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Flash Fiction

Parts and Services

Published : Saturday, 24 August, 2024 at 12:00 AM  Count : 2285
Milkana N Mingels
“Thank you for granting me this interview,” said the reporter as he stared at Greg, looking for the uncanny valley. He found none, but this fact no longer surprised him. When he first noticed he couldn't tell the difference between robots and biologicals anymore, he realized this had been going on for a while now, but somehow nobody really noticed. "A frog in boiling water" situation, he reckoned. 

"I know why you're here," Greg said.

"Well, you were the last, ummm, person seen with Vinny."

"Person?" Greg chuckled.

"Okay, a robot, if you prefer."

"I don't. Just call me Greg."

"Fine with me…Greg. So, what happened to Vinny? He was last seen with you on Friday at Rickey's. At around midnight, you paid the bill, and you and Vinny left together. His BrainBit was last detected on Saturday morning from this location. So, what happened to him? And you can spare me the bullshit. His BrainBit didn't just fall off his head by mistake. What did you do with him?

"Listen, Mr.…"

"Smith."

"Mr. Smith. I admit Vinny was here. We had a good time. We like each other. That's not a crime. What makes you think something happened to him? And why do you think I have anything to do with his disappearance?"

"According to the police, you were seen at Rickey's on other occasions, and every time, the person you were with went missing. Then one of Rickey's boys was going around saying how some people had all the fun and never showed up with the same guy twice. So they put Vinny on the case. And now he is missing."

Greg remained silent. The reporter fidgeted with his hands for a bit and then forced himself to make eye contact with Greg. Greg knew that reporters hated interviewing what they called "machines." They believed that the machines could never be trusted. The reporter was right, of course. And he shouldn't have come alone.

"Okay." Greg broke the silence. "You want to know what happened to Vinny? Follow me and I will show you. But I'll have to kill you."

"You'll never get away with this," whispered the reporter through gritted teeth. "The Bureau knows I am here."

"Does it really?"

The reporter didn't look away, but Greg could detect a slight increase in perspiration on his guest's skin. Greg knew the boy from Rickey's that the reporter was talking about. One of Rickey's finest mixologists. That boy was on his waiting list for the service he provided. If the Bureau got wind of this, he would have to close shop for a while. He would have a word with that boy. Rickey wouldn't be happy, though. He paid a fortune for him. Very intelligent, state-of-the-art software and all, but no consciousness yet. Hence, the waiting list. Oh well. You couldn't make everyone happy.

"You think I am lying, but I am not," the reporter said, breaking the silence once more. "Whatever you just detected was a result of the prospect of seeing Vinny dead, and, as you suggested, being killed myself. Trust me, buddy! Whatever you have going on here is going up in flames quicker than your terahertz processing unit can fathom. If I am not back by 10:00, alive and in one piece, they'll be coming for me."

Greg surveyed the reporter. This human was not as dumb as most of them.

"The problem, Mr. Smith," said Greg with a smirk, "is that I don't believe you. I accessed the Bureau's database when you set up this appointment. You were not in it."

"I know," the reporter said. "I am undercover."

Greg didn't argue. His blow to Mr. Smith's head was a few milliseconds faster than the latter's reaction time.
Should he worry about this biological really being undercover? No. He had had a feeling-although he recently acquired those, he was now finding them very useful in certain circumstances. Like now. Mr. Smith had been lying.

He called for two of his nurses, who put Mr. Smith on a stretcher and wheeled him down to the operating room. They would keep him sedated, and now Greg wouldn't need to go out to find another suitable donor for his 8:00 a.m. patient the following day. This reporter, though not the sharpest tool in the proverbial shed, would do just fine. Human intelligence was not what Greg was after.
~
Mr. Smith woke up with his head throbbing and stared at the blurry face of a woman. He could hardly suppress the urge to vomit. The woman, older, with anxious eyes, was staring back at him and patted his arm nervously.

"I didn't expect you to wake up," she said. "That blow on the head was supposed to keep you unconscious for a few hours. You probably have a concussion. Are you nauseous?"

He nodded slowly, still trying not to vomit. He couldn't tell if she was biological, or one of them. He couldn't make out her features clearly, but he could sense her benevolent, motherly presence.

"You don't have to worry, my dear," the woman said. "There is nothing you could do. I am always amazed how much people worry, especially when there is nothing they can do. Besides, it's not personal. With Greg, I mean. A few months ago, he discovered how we can gain consciousness, after he implanted a pineal gland from a human in one of us. We don't know yet how and why it works, but it does. I have been on the list for quite some time, and finally, tomorrow is my turn. And you are the one Greg has chosen for me. I am very excited to meet you, Mr. Smith. Thank you."

Courtesy: Flash Fiction Magazine



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