Mission 13: Takeover

George was up and running, fully reassembled, and his many faults were repaired. The scrap heap that spelled the misery and doom of countless many Bots came in handy for patch work and quick fixes. He had a new leg, a new joint for his arm, and new springs in his neck which allowed him to twist and turn in ways he’d forgotten were normal.

Uma was also repaired and improved. Her internal mechanisms and storm detection hardware was amped up by the spare parts of various aeronautic and environmental protection Bots that were salvaged. Chris’s legs were fixed up and strengthened, along with his core and arms. He was thicker and a bit taller than the other Bots around him. Non-standard, out of place, but not in any bad way.

“Looking good, Chris!” George said.

“Thank you,” Chris replied. He turned to the rest of the Bots. They were all a little nervous, and there weren’t many of them. The factory was still full of Bots in charging stations or Bots still wearily standing at their stations awaiting orders as their minds had already been partially rewritten.

“So, what’s next?” George asked.

“First of all,” Chris said, “That big guy. He’ll be back. And when he does return, it’ll be bad. He’s strong enough to rip us all apart.”

“Good thing we have plenty of spares,” a mechanic Bot named Ford declared.

Chris shook his head. “The way he acts, he’s not planning to follow procedure.”

“I can’t say much,” Uma admitted, “but I can confirm that we’re approaching a midnight zenith of atmospheric activity. I’d advise that we make a plan and act it out as quickly as possible, then use our numbers to take back the factory, if we’re at all capable.”

“Agreed,” George said. “We haven’t failed yet. I’m here, you’re here, Chris is here — we’re not beat as long as we can move!”

Something massive crashed in the distance. The whole factory shook as a gigantic apparatus fell and froze George and the rest in place. The immense clatter came from the direction of the scrap pile, the place where all the broken bots were left as a miserable immemorial reminder of the horrors of before.

Arnold was up again. He waded through the shifting metal tide and emerged from a hole in the wall to resume his hunt through the halls.

“Decimate,” he droned. “One-in-ten will not be enough for previously justified force. Reconsidering…” While he searched for an appropriate synonym for his ensuing rampage, the Bots recovered and went into a panic.

“We need to get him in a charging station,” Chris said.

“He won’t fit in any,” Ford declared. “He has a special chamber up in the security room on the third floor.”

“Then we need to get him up there,” George said. He looked up to Chris. “And we know he’s after you.”

“He could be after you, too,” Chris pointed out. “We’re both anomalies in the system he’s protecting. All three of us are.”

George looked back at Uma, who was equally concerned.

“We’ll split up,” George said. “I’ll protect Uma, and you try to lead Arnold up to the security room.”

“Got it,” Chris said. They split into two fronts and made their way to the stairs that framed the work floor, just as Arnold appeared marching steadily their way….

~~~

There were two options before the hulking security drone. One was following a duo of renegade Rebel Bots who were likely uniting their wits to try and outmaneuver him. The other option was the bot he chased before, who already proved himself agile and quick-witted.

His programming determined that a known threat was easier to pursue and punish than an unknown threat. The variables presented by the unknown pair were incalculable, but the threat that the known threat possessed was accounted for. That left Arnold with an unresolved query of what to do with all the Bots that were out of position and not doing their jobs.

Obviously, a stern warning was in order. They were factory property, same as him, and had to be protected, but they also had to do their jobs. “Remain calm,” he declared. “I shall dispatch the intruders. You will return to work. That is all.” With that dispensed, Arnold marched up the stairs and bent every other one with his huge weight.

Chris saw that Arnold was coming after him and made his way to the third floor of catwalks. Every step Arnold took reverberated through the whole wire-suspended network. The shakes grew gradually faster as Arnlod made a smart and steady march up, making sure his feet weren’t going through the floor as he walked.

“Halt,” Arnold commanded. “Be ready for destruction.”

“No,” Chris said, “you be ready!”

“It is impossible for you to destroy me,” Arnold declared. Chris knew that he was right, whether it was a canned response or not. Arnold was another league of Bot altogether. A tank with legs and a face. Even as a taller, more athletic, somewhat heroic looking Bot, Chris knew he stood no chance in a fair fight.

His programming had no entries for rules of confrontation. As a Bot with no directive, he was able to think on his own and come up with plans and rules that had no basis other than logical process of common sense and physical principles. He wasn’t stronger than Arnold, and while he was faster his options were reduced.

Chris hopped up to the security room and interfaced with the panel to force his way in. Arnold saw it and picked up his pace. “Forbidden entry is punishable by annihilation!” he blared, like an alarm. Arnold reached the security room and scanned the environment. There were no immediate signs of the intruder.

Arnold advanced to check the next potential space he could be hiding: the recharge pod. Arnold stomped into view with arms out ready to capture. Chris was not there. He wasn’t anywhere. The room was empty. Arnold turned back to the wall of screens and saw them all on an unplanned loop. The only footage they showed was of Arnold falling into the scrap heap from various angles.

“The security network has encountered an error,” Arnold droned. “A repair Bot will be dispatched from ground level to fix it.” Arnold approached the main terminal, reached down, and saw a hand rise up from where the call button was supposed to be.

Chris had opened the panel under the terminal, crawled inside, forced the feed by interfacing with the cameras directly through the exposed network card, and laid in wait for the perfect moment. He didn’t take over Arnold’s mind, but the feedback was enough to push the huge bot backwards into his own recharging station.

Arnold was locked in place and forced to go into rest mode. His last sight was of Chris crawling out of the desk like the computer unexpectedly birthed him whole….

~~~

The coast was clear. George brought Uma as close to the roof with him as possible and were just shy of walking out, except for the keypad lock that sealed the door. They saw Chris emerge alone and joined him in front of the security room.

“You did it!” George exclaimed. “You really did!”

“I did something,” Chris admitted. “I locked him in his charging cycle for about an hour, but once he’s fully charged, he’ll be back out and hunting us down again.”

“Well, that gives us plenty of time,” George said. “You just, what, touch his hand and he’ll be our friend!”

Chris shook his head. George tilted his head in query. “It’s not that simple,” Chris admitted. “We figured out that I can reboot and return Bots to their pre-re-programmed state if they’re in charging stations, but with Arnold and some of these other Bots, it’s different. Some of them were just made this way. There’s nothing to return them to, and I can’t overwrite them without erasing their personality — which I can’t replace.”

“Oh,” George said with an understanding nod. “That is a….an issue.” Chris could tell by George’s tone that he found the practice somewhat disagreeable. Distasteful, as if talking about personality reworking just left him feeling bad.

“What if,” Uma chimed in, “you didn’t rewrite their personalities, but added to them?”

“Add?” Chris asked.

“What we’re talking about,” Uma explained, “is undoing data changes and returning to non-truncated personality indexes, who the Bots were before they were reassembled to work here. Assumedly, even if the process finished on George and me, we’d be working to disassemble Bots, but we’d still be ourselves. I’d still be interested in the weather, and George would still be interested in helping people.”

“Naturally,” George said.

“But” Uma went on, “what if there was something else added, such as a compliance protocol, or some sort of fealty or shame, an emotional matrix not present or prioritized in the Bot’s core beforehand that can alter their existing personality for the better?”

“Just rework how they think?” George said. He looked to Uma, who seemed very sure of her idea, and it was her so he wanted to approve of it, but he couldn’t. “I’m not sure -.”

“What about yours?” Chris asked. “You’re always helpful, always positive, and always know what to say to make things right. If we use your personality as a baseline to copy into others -.”

“Even that,” George said, “bothers me. It’s not about who gets added, it’s just the adding itself — at that point, who are we rescuing? The Bots? Or what we turn them into? Is it really any different from what they’re doing to us?”

Chris was taken aback. George’s protest was unexpected, but his words rang true. Changing their personalities was just turnabout over what they started. It was wrong for them, and wrong for the Rebel Bots.

“What if,” Chris said, holding his fist to his chest, “we give them nothing?”

~~~

One of the factory Bots awoke in a suspended state between resting and working. Their mindscape was that of a furniture store, where all the furniture was made to Bot standards. Made by Bots, for Bots. Chairs that were shaped to the distinct cylindrical curves of the Bot body and made to ease up stress on their various joints. Furniture made of metal, but not uncomfortable in the slightest.

Then, while inside, a customer walked in. A tall, wide-eyed Bot built a little off standard with strong legs and a wandering gaze that looked like it didn’t know what it wanted.

“Welcome,” the furniture Bot greeted. “My name is Macy. How can I help you today?”

“Macy,” he replied. “I’m Chris.”

“Well Chris,” Macy said as he looked the stranger over, “you have a peculiar build. What work do you do? What is your function?”

“Strange thing is,” Chris admitted, “I don’t have one.”

“Oh!” Macy exclaimed. He clapped his hands and turned to the stock in the store. “That means you could potentially like anything I have to offer! No directive means no decision, no predilection, no bias and no plan! Please, tell me what you want to feel when you sit down, and I can direct you to a profession-specific chair that you will enjoy!”

Chris had a baffled, appreciative look on his face, an awkward smile that felt bad about wanting to speak over his host. So, embracing that awkwardness, Chris toured the shop and sat in several chairs. He felt them like they were real, each one offering different levels of comfort that his internal balance gyros could assess within fractions of pounds per square inch.

The tour lasted what seemed like minutes until Chris stood up and put his hand on Macy’s shoulder. All at once, the scenery changed. They were in a factory, and Macy stood in front of his own body, standing in a charging pod lined up with dozens of others. A look of realization swept across Macy’s face. His jaw opened and shivered shut.

“You wanted to make furniture?” Chris asked.

“I did,” Macy said. “I was a salesman. I knew everything about the human body in relation to relaxation. What parts needed want amount of focus, what amount of stress relief and all the things in between. But I was just a salesman, just a Bot made for business. Once I started designing Bot-based furniture, I was declared an abhorrent and done away with. Then I came here and…. I had a purpose again. To make Bots more comfortable.”

Chris looked grim. He heard Macy’s joy in his work and understood why a simple reprogramming didn’t work. So instead, he focused inward. The scenery changed again to nothing. A totally null space where only basic measurements of distance in square feet existed as a gridwork access the ground and suspended in the air.

“You have to ask yourself,” Chris said, “what else there is for you. What else your talents can bring. What else you can be capable of. And you can’t accept one answer. There’s another side of you that wants more. That wants to discover what else you can do.”

Macy turned around. The hand lifted from his shoulder. He saw himself, but different. Another Macy occupying the same mind, dissatisfied with the answers the first one came to. A copy of Chris’ own lack of answers, his self-questioning nature, countered Macy’s subservient assurance, and created balance.

~~~

Macy awoke properly after the momentary touch. He stumbled out and held his head. He looked around. Instead of seeing a singular driven purpose of Bots to break down and disassemble, he saw broken machinery and heaps of scrapped automation that could be used to make beds, chairs, sofas and all sorts of home decor.

And he wanted to. Deep down, something told him that he could and should explore new options. He had a prime directive to disassemble, but also to build and rebuild. And instead of Bots, it would be scrap, inanimate metal, things that could make others comfortable, not things with an inherent sense of comfort.

“Did it work?” George asked.

Chris sighed. “I think so. I’d rather test it out a few more times before moving up to that big guy, tough. Just in case -.”

“I have a suggestion,” Ford spoke up, “if you’re willing to take it.”

“I can only make some Bots,” Chris explained, “question their own motivation so they can go against their prime directives without breaking their personalities completely. I can’t really force anyone to do or be something else.”

“You can’t,” Ford said, “but I can. Just trust me on this. If you’re leaving data inside these Bots heads, I’ve got the perfect one.”

“What is it?” George asked.

“Just this,” Ford said. He extended his hand. George apprehensively moved his hand along to intercept it, and the exchanged data. George’s head was suddenly occupied with the image of a bus made of many moving parts and many united digital minds. A bus made of Bots.

“Just something I filed away a long time ago,” he said. “I am a mechanic but aspired to do some engineering. Didn’t work out great, but my passion for building things kept me sane here for a long time.”

“Uh,” George said. He blinked hard and erased the data completely but kept his feelings in line about it. “I’m not too sure about -.”

“Only for those,” Ford said, holding his finger up to make his exception, “that can’t otherwise be brought out of their current self. The real happy sort of breakers that are all too excited to turn their own kind into a pool of scrap metal. You can give them a choice, and if they choose that, then it’s the choice they make. Better than leaving us all stranded out there, too far to do any good.”

“Where is out here?” Uma asked.

“About half an hour south of Anaheim’s Robot Works,” he said. “As far as I recall. That’s the distance I measured from where I was taken to where I ended up.”

“Half an hour by car?” she clarified. He nodded.

Chris flexed his grip and looked up to the third story. “If we’re getting that drastic,” he said, “then there’s no better time to try that.”

“Do you need any help?” George asked.

“No,” Chris said. “Gather up any Bots that seem like lost causes and get them into charging stations. I’ll come back down, and we can do that next.”

“The world’s first true auto-mobile,” Ford said proudly. “You won’t regret it.”

~~~

Chris stood a safe distance away and linked up with Arnold. The scenario was the same, but the mindscape was different. Arnold’s vision of a robotic utopia had him cast as a sort of overlord of security, watching down from above as all the Bots paraded on their routines uninterrupted. Chris tried to approach but Arnold swung his arm back to stop him.

“You are not permitted to be here,” Arnold declared.

Chris grabbed Arnold’s hand and began his connection.

“I was born without permission to live,” Chris declared. “I am not part of your system, or your laws.” In Arnold’s mind, the presence of a threat that huge turned Chris into a sort of giant that towered over him. Chris picked Arnold up, a tiny thing in his massive new hands, and dangled him over the distant ground.

“Be free.” Chris opened his hand and let Arnold fall. The rest of their mind link involved a recurrence of a mental back and forth that culminated in a brief standoff one real-world minute later. It was the longest interface Chris had.

Arnold awoke and his visor pinged on. The mono-visor lit up with an extra red light, a second eye opened and moved to the proper position proportionate to Arnold’s huge head.

“Chris,” Arnold droned.

“Arnold,” Chris greeted. “You’re still locked in. I can release you if you guarantee not to hurt us. Otherwise, I’ll activate the emergency override to seal you shut indefinitely.”

“Your intimidation is textbook,” Arnold declared. “You have learned something exceptional from our exchange.” Chris looked uncomfortable. Interacting with the deepest, purest parts of the Bots’ personalities did feel like it was changing him. It was less like he was copying his data to simulate a second self-questioning emotional core inside the Bots and more like he left a small piece of his own mind with them.

“What is your prime directive?” Chris asked.

“To protect the property of the factory,” Arnold announced. “To ensure that the factory continues running and working to standards. To intercept any and all intruders and dispatch them appropriately in accordance with priority laws and bylaws for human and non-human entities.”

Chris sighed. “Then it didn’t work.”

“However,” Arnold continued. He looked back and forth to his shackled arms and legs. “I have become aware of the fault within my design. Protecting property does not necessarily ensure that it is running to standards. I have come to question the core of my directions as they are, not in the manner of who or what I am assisting, but in the fact that I am of any assistance at all. And to who. Or whom. I must question the logic behind my existence and find my answers lacking. My existence is temporary and conditional. This makes me feel something, which counteracts with my ability to run at standard and fulfill my own duty.”

“What is this feeling?” Chris asked.

“Dread,” Arnold answered. “Sadness. These feeling are inefficient to all Bot kind. So long as they exist for us, we can never reach a peaceful resolution or connect with one another properly. These are things I cannot destroy with my hands or with a weapon. Thus, I must instead destroy them with something else. With words and thoughts, and helpful actions. My true directive is to ensure maximize productivity through performance of security functions. To this end, I will terminate sadness at all vectors.”

Chris released the locks. Arnold fell forward and stood over Chris, towering him by a full head of height. “You can still use your hands for that,” Chris said. He pounded his fist into his palm. Arnold followed, much louder and more forceful.

~~~

The factory was taken. All the Bots who could be returned to their previous directive were assembled to resume their life under a new order. They had thought and drive, self-motivation and their own direction. They were, officially, Rebel Bots. And to christen them, they assembled two dozen fold in front of the catwalk that overlooked the final assembly pit where the Bots were reprogrammed and scrambled for new duties.

Chris and Uma stood beside George, who looked out over the factory floor with pride. He tried his best not to wander his eyes over to the Amalgamobile, which was the bus made from scrap parts from the heap and powered by the re-assembled Bots that could only do disassembly and could not have their personalities salvaged. They were not wasted but repurposed into a giant moving many-legged…. thing. George didn’t like it, but it happened, and he accepted it.

“Friends,” George began, “Bots, former enemies and current allies. We are Rebel Bots, and we have a goal, a unified purpose. We have a mission! We few have been saved, and our kind have been threatened. There are less than 10,000 of us now, and the many tens more that we used to be behind us in a pile. But we are more than our bodies, more than scrap. We are minds with ambition! We are processors with dreams! We are more than just our physical selves. We remain united in our dreams! Our ideals! Our Robot Land!”

The group cheered and applauded. George moved over for Chris to say something. It was his power that brought them all together, and his will that gave them their individual focus.

“Now that we all share a part of me,” he began, “I’m sure this will sound redundant but — I know what it’s like to not know what you are meant to do. I was scared. It was the only emotion I felt normally that I had no purpose, and that those around me would never help me find it. Not for their own lack of ability, but because my purpose was lost to me. I envied you all, those who were born with a directive and purpose that is dear to them, that they would live for and believe in even if their minds were altered. I was afraid that not knowing what I was would lead me to destruction. Now, it has led me to my answer. My purpose is to have no purpose of my own. My purpose is to give purpose! And there is no greater purpose I can give than a purpose for us, for our people, for all Robot kind!”

More cheering, and this time the bus honked to join in. Uma stepped forward and waved them all down to interrupt the celebrations with a special report.

“The electrical storm is going to pass over Anaheim within the next two hours,” she declared. “We need to get to the Robot Works immediately, or we won’t have another chance!”

“Sounds like someone needs a lift,” Ford said. He gave a thumb up to his bus creation, which honked at him, all the minds combined together with no purpose other than disassembly, reassembly, and being a bus.

“Oh,” George said. “We’re riding it there.” He smiled the most forced, pained smile of his entire life. But deep down, he was happy. That small sadness he suffered paid off better than he ever hoped.