The Inscrutable Mr. Robot Read online

  “Where is it?”

  “I can’t tell you,” said The Engineer.

  “You can’t or you won’t?”

  It wasn’t so much the instruments of torture which caused The Engineer concern, it was seeing all the intricate parts of his latest robot, spread out on a table; numbered and tagged. His heart raced, and it felt as if his chest was caving in.

  “I can’t because I don’t know. He left.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “As difficult as it was, I did not ask and I did not look. The least I could do was give him that slight chance.”

  “Can you build another one?”

  “I can, yes, but…”

  “But, what?”

  “There’s only one Mr. Robot.”

  “Just copy it.”

  “It’s not that simple. Believe me, I’ve tried. Mr. Robot is special. More so, the science of what makes him special, I can’t define. I understand why it works; I just don’t understand how it works. It was a fluke. What separates him from other A.I is unexplainable. And if I can’t explain it, how the hell am I supposed to replicate it? Like I said, I’ve tried; over and over.”

  “For your own sake, though, if you want to live, I suggest thinking more astutely and being a great deal more cooperative.”

  “Or what?”

  Given the array of cutting instruments, the question itself was kind of redundant.

  “I’m not scared to die,” said The Engineer. “It is, after-all, the only other thing that happens in our lives. It never comes at the right time, and at the hands of another it is always unjust, cruel, unfortunate, and unfair; and at one’s own hands, a mere tragedy. So dying here right now will be no less worrisome than tomorrow or in fifty years; whether it’s crossing a busy intersection or hanging from an old fruit tree. Endings are always ill-written and for them, one always finds themselves so ill-prepared; or at least that’s how it seems. So it seems a little presumptuous to assume that this death be better or worse than any other.”

  This kind of self-deprecating charm might have won him favours with muggers and bullies in the past, but these gentlemen were no amateurs. And there was one in particular who looked as if violence was the only language that he spoke. He looked intent on torture as if, like a kid with their favourite candy or toy, it had been promised to him.

  “What is the robot’s function?” asked The Doctor.

  The Engineer watched how The Gentleman caressed the instruments as they lay in their trays. He did so with the amorous affection of a young man stroking his lover’s breast. And all the while, he remained completely silent, chewing on a piece of gum.

  “It doesn’t have one.”

  “What do you mean it doesn’t have one? It’s a machine, isn’t it?”

  “Mr. Robot doesn’t need a function. Eventually, he’ll find one for himself; but it is his to seek out and determine.”

  “You do realise what you’ve done?”

  “Why does it matter? Why do you care?”

  “I am The Doctor, of course, I care.”

  “I can see straight through you. I know what you want. You’re never gonna get it.”

  The Doctor nodded to his violent accomplice.

  “Where the hell is it? Tell me, you old fuck. How is it going anywhere? How is it doing anything? How does it function without a purpose? How does it compute without a utility? I don’t understand.”

  “How do any of us? What do we do when there’s nothing to be done? We wander and we look for something. We look for a sense of purpose. We define ourselves by seeking out our own utility. Mr. Robot is no different and no more dangerous than you or I.”

  Behind him, The Gentleman was running his tongue along the cutting side of a scalpel.

  “I don’t think you appreciate the severity of this situation,” said The Doctor.

  How could he not?

  “Is the robot aware?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it dangerous?”

  “No.”

  “Does it have the potential to be dangerous?”

  “He has the potential to be anything. He can be an astronaut, he can be a painter, or he can trick old ladies out of their monthly pension. Just because he has potential, it doesn’t mean that he is in any way able to fulfill it. You, for example,” said The Engineer sounding confident. “You have the potential to be rational and responsible; to not be driven by speculative ignorance and superstition. Will you torture and kill me, or will you live up to your potential?”

  He had barely finished his sentence before a mallet came crashing down. It almost split his head in two. The whole room gasped with delight. Nobody saw it coming.

  “I too am not afraid of death,” said The Doctor. “That’s not to say I, like most people, and like you I assume, do not have an aversion to dying. Pain, you see, transcends all belief and ideology, and is rarely lost in translation. Pain inspires. The will to retreat and to lick one’s seeping wounds, and the will to survive; at any cost, and any measure.”

  “He’s just a robot.”

  Blood soaked his battered face.

  “Ah, but it’s not just a robot, is it? Not in the right hands; or in the wrong hands, mind you.”

  There were no right hands; The Engineer knew this.

  “Why are you doing this?” he asked.

  “I could ask you the same question. You build a doomsday device, arm it with general intelligence, and then you let it walk out your front door. You’re either insane or stupid; or, more than likely, this is part of some greater conspiracy – some master plan.”

  “Do you even know how many robots I’ve built?”

  “But only one with the will to take over the world.”

  “What are you so afraid of?”

  “The robot’s potential; it’s immeasurable.”

  “What is potential? It’s an empty tank. Who says Mr. Robot knows how to fill that tank? And even if he does, can he even afford such a thing? All roads may lead to Rome; it doesn’t mean anyone is ever gonna get there. Mr. Robot is not The Singularity.”

  The Engineer spoke to The Doctor as a father might his son; one who had outgrown his welcome, and the place in his home. The Doctor, on the other hand, did not.

  “I will find the robot and I will destroy it; for the good of humanity.”

  “What do you know about humanity?”

  “You built this robot; you betrayed your own kind.”

  “And you will betray yours.”

  Behind him, The Gentleman stood chewing his piece of gum, with a sheet of cellophane outstretched in his hands. His intention was clear, as was his commitment to the cause.

  “We are the shadow of humanity,” said The Doctor. “We are unseen and unheard of because our acts are unspeakable and unimaginable, but they are necessary. We do what must be done; what others have not the gall, the courage, nor the peace of mind to do. We are the travesty from which hope and unity blossom. We are the forest fire. We are the landslide. We are the torrential rain and we are the flood. We are the catastrophe. We are the fathers of empathy, altruism, and kindness. Goodness is the intention of our wicked, wicked ways.”

  “You were always…”

  His words were smothered under cellophane.

  The Doctor watched The Gentleman as he ended the old man’s life. The assassin looked so halcyon-like. Were his hands not stretched around an old man’s gasping face, one would hardly think The Gentleman was a man of violence at all. His expression was as warm and placid as a summer’s day.

  The Doctor wanted to say how proud he was, but those words couldn’t come out.

  “Good job,” he said, instead.

  In his office, he paced back and forth waiting for his assistant to come. It seemed as if that is all he had ever done – wait. Like any relationship, theirs had worn through its thin rubber sole; and it wouldn’t be long now until one discarded the other.

  The Assistant knocked on his door before entering. Even after all this time, she never felt as if she could just walk right in. Theirs was a courtship of formality. But over the years, like any relationship, though the words she spoke were the same, they were spoken differently; as if the meaning and intent behind them had changed.

  “Sir,” she said as if it were half a word that she could no longer pronounce.

  “Stop all protests.”

  “Are you sure?”

  What she really meant by this was; “Are you stupid?” The protests were everything; without them, how could The Hyenas be heard? Their voices were like cracking whips and exploding mortars; they kept the common disingenuous man from forgetting his wicked and uncivilised roots. Without their protests, The Hyenas were just like everyone else.

  “Divert all resources. I want that robot; I want it now!”

  The Assistant had, for as long as she could remember, always felt as if nothing she had done was ever enough; for herself sure, but more so, for anyone she had ever respected, followed, and come to trust. Everything was never enough. And though she knew it was just some crazy, neurotic thought in her mind, when The Doctor spoke in such passion about this robot, she couldn’t help but feel that her time was coming to an end. And this was the other feeling she’d had for as long as she could remember; being conspicuously certain that she was going to be replaced.

  “Doctor, where do we start?”

  She always retreated to formality when she felt this way.

  “It’s a robot in a city,” said The Doctor, wiping blood from his cheek. “How hard can this be?”

  10.

  The Man was inconsolable. He wept like an open tap. It was amazing how someone so strong could make himself look so small and insignificant. There was barely a speck of the man left that had, only moments ago, sounded as if the hero he proclaimed to have had once been was still somewhere inside of him; capable of greatness. Now, though, he was crouched under a table, rocking back and forth with his head tucked into his knees.

  “I don’t want to die alone,” he said, over and over.

  “What a strange thing to say,” thought Mr. Robot. “All things die alone,” he said, consoling The Man, “even en masse.”

  They hadn’t intended on getting drunk. It was just one of those things that happened.

  “I don’t care. I want everything back how it was.”

  It was maybe after the third or seventh drink when the conversation finally turned to family. The Man and Mr. Robot were identical. Both had found themselves unprepared and alone.

  “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know who the hell I am without her. I just want everything back to normal.”

  His crying had stopped but he was in no way recovered. His expression looked thirty years younger. He looked like a small abandoned child still waiting in the freezing cold for a car that would never come. He looked harmless and in need of coddling; so Mr. Robot did just that. He picked up The Man from the ground and held him as a father might hold his worried child, or how a farmer might - a heavy sack of potatoes.

  “I too enjoy suspension,” said Mr. Robot.

  The Man rested his head on the robot’s iron shoulders. “Please don’t stop,” he said.

  Mr. Robot rocked from side to side on his worn hinges. It sounded like a box full of plates being thrown down a flight of stairs.

  “Would you like me to play you a song?” asked Mr. Robot. “I have access to a large library of music.”

  “No,” replied The Man. “That would be weird. Just keep holding me.”

  In the robot’s arms, he felt released from all his worry. With his eyes shut as they were, he might as well have been drifting through space, floating in the Dead Sea, or bound and wonderfully restrained; submerged in his mother’s womb. He felt like an unripened fruit, hanging from a branch and lightly swinging in the breeze. He was no longer heavied by the weight of his flesh and bones, or buggered by the aches and pains in his back and his rickety knees. He felt lighter than he had ever felt before – lighter than air; lighter than even a single thought. He could stay like this forever.

  “How long were you married?”

  “A while.”

  His answer was quiet and aloof as if to say, “Shut up you dumb bastard. Don’t spoil this moment.”

  “Is that long?”

  The Man half sighed. “Sometimes time seems insignificant,” he said. “If you do something for long enough, it can feel like forever. The starting line kind of disappears and the person you were before becomes this transparent blur.”

  “And are you sad now that it has ended?”

  “Yeah.”

  He sounded miserable.

  “I just want everything back to normal.”

  “Were you happy together?”

  “No,” said The Man, “not for one minute. Our marriage was unbearable. But at least I knew who I was.”

  The two stayed silent for some time; Mr. Robot staring strangely at his own reflection while The Man rested his head on the robot’s shoulder.

  “I was happy,” said Mr. Robot, thinking of his old bedroom.

  He sounded anything but, and his expression was one of woe and heartbreak. Mr. Robot couldn’t frown. He didn’t have the mechanics. He was a simple robot after all, but what he did have was a small panel on his chest that lit up small coloured bars. The more coloured bars, the more severe the robot’s experience. Each bar that lit up was as blue as the deepest ocean, just as it was, as black as the void of space; and there were three of them.

  “Can a robot even be happy?”

  “I’m not really sure.”

  Mr. Robot continued to stare at his own reflection in quiet displeasure. He saw first how bulky he looked. Were it not for the hundreds of chips and dents, he would have no shape whatsoever; not like a human anyway. Even the most poorly formed and unattractive people had shape and dimension. They all had their unique silhouette. Their skin curved and folded over their muscle and bone, and it jiggled when they laughed or became startled. A human, though, always looked like a human. They couldn’t be mistaken for a generator, a freezer, or even a laundry basket. Mr. Robot, on the other hand, could be mistaken for any one of those. He didn’t even look how other robots looked.

  And so he stared at his own reflection as if it were a stranger whose clothes and culture he not only could not understand but that he disagreed with entirely, and all five bars on his panel lit up.

  “Is it possible that I am not a robot?” he asked.

  “You look like a robot. You sound like a robot.”

  “But I don’t feel like a robot.”

  “Then what does a robot feel like?”

  What a perplexing question. He had never been another robot before, so how could he know which of the feelings or sensations that he experienced were consistent from one robot to another?

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Well,” said The Man, climbing down from the robot’s sure embrace, “I’m not sure if a normal robot would ask that kind of question.”

  “Would a human?”

  “Not all, no. Some people might ask this type of question and it might make them seem more profound or, more often, more troubled, sad, or confused.”

  “So the insightful and the perturbed both speak the same language. How does one distinguish then, genius from insanity? Is it in their inevitable response?”

  “Neither one has the answer, but it’s in how they ask the question that differentiates one from the other. The average person doesn’t ask this type of question, but that doesn’t make them any less human. Hell, even a body in a morgue is still a person.”

  “What is the difference then, between a human and a person?”

  The two were still for some time, lost in deaf and dumb bewilderment, whilst unbeknownst to them, trouble was stirring in a dark corner of the bar; a corner that looked shadowy and conspicuous, and smelt like a hooker’s old bed sheets.

  “Can you put me down?” asked The Man.

  Mr. Robot slowly lowered The Man back down to his feet.

  “Has your situation improved?”

  The Man didn’t have to respond. He didn’t look weak and malleable anymore. He didn’t look like a month old balloon. It was as if out of nowhere, some switch had been flicked making his veins fill with a dire concoction of rocket fuel and cement. No longer were his shoulders slumped. No longer was his back pathetically arched. He didn’t stare hapless at the ground anymore. He wasn’t looking for pennies. He wasn’t kicking around for some confidence, or the pieces of his broken pride. No, he stood tall, noble, and erect with his chest pushing out like the edge of some treacherous cliff. His shoulders locked into place like the hammer of a gun, and a smile as ominous as a pair of brass knuckles. He was ten feet tall again; imposing and full of threat.

  “I gotta make a call.”

  As he did, Mr. Robot quietly scanned his system for the closest stations and quickest routes, narrowing his searches to stations with bridges, overpasses, or historical monuments of any kind which overlooked the tracks of oncoming trains. It was all very exciting, planning to kill his new friend.

  “Hey, it’s me. Listen, I shouldn’t have called you a cheating whore. That’s not fair. I was angry and emotional, and, it’s just this whole thing came out of nowhere. I wasn’t expecting it. I don’t blame you, though, I don’t. It’s not your fault. I can see that now. You didn’t consciously choose to go behind my back. You’re not that type of person. Love is blind, right? It’s blinding. It stops people from seeing the effect of their decisions on other people, as opposed to themselves. What I’m saying is, it’s not your fault. I can see that now. You were both victims of love. We all were. I’m just as involved in your new relationship as either of you. Maybe we could even get together and have some beers; me, you and what’s his name. There’s no reason we can’t all be friends.”

  He sounded so hopeful and merry; you’d think he was a distant cousin.

  “Hey listen, I’m sorry for the acetone on your car. When I get some work I promise I’ll get that fixed. Oh, and that’s the other thing. I’m thinking about back into superhero work. I’m thinking of being Justice Man again. It’s been years, I know, but I’m realising from this whole separation that it’s about finding yourself – your true self. You know? Who am I? What is my real purpose? What difference can I make in the world?”