8.

       The metal wheels spun with a slight creaking noise. Somewhere in there was a burnt out ball-bearing. The spokes at the end of the wheels grabbed the thick, worn rubber tread and pulled it toward the back of the robot, thus propelling her forward. She was an old model, a heavy metal body, pear shaped, and covered in the typical trappings of her intended use. Yellowed foam padding snaked its way around the robot's body at varying intervals, thicker by design in some spots than in others. In some places the foam was crushed, mostly under the weight of the children. Layered over the foam was silk, soft to the touch and dirty. The accumulated dirt from thousands of hours of play and holding and cuddling and feeding.

       The robot's thick rubber treads moved her down a long empty corridor that was bathed in shadows though the lights were bright and spaced at even intervals. Alongside her walked two men in white coats, handlers of the most vile sort, unfeeling and uninterested in what lay beneath the robot's programming. They walked her down the corridor, which had taken on a dingy grey color, keeping the robot moving forward at a steady pace. Each time their faces were about to pass from beneath the shadows and be revealed by the light, a new shadow overlapped the old one, welling up from some new odd angle.

       At the end of the corridor, the door slid open to the left. Inside was the room. It swirled before one's vision, so that it could never be taken in at once. In the center was the cart which loomed like an angry executioner in the blue room—it was blue, wasn't it?—despite its small stature. Off to one side was an observation gallery. It was full of faces who had come to watch the death. This included Anita.

       The robot, whose face Anita could no longer see, was hooked up to the various monitors and systems. The two men in the white lab coats bustled around the robot, waiting for all systems to be go before they could issue the Stop. The robot—what was her name?—stood waiting patiently. There was no expression on her metal face. There was no emotion in her metal body. She was simply a collection of circuits that had now outlived their usefulness. She waited for the final systems dump and then the Stop.

       Anita watched in horrified fascination. She had never seen anything like this. And now she did not want to. Not to this robot. Not to this being. Yes, she was a being. She had lived with Anita for years—ten? twenty? five? how many?—and now she was being put down like a dog gone rabid. But it wasn't her fault. It was the programming. It had done what it was supposed to do. She should not be given this guilty verdict for taking the action she was programmed to take.

       Anita lunged from her seat in the gallery. She pounded on the glass. The men in the white lab coats ignored her. Or did not hear her. She didn't know which it was. They continued with their machinations.

       Stop! shouted Anita.

       Stop! It wasn't her fault!

       Stop! You have no right!

       Stop! It isn't right!

       STOP!

       GLADYS!

 

       Anita was bolt upright in bed when she realized where she was. Her shirt was soaked through with sweat. Her heart was pounding and her eyes were wet. She had been crying.

       She glanced at the clock. It said five in the morning. She had only been asleep for a few hours. She lay back down, knowing she had to get up soon. She might as well try to get some sleep. She tried to push the dream out of her head. She'd had it before. But the visions were too overwhelming and the flood of memories too strong. She curled her face into her pillow and sobbed.

 

       Anita Lory buzzed around her apartment in such a stated of frenzied haste that any casual observer might have thought she had been awake for hours and had consumed two pots of coffee that would pass for jet fuel. In truth she had been up for only fifteen minutes and hadn't begun to think of food or beverage. She had been on the phone most of the night making the most of her contacts and rallying a few of her most trusted troops. When she finally fell asleep it was after three in the morning. Now, at just after seven, she had woken up late and was rushing around her apartment getting ready to leave.

       Brian Coleman was waiting for her downstairs when she finally emerged, her long dark hair, normally meticulously brushed, now wrapped into a loose pony tail with dark wisps escaping here and there.

       "Geez, Anita, you look like hell," Brian said. In his hands he held two cups of coffee in paper to-go cups. He offered one to her with a lanky outstretched hand.

       Anita took the coffee and threw back a burning gulp. She opened her mouth to thank Brian and a small belch escaped.

       "Dainty," Brian said.

       "Sorry," grinned Anita sheepishly. "Thanks for the coffee."

       She took another drink, this one a longer more enjoyable swallow. Anita cast a bohemian figure. She was dressed in basic jeans with sneakers poking out from below the cuffs. She had chosen to wear one of her typical message shirts that read FREE AT LAST in an old type that Brian could only peg as 1970's porno type. She had a zippered sweatshirt over the shirt, open. Over that she had thrown the old navy pea coat she found in the local thrift store. It looked like she shoved herself into her clothing in a race. By her side was the ever-present messenger bag filled with notes, papers, odd electronics and, lying in wait at the bottom of the bag, pens.

       Brian took all this in in an instant and felt an attraction for Anita so strong it made his heart skip a beat.

       Anita finished her second drink and changed visibly from a shy, awkward girl to a woman in charge and to be reckoned with. She tugged at Brian's bomber jacket as an indication that he should follow her. She began walking down the street at such a pace it winded Brian a little to keep up, his long legs notwithstanding.

       "I got a call last night," began Anita in between slugs from her coffee cup, "from a reliable source. There was another instance yesterday of behavioral inhibition and functional interruption."

       "I like that," said Brian. "'Behavioral inhibition and functional interruption.' BIFI. Sounds kind of like a dog's name."

       "Get serious, goofball," snapped Anita, tired from a lack of sleep and growing increasingly wired from the coffee. Even she knew that it was a not a good combination. She would need to eat something pretty soon. "This is serious stuff."

       "Sorry," muttered Brian, the attraction he felt earlier fading somewhat. "So you were saying?"

       "There was another shutdown yesterday. That's the third for this company this month and today is only the fifteenth."

       "Okay, so at this pace, we have six total at the end of the month. Still not sure where you're going with this."

       "I made a bunch of calls last night to confirm that it was true, and it is. Not only that, there seemed to be something going on with this one that nobody wanted to talk about."

       "You were on the phone all night? You know, like, three people in this company. What kept you on the phone?"

       "Hey," Anita said testily, giving Brian a shove. It might have been playful, but then again, it might not have been. "I know more than three people. Besides, you don't need to know a lot of people. You just drop some names when you get transferred around and the rest kind of unfolds."

       "Oh yeah, is that how it worked?"

       "More or less. There was an awful lot of 'a friend of a friend of a friend owes me a favor' kind of thing. Running down people and leads had me on the phone all evening, and then being on the phone with our own people took me all night, but it paid off. I scored us an interview with the subject."

       "Hold on a sec," said Brian, coming to a halt and grabbing Anita's sleeve to keep her from disappearing into the thickening crowd of the city's foot-bound commuters. "You yanked me out of bed at three in the morning and had me down here at seven for this? An interview with a robot who experienced a shutdown and memory wipe? Anita, we've done dozens of these, maybe even a hundred. They all end the same. Let me recap it for you. 'What happened?' 'I don't know.' 'Why?' 'I don't remember anything.' 'Why?' 'They wiped my memory.' Why are we going full speed toward another dead end?"

       "Who said it was a dead end?" asked Anita with a mix tone of seduction and annoyance. It was subtle, but she pulled it off.

       "I say so, cause they always are."

       "Not this time."

       "Oh, where have I heard that before?"

       "I mean it. This time the memory is intact. It was never wiped clean."

       "Sure, like the one three months ago, that personal assistant to the city ombudsman. Or the one six months ago, the nanny robot watching the three kids. Not that the kids didn't have it coming. I met them. They should have been caned. But my point is that we always land on these wild goose chases."

       "I'm telling you," said Anita emphatically, "not this time."

       "Oh yeah? How do you know?"

       "Because in all of my calls and bouncing around the company switchboard, I ended up talking with one of the more sympathetic people when it comes to robotic rights."

       "Yeah? Who?"

       "The re-set programmer who performed the operation. Oh yeah, and he's the chief robot brain designer."

       "Oh," Brian said quietly. That made him stop and think for a moment. "So we're…"

       "Going to see the wizard," quipped Anita.

       "Actually, it's more like the tin man," answered Brian. The corners of his wide mouth curled slightly at the joke. Anita, whose own grin had been smug and self-righteous, broke into a genuine smile.

       "Let's go talk to this guy and find out what happened. Finally, Brian, after all this time, a real case."

       Brian, now charged with the same kind of electricity Anita felt coursing through her body, led the charge and marched forward, Anita running to catch up.

       "What do we know about the robot?"

       "He's a valet model, built about two years ago, and working for one of the vice presidents of the company. He's a single name unit, Gammons. He's always been a fairly easy unit to work with, no issues whatsoever, has never been in for behavioral modifications. I was told by a friend of mine that he was developed as a high intelligence model, which seems a bit unusual for a valet."

       Brian shrugged. "Maybe."

       Anita continued. "His user, Eric Brickenridge, has had him in for every scheduled service check since Gammons first rolled off the assembly line. Ownership of the robot is currently registered to the company."

       "Sounds pretty straight forward," said Brian.

       "I haven't told you the best part."

       "What's that?"

       "He's got an emotive processor."

       Brian stopped walking and stared at Anita. She stopped as well and stared back.

       "An emotive processor? In a valet model? That never happens. Gammons has to be a custom job. Why would someone want to put an emotive processor in a robot whose only function is to serve you? I'll bet you that somehow it's one of the things that led to the attack."

       "Maybe, but the rumor I got is that Gammons didn't attack Brickenridge. He attacked someone else who was in Brickenridge's office at the time. The name I got was Sidney Hermann."

       They started walking again. "Got anything on him?"

       "Not yet. I haven't had the chance to get online and look him up. That's the first thing I'll do when I get back home today." Thinking about the day ahead and how long it was likely to be caused Anita to yawn. "Well," she said through the yawn, "maybe it'll be the second thing I'll do."

       "You think maybe this Hermann guy provoked him?" asked Brian.

       "To the point where the robot ignored all protocols and decided to take his best shot before being shut down? Doubt it. Emotive processor or not, for a robot to go so far as to lash out like that is kid of unheard of. You've seen it yourself. Most of the cases we chase are ones where the robot is trying to defend itself from attack. But this doesn't sound that way to me. I mean, what kind of attack could he have come under in his master's office?"

       "I don't know, but it doesn't make sense to me either," Brian agreed.

       "Which is why we need to talk to him, and why I was on the phone most of the night, and why I'm yawning every other word here. We need to know what happened."

       "And with the memory intact…"

       "We'll get the real answer," finished Anita, positively giddy at the prospect.

 

       9.

       Anita and Brian cut a pair of unlikely figures in the pristine waiting area of the company's production facility. It was not a large room, as visitors to the site were infrequent. Anyone coming to the production plant generally worked for the company, had a specific destination in mind, and had their own clearance cards to get in. There was a receptionist who looked young and blonde and tempting, at least to Brian. He figured her for a temp, but his manners precluded him from asking. He simply stole glances at her sweater from behind his square trendy glasses.

       Anita was busy prepping her equipment. She had a voice recorder squirreled away in her bag, which she would not pull out unless absolutely necessary. She had a microphone piece that she could pull out if needed rather than pulling out the whole recorder. She had a fresh pad of paper and a pen with a chewed up cap ready in her hands.

       "Can I ask you something?" said Brian suddenly into the silence, causing Anita to start slightly. Waiting to be received in a building they shouldn't have been in to begin with had her slightly on edge.

       "Sure," she answered.

       "I've known you for, what, a year and a half? Maybe two?"

       "Something like that."

       "You've never told me why you're in this business to begin with."

       "What business?"

       "The business of advocacy, especially for robotic rights. Everybody's got a story, and most are willing share them. It's kind of like a rite of passage, you know? Like being initiated into a club. But every time I bring it up with you, you manage to dodge the question. Well, now I've got you trapped. What gives? Why do you spend every waking moment fighting this fight?"

       "Someone has to."

       "Bullshit," snapped Brian, a bit harsher than he'd wanted. "Cop out, and you know it. You're dirt poor, you throw every buck you scrape together back into the organization, you stay up till three in the morning making phone calls—why?"

       "Cause it's the right thing to do. Don't you feel that way?"

       "Sure, to a point. But I have a life outside this job. Freelance computer work and stuff. You don't even do that. You have no hobbies you talk about, you go to visit no one, no friends that you hang with at the local coffee shop—don't you have family you want or even need to go and visit once in a while?"

       Anita sighed and sat down. She was cynical and she knew it. She had fought hard to create a persona that allowed her to work side-by-side with humans and not find a complete and utter disdain for them. She had seen what they could do to the robots. She watched it happen in front of her to one she loved. That moment still plagued her dreams.

       She shook her head. Brian's face crunched into frustration. We're all frustrated about something, she thought. He'll just have to get over it.

       At that moment, the door that led back into the facility opened and out came a short damp man with massive glasses. Anita and Brian stood in unison. The moist man introduced himself to Anita and Brian as Peter while at the same time motioning silently for Anita to put her pad and paper away.

       Anita flipped back into advocacy mode instantly. She frowned at the man, but he insisted silently and she finally put the pad back in her bag. She wasn't thrilled but the chance to speak with Gammons was too valuable to be risked on a pad of paper.

       Peter led them through the corridors. They passed production staff and office personnel. None of the workers questioned their presence. Anita held her breath. She was desperate for this opportunity, so desperate she didn't want to blow it in any way.

       Finally Peter stopped by a door. Looking up and down the corridor for other employees—and looking terribly conspicuous as he did so—Peter keyed a number in the pad and swiped his badge through the reader. The door clicked softly; he grasped the handle and swung it inward. He hustled his two guests into the room, followed, and quickly shut the door.

       The room had the color of an empty eggshell, a bony fragile white. It housed a table and a few chairs and no other furniture. There was not even a phone. Seated at the table was Gammons.

       Gammons had a boy's facial features: high cheek bones, a narrow nose, and blonde synthetic hair. The silicon that comprised his face was a natural Caucasian skin tone, with the appropriate color added in the cheeks and the lips. His expression looked nearly natural; it was just artificial enough to convey its meaning and make the people uncomfortable at the same time. He was dressed in a jumpsuit bearing the name of the company on the left breast pocket.

       Anita and Brian quickly sat. Peter stood by the door.

       "Peter," asked Gammons, "what's this?"

       Peter did not answer. Instead he motioned to Anita, who introduced herself.

       "Mr. Gammons, my name is Anita Lory. This is Brian Coleman," she said, indicating her tall companion.

       "We're with the National Organization for the Freedom of Robotic Individuals. We've come to talk with you, if you'll let us."

       Gammons gave Peter a sideways look. Peter shuffled his feet, then focused on the two activists.

       "Why do you want to talk to me?" Gammons asked.

       "We heard about your recent incident, Mr. Gammons. We also heard that you were not put through the full protocol and therefore your short-term memory wasn't erased. Is that true?"

       Gammons didn't answer. He looked from Anita to Brian and back. He studied them as one who is untrusting of everyone.

       "I assure you," Anita said, "we're only here to try and help you. We want to bring an end to the silence surrounding the mistreatment of robots at human hands. Surely, Mr. Gammons, you want to be treated better?"

       "Stop calling me that," he snapped.

       "Excuse me?"

       "Stop calling me Mr. Gammons. My name is Gammons. It's not a first name, it's not a surname, it's just a name. Gammons."

       Anita made a mental note to proceed gently with this one. He seemed to be resentful, if that was even possible. There was a certain forcefulness with which Gammons barked at her. She tried to maneuver around it. After all, she was here to help him.

       "My apologies, Gammons. I didn't know."

       Gammons' face relaxed slightly. Anita couldn't tell whether or not that was a sign that he was beginning to feel comfortable in her and Brian's presence.

       "What do you want to know?"

       Ignoring Peter's earlier instruction, Anita pulled out her pad of paper and a pen. Brian did the same. Peter started to protest when Gammons broke in.

       "Peter, can you wait outside? I'd like the chance to talk to these two alone."

       Peter shook his head. "No, I can't. I'm sorry, Gammons. These people are my guests. If they are caught, I need to explain them. If I'm just standing out in the hallway, I'll attract attention. I have to stay in here."

       Gammons' eyes narrowed. "Why don't you go and get a cup of coffee? That way you won't draw attention to yourself and I can talk with these two people. Don't worry about them being caught. We'll keep the door locked from the inside."

       Peter shook his head again.

       "Peter," said Gammons in a voice that was kind and sweet and dangerous, "do you want me to bring attention to the lack of proper protocol when you re-set me? Do you think your supervisors would appreciate the fact that you didn't dump the memory cache?"

       Peter blanched. "That was not my decision!" he managed. "It was that evaluator's decision. I have nothing to hide."

       That would be Sidney, thought Anita. I've got to get some detail on him.

       Gammons continued. "It doesn't matter whose decision it was. Do you think anyone is going be interested in a game of finger pointing? They're going to call up you and the evaluator and fire you both. And if you get fired from here, you can bet that you won't work in this industry again. After all, it's a small world, isn't it? Industry-level robotic programming."

       Peter grew whiter and whiter, the color completely draining from his face.

       "Just go," said Gammons in as soft a tone as he could manage while still sounding commanding, "and get yourself a cup of coffee. We'll be fine."

       Peter scanned the faces of the two advocates, looking for help. Brian had looked away, digging into his own bag for something. Anita returned Peter's stare blankly.

       "Fine. Have your time alone. You've got five minutes."

       With that he punched in a code into door's keypad and, opening it just enough to squeeze himself through, exited.

       Gammons looked back to Anita and Brian. What kind of strange contest of wills did we just see here? thought Anita. Something went off in her head, a little alarm bell chiming, just barely audible among the din of other thoughts that clamored around her skull, crying out for attention. She found herself suddenly ill at ease. She couldn't quite pinpoint it. She stole a glance at Brian. He was focused on Gammons.

       "What were your questions?" asked Gammons, attempting a relaxed tone with his high voice.

       "We heard that you experienced a behavioral inhibitor shut down. Is that true?"

       "Yes."

       "Can you give us the details?"

       "Sure," the robot answered, beginning to describe how he was called into Brickenridge's office (though he didn't mention the man by name) and was asked to attack one of Brickenridge's guests. Gammons told how he swung out with the scissors that were left in position on the desk especially for this purpose and how, before the blow could fall, his systems shut down.

       "So, you were asked to attack a human?" asked Brian, speaking for the first time.

       "Yes."

       "And you complied?"

       "I had to. There is very little room in my programming for disobeying a command."

       "But it doesn't sound like it was a direct command," said Brian. "It sounds like the command was insinuated, which leaves a lot of room for interpretation."

       "And in any event," added Anita, "a direct command to attack a human would be contrary to any robot's programming, and therefore should be disobeyed."

       "Technically that's true," answered Gammons. "However my situation is a bit different from that of most other robots'. I do work for a vice president of the company, after all."

       "So you've been re-programmed with new protocols?" asked Brian, a bit horrified.

       "A few here and there, nothing too complex. My owner may be a highly intelligent man, but he knows nothing about even the most fundamental aspects of programming. What I'm saying is that there are consequences for my actions. Or in this case, my inactions, had I failed to attack."

       Anita was writing as fast as she could go. This was amazing stuff. She wondered how much longer she could press the robot before he finally ceased to answer her questions.

       "When you say consequences, you mean…?"

       "I mean punishment."

       That sparked Anita's interest. "What kind of punishment?"

       Gammons did not answer. Instead he looked off at the far wall, focusing on what, Anita could not tell. She needed a different track, one that might bring Gammons back to the conversation.

       Brian must have been on her wavelength. He asked, "Did you say you were 'owned'?"

       "Yes," answered Gammons.

       "By this vice president?"

       "Yes."

       "How does that work, exactly?"

       Gammons gave Brian a look as if to say, how could you ask such a stupid question. But rather than being snide, Gammons answered straightforward.

       "He put down an enormous amount of money and received me at the end of the assembly process, warranty included."

       "So, you're saying that he paid for you?" asked Anita. It was almost unheard of. Robots tended to belong to the government or to private companies. They filled necessary positions that might have otherwise been performed by humans, except that humans didn't want to do those types of jobs. Sanitation workers, national electric grid workers, translators, valets, nannies, doctors; you name it and there's probably a robot for it, thought Anita. But in most cases, the robots were loaned to people by organizations. They had become a type of currency. Nannies were a good example. When an employee of one company had kids that were being watched by a nanny robot, a job change usually opened up a dialogue between the old employer and the new employer. Would the new employer buy out the robot from the previous company, or would they simply replace the robot with one of their own units?

       But a person actually buying a robot for themselves? Almost unheard of.

       "So just because he paid for one, he thinks he can cause it to function improperly?" asked Anita. Gammons nodded. "That's not right."

       "No kidding," answered the robot. "You've now stumbled onto my number one problem."

       Anita stretched out a hand and placed it on Gammons' forearm. "That's why we're here, why we do what we do. We don't feel that robots should have to endure such barbaric attitudes."

       But even as she finished speaking, she withdrew her hand. Gammons, when he felt her hand on his arm, looked down at the hand and then up at Anita's face. He looked into her eyes and Anita shuddered. She couldn't tell why, but she was suddenly very uncomfortable. Gammons moved his eyes to Brian and back, and Anita shook her head to clear it. She had been around robots her whole life. Why now did she feel a sudden discomfort around this one?

       Gammons expression softened but his optical artificial eyes were still hard.

       "Thank you," he said. "I could use an advocate."

       Anita only nodded. Brian watched the exchange from behind his glasses and scribbled hurriedly on his pad.

       Anita had been taking her own notes on the conversation while Brian was recording its more subtle aspects: Gammons' apparent mood, his posture, his expressions as he listened to and answered questions. Later that day Brian and Anita would meet and piece together a single uniform report from their separate records.

       "Gammons," said Anita, regaining her composure quickly, "thanks for talking with us. I think we have the beginnings of a case here that will help bring the attention needed to the robotic rights cause. Is there a way we can call on you again?"

       "Not really," answered the robot. "For the most part I'm confined to either my owner's office or home. Most of the time it's his office. That's where I plug in for power and data loads."

       "Can you jack into the web?" asked Brian.

       "Not currently. There are several firewalls built into my data download matrix that block the web. My owner wouldn't want me downloading any unsanctioned data. If I could get through those, I might be able to send and receive messages, but not until the firewalls are dealt with."

       Brian made a note. "I know somebody who might be able to help with that. Can you give me the IP address of your data port and your registry number?"

       "Sure. I have no restrictions on that information." Gammons offered the information and Brian jotted it down hastily. At that moment, Peter opened the door and entered.

       "Okay, enough alone time. You two," he indicated to Anita and Brian, "need to go. A shift change is coming up for the plant. I'd like to get you out of here before more people see you and start to ask me questions."

       "Thank you, Gammons," said Anita. She offered her hand out of habit. He grasped her hand in his. It was soft silicon and warm, which surprised her. The grip was firm, not overly so, but strong enough to remind Anita who had the real physical strength in this room. Gammons held on a second too long and then let her hand drop. Once again Anita felt a shiver run through her that she couldn't explain.

       Brian reached forward and shook Gammons' hand with a firm single shake. Then the two advocates stuffed their notes into their bags and followed Peter out the door.

       They walked through the meandering hallways through which they had entered. The doors to the lobby became visible as they turned a corner. Before they reached the exit, Peter stopped them.

       "Look," he said, "you shouldn't have come here and I was a fool talking with you to begin with. If anybody finds out who you are, I could lose my job. I'm sympathetic to the robotic rights cause, but not to the point where it costs me my job. So I need you to forget my name and my face. Security in this building is pretty lax, usually nobody comes here, so getting you in and out was no problem. But if this comes back to me, it'll be trouble."

       Anita nodded. "We understand. We don't have much control over who reads this once we pass it in. It could become a big new story if it gets out to the right people, which is kind of what our organization is hoping for."

       "I know," answered Peter, "which is why I want you to forget you met me."

       Anita nodded. Maybe she could pull a rabbit out of the hat here.

       "No problem," she said. "Just send us to another source we can quote."

       "I don't know any other sympathizers to send you to."

       "We don't need a sympathizer, per se. We just need someone that we can say we talked to. Who said what starts to break down the more sources we have."

       "I can't help you."

       "Sure you can. You just won't."

       Peter was starting to turn red. Enough fooling around, thought Anita.

       "Here's my final offer," she said. "Give me the address of Sidney Hermann and I'll make sure your name never comes close to the story. Kick us out without it, and I can't make that guarantee."

       Peter grew redder but said nothing. By now he was perspiring more heavily than normal. He mopped his brow and stepped to a panel in the side of the wall. By touching the screen he was able to bring up the company level directory. He printed out Sidney's personal address once he found it.

       Turning back to Anita, he thrust the printout into her hands.

       "Now get out," he said and jabbed at the automatic door release. Anita watched as the doors swung wide. She turned to thank Peter but he had already started back down the hallway.