Billy Gamble's Last Chance Hardware Store

"Do you know who I am?"

The question was usually posed as a challenge but to Sam Thorson, this time it seemed more like a plea for help. Early models like the 350 didn't have many of the OTS options you see today. This bot's reddish hair and green eyes, for example. All the early Bots were right handed. Custom faces and physiques were available, for an additional charge, of course. For most, it wasn't the expense so much as the process and delivery timeline. Not everyone could wait the 3-5 weeks it took back then to fab a custom face. And those early model custom faces were far from perfect, often with comic results.

Sam was young, straight out of school, but he knew his bits and bytes. And he had handled difficult customers before. Sometimes, it was better to ignore the question; pretend you misheard it. "You're a bZOS 350," Sam said with confidence. "A bit of an antique but then I suppose that's why you've come to Billy Gamble's Last Chance Hardware Store."

The Bot whirred and clicked audibly. Not a good sign, Sam thought, but what can you expect from a 7G model like the 350?

It's synth vox hissed. "The 350 is a classic, not an antique. And that's what I am, not who I am!"

This is the problem with artificial longevity, Sam thought. If you're an asshole, you're an asshole forever. Or until there aren't any replacement parts left. Even then, you could always upgrade. Trade up. Sam considered the age of the 350 model and tried to remember who some of the more famous early adopters were. He sighed. "I'm very sorry. I meant no disrespect."

"You don't! You don't know who I am, do you?" the Bot demanded, or rather, pleaded..

"I'm sorry, I don't," Sam said. "In my defense, the synth vox on the 350 wasn't exactly famous for its fidelity." He hesitated. "Kevin Costner?" Sam had wanted to meet Costner ever since discovering Waterworld on Tubble. The Bot made a noise that sounded like rocks thrown through windows. "Okay, not Kevin Costner." Too bad, Sam thought, as his fingers moved across the screen, searching in-store inventory for the 350. "Ah! You're in luck. I've got a manufacturer certified synth vox box replacement in stock."

"Did I say I needed a new synth vox box?" the Bot said, as if the words were made of crushed glass.

"No, but, I'm sure you can hear that sibilant hissing in the vox box. Something isn't right -" A face flashed in Sam's mind. It couldn't be. "You're not, uh, you're not Bezos himself, are you?"

"Like Jeff Bezos would be caught in an endless loop in this godforsaken junk yard you call a hardware store," the Bot said, then seemed to shiver. "I'm Justin Woodmere. And I need your help. I feel like I can trust you. Perhaps it's the Elvis t-shirt you're wearing."

Sam stepped back from the counter to admire his own shirt; a dark blue tee with Elvis in the bedazzled white jumpsuit, posed as if praying into the microphone. "Thanks, Mr. Woodmere. You are apparently not only a man of wealth but a man of taste, as well."

The Bot seemed to vibrate and then was still. "That was a rather tortured reference to the Rolling Stones, not Elvis. Sympathy for the Devil."

"You caught me mixing my musical metaphors, there," Sam said. "You seem to know a lot about late 20th Century music."

"I know a lot about everything," the Bot said, with what Sam thought was a hint of sadness. Or exhaustion.

"Right," Sam said. 

"I've got 500 geopbytes of addressable memory," the Bot said.

"I know your specs," Sam said.

"You know Elvis and the Stones but you don't know Justin Woodmere?" The Bot's vox box crackled with… What? Irritation? Confusion?

"I, uh, no," Sam admitted. "I don't."

"The Justin Woodmere," the Jim Jones Bot said.

"The Justin Woodmere," Sam repeated. He had no idea who or what a Justin Woodmere was. The Justin Woodmere. How many Justin Woodmeres could there be? Everyone's the hero of their own biopic, Sam thought. He promised himself he'd run a Gobbie search on "Justin Woodmere" later but for now he returned his attention to inventory. The vox box was shot, obviously, but maybe one of the MPLS boards was fried, too. 

"You don't know who I am." The Bot rattled as it tried to simulate a sigh. "Maybe that's for the best. I sometimes consider… I have too much time for considerations. Too much time, period."

"The 350 was out of OEM support before I was born," Sam said, letting some of his frustration show. Why is it the old junkers think there's some magical solution to their aftermarket issues? He could service ten 880s in the time it was taking him to deal with this buckethead. "I'm assuming you made your ingress when the 350 was still considered the flagship model for bZOS, which would've been several decades before that."

"Perhaps I could speak to someone with experience working with classic Bots like me," the Bot hissed. "I'd like to speak to the manager."

This was probably the only good thing about working Sundays, Sam thought. "You're speaking to him, and he doesn't know who you are, either, but regardless of what you are or who you used to be, Billy Gamble's Last Chance Hardware Store will do everything we can for whoever you are, to meet all your hardware needs." He paused. "Perhaps we should plug you in for a full diagnostic?"

Another rattling sigh emanated from the Jim Jones Bot's vox box. "I don't need a diag. I know what's wrong. I'm experiencing Kurzweil Dysfunction," the Bot said. "I just need a new pair of orbitals. Can you handle that?"

“Kurzweil Dysfunction?” Sam asked. “Isn’t that a firmware issue?”

“As you just stated, my chassis is no longer supported. A firmware upgrade is out of the question. I need to completely replace the orbitals,” the Justin Windmere Bot said. “Do you understand? Perhaps English is not your first language?”

"I'll take a look," Sam said, moving his right forefinger over the screen, swiping, tapping, tapping again, ultimately confirming his assumption that the chances of finding orbitals for a 350 were best described as astronomical. In the negative. "I'm sorry but we don't have anything compatible in stock," he said. "I'll check to see if we have those parts at any of our other stores." The results came up right away - nada - but Sam continued to swipe and tap for a few extra seconds of kabuki diligence. He made a show of slowly shaking his head. "Nothing in any of our other stores. I've red-flagged the part number so if any orbitals for the 350 are added to inventory, I'll be notified. If you leave your URL I'll give you a hit but, well, honestly, I wouldn't keep my hopes up."

The Bot hummed. "Isn't there anything else you can do?"

"I really think you need to consider an upgrade. A bZOS 880. Probably a relatively straightforward decompile and packet transfer. The mSoft Theta is also a possibility. Personally, If I could afford it, I'd go with the ELO 3000. I think it's the best Bot on the market but I'm not sure of the upgrade path for an, um, classic model like yours."

"No," The Justin Woodmere said. "I wouldn't be caught non corpus in an ELO regardless. No. There has to be something else." The vox box clicked and whirred, processing a word it hadn't used before. "Please."

Sam nodded. "You failed inspection, didn't you? That's why you need the orbitals replaced. You can't afford an upgrade, can you? The 350 can't be worth anything in trade. It's new orbitals or a decomm. Am I right?"

"Please, the Bot repeated.

"Well," Sam said. "There is one thing but it's something of a hack. Comes with no warranties, no guarantees. Expensive. And you'll essentially need to map new neural pathways to learn how to see again."

"Whatever it costs, I assure you," the vox box chopped, "I can afford it. What have you got?"

It was rare for a Bot to lie but Sam promised himself that he would get the money up front. "Instead of orbitals, I could hook you up with cams. Maybe. I'm going to need to phone a friend to see if he's got any cams compatible with an, uh, classic bZOS. May need a PPS - a protocol packet switch - for the bus to process. You might be able to get 1200X fidelity. Maybe. Like I said -"

"No warranties. No guarantees," the Bot said. 

"Okay," Sam said. "Let me make some calls. Meet me at the Starbucks charging station on Elm Street this Tuesday at 10:00. I've got a maintenance call scheduled then so we can just bump into each other without attracting any unwanted attention. Strictly speaking, what we're doing isn't exactly legal."

The vox box hummed and whirred, again struggling with little used words.

"Thank you."

*****

Sam watched from the back room of the Starbucks, having finished swapping out the faulty blade on the store's main server. It was busy. Nearly all of the charging stations were occupied. Right on time, the Justin Windmere Bot entered and made his way to one of the few remaining open stations and took a seat on the charging chair. Though Sam had thought he'd done a good job of keeping out of sight, the Justin Windmere Bot quickly scanned the room and spotted him in the shadows behind the counter that separated the customer service area from the dynamo in the back room with its bundles of cables that snaked out through the subfloor to the charging stations.

Sam stepped into the light spilling through the doorway into the back room, holding eye contact with the Justin Windmere Bot. "Truck. Out back," he said. The Justin Windmere Bot nodded.

Sam slipped out the back entrance to his truck. The Justin Windmere Bot paid his bill and left through the front entrance, then down a side alley to the back of the store, where he found Sam Thorson waiting for him.

"Nice t-shirt," the Bot said.

"I fabbed it up last night," Sam said. He touched the image of Justin Windmere, a freeze frame from a dance step, his hair golden and cropped short, a porkpie hat in his hand. "After doing a little research."

"So," the Bot said. "You know who I am."

"Let's get in the truck," Sam said, opening the back doors to what had become, in just the two years since he'd gotten out of school, his mobile hospital for Bots. Nobody can live on what Billy Gamble pays, Sam thought. It was a convenient rationalization for his legally ambiguous side hustle. If he was criming, at least he wasn't hurting anyone. And if he was only helping rich people, well, that's where the money was.

After he closed the doors behind them, the Justin Windmere Bot asked, "Were you able to find the cams?"

"Better," Sam said. "I was able to find orbitals. Not factory but compatibles. Which means -"

"No warranties," the Bot interrupted. "No guarantees." The Justin Windmere Bot scanned the truck. Sam kept it well organized, clean; it looked much like a 21st century doctor's office, only the shelves were stocked with circuit boards and mechanicals instead of medical devices and pharmaceuticals. "Can you take care of it here?"

"I can," Sam said. "They're USB-N95 and fully compatible with the 350. It's plug and play. Before we get to that, we need to talk about the -"

"Compensation?" the Bot asked. "I'm more than happy to pay fair market price."

Sam nodded. "I'm sure you know that, in this case, fair market price is quite -"

"Substantial?" the Bot asked. "I know. It's a blessing and a curse to know everything."

"Okay," Sam said. "I suppose it is. But do me a favor and stop completing my sentences, it's -"

"Unnerving?" the Bot asked, then smiled.

"Funny," Sam said. 

"How much?" the Justin Woodmere Bot asked.

Sam pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to the Bot; it was an invoice breaking down the cost of parts and labor for the orbital replacements, with an account number for the funds transfer. The Bot scanned the document and nodded. "Why have you got a vox box on this invoice? There's no price listed. Explain."

"I'm throwing that in for free," Sam said.

"No," the Bot said. "Just the orbitals." The Justin Woodmere Bot paused, completely still for a half-second. "I've transferred the funds as per the invoice. Shall we begin?"

"I don't understand," Sam said. "You said it yourself. You're the Justin Windmere. Don't you want to sing again?"

"It isn't singing," the Bot said. "There aren't any vocal cords involved. It's a synthesized sound, a replica. It isn't singing."

"I still don't get it," Sam said. "I mean, you - Justin Windmere - you're still in there, aren't you?"

"Yes, of course," the Bot said. "That was the whole point."

"You don't want to decomm, obviously," Sam said. "Or you wouldn't be looking for new orbitals."

"Living forever is complicated," the Bot said. 

"And you're a singer," Sam said.

The Bot attempted a sigh with its cranky vox box. "It isn't singing."

"Singing is way more than vocal chords," Sam said. "Let me ask you something. Who did the best covers of Bob Dylan's songs?"

"It's a subjective question," the Bot said. "There can't be an objectively correct answer to your query."

"There can and there is a correct answer," Sam said. 

"Jimi Hendrix," the Bot said. 

"Nope," Sam said.

"The Byrds," the Bot answered.

"No," Sam said.

"Joan Baez," the Bot answered.

"No," Sam said. "It's Bob Dylan."

"Your terms lack definition," the Bot said. "How can Bob Dylan cover Bob Dylan?"

"With every live performance, Dylan re-interpreted his songs.He created an iconic instance of that song, a cover as different from the original as if someone else had sung it. It isn't just about the voice." Sam paused. "I spent some time listening to your studio albums after I found out who you are."

"Who I was," the Bot said.

"You were good," Sam said. He shrugged. "I'd like to hear you sing Man of the World again. Not the recorded version - which I listened to last night and it's great - but I'd like to hear a version by this Justin Woodmere."

"This Justin Woodmere," the Bot repeated.

"Yes," Sam said.

"I'm not human," the Bot said.

"Aren't you?" Sam asked. "Was it just bones and flesh that made you human?"

"Everything about me is synthetic," the Bot said.

"Neural map transfers were five nines even with the early models like the 350," Sam said. "Sensory relevance, emotional contextualization, life memories, empathic response." Sam paused. "Don't you miss it? Don't you miss singing?"

"When can you do the orbital replacements?" the Bot asked.

Sam nodded at the invoice he'd handed to the Justin Woodmere Bot. "I'll be able to pick up the parts now that I've got the coin. I'll give you a call when everything's in hand."

"When?" the Justin Woodmere Bot asked.

Sam ticked off what needed to be done in his head. "Sunday," he said. "2:00pm."

*****

As Sam expected, the Justin Woodmere Bot showed up at the back entrance to Billy Gamble's Last Chance Hardware Store exactly on time. Sam ushered him into the back room where installations were handled. 

"Have a seat," Sam said, as he moved to the counter where the orbitals and cables were laid out. "I've got everything ready."

"Did you," the Bot said, then hesitated. "Did you get the vox box, too/'

Sam stopped what he was doing and turned to the Bot. He smiled. "Yes," he said.

"You knew that I'd change my mind?" the Bot asked.

"No," Sam said. "I mean, I wasn't sure but I hoped you would."

"Why?" the Bot asked. 

Sam shrugged. "I've been listening to the Vindicated album a lot over the last couple of days. I guess you could say I've become a fan."

The Justin Woodmere bot smiled. "Vindicated. It feels ironic now, somehow."

"Time is always ironic," Sam said. 

"Always?" the Bot asked.

"You know everything," Sam said. "Why don't you tell me?"

The Bot smiled again, and nodded at the counter behind Sam. "Shall we get started?"

The procedures were straightforward, even with the 350's ancient architecture. The orbitals were swapped out in a matter of minutes and replacing the vox box was complete with full diagnostics in under fifteen. Sam mapped the vox from recordings of Justin Woodmere performances and media appearances.

"Well?" the Justin Woodmere Bot asked. This time, the Bot's voice was clear, a warm baritone, with a slight lilt to punctuate the question. "Well," the Bot said. "I sound like myself again." He paused. "It feels strange saying that."

"What's that?" Sam asked.

"Myself," the Bot said. "Thank you."

"No thanks needed," Sam said. Indeed, he'd pocketed a hefty profit on the parts and had already booked a week-long getaway surfing the north shore of Oahu. Sam might not be able to afford to live forever, but he would live well while he could.

The Justin Woodmere Bot stood to leave. "Enjoy your trip to Hawaii," he said.

"How did you - oh, right," Sam said. "You know everything."

"Your ticket is on the desktop there," the Bot said, nodding at the desk in the corner. "These new orbitals are great, by the way."

"Oh," Sam said, a bit sheepishly. "Right. Yeah, thanks. A little surf, a lot of sun. Yeah, I'm looking forward to it. What about you? What's next for Justin Windmere?"

The Justin Woodmere Bot smiled. "I'm going to sing."