The Junkyard Bot

by C. J. Richards

  “What the—!” he said, swinging his beefy arms and missing. “What is that thing? Get it away from me!”

  “They gave it to me at TinkerTech. It’s a pocket robot in the shape of a moth,” George explained.

  “Don’t make me take a fly swatter to it,” grunted Otto. “I’m gonna take a shower. Try to keep yourself out of trouble while I’m gone.” He stomped upstairs, and a few minutes later, George heard the rush of water.

  George held out his hand, and the moth-bot came and settled on his fingers. “It’s so unfair!” he said to the bot. “How am I supposed to track down Jackbot if I can’t even leave the house? Uncle Otto’s going to watch me like a hawk!”

  Suddenly George remembered Mrs. Glitch and her security robot. Had she been shut out of her house all day? He sprang up and rushed to the door, then remembered he was grounded.

  He cocked his ear. Uncle Otto liked to spend a while in the shower. Then he’d have to trim his beard and get dressed. George thought he probably had twenty minutes. He slipped outside. The little moth fluttered after him.

  “Oh, George!” said Mrs. Glitch as she opened her front door. “I’m so glad to see you!”

  “You got back in the house, then?”

  “Eventually,” said Mrs. Glitch. “I had to get Lenny to sneak up behind HP and switch it off. But now I don’t have any home security . . .”

  “Let me take a quick look at it,” George said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Throwing curious glances at the robot moth, Mrs. Glitch led George into the back room, where HP was sitting motionless on the floor. It was a humanoid robot with a TV screen for a head. More than a little creepy, really—which is probably why the model had been retired.

  George took out his screwdriver and opened the back of HP’s head. “I see the problem,” he said to Mrs. Glitch. “See where that wire’s loose? That’s what links the recognition circuit to the behavioral program. Easy peasy.” He pushed the wire back into place and tightened a screw on top of it. “It should be fine now.”

  George closed up HP’s head and flicked the ON switch at the back of its neck.

  HP slowly rose to its feet. Its TV-screen head swiveled to look at Mrs. Glitch and George. “Loretta Glitch. George Gearing,” it said in a slow, monotonous voice. “Access authorized.”

  “Oh, thank you so much, George!” said Mrs. Glitch.

  “Anytime. Now you can sleep easy knowing that HP’s on the job again!” Suddenly, George felt a rush of adrenaline as an idea sprang into his mind. “Wait a minute! HP would have been watching the house last night, right?”

  “Why, yes, it always stands guard outside the house at night.”

  “Would you mind if I checked the footage?” asked George.

  “Not at all.”

  It might be nothing, George thought, but it’s worth a shot.

  “HP?” he said. “Could you run last night’s security video, starting at nine p.m.?”

  “Affirmative.”

  A picture appeared on HP’s screen. It was dark, and showed Mrs. Glitch’s yard and the road in front of George’s house. Clouds drifted across the moon, and a car or two sped by.

  “Could you speed it up?” George said. “Increase by a factor of thirty-two.”

  The label “×32” appeared at the top corner of the screen. The clouds no longer drifted, but raced across the moon, and the moon itself could be seen inching higher in the sky. Then a dark blur rushed across the screen.

  “Stop!” said George. “Run the last minute again. At normal speed.”

  The video reversed and played again. A huge shadow spread from the left side of the screen as something approached the Gearing yard. George saw a gigantic figure with a big square head rolling on wheels toward his house. The glowing eyes glanced for a moment into the camera.

  George lurched back. “It’s the Caretaker!”

  “Who?” said Mrs. Glitch.

  George watched the footage, speechless, as the Caretaker rolled up to the front door of his house. In a matter of seconds it stooped under the doorframe and entered. The master key attachment, George thought. It must have used that to break into the house! George shook his head, dismayed, but it was all falling into place.

  In less than a minute the Caretaker emerged again, carrying George’s friend. The thief closed and locked the door. Suddenly Jackbot came to life and pushed his way out of the Caretaker’s grip. The Caretaker didn’t seem to have expected that, but it quickly recovered and chased Jackbot into the bushes off the back patio. There, it dragged Jackbot back out of the bushes and used one of its attachments to turn the battered bot off for good. That must be where the skid marks came from, thought George. After a moment, both robots vanished off the side of the screen.

  But why? What would the Caretaker want with Jackbot? Well, the Caretaker didn’t want anything. It was just a robot. It did what it was told. If it had kidnapped Jackbot, it was because someone had told it to.

  The name that sprang to George’s mind made no sense.

  “Are you all right, George?” said Mrs. Glitch. “You’ve gone pale.”

  “Not really,” said George. “I’ve got to go.”

  George made it back to his house with time to spare before his uncle finished getting dressed. His mind kept turning over the same question: Why would Dr. Micron want to steal Jackbot?

  He checked the dim and blurred number on the back of his hand and picked up his old-fashioned phone to dial it.

  Anne answered on the third ring.

  “It’s me,” said George.

  “Are you okay?” she said. “I called my dad but he said he was too busy to talk.”

  “It all got sorted out,” said George. By Dr. Micron—but why? “Listen, Anne. I think I know who stole Jackbot. It was Dr. Micron.”

  Anne laughed. “That’s funny,” she said. “Was he looking for parts?”

  “I’m serious!” said George. “It was one of his robots that snuck into my house and kidnapped Jackbot.”

  “Slow down,” said Anne. “You’re jumping to conclusions again. Remember what happened with Patricia—”

  Another thought tumbled into George’s brain. “And what about the garbage truck? Maybe it wasn’t a malfunction. What if it was trying to kill me?”

  “George, you’re freaking me out,” said Anne. “Why in the world would Dr. Micron want Jackbot?”

  It came to George like a flash of light. “Because of his AI,” he said. “Of course! Dr. Micron saw that Jackbot’s programming was revolutionary. He wants to copy it and take the credit.”

  Anne was silent for a moment. George heard her take a deep breath. “George, you’ve got to stop and think for a second. Next to my dad, Dr. Micron is the greatest robotics engineer in the world. Jackbot . . . he’s quirky, but—”

  “You don’t get it,” said George, his frustration mounting. “You don’t know Jackbot like I do. It’s not a quirk—he’s really thinking for himself. It’s like he’s more than just a robot . . . he’s his own person.” George felt tired of trying to convince people he was telling the truth. “Look, you can believe me or not—but I’m going after Jackbot. Will you help me?”

  “I’m not going to help you make a fool of yourself, no. I’ve already done that today,” said Anne.

  George heard a sound beside his ear and saw the moth-bot hovering close to his head.

  “Fine,” he said to Anne. “I’ll do this on my own.” He hung up the phone with a satisfying slam. Let’s see her do that with a smartphone, he thought.

  But after a moment, he stopped feeling satisfied and just felt alone. He turned to the moth. “Looks like it’s just you and me, buddy,” he said.

  Suddenly, the moth-bot’s little eyes turned bright red. A long, whippy steel tongue unfurled from its mouth, and it made a sudden stab at George’s hand.

  “What? Hey!” George jerked out of the way as a clear liquid dripped from the moth-bot’s tongue and landed on the sofa with a hiss. The fabric sizz
led and turned black.

  Acid!

  The robot was coming at him again. Straight at his face.

  George ducked.

  The creature whizzed over his head, close enough to ruffle his hair.

  “Hey, stop!” shouted George, backing away.

  “What’s goin’ on down there?” Otto yelled from upstairs.

  George ran around the room, pursued by the moth-bot. Tiny jets of acid scorched the curtains, the carpet, the table. George ran into the kitchen. He tried to slam the door closed, but the robot zipped through the crack just in time. George seized a frying pan.

  “What can I get you, George?” said Mr. Egg calmly. “An omelet? A frittata, perhaps?” Since being fixed, the cook-bot was much more civilized.

  George swung at the moth-bot and hit it with a metallic ping!

  The tiny bot flew across the kitchen, bounced off the wall, and fell into the sink’s garbage disposal. George leaped forward and turned on the switch. With a terrible squeal, the metal blades spun and then ground to a halt. Smoke rose from the sink.

  George peered inside the disposal, frying pan raised. The moth was a twisted mess, its eyes dim. Its acid-spitting days were over.

  Sweat prickled on George’s forehead as he sat down at the table.

  Uncle Otto burst into the room, a towel wrapped around his waist. “Would you please stop that racket?” he said. “What does a guy have to do for some peace and quiet?” His nose twitched as he picked up the scent of charred machinery, and he strode over to George. “What did you do to the sink?”

  George was too lost in thought to respond.

  The moth-bot had just tried to kill him! Of course it had. It was a gift from Dr. Micron, after all. He must have overheard George’s conversation with Anne.

  “Steak sandwich, Otto?” said Mr. Egg.

  “No, shut up!” said Otto. “George, answer me!”

  And if Dr. Micron heard me speaking to Anne . . .

  George stood up quickly. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “Anne’s in danger.”

  “You’re not going anywhere!” said Otto.

  George ran past him and out the front door.

  “Come back here right now, young man!” bellowed his uncle.

  George didn’t stop running until he reached Anne’s house in Binary Bluffs. He hammered on the door, then bent over double on her doorstep, dripping with sweat and gasping for breath.

  “Go away,” said the house. “No unauthorized visitors are welcome at this time.”

  “Anne!” shouted George. “Open the door!”

  “The door will not open,” said the house. “You are not permitted to enter. No unauthorized visitors are welcome at this time.”

  George banged on the door again. He heard Sparky barking inside.

  “Is that you, George?” said Anne’s voice from the other side of the door. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Thank goodness you’re all right!” said George. “Let me in, quick!”

  George heard Anne trying to turn the door handle.

  “I can’t open it,” said Anne. “House! Let me out!”

  “No unauthorized visitors are welcome at this time,” said the house.

  “Anne, this is serious!” said George. “You’re in danger! You have to get that door open.”

  “What?” said Anne. “George, if this is more nonsense about Dr. Micron . . .”

  “He just tried to kill me!” said George.

  The door handle rattled again.

  “Open this door, house,” said Anne. “Now!”

  “The door will not open. You are not permitted to leave,” said the house. “No unauthorized exits at this time.”

  “Fine,” said Anne. “You asked for it!”

  “What are you doing?” called George.

  “Wait and see!” said Anne. “Stand back!” George heard her footsteps retreating, with Sparky barking and pattering along beside her.

  “Hey, get away from that!” said the house.

  George took a few steps back from the door and shifted his weight from foot to foot, wishing he knew what was going on. He scanned the street outside, just in case there were any more rogue garbage trucks around.

  A loud BOOM! sounded from inside the house, and the door shook.

  The house groaned.

  “Grrooooghellllaghblmf,” it said. “No unauthorized bleeeerkh. Gahhhhh.”

  The lock clicked and the door swung open.

  George stepped into the house.

  Anne and Sparky appeared at the end of the hallway. Anne was grinning, and Sparky’s tongue was lolling out as if he was pleased with himself as well. A cloud of smoke was drifting up behind them. The maid-bot in the white apron, which was cleaning the paintings on the walls, continued dusting as if nothing had happened.

  “What did you do?” said George.

  “I got Sparky to chew through the wires of the central controls.”

  “Nice one,” said George. “Now do you believe me?”

  “What, just because my house is being stubborn?”

  “Don’t you see?” said George. “Dr. Micron’s taken control!”

  “I don’t believe in conspiracy theories,” said Anne. “But come in, anyway.”

  As George walked toward Anne, the maid-bot rolled toward the middle of the hallway. It pointed its feather duster. The feathers fell off to reveal a bunch of glinting metal spikes beneath.

  “Targets detected,” it said in a soft voice with a slight French accent. “Proceed to eliminate targets. Method selected: stabbing with sharp things.”

  “Um, excuse me?” said Anne.

  As the maid-bot advanced toward them, Sparky barked at it.

  George grabbed Anne and tugged her toward another door. “Quick!” he said.

  The door behind them opened, and out came a state-of-the-art chef-bot wearing a tall white hat. It was carrying a meat cleaver.

  “Targets detected,” it said. “Proceed to eliminate targets. Method selected: spatchcock.”

  George had no clue what that meant, but he didn’t like the sound of it. He looked at Anne. “Now what?”

  “Through the dining room!” Anne said. “It leads out to the backyard.”

  She ran to a side door but before she got there, it opened and a green gardener-bot came in from the yard, sporting a coiled rubber hose and a sprinkler on its head. It was opening and shutting a pair of shears. “Targets detected,” it said. “Proceed to eliminate targets. Method selected: pruning.”

  A handyman robot, dressed in white, appeared through another side door. It was carrying a spinning electric drill. It said something. George couldn’t hear the words above the loud, ugly whine of the drill, but he was pretty sure he got the gist.

  He turned to Anne. “How does that conspiracy theory sound now?”

  The killer robots were getting closer.

  Sparky didn’t know which way to turn, and ran around planting himself in front of the various attackers. The chef-bot looked down at him for a moment, then kicked him.

  CLANG! Sparky went tumbling head over heels, yelping. He got to his feet with difficulty—one of his legs was broken.

  “Sparky!” said Anne.

  “Anne,” said George, “we have to get out of here!”

  “Upstairs!” Anne said. She ducked under the chopping shears of the gardener-bot, scooped Sparky off the floor, and ran up the broad, curving staircase. Halfway to the top she stopped to look back.

  George dodged as the maid-bot lunged at him. He tripped into an umbrella stand and almost stumbled right into the chef-bot, who was chopping so fast with the meat cleaver that the blade was a blur. The maid-bot blocked the stairs, and the others closed in.

  I’ve got to get past the maid, thought George. He grabbed an umbrella and brandished it like a sword, then swung it at the maid-bot. Its duster cut the umbrella into ribbons, leaving him holding the stump of the handle. He threw it at the robot’s head, distracting it long enough to skip past and up t
he stairs.

  He and Anne darted to the top, then ran toward a room at the end of the corridor. Once they were inside, Anne slammed the door shut.

  “Lock, door,” she said.

  “Negative,” said the door.

  “Not you too!” Anne gasped. “George, help me!”

  She put Sparky down on the bed and took one side of a chest of drawers while George grabbed the other. Together they manhandled it into a barricade and fell back, breathing heavily.

  “So, this is my bedroom,” Anne said.

  “Yeah, it’s really nice,” George said. He looked around the room—bed with polka-dot covers, posters of pop stars on the wall—it all looked so normal. Almost too normal. “The only trouble is,” George went on, “aren’t we kind of, you know, trapped?”

  “It’s better than being spatchcocked or pruned.”

  “I guess so,” said George. “But can your bots climb the stairs?”

  Anne didn’t need to answer. The sound of footsteps grew louder, and then the door shook with a rhythmic thumping from the other side.

  “That dresser won’t hold them back for long,” said George.

  “I don’t understand,” said Anne. “Even if Dr. Micron’s behind this, what’s he got against me?”

  “It’s my fault,” George admitted. “When I called you, he must have been listening in. He knows you know the truth, and he’s trying to cover his tracks.”

  “I can’t believe that you were right,” Anne said, shaking her head. “Oh, well. I never liked Chip anyway. We spent Thanksgiving at his house, and he wouldn’t let me feed Sparky under the table.”

  On the bed, Sparky whined and licked his damaged leg with his silicon tongue, causing it to spark.

  BAM! BAM! The door shivered in its frame and cracks snaked across the wood. “Don’t worry, I’ve got a little something up my sleeve,” said Anne.

  “That’s good to hear,” said George. “What is it?”

  “I’ll stand right here,” said Anne. She positioned herself in the center of the room. “When they break in, they’ll come for me. And when I say ‘Now!’ you push the little red button on the remote control.”