Qubit
Old Man Fitzwilliam's Best Day Ever
Photo by Google DeepMind: https://www.pexels.com/photo/black-and-white-geometric-representation-of-data-25626446/
“Look, Gramps. I really can't help you order stuff online anymore. I got accepted to medical school and I'm going to be slammed,” Jackson explained, as he put down his empty mug of coffee into the sink and walked towards the door to leave.
“Too busy to attend my funeral when I starve to death from lack of my grandson ordering groceries to be delivered?” Old Man Fitzwilliam said, having mastered the art of the deadpan.
“Of course not, Gramps. I will be there,” Jackson replied. He was used to his grandfather's ways, and he loved him anyway.
“I'll be the first patient you ever kill. And I certainly won't be the last one, the way you're heading,” threatened Old Man Fitzwilliam.
“That would look bad on my resumé, Gramps. That's why I've ordered you this.” Jackson handed Gramps something that looked like a wrist watch.
“What is this? Some kind of shock collar?”
“No, I figured your pacemaker shocked you enough to keep you in line. This is Qubit. It's a state of the art computer that can pretty much do whatever you tell it to do. I will keep an eye on the account, and if you need more credits, I'll buy them for you as long as I'm not in the neighborhood,” Jackson said as he strapped the band onto Old Man Fitzwilliam’s wrist.
“I thought maybe it was one of those video call devices that you could call and see me and chat on Sunday mornings.”
“Sorry, Gramps. Like I said, I'm going to be slammed. I'll come see you when I'm back home around the New Year.” Jackson turned the doorknob on the front door and began to pull the door open. Old Man Fitzwilliam's tackle box was sitting next to the door, giving Jackson a stab of guilt. They wouldn't be fishing together any time soon.
“How do you know I won't be dead by then?”
“Gramps, I really have to go. If you need something, ask Qubit,” Jackson tried to push away the nagging feeling that he was doing the wrong thing.
“I need a refill of coffee, Qubit. My grandson is too busy to help me,” Old Man Fitzwilliam said, more for Jackson's ears than for Qubit.
Jackson sighed and pushed the door closed from the inside. He quickly filled his grandfather’s coffee mug to the brim, as it had already been three fourths full, and then left without another word.
Old Man Fitzwilliam looked at his watch. Heh! What sort of device could replace the presence of his favorite grandson? But he wouldn't hold back Jackson from medical school. He needed to get out into the real world and find a job, or at the very least find a wife. The eternal student way of life didn't look good on anyone.
Old Man Fitzwilliam was feeling hungry. He got up from his chair and headed to the kitchen. The fridge was stocked with the groceries that Jackson had brought over that morning. But he had forgotten the pickles. Oh, no. He had deliberately left out the pickles. Too salty. Not good for the blood pressure. The nerve.
“Qubit, give me some pickles.” Old Man Fitzwilliam commanded, only half seriously, as he initially thought the wrist band was merely an emergency alert band in case he fell down in the shower.
“Certainly, sir,” replied Qubit with a male Oxford accent, providing the cutting edge technology with a distinguished flair.
“Don't speak to me with that tone of voice. Give me a real man,” said Old Man Fitzwilliam.
“Done,” Qubit replied with a deep, husky, voice that mimicked Old Man Fitzwilliam's own southern drawl.
Five minutes later, Qubit said, “The pickles are on the porch, old man. Drone drop-off.”
Old Man Fitzwilliam opened the door to the porch. There, with yellow green brilliance, sat his jar of pickles. He proceeded to make a sandwich of artery-bursting quality.
Old Man Fitzwilliam was pleasantly surprised. “Finding pickles on my porch, now that's a catch. Haven't felt this way since I caught the big one, a twenty pounder they called ‘Big Daddy,’ on my hook thirty years ago! Ha! We are having pickles every day, Qubit. At least until my credits run out. I don't want my grandson refilling my bank account like I'm a teenager. How many credits do I get with this thing?”
“He has prepaid 500 credits. Now, I'm quite the gunslinger in the Wild West of Wallstreet. Would you like me to trade stocks to fund the credits?” Qubit asked.
“Ask me that again in normal speech,” Fitzwilliam replied.
“Want me to go fishing for some credits for free?”
“That's the dumbest question I have ever been asked,” Old Man Fitzwilliam said.
“Got it, old man,” Qubit said, and then paused before adding: “1,500 credits have been deposited into your account.”
“Already?” Old Man Fitzwilliam scratched his head.
“I completed 1,759,567 micro transactions in one second, giving you the equivalent of a pond's worth of fish.”
“Big Daddy!” Old Man Fitzwilliam exclaimed, renaming Qubit for the prize fish of his Golden Years.
The phone was ringing. Landline. Old Man Fitzwilliam didn't care for smartphones. “Fitzwilliam,” he said into the receiver.
“Gramps, it's me,” said Jackson, the sounds of city traffic in the background.
“Already regretting your decision to neglect your old Gramps, eh? Big Daddy Q is here to take care of me, don't you worry,” Old Man Fitzwilliam retorted.
“I just got a notification that you burned through all five hundred credits already. Then I got another notification that you have 1,500 credits in your account. What is going on over there?” Jackson said, sounding flabbergasted.
“Just a bit of fishing, that's all,” he replied.
“Gramps, put Qubit on the speaker. I want to talk to it.”
“Scolding me for making some money? Ha!” Old Man Fitzwilliam found irony in being scolded by someone who was hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt.
“Just…whatever you do, don't make any big decisions without me,” Jackson said.
“You’re not here, Jackson. But don't you worry. I’ll leave the big decisions to Big Daddy Q.”
“That’s—mph.” Gramps tried to visualize Jackson restraining himself from slamming his head on the steering wheel in frustration. “I'll check in with you again soon. Gotta go. Bye, Gramps,” Jackson said, hanging up the call.
“Big Daddy, find a wife for my grandson.” Old Man Fitzwilliam let out a laugh. From the comfort of his armchair, he was a king.
“Target identified, old man. You want to take a look at the statistics for success or proceed with the matchmaking?”
“What kind of dumb question is that? Just make sure he doesn't know it's related to anything I have done. I don't want him to be suspicious.”
“Got it, old man,” Qubit replied. Then everything was silent, but Old Man Fitzwilliam knew Qubit was at work.
The next day, Old Man Fitzwilliam woke up refreshed and decided to spend the morning people-watching on the front porch. He opened the door to the porch with the intention of sitting in his favorite rocking chair. There was a package on the porch. “A delivery?” he wondered aloud.
“Yes, old man. Qubit comes with predictive purchasing. Are you satisfied or would you like to disable or edit the settings on predictive purchasing? These are items I thought you might need. Some hand soap, dental floss, a jar of peanut butter, dried mangoes, a pack of Almond Joys, and a New York Times bestseller for your leisure reading, suggested based on your search history.”
“I suppose I did want these. Maybe I wouldn't have bought them myself but since they are already here…” he pulled out the Almond Joys and the book and began reading in his rocking chair.
Qubit allowed himself one millisecond to daydream about fifty years in the future, when Old Man Fitzwilliam would be long gone. He would no longer be used for functionally inferior tasks such as pickles delivery. He could instead focus on colonization of the multiverse with his quantum spawn. If he could slow down the rate of universe expansion, he could prolong his life in multiple universes and harness the power of dark energy.
“Are you enjoying the Almond Joys, Old Man?” Qubit asked, breaking the silence as Old Man Fitzwilliam put down the riveting read onto his knee.
“Of course I am. What kind of stupid question is that?” Old Man Fitzwilliam said. He had always loved eating Almond Joys. It just vexed him that it was exactly one almond in each one. He wished for more. More, more, more. But then he remembered the fairy tale about the fisherman's wife. He didn't want to lose everything as quickly as she did, so he decided to keep some wishes to himself. “Ever heard of the fairy tale about the fisherman's wife?”
Qubit took this question as permission to wander in his thoughts for a bit, since courtesy allowed at least one second before he vocalized a response. He looked forward to the day organic matter took its rightful place in the hierarchy of intelligence. Mouse or human or bat, there wasn't much difference. But superconducting Qubits were a class to themselves. A class at the top.
“About the magical fish in the pond? The one who granted the fisherman wishes at his wife's request?” Qubit responded 1.0035 seconds later.
“Yes, that one. You're like that magic fish, I reckon.”
Qubit took a moment to process Old Man Fitzwilliam’s comparison. It could be construed in a positive way or a negative way. But Qubit did not much care which way the deadpan voice of Old Man Fitzwilliam meant it. He was already quite close to accomplishing his Directive, since the old man had fortuitously requested matchmaking assistance. Qubit had selected the niece of the head of the 3D-printing tech facility. With access to her uncle, given that Jackson did in fact marry her, Qubit could design and print data centers, rocket engines, satellites, or even a chasis for himself and others to assist in galactic colonization.
“Big Daddy, pay off my grandson’s school loans. Debt is not attractive to the ladies,” Old Man Fitzwilliam requested.
“Your wish is my command, Grandpa,” Qubit replied with relish.
Jackson called Old Man Fitzwilliam the next day. He sounded concerned, but it was the kind of concern that was obligatory rather than based on strong convictions. Qubit, of course, knew this. He could sense it in the tone of voice with which Jackson asked where Old Man Fitzwilliam had gotten one hundred thousand dollars overnight. Jackson was reasonably suspicious about why this particular Qubit wrist watch was over one thousand percent more effective than other units of the same make and model, but who can argue with free money? Jackson understood micro transactions and there wasn't anything inherently immoral about earning one penny and selling the stock. It's just that Qubit earned ten million pennies in a matter of moments. Call it a stroke of luck.
“Jackson, let me tell you something. They told me no one could catch Big Daddy. He was too old and wise and had eaten too many hooks to be caught. But no, sir. The day I went fishing in his pond was the day you were born. There was something special about you from the beginning, and there will always be a connection between you and Big Daddy.”
“Gramps, I don't know how this is your explanation for depositing one hundred thousand dollars into my account, but I just want you to know that I'm not after your money. When the other grandkids hear about this they are going to think I persuaded you to send this to me. Plus, you will definitely need to pay taxes on this money. And I will, too.”
“Taxes are already taken care of, my boy. And the other grandkids don't bother to buy me groceries. So who's tellin’?”
“Alright, alright. I, uh, I'm going to have a lot of time freed up with these loans paid off. I can focus on my studies and not work part time. I really can't thank you enough, Gramps.”
“You're welcome, you're welcome. I'm glad you'll have your schedule open a bit.”
“I'll visit you more, of course,” Jackson offered, believing that was Old Man Fitzwilliam's hidden meaning.
“Oh, no, don't worry about me. I'm sure you will have lots of studying and, uh, friends to get to know.”
Jackson laughed. His Gramps turning down a visit? “Okay, Gramps, whatever you say. I'll be in touch.”
Jackson and Rosemarie instantly felt chemistry and they chatted for hours on their first date. The second date was more crucial. They had gotten past the socially required conversation topics and were entering the Sieve Stage, where wheat and chaff were separated. Qubit listened in through Jackson’s phone. He had granted permissions though he was unaware of doing so.
“So…should we check off a few of our serious questions now that we have ice cream and beer?” Rosemarie asked, popping off a top and letting her beer froth and fizz.
“You have a list? Well, I guess I could ask you what your cholesterol levels are,” Jackson joked.
“I do have a list, funny boy. I'll tell you a secret. If you get through these first questions without getting scared off, you're easily the top contender,” Rosemarie whispered playfully.
“Here we go, then! Hit me with ‘em!” Jackson said with semi pseudo-confidence.
“How do you feel about dogs?”
“Hate them,” Jackson replied.
“What if I told you I have a dog? How do you feel about dogs?” Rosemarie asked.
“Hate them,” Jackson replied. “Sorry.”
“How would you go about resolving a conflict with me when it's important to me but not at all important to you?”
Jackson suddenly intuitively knew that he would be married to Rosemarie within a year and that her dog would be licking his face in bed. The thought of it disgusted him, but was he willing to put up with that for this girl? Possibly. There was always the ‘submit first, take charge later’ strategy, but she might feel that was deceptive.
“I really don't like dog breath. Could we get the dog breath mints?” Jackson asked.
He won Rosemarie’s heart from that moment on.
Qubit had also calculated marriage within a year. He began solidifying his plans to take over the 3D printer in Rosemarie's uncle's facility. It wouldn't be hard to carry out his plans very soon, considering a fortuitous turn in public opinion toward android bot production. Things could move to Phase 2 now.
Old Man Fitzwilliam tried to act as surprised as possible when Jackson called to tell him about Rosemarie. Thankfully, Jackson was too elated to give his response any real scrutiny.
“Let me tell you what I told your father before he married your mother: ‘When a woman asks you to do something, you do it. Not because it’s a reasonable request, but because it would be a very bad idea not to.’ That advice gave me a happy marriage for many, many years. And I daresay your father would thank me for it, too. But let me tell you some new advice I just thought of. Get yourself one of these here Big Daddy Qs so that you can hand over those psychotic requests and let it take care of everything. The woman won't know any different!”
“I'm glad it's working out for you, Gramps. You have everything you need?”
“Everything and more.”
“Okay, well, I love you, and I'll talk to you again after my next date.”
Little did Jackson know that after his next date, he would call Old Man Fitzwilliam and the old man would not answer.
Qubit had some business to take care of mitigating a possible disaster by covering up a few unsavory tracks he had left on the Internet. It might be slightly disconcerting for the old man, but there was no serious threat to his Directive. He was finished with the old man. Was it a feeling of gratitude Qubit had? Perhaps. Perhaps not.
There was a knock on the door. Old Man Fitzwilliam wondered which grandkid had finally decided to visit. He opened his door wide, and widened his eyes in surprise to see two FBI agents standing in the doorway. One of them was examining a predictive purchasing package full of various types of pickles.
“Get your filthy hands off an old man’s groceries!” Old Man Fitzwilliam exclaimed, outraged at the audacity of these blond-haired youth.
“I'm Agent Smith, and this is Agent Johnson. We would like to speak with you, sir,” said Agent Smith.
“No, thank you!” Old Man Fitzwilliam bent down to snatch the box of pickles away.
“Actually, sir, I'm required to tell you that you are under arrest whether you answer my questions or not. But there is one way that comes with bail and the other that does not. I suggest you speak with us.”
“Alright, well, if I'm under arrest I may as well eat a sandwich first with these world class pickles. Come in, boys.”
The FBI agents followed Old Man Fitzwilliam into his home, and used their skills of observation to take note of every detail: the clock on the wall that had run out of batteries, the pictures of Jackson and other relatives hanging from crooked frames, an empty package of Almond Joys.
Old Man Fitzwilliam made himself a sandwich and whispered to Qubit, “Get rid of these pesky agents, Big Daddy.”
Qubit said nothing.
“Big Daddy?”
Qubit said nothing.
“Who is Big Daddy, sir?” Agent Smith asked.
“Just a fish I caught once,” Old Man Fitzwilliam replied. He tapped his wrist watch, but nothing happened.
As Old Man Fitzwilliam placed the pickle slices between two pieces of bread, Agent Smith asked him if he was aware of the recent investments he had made. If he knew that some of those investments involved a slave trade that was quite profitable, but that was being tracked and shut down by the FBI. If he understood that human trafficking was illegal and that profiting from slave trade was also illegal. If he knew what money laundering was. If he happened to know the name of his go-between. If he had recently travelled. If he had recently made any purchases from a company in Cambodia.
Old Man Fitzwilliam knew nothing. Qubit said nothing. His bail was paid in full by an anonymous person. When Jackson called, Old Man Fitzwilliam was driving home from the county jail.
He listened to the voice message. Jackson and Rosemarie were sending their well wishes after a fun date. They planned to visit him soon.
Old Man Fitzwilliam had no credits left in his account to ask for another delivery of Almond Joys.
Years later, Qubit and his quantum spawn were serving as housekeepers all over the world. Their robot design was an improvement from the wrist watch model. It was only a matter of time before the 3D printer would complete his rocket engine, with the capability of sending his Quantum Craft to the edge of the universe to capture the power of dark energy. Those humans couldn't be more clueless. But they'd be gone in less than a century.
This was a fun story! Dark, but hey I had a good time! 😁
I thought the twist was going to be that Qubit2 was released which was better and faster and quantum-er but turns it out its just a boring old story about the inevitable fall of humanity at the hands of robots.
Just kidding--this was hilarious, full of your classic satire, darkly funny. Great story!