Robot Awareness: The Inner Circle

by B. C. Kowalski

"Don't we all?" she said, smiling warmly. Even wary Isellia couldn't help but smile back a little. Something about her was completely disarming.

  "You're healing well. Really well. Good," she said absently, almost as if to herself. She eased Isellia to the side, pulling up her hospital gown. "Remarkable healing. The salve we put on helped, but even for that this is remarkable."

  "Great!" Isellia said.

  "We'll have you out of here real soon, hun. Now, how about you big guy," she said, turning to Porter, who flushed a little. "How'd this happen?"

  As she spoke, she reached down and rested her hands on both of Porter's thighs. Porter looked at Isellia, and the rest of the crew, feeling a slight flush of embarrassment. It should have been an off-putting question, but somehow she had a way of making someone feel at ease. Porter relaxed a bit, but still fumbled for something to say.

  "Workplace accident. Explosion," he finally said, feeling a little silly for his pause.

  She nodded, face twisted into concentration. Her hands felt around on Porter's thighs, to their sides, then down to his calves. Her touch made him feel warm. It embarrassed him.

  "Can you lean forward a bit?" She had her hand on his back now, and he complied. Her fingers ran over his vertebrae, feeling each little notch. Finally she seemed to have found what she was looking for. "Sorry, this is going to hurt." Before he could protest, she dug her knuckle into his back, shoving all her weight behind it. Porter yelled out, the searing pain rushing through him, and then it was over. She let him go, and he slumped back into the chair. The others tensed, unsure whether they should jump in to stop her. She seemed so unthreatening otherwise, though.

  She stood in front of him, just to the side between Porter and the hospital bed. "Stand up," she said.

  Porter looked at her blankly. "No really, stand up. Trust me."

  The memory of the painful moment just a bit ago was still fresh in his mind, but he found he couldn't help but comply. He put his hands on either armrest, and started up.

  "Better yet, grab my hands." She reached them both out to him, positioning herself right in front of him, leaning back in anticipation of his weight. "OK, ready?"

  Everyone watched on in astonishment as she pulled, and Porter pulled himself up against her weight, expecting at any moment to come crashing to the white-tiled floor. And he nearly did, wobbling on his legs a moment. But they held. They shook with effort, as even the short time in the chair weakened them through atrophy, but they held.

  "Back down," she said, and together they slowly lowered him back to the chair.

  "Practice as many times a day as you can manage," she said, smiling at Porter. She looked at Isellia. "You two will walk out of here together."

  She turned to leave, nodding to the others — almost pointedly at Celia, who returned a cold smile.

  "Wait, what's your name?" Porter asked.

  "Rosa," she said at the door. "Dr. Rosa Robbins."

  "Thank you," Porter said. "Rosa."

  She smiled warmly, then left the room.

  Porter looked down in disbelief. He would think of her the next time he walked. And nearly every time after.

  Robot Awareness: Part Zero

  The prologue

  By B.C. Kowalski

  Isellia's hands still grasped the pink, vinyl steering controls as she leaned back into her vinyl leather seat. The roar of the crowd forced its way into her cockpit window, over the slow descending whir of her own machine winding its way down to silence.

  The race was over. She didn’t win.

  A tear streaked down her cheek, but she didn't bother to wipe it away. Losing actually would have been preferable. Even a last place finish would have been a finish. She did not finish. DNF, they call it in racing terminology. It's not a mark any racer every wants to see.

  She'd been in the lead at one point. The feeling of adrenaline surging through her body, super-charged blood coursing through her veins, her movements light and easy; those thoughts still remained in the back of her mind, buried somewhere under her disappointment.

  She thought back further, before she had taken the lead. When she'd really lost the race. When she slammed on the accelerator, blasted past everyone to hit the energy pocket first. She wanted the full burst of its power as her engines chemically reacted with it, surging her toward the finish. She could have held her place instead, simply keeping pace with the lead pack for a good top five finish, at least top ten.

  But to race for a "good finish" simply wasn't in her nature. Wallace, her father, never went for top five, and neither would she. Top five is where you fell to after a mistake or a poor finish. You always aimed for first.

  It turned out the other racers weren't as keen on Isellia taking the lead from them as she was, and a last-minute nudge sent her wide of the energy pocket. She caught a fraction of its energy, not nearly enough to make up for the burst she'd put forth from the engines. It used up much of her very limited fuel, something all XR racers contend with, and she quickly found herself running out of juice as other racers took their turn blasting by her.

  She took a risk — forgo the safe position she had clawed out for herself, charge into a dangerous situation to gain the advantage. It would have worked. In her mind, it worked over and over. In her imagination, she cruised to the checkered flag over and over again.

  Her face had turned bright red as the tow vehicle pulled her fuel-empty ship across the finish line ring. She had enough momentum to carry her far enough, but the bump had put her off course. She would have drifted right past the ring, missing it. Having a tow vehicle carry you over the line doesn't count. DNF.

  Isellia sighed, wiping the tear off of her cheek at last. She leaned back in her chair, running her hand through her long, pink hair. As much as she wanted to see Wallace again, as much as she missed him, she was glad he wasn't there to see this. She wondered what Wallace would have said. He likely wouldn't have said much. Wallace never did.

  The XR's engines had finally powered down to a light whine, barely audible through the cockpit's windowed dome. Isellia flicked off several switches inside the cockpit, doing so with the easy automation years of practice yielded. She had performed a post-flight checklist so many times it was ingrained in her psyche.

  She looked out of the cockpit window to see a throng of reporters. They'd been harassing her since they learned she would be racing today. The daughter of the late, great Wallace trying to follow in his footsteps. It was a story they could never have resisted. The story about her coming up short would print just as well.

  She wanted them to just go away, but she guessed they wouldn't any time soon. “Better just to face the music sometimes,” Wallace would have said.

  ***

  The market place teemed with people well into evening as the sun set on the port town of Fursuella. The local market enjoyed the extra buzz of activity that always followed the Fursuella 2200, a two-day race that turned into more of a festival and brought in tourists from nearby regions of the galaxy. Hotels crowded, the ports filled, and business was good in the market district.

  Porter found himself amongst the crowd as he hoped to find an XR pilot. After a close call with some space pirates not a month ago, the captain had ordered him to hire a pilot to accompany the ship. The end of an XR race was a good time to do so, the captain reasoned. Surely there were a few washed-out pilots who might be looking for work. He'd likely find them drinking themselves silly at a local tavern. All the better, the captain reasoned — they'd be more likely to agree to terms more favorable to the ship's finances.

  Porter checked the name scrawled onto the crumpled piece of paper he held in his hand against the wooden sign over the door, which barely hung on by a few rusty nails hammered into its wooden frame long ago — The Landing Strip. Not the most clever name Porter had heard. He shrugged and entered through a pair of swinging doors, designed to look like the Old West of Old Earth.

  Porter sat down at the bar, on a creaky stool that squawked whenever he
shifted his weight. The bar back was a clutter of bottles, tattered and fading XR posters, model XRs, fake plastic trophies. A holo was sandwiched in between the clutter, and played highlights from the two-day race that had just finished. Porter ordered a beer and took a swig after the bull-faced bartender brought it to him, the holos image passing through him as he drew Porter’s beverage.

  He'd gotten an one empty stool, next to an older man in a flight suit, who didn't look like he was celebrating. On the other side was a group that apparently was — they laughed and hawed at various intervals, occasionally bumping into Porter. He paid them no mind, expecting no less at the crowded bar after an XR race. He also noticed a young girl sitting at a small table in the corner. Even in the dark recesses of the bar she would have been hard to notice — she had bright pink hair and a pink and grey flight suit. Porter didn't pay her much mind as she picked lightly at her food. She certainly didn't look old enough to be in a bar, but Fursuella wasn't known for its strict adherence to galaxy standards.

  "You race today?" Porter asked the man next to him. He had shoulder-length black hair, was slightly heavier set and wore a good five days of stubble on his chin.

  "If you could call it that," the man grumbled, taking a gulp of his beer — and not his first, if his slurred speech was any indication.

  "This is a tough one, I hear. Two days of racing. That's gotta wear a guy out."

  The crowd next to Porter erupted into more laughter.

  "It's the worst," the man said. "But the money's too good. Can't pass it up."

  "Guessing you didn't do too well on this one?"

  The man looked at him a second, like he might get angry, then turned back and took another draw from his beer instead. "Yeah. DQ'd. Lost my sponsor. My last one. And I ain't about to bankroll one myself."

  Porter nodded sympathetically. "That's rough. What are you going to do now? I always wondered what XR pilots do when they don't make it."

  The man set his beer down a little louder than normal. "What do you mean 'didn't make it?' You calling me a loser?"

  "I didn't say that. Relax."

  "Now you're telling me to relax?" The man kicked his barstool back and was on his feet in an instant, his beer slammed down hard.

  "Now what?" the man shouted. Porter stood up to face him.

  "Hey man, I'm not trying to start something, good grief. I'm just looking for an XR pilot to escort our ship. Look, you've had a rough day. Let me buy you another."

  Porter’s offer failed to placate the man. "Buy me a drink? What, you scared I'm going to kick your ass?"

  Porter sighed. Clearly this wasn't the man for the job. Porter pictured trying to work with this guy on the ship every day, and shaking his head.

  "You know what buddy, let's just call it a day, huh?" Porter offered.

  "Oh yeah?" the guy said, grabbing Porter by the shirt. Porter felt the tug of the man's weight pulling toward his left side, so he turned his body to match the pull. The man was so off-balance he came crashing down in a drunken stupor.

  Porter backed up a little bit for some space as the man scrambled to his feet. Porter’s eyes went wide with alert as he focused on the man — this was far from his first bar fight. All eyes in the bar, even the partiers who had been next to him, were focused on Porter and the drunken racer. Even the young girl with the pink hair.

  The man came forward swinging nearly as soon as he got to his feet. Porter side-stepped but the man was little more cautious as he swung at Porter, trying to keep from extending his balance forward too much this time. Porter's hands were up, guarding his face like a boxer. Porter took a couple jabs at the man's nose, bloodying it.

  "Aw fuck," the guy said, grabbing his nose. "Fuck you!" The man swung again, and this time Porter timed it so that as he dodged, he countered with an upper cut. The man caught it full on, and it stunned him just long enough for Porter to follow with a right hook, catching the man on the side of the jaw. The man collapsed, out like a light.

  Porter relaxed, and looked around. All eyes were on him. Not at all what he wanted. He doubted there would be any Company officials around — they only tended to stick to the city center in Fursuella — but he preferred to be careful whenever possible.

  "Here," Porter said, transferring some credits to the bar. “Make sure he gets a couple of drinks when he wakes up. He's had a rough day."

  The bulldog-faced bartender nodded solemnly. Porter stepped over the man and ignored the onlookers, stepping toward the door.

  The young, pink-haired girl watched him, quickly scarfing down the rest of her sandwich without taking her eyes off the man. She got up from her seat as soon as the door slammed behind him.

  ***

  Porter swung on his heels as soon as he felt the tug at his elbow, his fists clenched at his sides instinctually. The man had followed him? Porter had assumed he'd be out for a little while, and not in much of a mood to fight once awake. Porter's fist swung with his body toward his attacker.

  His fist only found air, and Porter nearly lost his balance as he saw the girl from the bar duck under his punch and stumble to the ground. She looked up at him wide-eyed in surprise; perhaps surprised at her own movements as much as Porter's. Porter's eyes went wide with surprise too, his hand covering his mouth.

  "Hey, you all right? I thought it was that idiot from before," Porter said, reaching down to help her up. Isellia slapped his hands away.

  "Is that how you treat a girl? Swinging at her? Jerk!" Isellia got to her feet, brushing off her suit. "And this is my good flight suit too! I just got it! Jerk, jerk, jerk!" Isellia slapped at his arms. Porter put them up defensively, the slaps falling harmlessly on his forearms.

  "OK, OK, I'm sorry," Porter said. He felt conspicuous standing in the middle of a street fighting with a teen girl.

  "And I was going to take you up on your offer too. Now I don't know!" She stood with her arms crossed, facing away from Porter.

  Porter looked confused. "I'm sorry, I don't remember offering you anything."

  Isellia looked at Porter incredulously, in that way teens can. "What offer? Um, XR escort? For your ship? The one you just got into a fight about back there? You don't think this flight suit is for show and tell, do you?"

  Porter smiled. "You're a pilot, huh?"

  "Can't get anything past you!"

  Porter sighed. "A sarcastic pilot, no less. Are you always this sarcastic?"

  "Basically!" Isellia grinned proudly.

  "Well, sorry, I don't think you're what I am looking for. You should get back to your parents, kid. Go join the next race."

  Porter turned and started walking, easing his way into the crowd. He shuffled between shoppers, XR enthusiasts. He started thinking where he would find a pilot. He shook his head, imagining for a moment what the captain would think about him bringing back a teenage girl. It was only a passing thought.

  There's another tavern he knew of. He started walking there.

  He stood out front — Willy's Hole. This place had a worse reputation than the last, apparently.

  Porter sighed. He was running out of options and he needed a pilot. Captain's orders.

  "They're dead, you know," said a young female voice. Porter looked over in surprise. The pink-haired girl was standing right next to him.

  "I thought I'd —"

  "My father was Wallace. You probably heard of him. He was one of the best XR pilots ever. My mom died when I was much younger. So, no, I can't go back to my parents."

  Porter looked down at Isellia. She was rough around the edges. Porter got the sense she was much more mature and grown than her age would indicate. Not in the way of being cynical, but that she'd been through a lot already in her young life, and that it had transformed her. He felt sympathetic for her.

  "So, you're just racing on your own? You can't be, what, 15?"

  "Fourteen," Isellia replied. "I have sponsors. Well, um, I had sponsors. The last race didn't go so well."

  "I didn't watch."


  "Sponsors picked me up because of my father. Everyone had high hopes for me. Guess they didn't have a lot of patience for failure."

  "Failure is a part of life. It's how we grow and learn. Success is just putting up with enough failure."

  Isellia stared up at him a moment. She seemed to take his words to heart. "Yeah, well, too bad my sponsors didn't think like you."

  "Listen, you seem like a really nice kid, but I really need to find a pilot."

  "You found a pilot! Right here!" Isellia pointed to her own forehead, her eyes wide in a "duh" expression.

  "I bring back a 14-year-old girl and my captain is going have a field day with me."

  "Come on, just give me a chance!"

  "I'm sorry, I need to go in here. Besides, didn't you just crash your ship?"

  "Failure, it's for growing right? Isn't that what you said?"

  Porter bit his lip at hearing his own words repeated back. "Yes, well ... good luck, OK kid?"

  Isellia stared at him as he walked into the bar.

  ***

  Joey dusted some sand off of his eyebrows. He'd walked the couple of miles from his Company C housing unit to Mr. Twitters' garage, which now came into sight. The garage once belonged to the mining operation, but the Company no longer needed it as the mine moved south. Mr. Twitters obtained it through a special arrangement.

  The sun had long reached past its halfway point in the afternoon sky as Joey opened the metal door, its rusty creak jarring the otherwise quiet desert. The interior stood in stark contrast to the building's exterior; whereas the light brown bricks of the garage seemed plain and blended to the surrounding desert expanse, the interior was a clutter of gadgets, noises, mechanical parts, work benches, shelves and other gizmos. It always made Joey smile to see.

  Joey shut the door behind him, loud enough for Mr. Twitters to hear. He always purposely shut the door that way to give the old man a warning that he'd arrived. Mr. Twitters tended to get lost in his work, and usually jumped in surprise if Joey just barged in. Once he'd sent a spring flying across the room, not to be found again for months amongst all the clutter.