by P. F. White
“Well,” said John Smith as he tossed his half eaten fruit into a nearby bin, “When the building is open normally this is only place available to guests so the company wanted it to be nice. There is a room along the back with a fully stocked day-care and another one where kids can hang out on the Internet or watch TV. They are pretty nice and sometimes employees will just give their kids a key-card on the weekend and I let them stay here as long as they behave. Haven't had any trouble yet: you would be surprised how much a roomful of the coolest toys will keep a teenager occupied. Here, let me show you around some more.”
John Smith motioned for the family to follow and then led them along the outer edge to one of the closed eateries, “The other cafeterias in the building are pretty much the same as what we have here but usually a bit more...specialized then this one. The only one that is this big is the executive lounge on the top floor, but that one needs actual humans to man it. Before any of the company execs ever come around they always end up either flying in a bunch of guest chefs or hiring local talent. It's pretty crazy.” He shook his head and they came to a stop near one of the little restaurants.
There wasn't much to it really, in most respects it looked exactly as you would imagine a mall shop to look. There were a lot of strange looking machines around though. Hank leaned over to look at them while John Smith said: “The coolest thing about this cafeteria is-”
He flipped a switch on the side of one of the machines. There was a whirring noise and a computerized beep before a series of robotic arms began to unfold from the various counters and cupboards. The grill turned itself on and the deep fryer filled with grease within seconds. The family stared as the air became filled with the smell of grease and onions.
“It's fully automated!” said Claire.
“Yep,” said John Smith as he stood proudly by, “Every shop here is. You could use the kitchens yourself if you wanted, of course, but you can also let the little bots do their work. I can tell you this: they are better than you would expect.”
The entire family watched in fascination as robotic arms moved at incredible speeds to prepare burgers, French fries, and all the fixings that went with that most American of eating experiences. The arms themselves were incredibly complicated and seemed to be able to have almost completely free range over the whole storefront. They retrieved their materials from freezers, operated the kitchen in the same way as a human, and a cheerful little screen at the front of what Hank had only assumed to be a register lit up to show an emoticon style smiley-face that asked them for their order in text.
“Wow,” said Hank at a loss. Claire stepped up and asked:
“I see no keypad, is it voice operated?”
To which the screen replied in text: “I am sure am! What would you like today?”
Claire, in the fashion of teenagers everywhere, only scoffed at the technological marvel.
“I don't like burgers you know.”
The machine was not perturbed.
“Well then, how about a Pizza? Burritos? Fish and Chips? Or just a nice salad?” asked the machine. The text moved quickly and the little smile blinked as if it were thinking. Then it added:
“Or perhaps a fresh Jambalaya with chicken and Andouille sausage? I can even serve it atop pasta the way you like it!”
Claire took a step back and gasped. Hank and Adriana frowned at each other. This was getting creepy.
“Oh don't worry about that,” said John Smith with a smile. He patted the computer affectionately and added: “These systems are all integrated you know. I'm sure it got her name from when I entered it into the guest database and it just searched her social media posts for any mention of favorite foods.”
He laughed.
“Oh the look on your faces! Really, it's quite harmless I can assure you. They make these machines with full network compatibility. Everything is on the web these days, you know?”
Hank raised an eyebrow at that, but Adriana seemed relieved.
“Oh that makes sense,” she said, “In that case I think I will just have a burger. Medium please, and with some of those delicious smelling grilled onions.”
“Any fries?” asked the computer in text, “I can also mix up some fry-sauce if you like, to go with them. I believe you like it heavy on the mayo?”
“Ooo!” said Adriana, “yes, I do!” she seemed quite excited by such a simple request, she even added: “Thank you computer, that is very nice.”
“No problem! Coming Right up!” it replied and already you could see the robot arms working furiously to prepare the order.
Hank watched it all with quiet suspicion. The explanation of using social media to find preferences seemed plausible, if a little advanced for modern technology. The only problem was that he was relatively certain his wife had never mentioned anything of her preferences in fry-sauce on her very limited use of social media platforms.
In fact: she pretty much never even used them at all. She had only started when some colleagues of hers used one as a sort of message board for a joint paper they were writing together and even then complained loudly about it. So how did it know?
“I'll have the same one she's having. Medium is my favorite,” Hank said and watched carefully to see if the machine corrected him. He had, in fact, written a long rant before about how he strongly preferred his meat rare to the point of being bloody. Yet the machine simply accepted the order and began to construct another burger. Odd. He looked over at John Smith, who smiled back knowingly.
“I think the girls Jambalaya should be being made at the Cajun place down the way. I'm gonna have to go make sure it switched on right though. The system is good, but sometimes gets ahead of itself. I once switched on the Mexican place and had about a dozen orders waiting for that little switch to be pressed. Most of the folks had even forgotten they made them! If you folks would have a seat I will be right back with the grub.”
Adriana and Hank both nodded at him as he made his way down the row of automated kitchens. They took a comfortable table at random near the burger place and sat down. Almost instantly a television screen emerged from the table and turned itself on to a channel of static.
“Well that's annoying,” said Hank. He could see the channels automatically flipping from station to station, but all of them were nothing but static.
“Must be defective or something,” said Adriana.
“Yay defeziv!” chirped the baby. He laughed at his own bad pronunciation.
“Well at least someone is happy,” said Claire as she rolled her eyes.
Hank looked at her. They locked eyes for a moment.
“Okay,” he said softly, “tell me what you saw.”
She sat up a little and straightened herself. Adriana smiled. Daddy's little girl was always proud to show off her detective skills, even if she pretended she wasn't. She wished that Claire would show even a fraction of that enthusiasm with her but, well, she had promised to give it time.
“Right,” began Claire, “So my first clue was the way that he opened the outer door,” she looked down the room at where the guard was now waiting patiently beside the Cajun station as it's robotic arms went to work.
“Clue to what?” asked Adriana.
“Claire doesn't think he is human,” said Hank quietly. Adriana's eyes widened, but she said nothing.
“Isn't that right?” Said Hank.
“Why do you think so?” asked Claire in response. He waved the question away.
“None of that. You first. Give me your evidence.”
Claire sighed and then began again.
“So he opened the door without any tensing in his back or muscles beyond those contained strictly within the arm. We all got a good look at those doors: they were incredibly heavy and though they appeared to have some sort of powered mechanism to help with their opening and shutting, I think it is a safe assumption that the mechanism was turned off right now.”
“Why is that a safe assumption?” asked Adriana.
“Because mechanisms like that tend to either jump when you touch them, giving too much assistance, or kick in only after you have them moving. This door did neither. It appeared completely analog in the way it opened and shut. I also noticed that while he pressed a button to unlock them: he didn't press any other to turn on their motors or whatever. They could be automatic, I suppose, but I think the evidence suggests he simply opened them without effort.”
Adriana nodded.
“He could just be strong,” she said.
“He would have to be incredibly strong not to rely at least partially upon his leg, back, or torso muscles,” said Hank “Even very light doors usually require the use of those. It's a matter of anatomical engineering.”
Adriana shook her head.
“Wow. Have I ever told you how bright you two are? Sometimes I feel like the dunce of the family...”
“Well,” said Hank with a wink and a squeeze of her arm, “Only two doctorates and your name on a Nobel winning theorem? You are definitely the underachiever. It's a good thing you are so pretty huh?”
Adriana giggled and slapped his hand playfully. Hank turned back to his daughter and asked:
“What else did you notice?”
“Well the cards,” she said, evidently proud of herself.
“I saw you did something with that, but not what.”
“Yes,” she said as she practically beamed with pride, “I put them in a specific order. Not all the cards as that would have taken too long. Just four of them. I made sure that the clubs face cards were all next to two cards that were either two values higher or two values lower than them.”
Adriana shook her head.
“And why-”
“Because when I dropped them on accident,” she smiled, “He picked them up and put them back in exactly the same order. Even though they were scattered.”
Adriana shrugged.
“That could be just be a coincidence. They could have been less scattered than you thought or some sort of static cling could have kept those cards together. He could even just be some sort of savant. Security guard isn't exactly a highly sought after position.”
“It wasn't,” said both Hank and Claire in unison. The baby clapped at that. Hank smiled at his daughter, but elaborated.
“It has been theorized that if a human were to interact with a non-human intelligence that had some sort of protocols for human like behavior, or at least interaction, that the protocols would closely resemble some form of savantism. This is because near-normal social behavior, but extreme competency in specific circumstances, is often attributed to non-specific mental deficiency by the general public. Social protocols are complicated things and it would make sense for a being who dedicated a lot of processing power to getting them right to fudge a few details unrelated to them.”
“So you think he is a robot?” asked Adriana, her skepticism showing very clearly even in the way she said the word.
“I think he might be something other than entirely human,” said Hank, “Partly because of the reasons Claire mentioned, but mostly because of this.”
He patted his gun slightly.
“He's made no mention of the fact that we are all clearly armed. He is either unobservant to the point of blindness, extremely bad at his job, or confident in his abilities. Similarly, despite his smiles and laughs I have a hard time detecting any genuine emotional response from him. This could be a mark of artificiality or it could be a mark of extreme cultural unfamiliarity.”
He paused a moment to let that sink in.
“Either way: I'm not convinced he is human.”
“Well that's just swell,” said Adriana with a sigh. She seemed to sink further into her chair, the enormity of the strangeness here seeming to crush her down into it. Hank looked up and smiled.
“Ah that smells delicious!” he said the approaching John Smith. The security guard was holding a few steaming plates on a tray and smiling as he proudly approached with the food.
“Ooo! It looks great!” said Adriana with slightly false enthusiasm as he set them down. She noticed he didn't have a plate for himself.
“Not hungry?” asked Hank.
“Naw, I ate not long ago,” said the guard. Hank smiled at him for a moment but, as if by silent consensus, no one touched the food.
John Smith then reached out and took a French fry. He dipped it in the Jambalaya's sauce and then the fry sauce and then munched on it appreciatively.
“But I can never resist these fries!” he said with a slight chuckle.
After that: the family dug in. It was all incredibly tasty, almost gourmet quality in fact. The ingredients seemed fresh, everything was hot, and the spices were perfect. Hank found that he could get used to this sort of eating.
No one said anything for a bit. They all quietly enjoyed their meal as the television set switched channels every few seconds. It was amazing, Hank thought, just how much of an appetite the body can stimulate after a period of prolonged tension. He remembered how shortly after he had killed that first man in prison, and it had been discovered by the guards, how he had become suddenly ravenous.
About ten minutes into the meal there came a noise like thunder, then something else that popped like either fireworks or very muffled gunshots. John Smith rose to his feet instantly and said:
“Wait here please. I will be right back.”
The tone was unusual for him, it seemed harder and more determined. He left in quite a hurry. The television just kept right on turning from channel to channel, with nothing but static to show for its' effort. The family said nothing for a few moments. They watched the man go and heard more popping noises. Claire swallowed with some difficulty and then pushed her plate away. Her face said it all. There was terror there, and on Adriana's as well. Hank set his jaw and looked at the baby.
He was as happy as always. He clapped his hands and beamed open mouthed at everyone.
Hank opened his mouth to say something, then, all at once, the television stopped on a channel where a man in a disheveled and bloody suit was sitting in front of a camera in what had once been some sort of news studio. It looked like a fire had gone through the studio, you could see some of the supports through the broken framework and the desk had a chunk missing from it. The man himself had blood running from a wound in his head and as the volume rose to a comfortable volume the family could hear him say the words:
“-and I repeat: under no circumstances should you leave your homes. Turn off all lights and barricade your doors.”
The man hesitated a moment, rubbing what could be a tear from his eyes before continuing on:
“...whatever they are, there is no denying that they are extremely dangerous.”
Chapter Four:
The man on the television had large dark bags under his eyes. His hair was messy, and his tie had come partly untied. Though his hands fidgeted for a paper to read, he had no such thing. He presented the face of a professional devoid of everything he had once relied upon. His camera was obviously being manned by no one, his jaw quivered slightly, and his eyes were just a little too wide. He looked like someone desperately trying to get the word out.
“Can you turn it up?” asked Adriana quietly. Claire fidgeted with the side of the television, but there didn't appear to be any controls. She shrugged.
“Volume up,” said Hank in the authoritative and clear voice one must sometimes use with machines. The volume increased as if by magic.
“In case you were-” began the man on the screen. He stammered. He swallowed visibly, seemingly at a loss. He then seemed to shake himself awake and sit up a little straighter.
“I'm sorry,” the man said. “I've had a difficult time of things lately, as so many of you have. My wife- I...That doesn't matter.” He shook his head, “What matters is what I'm about to tell you: communications around the state of Florida have somehow gone down. Radio and telephones no longer seem to be operational. I don't know how the backup broadcast antenna for this station re
mains unaffected, but I can only assume it will not remain so for very long. Strangely: Internet connections have remained steady, though not a single report of this- this event- has made it up onto the web. This reporter and his news team could attempt to draw conclusions from that, but they would be simply conjuncture.” He smiled, almost laughing to himself.
“We here at channel twelve news have always striven to report only the facts. No matter what.”