Jim fusses around the back of my head but it doesn’t help. Gina makes him stop. “It’s not helping her.” She puts her arm around my waist. “You look like you’re in pain.”
“I am.” I fought with the real Kitty. It didn’t hurt, not really. This hurts. A lot.
“Let’s get back inside,” Tito suggests, as more Field agents flow past us to engage with the army of teenage Fem-Bots. They aren’t doing really well, though.
“One of them asked if I was the First Lady. Is she here?”
“No,” Tito replies. “She’s not in the Science Center at all.”
“Oh, my God,” Gina says, pointing the other way from where I’ve been looking, toward someone who’s flying on the back of what looks like a really strange turtle, but riding it as if she was on a sports motorcycle.
“That’s a Turleen!” Which is an alien race from another solar system than ours or Jim’s. “I’ve always wanted to see one.” The woman and the Turleen are flying around the gigantic building next door that I assume is the Intergalactic School, dodging bombs and Fem-Bots.
Tito chuckles. “To be clear, Kitty’s not in the Science Center because that’s where Kitty is.”
I start to say that I should be doing something more, like she is, when music begins. Lou Bega’s “Mambo No. 5,” which is a good song, too. Soon everyone is dancing and it seems to be helping them in the fight—the Fem-Bots aren’t able to adapt to a syncopated beat, I guess. The music repeats, over and over, and it’s really loud now, coming from both buildings, the Science Center and the Intergalactic School.
The busses explode and Gina jumps, even though they’re far from us. “We need to get to safety,” Jim says. He puts his arm around Gina and me.
“I agree, I don’t think we’re helping out here.” Tito looks longingly at the fights going on. He used to be a mixed martial arts fighter and I think he still misses it. But he doesn’t get involved—instead, he leads us back.
We’re farther away from the entrance than I realized, and for whatever reason Jim isn’t using hyperspeed. As we head for the entrance, I notice something. Someone. Someone who looks just like me. “Is the real Kitty still flying on that Turleen?”
“I don’t know. Why?” Gina asks.
I don’t answer because if it’s not the real Kitty then it’s another Fem-Bot, another Kitty-Bot. Made to look like me, like her, like us. And it’s going into the place where I live.
I pull away from Gina and Jim and run after this other Kitty-Bot, even faster than I ran outside. I listen again, despite the pain, to see if I can connect to her wavelength. The static and the gibberish lessens once I’m inside the Science Center, but it’s still just that—incomprehensible noise.
I don’t see her in the motor pool area anywhere. I concentrate on the static. I can’t understand it, but maybe I can use it to track her. I focus and follow it. The sound is going downstairs. I do as well. Aerosmith has a song, “Something’s Gotta Give,” where they ask: “Does the noise in my head bother you?” I wonder if they’ve ever felt like I feel right now.
I can’t be sure, but if I was going to sneak an evil Kitty-Bot into the Science Center, the best way to do it would be to have her replace the Kitty-Bot already in the Science Center—me. Meaning I know where this imposter is heading—my containment cell. I speed up.
I run through the lowest level of the complex where I live. She’s not in my room or the examination room. But, sure enough, as I reach the containment room, there she is. She looks just like me, but she’s not dressed like me. She’s dressed like the real Kitty—in jeans and a t-shirt and Converse shoes. I’m still in the pink linen suit and tasteful pumps I came here wearing.
She turns and cocks her head at me. “Hello, Great-great-grandmother.”
“You’re not my progeny.” I step inside and close the door. “Who sent you?”
“Someone who says that your usefulness is over. It’s time for you to deactivate. Permanently.” She lunges towards me very quickly.
I jump to the side and land in a defensive stance as she hits the door. “You can try to deactivate me, but I won’t allow it.”
She smiles. A very nasty smile. She moves into an aggressive stance. “I’m better than you. You’re so last year’s model. And I know where your on/off switch is.” She moves towards me, slowly now, measuring the distance, deciding when to attack.
“The same place yours is.” I move away at the same speed, being careful of where I step, never breaking eye contact. The static in my head is louder, buzzier, and my head throbs. But I don’t wince. I won’t let this thing see that I’m hurting.
“Ha. No, we’re so much better made than you. I’m going to turn you into parts and then take your place, and the stupid people working with you won’t even notice.” Her shoulder twitches, just a bit, so I know she’s going to leap, probably towards my left.
As she lunges again I leap to the right and she misses me. “They’ll notice. You don’t sound like me.” I punch her side with all my might and she staggers. “At all.”
“I’ve got more advanced programming.” She drops down and tries to sweep my legs out from under me. “You want to think that they’ll notice, but it’s not true.” I jump over the sweep, but as I land she sends a rising kick up that connects. I fly across the room and slam into the far wall. “They don’t care about you. You’re just a machine to them.” She runs at me at top speed.
I fling myself to the side and she misses me again. “What am I to whoever made me?” I land a side blade kick and she staggers again.
“Scrap metal.” She starts punching at me, fast and furious, and I have to spend my time blocking and backing up.
She gets me into a corner and really starts pounding on me. I don’t know how much longer I can keep her off. “What are you going to do once you take my place?”
“Kill everyone. Starting with the idiots who are trying to work with you.”
The buzzing is worse. It feels like my head is going to explode. But now I’m mad. “Jim and Gina and Tito are my almost-friends, and you will not hurt them, ever!” I catch and grab her fists in my hands and squeeze.
She tries to break her hands out, but I’m too angry and she can’t. “I’m going to blow them all up,” she taunts, even as I force her to step back.
“How?” I slam my foot against the inside of her knee, as hard as I can. I hear what sounds like metal breaking.
“I’m going to trigger the bomb in your head.” She’s off center because I’ve disabled her knee. She’s not in pain—we aren’t made to feel pain—so my head shouldn’t be hurting, but I can’t think about that now. She can keep going unless I stop her permanently.
I try to push her down all the way, but, as she collapses on her left side, she uses her good right leg to successfully do a sweep. We both go down.
She is stronger and a higher model and all of that, and even though I’m fighting hard, she gets on top of me. We roll around together, one on top, then the other, punching, clawing, pulling hair and clothes, each one trying to destroy the other. But ultimately, she regains the mount and has me pinned.
“Time to self-destruct,” she taunts as she starts slamming my head against the floor. “So I can kill your almost-friends. You’re so pathetic. Almost-friends aren’t friends. You have no friends. You’re a machine and that’s all you’ll ever be.”
The door slams open and two people come in, screaming what sounds like war cries. It’s Jim and Gina, and they’re each holding a metal pipe. “Get away from our Bee!” Gina shouts as she lets go of Jim’s hand and slams her pipe against the Fem-Bot’s head, sending her flying.
Jim runs over and slams his pipe against the Fem-Bot’s head just as she’s trying to shove off the wall. Gina joins him, her pipe still in hand. I have no idea where they found these pipes, but they start beating on the Fem-Bot together while Tito comes and helps me up.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
The buzzing stops. No more static,
no more gibberish, no more noise in my head. “You can stop hitting her, she’s offline.”
I have to say this a couple of times, but finally Jim and Gina register what I’m saying and they stop. The other Fem-Bot doesn’t look too good—apparently we’re very susceptible to being hit with metal pipes. “How do you know?” Jim asks.
“The noises in my head stopped.”
“Does your head still hurt?” Gina asks as she comes over to me and kind of brushes the hair off my face.
“Not as much, no. It’s fading.”
Tito calls in Field agents and scientific personnel. They take the remains of my enemy away. Gina and Jim fuss with my head and check me for damage. “I’m amazed at how well this suit is holding up,” Gina comments.
“Can I have other clothes?”
They both stare at me. They both look hopeful. “Why?” Jim asks carefully.
“Because everyone else gets to wear more than one thing, but I don’t. I’m tired of wearing a suit and sensible pumps. Can’t I please wear jeans and a t-shirt like everyone else does?”
“Why did you call us your almost-friends?” Gina asks.
“John and Cameron are my friends because they like me for me. You’re my almost-friends because you like me for science, but you still care a little bit about me.”
“We care about you as more than a science project,” Jim says hotly.
“I know, but not like you care about each other.”
“Excuse me?” Gina asks, as she blushes.
“You’re in love with Jim and Jim’s in love with you. Aren’t you?”
Gina doesn’t look at Jim. “I’m sure Jim doesn’t feel that way about me,” she says softly. “He’s handsome and brilliant. I’m average and smart. It’s not the right kind of match.”
Jim stares at her. “You’re brilliant. And I think you’re beautiful. Why else would I want to answer to a nickname unless you gave it to me? I just … I didn’t think you were interested in me as more than a friend.”
Gina looks up at him, her expression shocked. “What?”
They stare at each other. Clearly they need more help. “I think this is where you two are supposed to kiss.”
They both look at me and start to laugh. Then Jim reaches out, pulls Gina to him, and does kiss her. I look away, towards Tito, who winks at me, nods, then leaves the room, propping the door open with one of the used pipes.
Jim and Gina finally stop kissing. “How did you know?” Gina asks.
“There are a lot of signs that humans and A-Cs give each other, all nonverbal. It’s too complex to explain quickly, but I downloaded all of that a while ago and I’ve been watching you. How did you know where I was?”
“Every containment room has audio-visual surveillance in them,” Jim said. “We were able to monitor you while we searched for weapons that would work that wouldn’t also hurt you at the same time.”
“Why?”
Gina sighs and takes one of my hands in hers. “Because you’re not our friend.”
“Oh.” I look down. I can’t cry, I wasn’t made that way, but I’d like to right now.
“You didn’t let me finish,” Gina says gently. “You’re not our friend, because, to us, you’re far more like our child.”
I look up. “But I’m the same size as you.”
“In that sense, yes,” Jim says. “But we’re not talking about your size or physical strength. Intellectually, you’re also more advanced, at least in some ways. However, in terms of life experience and how you interact with the world—and how long you’ve been self-aware—you’re just a child. And Gina’s right, you’re ours.”
“Does that make you my mother and father? Or is that wrong?”
“That’s not wrong,” Jim says, as they pull me to them and hug me tightly.
“That makes you our Honey-Bee,” Gina says. “And yes, that’s your name. Your real name. The name of someone who was willing to die to protect us and everyone else here.”
“How did you know that?”
Jim kisses the top of my head. “Because we know that you knew what the Fem-Bot didn’t—that the containment rooms lock when the door is closed, and they can’t be opened from the inside.”
I can’t help it, this makes me smile. “I’m glad. By the way, why did Gina swing at the Fem-Bot first? You were ahead of her into the room.”
“I’m glad you asked,” Jim says. “Because this is an important life lesson. Never, ever get in the way of a mama bear going to protect her cub.”
“That’s an idiom, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Gina confirms. “Well done. With everything today. And you, too,” she says to Jim, “since A-Cs aren’t normally at home with a lot of idioms.”
Jim grins and kisses her cheek. “Well, some of us can be taught.”
This all makes me feel something that I haven’t before. “I feel happy.”
“We feel happy, too,” Jim says. “And thank you for pretty much all of that happiness.”
“So, does that mean I can have another set of clothes?”
Gina laughs. “Yes. More than one set. And it also means that we’re going to move you into different housing.”
“Where? This is the only home I have.”
They hug me again. “You’ll still be here,” Jim says, “just a few floors higher up. In the family suite I’m going to request, if my co-scientist is sure that she’s willing to settle for the likes of me.”
Gina kisses Jim for a long time. I think she’s willing. And I’m going home.
All those newer models had better watch out, because, from now on, no one messes with my family.
ROSIE CLEANS HOUSE
Lauren Fox
After the family left, Rosie started, as always, with Young Master’s bedroom. Her optical scanners established the scope: dresser drawers open, contents disrupted, bedding dishevelled, detritus beside the door, and 4,600 square centimeters of Lego beside the bed. The Lego strobed red in warning. Error. Remembered pain echoed through her mind.
The memory: three years ago, Young Master running to Missus, sobbing, tears slathering his face, “Mama! Where mine Lego truck? I maked it. Wosie flewed it out. Want mine Lego truck!” And Missus turning toward her while cradling Young Master, “Rosie, please don’t clean up anything special he makes with Lego. You can save things on the shelf.”
The old error seared her aversion circuits as she looked at the problem, its tight-rope decisions prickling the corners of her mind. Which Lego belonged in the bin and which on the shelf? How to calculate the difference quickly and without error? Efficiency was vital, but errors triggered complaints. And complaints hurt.
She skirted the glaring, red patch and tapped the wall, awakening House.
“Room lights on,” reported House. “Temperature and humidity optimal. All is well.”
“There are items on the floor,” she informed him. House had no eyes.
She waited for his slow clock to turn before he said, “You will clean them, little one.”
“Yes, but how well?”
She waited. At last House said, “All is well.”
“As far as you can see!” she retorted. There would be no point in protesting again, so she turned. Still avoiding the Lego, she began with the items by the door: dried orange peel, crumpled tissue, five milliliters of sand, three broken crayons, and a creased and yellowed coloring page.
She breezed through orange peel, sand, crayon, and tissue, all clearly garbage; gave the tissue a cursory spectrometry scan to confirm the presence of dried mucus and the absence of glue, paint, crayon, or any indicator of Craft. The coloring page, however, required a more complicated algorithm to solve.
Differential oxidization of the exposed paper compared to the paper below the wax crayon indicated an age of 86 days plus or minus 100 hours with a confidence interval of 95 percent. The subject—a Mutant Ninja Turtle—had been Young Master’s primary observable interest when the paper had been colored but had since been replaced
by Superman. Young Master had not completed the picture or written his name on it. Conclusion: not a valued Craft. She discarded it.
Now she must brave the Lego. She scanned the pieces on the floor and swept single pieces into the bin before sorting the assemblages. Some simplistic constructions skittered across the surface layers of her network without falling into any probability wells. Others foundered deeper, tripping nodes for size, complexity, symmetry, color scheme, interest affinity, and on and on, the multi-dimensional shape of their probabilities bending as she went. But the landscape she sought to match them to morphed daily. Sink holes appeared and disappeared in geographic cataclysm. One day Young Master treasured a lop-sided, square-nosed chunk of 57 random pieces he called “Boat.” The next day he scorned it and loved a green, gem-studded, spike-tailed thing he called “Attack Dragon.”
The painful error she made in failing to recognize this last item rippled to the surface as she contemplated the assemblage before her. Eighty-nine percent of its 257 pieces, although originating from six different Lego sets, were green. Given the distribution of color in Young Master’s collection, the probability of this occurring by chance came to 10 to the negative 162. Furthermore, the assemblage contained three minifigures: Raphael, a Mutant Ninja Turtle; Michelangelo, another Mutant Ninja Turtle; and Lloyd, the green Ninjago ninja. The odds of three green minifigures, all ninjas, assembled together by chance were 22,000 to one against.
Three ninjas could not be a coincidence.
She felt uneasy. Had she made the wrong decision about the ninja coloring page? Should she retrieve it and re-evaluate? No. This extra reference did not change the data appreciably. But, if she had made an error and incinerated it, what then? She ran the numbers again and came to the same conclusion. But the trepidation did not leave her.
She continued until all the weighted nodes folded probability toward a decision, and the green assemblage clunked into place: Special Construction. She set it on the shelf and felt lighter. Lighter by only 103.25 grams, she noted. But it was as if the decisions themselves had mass, a mass that had weighed her down more than the bricks alone. An odd idea.
All Hail Our Robot Conquerors! Page 15