Robot Awareness: The Inner Circle

by B. C. Kowalski

  He turned the corner to find Mr. Twitters at his workbench, soldering a servo back together that he'd just disassembled. "Hello young man," Twitters said without looking up.

  "Hi Mr. Twitters! Whatcha working on?"

  "Oh, just re-soldering this servo for this micro bot," Twitters said, patting the small robot on the far end of his bench. He smiled at Joey. "Come to work on your little bot there?"

  "Yep!" Joey said, hopping up on his stool in front of his work bench. Each had a wooden bench, burned and scarred from years of soldiering irons, burning wires, wayward hack saws and all the other impacts a bench absorbs over the years. Mr. Twitters' bench faced Joey's, with a few feet between them.

  It had been a couple of years since Mr. Twitters had first encountered Joey wandering through his work space. The locals mostly left Twitters alone, and the Company paid him little mind. No one who wasn't a Company C employee was supposed to be on the planet at all, but officials seemed to turn a blind eye to Mr. Twitters. Joey, the first human to interact with him beyond his weekly stops to the Company store for food and other supplies, wasn't old enough to know one way or another.

  Although a little concerned at the intrusion initially, Mr. Twitters started showing him around the shop, Joey wide-eyed and questioning. The more he inquired, the more Mr. Twitters smiled. He invited him back, and on each return trip Twitters showed him something new with the robotics he tinkered with. Eventually he started making little projects for Joey to work on. Those projects grew more and more complex. He'd write instructions while Joey was gone, but left plenty for Joey to figure out as well. He'd marveled as he watched the boy progress over the past couple of years.

  One day Joey's mom came along with him. She was concerned enough about these mysterious visits to make the venture out, despite her poor health and long days working in the mines. Twitters could tell she was skeptical at first, but he simply showed her around his workshop, as he had Joey. She nodded politely but didn't ask the questions Joey did — she had the adult weariness that most mine workers seemed to possess, save for the young men who worked there. They seemed to still have energy to drink and get rowdy at one of the two taverns allowed in the small Company town. They'd lose that after a few years, Mr. Twitters observed.

  She left satisfied that nothing suspicious was going on, and seemed grateful that Joey found a friend and mentor in something. After that, Joey came nearly every day, and Twitters delighted in having the companionship.

  It helped that Twitters looked the part of the harmless old man — thin, white hair and bushy beard with wide-rimmed glasses. Twitters looked the part of librarian or historian. As far as Joey was concerned, at least, he was as harmless as they come.

  "I'm going to finish her today, Mr. Twitters," Joey said, pulling his robot in front of him and opening up the small tool kit Mr. Twitters had assembled for him. He'd gone to no small trouble to obtain some of the tools in the kit, though he never gave Joey any indication that it was any trouble at all.

  Mr. Twitters laughed. "I don't think so, young man. You've got a long ways to go."

  "You think so?" Joey frowned.

  "You've got the entire head assembly to finish, for one. The sensor brackets will probably take you one whole session on their own."

  "Aw man," Joey said, his eyes already concentrating on his work.

  "Well, you have time. Do it right!"

  "Yes sir," Joey said, pulling out a small tweezers out of the tool box.

  ***

  Isellia watched Porter exit the bar. She'd waited outside its entrance, ready to once again offer her services when he came out empty-handed.

  But contrary to her plan, a tall, lanky man with shaggy blonde hair and a week's worth of stubble walked with him. Something about him looked like trouble to her, like he was a double-crosser waiting to happen.

  As they left, Isellia dropped in step behind them. Isellia didn't exactly blend in with a crowd, but she tried her best nonetheless, keeping enough of a distance that the throng of people crowding the marketplace kept her well enough out of sight. They both talked as they walked, which seemed to keep them well enough occupied that they likely wouldn't have noticed a 14-year-old girl with pink hair following them.

  The swindler passed a dark-haired man on the street, and something caught Isellia's eyes. The swindler seemed to wink at the man as they passed, but Porter didn't seem to notice.

  She took a quick inventory of the passing man. He was stout, had a black mustache and wore a black cowboy hat. He had a small star tattooed on his arm — he'd be easy enough to remember, she thought to herself. Interestingly, the swindler and this other man seemed to have nearly the same outfit — brown pants, white shirt and a black vest. Because they were so different otherwise — the mustachioed man's short and stout build contrasted with the swindler's tall and lean frame — she almost didn't notice.

  A short time later, they were beyond the town center and into the shipyards. Isellia kept her distance behind a Company C freighter when she saw the destination. The two stopped outside an old cargo freighter — a mid-range transport ship from Isellia's reckoning. Company C had far better vessels in its fleet these days, and likely abandoned this one years ago. It was large, a dulled grey that once shone silver in fresher days. The ship's hull carried enough scars and dings that no one would have mistaken it for anything other than a smuggler.

  "That's the piece of junk they use?" Isellia thought. Its condition didn't stop her from imagining herself living on the ship, pulling her trunk onto its cargo hold, and keeping her XR there. Even a piece of junk home is still a home.

  She watched the two walk up the gang plank; but just as a plan began formulating in her head, a hand went over her mouth. She tried to scream but didn't find the breath as she was dragged off her feet in an instant. She struggled and tried to fight, but already she was being pulled backward and off her feet.

  ***

  The robot stepped its way through the desert sand, its metal feet creating footprint-sized divots, those divots re-filling with grains as it picked up each metal foot again. Its green LED blinked intermittently, an indication it was running out of battery.

  The robot had just been in a fight. A bounty hunter, one of several it has encountered, had come upon it, and the robot dispatched it, as it had so many others. One quick draw of its Revolving Oscillator Unit, or ROU, and a few short laser blasts with surgical precision left a corpse lying in the desert dunes in the robot's wake, wind blowing sand particles and the occasional tumbleweed over it.

  The robot plodded along, each step a mechanical labor as it calculated how far it could go before breaking down. Dusk began to settle on the surroundings, and its LED began to glow against the coming dark. Each step was a micro-second slower than the last, but those micro-seconds were adding up and would soon add up to a full stop. By the robot's calculations, it didn't have far to go.

  The robot spied a dune in the distance with a small cliff. That would provide some protection. Though it could see no future scenario by which it could recharge, at the very least it could provide itself some protection from any potential threat. It was the best calculated chance of survival, but still relied on some outside factor for complete self-preservation. At least it would be hidden in the meantime.

  It wouldn't quite make it, the robot calculated. But it had no other plan.

  ***

  "Bye Mr. Twitters!" Joey yelled at the door. Twitters still labored away on his latest robotic creation, a small human-shaped machine that stood about a foot and a half tall. He'd been working on it for weeks, and it was the most intricate of gizmos found in the shop.

  "OK, young man. Stay safe now," Twitters said, hardly looking up from his creation.

  Joey smiled as he closed the door behind him to the shop. There was little in the company town for him, other than a life of mining. There wasn't a way off that wasn't Company C controlled, and those transports were for Company C employees. Other than the extremely rare off-wo
rlder visit, those on the mining colony were pretty much stuck on the mining colony. One could buy passage on one of those Company C transports, theoretically; but actually saving the exorbitant amount they cost was another matter entirely.

  Joey's happiest days were working with Mr. Twitters, and he always left with a smile. From his perspective, he just assumed that's what he always would do, for the rest of his life. It didn't really occur to him, at his age, that Mr. Twitters might not being around forever, or that the reality of adulthood would someday rear its ugly head and have other, far less interesting ideas about how he should spend his time.

  He took the route home that he knew well. To a casual observer the landscape would appear to be so many endless sand dunes, but Joey knew the terrain well, and once it got dark, he knew to aim himself just right of the town's lights, and that would point him in the direction of home.

  He also knew the terrain well enough that he knew there shouldn't have been a green blinking light off in the distance, aimed toward the left of the buildings. Joey looked at it, at first assuming it was some Company vehicle out in the dunes, or some device they'd left for whatever reason. Perhaps it was something he could bring home to mom. Something that would help her out.

  The further he walked, the more curious he became. Eventually, that curiosity got the best of him and he decided to investigate.

  The green light flashed brighter and brighter as Joey neared. He could see some kind of form, some kind of machine slumped into the sand, the green light casting a soft glow on the dune. The darkness of the night grew as Joey came closer and closer. Joey was a few feet away when he realized what he was looking at: A robot much bigger than he was.

  "Cool," Joey said, mesmerized.

  ***

  Isellia struggled at the white binds that held her. She'd been tied hands and feet, and gagged with the same white cloth strips. She was on a floor in some derelict mobile construction office that had long since been abandoned by its original occupants. The tall, blonde-haired scruffy man she'd seen talking to Porter sat on a dirty couch along with two other men. All of them looked rough, one with slicked back, black hair and a scar on his face. The other a heavier set man with an eye patch.

  "No use strugglin', darlin'," the blonde-haired man said. "Ain't goin' nowhere even if you was to escape."

  Isellia growled into her gag, trying harder to break the bonds.

  "Ain't really mean you no harm anyway, just can't have you spoilin' our little job here. Just gonna keep you long enough til we finish things. So I recommend you just sit tight. Now I know, bein' tied up and all, that ain't too fun — well, unless you're into that kind of thing; few folks are. Hell, I had this gal one time—"

  The man with the slicked-back, black hair nudged the swindler in the elbow, and he took his cue.

  "Anyhoo, I should tell you that if you do try to interfere, well, let’s just say it won’t end well for you.”

  Isellia noticed the man with the scar glaring at her, and a chill of revulsion washed through her as she noticed his leering gaze, and she writhed against her binds, desperate to get free. Then she went slack, appearing to comply.

  "Now that's a good girl, just sit there all nice like, and once things are in place we'll untie you and send you home to mommy and daddy. Well, really we'll tell someone else you're here, so's they do it. We'll be long gone. In our new cargo ship."

  He looked at the other two, on either side of him, who both nodded in turn.

  Isellia's eyes narrowed on them. She felt a fight coming.

  ***

  "Hey, come 'ere," Wallace said in the shop. Isellia had been ratcheting a bracket onto the undercarriage of her XR-13, and the noise nearly drowned out Wallace's words. But he spoke so rarely, that when he did, Isellia perked up.

  Isellia stood beside him, eyes wide with wonder at what he was about to say. Wallace never spoke to hear himself talk. He chose his words carefully and deliberately. Isellia always listened with rapt attention whenever he did.

  He pulled out a pair of long tubes, holes drilled into the barrels, from a box next to the bench and dropped them onto its surface. They were heavy, and made a loud thud against the polycarbonate bench. Isellia stared at them wide-eyed.

  "There's more than one kinda work for XR pilots. Racin's the safe one, for the most part," Wallace said. He looked at the barrels while he spoke. Isellia looked at him.

  "Your 13 is made for ‘em. It's why I wasn't wild about your choice. These are the gun barrels that fit it."

  He reached into the box, pulling out more parts. "This is the rest of the gun assembly. Today we're going to practice taking it apart and putting it back together. Questions?"

  Isellia shook her head. These were more words than she'd heard him speak in weeks, and she longed for more. A day of tutelage would fill that longing.

  "Good. Take one of those barrels and let's get started."

  Isellia took one of the long, heavy barrels, and struggled to drag it off the bench. It nearly fell to the floor once she'd slid it off the workspace's surface. Wallace noticed her struggle, but kept silent. He grabbed the other barrel and the rest of the assemblies, and followed her.

  They set the items down near her XR on a cloth already laid out. Wallace took the other barrel and assembly, and put them near the other wing.

  "Dad," Isellia said.

  Wallace looked up with surprise. She normally called him Wallace. "Yeah?"

  "How do I know when I'm supposed to use these?"

  Wallace looked at her, a shadow crossing his face. "Sometimes you gotta fight. You'll know when."

  ***

  Joey walked a little closer to the robot. The sun had nearly set, and the light took on that quality which didn't quite mask everything in darkness, but shrouded the world in a grey shadow enough that one's eyes played began playing tricks.

  The robot's LED blinked green against the darkening grey, but otherwise remained completely still. It was the size of a man, with green flashing circles for eyes. They flashed and glowed against the dark, at intervals illuminating Joey's face as he looked back.

  Joey frowned. He'd left his tools back at Mr. Twitters' shop, where he always left them. There already was hardly any light to work with, and if he ran back to get them, it would be pitch black by the time he returned. He'd have only the blinking LED to guide his tools, and who knows how long that would last?

  Joey had his hands in his pockets, something he did while thinking. His hand touched a small metal object, and he absently fidgeted with it, turning it around in his pocket while he thought. After a few moments, he became aware of what it was his hand was fidgeting with.

  "Oh, I forgot I'd put this in my pocket to put away later," Joey said, pulling out a small screwdriver. "Guess I never did put it away. Lucky for you, Mr. Robot!"

  The robot said nothing, its LEDs flashed in the same intervals. Though Joey thought he noticed a slight change between them.

  Joey walked around to the back of robot, looking his chassis up and down. His skin developed goosebumps against the coming desert cold, but he was oblivious to it as he investigated the robot. His hand ran down the robot's back, then found a small opening. "Aha," Joey said. His screwdriver found the small slot and flicked it, opening up the robot's rear panel.

  Inside, the positronic nervous system lit itself, casting another greenish glow on Joey's face. "OK, now I can do my thing. If I remember right, I can do a little rerouting, just like..." Joey trailed off as he began to work.

  A few moments later, he snapped the lid shut on the robot's back. "There, try to walk!" He said. The robot stood motionless, its LED lights flashing as it had. "Go on, try it. Try to walk."

  Still, the robot remained still.

  "Come on, I'm just trying to help you. I can get you to the shop, and fix you the rest of the way. We can charge you up and clean you, so you'll be good as new. Don't you want that, Mr. Robot?"

  The robot's LED blinking pattern changed. Its head turned slightly,
toward Joey. "Yeah, that's it! I'm your friend, and I want to help!"

  "’Friend’ does not compute," the robot said.

  "Oh you're one of those talking robots! Awesome! But don't do too much right now. I rerouted most of your power systems to your legs. They should work but everything else will be tough. It's just to get you back to the workshop, then I can fix you up good. We should go!"

  The robot stood, finding that it could, in fact, walk just as Joey had said. It decided it best get its power restored before eliminating this new threat.

  ***

  Isellia had seen the sharp edge on the chair's leg while the three men still leered at her, but wisely pretended not to have noticed until the gang had left. She waited a spell, counting to 20, to make sure they were really gone before starting to inch work her way toward the chair. It might be her only chance, after all. Patience might not have been one of her strong suits, but even she knew it would pay off here.

  She rolled over, so her hands were right next to the sharp edge, and searched until she felt the fabric first with her hands, then guided the edge to the binds between her wrists. She rubbed it against the edge vigorously, back and forth. It began fraying the fabric, which should unravel once one of the bonds breaks free, but she had no way to do it precisely, and the sharp metal also cut into the flesh of her wrist. She thought about having her hands free to untie her ankles and rip that gag out of her mouth, and she worked even harder to break through the binds, ignoring the pain of cutting herself.

  Then she could go kick some ass.

  But for now, she would have do with wiggling on the floor, rubbing the cloth against the sharp metal edge of the chair. She was lucky — this particular model of chair had one long support column under the seat, which splayed out into five arms that hugged the floor. At the end of those arms were sharp edges. It was the corner of that edge that now made a bloody, frayed mess as Isellia frantically worked to free herself.

  Isellia just hoped it would cut through in time.

  ***

  Joey stared into the robot's back, the panel door swung open. The positronic nerve center cast a glow on his face, as did a flashing green one from above its head. Joey hadn't been sure when he'd brought the robot back whether Mr. Twitters would have had the right adapter to power up the robot, but digging through a box he'd dug out of a closet in the back of the workshop, he'd found the right one. The object was dusty and appeared it hadn't been used in decades, but it fit the power pack chord perfectly, snapping into the robot's power supply port just as easily.