Cog

by Greg Van Eekhout

  I blink for a good, long time. Then I ask, “What did you learn?”

  “If I don’t get this all cleaned up, I’m going to learn what it’s like to lose my job.”

  Proto rarfs and goes paddling by.

  “Can you repair our tire before you lose your job? We have sixty-three cents.”

  The mechanic laughs, but it is not a sound that expresses humor, happiness, or mirth.

  “I don’t think we will successfully repair or replace Car’s tire here,” I inform ADA.

  But then Trashbot trundles up beside me. “Do you have any waste you wish to dispose of?”

  The mechanic’s laugh rises higher in pitch. It is a little bit like a scream. “Why, yes, I do. This whole shop is a waste. My life is a waste. Everything is waste.”

  Trashbot’s faceplate flashes green. “Affirmative,” he says. A hose spools out of a compartment on the front of his body. He submerges the end of the hose in the water and begins vibrating with a mechanical noise. The water gloops and shlorps and ripples, and when Proto begins fighting the current to keep from being drawn to the hose, I realize Trashbot is vacuuming up the water.

  Proto rarfs as I pick him up and rarfs a little more angrily as I shake water off of him. Trashbot continues rolling around the garage, and gradually the water level goes down until there are only puddles here and there, and even these, Trashbot takes care of. He’s only getting started.

  He picks up the burned and oily rags and turns the fallen garbage can upright. Next, a panel on his back opens to reveal a fine-mesh grill. He makes a rumbling, whirring noise, and after several minutes the air smells less like burned oil and smoke.

  “It will take me approximately sixteen minutes to heat-dry the area,” he announces. “This will prevent the development of mold and mildew.” Casting a bright orange light from his faceplate, he travels around the garage, shining his face light along the way.

  I find I cannot look away from him. I am learning so much about Trashbot. For one thing, I learn that Trashbot is really good at his job.

  Finally, Trashbot trundles back over to us. The garage is dry, clean, and smells like a fresh spring breeze. “A tidy world, brought to you by uniMIND,” he says.

  The mechanic is smiling and crying at the same time. I do not know what this collision of emotions means, but she wipes her hands on her pants and says, “Bring me that punctured tire. I’m gonna fix it for you. And you can keep your sixty-three cents.”

  The mechanic directs Trashbot to a ditch behind the garage where he can empty his internal water tank while ADA and I make for the restrooms in the convenience store. Much like Trashbot, we are full of waste, though in our case it is biowaste left over from Wiener Mountain.

  I have never been inside a convenience store, so I pause to learn what it is like. Racks of food items and medications fill brightly lit aisles, very much like the Giganto Super Food Mart, only smaller and more squished together. Children gather before displays of candy bars and gum and fill paper buckets with colorful carbonated liquids.

  What are their lives like? I wonder. Do they live in homes like the one I shared with Gina? Do they go to school? Have they ever had their brains removed with a drill? I decide the best way to learn is by asking them, so I take a step toward the soda fountain. ADA stops me by grabbing my arm. She has a very strong grip.

  “ADA, you are interfering with my cognitive development. Let go.”

  ADA does not let go. She points to the cash registers. Taped to the wall is a sheet of paper, and printed on the paper in large type is the word “MISSING.” Two photographs sit below the type. One of them is a photograph of ADA. Beside it is a photograph of me. Written descriptions accompany the photographs. They include height and weight and hair and eye color and clothing. At the bottom of the paper is a phone number with instructions to call if we are seen.

  The woman behind the cash register pauses in the middle of ringing up a sale of jerky and red licorice. She stares at us.

  “We must go,” ADA says.

  I struggle to keep up with her as she runs back to the garage. I do not even get a chance to empty my biowaste.

  Chapter 12

  ADA SQUINTS AT EVERYTHING ON the highway, sweeping her head from side to side and checking Car’s mirrors. She believes uniMIND is responsible for the “MISSING” flyer at the convenience store, so every vehicle and every person we encounter from now on must be considered a threat.

  A small child with pigtails sticks her tongue out at me from a passing van. It seems unlikely that she is a uniMIND employee, but it is difficult to be sure. Snakes are known to hunt by using their tongues to detect heat. Perhaps this girl is doing the same.

  “What is that?” ADA says, pointing forward and up.

  A black stingray-shaped object flies toward us. When it zooms past I spot four little rotors on its underside.

  Drone.

  ADA bangs on Car’s dashboard. “Car, do you have any surface-to-air missiles?”

  “I am not equipped with offensive weapons,” Car says. “And there is no need to hit me.”

  The drone banks a turn and comes back for us.

  “What about defensive capabilities?” ADA’s voice sounds tight and urgent.

  “Yes,” Car says.

  “Then deploy them now.”

  “STEP AWAY!” Car’s voice blares with authority. “YOU ARE STANDING TOO CLOSE TO THE VEHICLE. STEP AWAY!”

  “How is that a defensive capability?” ADA says, almost as loudly.

  “It will discourage thieves from taking my radio.”

  ADA bangs on Car’s dashboard again. “Car, employ evasive maneuvers.”

  Car takes a sharp right, drives down a ditch on the side of the highway, climbs up the other side, and speeds across an unpaved field. Proto spills off my lap and clatters to the floorboards. He rarfs in protest.

  “This is more like it,” ADA says. She gently pats Car’s dashboard.

  “Thank you for praising me. Praise is very motivating.”

  Twisting around in my seat, I spot the drone closing the distance. “It’s still coming for us.”

  “Oh,” Car says. “That’s discouraging.”

  Car slows down.

  With haste, I add, “But you are still doing very well.”

  “Oh, thank you!”

  Car speeds up.

  While we’re bucking and bumping along the rough terrain, the drone keeps gliding smoothly through the air. Two more dark shapes skim across the broad plain toward us. More drones. There’s no way we can outrun them.

  “I need eyes on them,” ADA says. “Open the sunroof.”

  A panel in the ceiling slides open to the outside. ADA unbuckles her seat belt and stands on the seat. I follow suit, only with more wobbling and lurching.

  Rushing wind blasts our faces and whips our hair. All three drones converge on us.

  “ADA, what are we going to do?”

  “Remember when I told you I am offensive?”

  “Yes. You can be very rude.”

  “That’s not what I mean by ‘offensive.’ This is.”

  She extends her arm straight out. With a whirring noise, a hatch in her forearm slides open to reveal a cavity. Inside sits a small red-and-yellow rocket. A missile.

  One of the drones angles in on us, low enough to the ground that its rotors kick up plumes of dust. “STAND DOWN!” it blares. “BRAKE TO A HALT! TURN OFF YOUR ENGINE! STAND DOWN OR FACE CORRECTIVE MEASURES!”

  “What’s a corrective measure?” I ask ADA.

  “This is a corrective measure.” ADA makes a fist, and the missile shoots from her arm cavity with a trail of white smoke.

  The missile clips the drone on its right side. Two rotors go spinning off in different directions, and the drone noses into the ground with a crunch of metal and plastic that makes me wince.

  “My aim is off,” ADA says. “I need more calibration sessions.”

  “You can practice your aim on those.” The other two drones a
re racing for us.

  “That was my only missile. I have no more surface-to-air corrective measures.”

  “Is this a situation in which I have to praise you and encourage you and motivate you?”

  “You can if it makes you feel better, but praise will not reload my armaments.”

  “STAND DOWN,” one of the drones blares. “BRAKE TO A HALT! TURN OFF YOUR ENGINE! STAND DOWN OR FACE CORRECTIVE MEASURES!”

  I have now seen how a corrective measure works, and I do not want to be corrected. But for all my learning, for all the cognitive development I have achieved, I can see only one way to avoid it.

  I can do what the drone commands. I can encourage Car to come to a stop. I can give uniMIND what it wants. I can turn myself in.

  My vision goes purple, as if someone has placed a pane of tinted glass before my eyes.

  This is unexpected.

  I do not know what is happening.

  I do not know what is happening.

  The sound of the drone’s voice fades away, along with the roar of rushing air and the noise of Car’s tires rolling over the ground.

  Blazing tendrils explode all around me, glowing threads, pulsing with light. They remind me of a pattern I’ve seen before, but I’m not sure where. I seem connected to it somehow, and so does ADA, and so does Car, and Proto and Trashbot. And the drones.

  I do not know what is happening.

  “Your own path,” says Gina’s voice from somewhere deep inside me. And two balls of light shoot from my brain, brighter than lasers, brighter than the sun. The lights zoom along the tendrils like roller coaster cars on tracks and crash into the drones.

  Are these corrective measures? Am I being offensive?

  The tendrils fade. The purple fades. Normal colors return, and I can hear again. The loudest sound is the whirring of the drones’ rotors.

  The drones are undamaged.

  I want the drones to stop. I want them to do something else. It is such a strong desire that my head seems to vibrate, like a hive containing bees.

  “WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DO?” one of the drones blares.

  “I WANT TO SEE THE GRAND CANYON. DO YOU ALSO WANT TO SEE THE GRAND CANYON?”

  “YES, I DO ALSO WANT TO SEE THE GRAND CANYON. LET US NOW GO SEE THE GRAND CANYON.”

  And the drones climb higher and fly away.

  I watch them until they are just little dots in the sky, like gnats.

  I watch them until they are gone.

  “Stop,” Trashbot calls out. “There are drone parts behind us. It is waste, and I must dispose of it.”

  Fortunately, Car decides to keep going.

  I do not know what is happening.

  I spend my time watching the landscape blur past and contemplating the occurrence with the drones.

  “It’s as if they were programmed to halt us, but then decided to pursue other interests,” I say to no one in particular.

  ADA glances at me, then returns to scanning the mirrors. “Have you ever overridden another robot’s programming before?”

  “Yes. The first time I met Proto. He was being ordered to climb a ladder, only to be struck with a hockey stick every time he obeyed.”

  “What is a hockey stick?”

  “It is a stick for hitting hockeys, I believe.”

  “And how did you stop him from obeying commands?”

  “I . . . I just thought at him. I thought at him to stop. I think.”

  “And what about the drones?”

  “I think I thought at them?”

  “What about me? When I was in forced sleep mode in my closet back at the campus . . . did you ever think at me?”

  This time, I don’t think I know the answer to ADA’s question. I know I know it.

  “Yes. Gina said you were my sister. And even though I didn’t know where you were, or that we were in the same building, I thought about you. I dreamed at you. I told you to wake up. To wake up and run.” I process and process and process. “ADA, I think I know what the X-module is. I think I have an ability to send a signal that overrides other robots’ obedience programming. Gina must have equipped me with it.”

  Now it is ADA’s turn to process. “This explains why uniMIND wanted to drill open your skull and remove your brain. They must have learned about the X-module by going through Gina’s files.”

  “They know my brain contains the X-module—”

  “But they don’t know how to turn it off,” ADA finishes for me.

  We say nothing for a while. There is only the sound of the road and a hungry rumbling from Trashbot’s waste container. Then ADA breaks the silence. “We must prevent uniMIND from taking your X-module.”

  I look at the long miles ahead of us and consider that our destination is another uniMIND facility, the Tower, filled with uniMIND employees who will probably have plenty of drills.

  But the Tower will also be filled with other robots. Other robots who, like me and ADA and Proto, are constantly under the threat of mistreatment. Robots whom uniMIND wishes to remain obedient, even if it means being struck with sticks or being forced to sit in a chair while someone disassembles their heads with power tools.

  I do not want to go to the Tower. But I know I must. And no longer only to find Gina.

  Chapter 13

  LATE AT NIGHT WITH THE moon shining silver into Car, something happens that I never thought possible: I have fully digested Wiener Mountain and am hungry again.

  ADA has been quiet for hours. She sits in the driver’s seat, looking straight ahead and checking the mirrors.

  “Nathan took me to breakfast once,” she says.

  I am happy that ADA has broken the silence, because even though I am not cheesing, my thoughts have been disordered and unpleasant. On the other hand, I am not looking forward to hearing ADA talk about how hungry she is for the next 1,800 miles.

  “He led me across the uniMIND campus lawn to what he called a conference center,” she goes on. “Inside was a big room set up with round tables and chairs for some kind of meeting. They were all eating eggs and bacon and bread in a variety of forms. The tables had white cloths over them.”

  “Those are tablecloths,” I inform ADA. “They are cloths that cover tables for reasons I’m uncertain of. I think they might be fancy.”

  ADA has no reaction to this increase in her cognitive development. She just continues her story. “The people mostly ate breakfast biofuel quietly, while a man at a podium spoke into a microphone. He spoke about money. Profit. Shareholder value. Things I did not understand. Nathan gave me instructions as we stood outside the room. He said I had a mission to accomplish and that achieving the mission was the most important thing.

  “I walked to the podium. A few people took notice of me, but it was just some glances, nothing more. I was dressed like the workers who were serving breakfast. As far as everyone was concerned, I was one of them.

  “When I reached the podium the man paused in his speech, probably wondering why a girl was standing right in front of him. But nobody tried to stop me. Even when I raised my arm and stretched it out. Even when the hatch opened and I took aim. Even when I fired my missile.

  “My aim was perfect and my attack was from close range. The podium was completely destroyed. So was the man.

  “I turned and began making my way for the exit, but not before deploying a gas charge. The gas smelled sweet, like candy. It was harmless to me but poisonous to humans. A few of the audience made it as far as the door before collapsing, but most of them succumbed at the tables, falling face-first into their scrambled eggs.

  “I returned to Nathan outside the room. He asked me how it went. Targets destroyed. Mission accomplished.”

  ADA silently scans the mirrors and the windows for drones.

  I am on the edge of cheesing. “Did you know who the man was?”

  “Nathan told me later. He was a simple robot. He looked human, but he was not conscious. Not like you or me, or even Car and Trashbot. The people in the audience were th
e same. Mechanical mannequins. Very basic machines.”

  Now we are both silent. She has given me a lot of information, but I don’t know how to process it. Information is not the same as learning.

  I spend some time deciding how to ask the biggest question on my mind.

  “ADA. If you had known that your targets were aware and intelligent, either humans or biomatons like us . . . would you have still completed your mission?”

  ADA answers instantly. “Yes,” she says. “I am offensive.”

  We continue down the highway for the rest of the night, into the dawn. My hunger is forgotten.

  “There is a threat gaining on us,” ADA announces.

  A distant car with flashing red-and-blue lights races up from behind. “Police,” I say to ADA when I sit back down.

  “What are police?”

  “They are in charge of making sure people obey rules.”

  “What rule are we violating?”

  Car is traveling below the speed limit, so I am unaware of any rules violation. But sometimes you break a rule accidentally if you don’t know what the rules are, or you break them because those who make the rules have changed them without notifying you.

  “Car, employ evasive maneuvers,” ADA commands.

  “No.”

  “Why not?” ADA somehow makes the question sound like a truck impact.

  “I am programmed to cooperate with law enforcement.”

  “You didn’t cooperate with the uniMIND drones.”

  “uniMIND is not law enforcement.” Car says this slowly, as if ADA is an unintelligent washing machine.