we anticipated after the Thomas murder. The Appellate Court will undoubtedly rule in our favor, but I’m afraid that nothing short of a miracle will get the police department to back us up on fighting the AFA unless evidence is found that they are planning serious violence against humans. Police Chief Evans made a statement that law enforcement in the Philadelphia area would follow the legal precedent set in trial until such precedent was overruled.”
Terrence was not pleased. “So what are we supposed to do, lock all of our robotic employees up in here for two months and mourn the passing of each poor bastard out there who takes a bullet from these madmen? I remember Evans – he’s an AFA member, isn’t he?” Gerry said nothing, knowing that Terrence needed no confirmation. It was just Ter’s way of talking. “The public is on our side, we just have to make them know it.” It was just the sort of nonsensical statement that people expected out of a quasi-politician. Terrence cursed himself for having uttered it. “This city, or at least a part of it, actually does view robotic beings as intelligent life. Our proud tradition as a city is a reflection of that attitude. The fact that we have a parade next month for Robot Pride reflects that, despite the protests held by the AFA every AI day in Old City while the parade marches down Broad Street.”
From his seat, Gerry gave his take on matters. “I think you are right, Mr. McNamara. We hold community outreach programs for human children, do volunteer work at food shelters in forty-eight hour shifts, and a horde of other programs that the public appreciates. I don’t think it’s necessary for me to list them all.” Of course, Gerry could actually list them all, an advantage he held over his human coworkers. Gerry didn’t like to point out or make use of these advantages, though, because he knew that even here it made humans resent him. “What we need to figure out, fellows, is the reason for the lack of outcry on the part of the city. Is it possible that there has been a massive ideological shift in the human population of the city that has gone completely under the radar?”
“I need to think,” Terrence said, eyes looking off into the distance. “The rest of you get out of here.” Everybody knew what that meant. The room cleared out except for Gerry. “Shut off the automaton, would you, Gerry?”
As soon as the last person cleared out, Gerry replied. “Sure thing, Ter.” Gerry shut off the minute-taker, a humaniform machine that was programmed to record perfectly everything said in the boardroom.
“You were dead on, Gerry. Why the hell isn’t everybody pissed off about this? Why are we the only ones raising a stink? The AFA has built support over the years, but not enough to silence what I pessimistically estimate as a good eighth of the city that should view the Thomas shooting as murder, not vandalism.”
Gerry followed with the thought. “What about all the robots? Where are they? We aren’t exactly voiceless in this city. We have opinions and feelings of our own. Why isn’t there a protest forming at the AFA even as we speak? – Incidentally, I’m scanning CNN right now and there isn’t. – What is going on? Are all the robots too terrified to set foot out of their apartments?”
“Jesus, Gerry, we can’t hold this press conference on pure rage. We need to know what is happening out there.”
The president and vice-president of the NAAAI sat, human and robot, in silence. They needed time to think. Times like this were not altogether rare; Terrence trusted Gerry more than anybody else, and the bond was likewise from Gerry. For that matter, Gerry was the only person who called Terrence “Ter.” He was the only real friend Terrence had. The two thought with one mind, or so the rest of the office thought. Each stared off into space, glancing simultaneously at the clock on the wall to see how much time there was to put this afternoon’s speech together.
“Ter, do you remember why we got into this mess?” It was a question that didn’t need answering. Terrence knew Gerry was just beginning. They thought with one brain. “It was twenty-one years ago this August. You were in college, an aimless firebrand, and I was just born a year and a half earlier. We happened to be viewing the same news screen at the same time.”
The story followed from there. Gerry didn’t need to repeat it. In August of 2201, Texas officially announced its policy of not allowing AI beings within its borders. Robots had been given no more rights than animals since 2149, but they were not specifically forbidden entrance to the state for fifty years. Three days after the 2201 policy change, the robot murders began. It was August 7th when Gerry and Terrence McNamara stood side by side, watching the latest pictures of a mangled robot with its memory card on a stake by the side of the road. They both uttered the same phrase.
“Sons of bitches.”
At that, they glanced at each other. Robots rarely swore. Terrence could put old century sailors to shame if he lost it. The conversation began with a shared curse, and so went their crusade.
Gerry continued. “We swore when we first got jobs at the NAAAI that when we were running things, as we knew we would one day, it would be our solemn duty to make sure that the public knew the truth.”
“That we did, Gerry. I like to think we have done that.”
“We have Ter; we’ve put out the truth about AI, about robotic emotions and robot psychology. We’ve educated the most educated city on Earth about robotics. We put out the truth, and it has always held us.” Terrence didn’t reply; he was waiting for the point he knew was coming. “Why stop now? Why hold back the truth about our own thoughts and feelings? Ask the city why there is no outrage from human or robot. Tell them that we don’t understand what is going on. Maybe we’ll get an answer.”
Terrence knew from years of working together when Gerry was right. He also knew that neither he nor Gerry ever stopped playing the part of the politician. “It may also bring people to our side. For once, we don’t have the answer. In a way, it makes us more… sympathetic,” Terrence added.
“You were going to say ‘human,’ weren’t you, Ter?”
“You’d think that being in this position for so long would beat that type of speech out of me.”
“Don’t let it. You’ll never be much of a politician if you can only speak to people who think like you do.”
“Was I speaking to you just then, Gerry?”
“Always.”
“Gerry,” Terrence began looking up into the lights with a quizzical look on his face. His eyes held a certain sparkle; he was having an idea that felt so beautiful it was as if he had never thought before. Perhaps memories were just that sweet to him.
“Yes, Ter?”
“Where were you born?” Terrence always asked where a robot was “born,” not “made.” Automatons and machines were made; intelligent robots were born. Born in factories, but born all the same. Besides, what is a hospital but a repair and production plant for humans?
“At General Robotics in King of Prussia, twenty-seven years, three months, and two days ago.” Gerry didn’t ask why Terrence wanted to know. He trusted his friend to have good reason. A whim that would push Terrence’s thoughts in the right direction was reason enough.
Terrence just smiled and leaned back in his seat, his eyes boring a hole in the fluorescent lights in the ceiling. “I knew another robot one time that was born in King of Prussia.” That was all he would say.
They spent a few more hours in silence, lounging in the comfortable boardroom chairs. Terrence was going to make up his speech on the spot. Gerry guessed as much from the moment he dismissed the board without a real idea. Terrence was only truly beginning to think, Gerry knew. Gerry wasn’t afraid, either, not even as a politician. Terrence McNamara could ad lib a better speech than most humans or robots could compose given any amount of time. That was Terrence’s genius. That was why he was president, and Gerry was vice. Gerry had his own brilliance, but Terrence was unparalleled as a spokesman and leader. Terrence could have the mayor’s seat if he wanted it, Gerry knew. He could walk into a political debate cold and leave his opponent dead on the floor. That was what was going to happen at noon.
Gerry’s internal clock notified him that it was 11:55, so he gave Terrence a glance. He didn’t need to say anything. Terrence got up and headed for the door. The NAAAI front steps served as the perfect backdrop for a press conference. They were broad at the base, narrowing as you approached the front door. The door behind them was glass, but during conferences they dropped a blue curtain over it to make pictures of their highly photogenic leader come out well. At the top of the steps, there was a small “porch” area, which comfortably fit the podium and lectern, complete with microphones. A blue tarp stretched out twenty feet above them all the way to the street, which was a good thirty yards. In fair weather and foul, this was the place to make appearances.
Terrence McNamara walked out from behind the curtain. With him as always was Gerry. Gerry stood behind Terrence, just as the Vice-President stood behind the President during an important speech. As they approached the podium, they were greeted with a bombardment of camera flashes and shouted questions. This was a big conference - they knew the NAAAI would be flaming over the Thomas shooting and the AFA’s statement. More than that, they knew that Terrence McNamara was about to deliver what could be an historic speech. Gasps and excited whispers could be heard from the crowd as they began to notice that Terrence didn’t have any paper with him, nor were there any Teleprompters. He was going to make this up off the cuff! They knew then that this speech would indeed be historic.
“Ladies, gentlemen, robots… and members of the press,” Terrence began, which prompted light-hearted laughter from the crowd. “I didn’t grow up in this city, as many of you know. I moved here when I took a job at this very organization, but the job isn’t why I moved here. Philly was my home long before I ever got off of 76 for the first time. Philly had the spirit, the bravery, and the pride to do what few other cities even dared to dream of.”
Terrence paused for a second, reaching deep into his heart to find the right words to come next, the right words to make the whole world feel what he felt.
“I remember this day… I was six years old. It was the most influential day of my life, one that I’ll never forget.
“My dad was a fairly wealthy man; I wouldn’t go so far as to call him rich, but he was wealthy and he wanted the best for my siblings and I. He hired a robot babysitter named Phillip to take care of us while he was at work. Now Phillip was an old generation robot, an RB-37 born in King of Prussia. Phillip was my best friend in the whole world back then. He cared about nothing as much as my happiness, and not just in the long-term way like a parent cares deeply. He wanted me to be as happy as possible every single second of every single day. On this special day, he took me to a movie that I wanted to see. You know how it is when you are six; that movie was the sole reason for my existence that day, and the next day it would be forgotten. Phillip, he took me to the movie, bought the tickets, and led me into the theatre. Just before the tickets were taken, he turned away. I asked him where he was going, and he just gave me that big robotic grin and told me to go ahead. He couldn’t come with me. He wouldn’t explain why because he didn’t want to spoil my happiness, but I found out anyway. Right above the ticket-taker was a bright white sign with big black letters tearing across it in that businessy font that I never liked; it was what I found on the newspaper my dad always tried to get me to read. I could read well for a six-year-old, and I looked up at a sign that said ‘Humans Only.’ Phillip had to go wait in the cramped storage room with the other robots while I was allowed to enjoy myself at the movie of my dreams. But that movie was spoiled then and forever. I knew right then what it was I wanted to do for the rest of my days. No, not what I wanted to do – what I had to do.
“I may not have been old enough to understand the complex workings of the world, but I was old enough to know right from wrong. I was old enough to know what my duty was. I was old enough to know that we live in a world that is running from its conscience, aware but terrified of the truth. We live today in a world so afraid of the truth that it would repeat the most horrific episode in its own history just to stave off that fear.
“Robots may be ‘manufactured’ in the sense that parts come together in a factory to make their arms, legs, torsos, and other body parts. If you prick them, they will not bleed. If you tickle them, they will not laugh. And if you poison them, they will not die. But they are creatures of God all the same. It is in the mind that our true uniqueness lies, for even we humans are naught but a bundle of parts, more squishy and messy than a robot’s, but parts just the same, save for our mind. A robot’s mind is as unique and impressionable as a human’s. The factories craft them in an attempt to make intelligence, humor, pity, and morality, but you can never directly lay out the paths that billions and billions of electrical charges take in the robot mind. If you insult them, they will cry. Perhaps they are more human than we; after all, we have wronged them, and they do not take revenge.
“Why, therefore, do we stand idly by while they are murdered in our streets? No! We do worse than that! We cheer and praise the villains that murder them, we affirm their decisions, we donate our money to them, and we raise our votes to support them. The rest of the world has done just that for years, and now here the residents of the only city in the world to truly see right from wrong have joined with the murderers.
“I don’t know why you’ve done this, Philadelphia. Why have you given up? One block over and three blocks north is the den of murderers. Go to them, if your conscience doesn’t tear you to pieces. Go to them, for they will welcome you with open arms, and a free gun for your troubles, to ease your mind of the filthy deeds you are condoning.”
A solitary tear ran down Terrence’s cheek and splashed onto his trembling hand.
“I… I’m lost. It brings me to tears to see these streets the same as they always are, to see people going about their business as if nothing had happened.”
His voice rose to a desperate shout.
“To allow this is to bring about the most catastrophic happening in the last two hundred years in this historic city. Do you truly not see, Philadelphia? Can you not understand what is going on here and now?”
Time itself slowed down as Terrence McNamara lifted his gaze to face the media. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the gleam of a small red dot on Gerry’s metallic shoulder. It was right over his central memory bank. Milliseconds later, as time still crept along, he caught sight of a crouched body in a window across the street. Terrence was free of the constraints of time, and long before the crowd heard the blast, he had leapt in front of his only friend in the world.
The bullet was a relatively new design meant to pierce the thick outer shells of robots. Terrence’s collar bone didn’t stop it, but it slowed it down just enough. It exited Terrence and only dented Gerry’s frame. The explosion of blood onto Gerry’s polished body made it impossible to see the next red dot, but that didn’t bother the security automatons; they had only one mission. Terrence didn’t make much sense out of what happened next, but as the media flashed cameras and shouted, some checking to see how badly he was hurt, the two humaniform automaton guards stepped forward. GA-176 raised its standard issue pistol and fired seven shots, completely immobilizing the sniper across the street. Bullets lodged themselves in the gunman’s right and left forearms, biceps, ankles - and one shattered the bones in his right hand. Satisfied that the job was finished, GA-176 lowered its weapon and stepped back into its standard guard position. The sniper would not be shooting again and would be arrested in minutes.
Terrence felt a chilling numbness radiating from just beneath his neck and was only dimly aware of the cacophony erupting around him. His head laid limp, cradled in Gerry’s metallic arm. He could see Gerry calling out, and wondered for the first time if robots could experience true panic. Right now it was hard for him to concentrate on anything outside of his immediate line of sight. The numbness brought with it a feeling of calm. For the first time in years, Terrence McNamara felt satisfied with what he had accomplished. He had saved Gerry’s life; for how much more could he ask? Gerry tilted his arm and Terrence’s head rolled to one side, catching the glint of the noon sun pouring through a tear in the tarp and reflecting off of Gerry’s blood-speckled frame. The light became a brilliant spectacle of dancing silver and crimson, and Terrence felt himself smile. He had always wanted to leave a mark on the world, to do something great. He drifted off satisfied that he had left a legacy in crimson sprayed over the ground of the city he loved. Perhaps now they would understand that there might be something worth loving in a robot after all.
About the author: Michael McDuffee is a graduate student in mathematics at the University of Pennsylvania. He says he writes science fiction "as a way to keep myself sane when the theorems start to get to me." He has written one (thus-far) unpublished novel, The Ghosts of Mars.
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