Robot Awareness: The Inner Circle

by B. C. Kowalski

  "See? Because," Isellia said, giving Joey a snarky grin.

  "Oh," Joey said quietly, now rueful that he had been brave enough to ask a question.

  "Anything else you want to know?" Isellia asked, resting her hand on her chin with a mock look of bending her ear to him to listen.

  "What, can't I ask questions?"

  "I don't know, can you?"

  "Guys, can we fly the ship?" Porter said, rolling his eyes like a parent. Normally he let their bickering wear itself out, but like everyone else, their destination had put him in a sullen mood.

  Isellia looked forward at her console, then slyly looked back one more time, silently imitating Porter's remonstration. Joey smirked a little, then looked back to see Porter shaking his head.

  “Flying the ship, sir,” Joey said. Isellia shook her head and Porter sighed.

  Chapter 40

  Rex hung against his restraints, sweat matting his hair to his forehead. He did his best to hold his composure, but even he couldn’t endure this kind of torture without some signs of distress. He’d said nothing so far, nothing of any consequence anyway.

  Celia said nothing, simply watched as Rex writhed in agony, his mind as far away as he could possibly place it. She wasn’t stopping this treatment, but wasn’t helping either. Her face wore no expression, though Rex thought he caught quick glimpses of emotion. She seemed to be waiting for something. It ruined Rex's concentration as he wondered what that something was.

  “Damn it!” Wimprey slammed his taser stick onto the deck, pacing the room with as much bravado as he could muster. Rex paid him little mind, but used to opportunity to catch his breath and try to recover as much as possible. His goal was to frustrate this man as much as possible. As much as he could before the end.

  Would Celia step in before that happened? If she was, why hadn't she already? He decided that was likely something he shouldn't count on.

  “You will tell me what I want to know!” Wimprey screamed, grabbing Rex’s chin, shouting within inches of his face. Rex offered no reaction, doing as much as he could to stay calm and use the time between torture to let his body recover. He ached like after a hard workout, amplified 100 times. The electricity caused his muscles to flex uncontrollably, and he felt like they'd been torn apart.

  “Damnit!” Wimprey began pacing again. “I’m going to ... I’m going to—“

  I’m on my way, s-s-sir,” he stammered into the intercom.

  “We’re not finished,” Wimprey said, pointing to Rex before storming out of the room, slamming the door behind him pitifully.

  Rex and Celia were alone. Celia said nothing, looking at Rex as he hung from the ceiling. She looked at the door, then up at a corner of the room. Rex couldn't help but watch her watching. Women generally didn't have a strong effect on him, but Celia was different. Her presence intoxicated him — most men, he presumed — but he had no interest in fighting it, and he didn't care about other men. He'd forgive her. For this. For just about anything. He cursed it as a weakness but couldn't deny the way it made him feel — a lightness he'd never felt in his life.

  He wondered if that would be his last thought as she walked toward him. Celia grabbed the back of his head by his hair, pulled back slightly. Her gaze had almost no emotion, but her eyes bore into him. She leaned in — and kissed him. Her countenance softened, she melted into him, kissing him with abandon. He returned the favor as much as possible in his weakened state. His lips moved with hers, and he felt his power returning as she continued.

  "I'm so sorry," Celia muttered between their lips touching. Her face now looked soft, her gaze a loving one. She looked like a wife who'd just reconnected with her presumed lost husband.

  "What is this?" Rex finally asked, coming up for air.

  "Don't worry about it baby. We're going to get you out of here."

  "Sounds like a plan."

  "I hope this doesn't ruin you for bondage later," Celia purred, her hand on his chest. She'd regained some of her playfulness. Rex wondered how often, if ever, he would see her true raw emotion again.

  "Sure I'll manage," Rex said finally.

  "OK. Well, just hang on a minute,” she said, smirking at her wordplay. “I set up a brief camera lag, and it's about to end."

  She picked up the taser stick, rotating it in her hand as she looked at him.

  "You too?" Rex said, in an air of mock disappointment.

  "Not for real. There's no sound. I'm going to pretend to torture you some more. Go along with it."

  "Don't I always?" Rex said, almost grunting his words.

  Celia giggled. "Well, do your best acting job. I need a little more time. To find what I need."

  "Great," Rex said.

  "You're tough, you can handle it," Celia said. She looked at one of the monitors. "It was harder for me to watch," she muttered under her breath.

  "Hang in there," Celia said, lifting the taser stick. "I'll make it worthwhile."

  "Look forward to it," Rex said.

  "In more ways than one. They're here."

  Rex lifted an eyebrow. "What's here?"

  "The robots, Rex. The robots."

  ***

  The man with no face watched his monitor, watching their new assassin hire jamming the taser into their prisoner's stomach. He writhed in pain, collapsing against his binds when she removed the stick.

  He smiled. They would have what they needed soon.

  Chapter 41

  Drool dripped down the corner of Joey’s mouth, sliming its way across his cheek, dropping onto the side of his arm, then rolling its way on the chair and onto the metal floor. A low rumble preceded a sigh of breath that briefly pushed away his sandy blonde hair, which now hung in front of his face after months of growth while in space. Strands bobbed across his nose; he twitched his nose a little, his breathing stopped and started a moment, then resumed its rhythm.

  “Malfunction!”

  Joey stirred, his hand absently wiping the spittle from his arm onto the rest of his face. He shook his head, eyes squinting from time spent napping, and began wiping the drool off with his clean arm, wiping it on his cargo pants. He’d picked them up in Farven Point with some of his share of the credit, choosing them because they looked like something Porter would wear.

  “Joey, malfunction!”

  “Robot, what is it?” Joey asked, looking at the robot with groggy eyes.

  “Fluid containment failure. Joey requires maintenance?”

  “Robot, I told you—“ Joey began, looking down at the stain on his shirt. “Oh jeez...”

  He looked at the robot. “Humans leak fluids sometimes. It’s part of what we do.”

  “Inefficient. A closed system would be more efficient.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s how it is, Ro—“

  “Woah, what happened to you?” Isellia asked walking on the bridge. Joey turned to look at her, turning bright red at the sound of her voice.

  “Where’s the leak?” Isellia said, laughing as she walked by him.

  “Joey,” The robot said, turning its LED light toward Isellia while pointing at Joey. “Joey is leaking.”

  “Shut up, robot!” Joey scrambled to brush the spittle from his chin, and turned so the damp spot on his shirt wouldn't show.

  “It is normal,” the robot said.

  Isellia looked at the robot and burst out laughing. “Is that so?”

  “No, I just meant ... Robot!”

  “Joey said.”

  “All right, don’t lose a wingnut,” Isellia said. “I’ll watch the controls awhile — I gotta clean some circuits in the nav console anyway. Go clean up.”

  Joey sighed. “All right.”

  “Maintenance,” the robot said.

  “OK, Robot!” Joey said, looking up at the ceiling as he left the bridge.

  ***

  She typed quietly, efficiently at her desk, eyes darting between the screen and her notes next to the computer. Her typing was punctuated and precise — the keystrokes followed a
staccato rhythm that remained unbroken as she shifted from narrative to data crunching effortlessly.

  Fran was good at what she did for the Company.

  The pages stacked in two piles on either side of her computer, each sheet lifted from one side to the other as she typed. Fran was somehow able to shift the page from one hand to the other, without missing a keystroke — one hand simply typed as her other lifted the page. Her efficiency was the result of years of practice and perfection. Her concentration never wavered as her eyes stared at the screen, shifted to the page to her right behind enormous framed glasses, and back to the other. The room she worked in was quiet and small, filled with several unoccupied cubicles, framed by the dull light gray that at some point in history became standard for office decor. She remembered a time when the cubicles were filled with people, she could still envision the people who sat in each seat within them. It’s true that she preferred the quiet and didn't miss their interruptions. But she missed them all the same. She kept working.

  Then she stopped.

  Her brow furrowed slightly as she picked up a single page from the left pile. She looked it up and down, paged back through the stacks of paper to her right, checking to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. Of course she hadn’t. Fran never missed a detail, and she had more years of service than mistakes she could recall. But she had to check. The implications of what she was seeing had to be a mistake — if not hers, then someone else’s.

  She leaned back in her chair, not noticing the unusual sensation of the chair’s back rest against her body, as she almost never sat in any other manner but forward in concentration. Her eyes darted around the room as her mind calculated the implications of each possible response to what she was seeing.

  “I have to tell someone,” she muttered in her short, fast voice — maybe the first time she’d spoken out loud in weeks. She opened a chat window and started typing, the blue outline from the screen reflecting in her glasses.

  ***

  The sensation of running was a new one for Underow, and not one he particularly enjoyed. His lungs burned as oxygen reached new depths, his legs strained with effort, and his stomach hurt. Nonetheless, he continued running down the hall.

  He’d quietly slipped out of the banquet hall, walking as if greeting a long-lost colleague, which gave him the social excuse for a quick pace, then continuing toward the bathroom area and kept going. Only after he’d cleared the crowds of people did he break into a full run.

  He’d almost convinced himself that he’d reached safety, but not enough to stop running. He’d seen every nook and cranny of this hall, studied its schematics. The official designs on record at the central core, which only top-level officials had access to anyway, did not include this particular corridor. He felt a sense of distress as sweat soaked his back and dripped off his forehead.

  He ducked into an off-shoot, a cubby hole within the secret corridor, finally convinced he was safe. There’s no way she’d seen him leave, probably hadn’t even seen him in the hall at all. Plus, they had typically met in his office, and she never seemed to make much effort to see his face. She couldn't have known what he actually looked like. He sweated nonetheless. They'd not left on good terms, what with him firing her.

  He flipped on his comm device.

  “Get me the Top,” he said to the person who answered his hail, still breathing heavy. “This is Underow! Who do you think it is? …

  “Well that’s because it’s a fucking emergency, that’s why! Why else the fuck do you think I’d be breathing hard? ...

  “Yes, I’ll hold...”

  Underow leaned back against the cubby’s wall, trying desperately to catch his breath. Underow could be as quiet as a stone, but not after this most disagreeable exercise, which left him wheezing as he tried desperately to suck in air. This is why Underow made it a point to rarely leave his condo-office. Distasteful things happened outside. Like exercise. Inside was safe.

  “Yeah, Underow ... yes sir, I just … yes, yes it’s definitely her. Well, I didn’t hang around, I ... but sir, she might ... of course not, sir, I would never question you, it’s just ... yes, yes of course. Right away.”

  Underow hung up the comm device. His knees felt weak. Go back to the party? The thought weighed in his gut like lead, and he felt a tingle up his spine. He felt... metal.

  “Hello there...” A familiar female voice whispered in his ear, her breath tickling his lobes as he felt sharp metal pressed against his throat.

  “How did you? ...”

  “Oh, don’t sweat the details,” Celia said. He could feel her body pressed against his back, which his mind took note of, somewhere buried under the overwhelming sense of doom.

  “Relax. If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t bother with the knife.” She leaned in a little bit closer. “I'm more effective with my hands.”

  “What... what is it you want?" Underow managed.

  “Oh, what do I want? Well, I could make a list. But if you mean with you, well ... it turns out, I have a job for you.”

  Chapter 42

  Fran entered the office of the new section chief. Her eyes darted around the room as she stood stiffly in front of his desk, her hands fidgeting in front of her from lack of anything better to do. Her gaze shifted from his desk, to the chair, to the macabre art that most company officials tended to decorate their walls and tables. Statues and paintings, dark-shaped figures, reaching, twisting, writhing, grabbing for some intangible, unreachable goal. She catalogued them with the rest of the contents of the room.

  The door opened behind her. Fran didn’t bother to look around, but her eyes shifted toward the opening door.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” said a balding, middle-aged man in a voice that suggested he actually cared very little about keeping an underling waiting. He took his seat behind the desk, allowing it to swivel as he sat. It stopped when as he directly faced Fran.

  “So, Fran, tell me about this ‘discrepancy’ as you say...”

  “Sir, you see, I was typing along at my desk, it was about 0230, or maybe it was ... let me think, it might have been a couple of minutes later because I was due to get my tea at about that time, I usually have a black tea that day, so then it must have been —“

  “Fran, can you get to the point?”

  “Well, I just wanted you to understand the circumstances because it was really a routine day until I noticed this discrepancy in the paperwork, which I do every day, and it just struck me as odd because I’ve been doing this for 34 years and I’ve never seen anything like —“

  “Fran!”

  “— So anyway, I noticed there was an unaccounted-for block of money on the books that seemed to be missing from the official ledger, and I thought, ‘Well that’s odd.’ So I kept looking into the budget, and there appears to be a rather significant amount of money that isn’t on the ledger. So then, I looked at every page of the Section 5 budget, which is quite a number of pages as you know ...”

  The section chief nodded, rubbing his temples as he squinted in exasperation.

  “Do you know?”

  “What?” he looked up at her, lulled by the long story and not expecting a question.

  “How big it is?” She stared at him blankly.

  “Um, yes, yes ... please continue,” he gestured.

  “So, on page 223... yes, 223, there’s a line item labeled ‘Miscellaneous Anonymous,’ and a subhead titled ‘Robotics.’ And I thought, ‘That’s funny,’ because I never heard of a robotics section, and there seems to be quite a substantial amount of money dedicated to it. But then I checked the accounts receivable and noticed there are even more amounts of money pouring into the section that aren’t even labeled as in any particular —“

  The man put out his hand and she stopped speaking. “Fran, let me stop you right there.”

  “OK.” She continued to stare at him. The large glasses she wore also had thick lens, which gave the illusion her eyes were much larger than they actually were. It
had the effect of making Fran look as though she were staring at you and through you at the same time.

  “You’ve been working very hard lately —“

  “Yes. Well as you know I never take a sick day or vacation. I’m very dedicated, you see, and I enjoy my work so I like coming every day —“

  “Fran!” The section chief rubbed his temple. “Fran,” he resumed in a calmer voice, “Just listen a moment, OK? I think it’s time you took some vacation. I think it would be good for you to take a break. Maybe get out of the Circle, see some life.”

  “Well, sir, frankly I’d rather not, especially with this—“

  “Fran, we insist. Paid leave. Starting now, until further notice.”

  “Well, sir, I don’t—”

  “We insist.”

  "But the robotics—"

  "Forget about the robotics!"

  Fran said nothing, though a small tear formed at the corner of her eye.

  “Oh come on now, it’s not that bad. You’ll enjoy yourself, go have a little fun.” He got up and opened the door.

  “It’ll be fine, you’ll see.” He began escorting her out.

  “OK sir, but I think if we just wait a week we could probably get to the bottom of this. There’s missing money, you see, and I think I could track it down if you just let me —” the chief started closing the door, as Fran talked through the opening “—keep going on this I could figure it out and find the missing money, if you’d only just let me...”

  Her voice trailed off as the chief got on the phone. “Yes, it’s Samuels. See that Fran is escorted out for her vacation.”

  ***

  Mr. Yardley stood with his hands folded behind him in the banquet hall, proudly gazing over the entries for each robot, a small placard announcing the highest bidder. Bidding closed an hour ago; guests were enjoying the extravagant meal that followed the unveiling, when the auction prices would be announced for each robot.

  Yardley, by any accounts, was a large man. He wore a finally tailored tuxedo, his dark hair parted and slicked to the side. He was clean-shaven, with a large round stomach but thin legs. He would have appeared comical, except nothing about Yardley ever was. Well-groomed and mannered, Yardely always appeared as the stateliest person in the room. His services didn’t come cheap, for more reasons than his manner; Company C paid him well for that service.