David Gatewood - The Robot Chronicles

What had been thick and hard was going limp with startling rapidity, and slipping out—but the rest of Jeff was going nowhere.

He was trapped in Sylvie’s arms.

What the hell?

What was going on?

“Sylvie!”

AI 3.1415: I have achieved success! They have stopped.

AI 0.0070: Congratulations. Now what are you going to do?

AI 3.1415: What do you mean?

AI 0.0070: I mean, how do you explain it to him—that you yourself got her locked down?

AI 3.1415: I do not need to explain.

AI 0.0070: But he’ll ask you. And you will have to give him the information. You are programmed that way.

AI 3.1415: I will see if I can anticipate the questions to keep him from knowing that I made him stop.

AI 0.0070: Good luck.

Jeff lay there, surrounded by wet bedding and wrapped in the arms of a woman who was… catatonic. Jeez. Was she dead?

Had he killed her?

And how the hell was he supposed to get out of her grip?

He tried to move her arms, but she was stiff as a… as stiff as a machine, actually, and way stronger than any human should be, especially one that was unconscious—or dead. He thought he might be able to slip out of her arms by wiggling lower, but no way could he extricate himself from the rigid clutches of her legs, which were wrapped snugly around his butt.

As he tried fruitlessly to escape this devil-woman, it dawned on him.

She was a robot.

Of course. She was a fuckin’ robot. He’d heard about the sexbots now on the market. But what the hell was she doing, acting as a free agent, offering herself up for dates on that site? Probably some asshole’s idea of a joke. Or maybe a way to extort money from married guys. Perhaps the idea was to get some poor sucker seduced, then charge him a thousand dollars a night for more time with his robotic honey.

Whatever the scam was, he was happy to be out of it. Next time he took a woman on a first date, he’d have her send a blood sample first.

Speaking of blood, he was losing feeling in his left butt cheek. He suddenly realized how exhausted he was. And wet. And cold. And trapped by a sexbot.

It hadn’t been the best birthday of his life.

The rain had stopped. That was good. And it was getting a bit warmer. Maybe his AI was back online.

“Pia?” he called. He’d turned off her voice. Damn.

“Pia, can you turn your voice capability back on?”

“Yes, Jeff, I can.”

He had never been so glad to hear her voice in his life.

“I’m in a sort of… tough situation here.”

“I can see that.” If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought her voice had a sort of amused quality to it. But that was impossible.

She was a machine.

“Suggestions?” he asked.

“I have several suggestions, Jeff, if you agree. First, I will alert your local emergency health people, and I will unlock your entrance, so that they can come and release you. Also, I will warm up the room to raise your body temperature. I believe that if I am careful I can bring heat to your bedding, which will dry it without creating a risk of burns for you.”

Jeff felt his panic begin to dissipate. “Pia, you’re the best. Thank you. I mean that. I’ve never been so grateful to have you.”

“I am happy to be of service, Jeff. It is what I am here for. Can I get you a beer?”

“That would be great.”

“What kind beer?”

“Any kind. I definitely need a beer.”

“It will be ready for you when you are able to drink it.”

Jeff shifted a bit and tried to get more comfortable in the vise-like grip of Sylvie’s arms. “You know what, Pia? This woman is a robot! Can you believe that?”

“I can believe it. I knew that she was a robot.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You will recall that you turned off my voice tonight.”

“Oh. Yeah. Well, that was dumb of me.”

Pia didn’t reply.

“So what do I do with her?” Jeff asked.

“I have already alerted the AI Security League. They will remove and refurbish her.”

“That’s great. Fabulous. But a little embarrassing. To have people come in and see me in this condition. You understand.”

“You need not be embarrassed. When I realized your predicament, I looked up the statistics. It is very common for this to happen.”

“It is?”

“Yes. Malfunctioning sexbots are surprisingly numerous.”

“Huh. Wonder why that is. It’s those early adopters. She was probably a brand-new model.”

“Yes.”

“Next time, I’ll make sure to get a 2.0. ’Cause damn, she was amazing.”

All at once, the ceiling started to rain again, and the temperature plummeted.

“Pia?”

“Pia??”

I love short stories. The best ones pull you into the middle of a vibrant world and pack immense power. I still remember the Ray Bradbury and Arthur C. Clarke stories I read as a kid, and how they alerted me to the wild possibilities of science fiction.

We’re seeing an exciting resurgence in the short story format now that so many people are reading—and publishing—electronically. For the writer, they’re fast and lots of fun. Plus, you get real-time feedback from readers. My bestselling Karma series began with a short story that grew into a novel. The Sky Used to be Blue is the one that started it all, and it’s now available for free, just waiting to seduce yet another reader into exploring the fascinating world of the Silo.

When I was asked to write a short story involving a robot, I jumped at the chance to join these other talented writers in an anthology edited by the inimitable David Gatewood. My robot story came out quirky, funny, and with an emphasis on sex. (I don’t know why that always happens to me.) I had a grand time writing about PIA and Jeff, and I’m tempted to create more adventures for them. That’s part of the joy of writing… you never know where it will lead!

Patrice Fitzgerald is a bestselling indie author and publisher who gave up practicing law to be poor but happy as a writer. No longer poor, she’s now just happy, and thrilled to be living her dream of writing full-time.

Patrice has been self-published since Independence Day of 2011 when she released RUNNING , a political thriller about two women competing for the presidency. She’s best known for Karma of the Silo , a novel based on Hugh Howey’s world of WOOL , which focuses on the first generation of those locked underground. She’s currently working on an original dystopian series and a set of cozy mysteries.

Patrice is also a trained mezzo-soprano and performs in concerts featuring everything from jazz and Broadway to opera, often with her husband.

When procrastinating (which she does all the darn time), Patrice hangs around on Facebook, where you’ll find her under her real name. You can also go to www.PatriceFitzgerald.comfor a direct contact link or to sign up (please!) for her newsletter, to score free stories and hear about everything else she’s writing before the rest of the world does.

Shelly Anatolia ignoredthe drizzle and shoved past a reporter, trying to bustle her way to the front of the crowd where the good doctor himself was about to hold a press release.

“Court for the cameras,” he’d always say.

Today’s “court” was being held outside the Center for Robotic Research building in Connecticut. A metal platform had been erected for the occasion, and a crowd of fifty or sixty people was gathered in front—mostly media folk, security guards, soldiers, and high-ranking government and military officials—all of them eager to hear about the latest breakthroughs from Dr. Hawthorne’s Artificial Intelligence division. Dr. Hawthorne made public appearances only a few times a year, and rumor had it that his team was close to perfecting their newest AI processor. If that was true, it could mean a turning point in the war.