Robot Geneticists (Book 4): Rebel Robots

by J. S. Morin

  Eve backed away, forcing Elizabeth to come around the gestation tank lest Eve have free run to the exit. As the robot rounded one side, Eve dodged the other way, baiting Elizabeth55 to cut the corner as closely as possible. She rested a hand on the electronics cabinet while the exposed cable brushed against her leg.

  POWER > ON

  Elizabeth55 stiffened. Circuit breakers tripped all through her chassis. As the geneticist toppled to the floor, Eve sprang into action. It wouldn’t be long before system resets restored Elizabeth55’s mobility.

  Eve rushed to a maintenance cabinet along one wall of the lab. The lock complied with her request to open. She tossed aside wrenches and scanners, finally finding what she was looking for.

  Her heart was pounding as she stepped over to the still form of Elizabeth55. The glossy shine of the floor reflected a pair of orange glows. Elizabeth55 was still getting visual input—probably audio as well.

  A plasma torch flared to life in Eve’s hands. “Don’t worry. This isn’t half of what you had in store for me.”

  Buzzing noises from the robot’s head might have been a garbled attempt at a verbal reply. Twitching limbs told Eve that she was running out of time to act.

  With shaking hands, Eve guided the plasma torch’s beam through Elizabeth55’s neck, severing cervical supports, data cables, and power along the way.

  It would have been so easy to slice the crystalline matrix down the center.

  Eve stared at the brilliant tip, her implanted lenses auto-correcting the overwhelming luminescence before it damaged sensitive retinas.

  She flicked the torch off.

  “I’d pull your crystal out, but I don’t have that kind of time,” Eve replied. “But since I don’t want you blabbing to your conspirator friends either…”

  Setting aside the plasma torch, Eve took the severed robot’s head in both hands, careful to keep her fingers clear of the jaws. Bringing it over to the maintenance cabinet, Eve cleared a space and set the head on one of the shelves.

  “You… won’t…” the head of Elizabeth55 struggled to speak, running low on local battery power already and not yet fully recovered from the overcurrent shock.

  Eve shut the cabinet door and re-enabled the lock.

  She dashed for her skyroamer, fingers working furiously all the while as command interfaces for the factory flashed across her vision. Shutting down the jamming was proving more difficult than she’d imagined. While most of the factory’s systems were laid out according to an architecture on file with the Human Welfare Committee, whatever was causing the interference was off the books. Eve was trying to trace its source by power consumption.

  Shutting down all the power to the facility would work, but dozens of incubating humans were dependent on the facility’s equipment.

  As Eve breezed past robot scientists who glanced up at her like a crazed animal on the loose, she wondered how many of them were even aware of the plot afoot.

  When she reached the outdoors, Eve skidded to a halt.

  Half a dozen humanoid drones swarmed the skyroamer. The wings were detached. The engines lay torn open and strewn in pieces. Even if she stopped them, the damage was done.

  Eve disappeared into the jungle, frantically cross-referencing power use to life-support functions in the incubation room. Once she had isolated all the vital functions, she cut power to every other system in the complex.

  The jamming signal went dead.

  In an instant, Eve was on the Social. One anonymous, private ID to another, she sent a message.

  “Need a ride. Urgent.”

  In under a second, the reply came back. “Already en route. Stand by for extraction.”

  Eve breathed a tenuous sigh. Help was on the way, but now it was a waiting game. She had one other message she needed to send.

  “Plato, get Abbigail somewhere safe. Go dark. I’ll find you when this is over.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The call went out. Charlie7’s message included the scramble code phrase. The select few individuals who received that message knew what to do at once.

  At home in Paris, Phoebe looked up from her bowl of cinnamon nutmeg tofu cereal and dug out her portable computer. It had chimed despite explicit instruction to do no such thing until she’d showered and dressed for the day.

  FOR EVERY ACTION, THERE IS AN EQUAL AND OPPOSITE REACTION.

  Phoebe picked up her bowl and shoveled the last of the cereal into her mouth. She sprinted to her bedroom and grabbed clothes, toiletries, and a coil gun she kept tucked behind a secret panel. Clutching everything in one giant bundle, she headed for the basement.

  One of the perks of helping redesign Neo-Paris (she was still trying to get the name to catch on) was the extensive underground bunker she was able to hide beneath her abode.

  There was food, water, and an autonomous power source down there. Phoebe could survive for months if need be. Whatever Charlie7 was warning of, down here she would be safe until it blew over.

  On the other side of the English Channel, Nora109 was leading a sing-along of the alphabet song for a group of three- and four-year-olds. Their adoptive parents had dropped them all off for a socialization session, making sure they had adequate exposure to their peers to learn and interact properly.

  For the next hour and thirty-five minutes, they were Nora109’s responsibility.

  Then came the message from Charlie7.

  FOR EVERY ACTION, THERE IS AN EQUAL AND OPPOSITE REACTION.

  Nora109 didn’t break the cadence of the song, but the instant it was done, she stood and addressed the class. “Come along now. Today we’re going exploring.”

  Wrangling eighteen precocious youngsters into a hover transport was never an easy task, but Nora109 was taking no chances. She herded, scolded, promised, and eventually gave up and carried the last of the stragglers.

  The boarding process had taken eleven minutes. She hoped that whatever Charlie7 was warning of could abide the delay.

  As she powered up the ion engines en route to a secure location in the Norwegian fjords, Nora109 sent off a quick message to the parents who would no longer be updated on their status during the emergency. She made sure to refer them to the Human Welfare Committee guidelines on emergency situations before they started making protests that their children were being kidnapped.

  If anything, Nora109 was the one ensuring that they wouldn’t be kidnapped.

  Halfway around the globe, on Easter Island, Ashley390 got Charlie7’s message as well. It was nice to keep apprised, but she had no intention of changing the daily routine of the Sanctuary for Scientific Sins. The residents led bland, safe lives filled with mundane wonders and little variation. If someone were going to make a political statement using the sanctuary’s population of human victims of genetic trial and error, so be it.

  Ashley would fight for her wards, but she wouldn’t send them into a panic that might be worse than the threat Charlie7 warned of. Sadly, she knew that no faction wished them harm because too few among robotkind considered them human at all.

  Far to the northeast, in the Canadian wilderness, Olivia received word on a computer she kept along in case of emergencies. It was the first noise the device had made in over two months.

  FOR EVERY ACTION, THERE IS AN EQUAL AND OPPOSITE REACTION.

  She tucked the computer away and checked to see if her quarry had been disturbed by the sound. The deer, just twenty-five meters away, remained blissfully unaware.

  With a relieved sigh, Olivia drew back the string on her bow. Steadying her breath, she waited for the meandering animal to pick a spot by the stream to drink.

  Olivia let go of the string. The deer lifted its head at the sound of the twang. Checking the computer at her wrist, Olivia watched a replay that showed an overlay of the arrow that would have fired had she been hunting for real.

  While the real deer made the executive decision that Olivia was weird, possibly dangerous, and definitely too close, the digital deer in the computer w
as mortally wounded.

  The living creature bounded away into the forest. Olivia turned to head back to her cabin, where she would eat the deer in effigy, allowing herself access to beef from Manitoba Agrarian Zone 002.

  “Go to hell, Charlie,” she muttered. “I’m not running and hiding every time you cry wolf.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Plato watched the sky to the west. He had to go down to one knee to keep hold of the tiny hand that disappeared within his grip.

  “What’s that one look like?” Plato asked, pointing to a cloud with his free hand.

  “That one looks like a turtle with mushrooms growing on his shell,” Abbigail replied after a moment to consider. “He’s on his way home from grazing on that moss over there.” She pointed to a different cluster of clouds. “He said he was going to be gone for an hour, but he was gone for an hour and eighteen minutes. His mommy isn’t going to let him watch Animaniacs tonight.”

  That cloud’s story certainly turned autobiographical in a hurry.

  “And that one?” Plato asked. Anything to keep that voracious imagination occupied for just a few more minutes.

  “That one’s a skyroamer factory, obviously. It just made one.”

  It was incredible. Even with his genome enhanced six ways from Sunday, the little squirt could pick out a speck against the sky faster than Plato.

  “Wanna guess who it is?” Plato asked. Better to remain on the offensive.

  “Judging by the approach vector, it’s probably Toby22. If it were coming from the cloud that looks like a deflated octopus, it would mean a visit from Nora109.” Abbigail twisted, not letting go of Plato’s hand. “And if it was coming from that way, it would be Mommy on her way home.”

  Plato’s only prior exposure to five-year-olds was on archival entertainment. By that measure, a kid Abbigail’s age should be sounding out words in picture books and eating boogers. When he’d once asked Nora109 what the girl’s IQ might be, the robot headmaster had informed him, “We don’t think that archaic methodology belongs in the thirty-first century.”

  He knew the little brat was smarter than him. He just wanted to know by how much.

  Toby22’s skyroamer touched down, and the English groundskeeper clambered out of the cockpit at once.

  “I don’t have all the details, but we’ll worry about that later,” Toby22 said as he approached.

  “Daddy, why is he scared?” Those piercing eyes looked up at Plato.

  Plato scooped Abbigail up and held her tight. “Things are a little crazy right now on the other side of the world. Me and your mom have a habit of getting caught up in that sort of thing. Don’t want it to happen to you, too.”

  There was a rule, one of Eve’s, that forbade lying to Abbigail. Plato could sugarcoat, downplay, and reassure all he wanted, but he couldn’t tell her that nothing was the matter.

  “I could help,” Abbigail offered. “I don’t have to hide.”

  There had been no mention of her going into hiding. Another example of her being too quick for her own good. Give her a year or two, she’d hardly need a big dumb lug of a father around at all. Plato’s eyes misted.

  “Nah,” Plato said, putting on a brave face. “You’ll get to do plenty of crazy and stupid things when you’re older. For now, I get to sleep at night knowing you’re safe. Go get your overnight pack.”

  Abbigail dutifully disappeared into the house.

  “What’s the situation?” Plato asked once he felt certain that the perky-eared elf was out of range.

  Toby22 shook his head. “Too few details. Charlie7 sent word that Kanto was under some kind of attack. But even he doesn’t know what’s going on.”

  Plato pursed his lips. That sounded plain old farfetched. “Listen. I don’t want to know where you’re going with Abby. If I don’t know, I can’t let it slip.”

  Toby22 glared at him across a few meters of verdant lawn. “Likewise. I’m going to assume you’re just going to find Eve and get her somewhere safe, too.”

  Abbigail came back out of the house toting a backpack nearly as large as her. Fortunately for the tyke, its contents were mainly snacks and extra clothes, with a toothbrush and hairbrush tucked somewhere in the mess.

  When her ungainly, overburdened run brought her to Plato, he scooped her up in a giant hug. “You behave yourself for Toby22. Paradoxes don’t blow up robots, but don’t try ‘em anyway. Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  Plato passed Abbigail to Toby22’s steady hands. The two of them parted ways, Toby22 to his skyroamer and Plato back into the house.

  At the sound of the ion engines whining as they powered on, Plato turned and offered a wave filled with enthusiasm he didn’t mean.

  Inside the house, he hurried to the basement. Plato had his own little personal fortress to escape into when too many of Abbigail’s aunts were gathered for a visit. Dragging aside the couch and pulling back the throw rug revealed the door to a hidden compartment.

  Plato flipped out a pair of handles and heaved.

  Servo-assist motors in his decrepit joints whirred and strained along with his muscles. The steel floor panel came up with no power assistance to betray its presence. Sliding the panel aside once he had it up exposed a hollow roughly a meter on a side and 50 centimeters deep.

  “What are all those machines?” Abbigail asked.

  Plato jumped halfway out of his skin.

  “Bleeding trees, kid,” Plato said, covering his heart to still its sudden surge. “Make a little noise why don’t ya. And why aren’t you flying off with Toby22?”

  “I didn’t get a goodbye kiss.”

  Abbigail gave a tight-lipped smile that made her cheeks round as apples. She angled one toward her father. Plato bent down and kissed her, receiving a kiss in return on his own cheek.

  “Bye, pumpkin,” Plato said, tousling Abbigail’s hair. “For real this time.”

  “But what are the machines?” Abbigail persisted, pointing at Plato’s weapons cache.

  This was one of those times where lying to her would have been so much easier. But when he paused to consider it, he didn’t need the girl thinking that these were hair dryers, soldering irons, or the ball to some fun game she wasn’t old enough to play. If the kid wanted to, she could find plenty of ways to lift a 150-kilogram steel plate.

  “They’re weapons. I’m not supposed to have ‘em, and I’m probably gonna get in trouble if I use ‘em. But if I don’t, something worse than getting into trouble might happen.”

  Abbigail studied the weapons. If Plato could follow her squirrely gaze correctly, she seemed most interested in the thermite pistol—which might possibly have been small enough for her little hands to operate.

  “Are you going to hurt people?” she asked. It was as innocent a question as if she’d inquired about the kind of batteries they used.

  Plato took his daughter by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. “I’ll never hurt you or mommy. But there are other people out there who are bad. But even them, I won’t hurt unless I have to. Now… go with Toby22. He’ll take you somewhere safe while I sort all this out.”

  Abbigail scampered off after one more goodbye kiss.

  Plato hoped he hadn’t lied to her. But as he armed himself to investigate what the hell was going on at Kanto, all he could hope was that he’d be able to keep his word.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Toby521 ducked as he led Rachel through a warren of production machinery. Idle armatures and silent motors awaited the command to resume building Version 66.13 chassis. Until that happened, the assembly line formed a makeshift tunnel through which the robot and his young charge traversed.

  Rachel fingered her tablet. Its data connection was secure, but its transmissions could be traced. If not for the signal jamming that blanketed the factory, she could have sent a message to anyone in the world at the cost of revealing her whereabouts.

  She was glad the temptation had been removed.

  “What do you think’s
going on back there?” Toby521 asked. He paused at a hydraulic ram, studying it as if searching for a button or lever that would open the way ahead of them.

  “Just lift it,” Rachel told him.

  “It’s a freaking hydraulic ram. I hadn’t been to a gym before dying in some horrible apocalyptic gas cloud.”

  Rachel cleared her throat. “You’re a robot now. Try.”

  Toby521 raised a brow as he glanced back at Rachel. “I… I suppose I am. Well, I guess I haven’t got abdominal muscles to herniate.”

  Despite his mechanical physiology, Toby521 grunted as he heaved the hydraulic piston up and held it overhead. Rachel scurried underneath, and he set it back down behind them.

  “See?”

  “Huh. Guess I could get used to this robot business.”

  Rachel took the lead since the refractory oven she found herself inside was too narrow for passing. “All Tobies do.”

  “I’m not sure I like being referred to in the plural. But you say all of us like being robots. Is that to say not all robots do?”

  Rachel tiptoed verbally as she kept her soles as flat as she could along the roller conveyor underfoot. “No. Some don’t.”

  Self-termination was among the saddest things Rachel could imagine. Being gifted with unlimited lifespan and freedom from hunger, cold, and pain, some robots couldn’t cope.

  “What do you do about them?”

  Rachel was glad Toby521 was behind her, unable to see the grimace that question brought on.

  “Nothing,” she admitted. “Freedom works both ways. You get to do whatever you want. We don’t stop you unless it violates one of the few rules the committees make. Well, they make tons of rules, but most of them are nitpicky small rules, not like military drafts and taxes and stuff.”

  Toby521 forced a nervous chuckle. “Well, death and taxes, both out the window in one go. But… um, what does happen to the unhappy robots?”

  “Some just go on being unhappy,” Rachel said. “I’ve read the archives. Plenty of humans got along that way back in the Human Era.”