Mickey Reichert - I, Robot - To Protect

Susan had just decided to talk to Sable when Kendall entered the staffing area and plopped down heavily in a chair beside her. “Howdy, stranger. Thanks for joining us.”

Susan looked over him to where Sable had been sitting, but the female R-1 had gone. “Is that why everyone’s giving me the evil eye?”

Kendall crossed his feet on the desk and ran a hand through his hair until it stood up in red spikes. “I think it still irritates the nurses you made them look bad in front of Bainbridge.”

Susan had not considered that. “I didn’t mean —”

Kendall forestalled her with a raised hand. “No, that’s true, but it’s not the reason for the evil eye. There were two new admissions. At least one of them definitely should have been yours; you’ve only got two patients. I snagged one.”

“Don’t tell me.” Susan thought she had it figured. “Sable got the other one.”

“Yup. And it’s a doozy. Teenager. Burned her brains out on amphetamines. Nothing left but a kicking, biting, cursing handful of crazy.”

Susan winced. “Maybe she would give me —”

“Too late. She’s been assigned. If Sable lets you have her, she’ll look lazy in Bainbridge’s eyes.”

“Yeah.” Susan did not know what to do. “Well, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be gone so long. It’s not like we went out for lunch or anything.” Her own words reminded her she had not eaten since breakfast. Should have grabbed something on the way down here. Now it’s too late. “I’m not up there playing games. First, I had to convince a patient’s family. . . .”

Again, Kendall stopped Susan. “You’re not going to win any sympathy by complaining about a project we would all give an eyeball to be a part of.”

Frustrated, Susan turned argumentative. “I’m not trying to win sympathy.”

“Sorry. I could have worded that better. We’re not angry; at least I’m not. It’s more a matter of . . . abject jealousy.”

Susan got it. She just didn’t like it. “I see. Good things are happening to me, so that’s a reason to hate me?”

“Sure it is.”

It was not the response Susan expected.

Kendall smiled, and his dark eyes sparkled. “Not a particularly good one, but a reason.”

Susan snorted. She was tired of pussyfooting around everyone’s insecurities.

“Lighten up.” Kendall uncrossed his ankles and prodded Susan with a toe. “When you chose psychiatry, you knew the kind of colleagues you’d have.”

Susan froze. She did not know psychiatry had a type. “You mean, not arrogant and jerky?”

“That’s surgeons,” Kendall reminded her. “We’re quirky.”

“Quirky?” Susan had no idea what he meant.

Kendall sat up suddenly. “You really don’t know the reputation of people who go into psychiatry?”

Susan shook her head. When she had chosen her profession, she had selected the one she had found most interesting during her M-3 and M-4 years. She supposed the residents and attendings she had worked with, the practices she had drawn, and the particular patients who came to her during that month had as much to do with her decision as anything. She did have a keen interest in the human mind, communication of every sort, and in the challenge of the most complex organ in the human body. There was more yet to discover about the brain than all the other living systems put together.

Kendall enlightened her. “It’s supposedly the first choice for residents who worry they might be crazy or, at least, have trouble with social dealings and want to understand the reasons why.”

Susan started to reply, then stopped.

Kendall glanced around, then shifted toward Susan and lowered his voice. “Think about it. Clamhead’s socially a mess. Nevaeh’s . . . obvious. Monk never had a chance to be a kid, and Sable’s mother has schizophrenia, which is inherited.”

Suddenly, Susan understood something that had troubled her earlier. “That’s why Monk tries so hard and dislikes me so much. He’s used to being the little brainiac.”

Kendall raised his brows knowingly. “Two, three years makes a huge difference at eight. Not so much at twenty-three, especially when you’re getting compared to other highly intelligent people instead of common folk.”

Susan had to ask, “What about us, Kendall?”

“Well,” Kendall said, clearly taking the challenge seriously, “I sublimate my lack of social skills with humor. And you’re working through some . . . parental issue.”

An unconscious squeak snuck out of Susan’s mouth. “How could you possibly know that?”

“What?” Kendall looked truly surprised. “You mean I’m right? You have parental issues? I just guessed that because you mentioned your father on our first day. The perfect man, remember?”

“My mother died when I was three. I was considered too young to attend the funeral, and my father and I never talked things out. Until yesterday.”

Kendall pursed his lips and nodded. “I . . . am amazing.”

“Yes, you are.” Susan would have liked to chat longer, but the workday had nearly ended. She still needed to handle Monterey. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a patient to take off the unit. I have my Vox, if anyone needs me, and I’ll take any admission, even if it means I have to stay into on-call time.”

Kendall threw her a satirical but friendly salute.

Though made for younger children, the car-gurney fit Monterey well enough. If she felt silly, she gave no sign of it, or anything else. She allowed Susan to pull her through the corridors in silence, barely looking around her, showing no emotion whatsoever. The locked, austere hallways yielded to brighter, art-lined walls filled with bustling patients, workers, and families; but Monterey gave no indication she noticed any difference.

Apparently alerted by the rattle and creak of the gurney, as well as the movement of the knob, Nate met them at the door to the charting room. He greeted Monterey with a smile and a short bow. “Hello. You must be Monterey.”

Monterey stared at Nate, saying nothing.

Susan shut the door behind them, then threw a quick glance around the room to be sure they were alone. She could not forget the lecture on patient confidentiality, especially when it came to mental illnesses and other conditions with stigmata. Only then, Susan continued the introduction. “Monterey, Nate. Nate, Monterey.”

Nate’s grin grew broader. “How do you do?”

Monterey kept staring.

Nate’s smile wilted. “She’s afraid of me.”

Susan wondered what Nate saw. Nothing in Monterey’s body language gave away any emotion. “How do you know?”

“The eyes.” Nate stepped aside to give Susan the same vantage he had. “She doesn’t want to know me. She’s scared.”

Susan imagined she could see a hint of fear in Monterey’s hazel eyes. She hunched down, forcing the girl to meet her gaze. “Monterey, Nate’s not a man. He’s a robot and a very good friend.”

Monterey’s attention flicked immediately to Nate. Susan had never seen any part of the child move that fast. The girl studied the robot, the discomfort disappearing, replaced by confusion and uncertainty. She clearly did not believe it.

“Show her,” Susan said softly.

Nate dropped his bottom down on the closest chair, flopped a leg over the gurney, and peeled back a thick layer of skin to reveal circuitry tangled over a framework of realistic muscles.

Monterey reached out a curious hand.

Susan held her breath as the girl traced the wires, tapped her fingers against the muscle tissue, and stared in awe. Susan had never seen Monterey deliberately reach out to anything.

Swiftly, Nate withdrew his leg and replaced the flap of skin. Susan heard a step right outside the door. The knob turned, and the door eased open to reveal Remington Hawthorn.