Isaac Asimov's I, Robot: To Preserve

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Jake tipped his head, clearly considering Susan’s words. “A second battery. I hadn’t thought of that.” He added slowly, “Except . . . the ambulance door was locked . . . from the outside.”

  “Really?” Susan tried her best to appear surprised by the statement. “Why would an ambulance even have a lock on the outside?”

  “Why not?”

  Susan pictured a generic ambulance in her mind’s eye. “My understanding is that there’s always at least one nurse or paramedic in the back with the patient. Shouldn’t he or she control any locking mechanism?”

  “Unless they don’t have any patients. Then, no one needs to be inside, and a lock keeps people from stealing or vandalizing the specialized equipment.” Jake changed tack suddenly. “You’re a doctor, Susan. Don’t you have some firsthand experience with ambulances?”

  Susan shrugged. “I rode one at a fair once, when I was about seven; and I’ve been in the ER when ambulances arrive. The doctors don’t see the patient until he’s wheeled into the room and transferred to an ER gurney. We’re too busy setting up the equipment and preparing ourselves mentally. We do keep in touch with the ambulance personnel by Vox or radio along the way, but we don’t actually greet the vehicle that brings the patient.” She shook her head. “Despite what you might see on television, we’re not waiting on the helipad or in the parking lot.”

  Now, Jake smiled. “I imagine if you did, you’d lose a lot of doctors and nurses to rotor amputations.”

  Susan could imagine herself so focused on a patient that she stood up quickly and lost the top half of her skull. Once, during a night shift in the empty ICU, she had asked to attend a helicopter refueling. The pilot had agreed, but the hospital had nixed the plan, stating that doctors’ lives were too valuable to risk. Susan had always thought their response a double slap in the face to the helicopter crew, suggesting not only that their lives were of lesser value than hers but also that they were not competent to keep her safe. Now, she realized, they might have worried more for her inexperience and incaution. Not wishing to waste time, she steered the conversation back to its original topic. “Maybe your four muscular men forgot to lock the door.”

  “Maybe.” Jake allowed for the possibility. “Although all four, and two ambulance personnel, swear they heard it click. Subsequent checks have shown it to be working properly.”

  “I’ve accidentally locked things open; some still click. Or, perhaps, someone tampered with it.”

  “Not obviously.”

  Susan did not know what else to say. “Are you asking me if Nate has the capability for teleportation? Because that would be magic, not technology.”

  Jake waved off her suggestion. “Mostly, I’m just sharing my thoughts with a knowledgeable friend. Also, I’m wondering if Nate might know how to disable locks in ways a human might not.”

  Susan gave Jake’s reasonable suggestion due consideration. “Not as a part of his initial programming; but, like all positronic robots, he’s a work in progress, always learning and incapable of forgetting. I know he read every medical text he could find. He had access to the global Net and a lot of free time. If I were him, I would have studied everything, including locksmithing and ambulances. It’s possible he discovered something useful.” She peered back at Jake. “Of course, the type of lock he was dealing with might come into play.” She waited for him to elaborate.

  Jake seemed reluctant, then did so. “It’s the electronic type, with a battery and the workings embedded in the steel door. There’s nothing on the inside to pry off and monkey with.”

  “Well, I’m no expert, but I can tell you that the one I accidentally locked into the open position was battery operated, too. It had a combination. Pressing the center button threw a bolt, and I had the door a tiny bit open. The bolt extended behind the slot, the lock clicked, and I didn’t notice it was slightly ajar until a friend leaned against it and tumbled halfway down the stairs.”

  “I’ll check that out,” Jake promised. “But I was actually wondering about the possibility of a magnetic or electrical field that a robot could manufacture based on its components or what it had to work with inside the ambulance.”

  Susan did not believe such a thing existed except, perhaps, in a specialized unit. “That’s something you’d have to discuss with a roboticist.”

  Jake made a thoughtful noise, then spread his hands in his lap. “That’s really all I can think to ask at the moment. Do you have anything to add?”

  Susan sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. She wanted to say “no” and get out as quickly as possible, but that might make her appear guilty. “Only that Dr. Goldman’s murder, Nate’s disappearance, and the attempt on my life are certainly related. Nothing good can come of any of this until the police switch their focus from Lawrence and Nate to the Society for Humanity.”

  Jake opened and closed his mouth. He sat back and started again. “Susan, I understand your point, and I believe you when you say Nate couldn’t have killed anyone. However, the SFH . . .” He trailed off.

  Susan pressed. “The SFH . . . what?”

  Jake reached out and touched Susan’s hand. He was trying to tell her something without speaking, probably to avoid the ever-present cameras he had mentioned during their first encounter in his other office. Only then, Susan realized he was trying to remind her of exactly that; he could not speak freely about certain things in such an environment. “They’ve been substantially weakened. I wouldn’t have thought they still had the power to muster up plans of . . . this magnitude.”

  Susan read between the lines. He was trying to explain that Cadmium had not appreciated the Society for Humanity’s meddling and had used the considerable means at their disposal to render the SFH impotent. But Susan also knew someone had attempted to murder her earlier this very day. No one else had motive, let alone the proper forces, to craft an attack like the one she and Nate had survived only because of Pal’s quick actions. The police had underestimated the SFH’s resources and determination on many prior occasions. Realizing Jake needed a response that fit the situation and would pacify anyone who watched the recordings, she took his hand and nodded.

  Jake waited only until she released him before stepping out of the office and back into the hallway. Shortly, he reappeared with Pal Buffoni in tow. He motioned for Pal to take the seat he had just vacated, and Pal did so while Jake reclaimed the chair behind his desk. Pal smiled at Susan, one brow lifting in question. Susan returned the warmest smile she could. Things had gone better than she had expected.

  “My turn?” Pal said with mock exuberance. A police examination was not at the top of anyone’s list of fun ways to spend an afternoon, though Susan imagined some people might prefer it to seeing a doctor.

  Susan started to rise, but Jake stopped her with a broad wave. “You can stay, Susan. I don’t have any robotics questions for your partner.”

  Susan dropped back into her chair, though it seemed unnecessary. “So . . . we’re finished, then?”

  “We can be, if you want.” Jake opened his palm-pross and peered over it at Susan. “Whatever happened in Central Park is outside my jurisdiction, so you don’t have to tell me anything about it. However . . .” He glanced at Pal, then back to Susan.

  Susan waited for the other shoe to fall.

  “No one knows as much about . . . your situation as I do. If I can help . . . well, I can’t help if I don’t know . . .” Jake rarely floundered, and Susan found herself considering the situation from his point of view. She knew little about police procedure and most of that from what Jake had told her or what movies portrayed, not always accurately. She supposed that if they volunteered information to him as a confidant, rather than a police officer, it might complicate the investigation.

  Pal looked to Susan, who nodded vigorously. “Jake has risked his life to save mine on more than one occasion.”

  Accepting t
hat, Pal scooted his chair directly in front of Jake’s desk. “What would you like to know?”

  Jake prodded carefully, “You said you helped Susan escape from would-be killers.”

  Pal did not mince words. “I shot three men masquerading as park employees who were shooting at and, in one case, cutting at Susan with hedge trimmers. There were at least two others, and they were shooting wildly, so we had to leave the scene in a hurry.” He added plaintively, “I hope we’re not in any trouble.”

  Jake sat back. “I can’t promise the Central Park Precinct will handle this in any particular way, but the law does allow the use of deadly force in certain situations. If you meet those criteria, you should be all right. As a courtesy to the Central Park Precinct, I’d like to drive the two of you there, if I may.”

  Susan and Pal both nodded.

  Jake said, not quite casually, “I’m assuming you have all the proper paperwork for your weapon.”

  Susan’s heart lurched. She did not know the current permitting laws for firearms except that New York City had always kept permission tight. In other parts of the country, whatever was not specifically prohibited was permitted while, in New York City, whatever was not specifically permitted was prohibited. She doubted she would qualify to own a gun, let alone to carry one concealed.

  In the early 2020s, control had grown so strict that even security guards and some police were not legally armed. Emboldened gangs and criminals had virtually taken over the city before the pendulum swung back far enough to rearm all law enforcement officers and certain responsible members of the public. How those citizens were chosen was just shy of a secret, assuring that criminals did not know who in a crowd might have the ability to fire back at them.

  Pal removed a handgun from just behind his left hip and placed it carefully on the desk. He removed a chip-card from his wallet and set it beside the gun.

  Jake hesitated. He had clearly not expected this amount of cooperation. “Mind if I check?”

  Pal made a throwaway gesture. “I insist.”

  Jake waved the chip-card across the edge of the palm-pross. Figures flickered across the screen, but Susan was not in position to read them. “Paladin,” he said quizzically. “Paladin Joshua Buffoni.” His brows inched upward, and a hint of admiration entered his tone. “MARSOC.”

  “Eight years,” Pal replied.

  “It says you live at 1826 Thirty-first Avenue,” Jake continued casually, as if seeking a simple confirmation.

  Susan saw the pitfall, but, before she could speak, Pal addressed it. “Yeah, I was speaking a bit prematurely earlier. My lease is up next month. That’s when I’ll move in with Susan officially, at least until her lease ends and we can find a bigger place.”

  Susan wished Pal had given her more time; solving Ari Goldman’s murder might take longer than a month. On the other hand, she could think of far worse people with whom to share close quarters.

  “And that’s when?” Jake asked.

  Realizing Pal had no way of knowing, Susan piped up. “My lease ends in February. Still not sure how we’re going to store all our furniture in that postage stamp I currently call home.”

  Pal put a loving arm around Susan and smiled. “I still say it’s best for me to put all my crap in storage.”

  Susan tried to make it sound like an ongoing argument, “For five months? You know I don’t think that’s fair to you.”

  “The only thing I need that you don’t have is actual food in the refrigerator.”

  Jake smiled at that, his gaze still fixed on the screen. The first meal he and Susan had ever shared was an eclectic salad she had thrown together from what she could find in her father’s ransacked pantry shortly after his murder. “It says you have permits for three firearms.”

  “Yes,” Pal confirmed.

  “This is the one you used in Central Park? The only one?”

  “Yes.”

  Jake passed back the chip-card. “Do you have the others with you?”

  “Outside a combat zone, I have found one at a time more than adequate.”

  Susan pursed her lips to hide a smile. From experience, Jake, along with most law enforcement officers, seemed to always carry at least one backup. Sometimes two. She also realized that the propensity to overarm had come in handy on several occasions, though more so for the feds than Jake.

  “You know I’m going to have to confiscate this.”

  Pal’s features crinkled, as if he had eaten something unexpectedly sour. “I knew it was a possibility, though I hoped you wouldn’t. It leaves Susan extremely vulnerable at a time when we know someone with a lot of firepower wants her dead.”

  Jake could only nod. “For now, you have me. I’m accompanying you to the Central Park Precinct. Then, we can place her under police protection.”

  “No,” Susan said, trying to sound affronted rather than frightened by the idea. “The police will force me to stay in one place so they can watch me. What I need is a bodyguard, someone willing to move and work with me so I can still perform my job. Someone quick-thinking and quick-acting, accustomed to remaining alert to danger twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, even while sleeping. Someone wholly committed to me.”

  Pal’s face had turned a subtle shade of red. He shrugged. “MARSOC. It’s in all the brochures: bodyguarding, alert sleeping, and one hundred percent commitment to Susan Calvin.”

  Jake’s head bobbed ever so slightly, but he did not smile. “What job are you speaking of, Susan?” He knew she had quit her residency.

  Jake deserved to know. Defiantly, Susan stared at him. “The job the police are supposed to be doing: solving Ari Goldman’s murder and clearing Nate and Lawrence.”

  “Alone?”

  Susan crossed her arms over her chest. “If necessary.”

  Jake sighed. “Susan, the police are not your adversaries. We don’t get bonuses for solving cases quickly. We’re the good guys dedicated to finding the actual perpetrators and removing them from the streets for everyone’s safety.”

  Susan gave him a dubious look, though she knew Jake did not deserve it. She felt certain that, like doctors, most cops joined the force for altruistic reasons, dedicating their lives to protecting and assisting the public. Unfortunately, some joined for the power and authority just as some doctors practiced only for money. A few started out with all the best intentions, becoming jaded by circumstances. Even those with the purest of objectives could prove slow-witted, poorly intuitive, or simply incompetent.

  Jake studied Susan, looking personally wounded. “I would have thought I’d done enough to convince you.”

  Susan appreciated that he did not casually brush his bangs aside or make other reference to the risks he had taken for her: his life and his job. She softened. “You have, Jake, believe me. But I also see the turn this case is taking, and not necessarily because the men and women working it aren’t good, capable cops with noble intentions. U.S. Robots hired me to investigate the situation, and I’m going to do that relying on information the homicide detectives are choosing to ignore. Nate is innocent because he is incapable of harming a human being. He is no more capable of murder than a newborn lamb. Less, in fact, because his programming could not even allow something inadvertent to happen.”

  Pal brought the conversation back to his own concern. “Jake, do you really think they’ll insist on confiscating all my guns?”

  Jake seemed almost eager to turn his attention from Susan to Pal, though he sighed as he did so. “The first step is to figure out which projectiles from which weapons caused injury or death. Secondarily, I’m concerned that you violated pistol licensing code by not reporting the discharge of a firearm as quickly as possible.”

  Susan sucked in a breath so suddenly, she nearly choked on her own saliva. She remembered how, at the first opportunity, Pal had asked her if they should go to the police station first or
the hospital. “But that was my fault!”

  Pal held up a hand to stop her. “Who says I didn’t?”

  His words stopped Susan before the gesture. She waited to hear what he had to say.

  Jake cocked his head. “How long has it been since the shooting?”

  Pal glanced at his Vox. “Just over two hours now, but I reported the incident at the first opportunity.”

  Jake made a motion to indicate he should continue.

  Pal complied. “I don’t think anyone would argue that we couldn’t stay on the scene. There was active shooting going on, and Susan was the target. I had to get her out of there quickly and foil any immediate pursuit.”

  “You should have Voxed.”

  Pal’s handsome features turned incredulous. “While driving a Harley? Even Susan and I couldn’t hear each other, and there was no way I was using my hands for anything but steering.”

  Jake tried again. “Why didn’t you drive to the nearest police station?”

  Pal had an answer for that as well. “I was focused on evasive action. By the time I realized where we were, I had no idea where the nearest police station was, but we weren’t far from home. I stopped long enough to send a quick text to 711. That’s the police text line, correct? At least, that’s what I was taught in my permitting class.”

  Jake nodded.

  Susan did not recall Pal texting anyone, although he certainly could have done it while she was opening the doors and instructing Nate, in addition to hiding his motorcycle.

  Pal continued. “I considered calling for directions, but . . . you know how when people are chasing you, shooting at you . . . No matter how much evasive action you’ve taken, you’re still sure they’re right behind you. Susan was spooked, begged me to just take her home. I deferred to her since, as I pointed out, she was the target.” He gave her a stern look and added pointedly, “Though I still don’t know why people want to kill my girlfriend.”