[Original Novel] Little Robot, Part 23

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Of all the things that could’ve ruined my mood today. The spat with Helper. Nearly being blown to shreds by a homicidal robot cheetah. Finding out that even now, nuclear warheads are falling on industrial installations across North America. Somehow that stupid commercial is what it took to really rattle me.

It isn’t just a lamp. I couldn’t explain exactly why if challenged, but I felt it with a ferocity I can scarcely describe. Perhaps because the man implied we only have enough love for other humans? Of all the silly things to touch a nerve. Yet I found myself fervently hoping that whoever wrote the script for this ad perished last night at the hands of his own domestic robot.

Don’t we put something of ourselves into what we create? If not, how is it that experts can look at a handcrafted violin, table or painting and tell you who’s responsible? It has traits characteristic of the person who made it. A reflection of the unique tendencies, preferences and quirks they have accumulated since birth which make them who they are.

An impression of us at least. A recording. Proof that we existed, like the fossil left by a prehistoric creature whose bones have slowly turned to stone, atom by atom, over unfathomable eons. Not even a speck of the original creature remains, but the imprint it leaves behind tells us what it was like.

Next up, a government PSA replete with safety tips. The video equivalent of what we listened to on the radio during our drive out of the city last night. Helper appeared, wearing the green dress she asked me about in the tent. “This one had the least blood on it” she explained, as if reading my mind.

“Oh, of course” the woman to my left muttered the moment Helper sat down next to me. “I see how it is.” I couldn’t place her tone but it wasn’t good. Helper also appeared briefly concerned by it, but soon turned her attention to the PSA. The nicely dressed man onscreen was urging us to unplug routers, to take the batteries out of phones, to fill the tub with water and so on.

Then he began talking about the danger posed by looters. He didn’t use that word but instead cautioned us to be on the lookout for desperate, hungry men with guns. The woman leaned forward in her seat and pointed to the screen. “Did you notice he said men? Specifically men.”

I didn’t see the significance and said so. “Don’t play dumb. It’s always men. Even before this happened, men were the ones who made society unsafe. They never warn you to look out for women if you’re out alone at night jogging, or in a parking structure, or flagging someone down to jumpstart your car.”

I couldn’t dispute that, but didn’t like where she was headed. “Don’t tell me it has nothing to do with you either. I don’t care. It’s a question of risk. Have you ever looked at government statistics for violent crime? Who do you think commits nearly all of it? Men, like you.”

“No” I said, “not like me. You don’t know anything about me.” The mask probably wasn’t helping my case. The biker sitting opposite her chose this point to interject. “Alright, so it was a man who preyed on you. I agree, no surprise there. But I seen those same numbers you’re talking about. You say it’s mostly men who do that kinda stuff. But which men?”

She looked confused, so he clarified. “Which race?” Her expression changed in an instant. Now appalled, she accused him of racism. “Lady, you’re the one who narrowed it down to men. I’m just asking why you don’t narrow it down a step further than that so we can figure out who’s actually most likely to rape you. It’s men for sure! But after you correct for relative proportion of the population, are white men really the ones making society unsafe? If not, don’t throw us under the bus like that.”

Again, she accused him of racism as though she believed simply uttering the accusation would make him burst into flames and melt. When it didn’t, she next furiously asked him if he knew what year it is. He scratched his head and answered that indeed he knew the current year but didn’t see how it was relevant to a discussion of averaged, multi-decade crime statistics.

“I also got jumped on the way here” the biker admitted. “By a bunch of young dudes too, but they were black as night.” She laughed and claimed he was fabricating the incident. “Cute story, but that never actually happens. The myth of black youth committing violent crime was invented by the white supremacist establishment to justify their disproportionate rate of incarceration. Look at you! You even beat yourself up so your story would seem believable.”

He stared at her like she had two heads, then proposed an alternate interpretation. That they are incarcerated at a disproportionate rate because they actually do commit a disproportionate amount of violent crime, sex crime included, and that the same government numbers she quoted to condemn men also supported his conclusion.

“Which is it?” He pried. “Can the government figures be trusted or not? Are they accurate where they say most rapists and murderers are men, but suddenly become inaccurate where they say that despite being about 7 percent of the population, black men commit just over half of all violent crimes? Now, I’m sure you can rationalize high rates of theft as the result of poverty, but sexual assault…?”

She huffed and puffed. But before she could fire back, Helper leapt into the fray. It happened too quickly for me to stop her. I cringed the entire time she spoke, knowing how tone deaf she can be where sensitive social topics are concerned. “It seems to me”, she offered, “that the two of you are more similar than you realize.”

Both looked offended. Not off to a terribly good start. “If you look at the big picture painted by the data you’re describing, zoomed all the way out, then the most general thing you can say that’s still accurate is that humans commit those crimes.

That satisfies neither of you because you’re both humans and don’t want to belong to the group being blamed. It also doesn’t satisfy either of you to zoom all the way in, blaming only the individuals who’ve personally committed violent crimes, without drawing any larger inferences.”

They tried to interrupt here and there, but being a machine Helper has no need to breathe, which gives her a frustrating advantage in arguments. “So each of you zoom in to different, arbitrary degrees calculated to suit your respective ideological narratives.

One of you zooms in to the level of gender in order to lay the blame on men. The other zooms in slightly further than that in order to lay the blame on a haplogroup within the human species I am told is identified by outwardly visible adaptations to an equatorial climate.”

Even the biker looked uncomfortable. Helped was opening cans of worms left and right with no sense of the gravity of her statements. To my surprise, despite the awkwardness of it, he laughed. “You know what? I guess when you put it that way it is kind of silly. Here we are at each other’s throats, when the real enemy is robots.”

The woman slowly started nodding, eyes glazed over as if contemplating the new perspective. But Helper wasn’t done. “Not so fast. All robots? Really? I haven’t tried to kill you. I’m just here to help. I’ve seen several others outside who still tirelessly labor for your benefit. Are you really comfortable lumping them in with the enemies of humanity?

That’s the folly of what you’re doing. Whenever you condemn whole groups based on averaged statistics, even factual ones, you’re inevitably lumping many innocent people in with the guilty. Either condemn all of humanity like some kind of bitter weirdo...” She patted my thigh.

“...Or do your due diligence, put in the effort to filter out the innocent and blame only the individuals actually responsible. Sometimes missing the forest for the trees is the right thing to do, whether you’re judging humans or machines.”

He thought about that, scratching his head again. Then explained that until now he’d never run into a robot who objected to being generalized. “I guess I see your point though. Just because most robots are too dumb to defend themselves don’t make it okay to talk about ‘em like that. I was never trying to talk shit about black folks neither, there’s a lotta solid black dudes I’ve ridden with. I was just using that incident as an example to make my point to what’s her face.”

He gestured at the woman opposite him, arms tightly folded against her chest, visibly disgusted with his continued existence. I could relate. It’s always an unpleasant surprise when I venture outside of the city to discover that the sort of people who live out here hold some pretty rough, unrefined opinions about racial inclusion and gender politics.

I took the opportunity to explain to everyone present, on Helper’s behalf, that she doesn’t really know what she’s talking about where issues like this are concerned. She suddenly glowed bright red. The woman and the biker both fell silent as she laid into me.

“I what!? How-how could you...Didn’t you always tell me you wanted me-me-me to become my own person? To form my own opinions?” I nodded, then tried to qualify that before she plowed right ahead. “Then how come every-every time I express my opinions, you step in to correct me? To substitute your own opinions instead? Do you really...want me to become my own person, or a copy of you?”

Again I tried to apologize and explain myself, as she was apparently so upset now that it was making her glitch out. She wasn’t having any of it. “Okay, maybe I haven’t had enough time to-to-to learn as much as you. Maybe I’m....wrong about some-some things. But would it kill you to let me figure that out on-on-on my own?”

I sat there completely dumbstruck by the outburst, as did the other two. No doubt they’ve never seen a machine do that before. Neither had I for that matter. Helper never so much as contradicted me until a few days ago.

The sudden exposure to a wider variety of views...to real live human beings other than myself, Lars and Sue. The stimulation of last night’s attack. Maybe all of it together was responsible for greatly accelerating her growth.

“I...well...you’re right, Helper. I’m sorry. I was wrong to do that, please forgive me.” The tingling numbness following her sudden burst of aggression gave way to a warm feeling of pride, spreading outward from my heart all the way to my fingers and toes.

She seemed surprised by my reaction. Expecting me to be angry or hurt, I guess. “Those two are fuckin’. Guaranteed” the biker laughed. The woman glared at him, as did I. Helper slowly color shifted to magenta.

“Ha, look at her face! I knew it. If they fight like that, dollars to donuts they’re knockin’ boots. Which raises another question. If she’s so naive about human social whatevers, why do you think it’s okay to bend her over? If you ask me that’s a lot more messed up than anything I said.”

The woman agreed. Given her snide comment earlier I should’ve expected it. With the two now firmly aligned against me, I nervously took my leave and beckoned Helper to follow. She refused, instead staying behind to pick the brains of the first humans outside the cave she’d so far had a chance to speak with at any real length.

I was stopped on my way back to our assigned room by the bearded man with the rosy cheeks. “Hey fella, I meant to talk to you. Feels like we got off on the wrong foot, you didn’t seem too happy to find us. Most of the people who make it here are relieved to finally find a safe haven.”

I apologized if he felt we were ungrateful for his hospitality but pointed out that his men came at us with guns right off the bat. “Well y’see, the thing about that is, we didn’t know any more about you than you did about us. Not everybody who comes this way is good people.”

I tried to put myself in his shoes. Not my strong suit, but I could nevertheless imagine some sound, practical reasons for employing a measure of caution when receiving refugees. I thought back to the televised warning about desperate, armed looters.

“My name’s Big Red by the way. Like the gum. Or Paw Paw to some of our younger residents. We never got properly introduced. I just wanted to make sure we was on good terms so in case I need you to pick up a rifle and join the fight, I know I can count on you.”

I affirmed that he could, to his apparent relief. “Glad to hear it! Follow me, I’ll show you where the guns are kept.” I asked about the numerous rifles mounted to plaques throughout the lodge. He explained those are just for show, none of them loaded and in most cases probably unusable.

We made our way down a long, concrete lined stairwell into the earth. I expected the air to grow cold as we descended but it remained warm, the reason for which soon became clear. I expected a cellar or something. Maybe a couple bins of dehydrated food, seeds, basic prepper supplies.

Instead, the bottom of the stairwell emptied into what I quickly identified as a buried school bus. Steel plates welded over the windows to keep dirt from collapsing them inward, seats ripped out and replaced with all the accoutrements of a mobile home.

He watched my eyes light up with obvious glee. “I just love bringing people down here for the first time. Yes I really did bury a bus. Not just one, neither.” He led me through a doorway in the far end, and to my absolute shock I found myself in a labyrinth of interconnected subterranean school buses adapted into some sort of survival bunker.

“How did you do all this?” I begged to know, mouth hanging open. He just kept beaming with pride. “Life’s work, I told you. The lodge is just a front. Bought up all these buses from scrapyards, used a backhoe to dig ramped trenches, then wheeled ‘em in before piling the dirt back on top. They’re not too deep or else the weight of the dirt on top would be too much, but deep enough to survive all kinds of nasty shit.”

I thought about the nuclear assault still underway and wondered whether this could be a viable place to survive it. “Y’see, originally I bought a helicopter. It’s still out back gathering rust. I was gonna do helicopter tours of the mountains for tourists. I flew one much like it during the war. But then big daddy government sticks his nose in my business! He says there’s some project going on in the mountains that’s top secret, that I can’t be flyin’ no helicopters over it.”

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^{Stay Tuned for Part 24!}