Analog Science Fiction and Fact 03/01/11

by Dell Magazines

  “I will do my best.”

  “Keep this to yourself, okay?” I cautioned. “No way the Feds or the mayor can get wind of this—I mean, no way that anybody can know.”

  Don’t know if robots can develop political opinions, but none of Mek’s support would be wasted on His Honor the Mayor.

  I got home early, caught in a strange mood, and Laurie did her best to bring me back to Earth. At noon Mek had still been working on those fembot signals. Only a politician could have such a gigantic ego and untouchable confidence, but maybe I felt daring too.

  “Hey,” said my wife, “you got to attend the big county fair, and you got paid for it! I wish my nursery school would let us bring the kids over there, but too many of the parents are real mother hens.”

  That gave me an idea. “Maybe our grandkids could take a day off and go with me in the morning. I’ll be stuck there half of tomorrow anyway, and a separate crew will handle the unloading, so I literally have nothing to do.”

  “Poppins is bringing Delores and Lara to the fair tomorrow,” Laurie said. “Turns out their elementary school will qualify the experience as a field trip. Isn’t Alice still pushing that robot cross-training project?”

  Women’s intuition! “Yeah, nanny robots are way more acceptable. I saw a few around the fair this afternoon. Not even the mayor bashes ’em. Maybe Poppins could try some trucking while we’re there. I mean, not drive, but smaller chores.”

  Laurie was another step ahead and got on the phone with Iris in about ten seconds. No reason for me to go by the Argus company yard in the morning, so I could pick up Maxine and Gertie and rendezvous at the fairground.

  Soon as Laurie got things set up with both moms, I called Alice in Boston. She was delighted by our idea.

  “If our esteemed mayor makes the slightest flub, I want to hear all about it,” Alice told me. “I am very interested in that man’s career trajectory.”

  “For sure.” I saved the news from my observant dove until later.

  It felt warmer still in the morning. The new forecast was for cooling later in the week. Looking at the crowd of fairgoers, I regretted that so many ladies would soon be in heavier clothing.

  I parked my Camaro in the big lot outside the pay gates, slapped two different anti-theft devices on the car, and showed the gate attendant my delivery manifest. After a consultation with her manager, the kid let me in without paying. Gertie and Maxine were young enough to enter free.

  Turns out Poppins got a driver’s license, a real one, not those dodgy compromise “certificates” the Feds give trucker robots. Poppins parked in the same lot and signaled Mek they’d be along shortly. Funny, she could’ve called us on a cell phone, but it seems the robots prefer to use their own silent system.

  Also funny: a metal robot driving a flesh Maramax Goalie. If Mother Nature noticed, the old gal must’ve done a double-take.

  The girls and I waited by the gate and tried not to laugh as the flustered attendant summoned her manager yet again. Poppins was deemed an adult, though manufactured less than a year ago, and so paid full price. Dolores and Lara looked great, so they must’ve rationed their Halloween candy after all.

  We walked over to my truck, gathered by the driver’s side door, and said hello to Mek. He’d been inside, keeping out of sight.

  We let the girls clamber into the cab, and I showed them the rig’s controls and gauges, and put Doll Box through its paces. Poppins watched closely.

  I dragged over two empty crates, popped the hood, and showed Poppins how to do a basic pre-trip inspection. With newfound confidence, she allowed each girl to climb up and see the engine for herself.

  Then Poppins spread out a blanket and broke out some healthy snacks. “The first candidate is due to begin shortly,” she announced.

  “Do we have to listen to stupid speeches?” asked Dolores, with a major pout.

  “It’s educational,” said Poppins. “Remember, your teacher expects a well-written report.”

  “Yeah, yeah, but then can we go on the carnival rides?” Dolores persisted.

  “Of course,” said Poppins. “They are deemed safe, if you behave appropriately while riding.”

  “I want to see the lambs and calves and bunnies,” said Lara.

  “And the science exhibits,” added Maxine.

  Gertie slapped the aluminum side of the refrigerated trailer. “I want them to unload this ice cream,” the girl said. “When’s that?”

  “Right after the campaign speeches,” I replied. If it was “just the guys” I’d have suggested we sit way up on top of the trailer, to get the best view, but I did not push the idea.

  I climbed inside the cab. “So, Mek, how did things go last night?”

  “Not well.”

  Uh-oh. “What happened?”

  Doll Box had it all on video.

  Around ten o’clock, a Metro Citizen’s Neighborhood Corp patrolman had come along. That’s Mayor Blow-Dry’s pet project, and not nearly so warm and fuzzy as the name suggests. They get a tenth the training of regular police officers but almost all the power.

  There was the rap of a nightstick on the driver’s side door. “Anybody in there?”

  Mek had to break cover and respond.

  “Hey metal-ass,” said the patrolman, “you can’t run an engine in this area for more than fifteen minutes. We got a strict anti-idling ordinance in this here town.”

  “Do you mean the cooler unit?” asked Mek.

  “Shut it off. Now.” The man was sweating in the warm night air.

  “It is needed to—”

  “Better zip your lips, if you had any. That’s an order.” The patrolman pointed his nightstick at the cooler unit. “Hurry it up, tin-head, or I’ll halt this violation myself.”

  Mek shut it off.

  “Better ought to inspect this load.” The patrolman broke the seal, used his universal police key, and opened the trailer’s swinging doors. The rear close-up camera showed him basking in the frigid air that poured from inside.

  “Please close the doors.” Doll Box’s routine-program voice.

  The response was short and profane, but the patrolman did close them, then headed over to the truck with the folding chairs.

  “Jeez,” I exclaimed upon seeing this, “that guy must’ve dumped half the cold air.”

  “Doug Gonzalez and I were not able to remedy the situation,” Mek concluded.

  A few minutes later, a fairgrounds crew came along. They checked my paperwork one more time, complained about the broken seal, then got ready to distribute the goodies. I was about to mention the cooler unit but decided it was too late. Maybe the ice cream would be okay. I had not seen if there was foam insulation inside the cartons.

  The first two senatorial candidates almost put me to sleep. Blah, blah, blah.

  That changed when the mayor took the podium. He covered every issue with practiced skill. Foreign, domestic, economic, social; no need for the Second Coming with this populist magician around.

  No wonder the guy was ahead in the polls. I really perked up when he got around to the Robot Issue.

  “Humans are paramount,” the mayor proclaimed, charisma going supernova. “We don’t have to sacrifice our traditions or our dignity to enter the world of the future. There is no justification for robots taking jobs that humans are willing and ready to perform, and let me tell you, we humans can do anything we set our minds to.”

  The crowd cheered, or as I observed from my higher vantage point, about half the people did. At the extreme, I’d hope that scrubbing out old nuclear reactors and toxic waste dumps would not be done by fragile humans.

  “Furthermore,” the mayor went on, “rogue machines are every American’s nightmare, and we now face the very real possibility of those destructive tragedies coming true.”

  The guy was smooth as motor oil, and to me, just as indigestible. From their picnic blanket, all four girls made a flourish of putting their thumbs down.

  “I am calling for serious
firmware restrictions on every mobile robot,” the mayor declared, like some anti-Daniel Webster. “We must insist on continual human supervision, not only on driver robots but every industrial and workplace model.”

  A clever swing of the pendulum. This was a make-work program if ever I heard one, and I could picture millions of lazy SOBs getting paid to stare at robots doing the real work. Or snooze instead of stare, more like.

  His Honor the Mayor continued in fervent Spanish. “Esos robots son unas rameras mecánicas. Los gordos y codiciosos gatos quieren eliminarles sus trabajos para darselos sin pago alguno a los robots, los cuales son maguinas sin la mas minima posibilidad de tener dignidad alguna. Ustedes no deben permitir esto! Trabjadores, mis amigos, yo apoyaré su noble causa.”

  I missed a few words, so used my cell phone to get a quick translation. ‘Mechanical whores!’ The guy was way harsher in Spanish.

  “Thank you, my friends, and I look forward to serving you in Washington.”

  More cheers. I could see the mayor was using a small TelePrompTer. I wished there was some way to hack those things. Give that stage full of slick speakers a real challenge.

  Strong firmware restrictions would shackle robots like Mek from the inside, not only in emergencies, but all the time. The whole idea rubbed me wrong.

  During the mayor’s speech the fairground crew, all human workers, unloaded the trailer. They brought big cartons of ice cream to distribution points all over the rally area. Mayor Blow-Dry and two other candidates stood up and offered free goodies to the audience. The fourth candidate, a Hispanic woman, stayed in her chair. She had yet to speak, and here came a tasty distraction.

  Cries of disappointment began, at one point and then another. Half the ice cream was melted. Instead of fudge sticks, goop poured onto children’s shirts. No scoops piled into cones, sludge ran down over outstretched hands.

  People starting looking at their cell phones and other devices, as text messages and tweets and whatnot began a crowd-wide buzz. I got one on my cell phone. the mayor’s flunky made a robot driver shut off the ice cream truck’s freezer, because of anti-idling ordinances. nevermind those new freezer units are quiet, they enjoyed saying no to a driver robot.

  No evidence on who was sending the messages. Another one came: no dry ice in the shipping boxes, because it’s carbon dioxide. tiny amounts are needed, but the mayor has banned that use. it was hot out, so the goodies melted overnight. the mayor likes to say rules are rules.

  Someone, I assumed a local reporter, found Mek standing alone in the narrow space beside my rig. “Is it true?” the guy asked.

  Doll Box informed me this was almost certainly Sir Parsifal, in person.

  I leaned out the window. “Tell the man,” I suggested to Mek.

  Mek explained, same as he’d told me a few minutes earlier. Four times during the night, Mek had appealed in vain to different authorities. I mentioned that the cooler runs so quietly the patrolman only noticed the unit was on after the fairgrounds shut down for the night.

  Doll Box helpfully provided Sir Parsifal with copies of the video and communications, plus the freight manifest that lacked dry ice. The blogger already had a collection of mayoral speeches and position papers supporting such drastic policies. Still, I itched to nail Blow-Dry himself, not only his patrols and staff flunkies.

  The story was picked up by the regular news services. In about two minutes the whole crowd knew the score, and Blow-Dry was sitting up there stiff as a board. Then, without waiting to be introduced, the fourth candidate began to speak. I finally recognized her: Sylvia Morales, a local community activist, not to mention a shipping clerk at a warehouse in the high-tech district. She had signed for deliveries of mine before.

  “Sorry about the mess,” Sylvia told the restive crowd. “If I was in charge, I’d have told that robot to please turn on the freezer; allowed my people to decide on their own, instead of being a control freak. Zero-tolerance rules, like our exalted mayor is always pushing, are a lame effort to cover up the fact he’s too chicken to take initiative. How many career politicians have an original thought to act on?”

  Sylvia grew fiery, mixing English and Spanish and other languages. “You folks are told to fight over scraps and make enemies of our newest helpers. Why not prosper, with jobs and businesses for all the people? Not too long ago, Hispanics were dissed as greasers. These robots have grease in their elbows and knees, so they can move and work, and are we going to revile them? Not me! They can be helpful friends, in ways old and new.”

  As the dark horse candidate spoke, a bunch of moms pitched in. They borrowed towels and dishrags from the fairground’s main restaurant, then from a bankrupt hotel nearby, and went into the crowd to clean up the sticky mess. I saw some robots helping.

  I cheered along with the crowd.

  Then it hit me, all at once. Beyond the immediate mess, Mayor Blow-Dry might have dug his own political grave.

  Before I could talk myself out of it, I asked Mek, “Did you finish your signal decrypting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Let’s play a joke.”

  I told Poppins and the girls, “I think you’ve done plenty of social studies for one day. How about you all head over to the midway? Delores, you’re oldest, so help Poppins watch the kids.”

  Their enthusiasm was marvelous to behold. Poppins led a joyful flock of girls away.

  I turned to Mek. “Can we send one basic signal into the campaign bus, as though the mayor sent it himself?”

  “Yes, Claude. There are no short-term passwords, and the commands are unaltered Honey Be code. We would have to match the frequency, encryption, and protocols.”

  “Is that all?” I had confidence. Maybe. I recalled Mek’s mastering of the hissyball game. “Can you pick up those signals, yourself?”

  “The bus is built heavily enough to block weak transmissions and may have additional shielding. A large antenna would itself be detectable, so the spy bird will have to return to an open window.”

  “Whoo boy.” Was I going nuts, to get involved so directly? To take a major risk like this? But Mek and Yunick, and now Poppins, were genuine friends.

  “Afterward, I will have to erase the details from my onboard memory.” Mek said this as if discussing a walk in the park.

  “For sure.” Mek went in to Sylvantronics for regular maintenance, plus there might be special inspections, and if my idea worked, even some pointed questioning.

  “My spy bird can’t do half of that,” I said, “so we’ll need a series of mods. Don’t want to be traced back here, either.”

  “I can modify the bird.” In about four minutes, using my hobbyist’s tool kit, Mek did exactly that. Those metal fingers worked so fast it was a blur.

  On stage, Sylvia Morales was getting to the finale of her speech. Quickly I shared my plan with Mek and Doll Box, and we programmed the instructions.

  “I am thinking about jokes,” Mek said, then mimicked a well-known comedian. “You feel angry, sir, and you’re about to give His Honor the bird.”

  “Yep!” Laugher eased my tension a little.

  Off went the bird, way around to the far side of mayor’s bus, where it set out to make contact. The plan was to establish low-power communications, pass along a tailored message, then go silent and return.

  The minute this took lasted an awful long time.

  The spy bird returned, with some real pigeons in tow. I tossed the curious critters a handful of popcorn, which they gobbled in a hurry.

  A moment later the bus’s folding door opened, and the fembot emerged. It wore a skimpy French maid’s frock, and I was glad my grandkids were out of sight.

  Not many heads turned, as the fembot appeared quite realistic. Then another maid, dressed like the first, came out. More people noticed.

  A third fembot stepped from the bus, an identical triplet. Apparently they were linked, and my spy bird had found and instructed all three!

  Fembots, unlike most other robots, have simp
le rules. They’re designed to follow instructions without question, and with a minimum of scruples. The buxom trio sashayed from the bus to the stage, then across it into the speaker’s seating area. One human guard stood at a velvet-rope gate, and that man proceeded to ogle instead of act.

  The literal-minded fembots gathered around Mayor Blow-Dry, confident he’d summoned them himself, and with some urgency. What the fembots thought the mayor had requested was, according to my dove’s log, a quick repeat of their previous afternoon’s romp. Completely flustered, the man reacted too slowly. I am not going to describe what the fembots did next, so let’s just say it was spectacular.

  All this happened live on camera, thanks to the AV tower in front of my truck, a pack of news reporters, and a zillion personal devices. I’d been too cautious to alert Sir Parsifal in advance, but no need, the savvy blogger was all over it. Sex might be old hat in politics, but this was hypocrisy on a stupendous scale.

  Sylvia Morales watched, then let out a stentorian snort of disgust. “People,” she announced, “if I had a great big blanket, I’d use it to cover this debauchery from your sight.”

  The mayor was hustled away by frantic aides.

  Tommy saved us a booth in his deliberately not-famous diner. Pedro and Alice Owen, me and Laurie, plus Doug Gonzalez; we’d gathered for a discreet Saturday brunch. Never had I suspected the depth of Doug’s sentiments.

  In between chomps on an illegal real-beef cheeseburger, Doug confirmed that he had watched the political rally on our local C-SPAN. He’d sent the messages when the time looked right, via some anonymous server, and counted on folks to spread them around fast.

  “I was pissed!” Doug waved an onion ring. “Mek informed me about that patrolman, and I got a runaround from some clerk at the police department. Like, ‘we are not in the business of granting waivers.’ The ice cream manufacturer was hit by another strike, so they weren’t about to get involved late at night.”

  Sounded like a royal night-long screw-up, all right. “I figured the mayor would find plenty of blame to shift,” I said, “so I decided to do like Alice here and take direct action.”