Robot Awareness: Special Edition

by B. C. Kowalski

  Robot Awareness

  By B.C. Kowalski

  Chapters 1-10 edited by Gina Cornell and David Cohen

  Chapters 11+ edited by Tim Langton

  Special edition

  Copyright © 2014, 2017 B.C. Kowalski

  All rights reserved.

  Chapter 1

  A lone tumbleweed danced between a pair of figures facing each other across a desert landscape, the sun high in the air. The man stood tense, hand on the gun-like Revolving Oscillator Unit holstered at his side, ready to draw at any minute. His eyes never left his opponent, as sweat beaded his forehead.

  His opponent stood as still as night, digital digits poised above its ROU, its gaze as steady as a steel pole. No emotions touched the face of its steely grimace; just the same cold, hard expression that typically adorned its face. A robot has no need for such emotions.

  The sun shone high in the blue sky of the colony as the man eyed his prize, waiting for just the right moment. A fraction in time would decide his fate. A hundred times had this man faced such an adversary. Split-second timing and sharp reflexes he hoped would leave him living and breathing long enough to face adversary No. 101.

  Deciding the time was right, the man’s hand swung out his ROU with unseen speed. He’d nearly squeezed the trigger, only a hair-breadth away, when he felt the burning sting of the laser sear through his skin. He collapsed on the right side where his torso burned, and then it was over. Two well-placed shots to the man’s skull made the man as lifeless as the robot. He crumpled to the ground, dead.

  The robot crossed the distance to its opponent’s corpse, a gap that held so much weight for his adversary only a moment ago, now traversed by the robot with little regard. The robot analyzed his broken form for a moment, then stepped over the man and continued walking. “Most illogical,” the robot said.

  ***

  Pinpoints of starlight flickered through the ship’s viewscreen, the ancient light of distant suns dancing off the glistening tears Joey blinked away. The spectacular view provided a mere backdrop to his thoughts as he sat at his console on the ship’s bridge.

  Space so far hadn’t been nearly as interesting as he'd imagined. Galaxies, planets, star clusters, nebulae — all of these tugged at his imagination before launching on this voyage, only to be replaced by reality: staring at a screen of brilliant stars that rarely changed view, while wafting in the musk of re-filtered air and the tinge of nostril sting of electronic burning.

  Space was at the same time utterly fascinating and immensely boring.

  He sighed, putting the dusty news clipping back in his pocket, gritty with sand from the desert-like planet the spaceship left exponentially further and further behind with each passing moment.

  Would he see her again?

  “Joey is leaking,” said a static-laden, mechanical voice, snapping his revery. The voice rang hollow like a transistor radio from Old Earth, long before the great shift, in which everyone was forced to leave the planet. Its voice hissed and buzzed between sentences. “Does Joey require maintenance?”

  “No, Robot,” The boy said, even managing a little chuckle despite his melancholy. “I’m just—“ He sighed, knowing the robot couldn’t understand. “Nevermind, Robot.”

  “Leaking fluids signal an inefficient system. Repairs are logical.” The humanoid-shaped robot, which would have been medium-sized by human standards, blinked its one LED light which ran like a line in the middle of a visor piece. The sound emitted from a small oval box underneath, hashed like an old radio from ancient Earth.

  “Haven’t you ever heard of crying, Robot?” Joey asked, wheeling in his chair, his tears becoming a fading memory.

  “Searching: ‘crying.’ Retrieval: No data found. Explain.” Green Light Emitting Diodes on the side of robot’s cranial chassis told Joey it was processing information.

  “Like, when you’re sad.”

  “Explain.”

  “Oh, you know, like –“ Joey thought a moment about how he could explain the idea of sadness to a robot. Being 12, he quickly gave up. “It’s a human thing, Robot. You know, feelings and stuff.”

  “Understood, filing under illogical human conditions. Pending further updates.”

  “It’s not illogical,” Joey muttered under his breath, involuntarily touching the dusty newsprint in his pocket. He felt that uneasy feeling one gets when they’ve left something behind.

  “What the hell are you guys talking about?” asked a female voice behind them. Joey wheeled around, a tad startled as Isellia stood over him, her arms crossed and her petite mouth twisted into a slight frown. Her silver and pink jump suit hugged her figure close enough underneath her white puffy vest that even a boy as young as Joey couldn’t help but take notice. His pulse quickened as she brushed back a few locks of her pink bangs, long enough to catch behind her ear where the rest of her hair was short and spiky. Joey looked away as his cheeks glowed a similar color to her bangs.

  “No discussion of the religious construct referred to as hell took place—”

  “Shut-up, bolt bucket,” Isellia said, rolling her eyes and turning to Joey. “Listen, its gonna get a little trickier from here. So far, all you’ve had to do is watch for unusual blips. Let me show you what to do next. This light in the corner is hooked into the navi-computer. When it lights up, adjust the altimeter to 13 degrees. Think you can handle that?”

  Isellia had to lean over the controls as she explained them, putting her close enough to make Joey uncomfortable. The color in his cheeks grew a flushed red as he tried to listen while hiding his infatuation. He managed a nod after the explanation.

  “Whatsa matter? You speak, don’t you?” Isellia said, noticing his stammering.

  “Joey is malfunctioning.” Robot stated.

  “He’s what?”

  “Heart-rate: increased. Blood-pressure: raised. Brain patterns: irregular. Does Joey require maintenance?”

  “Ah—” Joey stuttered. Under his breath, “Shut up, Robot.”

  “What’s bucket-head talking about over there?” Isellia said, thumbing over her shoulder toward the robot.

  “Nothing, nevermind,” Joey said, his eyes cast aside.

  Isellia looked to the robot and then back to Joey, her brow twisted with inquisition. “Whatever, just don’t screw anything up, got it?”

  Joey nodded as she left the bridge. There was a pause as Joey recovered from his anxiety.

  “Joey… has sadness?” the robot inquired.

  “Something like that…” Joey muttered.

  ***

  Core leak kills 43 workers

  Worker incompetence to blame, officials say

  Forty-three workers and one manager were killed recently when a cauldron in Factory F’s core leaked, Company C officials said.

  The leak, which started in the central processing sector, is the fault of an “incompetent worker,” according to a Company C statement.

  The factory is one of 42 to line C Colony B, one of the last settlements to be acquired by Company C.

  An additional 26 workers were taken to the infirmary with minor injuries. None of them were unavailable for comment.

  Factory operations have resumed as normal, and officials from Company C have said that there are no safety concerns associated with the incident.

  Fire units Nos. 3 and 7 put out the blaze. One fire suppressor is missing from the incident, presumed dead at the scene. Her disappearance is being investigated.

  ***

  “Hate those things, I hate those things,” Isellia muttered, reaching into a tool box as she lay under a small craft on the outer deck of the cargo vessel. The hover-board she stretched out on allowed her to slide back and forth
under the ship’s chassis as she worked on it. Her air-ratchet filled the docking bay with a harsh, irregular echo as she patched holes in the ship’s frame.

  “What, ratchets?” said a deep and snarky voice from the doorway of the landing pad.

  “That you, Porter?” Isellia asked rhetorically, peaking out from under the metallic fin of the ship. Of course it was him. Joey was the only other male on the ship, and his voice was a few years away from sounding closer to Porter’s voice than hers.

  “Lucky guess.” Porter entered the landing area and crouched down beside her XR-13. “Making more repairs?”

  “Yeah, that last dogfight really put a few dents in ‘er. Really put her through her paces.”

  “Wouldn’t have if you’d have followed my orders.”

  “Orders?!” Isellia’s face appeared angrily from underneath the ship. “What is this, some military ship, captain?”

  “Well I am the Captain,” Porter boomed, forcefully yet calmly.

  “Yeah, of what, two people and a robot? Jeezuz,” Isellia rolled her eyes, refocusing on the freshly riveted hull of her ship.

  Porter sighed, staring off into the distance. “Should have followed my orders. You'd still have a working ship.”

  “It is working,” Isellia, driving another rivet in a spot she’d missed. “Hey, what’re we going to do about the entry fee?”

  Porter maintained his posture. “What entry fee?”

  Isellia shot him an incredulous look. “Um, the Grand de Lix qualifier? The reason I signed on to this two-bit operation? Don’t even look at me, ‘what entry fee?’!”

  Porter looked at her with minimal emotion. “You really think we can afford that right now?”

  Isellia stared at him, her eyes narrowing and her face turning a deeper hue than the color of her pink bangs. The two stared at each other in silence.

  “You promised.” Isellia said this flatly, her usual sarcastic look gone, replaced with deadpan seriousness. The beginnings of a pout crossed her face.

  “I know, I know,” Porter sighed. “It’s gonna take bigger jobs than the ones we’re doing lately.”

  “We had a deal, remember.” Still deadpan.

  “Yes, I do. I want you to compete as much you do—”

  “Doubt it,” Isellia interrupted.

  “—cause it would be a big boost to our revenue. It takes money to make money.”

  Isellia crawled back under the ship. “So find some bigger jobs.”

  Porter started to respond but she started driving rivets, the sound drowning out anything he might have said. Porter shook his head. “Teenagers,” he said to himself.

  “By the way, how long until we get to Axel’s Pass?” Porter asked between the loud buzz of the ratchet’s motor.

  Isellia peeked out under the craft. “We’re in Axel’s Pass.”

  Porter’s eyes widened. “With the kid at the wheel?”

  “I told him what to do!” Isellia said incredulously.

  “Shit,” Porter muttered, taking off in a trot.

  ***

  “I thought it’d be different,” Joey said, head resting in one hand, ignoring the flashing red light next to his other. He sat in one of two dark red chairs that faced a large, gray control panel. A large control stick reigned over a sea of buttons, used for manual maneuvering and at the moment useless with the steering set to auto-course. Electronic gauges and dials were inset throughout the otherwise white-grey panels, which covered much of the interior of the ship.

  The robot stood next to an outcropping in the bulkhead, ergonomically efficient and out of the way of a passersby. “Explain.”

  “Space, I guess. I always thought traveling through space, seeing other planets would be kind of fun. But, I don’t know. It just feels like, kinda boring. I kinda just want to get out, your know?”

  “Exiting the spaceship at this time is inadvisable. Result: death.”

  “Yeah, I know, Robot. I just mean… it doesn’t feel like we’re far away from home. You know what I mean?”

  The robot’s LEDs blinked as it processed. “Robot cannot compute: ‘feeling.’”

  Joey laughed a little. “Ha, I keep forgetting that you’re a robot. You don’t know what feelings are.”

  “Robot cannot compute: ‘forget.’”

  Joey sighed. “You know, like when you know something, and then you can’t remem... you can’t think of it. You know something you just can’t get at it.”

  “Computing. Joey refers to data retrieval errors.”

  “Yeah! Like you can’t get access the data you need.”

  “Problematic.”

  “Yeah!”

  “Classification: system malfunction. Recommend system repair upgrade.”

  “No, Robot. System repair upgrades are just for robots, not people.”

  “Humans cannot upgrade?”

  “No. Well, kinda. We just get older. We get smarter when we get older. Well, maybe not all of us. Hmm.”

  “Robot requires upgrades and maintenance periodically to ensure system efficiency.”

  “So do we, as we get older,” said a deep, booming voice. They whirled about to see Porter standing in the entryway to the bridge, a smiling grin on his face. “We definitely need a lot of maintenance.”

  He looked past Joey to the console, noticing the flashing light. “How long has that light been flashing?”

  ***

  “What are you looking at,” A tall, grizzled man said. He stood leaning against an XR-12, cigarette dangling from his teeth, his face framed by dark, stringy hair tinged with gray that hung in his face. A young Isellia stood behind him, watching. He took another puff and dropped his hand to his side, flicking ash against his slacks before the gray dust tumbled to the landing pad.

  “There is no smoking on the staging pad. It is strictly prohibited, in fact,” said a short, be-speckled man in a suit. “And furthermore, you won’t be allowed to race without a proper flight suit. This outfit simply will not do, no not at all.”

  The slightly rotund man stood squinting at Wallace, holding his clipboard and waiting for a reply with apprehension.

  Wallace leaned over the man, peering down over a stubbled chin weathered with age. His brow was furrowed, and his eyes steeled. XRs whizzed overhead and the sounds of a live field of machines being prepared for the upcoming race couldn’t mask the silence of his stare as it bore into the soul of the small man.

  Finally, the bespectacled man could bare it no more. “Oh, I don’t get paid enough for this. Blow yourself up, see what I care.” He stumbled away, changing directions several times and nearly bumping into someone before disappearing from sight.

  After he left, Wallace stomped out his cigarette, half-finished, its bright red ember cascading from under his foot across the launch pad. He took a look around at the rest of the field, most hard at work on their XRs or at least on talking themselves up to their buddies, fans or the press, and grabbed his tool chest.

  “Why’d you do that? It’s the rules and you know it.”

  Wallace put his hand on the head of the young girl who looked up at him, rustling her pink hair under his grizzled, dirty hand, before resuming his direction. “Life’s full of bosses. I don’t let nobody tell me what to do.”

  Young Isellia looked at him, not saying anything while he calibrated the flex converter on his XR. “Bring me a hex ratchet, wouldya?”

  Isellia reached in the toolbox and, already being adept with mechanics and maintenance, quickly found the ratchet and placed it into Wallace’s grease-covered palm.

  “Thanks.” Wallace quickly became entranced in his work, muttering to himself as he made adjustments. Isellia became entranced in the sound of his working, silently and intently watching him and learning.

  ***

  “I’m ready to go! Give the signal,” Isellia shouted, left hand gripping the joystick of her XR-13, right hand on the accelerator handle. Her left leg twitched in anticipation, as it did whenever she became excited. Her eyes
inadvertently scanned the dials and knobs in the cockpit of her one-person fighter, seeking one last malfunction, one flight-list check-off missed, anything that might be out of place or cause her the slightest problem. Anything that might give Porter cause to chastise her.

  Pirate attack, most likely, she thought. She was ready.

  “Not yet, Isellia,” Porter boomed back across the headset, which peeked out behind Isellia’s pink bangs and seemed to grow out of her scalp. “Be patient. They haven’t made contact yet.”

  “Dammit!” Isellia slammed the top of the console, gritting her teeth. “You know what they want! Damn pirates don’t ask twice. Just let me at them!”

  “Isellia. Stand by.” Isellia gave the console a consolatory shove, a last sigh of exasperation, and slumped back in her chair. As soon as she had heard Porter talk about the red light flashing, and subsequently had seen the Company C cargo vessel making a beeline for them, she knew they were pirates. She knew as only a teenager can know for certain without questioning, not thinking for a second of the possibility of being wrong. It was the oldest trick in the book, stealing a cargo ship and faking a distress beacon. Damn that Porter, she thought. What does that old geezer know anyway?

  “I don’t know,” Porter said to himself, not really addressing either Joey, who watched Porter pace back and forth, nor the robot, whose optical sensors followed each and every one of Porter’s movements.

  “I mean, it’s one of the oldest tricks in the book,” Porter continued, folding his hands under his belly. “A stolen cargo ship with a distress beacon. But then,” he said turning to speak to them directly, “see the angle of their ship? Typically an attacker would set up an attack angle for the ambush. Hmm,” Porter mumbled, resuming his pacing.

  Suddenly, he turned. “What do you two think?”

  Joey, surprised at being consulted, sat up in his chair, a tad embarrassed. “Um, I think we should help them,” he said after a start.