Lots of Bots

by C. J. Richards

  THUD!

  Next time it’ll be me, George thought, writhing desperately.

  He passed right beneath the shadow of the press. His stomach twisted with fear as its smooth black surface hovered above his head, hydraulics hissing. He wanted to look away but he couldn’t. The hammer descended.

  CCRRRARSSSSSQUESHKKKKK!

  With a grinding, screeching noise, the hammer came to a stop about three inches from George’s nose.

  The conveyor belt juddered to a halt. Jackbot was suddenly at his side.

  “Jackbot! How—?”

  The robot brandished a handful of torn wires in his metal claw. “Manual override,” he said.

  Jackbot tugged George’s arms, yanking him free of the sticky gel. The alarms cut out abruptly, leaving his ears ringing.

  George fell off the conveyor belt and staggered to his feet, knees shaking.

  Max Volt, followed by Patricia and Cookie, came running toward them. His face was like a thundercloud. An orange one.

  “Are you out of your mind?” he shouted. “You could have been killed!”

  “Don’t worry. I’m fine,” said Jackbot, polishing his pincer on his chest plate. “It was nothing, really. All in a day’s work.”

  “Not you!” said Volt. He jabbed a finger at George. “Him!”

  “Yeah, George!” said Patricia. “How could you just fall off the bridge? I mean, what are you, three years old?”

  “I didn’t fall!” George spluttered. “Someone pushed me!”

  “Oh, please!” said Patricia, crossing her arms. “Talk about attention seeking!”

  “I swear,” said George. “It was one of the workers. He was wearing a white suit.”

  Volt sucked in a breath. “That’s a serious accusation, my boy,” he said. “And it doesn’t change the fact your robot just caused millions of dollars’ worth of damage.”

  “He saved me!” said George. “That press would have flattened me like a pancake!”

  “I could probably fix it,” said Jackbot, holding up the wires hopefully. “If you just give me a screwdriver and some chewing gum—”

  “No. You’ve done enough,” said Volt. “I don’t know how I’m going to explain this to . . .”

  George heard someone walking toward them.

  “What’s happened here?” Professor Droid asked. “I heard the alarm. Why has production been interrupted?”

  “George jumped on the conveyor belt!” Patricia said. “And then his robot trashed the squishing machine.”

  Droid’s face cycled through a series of emotions: confusion, panic, anger.

  “I’m okay,” said George.

  Droid flashed him a quick smile. “Good. Good,” he said, his voice controlled. “How long will it take to fix, Max?”

  “We don’t know yet,” Volt said gravely. “I’ll get the engineers on it right away, but—it doesn’t look good.”

  “Could this jeopardize the launch?” asked Droid.

  Volt looked grim. “If we don’t get it fixed immediately, then yes. We’ve only produced fifty percent of the stock so far.”

  Droid bowed his head, then turned to George. “Not a great start to your apprenticeship, is it?” George didn’t know what to say. Without any proof that he was pushed, he knew his claim sounded ridiculous.

  “I put a lot of trust in you, George,” Droid said. “Don’t make me regret it.”

  George saw Patricia smirking. “I won’t, sir,” he said.

  “I’m wondering if we should put him someplace where he can’t do any more damage,” Volt said. “He can still make himself useful, away from the sensitive areas. Since he seems to be a bit . . . unstable at the moment.”

  “Good thinking, Max,” Droid said. “But where?”

  Volt folded his arms, and George could have sworn he saw the ghost of a smile.

  “How about Department Six?” he said.

  “Where are we going? What’s Department Six?” George asked for the third time.

  Volt had remained silent from the moment they left the manufacturing floor until they reached the elevator. He instructed the elevator to take them to the basement.

  “Very useful work,” he said. “Vital for the smooth running of TinkerTech.”

  The elevator giggled.

  “But I was just starting to get to know Cookie!” Jackbot whispered. “I don’t like this at all.”

  George didn’t like it either. He guessed it wasn’t worth continuing to plead his innocence, so maybe it was time for a change in tactics.

  “Look, Mr. Volt, we got off on the wrong foot. I know you’re probably still upset about that accident at your house a couple of weeks ago.”

  Volt’s smile was tight. “You mean when a rogue garbage truck-bot destroyed my home? That wasn’t your fault either, I seem to recall.”

  George winced. “Yes . . . but, I really do know a lot about robotics. I swear! I could be very useful if you’d just give me a chance.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Volt. “You’ll be working with a robot with priority access to all areas of the building.”

  Well, that doesn’t sound too bad, George thought.

  The elevator doors opened into a very large room with a stone floor, and shelves stacked with all manner of cans, bottles, boxes, brushes, brooms, mops, and buckets. “Here we are!” Volt said. “Department Six!”

  They stepped out and the elevator doors swished shut behind them.

  George scanned the room. “This looks a lot like a really big janitor’s closet,” he said.

  He heard a humming noise and spun to his right. A robot so huge its head almost brushed the ceiling was rolling toward them. George’s heart did a double somersault. It can’t be . . .

  The Caretaker. Micron’s personal attack-bot—a powerful, unstoppable machine. It was coming right for him on tractor treads, its eyes flashing and hands bristling with tools.

  George searched frantically for a weapon, and grabbed a mop. “Don’t try anything,” he shouted. “I’m armed!”

  “Leave it to me!” said Jackbot. He ran across the room and launched a flying kung fu kick at the robot. There was a very loud CLANG and Jackbot bounced off the monster and landed on his head. “Ouch!” he said.

  The robot, completely undisturbed, continued to advance on George.

  “We have to get out of here, Mr. Volt!” George said, stumbling back toward the elevator. “That robot’s dangerous!”

  Volt laughed. “Don’t worry, George. That’s not the Caretaker. Same model, but a completely different central processing unit. We call it the Occupational Cleaning Droid—or the OCD-bot for short. It’s not dangerous at all—except to dirt!”

  “Dirt and germs I must destroy! Cleaning is my only joy!” said the OCD-bot in a high-pitched, singsong voice. It rolled to a halt in front of George. “In your hand you have a mop! Mop and mop until you drop!”

  “We programmed it with a rhyming generator,” Volt said. “Cute, huh? So, you just go along with the OCD-bot and it will explain all the tasks you’ll be assigned.”

  George’s fear gave way to disappointment. “Wait a minute,” he said. “You’re putting me on . . . cleaning duty?”

  “You will find that cleaning duty has a special kind of beauty!” sang the OCD-bot.

  “I’m a TinkerTech apprentice!” George said. “I’m supposed to be here to learn about robotics!”

  “After your antics this morning, I think it’s best for you to be on cleaning detail for a while,” Volt said. “At least until after the MOD launch is over. You just concentrate on being the greatest cleaning assistant you can be, okay?” He gave George a sunny, white-toothed smile, turned around, and hit the elevator button. He was still smiling as the doors swished shut and the elevator carried him away.

  “I can’t believe this!” George said to Jackbot. “It’s a total disaster.”

  “I know,” Jackbot said, shaking his head in sorrow. “I’ll hardly get to see Cookie at all.”

  “The f
irst-floor passages are dusty!” said the OCD-bot. “Bring your mop, so true and trusty!” It started to roll toward the door.

  “Do you always have to speak in rhyme?” George asked, as they followed the robot out.

  “When I clean, I speak in rhyme,” sang the OCD-bot, “and I’m cleaning all the time!”

  This is going to be a long, long day, thought George.

  For the rest of the morning, George and Jackbot assisted the OCD-bot in scrubbing floors, picking up litter, emptying trash cans, and vacuuming carpeted areas. The robot kept getting radio messages causing it to stop what it was doing, make a bleepy noise, and then announce things like: “We have to wash a dirty door! It’s on the twenty-seventh floor!”

  By lunchtime, George was exhausted. His back was aching, his nostrils were filled with the scent of cleaning products, and he felt like he hadn’t eaten in a week. “Don’t we get a break?” he asked the OCD-bot, as they were polishing furniture in the boardroom.

  “I never, ever have a break,” said the OCD-bot. “A break’s a thing I do not take!”

  “A break is something bots don’t require,” Jackbot said. “But boys like George will sometimes tire.”

  “Thanks, Jackbot,” George said.

  The OCD-bot suddenly stopped squirting polish on the boardroom table and bleeped again. “Emergency, emergency!” it sang. “We must respond with urgency!”

  George sighed. “What happened now?”

  “A donut-bot has gone berserk! Necessitating extra work!”

  “A donut-bot?” said George, suddenly feeling even hungrier.

  “It’s in the Records Office, yes. Creating a tremendous mess!” said the OCD-bot.

  The Records Office, George thought. I could dig around for information about my mom and dad!

  “Leave it to us,” he told the OCD-bot. “Jackbot and I will take care of it. What floor’s it on?”

  “The seventh floor is the location of this messy situation!” OCD-bot sang.

  “Let’s go!” said George, and he and Jackbot ran from the room.

  The seventh floor looked like a scene from the world’s biggest food fight. A group of workers cowered in the corridor, their clothes and faces spattered all over with bits of donut, frosting, and filling. One man was lying on his back as an older woman slapped his face to rouse him.

  “Is he okay?” asked George.

  “Just shock, we think,” the woman said. She had a smear of chocolate frosting across her face and multicolored sprinkles scattered in her graying hair. “He put in his usual request for a bear claw and the donut-bot spun him around in his chair and stuffed a donut hole in each ear. He fainted, the poor thing.”

  “We had to evacuate the Records Office!” added a man with strawberry jelly all over his suit. “I’m nursing a second-degree burn because of that thing! Someone has to go and switch it off!”

  “Leave it to us,” George announced, brandishing his mop.

  “It’s in there,” said a man, pointing with a trembling hand toward a door that was barricaded with a filing cabinet. Even as George watched, a hail of donuts splattered against the glass panel. “But be careful!”

  “This will be a piece of cake!” Jackbot said. He looked around expectantly. “Get it? Cake?” Everyone just stared at him. “Boy, tough crowd.”

  “Come on!” George said, pulling him away. George peered through the panel in the door, but couldn’t see much past the caramel sauce smears. He put his shoulder against the filing cabinet, shoved it aside, and placed his hand on the doorknob.

  “Ready?” he said to Jackbot.

  Jackbot nodded. “Let’s do this.”

  George eased open the door, staying low. He couldn’t see the bot between the office cubicles. Come to think of it, he didn’t even know what a donut-bot looked like. He turned to Jackbot and pointed left. “You go that way!” he whispered.

  Jackbot took one step and his foot squelched in a puddle of cream. Across the office came a series of clicks and beeps.

  “Incoming!” shouted Jackbot.

  The first donut whistled past George’s ear and smashed into the wall behind him. The second caught his shoulder and burst into a shower of jam and powdered sugar. Then Jackbot leaped onto George, forcing him down to the floor and out of the line of fire.

  “Come and get your piping hot donuts! Yum, yum, yum!” shouted a rough voice.

  George and Jackbot scrambled to their knees and hid under a desk as the pastry bombardment continued. George was breathing hard. He peeked over the edge of the desk and got a first glimpse of their enemy—a short, fat robot with a round head and a big, clownlike smile. Its head rotated 360 degrees, searching for them with unblinking eyes.

  “You’re hit,” said Jackbot, pointing to George’s shoulder.

  George swiped the red sauce with his finger and tasted it. “It’s only raspberry. He must have an Off switch. C’mon. I’ll draw his fire. You sneak up from behind.”

  “No,” said Jackbot. “It’s too risky. I’ll be the decoy.”

  Before George could argue, Jackbot jumped up. “Over here!” he shouted.

  Two donuts hit him in the face, blinding him. Then a blur of projectiles drove him back. Jackbot staggered and slid across the ground, lying completely still.

  “Jackbot!” George shouted.

  His friend held out a spindly arm. “Leave me, George!” he gasped. “I think I’m done for.”

  George grabbed a notebook off a nearby table and ran to his friend. The sugary barrage recommenced at once, but George shielded himself with the binder. He seized Jackbot’s arm and tugged him to safety behind a cupboard. Wiping the jam and cream off Jackbot’s face, he asked, “Are you okay?”

  “I guess I’ll live.”

  “I got plenty more where that came from!” called the bot. “Who wants donuts? They’re hot, hot, hot!”

  George risked a glance and saw the robot trundling toward them, steaming donuts launching from its hand like grenades.

  The mop was lying on the ground between them. “Stay here,” George said to his friend. “I’ve got an idea.”

  Gritting his teeth, George pushed himself into a commando roll across the ground, snatching up the mop as he went. The donuts started flying immediately. George sprang up and brought the mop down in a vertical swipe. The bot’s arm detached from its body, hitting the ground with a clang. George ducked as the remaining arm flung more treats at an astonishing rate. He covered the bot’s face with the dirty mop head, blinding its visual sensors. Where was the Off switch?

  Just then Jackbot sprang from his hiding spot and hurled himself at the bot’s remaining arm, hanging from it like a monkey.

  “Please do not interfere with this robot,” said an automated voice. “Tampering with DonutKing property may result in a fine.”

  The bot struggled and spun on the spot. Jackbot held on for dear life as its mouth opened, spraying chocolate sprinkles in a blinding hailstorm across the office. George suddenly spied a red button at the base of its neck.

  “Hurry, George!” shouted Jackbot as his body whizzed through the air. “I can’t hold on much longer!”

  George vaulted onto a desk to avoid a squirt of fudge sauce and a blizzard of marshmallows that were now shooting from the bot’s mouth. Trying to get the timing right, he watched the bot spinning . . . and then kicked his heel onto the switch. At the same moment, Jackbot lost his grip, hurtled over a computer monitor across the room, and landed with a crunch.

  “Wurrrrgh,” said the donut-bot. “I’m sorry, we are all out of donutssssssss-click.” The light went out of its eyes and it stopped moving, dropping a final donut onto the floor with a splat.

  Jackbot emerged from the other side of the office, rolling his neck back and forth. “I think I have chocolate cream in my circuits,” he said. “It’s kind of nice.”

  George surveyed the damage. Just about every available surface was covered with donut debris—including the ceiling. He held out the mop to Jackbot. �
�You’d better get started. Seal off the room.”

  “Me?” Jackbot said. “What about you?”

  “I have some research to do,” George said. It was too good a chance to miss. He swept a pile of donuts off a chair, sat at a computer, and, taking one of the sponges the OCD-bot had given him out of his back pocket, wiped the cream off the monitor. While he got started, Jackbot explained to the office workers that the cleanup would take some time, and that they should all probably go have a shower in the locker rooms.

  George was happy to finally be in his element. He had no problem accessing the system—the workers had fled the office in such a hurry that they had forgotten to log out of their accounts. He quickly located the staff records search, and typed in the dates he guessed his parents had worked for TinkerTech. A huge list of names appeared on the screen. George scrolled down to the Gs: Ganzer, Garbonanza, Garfield, Gatling, Gatsby, Gax, Geables, Geach, Gillibrow . . .

  George was confused. There was nothing between Geach and Gillibrow. No Gearing.

  He tried a year earlier. Same result. A year before that and still no Gearing. He scrolled back five years, then forward eight, and still . . . No record of his parents whatsoever.

  “This is weird,” George said to Jackbot, who had already finished cleaning up most of the mess. “My mom and dad used to work here. I know they did. Otto said so, and Dr. Micron too. But they’re not on the system!”

  “That is weird,” Jackbot said. “Bizarre, mysterious, peculiar.”

  I need to dig deeper, thought George. But where else can I look?

  Jackbot’s eyes flashed. “Sorry, George. Incoming call from the OCD-bot.”

  “What does he say?” asked George.

  Jackbot took on the cleaning bot’s voice.

  “A bathroom drain is on the blink—bring your mask, there’s quite a stink!”

  George sighed.

  So the long day wore on. All through the afternoon, as George scrubbed and polished and tidied, a question kept nagging at his mind: Why weren’t Mom and Dad on the system? Otto had no reason to lie to him about it. And Micron knew them, so they must have been at TinkerTech. It was as if someone had erased them from the company’s history.