3. FLUKE

PRECURSOR VIRUS + 4 MONTHS

The description of this prank gone awry is written as told by Ryu Aoki, a repairman at the Lilliput electronics factory in the Adachi Ward of Tokyo, Japan. The conversation was overheard and recorded by nearby factory robots. It has been translated from Japanese into English for this document.

—CORMAC WALLACE, MIL#GHA217

We thought that it would be a laugh, you know? Okay, okay, so we were wrong. But you’ve got to understand that we didn’t mean to do him harm. We certainly didn’t mean to kill the old man.

Around the factory everybody knows that Mr. Nomura is a weirdo, a freak. Such a tiny, twisted little troll. He shuffles around the work floor with his beady eyes behind round spectacles, pointed always to the floor. And he smells like old sweat. I hold my breath whenever I pass by his workbench. He is always sitting there, working harder than anyone. And for less money, too.

Takeo Nomura is sixty-five. He should be pensioned off already. But he still works here because nobody else can fix the machines so fast. The things he does are unnatural. How can I compete? How will I ever become head repairman with him perched on the workbench, hands moving in a blur? His very presence interferes with the wa of the factory, damaging our social harmony.

They say the nail that sticks out gets hammered down, right?

Mr. Nomura can’t look a person in the eye, but I’ve seen him stare into the camera of a broken ER 3 welding arm and speak to it. That wouldn’t be so strange, except that then the arm started working. The old man has a way with machines.

We joke that maybe Mr. Nomura is a machine himself. Of course, he isn’t. But something is wrong with him. I’ll bet that if he had a choice, Mr. Nomura would rather be a machine than a man.

You don’t have to trust me. All the workers agree. Go onto the Lilliput factory floor and ask anybody—inspectors, mechanics, whoever. Even the floor marshal. Mr. Nomura is not like the rest of us. He treats the machines just the same as he treats anybody else.

Over the years, I grew to despise his wrinkled little face. I always knew he was hiding something. Then, one day, I found out what it was: Mr. Nomura lives with a love doll.

It was about a month ago that my coworker Jun Oh saw Mr. Nomura come out of his pensioner’s tomb—a fifty-story building with rooms like coffins—with that thing on his arm. When Jun told me, I could hardly believe it. Mr. Nomura’s love doll, his android, followed him out into the pavilion. He kissed her on the cheek in front of everyone and then left for work. Like they were married or something.

The sick part is that his love doll isn’t even beautiful. She is made to resemble a real woman. It is not so uncommon to hide a buxom young doll in your bedroom. Or even one with certain exaggerated features. All of us have seen the poruno, even if we don’t admit it.

But Mr. Nomura gets off on some old plastic thing that’s almost as wrinkled as he is?

It must have been custom-made. That’s what bothers me. The amount of thought that went into such an abomination. Mr. Nomura knew what he was doing, and he decided to live with a walking, talking mannequin that looks like a gross old woman. I say this is disgusting. Absolutely intolerable.

So Jun and I decide to play a trick.

Now, the robots we work with at the factory are big, dumb brutes. Steel-plated arms riddled with joints and tipped with thermal sprayers or welders or pincers. They can sense humans, and the floor marshal says they are safe, but we all know to stay out of their work space.

The industrial bots are strong and fast. But androids are slow. Weak. All the work that is put into making the android look like a person comes with sacrifices. The android squanders its power pretending to breathe and moving the skin of its face. It has no energy left for useful service, a shameful waste. With such a weak robot, we thought that no harm could come from a little joke.

It was not hard for Jun to craft a fluke—a computer program embedded on a wireless transceiver. The fluke is about the size of a matchbook, and it transmits the same instructions in a loop but only for a radius of a few feet. At work, we used the company mainframe to look up android diagnostic codes. This way, we knew the android would obey the fluke, thinking its commands came from the robot service provider.

The next day, Jun and I came to work early. We were brimming with excitement over our prank. Together, we walked to the pavilion across the street from the Lilliput factory and stood behind some plants to wait. The square was already filled with elderly. It probably had been since dawn. We watched them as they sipped their tea. All of them seemed to be in slow motion. Jun-chan and I could not stop cracking jokes. We were excited to see what would happen, I guess.

After a few minutes, the big glass doors slid apart—Mr. Nomura and his thing came out of the building.

As usual, Mr. Nomura had his head down and avoided eye contact with everyone in the plaza. Everyone except for his love doll, that is. When he looked at her, his eyes were wide and … certain, in a way that I had never seen before. In any case, Jun and I realized that we could walk right past Mr. Nomura and he would never see us. He refuses to look at real people.

This was going to be even easier than we’d thought.

I nudged Jun, and he handed me the fluke. I heard him stifling giggles as I casually walked across the plaza. Mr. Nomura and his love doll were shuffling along together, hand in hand. I crossed behind them and leaned in. With one smooth gesture, I dropped the fluke into a pocket of her dress. I was close enough to smell the flowery perfume he had rubbed on her.

Gross.

The fluke works on a timer. In about four hours, it will come online and tell that wrinkled old android to come to the factory. Then, Mr. Nomura will have to explain his strange visitor to everyone! Hah, hah, hah.

All morning, Jun-chan and I could hardly focus on our jobs. We kept joking around, imagining how embarrassing it would be for Mr. Nomura to find his “beautiful” bride here at work, on display before dozens and dozens of floor workers.

We knew that he would never live it down. Who knows, we thought. Maybe he will quit his job and finally retire? Leave some work for the rest of the repairmen.

No such luck.

It happens at noon.

Midway through lunch period, most of the workers are eating from bento boxes at their posts. Drinking mugs of hot soup and chatting quietly. Then, the android stumbles in through the bay doors and onto the factory floor. She is walking shakily along, wearing the same loud red dress as this morning.

Jun and I smile at each other while the floor workers laugh out loud, a little confused. Still eating at his workbench, Mr. Nomura hasn’t yet seen that his love has come to visit him for lunch.

“You’re a genius, Jun-chan,” I say, as the android shuffles to the middle of the factory floor, exactly as programmed.

“I can’t believe it worked,” Jun exclaims. “She’s such an old model. I was sure the fluke would overwrite some key functionality.”

“Watch this,” I say to Jun.

“Come here, robot slut,” I command the doll.

Obediently, she hobbles over to me. I lean down and grab her dress, then yank it up over her head. It is a crazy thing to do. Everyone gasps to see her smooth, skin-colored plastic casing. She is like a doll, not anatomically correct. I wonder if I have gone too far. But I see Jun and then I laugh so hard that my face turns red. Jun and I are doubled over, cackling madly. The android turns in a circle, confused.

Then Mr. Nomura comes scuttling onto the factory floor, bits of rice clinging to his mouth. He looks like a field mouse, with his eyes aimed at the floor and his head down. Mr. Nomura is on a beeline for the parts supply cabinet and he almost makes it past without noticing.

Almost, but not quite.

“Mikiko?” he asks, confusion on his rodent face.

“Your Dutch wife has decided to join us for lunch,” I exclaim. The other floor workers titter. Stunned, Mr. Nomura’s jaw dips up and down like a hungry pelican’s. His small eyes dart back and forth.

I step back as Mr. Nomura rushes over to the creature that he calls Mikiko. We spread out in a circle and keep our distance. Because he is crazy, nobody knows what he will do. None of us wants to be cited for fighting at work.

Mr. Nomura pulls the dress back down, knocking Mikiko’s long graying hair askew. Then, Mr. Nomura turns to face us. But he still lacks the courage to look anyone in the eye. He runs one gnarled hand through his stiff black hair. The words that he says next still haunt me.

“I know that she is a machine,” he says. “But I love her. And she loves me.”

The floor workers giggle again. Jun begins to hum the wedding song. But Mr. Nomura cannot be goaded any further. The little old man’s shoulders slump. Turning, he reaches up to fix Mikiko’s hair, patting it with small, practiced movements. Standing on tiptoes, he reaches over her shoulders and smoothes down the back of her hair.

The android stands perfectly still.

Then, I notice her wide-set eyes move slightly. She focuses on Mr. Nomura’s face, inches from hers. He bobs forward and backward, panting lightly as he strokes her hair down. The oddest thing happens. Her face twists into a grimace, as if she is in pain. She leans forward, pushing her head toward Mr. Nomura’s shoulder.

Then, we watch in disbelief as Mikiko bites off a small piece of Mr. Nomura’s face.

The old man screeches and wrenches himself away from the android. For an instant, there is a small pink spot on Mr. Nomura’s upper cheek, just below his eye. Then, the pink spot wells with blood. A stream of red runs down his face, like tears.

No one says a word or so much as breathes. The surprise of this occurrence is absolute. Now, it is we who do not know how to react.

Mr. Nomura puts a hand to his face, sees the blood smeared on his calloused fingers.

“Why did you do this?” he asks Mikiko, as if she could answer.

The android is silent. Her weak arms reach out for Mr. Nomura. Her manicured, individually articulated fingers slide around his frail neck. He does not resist. Just before her squeezing plastic hands close off his windpipe, Mr. Nomura whimpers again.

“Kiko, my darling,” he says. “Why?”

I do not understand what I see next. The old lady android … grimaces. Her slender fingers are closed on Mr. Nomura’s neck. She squeezes terribly hard, but her face is contorted with emotion. It is amazing, fascinating. Tears leak from her eyes, the tip of her nose is red, and a look of pure anguish distorts her features. She is hurting Mr. Nomura and crying and he does nothing to stop it.

I did not know that androids had tear ducts.

Jun looks at me, aghast.

“Let’s get out of here,” he exclaims.

I grab Jun by his shirt. “What’s happening? Why is she attacking him?”

“Malfunction,” he says. “Maybe the fluke set off another command batch. Triggered some other instructions.”

Then, Jun runs away. I can hear his light footsteps scratch across the cement floor. The other floor workers and I watch in silent disbelief as the weeping android strangles the old man.

It breaks a bone in my hand when I punch the android in the side of her head.

I scream out as the pain lances through my right fist and up my forearm. When they look human, it is easy to forget what lies just underneath the robots’ skin. The blow throws her hair into her face, strings of it sticking to her tears.

But she does not let go of Mr. Nomura’s neck.

I stagger back and glance at my hand. It is already swelling, like a rubber glove full of water. The android is feeble, but she is made of hard metal and plastic.

“Somebody do something,” I shout to the workers. No one pays me any attention. The slack-jawed morons. I flex my hand again, and the back of my neck goes cold as a terrible, throbbing pain washes over me. And still, nobody acts.

Mr. Nomura falls to his knees, his fingers gently curled over Mikiko’s forearms. He holds her arms and does not struggle. As his throat collapses, he simply looks up at her. That flowing rivulet of blood courses unnoticed down his cheek, pooling in the hollow of his collarbone. Her eyes are locked on his, steady and clear behind the anguished mask of her face. His eyes are just as clear, shining behind small round spectacles.

I never should have played this prank.

Then, Jun returns, holding a pair of defibrillator paddles. He rushes to the middle of the factory floor and presses them on either side of the android’s head. The solid slap echoes through the factory.

Mikiko’s eyes never leave Mr. Nomura’s.

A frothy sheen of spittle has collected around Mr. Nomura’s mouth. His eyes roll up into his head and he loses consciousness. With a flick of his thumb, Jun activates the defibrillator. A shock arcs through the android’s head and she is knocked off-line. She falls to the ground, lying face-to-face with Mr. Nomura. Her eyes are open and unseeing. His are closed, ringed with tears.

Neither of them breathes.

I am truly sorry for what we did to Mr. Nomura. I do not feel sorry because the android attacked the old man—anyone should have fought back against such a weak machine, even an old man. I feel sorry because he did not choose to fight back. It occurs to me that Mr. Nomura is deeply in love with this piece of plastic.

I drop to my knees and peel the android’s delicate pink fingers away from Mr. Nomura’s throat, ignoring the pain in my hand. I roll the old man onto his back and deliver chest compressions, shouting his name. I make quick, forceful little pushes on the old man’s sternum with the heel of my left hand. I pray to my ancestors that he will be okay. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. I am so ashamed of what I have done.

Then, Mr. Nomura takes a deep, gasping breath. I sit back and watch him, cradling my damaged hand. His chest rises and falls steadily. Mr. Nomura sits up and looks around, bewildered. He wipes his mouth, pushes up his glasses.

And for the first time, we find that it is we who cannot meet eyes with old Mr. Nomura.

“I’m sorry,” I say to the old man. “I didn’t mean it.”

But Mr. Nomura ignores me. He is staring at Mikiko, his face white. She lies collapsed on the floor, her bright red dress smudged and dirty.

Jun drops the paddles and they clatter to the floor.

“Please forgive me, Nomura-san,” Jun whispers, bowing his head. “There is no excuse for what I did.” He crouches down and takes the fluke out of Mikiko’s pocket. Then, Jun stands up and strides away without looking back. Many of the other floor workers have already scurried away, back to their posts. The others leave now.

Lunch is over.

Only Mr. Nomura and I remain. His lover lies across from him, sprawled on the clean-swept concrete floor. Mr. Nomura reaches over and strokes her forehead. There is a charred patch on the side of her plastic face. The glass lens of her right eye is cracked.

Mr. Nomura drapes himself over her. He cradles her head in his lap, touches her lips with his index finger. I see years of interaction in the gentle, familiar movement of his hand. I wonder how they met, these two. What have they been through together?

This love. I can’t understand it. I’ve never seen it. How many years has Mr. Nomura spent in his claustrophobic apartment, drinking tea served by this mannequin creature? Why is she so old? Is she built to resemble someone, and if so, what dead woman’s face does she wear?

The little old man rocks back and forth, stroking the hair off Mikiko’s face. He feels the melted side of her head and cries out. He does not, will not, look up at me. Tears streak down his cheeks, mingling with the blood drying there. When I ask again for forgiveness, he fails to react in any way. His eyes are focused on the blank, mascara-caked cameras of the thing he holds tenderly on his lap.

Finally, I walk away. A bad feeling pools deep in my stomach. So many questions are in my mind. So many regrets. Above all, I wish that I had left Mr. Nomura alone, not disturbed whatever strategy he has built to survive the grief inflicted by this world. And those in it.

As I go, I can hear Mr. Nomura speaking to the android.

“It will be okay, Kiko,” he says. “I forgive you, Kiko. I forgive you. I will fix you. I will save you. I love you, my princess. I love you. I love you, my queen.”

I shake my head and return to work.

Takeo Nomura, retrospectively recognized as one of the great technical minds of his generation, immediately set to work finding out why his beloved Mikiko had attacked him. What the elderly bachelor discovered over the next three years would significantly affect events of the New War and irrevocably alter the course of human and machine history.

—CORMAC WALLACE, MIL#GHA217