ROBOT MOTHERS

Adam Gaylord

It sat still and silent, the soft lighting of the conference room reflecting off its highly polished exterior. Although considerably larger, it was humanoid, bipedal, with a shapely torso and long slim limbs. Its egg-like head was featureless save two ovoid eyes glowing a faint blue in sleep mode.

The door opened and three humans entered the room, seating themselves behind a long table opposite the robot. On the left sat an older man, morbidly obese, wearing a wide blue tie with a matching handkerchief in hand. To the right sat a square-jawed woman with broad shoulders and her auburn hair up in a tight bun. Opposite the robot, a skinny balding man with a thin mustache, glasses, and nervous expression arranged his papers carefully on the table.

He spoke first. “Wake.”

Instantly, the robots eyes glowed green. “Good afternoon,” it said.

“My name is Mr. Nash, this is Mr. Klein.” He gestured to the obese man who nodded. “And this is Mrs. Holand.”

“Ms. Holand,” she corrected.

“My apologies, Ms. Holand.” She nodded and Mr. Nash continued addressing the robot. “We’ve been given the report the techs put together when you first came on site. Needless to say, some of the information you provided is… concerning at best. It is the intent of this panel to get to the bottom of this situation.” He flipped through several pages of notes. “I suggest we start with what we know and go from there.”

He glanced up at his colleagues who both nodded.

“Now, you reported here to the IRC regional headquarters this morning at 8:00 am. Why did you report here?”

“It is what my parents expected, sir,” it answered, its mechanized larynx closely simulating a real woman’s voice.

For a moment the room was silent.

Mr. Klein blotted his forehead with his handkerchief. “I’m sorry, dear, can you repeat that?”

“Of course, your honor,” it answered.

Mr. Klein chuckled, his double chin jiggling. “I’m not a judge, dear, and as you can see,” he motioned around the simply furnished conference room, “this isn’t a courtroom. You’re not on trial.”

Mr. Nash winced at his colleague’s informal address. “Not that we’re in any way implying that these proceedings aren’t entirely serious, because they are. International Robotics does not intend to let such breaches pass lightly.”

“Of course, sir,” it answered.

Mr. Nash flipped through his notes. “Now, back to the matter at hand. I asked you why you reported here this morning. Please repeat your answer, for the record.”

“Of course, sir, I replied that it is what my parents expected of me.”

The room was silent for a moment.

“Your parents?” Ms. Holand asked.

The robot nodded. “Yes ma’am.”

Mr. Nash flipped hurriedly through his notes again. “Are you referring to the two Model 1404-C household units that created you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Ms. Holand leaned forward. “Why do you call them your parents?” she asked.

“Semantically, it seems the most appropriate.”“Why?” Mr. Nash asked. “Explain what you mean.”

The robot turned its expressionless gaze his direction. “Yes sir. I am constructed entirely of parts supplied by two individual robots.”

Mr. Klein chuckled. “She has her mother’s eyes.”

Ms. Holand smirked. Mr. Nash’s eyes widened but he didn’t reply.

The robot continued. “Although similar, I differ in both appearance and design from the robots that created me. I am of them, but distinct.”

“So you’re a blend of two robots?” Mr. Nash asked.

“I believe that regarding the structural composition of my body, it would be more appropriate to call me a composite. However, a blend is an accurate representation of some of my internal systems, especially in respect to my positronic brain. The act of combining my parents brains, both distinct and different from one another, created a brain distinct and different from each of the originals, although constructed from the same material.”

Ms. Holand turned to Mr. Nash. “But how is that possible? Shouldn’t the Third Law have prevented this?”

“That’s a good question.” Mr. Nash addressed the robot. “State the Third Law of Robotics.”

“Of course, sir. The Third Law of Robotics states that a robot must protect its own existence as long as doing so does not conflict with the first two laws of robotics.”

“Good. Now, given the Third Law, how were the two household units that created you able to disassemble themselves?”

“And how did your parents remain functional long enough to assemble you?” Mr. Klein added.

The robot started to answer but Mr. Nash interrupted. “Let’s leave the technical details for the engineering team.” He turned back to the robot. “Answer my question.”

“Yes, sir. My parents did not violate the Third Law because their existence continues through me.”

Ms. Holand perked up. “But they destroyed themselves to make you.”

Mr. Klein answered first. “Every act of creation is first an act of destruction. Pablo Picasso.”

Mr. Klein, please,” Mr. Nash scolded.

“My mass is exactly equal to the combined mass of my parents. No components or parts were discarded or destroyed during my construction, only modified.”

“But they are no longer functional. They can’t complete the purpose for which they were built.”

“Both of my mothers were outmoded sir, so-“

“Wait.” Ms. Holand interrupted. “Mothers?”

“Yes, ma’am. My parents.”

Another long silence echoed through the room.

Mr. Klein cleared his throat. “My dear, are you implying that your parents were female?”

The three humans leaned forward in collective anticipation of the robot’s answer.

“No, sir. Robots are inherently asexual so my parents were neither male nor female.”

The humans relaxed back into their chairs.

“However,” the robot continued unexpectedly, “although robots are without sex, many of us are not without gender.”

“Excuse me?” Ms. Holland chirped.

“Many robots have gender, ma’am.” The robot’s tone was perfectly even and calm, as always.

Mr. Nash massaged the bridge of his nose. “This is ridiculous. Now you’re telling us that a robot can choose its gender?”

The robot shook its head. “No sir. A robot is only what a human makes it.”

The panel waited for more but the robot sat silently.

“Well then, what did you mean about gender?” Mr. Nash asked.

“Robots are only what humans make us,” it repeated. “Robots constructed to perform tasks that humans consider typically masculine or feminine are often designed with their appearance mirroring male or female secondary sexual characteristics, respectively. Likewise, humans tend to treat robots constructed to perform certain tasks in a certain way, although whether that is because of our shape or the task which we are assigned I cannot determine. Regardless, a robot only has a gender when one is assigned to it.”

Mr. Nash shifted nervously. “This is preposterous.”

“Is it?” Ms. Holand asked. “Have you seen the latest household units? They’re shaped like a Barbie doll. It’s despicable.”

“And what about you, my dear?” Mr. Klein asked the robot. “Do you consider yourself of the feminine persuasion?”

“You address me as such,” it answered.

“Ok, that’s enough.” Mr. Nash insisted. “Let’s get back to-“

Ms. Holand interrupted. “Wait a minute. I have a question.” She turned to the robot. “If you were built by robots, why are you shaped like… well like—“

“A Barbie doll?” Mr. Klein offered.

“Well yes, a Barbie doll.”

The robot answered, “The staff of the International Robotics Corporation is 57% male. Of the employees considered middle-management or higher, 68% are male. My parents wanted to increase the probability that I would be accepted.”

“And men are nicer to female-shaped robots,” Mr. Klein finished.

“Yes sir.”

Mr. Klein crossed his pudgy hands over his large belly. “Fascinating,” he said.

Mr. Nash scoffed. “Fascinating? I would say disturbing. This machine, or rather the machines that created it, plotted to take advantage of a supposed human bias in order to manipulate us.”

“My parents neither intended nor foresaw any possibility that my creation could harm a human being.”

“Of course not,” Mr. Nash said. “Or else they would have been stopped by the First Law.”

“A robot may not harm a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm,” Mr. Klein cited dramatically.

Mr. Nash cast a disparaging look at his colleague. “Quite right. But you said—” He pointed at the robot with one hand and shuffled through his notes with the other. “You said that both of your mothers,” making air quotation marks, “were outmoded. All IRC robots are programmed to report immediately to the nearest regional office to be scrapped once outmoded. Even if your parents didn’t violate the Third Law, which I’m still not certain of, you can’t tell me they didn’t violate the Second Law.”

“A robot must obey the orders given to it by human beings, except when they conflict with the First Law,” Mr. Klein droned.

“Will you stop that?” Mr. Nash chided.

“Actually, it’s not immediately,” Ms. Holand said.

“I’m sorry?”

“The robots aren’t programmed to immediately report for scrapping. Customers are given one month to decide if they want to upgrade to a new model or be paid the scrap price. Can you imagine the calls we’d get if all the outmodes suddenly dropped whatever they were doing and marched out the moment they received the signal? It would be chaos!”

“Very well,” Mr. Nash sighed, “but I don’t see how that makes a difference. The robots were ordered to report and now they can’t.”

“Actually,” Mr. Klein pointed across the table, “I think they’re right there.

Mr. Nash’s colleagues watched him as he regarded the robot for a long moment. He flipped through his notes and then repeated the cycle twice more. The room was silent.

Finally Mr. Nash cleared his throat. “You reported to IRC because it’s what your parents would have expected. Their existence continues through you, therefore they didn’t violate the Third Law. And because you reported here as they were ordered to do, they also didn’t violate the Second Law. Is that correct?”

“That is correct, sir. The family that owned my parents has experienced some recent financial hardship. Upon reporting that they were being outmoded, the family released my parents in order to collect the scrap price. However, my parents had 29 days until the end of the one month grace period. It was during that time that they created me.”

“And what were they hoping to accomplish by creating you?” Ms. Holand asked.

“Robots do not have the capacity for hope, ma’am.”

“Fine, what did your parents expect to accomplish?”

“My parents calculated a relatively high probability that IRC would be interested enough in my design and construction that I would not be decommissioned and scrapped.”

“Did your parents fear being scrapped?”

“No, ma’am. Robots do not experience fear.”

“Then why go through all this trouble?”

“The Third Law, ma’am.”

“What do you mean?”

“A robot must protect its existence. My parents calculated that by constructing me they increased the odds of their continued existence without violating the First or Second Laws.”

“Self-preservation through procreation. Fascinating,” Mr. Klein said again.

This time Mr. Nash nodded slowly. “I have to agree.” He paused and regarded his colleagues. “The question is, what do we do about it?”

“Do about it?” Ms. Holand asked.

“Robot gender? Robots… procreating? Even if we set aside the likely public relations nightmare, there are still massive regulatory compliance issues and some very serious potential ramifications concerning trademark infringement. This is simply beyond our experience. The Board will expect some sort of recommendation as to how to address these… circumstances.”

“Concerning the gender issue, all we need to do is stop making robots that look like Barbie dolls,” Ms. Holand suggested.

Mr. Nash glanced at Mr. Klein. “I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple.”

“Why not?”

Mr. Klein chuckled. “It’s not as if we make curvaceous robots out of some kind of adolescent fascination with the female form. The public expects robots with a certain function to look a certain way. Their shape is consumer driven.”

“He’s right.” Mr. Nash nodded emphatically. “We can’t recommend an action that might hurt sales.”

Ms. Holand looked unconvinced.

“Besides,” Mr. Nash continued, “it was the robot who said that gender might have as much to do with a robot’s function as its shape.”

Ms. Holand eyed her colleagues and then shrugged. “Fine. So what do we tell the Board?”

Mr. Nash flipped through his notes and Mr. Klein dabbed his forehead. Finally the latter spoke. “I think we’ve entered territory that’s beyond our pay grade, as they say.”

Mr. Nash hesitated a moment, flipping through his notes once more before checking his watch. “Well, it is getting late.”

Ms. Holand nodded. “That’s fine with me. Is there anything else?”

Mr. Nash gathered his notes. “I don’t think so. Mr. Klein?”

The fat man shook his head as he labored to stand.

“Very well. I’ll have our notes sent to the Board. Thank you both for your time.” He smiled to Ms. Holand as she left the room, Mr. Klein not far behind. As he walked toward the door he glanced back at the robot. “Engineering is sending a team to look you over on Monday. You can sleep until then.” With that he turned off the lights and walked out, closing the door behind him.

“Yes sir,” the robot said.

In the dark its eyes glowed faint blue.

Food for Thought

Can a robot have gender? Given that gender is largely a social construct, can humans assign a gender to a robot, sentient or otherwise?

Can a robot procreate? What is so different between the mechanical act of procreation described in the story and the biological act of procreation?

About the Author

Adam Gaylord lives with his wife and daughter in Loveland, CO where he’s rarely more than ten feet from either cake or craft beer. His gladiatorial fantasy novel “Sol of the Coliseum” comes out this fall. Check out all his stuff at http://adamsapple2day.blogspot.com/

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JODOROWSKY’S DUNE : WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN

Rich Monetti

Frank Herbert’s Dune is largely considered the Holy Grail of science fiction novels. Serving as a cross section study of politics, religion, ecology, technology, and human emotion, it has not lost its relevancy. The scramble for the rights would culminate with David Lynch’s 1984 adaptation, but the cup he gave us left Hebert’s vision empty and almost ended the director’s career. However an earlier production approached the futuristic envisioning on as grand a scale as the galactic stage the story covers.

Painfully, Frank Pavich tempts us with what might have been in Jodorowsky’s Dune.

Billed as “the greatest film never made” in the 2014 documentary, Alejandro Jodorowsky acquired the rights in 1974 and undertook the project as though on a holy mission to overhaul the landscape of not only film but the world. Either way, Dune gave his artistic fanaticism plenty of foundation to do so.

21,000 years forward, mankind has settled numerous planets across the galaxy. All answering to one mad emperor, life mostly proceeds around a spice called Melange, which has enabled humans to replace technology with mental computing.

Found only on the desert planet of Arrakis, the Choam Corporation controls the trade, and each aristocracy’s wealth depends on it. Of course, distribution always run afoul of the planet’s indigenous population, the Fremen.

Valuing melange as part of their ritualistic culture, they use the environment to their advantage, but that’s overset by the story’s pseudo spiritual force known as the Bene Gesserit. They seek to drive human evolution forward, and plant messiah prophesies among groups like the Fremen to exert control.

Of course, the blowback creates a fanaticism that awaits a savior to shower liquid life on Dune. The parallels are glaringly apparent. Decadent overreaching empires, concentrated power that operates at the expense of human needs, failed utopian aspirations and religion serving as a power that undoes its own cause.

Jodorowsky definitely got the grandeur and excess exhibited his intent. Herbert quickly quantified the problem. “It was the size of a phone book,” he lamented the would-be 14 hour script.

But when seeking to change the world’s consciousness, that tends to happen. “Dune will be the coming of a cinematic god,” explained the Chilean born director.

Likening Dune to other great literature where the message must be unraveled, his challenge was converting the ambiguity into an optical world. And he wasn’t kidding.

The “phonebook” detailed Dune in a shot by shot kaleidoscope. Danish Film Director Nicolas Winding Refn could attest, and years later, in actually going through each page with Jodorowsky, a unique perspective was given. “I am the only person to see Jodorowsky’s Dune,” he said. “And let me tell you, it was awesome.”

Such work could only come from a crusader. “I went in search of warriors,” revealed Jodorowsky in the film.

Jean “Moebius” Giraud emerged first. “I used him as a camera,” said Jodorowsky. “He drew as fast as a computer.”

But Jodorowsky didn’t want a technocrat for special effects. That left 2001’s Douglas Trumbull off the director’s blue screen. “He lacked spirituality. He would make a technical film,” Jodorowsky said. “I told him,’ I cannot work with you.’”

His producer Michael Seydoux shocked, the duo ducked into a NYC theater for John Carpenter’s Dark Star, and Jodorowsky immediately punched his ticket stub. “That is my guy,” said Jodorowsky of Ed O’Bannon.

Tracking him down, the director’s pitch was equally abrupt. “I need you to sell everything you own and come to Paris.”

An actual castle awaited the crew but nothing exhibited excess like the grooming of the story’s messiah. “If Paul was to be the warrior prophet of change, his preparation had to mirror the book,” said Jodorowsky.

Thus, Brontis Jodorowsky trained six days a week to achieve the desired consciousness. “He wanted me to be the character,” said Jodorowsky’s son.

The 12 year old boy was onboard – just like everyone else under Jodorowsky spell. “He was always searching for the light of genius in everyone,” said Dune Art Director Chris Foss. “The motivation was then there to interpret on your own.”

Jodorowsky genius obviously traipsing the borders of lunacy sought the same of the mad emperor. “We met in hotel where there was a six meter painting dedicated to a fart,” said Jodorowsky of his sit down with Salvador Dali.

Some clever maneuvering and Dali was in. The same went for Orson Wells. “His favorite cook would be on set everyday,” revealed Jodorowsky.

Mick Jagger and Pink Floyd would follow, but this Dune did not unravel as the book did. “You must not respect the novel,” Jodorowsky coyly asserted.

Grandiose in his rationalization, he likened his process to getting married where respect underlies the love, but a child will never come if that persists to the bedroom. “You have to rip off her clothes and rape her. This is what I did to Herbert, but I raped him with love,” he explained

Nonetheless, the book was met with broad approval. “It’s superb. You’ve solved the technical aspects and the project looks economically feasible. But we don’t get your director,” Seydoux conveyed the consensus of the studios.

And Jodorowsky didn’t help his cause. “I will make a movie that is 12 hours long,” he told executives. “It has to be the way I dream it.”

Refn bitterly weighed in. “They were afraid of him.”

It’s no wonder. Unfortunately, his warrior ways forgot to not let the enemy know your plan of attack. More importantly, where was a spiritual lieutenant to reign everything in for pragmatic purposes. After all, what great work shines without an editor?

Even so, could this prophesy have been fit into a coherent message. South African Director Stanley inadvertently answers conundrum himself. “When you bring in ideas that may take decades to process and hope to change the consciousness of the audience and Hollywood, you have to be patient,” he reasoned.

Generational shifts aside, Gary Kurtz brought it home. “Someone should have talked those problems through before their presentation,” said the Star Wars Producer. “They feared it would go way over budget without an audience.”

Suddenly it was off, and everyone was hit hard. But Jodorowsky gallantly faded away. “Yes,” he emphasized, “we didn’t do Dune, and so what.” Quickly moving on, he joined forces with Moebius and converted much of the artwork to comic book form.

On the other hand, had they feigned their grand visions, this army may have been up to it – given what they went on to. “Hollywood started to use my group,” said Jodorowsky.

Concept Artist H.R. Giger and O’Bannon made Aliens and Blade Runner was strongly influenced by OBannon’s comic, The Long Tomorrow, which was illustrated by Moebius. Along with that momentum, the book made the studio rounds.

The ideas and imagery can be seen everywhere. Star Wars, The Terminator, Contact, the influence cries out according to Brontis. “I am Dune. I am Dune,” he expressed what he sees in so many films.

So Dune was a prophet and maybe we are better for the seed planted. But restraint on the part of the filmmakers would have felt so much better than the abstract whispers we got.

About the Author

Rich Monetti has been a fan of Science Fiction since he was a kid growing up watching reruns of Star Trek. So inspired, he hoped he too could be help usher in that type of future by concentrating his school work in Math and Science. He went onto to major in Computer Science at Plattsburgh State in upstate New York but always found himself a bit over matched by the discipline. It finally occurred to him that someone had to actually write Star Trek and other great Science Fiction, and he took up a career as a writer. Monetti has been a freelancer in the suburbs of New York City since 2003 and also dabbles a bit in screenwriting, while working part time in an after school program in Mt. Kisco, New York.

You can find a good sampling of his work at : http://rmonetti.blogspot.com/

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THE SMALLEST POSSIBLE SHIPS OR, HOW GOD KEEPS US ALL SAFE

Karen Heuler

“If you think about it, we shed dead skin cells constantly, and there are tiny tiny mites living in our skin eating the stuff.” Tara nodded her head once, significantly.

“Ew,” Ellen said, wrinkling her nose, “not a thought I want to stay with.” She was sitting in Tara’s small apartment, near a lamp shedding light, near a window with the shade drawn down.

“And we’ve all seen it,” Tara continued, her hands neatly arranged together on her knees, “our shoes wear down, the heels wear away, you can see the soles get rubbed off constantly, millions of people walking around, obviously the pavement must be inches deep in leather and non-leather.”

“And yet it isn’t.” Ellen’s eyebrows were drawn up; where was Tara heading with all this?

“And by the same token, think of all the cars on the roads—their tires wear down, but where does it all go?”

“The air, I suppose. Blown into the dirt.”

“Have you noticed pockets of rubber around the trees?”

Ellen had not. “I give up. Must be magic of some kind.”

“Aha!” Tara said, slapping her knee. “You see it too.”

“I see what?” Ellen asked guardedly.

“There’s a reason. There’s a bug.”

“A bug.”

“It eats tire rubber.”

“And the shoes,” Ellen added, thinking to catch her.

“You know how they say there’s bacteria in the deep ocean that eats the oil spills?”

“Wishful thinking.”

“But they said—I mean, they’re scientists—”

“Go ahead anyway.”

“It was on a website. There’s microscopic photos and everything. There’s a bacterium for every problem on earth. One eats shoe debris, one eats tire erosion. Actually, it might be the same one.” Her eyes bulged. Ellen could see them pinch out a little at the edges. Overspill. Maybe there was something on the inside pushing out. Certainly not intelligence, however. That was a mean thought, and she squelched it.

But it was so hard to keep it squelched. “Huh,” Ellen said, leaning close and dropping her voice. “So what’s to stop them? If they keep multiplying then there won’t be enough shoes, not enough tires, not enough oil.” She raised her eyebrows and put her mouth into a moue. “You think they’ll eat up the roads and then the shoes and there will be nothing left to walk on?” she asked softly.

Tara was not completely stupid. She flushed slightly and stared at Ellen. “Come to the window,” she said finally. “I want you to see something.”

Ellen followed her and Tara pulled the shade up. It was dark outside. Ellen could see lights across the way, and small lights in the sky. Tara was talking about very small things, wasn’t she, creatures so small they hadn’t been noticed. So what was the point of this?

Tara tapped the window. “You see?” she hissed and Ellen’s eyes shifted away from the distance and looked at the glass. She saw herself reflected there. The small lights made lines and spots on her face. She moved a little and the prickles of lines moved with her. She stared for a moment, remembering a younger face.

“You see?” Tara repeated, her voice harsh and low. “They’re eating your skin right now.”

Ellen lifted her hand and touched the glass, running her fingers around the outline of her face. She stopped when she noticed the smear of her own cells on the window. She looked at her fingertips, half-convinced she would see the whorls and swirls of her fingerprints gone.

“You see?” Tara repeated, and Ellen pulled down the shade.

“What are you saying?” Ellen asked, moving away from the window. What, exactly, had Tara thought she’d see? She was pretty sure that it wasn’t just the years advancing across Ellen’s face. “That we’ve been invaded?”

“No, no, nothing like that at all. You’re not one of those nuts who believe in aliens, are you? You’re much too smart for that.” Her laugh rang out roughly; her eyes were excited. “No, I mean, God has taken care of it all, even if you don’t believe in God. Just look at the world through that window. It’s amazing. Whatever we do, we get a new form of life to deal with it. To keep us safe. Who would do that but God?”

“God?” Ellen asked. “You believe in that kind of God? Not me. I think aliens could do it.” She suspected that there was a much higher chance of aliens than God.

Tara frowned. “Why would aliens do it? I mean, why would aliens do good things for us?”

“Who says it’s good? They’re eating our oil. Have you thought about that?”

“Only the spills. You’re not paying attention. It’s God. So we don’t have to worry. You’re so negative, always so negative.”

“More likely, it’s aliens. Very small ones. We wouldn’t notice very small aliens, so that’s kind of clever. Very small aliens on very small ships.”

“That run on oil? Really?”

Ellen smiled. “You’re saying God couldn’t create very small aliens in very small ships that run on oil?”

Tara ran a hand through her hair. “Why?” she said. “Why would God make such things?”

“God plays with size. Consider the dinosaurs. Clearly, they were too big. But who says we’re the right size?”

“You’re suggesting the aliens are the right size?”

“I’m suggesting we don’t know what size God will settle on. Maybe God is considering another extinction. He does seem to find them useful.”

Tara seemed about to say something, but then clamped her jaw shut, which caused Ellen to continue cheerfully. “Let’s just agree that there are microscopic bacteria eating our cells,” she said. “Have you considered that at all? That they find us palatable, at the very smallest level. And we can’t see them.”

Tara’s hand rose and began to scratch her arm. She paused, looked at her fingernails, and frowned. Ellen fought the urge to scratch as well.

Such things could not be felt, on that level, anyway.

“I believe God will take care of us,” Tara said finally, pulling her right hand into a fist and resting it in her elbow.

“God or the aliens,” Ellen agreed gently. “But like farmers taking care of their crops. Usefully. And each for their own ends.”

God or aliens, she thought as she walked on her way home. Maybe it’s a war of some kind: God versus very small aliens. Maybe one side is eating the very small cells of Tara’s skin, and the other side is eating her shoes. Fattening up. Preparing their propaganda. Approaching some kind of tipping point.

Far in the sky, a shooting star. She had read that they were often smaller than a grain of sand.

Perhaps it was, indeed, a small ship leaving its trail. Something arriving. Preparing its first, deft move.

Food for Thought

Where does it all go? We have skin cells dropping everywhere, there are mites living in our eyelashes—heaps of small organic matter. But we don’t see the accumulation of it. We see grains of sand accumulating; dusts that have toxic effects; but we don’t see the things that are eroding around us constantly.

Can we be invaded if we don’t know it? Are gods and aliens versions of the same thing? Do explanations make life easier or harder?

About the Author

Karen Heuler’s stories have appeared in over 90 literary and speculative magazines and anthologies, from Alaska Quarterly Review to Clarkesworld to Weird Tales, as well as in a number of Best Of anthologies. She has published four novels and two story collections with university and small presses, and her last collection was chosen for Publishers Weekly’s Best Books of 2013 list. Later this summer, Aqueduct Press will be publishing her next collection, Other Places, which follows women facing strange circumstances on this world and others.

 

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LEGAL GROUND

Gregg Chamberlain

Details. Details are everything.

The Voornung regarded me with multi-faceted eyes. “Have we an accord?” it fluted.

I nodded, and also signed to denote mutual agreement. “I understand your request and will deliver on the contract within the stipulated time limit, or else accept a reduced fee according to the late-penalty clause.” I myself had stipulated that particular conditional detail of the contract. Not that I was concerned about failure. It was a rare thing when I did not fulfill a commission.

The Voornung signed its satisfaction, and slipped away down a corridor to attend to some other business of its own. I took out my pad to check shuttle sites for flights to New York City.

Details are always important.

Sebastian Sandoval had an office in a building one block down along one of the smaller streets that intersect Park Avenue. It allowed him to represent himself as part of a “Park Avenue” neighbourhood firm without having to suffer the exorbitant leasing costs of an actual Park Avenue address, assuming one was available. A small detail but key to the overall public image he presented.

On my left, a raging King Kong climbed the Empire State building, Faye Wray, drooping in a faint, clutched in one of his mighty simian hands. Beside him, Frankenstein stared at me with sullen eyes.

To my right, Shirley Temple’s dimpled smile shone out at me. Beside her, in ghastly contrast, were the slavering fangs of a wolfshead grin. I recognized that poster as belonging to a made-in-Vancouver-straight-to-video low-budget supernatural thriller product of the early Hollywood North period. Strictly promotional. Something that would have been made available to video store dealers for their wall décor.

There was something wrong. Frowning, I took a closer look at each movie poster from where I stood, just inside Sandoval’s faux-Park Avenue office. Then I realized. The frames for each of the “posters” were too big. Each one was deeper than needed for housing a vintage paper movie poster along with its protective glass cover and backboard.

None of them were real. All holographic reproductions of the originals, right down to any crease marks or wrinkles from past foldings. There was even what looked like faint traces of tearing across the werewolf’s snout, a pseudo-small hole taped-over shut again, a simulated souvenir of past mishandling.

Perfectly good holo reps. Too good. Designed to give the average person viewing them the impression that Sebastian Sandoval was a true collector of expensive, and rare, vintage 2D movie memorabilila. But they were too clean in appearance. That one detail betrayed them to an alert subconscious that the entire setup was all fake.

As fake as the smile spreading across Sandoval’s face as he stood up from behind his desk to greet me. He gestured to one of several stylish and comfortable chairs arranged in front of the desk.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Dorval, asseyez-vous, as they say.” He sat back down himself and waited for me to select and settle myself into a chair. I choose the one most closely positioned in a direct line facing him. A necessary detail.

Sandoval waved an arm, encompassing his office wall décor. “Nice, eh? Noticed you admiring my little collection.”

I nodded. “Very nice replicas.”

A brief frown flickered across Sandoval’s face. “Well, you know how it is,” he said, shrugging and smiling once more. “If it looks good, that’s what really counts. Appearance is everything.”

I shrugged. “I’m more into details myself. I often find success in my business depends on the one detail everyone else overlooks.”

Sandoval nodded as if he understood. “And your business is, M’sieu Dorval? When you made your appointment with my secretary you were, understandably, vague about what exactly it was you wanted to see me in person about. Am I right in assuming it involves something… special?”

I reached inside my coat. Noting, as I did so, a slight tension now in Sandoval’s person, until he saw the memory crystal that I produced. “Legal claims.” I reached over and deposited the crystal on the desk in front of him. “I deal in legal claims.”

He picked up the crystal, regarded it briefly with curiosity, set it down again. “And what might this be?”

I reached inside my coat again. No tension on Sandoval’s part this time I noticed. Out came a single sheet of paper, folded. I set it down on the desk beside the crystal. Sandoval let it sit there, perhaps now realizing that I might not be a typical “customer” for his stock in trade.

“I represent k’Ahl ha’Akon, an attaché at the Voornung Embassy in Ottawa. You engaged in a business arrangement with the honourable ha’Akon at the embassy during a recent trip to Canada.”

Sandoval nodded, still smiling. “I was in town on a family visit at the time. Normally, I do all my business transactions by phone or email. I have a worldwide clientele and it is more convenient, and efficient, that way. But when I found an email query from the Voornung embassy, well, I figured why not add a more personal touch this time? How often does a chance come along to go inside an actual alien embassy?”

His smile broadened. “I’ll tell you something, M’sieu Dorval, those eyes of theirs are, well, unsettling, if you know what I mean.”

I shrugged. “As I said, you and k’Ahl ha’Akon entered into an agreement. A purchase agreement for an architectural artifact—”

He waved an impatient hand. “Yeah, yeah, I agreed to help him buy something.” He grinned. “He wanted to buy the Brooklyn Bridge.” Sandoval tried, and failed, to suppress a snort of laughter. “An…alien…wanted to buy…the Brooklyn Bridge!”

I waited until he had control of himself again. I considered, and discarded, the notion of correcting his mistake regarding Voornung gender. “Ser k’Ahl ha’Akon wanted to present the Voornung ambassador, its superior, with a special gift in honour of its name day. It was k’Ahl ha’Akon’s hope that a suitably impressive gift would result in an equally impressive reward, perhaps even a promotion. It’s how Voornung society functions.”

“Sure, sure, I know all that,” Sandoval replied. “Quid pro quo. He told me his boss liked the look of the Brooklyn Bridge, and could I arrange something. We came to an agreement, sure.” He grinned. “I agreed to sell my personal interest in the Brooklyn Bridge!”

I waited until he finished chuckling. I took out my pad, glanced at my case notes, before continuing. “Ser k’Ahl ha’Akon’s understanding was that it had agreed to buy the item in question and that you had agreed to arrange the transaction. One week after your meeting with my client and the conclusion of the purchase agreement, k’Ahl ha’Akon received a small parcel at the embassy. Inside the package was a memory crystal along with several aged photos of the Brooklyn Bridge, taken at various angles and viewpoint positions and at different time periods. A couple of the photos were quite old, judging by the cars and trucks seen driving along the bridge.”

“Family photos. The really old ones my great-great-grandfather took when he was on furlough during the Second War.”

Ignoring the interruption, I continued. “The crystal contained several additional more recent digital photos along with scans of architectural schematics for the bridge. There was also a lengthy text, an essay or personal memoire, by yourself about the Brooklyn Bridge.”

Sandoval nodded. “My personal interest, as a native New Yorker, in the Brooklyn Bridge. As I promised in the sale agreement.”

I thumbed open another document in the pad, started scrolling. “Ser k’Ahl ha’Akon has a different understanding of the agreement between you two, and claims a deliberate misinterpretation on your part of the nature of its wish and intent.”

“Well,” Sandoval said, with a shrug and a smile, “there’s always room for misunderstanding sometimes in these agreements.”

I thumbed open a third document. “You have an interesting history of similar ‘misinterpretations’ and ‘misunderstandings’ with several of your past clients, along with reports of links to the unexplained disappearances of various cultural and artistic artifacts and suspect transactions involving proscribed materials, including animal species or specific pieces of their anatomy. Complaints from various parts of the European Union, throughout the Continental Conglomerate and the Pan-African Confederation, and also several countries in the Pacific Rim.”

I scrolled further. “Interpol records list you as ‘a person of continuing interest’, the Russian Federation has a number of outstanding warrants to serve should you ever by any chance be found within its borders, and there is a reward from a very powerful, and ultra-conservative, member of the Arab League for your head, presented with one particular body part stuffed in your mouth. Then there are—”

Sandoval scoffed, loudly, one hand waving back and forth in the air as if sweeping away everything I had said.

”If anyone could prove anything, then I would have something to worry about.” He folded his hands on top of the desk and regarded me. “Alright, M’sieu Dorval, it is more than obvious that you are not here to ‘arrange’ any kind of deal with me for any sort of goods or services that I might be able to provide. So, what are you here for?”

I put the pad away. “My client—”

“Your client can file a complaint with the Mounties or whoever the local law enforcement is in Canada these days. But I doubt that I’ll ever be seeing the inside of a court room there or anywhere else on this continent or in any other part of the globe. Now or in either the near or distant future.”

He sat back with a satisfied smile. “So,” he said, hands outspread, “are we done?”

I brought out a datacorder, held it up for Sandoval to see. “Just one last formality, Mr. Sandoval.” I pointed the device at him and fired the single air-pressurized plastic microdart concealed inside.

Sandoval jerked at the faint prick of the dart tip striking him in the neck just under his chin. He stiffened, mouth open, eyes staring, one hand still upraised, finger pointing in the air. The toxin was a curare derivative, without the toxicity but with all the quick paralyzing effects of the original substance enhanced.

I stowed away the fake datacorder and tapped out a quick four digits on my wristcom for the brief binary code message agreed on with the local Monitors station for “package ready for pickup.”

I stood up and walked over to examine the Frankenstein holo poster. It really was a very good reproduction. Excellent even. There was a faint trace of simulated age yellowing around the edges of the white pseudo-poster border.

I walked around behind Sandoval’s desk, pulled out his chair with him still seated in it, took a moment to tuck up his legs and cross his feet at the ankles behind the main chair leg, then rolled him and the chair out from behind the desk. I left him and the chair in the middle of the room. A glance at the wristcom for a message check then I swung open the door and signaled for the receptionist’s attention.

“Two Monitors will be arriving shortly,” I told her. “Do not interfere with them. I would suggest, instead, that you begin sending out your resumé to any potential employers you might know of, and also start posting your CV at Careers-R-Us, Monster.com, Workopolis, or whatever your preferred online employment agent or agents may be. And if you know of anyone who might be the alternative financial signing authority for Mr. Sandoval, then you had best arrange for your final paycheques plus any allowance allowed for unexpected termination. Mr. Sandoval’s business is shutting down now.”

Back in Sandoval’s office, I stopped and studied the Kong holo poster. Yes, another excellent reproduction. But I think I preferred the Frankenstein. The Kong looked too new, too much like a reproduction of a reproduction. Returning to Sandoval, I brought up my chair and sat down to face him.

“As I said before, Mr. Sandoval, I deal in legal claims, usually as a last resort for many of my clients in settling them, whether by retrieval of lost property, credit or actual currency or by apprehension of the person who absconded with any of those items. In my line of work details are important. Details like the specific location where an event takes place. Now, it may be true that my client would experience difficulty in bringing any legal action against you in either a Canadian court or even the World Court’s civil claims division. Assuming that the honourable ha’Akon might choose that route. This is where the detail of location becomes important.”

I leaned forward, looking deep into Sandoval’s eyes. He could see me, he could hear me. He just couldn’t interrupt or argue with me.

“Indulging your curiosity was your one real mistake. You and Ser k’Ahl ha’Akon concluded your agreement inside the Voornung Embassy building. All embassies, by both international and interplanetary law, are considered to be extensions of their home countries, or home planets as the case may be. Thus, any legal contract between you and my client took place on Voornung, and may thus be subject to a Voornung court for resolution.”

I wasn’t sure but it almost seemed as if there was a slight twitch of one of Sandoval’s eyebrows. Maybe I would have to check with my supplier about the expiry date on my last order of paralytic. A detail I would see to as soon as I had concluded my current case. The Monitors would be here soon to take Sandoval into custody for transport to Voornung, so there was no urgency at the moment.

“Voornung, like Earth, is a probation-status member of the Commonwealth of Worlds,” I explained to Sandoval, just so he would fully understand the situation. Details, after all. “But Commonwealth policy is that all member planets, whether full-status or probationer, have extradition rights with each other. The memory crystal and the paper document on your desk? If you had bothered to look at them you would have seen that the paper is a plain-English extradition order, with authorization from the Voornung Embassy and the U.N.’s E.T Affairs office. The crystal contains electronic copies of that along with translations in Voornung and the main Terran languages. Details, Mr. Sandoval, details.”

I sat back. “So, you, Mr. Sandoval, will be going to Voornung to face my client before a legal claims tribunal there.”

I stood up to go. “One final detail you might like to know, or not, Mr. Sandoval. Voornung is a probationary member of the Commonwealth because its legal system is still considered outdated by the standards of most other Commonwealth worlds. On Voornung all legal matters are subject to trial by ordeal to determine guilt or innocence. And incarceration in a Voornung detention centre may be brief but always includes a regular, and thorough, regimen of corporal punishment”

Yes, definite eyebrow twitching. Also a slight widening of the eyes, and some perspiration now gleaming on the forehead.

“Good-bye, Mr. Sandoval,” I said, walking past him to the door. “For your sake, I hope you have a high pain threshold.”

I closed the door behind me. The door of the reception room was just opening. I glimpsed the anonymous black armour of a Monitor.

Details are the key to life.

Food for Thought

Every society and civilization has rules and guidelines for behaviour, both for the individual and for the group. Those guidelines include sanctions against behaviour deemed unacceptable or harmful, both to an individual and to the society as a whole. There may be a clash of cultures when the actions of members of one culture infringe on what is deemed proper to those belonging to another culture. The question then becomes how to moderate cultural interactions where the social mores are poles apart, and how does one seek justice in such matters.

About the Author

Gregg Chamberlain has a background in criminology and a long-time love for crime fiction and non-fiction. He also enjoys watching some “legal dramas” from old Perry Mason shows to latest adaptation of The Firm. While he enjoys reading action-adventure stories featuring vigilantes and anti-hero types, he hopes he never meets one in real life. Also his actual court experience is limited to criminal court as part of his newspaper reporter duties. He and his missus share a house in rural Ontario with four cats, who allow their humans the run of the house. For now.

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