Love and Robotics

by Eyre, Rachael

  The camera shifted to a group on the hillside, each member carrying a blue rose. They were all wearing black. A small Linese woman was weeping. With a thrill Alfred recognised Nanny, then Esteban. The others were artificials, unknown to him but united in grief. Just as he wondered where Cora was, the camera panned to her. She sat regally on a bench, forcing her human interviewer to stand. A horrible little dog dozed on her lap.

  “It was unbelievable. By the law of most countries, Josh hasn’t done anything wrong. Their response was totally disproportionate.”

  “Are you suggesting Perversion Prevention did this deliberately?”

  Cora clicked, the sound of artificial impatience. “Does this look like an accident? The head of PP’s got a fricking vendetta against Alfred - sorry, Lord Langton. Want to know how petty this guy is? He shot Langton’s pet -”

  Expletives broke out around the room. Men who had abused Alfred only the other day swore vengeance.

  “I’ll get him, easy as winkin’.”

  “You’ve only got to say the word.”

  “Harming a defenceless animal -”

  The words rose and fell around him. He remembered Puss - so loyal and trusting - and clenched his fist. Perhaps he’d cry later, but now all he felt was cold hard rage.

  “Lucy is going down,” Alfred said. “If it’s the last thing I do.”

  ***

  The next day being Saturday, Alfred assumed that he would be safe from bureaucratic interference. He was exercising in the yard, a small prim enclosure with a tinkling water feature. Since his efforts to contact Josh inside the building had come to nothing, he thought he would try here. He emptied his mind, honed his concentration –

  Pink shoes tattooed over the gravel. “Good morning, Langton.” Breakwell peered down her dinky nose.

  He gazed at her with hatred. “Governor.”

  “There’s somebody I’d like you to meet. Langton, Salome Feist.”

  A mousy woman in a tie neck blouse and ticked skirt dithered behind her. She’d permed her hair, not successfully, and applied makeup with an amateur hand.

  “I don’t talk to the press, governor.”

  “This is your defence lawyer, Langton. I’ll leave you to get acquainted.”

  He took deliberately long strides, hoping to lose Feist. To her credit she managed to keep up.

  “Langton.” Her voice was like the mewing of a kitten. “Langton.”

  Alfred closed his eyes, tried to clear his brain. He was beginning to perceive shapes –

  “I sense a certain amount of hostility. We can’t have a working relationship unless - ”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but I was expecting somebody more experienced.”

  “I graduated top of my year!”

  “When?”

  She looked sulkily at her shoes. “Three years ago.”

  “See? They’ve fobbed me off with an untried quantity - no offence - so I haven’t a hope in hell. Might as well defend myself.”

  “You can’t testify if you’ve committed a Deviation,” she said promptly. “The assumption is that if your judgement is that impaired, you’re unlikely to have the capacity.”

  He stared. Ken hadn’t been allowed to testify, but he’d always thought this was a canny move on his counsel’s part. He was so patronising, he would have alienated the entire courtroom.

  “How am I supposed to get my point of view across?” he asked.

  “That’s where I come in.”

  It took a while to thaw with Feist. He spent twenty minutes of their first session getting her to prove her credentials.

  “What do you want me to do?” she cried. “I’ve shown you my ID. I’ve answered your questions. I don’t know what else you want.”

  He folded his arms. “What about chips? Wires?”

  “They don’t work here. They’ve scrambled the signal.”

  Was this the reason for Josh’s silence? Try as he might, he couldn’t imagine Lucy destroying him on the sly. He’d want Alfred to suffer, give him as drawn out a humiliation as possible. But if he could do it to Puss –

  He sighed and kneaded his forehead. He wasn’t looking anywhere in particular, but Feist exclaimed, “Okay, okay! I’m a clone! Happy now?”

  “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

  He honestly hadn’t. She’d apparently bathed in perfume, and her features had a strange sheen to them, but otherwise she was the most ordinary woman he had met. She looked at her hands miserably. Her nails were chewed to stumps.

  “I’m sorry. I’m used to norms treating me differently. D’you know how many assignments I’ve had since I qualified?”

  He couldn’t guess.

  “Three, two of which were terminated when they found out. There’s a lot of prejudice out there.”

  “Is that why you took this case?”

  She drummed her fingers. “Nobody else wanted it. They said I hadn’t a chance of winning.”

  It wasn’t the most auspicious start. Part of him wished she’d pull out - better no defence than a pessimistic one.

  Breakwell would let them into one of the spare offices, nose twitching. He’d thought it was distaste at being in close proximity to a Deviant, but their fourth session, he noticed she never looked at or touched Feist, and actually shrank from her. She knew.

  “Bitch,” he remarked, as she tick tacked away. Feist nodded vehemently.

  On a more professional footing. “I went to see Foster yesterday. Just for a greater understanding.”

  Alfred was dizzy with relief. “How is he? How are they treating him?”

  “They’re holding him in a side room in the Halls of Justice. He was - determined, is the only way I can put it.”

  He grinned. “Josh is the most bloody minded person I know.”

  “There was a woman with him - one of his doctors. He asked her to go out while I was there. She didn’t seem pleased.”

  Feist had been uncomfortable to start with. She had never spoken to a robot on a one to one basis, had thought they were nothing more than clever toys, but she was amazed by how normal he had seemed. He’d been eager for news of Chimera and his friends; she pieced a vague account together from the news reports. Alfred he saved for later, but with a quiet intensity that left you in no doubt as to how he felt.

  “Well? Do you believe?”

  “I need more data.” As he groaned, “The best way is to get to know both of you, as an unbiased third party. You may not be allowed to testify, but there’s no reason why Josh can’t.”

  Alfred lifted her off her feet in a bear hug. “Um, sorry about that,” he muttered, blushing and backing off.

  He let a few more sessions pass before he broached the subject of her background. They were doing so well, he didn’t want to risk offending her.

  Feist kicked off her shoes and sat with unchewed hands in her lap. They had coffee brought in - real coffee, not the cat litter they served in the canteen.

  “I’ll be honest with you. The first time we met, I thought our best bet would be an insanity plea. But I’ve done a bit of digging. The rule that states Deviants can’t testify only applies to offences against humans –”

  “I didn’t do anything against anyone -”

  “That’s the point!” She was animated: eyes sparking, hands flapping. “I’ve enough evidence to build a solid case. We can get CER for neglect and maltreatment.”

  “Are you convinced yet?”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” she teased.

  “Um, Salome. You know what you told me our first meeting?”

  She was immediately defensive. “What about it?”

  “Which, um, school were you at?” The official term was ‘compound’ but that sounded too clinical.

  “St Bede’s. It trained us to be professionals rather than fodder. It had to - the norms had stopped adopting us. We had lawyers, doctors, vets, even a scientist. One girl became a secretary but we didn’t talk about her. Why?”

  Alfred had lo
st interest but kept the conversation going. “Just curious. Did they treat you well?”

  “You hear horror stories, but nothing like that went on. They told us to watch our backs; most norms would only ever view us as second class citizens.”

  “That’s really sad.”

  “You get used to it. No disrespect to Josh, but he’s got it easy. If humans don’t like a robot, they can just switch it off. Do that to a clone -”

  “And it looks like murder?” he finished delicately.

  “It’s not like you can blame them. Some of us are dangerous. Look at Eric Spalding, flattening a county because he hated his school. If you can do that at twelve, what will you be like as an adult?”

  Alfred’s brain took a moment to process what she had said. “Sorry?”

  “Eric Spalding, the boy who blew up Marwood. Our teachers used him as a bogeyman. Any sign of misbehaviour and we might end up like him.”

  He had to stay calm or her suspicions would be roused. Inside he was cheering, cart wheeling.

  “Can I make a call?” he asked.

  Cora had been working flat out for the past month. The original plan was for Dee to be the movement’s spokeswoman, but she found it too painful. She left for the coast a few days after the funeral, saying it was the last place she and Hector had been happy. There had been a scuffle but Cora overruled all opposition. “I’m the one people know. It’s time I put it to good use.”

  She worked tirelessly, Esteban acting as her manager. She made statements to the media, aired a series of broadcasts about the movement’s goals, released a song. “Every cause should have a belting tune,” she said. Membership subscriptions quadrupled - when the song stormed to the top of the charts, membership stood at fifty thousand. The movement’s distinctive logo, a blue rose, was pinned to lapels and displayed in windows across the country.

  She was sitting in the state rooms, drafting the chorus of a song to free Josh. She was a great believer in rhyme but the only words she could think of were bosh and tosh. She was reaching for another glass of Formula 40 when the speakertube pealed in the hall. She answered it.

  “Hello?”

  “Cora, it’s Alfred.” Not leaving her time to interrupt, “I know who blew up Marwood. Eric Spalding. He was a freak who built bots for child molesters. I exposed him and he’s meant to have committed suicide, but his body was never found.”

  “Sounds like Nick already.”

  “That’s what I thought. It explains why he went after me. See if you can find a picture.”

  She tuned into the Storm with her mind, entered “Eric Spalding.” A gallery of images sprang up. She gasped. Whether a teenager collecting a prize or a young man giving a presentation, he was unquestionably Nick. Spalding was fleshier with blunter features, but she’d never doubted her handler had had work done. It was what all Arkans did when they came into money. Sometimes he’d moved as though used to a different body, his feet strangely pigeon toed. The clincher was his eyes. A blue so pale it was negligible, the pupils like a snake’s.

  “Oh, Alfred! It’s him.”

  “Ssh. We won’t let anything happen to you.”

  “Have you seen what they’ve done to your house? He’ll know I’m here -”

  “Pass the mantle to one of the others. Esteban could do it -”

  “Where I go, Esti goes. Just when everything’s getting good again, I’ve got to look at pictures of him at CER! I’ll never get rid of him!”

  “It’ll be alright -” There was a long, troubled pause. “What do you mean, pictures at CER?”

  Cora clicked on one of the articles. “There’s guff about him being the youngest roboticist in history. ‘Keeping It in the Family’, they’ve called it. ‘Spalding is the nephew of Dr Julia Fisk, CER’s leading roboticist ...’”

  She heard what sounded suspiciously like Alfred bashing his head against the wall.

  “Oh, this gets better and better.”

  Battle Commences

  The trial was set for July 23rd. Coverage had reached a deafening crescendo.

  Olive Omatayo had dropped fatally low in the polls. Her critics said it was time she learned to prioritise, pointing out her preoccupation with the Wilding-Foster case. Did it really compare to the refugee crisis? To the thousands living in poverty? Jerry Etruscus scored an unexpected hit when he accused her of chasing the “bigot, virgin and effing fruitcake vote.” He’d been typically blasé about the case. “Langton’s been a bloody good pal – frankly I don’t care if he bums bots or not. Just book me a front row seat.”

  If the Prime Minister was having an uncomfortable time, it was nothing to the tribulations CER was undergoing. Several high profile clients ended their sponsorships; thousands of customers closed their accounts. The Pond found it impossible to cope with the backlash. Some signed off sick with stress, others walked.

  Dr Sugar was near breaking point. Fisk hadn’t been in for months, Malik was grilling Josh around the clock - he was the only senior roboticist left in the organisation. He was working sixty hour weeks, weeping from exhaustion.

  “This can’t go on,” he said one morning. Blinking back tears, he rode in the lift to the top floor.

  No one had seen Adrian for weeks. His vix was in the parking bay but that was as far as anyone’s knowledge went. He hadn’t even gone on one of his walkabouts where he asked inane questions, forgot people’s names and generally got in the way.

  Sugar approached the office, seized by the morbid idea the CEO had died and was steadily decomposing. He flagged down a passing functional. “You might need a dustpan. Or a hose.”

  The functional shrugged its pincers and rolled after him. Sugar rapped on the door. “Adrian?” The functional forced the door.

  He was relieved to see that Adrian was alive, though not in the best mental state. He was wearing a sweat soaked string vest and shorts, doing laps of the carpet bare foot. The jelly bean jar was broken, tiny pigments dotted as far as Sugar could see. This hadn’t been by accident. As he stood gaping, Adrian whacked a golf ball at a shelf full of awards.

  “Owzat!” he cried. The functional scuttled to clear it up.

  Sugar was at a loss. He’d never had a proper conversation with Adrian, who he regarded as a vulgar, unqualified oik - and that was without the rumours. Watching him smash up his office with the alleged murder weapon didn’t make his errand any easier.

  “Um, Adrian?”

  “Yes, my good man?”

  “Nobody’s seen you in so long. We’re concerned.”

  “It’s too late, Noah.”An unspeakable glass sculpture was blasted to bits. “Time we said nighty night. CER will be history within the month.”

  Sugar waved for the functional to follow him. Its eyes strayed towards the broken glass. He had to bark at it in binary.

  He drifted downstairs. He started to head towards Ozols’ office, but she had been fired. Desperate to discuss what he had witnessed, he went down to the Pond. He stared at the empty desks, appalled. He hadn’t realised it had come to this. He stopped by Madge’s old team, the only one he had spoken to with any regularity.

  “The CEO’S stark raving mad,” he said.

  Dean was handing out cupcakes. “Tell us something we don’t know.”

  “No, really.” Sugar described the scene in the office. Ravi exclaimed, “That’s it!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m sick of this caper. Josh isn’t some goof off a production line, he’s our friend. The fact we’re turning our backs on him and making out Langton’s a perv is nothing short of disgusting.”

  Workers at the other banks nodded. Tatum Wong piped up, “They’re in love. What’s wrong with that?”

  “But ...” Sugar struggled to assert his authority. “There’s got to be rules. Society would break down without them.”

  Dean yanked off his headset. “Dunno about you but I’m going on strike.”

  It was all over the news. CER’s remaining two hundred workers had withdrawn
their services, saying they wouldn’t return until the company supported Josh. The robots had gone on strike too. No one could understand it.

  Josh had requested a network box in his cell. Malik wanted to refuse but couldn’t think of a reason. When this was broadcast the artificial turned from her and closed his eyes.

  “What have you started?” she asked.

  A beatific smile. “Revolution,” he said.

  ***

  July 23rd was sultry, thunderflies clustering on every surface. The Ira stank, the stench seeping through vehicles and walls. No matter how often you fanned yourself or drank, you couldn’t cool down. Tourists camped outside the Halls of Justice. The press lay in wait, Josh’s fan club sobbed and waved placards. The Anti Artificial League chanted slogans. “Robot! No-bot!”

  “With poetry like that, they’ve won,” Alfred said.

  He and Feist were pulling up outside the Halls in a Ministry vix. She laid a hand on his arm.

  “I know you’re nervous. Just be yourself.”

  “Isn’t that how I got here?”

  “Get under my umbrella.”

  Thick blurry drops were beginning to fall. They did nothing for the humidity. Feist’s tiny hand was like a vice, prising him from the vix and through the crowds.

  “Lord Langton!”

  They knew better than to harass him. He’d knocked out that scumbag who sneaked into Gussy’s funeral. He shielded his eyes and moved forwards, determined not to show any weakness.

  They went down into the bowels of the building, past the crims in the cells. A young man ran to the bars and asked for his autograph. “Don’t look at them,” Feist said. As they mounted the stairs to the courtroom, his attention was caught by a glint of blood red metal. It belonged to a structure the height of three men, similar to a bottle opener. “They’ve got the squelcher ready?” he whispered.

  “They do that with all robot trials. It’s not a foregone conclusion.”

  Unwanted memories surfaced from Ken’s trial. The bowl fixing onto Guy’s head, squeezing it inwards. The drill swinging down, boring through –