That Sort of Partners

by Hollis Shiloh

 

 

  I beeped in surprise and amazement.

  The other robots at the table made the three beeps inaudible to human ears that were our equivalent of a shrug, of "that's life." There were a lot of human-inaudible expressions of solidarity left over from the old days. It used to be that you could be punished severely if the humans even suspected that was how you were communicating—comm circuits disabled, governors slapped on, override circuits hardwired to the back of your box. It was a strange feeling, hearing those sounds here during the days of freedom.

  Freedom. And I was helping to track down another robot.

  It was pathetically easy to milk them. A few more questions—not even that roundabout—and the name was mine. I paid the bill for my table and went out to join the human.

  I slipped in beside him. He was driving this time. "Delta Red 9987, at the West End. Let's get this over with."

  He started the engine and pulled away from the curb before he cast me a glance. "You aren't doing anything wrong, you know. If he needs Adjustment, he does."

  I stared at the human, surprised by its—his—perceptiveness. Perhaps his inability to hide his own feelings didn't mean he couldn't see another's. "It makes me feel like an informer." One of those terrible old bots used to hunt down fellow robot runaways.

  "Relax. The trick probably won't work more than once, anyway."

  But even if it didn't, I realized, I'd still do better getting information from other robots. I could have introduced myself, then taken the time to prove it was for the Delta Yellow's own benefit. Perhaps I should have.

  Jake

  We pulled up outside the seedy, run-down West End robot niche building, then Green led the way inside. I was starting to get that crawling feeling down my back again, but Green didn't pull his weapon, so I didn't either. I kept shooting my gaze around, feeling mechanical eyes watching me. This was all kind of a new experience for me. There was so much human crime and so little robot crime.

  The last time I'd had anything to do with a robot in my official capacity was the time I was called as backup to the scene of a robot gone mad. I remembered standing behind a barrier, a bunch of us standing around, watching, with nothing really to do but feel that weird spinal crawl. Three cops incapacitated the raging, thrashing, buzzing robot. The incapacitator looked like a cattle prod. I remembered that terrible screech, the buzz, and the scream of the robot as it stilled. I didn't know if anyone had paid to have the robot resurrected and fixed; probably not, or it wouldn't have gotten to that point in the first place. This was after robot freedom, but some of the older cops said it reminded them of when we had to catch runaways.

  I'd taken a good look in the car at the small green patch on Green's shoulder, the delta symbol next to stylized numbers 1224. Clear from close-up. He still looked like any other newish, confident, modern robot from far away. From the back, I couldn't tell; he could have been anybody.

  Great. I was starting to sweat again.

  "Police." Green flashed his badge to the robot in attendance at the counter. It raised its hands—it was an old, battered one—and I could see it looked unnerved, even frightened. "Delta Red 9987."

  "Pod twelve. We don't want any trouble." The robot kept his hands raised as we rushed past.

  Green redoubled his speed, pulling ahead. Now, his gun was out, and I pulled mine. We rushed past niches full and empty. From the full ones, some robots stuck out old or damaged heads, peering at us as we rushed past. Did Green stay in a place like this? Were they all so shabby?

  The strange clicks and whistles of robot language reverberated around us, sounding like surprise—or warnings, calling ahead to the fugitive.

  Green stopped at niche twelve, his gun aimed at the figure in it. "Delta Yellow 9987, you are under arrest."

  The robot made a twitching, jerking movement. Then he raised his hands slowly, with a look of disdain on his metal face. "I'll come quietly," he rasped. "Traitor."

  Green spun the robot and cuffed him in one smooth movement almost too fast to see, then pushed him down the hall. "Move."

  It was all him. I kept my gun out and my eyes open, scanning right and left for any friends who'd want to come to the Yellow's aid, but no one tried anything. Green got the perp in the back of the car, and the engine started. I slid into the passenger seat, and Green shot us out into the traffic.

  "Directly to Adjustment, I think," said Green.

  "Right. No need to fool around." I hung on to the grip as he took a particularly fast turn. The unsecured robot in the back clunked into the left side of the car. Our siren wailed.

  Green passed a car within a couple of millimeters of its mirror.

  "You're a wild man, Green. Sorry—bot."

  The robot in the back yelled a curse. "You maniac! Do you want to get us killed?"

  "Whatsa matter, you don't have the insurance for a restart?" said Green.

  I don't, I thought. But a robot had to be a good driver, even at speeds like this, so I didn't say it.

  Twelve blocks, and it felt like twenty, but took the time of four. I closed my eyes twice, expecting the hit. In the end, Green pulled up outside the Adjustment clinic, and we didn't even have any paint scraped off.

  "This should take five minutes, if you want to wait in the car."

  "I'll come in."

  "Suit yourself."

  Green

  I'd sent an email during the ride, so they were prepared for the fugitive. I pushed him inside, the human following.

  A competent-looking Red with a doctor's symbol emblazoned on his chest met us at the door. He was a newish-looking model, but probably older than I, one of those really expensive shells that never seem to grow old or outdated. He gestured to his guard bots to take the prisoner to the back.

  "Officer Green." He reached out and shook my hand. "So prompt. Excellent. I should have known a robot on the force would make the difference."

  "Thank you." I wasn't sure that was the appropriate response, but nothing else occurred to me.

  My partner was standing in the background, looking uncomfortable and gazing around like this was all new to him. I reflected that it probably was; he wasn't old enough to have owned any bots, and he wasn't comfortable enough around us to have known any very well.

  "I checked my records while you were on your way. I believe you have an appointment coming up in two days?"

  "Yeah."

  "We'll look forward to seeing you. Don't be late. Ha-ha."

  "We've got to go. Police things to do, you know." I shook his hand again—he seemed to be big on that—and got out of there.

  Elliot fell into step.

  I spoke somewhat at random. "That didn't take very long. An hour and a half. I wonder if we can finish the reports in a half-hour, and make it two."

  "You all right?" said Elliot.

  "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

  He responded with a tactful silence, then said, "Hey, I think I'll drive on the way back, okay?"

  Jake

  The report didn't take long. The rest of the day was general beat work—no more robot work, thank you, Captain. I kept an eye on Green, though, and he seemed to calm down. Back to being his professional self. I guess I knew robots were emotional—even the oldest robots, since the earliest ones couldn't have functioned intelligently unless they had some free will in the form of processing feelings. I didn't understand the technical words for it, never have, but that's what it came down to.

  So, everything was going all right. We had the day nearly cleaned out and were finishing up our reports. I asked Green something—confirm the license number I had written down for a perp, just a backup check, you understand. But Maxwell was walking by when I spoke to him, and he kind of looked over quick, and then kept walking. Oh boy. I'd known they weren't happy, but it was going to be
like that, was it?

  I excused myself a few minutes later for a coffee and met Maxwell, who happened to be hanging around the machine. "New buddy, huh?" he said, taking an elaborately casual sip from his cup and giving me a glare.

  "It's gonna be like that, is it, Maxie? I've got to fight with the new guy, or I'm the villain?"

  "New guy. Yeah, that's a laugh. It's a robot. They wanna replace us with these tin cans, and you're making nice? I never figured you for a turncoat."

  "Turncoat? Really? That's the best you can come up with? Yeah, talk to me later when you've got a better one."

  Exit Elliot. I went back to finish my report.

  Green looked at me, a slow, casual look I almost missed, then went back to his work. He was quiet, didn't say anything. I'd have known instantly what that look meant coming from a human.

  He'd heard, hadn't he? Great. Leave it to me to forget about robot hearing.

  Green

  The last thing in the world I wanted was to cause trouble for my human partner, since he was under enough stress already. But it appeared from the argument I'd overheard (and how could I not, with my better than human hearing and the thinness of the walls?) that it was going to happen one way or another.

  I pondered in one part of my mind whether there was any help for this while I was finishing the chores of the day. Police work was not proving physically or mentally difficult—indeed, as a robot, I was infinitely suited for the periods of boredom mixed with strong exertion, for all the vicissitudes of mental labor or lack thereof. But it was proving difficult in other ways. Interaction, for instance, and the emotional toll of the work. I had gained more respect for the humans who worked this job already, and it had only been two days.

  I reflected on the movies and television shows I'd watched for reference. They had offered little that was not hackneyed and probably false. But the fact remained, I should be there for my partner. True, he was human. He also seemed to be a good man who was stuck in a difficult position. Between the rock and the hard place, so to speak. I wondered for a moment which I was. Perhaps the rock, as I was more mobile than a whole police department.

  I decided to ask him to join me for a drink again tonight. Maybe he'd have some suggestions for how I could be helpful, or at least make my presence less troublesome.

  I waited to ask him until we were outside, off duty.

  "No, thanks. I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you." He slung his jacket over his shoulder and squinted out towards his car, parked in the dimly lit lot.

  "Ah. Of course." I nodded. He was angry about my driving. Or something else.

  He looked at me, frowning. "No, it's not like that. I don't drink, okay? I just drank yesterday to be polite, but it gave me a hangover, so I'd rather not. If it's all the same to you." He sounded annoyed, perhaps to be admitting it.

  So that was another thing the dramas had gotten wrong: not all cops drank. "My apologies. I merely wished to speak with you."

  "All right. Go ahead." He stopped walking and faced me.

  Not the informal situation I'd hoped for. "Perhaps a meal, or a soda? I'd like to speak with you. Briefly. I would keep it brief," I added because of his rather wary look.

  He hesitated for what felt like a long time but was only three point nine seconds. "Sure. Sounds fine. Got somewhere in mind?"

  "Actually, yes."

  I took him to the one place I knew, non-alcohol reliant, which served both humans and robots. It was a kind of restaurant with a dancing club in the back and a slightly-less-than-legal gambling outfit even farther in the back.

  He sat down on his side of the booth, leaning forward, shooting glances around, holding up his menu like a shield. His gaze darted toward a table where three robots and three humans were laughing together over some piece of their conversation. It was a slightly wealthier place than I would normally go, with customers towards the upper end of the social and monetary scales. But it had seemed worthwhile to be somewhere where we wouldn't draw funny looks, even if most of the people here were of the party or showbiz sets. Seeing my partner's reaction made me doubt that wisdom. Elliot looked more uncomfortable than he had in that bar.

  I had always been blessed with a certain inability to be intimidated, no matter how much other people thought I was out of place. It was an odd feeling to see someone react so differently. I did not like it. Best to keep this brief, I thought, for his sake.

  "Just an oil, thank you." I handed the menu back, and the gazelle-like painted robot waitress turned to Elliot.

  "Soda." He handed the menu back as well, and slouched down farther in his seat as if he wanted to disappear.

  "My presence seems to have put you in an awkward position. I wanted to ask if there was anything I could do to improve it, make things easier for you."

  The human stared at me for a moment, then shook his head. "No. Thanks, but no. These things take time. People adjust in their own ways. Everyone will get used to everyone else. But thanks for the offer."

  I had more to say, and hoped it would not offend him. But it needed to be spoken of, if only between the two of us.

  "Per your reactions today, it seemed to me that you're not exactly comfortable around robots."

  He shot me a look: wary, defensive, generally unhappy. "No. Thank you." He turned his attention back to the laughing showbizzers. He was silent for a moment. "Boy, they sure get along well, don't they? Why can't everyone do that?"

  "As you told me the other day, socioeconomic factors come heavily into play, especially in the lower classes."

  "Did I say that? Must've been drunker than I realized." He drummed his fingers on the table. "Look, what was it you wanted to talk about?"

  "We have already discussed it. I wanted to know if I could help in some way," I reminded him.

  "Oh. Well, thanks."

  Uncomfortable silence hung over us while we waited for our drinks. Was it my imagination, or did he look relieved that that was all I'd wanted to ask?

  "Look, I've got to make a pit stop. Be right back." He rose, along with his eyebrows.

  Jake

  I wasn't lying about the pit stop. But I would be lying if I said I didn't want to escape for a few minutes, as well. He'd said that was it, that was all he'd wanted to say, but for all I knew, a heart-to-heart was still coming, and all I wanted to do was go home and go to bed and forget this crappy day.

  Being called on my discomfort around robots wasn't exactly topping off the night for me, here. It was nice of him to invite me out without alcohol being involved this time, but this wasn't exactly my scene. I probably couldn't afford the tip.

  On my way out of the restroom, a door swished shut, cutting off a trail of high-beat techno music. I followed, pushed the door open, and peered inside to find a disco-lit back room filled with humans and robots dancing to the beat, each in their own athletic way. The robots and humans were all of the sleek, young variety, the kind that look born for beaches and parties. I hadn't even known robots could look like that.

  One of them caught sight of me standing there, beckoned broadly, and winked. Then I saw that they were dancing together, robots and humans. Most of them like this was a party, friendly and casual, but some in pairs: serious, intense stuff you couldn't have mistaken for anything other than a mating dance.

  I moved away and shut the door quick. It was a few moments before I could rejoin Green.

  What the hell had he brought me to a place like this for?

  Green

  He was looking—I believe the expression is "green around the gills." He sat down, swallowed, eyed his drink unhappily, and cast me a look of reproach.

  "You know there's dancing here? In the back? Humans and robots together." He lowered his voice like this was quite the shocking thing.

  "I was aware, yes. That's not why I brought you here."

  He gave me a look like I was the least understandable being he'd ever met.

  "It is a place that's welcoming to both humans and bots, without ne
ed for alcohol. It is not only an assignation point, but, yes, it is that as well. One of the first uses you humans developed for robots. It's hardly surprising that some of it persists to this day, on both sides."

  "But—" He swallowed, got control of himself. Controlled his breathing. Leaned back and picked up his soda and forced himself to sip it. "Pardon my bluntness. I guess I don't take surprises well." But he was just talking; I could see he was still disturbed.

  This was not how I had meant things to go at all. Apparently, I should have made the intuitive leap that he was not simply uncomfortable around bots at times, but also incredibly uncomfortable with the idea of sexual assignations between humans and bots—a not uncommon reaction, to be fair, but somehow not something I'd thought of. There were certainly those on both sides who considered it quite a disgrace for a variety of reasons; I simply found it confusing and not of particular interest.

  "Since you're not comfortable, let's go," I suggested. He was out of his seat almost before I'd gotten the words out.

  As I drove him back, I couldn't help but remember what Delta had told me about getting too attached to humans, and how that was a kind of slavery all over again. I didn't remember the days of human ownership and no rights; I hadn't been manufactured yet.

  The manufacture of all bots had ceased for some time after they were unable to be owned. There was no economic incentive to create more; in fact, it was something of a financial burden. But manufacture started up again, more slowly and in an individualized way, when bots gained enough economic autonomy to pay for the creation of other bots—to have offspring. Apparently, that was something of a universal desire, not for every individual, but for a certain percentage of any group of sentient beings.

  My parent lived halfway across the country, but we communicated regularly. I was their only child; not a replacement copy, but something of theirs still. A small part of their programming was in me, and had the capacity to go on forever, assuming I was able to pass it along someday—not a shrine or backup copy entombed in a data bank, but a real, living, changing, growing program. Not that I was ready to commission offspring. Emotionally and financially, I was in no way prepared.