[Original Novel] Little Robot, Part 14

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The rest of the week also went unusually smoothly. Thanks to Sue, Lars now kept his distance. Except for an unmistakably hostile sidelong glare from Richard when we both went to retrieve our mail at the same time, things were pretty copacetic in my little world. Boring, but that’s how I like it. It means nothing is going wrong.

After work on Monday, the Helper in my phone reminded me to pick up some bleach. It had completely slipped my mind. I don’t know what I’d do without Helper, I have the memory of a goldfish.

If my phone died and for whatever reason I couldn’t get ahold of another, I would probably get lost in the wilderness and be eaten by bears before the day was out.

As I was also scheduled to meet with my shrink today, I postponed the shopping trip. No time. Most likely I’d just forget again if I didn’t do it on the way, but I couldn’t very well leave a jug of bleach sitting in a public autocab. No guarantee that’s the one that would come get me after my session. I don’t know if there’s a law against that, nor do I care to find out.

I settled on creating a new reminder for an hour later. Good thing I didn’t attempt the detour, it took me a bit longer than usual to snag an empty elevator.

Empty except for a new conversational AI. Seems like they take these out when the complaints pile up, wait a few months, then reinstall ’em as if the outcome will be different.

“Thank you for riding me today!” I smirked, mind in the gutter. “Are you new to the area?” I said that I wasn’t. “Can I recommend some hot restaurants and bars which score highly on Cityguide?” I declined, but added “You’re doing a good job” as I stepped off onto my floor.

The protest was still in full swing. I expected it to wane as those with jobs would eventually need to return to them. But then, one of the main things they’re protesting is the replacement of human workers with robots. I probably overestimated how many were employed to begin with.

This time a street preacher was among them. Hair perfectly parted, wearing an expensive looking suit as they often do in order to imply a correlation between conversion and financial success.

He held up a sign condemning all manner of things as sins worthy of death. Topping the list? Owning, making use of, or advocating for robots.

One of them recognized me from the other day and pointed me out to his buddy. I wondered if perhaps I made a terrible mistake by pulling that stunt, given that I’ll have to pass these people every day until the protest finally runs out of steam.

A cluster of scraggly looking kids with laptops and VR tans huddled off to one side of the mob. It’s that rectangle or peanut shaped patch of lily white skin around your eyes that develops from spending too much time with a headset on.

The one with his back turned to me wore a black T-shirt bearing the logo of a grassroots hacktivist collective I’ve seen in the news a lot lately.

Mostly for defacing the websites of major AI and automation firms, Evolutionary Robotics included. One of them briefly made eye contact with me as I passed.

I didn’t stop. What would I say? I have less than nothing in common with these people. One motioned as if to get up. I tugged at the rims of my gloves, making sure they were snugly in place should any of them try to grab, strike, or otherwise touch me. Thankfully nothing came of it.

“Hel-lo-how-are-yyoouuuu?” I turned to confront the source of the singsong, plainly robotic inquiry. A humanoid, skinless and perhaps five foot eleven.

Styled to vaguely resemble a woman, with a stiff plastic skirt and rigid hair shaped cap the same color as the rest of its outer shell. It stared expectantly at me through a pair of black, shiny, almond shaped eyes.

“Well actually at the moment I’m in a bit of-” It cut me off. “I-am-fine-thank-yoooouuuu!” it cooed, though I’m sure I never asked. I tried to edge around it but it persistently moved to block my path. “Did-you-know… there-are-six-new-bars-and two-new-vir-t-ual-ar-cades… in-this-com-plex?”

I sighed, resigned myself to seeing this through, and answered that I didn’t with as much faux enthusiasm as I could muster. Not all of these things are corporate owned.

Many of them are home robots which the owner has leased as advertising space to make a bit of extra income, sending them out to pester passersby for a few hours each day.

It’s also the most affordable way to get your hands on a humanoid home robot, which are otherwise pretty spendy. The “ad supported” models will constantly display sponsored content on any screens built into their bodies, and slip context appropriate product recommendations into everyday conversation.

Say it’s making breakfast for you. As it’s brewing the coffee it might mention offhand that Wilkins Coffee is on sale this week, so you’d better pick some up.

Then as you’re summoning an autocab, it might ask why you haven’t been to a dealership recently to check out remarkable deals on this year’s personal cars, with unprecedented mileage per watt hour.

The machine is just doing what it was told, so I do try to have patience when they accost me like this. After hearing about the various discount offers, highly rated new attractions near me and so forth, I assured the poor thing I’d consider patronizing them all before hurriedly continuing past it.

Something like an organ grinder’s monkey, made to dance and screech for its meals. Seeing none of the profit it brings in for its owner, never comprehending why it’s forced to don uncomfortable little clothes day after day. Or those beleaguered sign wavers seen everywhere during the last recession, when it was among the precious few entry level jobs still available.

When I arrived at the shrink’s office he was just finishing up with the kettle. As usual, he offered me a cup and I declined. “It’s good for the nerves. A strong cup of tea will cure all sorts of maladies you know.”

I replied that this is why he’s a psychiatrist and not a medical doctor. He belly laughed, though I was quite serious, and the two of us settled in for today’s session.

“So, what’s new in your life?” He eased his considerable mass into the black leather recliner, cradling the steaming cup of tea just under his nose. It’s a question I long ago learned does not mean what it sounds like.

Rather than an invitation to list every event which occurred to you since your last encounter with that person, they usually just want you to pick whatever they are likely to consider most noteworthy.

“I met a woman”. His bushy grey eyebrows lifted slightly. “Is that so? Do tell.” I took my seat and fumbled for words briefly before deciding what I wanted to say.

“When I say we met, what I mean is that she followed me into an elevator.” He winced, all too familiar with my aversion to situations of that sort.

“She wants to meet me for dinner.” He chuckled and exclaimed that he was happy to hear it. “...I have no intention of taking her up on it.” The excitement drained from his face just as quickly as it appeared.

“I’m sure she didn’t mean any harm by following you, don’t be so hasty to burn a bridge before you even-” I insisted that wasn’t the problem.

“I just don’t want the trouble. I mean, what happens if I take her up on it? Supposing she likes me for some reason? That sets off a whole multi-year chain of events, the complexity of which I can’t begin to describe much less stay on top of. What’s the most likely outcome? Severe, lasting emotional damage.”

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^{Stay Tuned for Part 15!}