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  A relentlessly smart machine. One dumb human.

  The winner will define the future.

  "Spot-on techno satire with a strong dose of humor, mayhem and inspired lunacy.”

  The Perfect is a fast-paced story about the near future bearing down on us, a future that will be scary for surprising reasons. Welcome to the contest of the incompetent human against artificial intelligence and information over-awareness. One world is about to get crushed.

  This novel can be read as a standalone piece, but has connections to a broader storyline.

  near future absurdity - dark humor - robot shenanigans

  The Perfect

  Copyright © 2016 Greg Juhn

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, persons, or machines, whether living, dead, or something in between, is purely coincidental. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, incidents, and foreshadowing of doom are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover by Artifact Studios

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  By subscribing, you’ll get occasional updates on new fiction, particularly of the robo-apocalypse sort, as well as my commentary on amazing (but scary) tech innovations that are happening right now. Robots, superintelligence, oversurveillance - how can you go wrong?

  We refer to the question: What sort of creature man’s next successor in the supremacy of the earth is likely to be. We have often heard this debated; but it appears to us that we are ourselves creating our own successors; we are daily adding to the beauty and delicacy of their physical organisation; we are daily giving them greater power and supplying by all sorts of ingenious contrivances that self-regulating, self-acting power which will be to them what intellect has been to the human race. In the course of ages we shall find ourselves the inferior race.

  - Samuel Butler, 1863

  I chased magic every Sunday morning in the art studio at the back of my house, during four unplugged hours that were too short, the only time in my weekly schedule for switch-off and reflection. I never knew whether anything good would come from my effort, but I had a good feeling today. As I flicked brush across canvas, a restless vision arose from my subconscious and emerged in the swirls, in my crimson slashes and orange dabbings. A dark figure appeared, a dancing man pressed on all sides by heat and flame. Who was it? I didn’t know. I didn’t care, either; my studio was the place to shut off my brain – to stop the analysis, the running commentary, the imaginary conversations. Let others worry about the man.

  Often as I paint, a title emerges, as casual as a brushstroke. Today the title was triggered by a curlicue of flame, a flick of paint playing at the feet of the twisting man. Perfect! I would call this work Playing with–

  Bzzzt.

  I paused, brush hovering. Not now! A red drop, a dash of excess, fell to the canvas and dripped a path across the dark figure.

  Bzzzt.

  My ring vibrated with each buzz. I set the brush down, wiped my hands on a rag, unbuttoned my smock, and headed for the front door.

  Barry Bloch, my company’s CEO, was sliding out of an ElloCar with one of his corporate henchmen. They wore custom-cut suits, polished and suave. I knew what it meant: I was about to be given a mountain of thankless work. Barry often brought one of his young apostles for support when bearing such news, but it was rare for him to venture out to my house. And on a Sunday? Something was up.

  “I’ve got a special project for you,” Barry said, huffing up the sidewalk.

  That was his way of breaking it to me that I needed to cancel my personal plans. I was about to start working overtime. I saw through his lame attempt to dress up overtime work as a privilege. I’m sure he didn’t care one way or the other; he was my boss, and he gave me stuff to do. That’s how it goes.

  “I’ve got a special project for you,” he repeated as he stepped into the house.

  “Screw you,” I replied. Not out loud, of course.

  The management henchman followed him in.

  “I’m Josh,” he said, extending his hand.

  Before shutting my door, I saw another man emerge from the car, but he stayed outside on the sidewalk. A beefy, burly guy. Sunglasses. Serious looking. Maybe a bodyguard, though Barry rarely had one.

  I ushered Barry and Josh into my dining room and offered them a drink. Both declined. We sat at the table, myself on one side, the two of them on the other.

  Barry started things off. “Cancel your plans for the week. Clear your schedule.”

  This command didn’t seem to be up for discussion, so I nodded.

  “Before we begin, I need assurance that you’ll keep everything confidential.”

  As NeoMechi’s head of marketing, I obviously would do that, so I nodded again. Barry seemed a little nervous.

  He took a deep breath, smiled, and exhaled. “Josh, tell him.”

  “We’ve developed a new robot.”

  Hurray! NeoMechi had a new robot. Big deal. We had shiny new ones every quarter. We had machines that built roads, collected garbage, carried bags for wealthy travelers. We had Hollywood robots that jumped off buildings and the first robot to tap-tap its way to the top spot of American Dance. I was no longer as excited about new products as Barry. My painting was drying. My inspiration was dying. What was that title? Playing with –

  “It’s a big leap,” Barry said, clapping his hands together. “This is our big shot to beat the competition. This model kills it in every area – mechanics, bio, software...”

  Josh jumped in: "This one has everything – even built-in ooloo search. As soon as he has a question, he has the answer.”

  “The latest software is getting pretty scary,” I said.

  ‘"You know better than to use that word,” Barry said. “This is going to be harder than your usual marketing projects. Start thinking about the message. That’s what we’re here to talk to you about. Never say scary. This is the machine of our dreams.”

  “You’re right.” I was on company time now. I needed to get in the mode. “How about this. Today, we are proud to announce that NeoMechi has made some fantastic breakthroughs.”

  “Better,” the boss said. “But a little forced. You’ll figure it out.”

  “Okay, what else is so great about it?”

  “Him,” Josh said, “What’s so great about him. First, we’ve gone with simulated skin and muscle over his diamondoid frame.”

  “We’ve been trying skin for years,” I said. “You’re telling me this one doesn’t have problems with divots and folds?”

  “Hell no,” Barry said. “He’s light-years better. You wouldn’t look twice.”

  “What about the facial muscles?”

  “The Perfectus – that’s what we call him – has over 80 servomotors controlling the muscles around the jaw, mouth, and forehead. You won’t notice the difference.”

  “I bet I will. But that’s okay, I’ll give his marketing a lot of sizzle.”

  “You won’t be able to tell the difference.”

  “What about the eyes?” I asked.

  “They’re real,” Barry said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “They’re crazy realistic. Use the word real.”

  “How about conversational skills?”

  “Flawless.”

  “Personality?”

  “Awesome,” Josh said.

  Barry added, “You will love him. He has built-in personality flaws, though. He gets
irritated from time to time. He even cries.”

  “You’re really building this up. I can’t wait to see him.”

  “You already have,” Josh said. “Nice to meet you.”

  I’d thought we were 50 years away from the lifelike robots we’d all seen in the movies. I’d never seen any hint that NeoMechi was this close. Was I getting punked? Years ago on Sucker TV!, they told some sap to spend a week with an amazing new robot, flawless in every detail... but the “robot” was just an ordinary person. It was a brilliant trick, but practical jokes weren’t in Barry’s toolkit.

  I studied Josh. Hair, eyebrows, cheekbones, hands, all rendered in amazing detail. Voice tonality, perfect. Diction and language – perfect. When he walked and moved, he was human. I felt a small twist in my stomach, and I knew why. The uncanny valley was gone.

  “I’m shocked.”

  “We’ll give you the full demo in a minute,” Barry said. “But first... Josh?”

  Josh went to the door and signaled to the man outside. The beefy guy with sunglasses entered. Turns out he was one of our corporate lawyers. And a damn serious one.

  A DeliverIt was pinned under one of the lawyer’s thick arms. He handed Josh a packet with the other. Josh opened a sheath and pulled out some glassy forms. He extended them to me. I took them, watching his engineered hand.

  “Sign this confidentiality statement,” Josh said. “You aren’t to talk to anyone about this project. Your son can’t know. You can’t trust anyone. Not friends, not family, not girlfriends, no one.”

  I studied the form. “I’ll need some time to review this. Maybe have my lawyer look at it.”

  “No, no, no,” Barry said. “No time for that. We need to get started. Besides, we’ve already given you the big reveal, so now you have to sign it.”

  “This is a legal document. Lots of small print. Sounds like I’m being coerced.”

  Josh was getting testy. “Is he always this difficult?”

  “No. He’s usually quite reasonable,” my boss said. “TJ, we’re not trying to put you at risk. We just need your assurance that you won’t say anything to anyone, that you won’t leak this or even hint about it until the summer launch.”

  “Or what...? What will happen if I leak the big news?”

  “You owe us 50 million dollars.”

  I laughed. “Very funny.”

  Barry smiled and shrugged.

  What the hell? Fifty million in U.S. dollars? That was almost 200 million WorldCoin. They were sending a message that if I hinted about Josh’s true nature, even one stray word, they would drive me into lifelong debt and destitution.

  Barry had never been this much of a jerk. Clearly, he believed this machine would dominate the robotics market once released, giving him a first-mover advantage in an industry where fortunes were at stake. He was in a hurry to get a product out. NeoMechi treated its employees well, and Barry and I had a good relationship, but for this they would crush me in a minute. I could take no refuge in the policies of the human resources department. Or the law. I was a pawn.

  I pressed my finger on the glass pane and slid it down to the signature box. Fingerprint identified. Document signed.

  With my fingerprint safely stored on the company’s servers, the lawyer pulled out a small pen-like object. They were authenticating my signature with blood. I extended my hand and the lawyer pressed the pen against me. The tiny patch of needles stole a whisper of blood from the surface capillaries in my skin. Date and time recorded.

  He held up the pane and nodded, prompting me to recite my identity oath. “My name is Theodore Justin Marshall,” I said as he taped. “I acknowledge that I have signed this contract willingly and without coercion.”

  “Great,” Josh said, slipping the paper pane and stick-pen into a folder. “I guess it is time for you to learn more about this awesome product.”

  The lawyer, who hadn’t said a word, clipped the packet with the blood sample to the DeliverIt and set it free outside. My blood buzzed across the yard and disappeared over the trees, heading to headquarters.

  The lawyer nodded and went back outside. He seemed unaware of what was going on. I began to suspect that only a few people in the entire organization had actually seen Josh, fully assembled.

  Barry said, “Let me give you a little background and explain your mission for the week. I call him the Perfectus 2050. Like it? Let me know if you come up with anything better. We’re tooling up for small-scale production now. We won’t be selling them for a while – the sales team doesn’t even know about this. You’ll spearhead a major announcement in June, give everyone a sneak peek. Later, we’ll churn them out by the thousands. Branding will be consistent with the regional market. You know, in India they’ll have names like Joshi.”

  He rose and leaned over the table, grinning widely. “Spend a week with him. Get to know all his great features and benefits. We think people are going to love this product – everyone will want to meet one. Your challenge will be the hardcore naysayers, the people afraid of artificial intelligence and self-directed technology. To deflect their criticism in the press, you are going to have to really sell it."

  In a nutshell, this was a high-level marketing project. Wrap up the value proposition of the product in a short sentence and come up with a few memorable catchphrases to repeat over and over, blasted onto millions of screens across the globe. Normally we would use an entire team to brainstorm ideas, craft the message, test with audiences – the whole process. But in this case, it appeared I was on my own.

  “Let’s run through Josh’s key features,” Barry said.

  They started at the head and worked down. His eyes captured ultra-definition video with a field of vision slightly broader than a human’s and much sharper on the edges. Deep in each ear canal, a sound sensor acted somewhat like an eardrum, but a hundred times more sensitive. His nose had ten times the human capacity to detect odor, and while he wasn’t exactly a bloodhound, he’d probably be a lot better at telling which direction a fart had come from. (Barry chuckled when he said this. I pretended to be amused.) His skin was a silky elastic matrix that kept embedded DNA intact – necessary for top-level security clearance.

  The core intelligence system was not in his head, which was too vulnerable. They had buried the cognitive chips deep in his torso: gut-level thinking. His head was cloud-light. The only significant weight up top came from the dozens of servomotors to operate his eyes and facial muscles, the diamondoid skull, and all the wires snaking down his trachea. But all of these were tiny or thin, and his head was mostly empty space. The engineers had kept his head light to achieve the best control over his balance.

  His GPS and connectivity hardware were also in his torso. He fired off video 24/7 to the company’s servers. He sent a constant stream of data about his physical location and the identities of everyone and everything around him, to the extent that he could identify faces and objects. Josh explained that he had access to the deepest of databases and the farthest-flung repositories of every sort, from long-forgotten archives to the most up-to-the-nanosecond data points streaming from servers hosting the world’s finance, scientific, and political knowledge bases.

  “The world’s mine oyster, to properly quote Shakespeare,” Josh said. “If I don’t have access to a system, I can often hack into it on the fly and carry on an active conversation at the same time; I have almost any information I need before I even finish a thought. The Federal Anti-Terrorism Mandatory Backdoor Act left a gaping hole in the security of most everyday software systems. I have over a million known exploits, passwords, doormat keys, tools, and protocols to take advantage of those low-level security bypasses. Neomechi has been building that library internally for its own purposes, most of which is available for the right price, some through military connections–”

  Barry cut him off. “We study product exploits to make sure our own software isn’t vulnerable. We’re not going to promote that feature. He’ll keep hacking to a minimum.”


  “Only when necessary,” Josh agreed.

  By this point, the words that Barry and Josh were flinging at me were bouncing off my head. Most of this was stuff that my NeoMechi coworkers had talked about as theoretical product goals. I knew these features were coming down the road. I hadn’t believed they were right around the corner.

  Josh was about six feet, half a foot taller than me. He had wide shoulders and an athletic build.

  I had to be honest. “You nailed it.”

  Barry beamed. “Thank you. There’s no instruction manual. It will take care of itself. Treat it as you would any houseguest.”

  Josh eyed Barry, and I sensed he was annoyed that Barry had slipped back to calling him “it.” The moment passed from his face, and he said nothing.

  We brought in a couple of suitcases and plopped them down on the floor of my spare bedroom. I glanced at the clock. Midday. Zach wouldn’t be home from for a couple more hours. I needed to get Josh settled and come up with a plausible story to pitch to my son, so he wouldn’t ask questions.

  Barry popped open a plastic suitcase. “Here are his clothes. He won’t need toothpaste, deodorant, or anything of that sort, but make sure he stays charged.” They showed me a platform that rested on the floor. At least once a week, Josh had to power down and sit with his feet on it for a few hours. They said he would do this on his own initiative in the late-night hours, so it wouldn’t impact his daily activities.

  Barry was unzipping suit bags. He handed several suits to Josh, who placed them carefully on hangars and hung them in the closet. Apparently, Josh liked to wear suits.

  I stared at Josh. He stopped what he was doing, straightened, and looked at me. “Can I answer any questions?”

  “Mind if I take a closer look?”

  “By all means.”

  I approached and leaned close to his face, gently tugging a lower eyelid down. The eye disappeared into glistening synthetic tissue, healthy and pink. I prodded his lips. He opened his mouth. Peering in, I was surprised to see a tongue. A tongue.