The Junkyard Bot

by C. J. Richards

  “What remote control?” said George.

  “Oh, yeah, good point. Hmm, where is it?” said Anne, looking around the room.

  The wood started to splinter.

  “I don’t know!” said George. “You tell me!”

  “There! My bedside table!”

  George rummaged through the objects on the table. Plenty of hair bands, a brush, an alarm clock, a pile of books. No remote.

  The top half of the door gave way, and George saw the robots scrambling and pushing one another, trying to get inside.

  “Where else can I look?” George demanded.

  The robots shoved the chest of drawers aside and stalked into the room. “Anne! Where?” George shouted.

  “Try under the bed!”

  “Prepare to stab with sharp things!” said the maid-bot, waving its steel-tipped duster.

  “Prepare to spatchcock!” said the chef-bot, swishing its cleaver through the air.

  “Prepare to prune!” said the gardener-bot, snipping its shears.

  George dived and shoved his hand under the bed. To his relief, his fingers closed on a remote control. “Got it!”

  “Press the red button! Then duck!”

  “Prepare to drill!” said the handy-bot. It revved the drill, and the horrible whine competed with Sparky’s frantic barking.

  George hit the red button.

  The chest of drawers fired out its wooden drawers like missiles. They shot across the room, and one knocked the maid-bot’s head clean off.

  At the same time, two of the posters tore in the center as tubes extended from behind. Jets of water slammed the chef-bot against the wall. The jet kept it pinned there until its eyeballs started rotating. Seconds later it short-circuited. Steam came out of its ears and it fell to the floor.

  Meanwhile, a bucket tipped from the top of the wardrobe. It landed neatly upside down on the handy-bot’s head, and something thick and gloopy poured over its shoulders. The handy-bot staggered around blindly, trying in vain to pull off the pail.

  “It’s glue!” said Anne. The handy-bot veered wildly around the room, then accelerated toward the window. With a crash of breaking glass, it toppled through. Shortly afterward, there was a thud.

  Only the gardener-bot remained.

  “Bye!” said Anne.

  She tugged what looked like an old-fashioned light cord beside her, and a hole opened in the floor. The gardener-bot tumbled through, but managed to grab the sides to stop its fall.

  “Oh, well—three out of four ain’t bad,” said Anne.

  The gardener-bot pulled itself back up into the room. It advanced on Anne, shears snapping. “This tree is overgrown,” it said to her. “Prepare to be pruned.”

  George leaped onto its back, wrapping his arms around the bot’s neck. The huge crushing hands reached back, trying to grab at him. “Do something!” said George.

  Anne looked frantically around. George saw her grab a teddy bear, then shake her head and toss it aside.

  “In my back pocket!” said George. “Screwdriver!”

  The gardener-bot spun around, its shears slicing the air. George felt his teeth rattling as the bot tried to throw him off. Anne scurried behind them and pulled the small screwdriver from George’s back pocket. George took it everywhere, just in case Jackbot ever needed tightening up. Anne narrowly missed being sliced by the shears—they only took off a bit of her hair. “Hey!” she yelled. “Look, now it’s all crooked . . .”

  George snatched the screwdriver from her hands and rammed it hard into the gardener-bot’s ear.

  “How can I help youuuuuuuu . . .” the bot’s voice trailed off as it powered down. George let himself drop to the floor.

  “Whew,” said George, trying to catch his breath as he looked at the sodden, stained mess that was Anne’s room. “I knew this room seemed too normal. That was some seriously impressive bedroom security. Most people just have a lock on the door.”

  Anne grinned with pride. “I’ve always liked booby traps. That’s why I got expelled from my last three schools.”

  George studied the homemade mechanical creations with renewed respect for Anne’s cleverness. “Those schools didn’t know what they were missing,” he said.

  Anne blushed.

  “Nice hair, by the way,” George added.

  “Thanks!” said Anne, sounding pleased. “I’m totally going to rock the rebel look with this crooked haircut.”

  “C’mon, we need to get to TinkerTech HQ,” said George. “Jackbot must be there, and we can tell your dad what’s going on. Let’s use the transport chamber.”

  Anne shook her head. “We can’t. Not after Sparky shorted out the house’s main systems. We’ll have to go across town. Come on, Sparky!”

  Sparky jumped down off the bed and immediately collapsed on the carpet.

  “I better see if I can fix that leg,” George said. He knelt down. “Here, Sparky.” Sparky limped across to George and put his head on George’s knee. “Hold still.”

  George pulled the screwdriver from the gardener-bot’s ear and went to work. He took the leg off completely at the knee joint, realigned the gear mechanism, and then reattached the lower half of the leg.

  “Good as new,” he said as Sparky leaped up, barking happily.

  “All right, Sparky!” said Anne. “Phone, call Dad,” she said. Her phone was on her bed, and the speakers played a ring tone. After a few rings, Professor Droid answered.

  “Anne, where are you?” he asked urgently.

  “At home, Dad,” she said. “Listen—”

  “Stay there, sweetheart. Something very strange is going on. The central systems are—”

  The line cut out.

  “Dad?” said Anne.

  George swallowed hard. “We have to get to TinkerTech. Now.”

  Out on the street, things weren’t much better. In fact, they were much, much worse.

  They’d only gone a short way down the hill from Anne’s house, and already it was clear that something had gone badly wrong with the all the robots of Binary Bluffs. Gardening robots were tearing up front lawns. A mail-bot, instead of delivering the mail, was smashing up all the mailboxes and throwing the pieces at the houses. George saw people running down the sidewalks pursued by their house-bots. A delivery-bot cycled past, hurling bottles and cans at windows.

  “I don’t get it. What’s this got to do with Jackbot being kidnapped?” said Anne.

  “I have no idea,” said George. “But it must be Dr. Micron’s work.”

  By the time they reached the center of town, it was complete pandemonium. Traffic was at a standstill. All the vehicles of Terabyte Heights were controlled centrally through the traffic-bots, and every few seconds another loud crunch would signal a collision. Drivers and passengers were scrambling out of cars and running away. George saw a robot bus, its doors opening and shutting wildly—the people inside were desperate to escape, but every time they tried to get off, the doors slammed in their faces. The sidewalks were covered in broken glass and trash.

  Outside the grocery store, all the robotic shelf stackers and checkout operators were throwing food into the street or through the store windows. Customers were fleeing from cafes and restaurants where robot waitresses were overturning tables and chairs. George saw one man run out of a pizzeria, chased by a robot who was lobbing pasta at him. The man’s head was covered in spaghetti.

  “Where are the police?” George said. He and Anne were crossing through the town park to stay as far away from the chaos as possible.

  “This is too much for the police,” said Anne.

  George knew she was right. Three-quarters of the town’s cops were mechanized anyway. The human officers were probably stuck in the police station, held hostage by more crazed robots.

  Something whizzed past George’s ear and slammed into a fence. A baseball.

  George turned to see another one coming at him. It smacked into his stomach, making him yelp and leap in the air. The automatic pitcher wa
s aiming right in their direction. One ball clipped Sparky, throwing him onto his back. Anne grabbed George’s arm. “Run!” she shouted.

  Suddenly dozens of balls were whipping through the air. Covering their heads, George and Anne ran to the park gates and leaped through. Sparky followed, his sides dented from the impact of the balls.

  “It’s like all the town robots are turning against the humans,” Anne said.

  They passed between gridlocked cars skewed at angles across the street, and ran up the steps toward TinkerTech HQ. There were no robots or humans in sight as they approached the front doors.

  “I don’t like it,” said George. “Why’s it so quiet?”

  Anne shook her head. “Who cares? It can’t be worse than it is out here. Let’s get inside.” She flung open the doors and darted into the lobby, Sparky at her heels.

  George had taken two more steps when a robotic parrot dive-bombed him. He ducked and felt the bird’s talons rip through his hair. He ran in a crouch as more of the flock attacked, then jumped over the reception desk and landed on the floor on the other side. “Can’t be any worse, huh?” he muttered. Anne shrugged.

  George peered over the top of the desk and saw that aside from the psychotic parrot robots, the place looked deserted. “What about your dad?” George asked Anne. “Do you think he got out of here with everyone else?”

  “He wouldn’t leave!” said Anne. “I bet he’s still here trying to do something to fix all this. Let’s go up to his office.”

  “How can I be of service?” said a cold voice.

  The receptionist robot loomed over them. Half its face was gone, revealing a tangle of wiring beneath. Miraculously, its glasses were still crookedly attached to its head. One leg was missing, but it seemed perfectly balanced on one stiletto heel. It was holding its other leg. Like a club.

  “Uh . . . we’re good, thanks,” said George.

  “How can I be of service?” it repeated. As it hopped toward them, it raised the leg over its head.

  “Like he said, no problems here,” said Anne.

  The receptionist’s one good eye focused on them, and the other rotated on its mechanism.

  “Have a nice day,” said the robot.

  George guessed what was coming and rolled sideways as the leg came crashing down. He kicked out at the robot’s other leg and it fell to the floor.

  “This is insane!” said George, scrambling to his feet. He grabbed the loose leg just as a parrot swooped down. With a baseball swing, he sent the bird crashing through the front window. All that practice with Jackbot finally paid off!

  A bicycle wheel came spinning through the air like a Frisbee toward Anne’s head, but Sparky leaped up and knocked it aside in the nick of time. “Yes, but I don’t think they’re after us in particular,” Anne said. “It seems like they’re just trying to terrify everybody!”

  The receptionist’s head jerked up. One manicured hand reached out and gripped George’s ankle. He tugged it free. “Let’s get to the elevators!”

  They ran across the atrium, ducking parrots, with the receptionist dragging its torso after them. As they approached the elevator, the doors slid open. “Do come in,” it said in a friendly, welcoming voice. “It’s been too long, George!”

  George and Anne looked at each other.

  “I think we should take the stairs,” George said.

  The elevator snapped its doors open and closed. “Don’t be a party pooper, George!”

  “Yeah,” said Anne. “That kind of occurred to me, too.”

  George remembered the elevator ride taking around ten seconds. Ninety flights of stairs took a lot longer, and by the time they reached the top, his legs were shaking. Only Sparky was unaffected, prancing up the last steps as if he was ready for another ninety flights.

  “Let’s . . . just wait . . . and catch . . . our breath,” gasped George. He leaned against the wall, next to the door that opened onto the top floor. Anne slumped down next to him.

  “Hey,” she croaked. “What’s that in your pocket?”

  George looked down and saw that his pants were glowing blue again. He took out his marble. As before, it was glowing and transparent, and inside he saw the tiny screen with the words PROJECT MERCURY.

  “Does that mean anything to you?” he asked Anne, holding it out to her.

  “Nope,” said Anne. “Never heard of it. Where’d you get that marble?”

  “My dad gave it to me,” said George. “Years ago, when I was a little kid. And it lit up like this the last time I was here too.”

  “That’s weird,” said Anne. “Maybe there’s some connection with TinkerTech—did your dad ever work here?”

  “Sure, but he and my mom were just filing clerks,” said George. “They weren’t brilliant scientists or anything.”

  “Well, we can ask my dad about it,” said Anne. “But we have to try to fix this little robot problem first.”

  “Yeah, right,” George said. He slipped the marble back in his pocket, and pushed away the hope that maybe there was more to his parents than he knew. “Let’s do it.”

  Then he opened the door onto the ninetieth floor.

  There stood eight feet of robot, eyes golden and gleaming with malice.

  The Caretaker.

  “You will come with me,” said the Caretaker.

  “I don’t think so!” said George, stepping away and reaching for his back pocket.

  “Obey, George Gearing, or suffer the consequences,” said the robot.

  “You know this . . . thing?” asked Anne.

  “It’s my school janitor,” said George. He felt the screwdriver in his palm.

  “Oh,” said Anne. “Of course it is.”

  George leaped at the Caretaker with the screwdriver—but the robot caught hold of it, wrenched it from his grasp, and tucked it away in the garbage storage compartment in its midsection. It played a few bars of The Nutcracker Suite.

  “I repeat: You will come with me.”

  The robot’s arms shot out. One hand grabbed George by the shoulder; the other hand found Anne, who struggled and kicked at the Caretaker with a clang.

  “Your insubordination is being recorded,” said the Caretaker. It began to roll down the passageway, and they had no choice but to trot along beside it. Sparky ran beside them, barking.

  The Caretaker stopped before the polished door of Professor Droid’s office.

  “My dad will make you into tinfoil for this!” said Anne.

  The Caretaker ignored her and opened the door.

  George remembered the office well from his last visit. This time, though, Professor Droid’s chair faced the big wall of windows.

  “Dad?” said Anne.

  The chair swung slowly around.

  Sitting in it was Dr. Micron. He was smiling.

  “I’m so glad you two could make it,” he said, pulling a gun from under the desk. “I had some serious fears for your safety.”

  “What have you done with my dad?” Anne demanded.

  “I, er, persuaded him to sit over there.” He gestured past them to another chair on the far side of the room. Professor Droid’s arms were tied behind it, and a strip of black duct tape covered his mouth. His eyes were half-closed, and his body was limp.

  “Dad!” screamed Anne. She tried to run to her father, but the Caretaker held her fast. Her sleeve tore and she managed to slip away. She leaned over her father and pulled the duct tape from his mouth. It came off with a ripping sound.

  “Ouch,” said Professor Droid in a sleepy voice.

  “Dad, are you okay?”

  “He’s fine,” said Dr. Micron. “For the time being. I just gave him an injection to calm him down. He was getting a little agitated.”

  “Why?” George demanded. “Why are you doing all this?”

  Dr. Micron smiled winningly. “Doing what?”

  “Destroying the town,” said George, pointing to the window.

  “Oh, George!” said Dr. Micron. “The town will survi
ve. I’m only giving it a little scare—so that they’ll go quietly when the time comes.”

  “Your robots are completely out of control,” said Anne.

  “They’re sending a message,” snapped Dr. Micron. His eyes gleamed with mischief. “Anyway, they’re not my robots as far as the people of Terabyte Heights are concerned.”

  Dr. Micron’s plan started to dawn on George. “You’re going to blame it all on Professor Droid!”

  Dr. Micron clapped his hands. “You got there in the end!” he said. “That’s right. I’m going to let the bots rough this place up a bit, then I’ll swoop in for the rescue. A knight in shining armor, if you will. All those awful robots were Droid’s design, I’ll say. Then I’ll roll out my wonderful new line of robots.

  “When all the dust has settled, and Professor Droid is out of the picture, TinkerTech and Terabyte Heights will be mine.” He walked over to where the professor and Anne were huddled. “You never dreamed big enough, Professor. You were always a sucker for that old-fashioned claptrap—the need for ‘humanity’ in all things. You stood in the way of progress, old friend. And that just never works out, does it? Soon, my robots will be in every store, every home, on every street corner. And they will all answer to me.”

  “Robots are supposed to help people!” said Anne. “Not control them!”

  “Most people are simple, helpless children, begging for authority,” said Dr. Micron. “I’m doing what’s best for them, that’s all. They just don’t know it yet.”

  “You’ll never get away with it!” George said.

  Dr. Micron laughed. “George, surely you can do better than that old cliché? I have gotten away with it.”

  George felt a burning desire to wipe the smug grin off Dr. Micron’s face. But the Caretaker’s grip was too strong, and George didn’t fancy his chances of getting past the gun. The best he could do was to keep Dr. Micron talking while he worked out a plan. “Why did you steal Jackbot?”

  “That’s more like it,” said Dr. Micron. “Your clever little robot was the key to the whole enterprise. You see, I’ve been planning all this for years. A world where my robots control every facet of human life; Micron’s Army, if you will. But robots can’t think for themselves—they just obey programs. Can you imagine trying to individually program ten thousand robots to carry out an invasion, much less control an entire population? It simply isn’t possible. But then when your little guy came along—well, I saw that by some happy accident you’d created a robot who was genuinely intelligent, who could make decisions for himself! Naturally, I had to take him so I could use that technology for my robot army. It was quite easy to upload his AI to all the bots.”