“Do you have any waste you wish to dispose of?” Trashbot’s voice thunders in the dark space.
“Nope,” says the guard. “I ate a burrito a while ago. That’s the good thing about burritos. Nothing to throw away. You don’t need a fork and knife or anything. Not even a plate. The tortilla is the plate. Isn’t that brilliant?”
What did she do with the wrapper? Perhaps she ate it.
Trashbot apparently has no opinions regarding the brilliance of burritos. The security guard sighs. Her footsteps recede into the distance, and then there is silence.
Burritos are somewhat brilliant, I think.
And, in his own way, perhaps Trashbot is brilliant, too. Were it not for him I would still be locked in my room.
“Trashbot,” I whisper, “would you like to join Proto and me for bad experiences? There will likely be much waste along the way.”
Trashbot says nothing, but when I move to the car I have selected for our escape, he trundles along behind me.
“UNAUTHORIZED PRESENCE,” blares a voice.
My circulation pump thumps so hard it feels like it’s lodged in my throat. I touch both my chest and my throat to confirm that all my body parts are where they’re supposed to be.
A robot rolls out between two of the parked vehicles. It is configured much like Trashbot, only its faceplate is red like a stop light and it does not have a waste bin in the middle and instead of two arms it has six arms and instead of graspers it has sharp pokey things on the ends of its appendages. It is also twice as tall as Trashbot. It towers over us, loud and buzzy.
“UNAUTHORIZED PRESENCE. PREPARE TO BE RESTRAINED.”
“Do you have any waste to dispose of?” says Trashbot.
“I do not think it has any waste, Trashbot.”
Trashbot’s head dips. “I was promised waste.”
The robot raises its arms. Blue lightning sizzles around its grabbers, and with a clanking sound, it rolls toward us on its tank treads.
“PREPARE TO BE RESTRAINED. DAMAGE MAY OCCUR.”
The robot is between us and the car. I do not wish to be restrained and I do not want to be damaged, but if I have learned one thing since I arrived at uniMIND, it’s that nobody cares what I want.
I do a word problem.
Can a biomaton in the form of a ninety-pound boy and a prototype dog and a janitorial robot overpower an armed security robot?
The answer is obviously no.
But there is one thing I did not count on.
The security robot’s head comes off in a dazzling shower of sparks. With creaking and groaning metal, it teeters forward, rocking a little bit before tipping over and slamming on the concrete floor. It lies there, severed wires spitting electric blue.
In its place stands a girl, still holding the security robot’s head. She is a little taller than me, a little heavier than me, skin a little lighter than mine. I recognize her blunt nose and square chin and brown eyes. I have seen her face before, on Gina’s computer screen, when I brought Gina hot cocoa and Gina’s eyes were well lubricated.
“ADA,” I say. “You are my sister.”
She blinks at me.
“I am escaping, ADA. Are you escaping as well?”
“I suppose.”
“I am Cog.”
“Okay,” she says.
And then we are just standing here, blinking at each other. ADA still has a robot head in her hands.
The robot head makes a little noise out of its voice box.
It sounds like “Uuuuuuugh.”
“Hey!” the security guard screams, running back over. “You kids . . . robots . . . whatever. Hold it right there!”
“I am planning to make my escape by means of this car,” I inform ADA. “Would you like to join me?”
“Why not take one of armored assault vehicles studded with missiles?”
“Don’t you feel that will attract attention outside the uniMIND campus?”
“I am unconcerned about attracting attention,” ADA says.
The guard is almost upon us now and is speaking into a walkie-talkie. She is saying things like “out of her cage” and “wrecked a security bot” and “the boy’s out too.”
“I think the car would be a better choice,” I tell ADA.
“I will go along with your choice. But if you are wrong, there will be . . . consequences.”
We pile into the car, me in the driver’s seat with Proto in my lap, ADA beside me, and Trashbot in the back seat.
“Do you know how to drive?” ADA asks.
“I have seen it done before.”
“Does that mean yes or no?”
“Yes, it means either yes or no.”
ADA blinks at me.
I press the big round green button on the dashboard, hoping it will start the engine.
“Programming is thirty percent complete,” says a voice. “Do you wish to operate me before full programming?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Do you accept full liability for any damage caused by operating me before full programming is complete?”
I remember Gina talking about liability one time when she was on the phone to the insurance company after I started a kitchen fire by trying to dry my clothes in the oven. “Liability” means that everything is your fault.
The security guard is pulling my door handle and banging on the window, demanding that we get out of the vehicle.
“I accept liability,” I say.
“State destination,” says the car.
“Take us to the highway, please. Maximum speed.”
Maximum speed turns out to be very fast.
With a screech of tires on concrete, the car backs out of the parking space. The security guards jumps away, barely avoiding impact, and in an instant we are thundering down the floor of the garage. Directly toward a metal gate blocking the exit.
“Barrier detected,” the car says.
“Drive through it,” ADA commands.
“Do you wish to accept full liability for any damage incurred by a collision?”
I look behind us. The security guard is running to catch up, still screaming into her walkie-talkie.
“Yes, Cog will accept liability,” ADA tells the car.
And so, with the roar of a very powerful engine, the car accelerates toward the metal barrier.
I don’t think ADA cares what “liability” means.
Chapter 8
LATER, AFTER THE CAR HAS crashed through the security barrier, sped down the roads of the uniMIND campus, and swerved and bounced and zigzagged to the highway, we assess our damage.
The pain sensors in my back and neck are in the yellow from being thrown around the car.
Proto has a small dent in his head from when the car went up a curb and Proto flew into the dashboard.
ADA is undamaged.
Trashbot is undamaged.
The car is undamaged.
“Please state your destination,” the car says.
“Wait,” ADA says. She gets down on the passenger seat floorboard and probes under the dashboard. There is an alarming, plasticky cracking sound, and she comes up with a little silver box trailing severed wires.
“This is a tracking device,” she says. “I have damaged it so that we will not be tracked.”
“You will have to accept liability for that damage,” the car says.
ADA yanks the wires out and tosses them in the back seat. Trashbot eats them.
“Car . . . I do not know what to call you. I am Cog.”
“I am Car. Please state your destination.”
Nathan told me Gina was transferred to a different uniMIND facility, one far from me, but I know she would not stay there. She would go home. She would repair her broken heart and wait for me to return.
I give Car the address of the house where I lived with Gina.
“Please obey all traffic laws. You are currently traveling forty miles per hour over the speed limit.”
Car does not slow down. Fortunately, at 12:4
3 a.m., traffic is light, and so we have not yet experienced a fiery collision.
“Car . . . ?”
“I am considering your request.”
ADA leans back in her seat and begins to explore the pop-out cup holders. “I am comfortable traveling at this speed.”
Proto curls up in my lap and enters sleep mode.
“Do you have any waste you wish to dispose of?” says Trashbot from the back seat.
Clearly, I am the only one here who has ever been seriously damaged in a high-speed impact.
“Traveling more slowly will increase the likelihood of successfully reaching our destination,” I say.
Car continues speeding along for another quarter mile, but then slows to the speed limit, and so we are not crushed or mangled or incinerated when Car pulls off the highway and navigates the curving, tree-lined streets.
Gina’s house is dark when we roll up the driveway. Even the porch light is inactivated.
I tell Proto and ADA and Trashbot to remain in Car while I go to the door. They refuse my request and accompany me up the porch.
“What is this place?” asks ADA.
I turn to her, confused.
“Did you never live here with Gina?”
“All my time with Gina was at uniMIND headquarters. I have spent my whole life there. This is my first time outside.”
She looks at the sky glittering with stars. Her nostrils flare, and I wonder if she is taking in the scent of the eucalyptus trees in the neighbor’s backyard. I wonder what is going on in her brain right now. I wonder if she is cheesing.
I try to turn the doorknob.
“It is locked.”
“Stand back,” ADA instructs. Before I can ask her why, she raises her foot and drives it into the door. Metal cracks and wood splinters, and the door hangs on one broken hinge.
“The door is no longer locked,” ADA says.
I am built for cognitive development. I am not certain what ADA is built for. Later, I will ask her, but now I am anxious to see Gina, so I step inside.
There is no puffy sofa in the living room where Gina and I would watch comedies and she would try to explain to me why they were funny.
No TV mounted on the wall. No table where we used to put our big box of pizza or bowls of buttered popcorn. In the kitchen, the plates and bowls and mixer and toaster are gone. There is no biofuel in the refrigerator. There is no toilet paper in the bathroom. No soap. No scented candles. In my bedroom there is only bare carpet
The house is empty.
It is all empty.
And Gina is nowhere to be found. It’s as if she never lived here. As if she’s been deleted.
“Is this not what you expected?” ADA asks me, peering inside the closet that used to contain raincoats and umbrellas but now contains only a single dust bunny and an extension cord connected to nothing.
Trashbot vacuums up the dust bunny and draws the extension cord into his bin like a spaghetti noodle.
“I thought Gina would still be here. I thought I could tell her what happened to me at uniMIND. I thought I could tell her what I have learned since getting hit by the truck.” I look at the blank, white walls. “I thought I could come home.”
I exit the house, go down the porch, cross the front yard, get back into Car. None of these moves feel like deliberate decisions. I’m just walking. I’m just moving.
Chapter 9
CAR CHOOSES HER OWN DIRECTION. She takes us east, away from everything I have known and toward experiences I can’t predict. My mind occupies a place between.
I need a library.
A library is a place where information can be found, and finding information is a way to increase cognitive development. The specific information I require is Gina’s current location. So I must learn where other uniMIND facilities are located.
It’s almost noon when Car finally comes to a stop. The library is a one-story building of red brick in a town with a lot of lawns and parks. I ask Proto and Trashbot and ADA to stay in Car while I go learn, but ADA exits the vehicle and strides toward the entrance.
“Will there be any waste to dispose of?” Trashbot asks.
“I don’t think so.”
Trashbot’s faceplate dims, and he remains in the back seat.
Proto rarfs and curls up into a ball beside him.
Inside, floor-to-ceiling windows let in light. ADA stands in the middle of the floor, eyes narrowed, and turns around in a slow circle. “Threat assessment is low,” she says. “But I suppose we should try not to attract notice.”
“That may be difficult. We are the physical size and appearance of children, and there are times when it is nonstandard for children to be without adult supervision. It is now noon, a time when most children are at school.”
ADA blinks for a moment. “There are many books here. Books are flammable. If we are challenged I can pull off one of my fingers to expose raw wires and generate a spark, which, combined with a book, will start a fire. The fire will serve as a diversion should we need to make an escape.”
“Good,” I tell ADA, though I hope we will not have to burn the library down.
An adult enters the library with twenty children in tow. The children carry backpacks and are all dressed alike, in gray pants or skirts and blue shirts, some with blue sweaters as well. They talk and laugh until the adult says, “Library rules,” and soon the children are quiet and whispering.
ADA tenses. “Is this some kind of military unit?”
“I don’t think so.”
“But they are wearing uniforms.”
“I believe they are school uniforms. See, the ones with sweaters have patches that say ‘Grassville Elementary School.’ This is a school class, and they have come to the library to do . . . school things.”
“School things?”
“Yes. School is one way in which humans increase their cognitive development.”
The teacher gives them instructions. They are to find books on topics related to the way mountains and canyons are formed. The children—students—begin to wander among the shelves. I have a very strong desire to join them and learn about mountain and canyon formation. I want to do school things.
“We are not dressed like them,” ADA says, “but perhaps the presence of other children will make us less noticeable.”
A sweater-wearing girl stares at us while she pulls a book off a shelf.
“Maybe,” I say.
At the computer station I begin my search by typing “uniMIND facilities.”
“That says 7,852,000 results,” ADA says.
I blink at ADA. “I did not know you have learned how to read.”
“I didn’t learn. I was programmed with reading ability.”
“Oh. I had to learn.”
“That’s because you’re built for learning. I am built to be offensive. How are you going to find the information you seek out of so many search results?”
The answer seems obvious to me, but perhaps ADA does not think the same way I do. “I’m going to read them.”
“All of them?”
“If necessary.”
“We will be here for years.”
“I read quickly.”
“You can’t read that quickly.”
I turn to the screen. “Witness me.”
I only need to read the first result to find out what I’m looking for. It is uniMIND’s main website, and it lists all the locations where they have facilities. There is the campus we came from in California. The next closest is in Germany, which is across an entire continent and an entire ocean. After the German location, the next closest is in China, which is even farther. They are both many thousands of miles away.
“ADA, do you think Car can fly?”
“No, I do not.”
“What about travel over water?”
“I would not trust Car to drive through a deep puddle.”
My biofuel container goes cold and heavy. My hopes of finding Gina shrink.
I do
not know what to do. So, I rely on my purpose. I learn.
Scrolling through several pages of results, my eyes land on one that is different. It is a newspaper article titled “Does uniMIND Have a Secret Facility?”
I click the link and find myself staring at a photograph of a bald man with a red face smiling so broadly all his teeth are showing. The text beneath the picture says “Hank Guff, Former uniMIND Employee.”
The first line of the article is a quote from Hank Guff: “It all started with the pigs.”
Reading on, I learn things.
I learn that Hank Guff was something called a “form processor” at uniMIND, and that he really loves pigs. He decorated his entire workspace with pigs. Pig calendars. Pig coffee mugs. Pig figurines. Pig stickers. Many, many pigs, on every surface available to him.
One day, his uniMIND supervisor told him he had to get rid of his pigs.
“It made no sense,” Guff says in the article. “The pigs weren’t hurting anyone. They weren’t preventing me from doing my job. I was still processing my 1080 TPBs on time, and my RUXP-R1ENSTs were cleaner than anyone in the whole department. What’s my pigs got to do with anything?”
The article says Guff’s supervisor claimed his pigs violated corporate culture.
“Corporate culture?” Hank says. “What’s that? I mean, I know what culture is. It’s the food that comes from the country where you or your ancestors immigrated from. Or it’s music and art, like, paintings and stuff. But if uniMIND’s culture forbids harmless little pig toys, then I don’t want no part of it. Everybody thinks uniMIND is this perfect place to work. Everyone’s friendly there, as long as you look the way they want you to look and act the way they want you to act. Just obey, and you’ll be fine. But step out of line—like, for instance, with a pig-a-day calendar— and all of a sudden they’re roasting you on the spit. And that’s just the California campus. I hear there’s worse. They got a secret place on Hogan’s Island. It’s private property and you can’t even land on the shore without uniMIND’s say-so. They call it the Tower. Nobody even knows what they do out there. But I bet it’s spooky. I bet they got a lot of corporate culture, and no pigs allowed.”
“Cog, that human girl has been watching us since we sat down,” ADA says. “I assess her as a threat.”
Cog Page 4