David Gatewood - The Robot Chronicles

Shelly shivered and pulled her coat tighter against her body, longing for a hot coffee. She’d taken the redeye from Minneapolis the night before and wished for the dozenth time that she’d thought to pack an umbrella. She felt the same way about New England rain as she did about the man whom she’d come here to see.

No, that wasn’t true. At least rain was good for the earth.

Shelly saw an opening in the crowd and slid through a group of photographers. They grumbled about blocked shots and tried to shove her away, but she ignored them and jammed herself forward into the throng of people. There was more complaining, but she was getting closer to the stage. When she found a pocket of breathing room, she adjusted the strap of her purse, which had been cutting into her shoulder. The extra contents weighed heavily on her today.

A great clank echoed through the air, and the doors of the CRR building began opening wide, like the entrance to a castle. The crowd’s murmur quieted to a respectful hush. A moment later, Dr. Peter Hawthorne stepped out into the rain and strode to the front of the stage. Camera flashes, like bolts of lightning, lit him up, and he grinned and waved at those gathered. His hundred-dollar haircut was protected by a silver umbrella, which he clutched in one hand. A sharp, March wind whistled past, threatening to chill them all to their bones.

The doctor stepped up to the podium and waited for silence.

“Thank you all for coming on such a dreary day,” he said, speaking into a microphone. “I don’t want to waste your time, or keep you out here any longer than necessary, so we’ll get straight to it. As some of you know, today is the day we begin trials on the Empathy 5 Artificial Intelligence Acceleration Chip.”

A smattering of applause rippled through the crowd. In the press of people, Shelly got knocked by an elbow, which caused her to trip over a man’s boots. She fell sideways and slammed into a reporter’s back. He stumbled, and a small recording device tumbled out of his hand, splashing into a puddle at their feet.

“Be careful, lady!” The reporter bent down and scooped up his device, attempting to dry it with the sleeves of his coat.

“Sorry,” Shelly said, grimacing under his accusatory glare. She clutched her purse and squeezed forward through the crowd.

Doctor Hawthorne’s smooth voice boomed through the pole-mounted speakers. “Unlike the E4’s microarchitectural system, the Empathy 5 chip uses a direct-access dihedral processor, which has increased the VCORE potential dramatically. This, in combination with the continued implementation of nanocrystal technology, means that the E5 can compute at nearly three times the speed of the E4, and ten times that of the E3.”

Streaks of white light lit up the courtyard, flashing on and off like a divine strobe light. A clap of thunder rolled in a few seconds later, causing Dr. Hawthorne to pause.

Shelly stared at Hawthorne through the crowd, thinking of all the things she wanted to say to him; and all the things that she wouldn’t get the chance to.

“We believe the Empathy 5 chip will enable our AI subjects to more fundamentally grasp what it means to be human. Not just in a logical sense, but on a profound, emotional level. Emotional intelligence is one of the last frontiers of AI technology. It has always been the chink in our armor, and our lack of progress in that area held us back for years. What’s the use in having a robot that’s perfectly intelligent, yet incapable of understanding human motivations, desires, or even complicated feelings?

“But thanks to the Empathy 5, that’s all a thing of the past. I can assure you with confidence that we’re closer now than we have ever been before to creating a perfect artificially intelligent robot. With this technology, we’re going to make a difference in the war.”

While the crowd applauded, Shelly slipped between two officials, keeping an eye on the guards at either side of the stage. She was nearly at the front now, and only a few steps from Dr. Hawthorne.

How can he live with himself? she wondered. How can he sleep at night knowing what he does to those poor souls…

“…And who knows,” Dr. Hawthorne chuckled. “If we keep up at this pace, we might see customized AI units in our homes before the war is over. Of course, further testing will be required before we move to that phase of implementation.”

At last, Shelly was standing in front of the stage, mere feet from the oh-so-brilliant doctor. If he noticed her, he gave no indication. She brushed strands of soggy hair from her face and reached down to her purse, pulling the zipper open slowly, inconspicuously.

“Our aim here is not only to create the world’s most sophisticated AI unit, but also to create the world’s safest .”

Dr. Hawthorne finally noticed Shelly. He drew an involuntary breath and she held his gaze until he turned back to the microphone. “As you’re so fond of mentioning on your news blogs, there are some people who don’t agree with our goals. They say that what we’re trying to achieve here is impossible—tantamount to playing God. They say we’re alchemists, attempting to create something from nothing. The more creative ones believe we’re snatching souls out of the quantum stream, and depriving those souls from ever being born into a human body.” He shook his head, and the crowd snickered at the absurdity of the concept.

“But I don’t think any of that is true,” he continued. “The only thing we’re guilty of is being human; of never ceasing to push the limits of our imaginations; of doing the best we can to turn dreams into reality.”

Shelly slid her hand into her purse and tugged at the large zip-lock bag. She broke the seal with her fingers and felt the wet, sticky pieces of metal contained within.

“This is the next step in human ingenuity, and I couldn’t be more proud of my quality assurance team. Our aim is to push the boundaries of this technology, maximize its potential, and test it to its very limits. But most of all, we will strive to ensure the highest degree of safety as we move closer to mass production.”

Shelly waited for the perfect moment to make her move. She scanned the faces of the guards standing around the stage as she squeezed her hand around a clump of loose metal pieces, taking deep breaths, wondering if she could do this. As if reading her mind, the doctor snapped his cool gaze on her, his eyes seeming to bore straight through her.

His next words were meant for her.

“There are those out there who believe we shouldn’t be dabbling in things we don’t fully understand.” He paused, looking down at Shelly. “And I would tell them that they’re absolutely right. Which is why our team is working around the clock to make sure that we do understand—”

Now .

In one smooth motion, Shelly jumped to the front of the stage and hurled the contents of her fist as hard as she could at Dr. Hawthorne. For a split second, his eyes widened in surprise, and she felt a supreme satisfaction. The mixture of pig’s blood, nuts, bolts, and screws flew through the air and smacked into him, painting him red. He shielded his eyes, but the damage to his clothing, and hopefully his ego, had already been done. His five-hundred-dollar trench coat was stained with dripping blobs of carnage, and she could already see welts on his cheeks and hands where the metal debris had made contact. His hair was a tangled mess. The crowd was hysterical, recorders raised in the air and cameras snapping wildly.

Shelly dodged a guard and released another salvo of protest at the doctor before two soldiers grabbed her and dragged her to the side of the stage. “You’re a monster!” she screamed, struggling against the men’s strong arms. “You’re a pervert! I know what you people do in there. You’re sick! ”