Mickey Reichert - I, Robot - To Protect

Susan planted her gaze on Monterey. The girl’s nostrils flared, her brows drew together, and her upper lip rose. Susan could see an artery in her neck pulsating so wildly it seemed to vibrate. Monterey had gone beyond fear to welling terror. “It’s in the passenger seat, just out of your reach. You’re going to have to unbuckle to get it.”

“Right.” Nate pantomimed releasing a seat belt and started leaning toward the passenger seat.

Abruptly, Monterey dove forward, catching Nate’s neck with both arms and squeezing with such violence that Susan took a step forward before remembering Nate did not need to breathe. A low humming sound seemed to come from nowhere. It took Susan a moment to realize it originated from Monterey’s throat.

Unable to move without first dislodging the girl, Nate rolled his gaze to Susan.

Susan tried to make sense of the noise emanating from Monterey. Gradually, she pieced it together as a deep, guttural “no” repeated so rapidly in succession it became a constant sound.

Suddenly, Monterey screamed. The sound was raw agony, a depthless, primal howl from some forgotten ancestral memory. Susan’s blood froze in her veins. Remington leapt to his feet, Nate went still, and Susan rushed toward Monterey. Before she reached the girl, another scream ripped from Monterey’s throat, then another. Worried she would bring the entire building running, Susan enwrapped the child as well as she could from beside the gurney and spoke in the calmest voice she could muster. “It’s all right. He’s a robot. He can’t die, Monterey. He . . . can’t . . . die.”

It was not wholly truth. Otherwise, there would be no need for the Third Law of Robotics: “A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First and Second Laws.” But Monterey could not know that.

Nate spoke in a muffled voice. “If I could die, it might be by strangulation.”

The screaming stopped. Slowly, Monterey’s arms slipped from Nate’s neck. She grasped Susan into a hug so fierce that she had no trouble lifting the child from the gurney and placing her on the floor. “It’s all right, Monterey. Everything will be okay.”

Monterey heaved with great sobs. Susan’s dress polo absorbed the tears, and she could feel the warm moisture seeping through to her chest. She grasped the girl more tightly, afraid to let go.

Nate stepped away from the gurney, readjusting his collar. Remington watched Susan and Monterey, not daring to break the near silence that followed those heartrending screams.

Susan gave man and robot uncertain looks. Clearly, things had changed for Monterey, but whether for better or worse remained to be seen. One thing seemed certain. To make Monterey well, they needed to address the burden of guilt she carried. In her heart and mind, she believed she and Bobo had killed her father, and Susan would have to disabuse her of that notion.

“Thank you,” Susan mouthed silently to Nate.

The robot only shrugged and smiled.

By the time Susan got Monterey Zdrazil resettled in her room, the gurney returned to Pediatrics, and finally took herself back to the charting room, it was almost nine p.m. She found Nate and Remington seated in plush chairs, chatting amicably. Both of them looked up as she entered.

“I’m so sorry,” Susan said before either of them could speak. “Nate, I put you in a difficult position.”

Nate waved off the apology. “Sometimes I think you’re the one forgetting I’m a robot. I was built to serve mankind and the physicians at Manhattan Hasbro in particular.”

Susan had not thought about those things, and the reminder might have made her smile had she not felt so guilty about how she had treated Remington. “Remy, I imagine I’m the worst date you’ve ever had.”

The neurosurgery resident rose. His green eyes sparkled in the shadow of his sandy curls, and a smile split his face to show the perfect, white line of teeth. She had always found him handsome, but never more so than at that moment. “Believe it or not, I’ve had worse. And I’d rather not go there, if you don’t mind.”

Susan laughed. “If they’re worse than this, I’m sure I don’t want to know the details.”

Remington’s smile broadened. “I enjoyed watching you work your magic. You’re an aggressive doctor, a risk taker. I like that.”

Susan nodded, unconsciously psychoanalyzing her boyfriend. Surgeons had a reputation for leaping in without fully assessing a situation, changing strategies on the fly, and making enormous changes swiftly, for good or ill. It reminded her of a classic joke about four physicians duck hunting. The psychiatrist studies the creature flying over, thinking it looks like a duck but trying to determine if it really feels like a duck. The internist notes the beak, webbed feet, and feathers are consistent with the creature probably being diagnosed as a duck. Then the surgeon catches sight of the creature and immediately shoots it down. He turns to the pathologist and says, “Go over there and find out what that was.”

Susan could understand where a surgeon might find her approach to Monterey commendable, even while her fellow psychiatrists were horrified. The effects of what she had inflicted upon the girl might not fully manifest for weeks. Now that the excitement had waned, exhaustion crushed down on Susan. She glanced at her Vox. It felt unbearably rude to postpone the date when Remington had waited so long.

But the neurosurgery resident had tuned in to Susan’s mood. “It’s getting late, and we both could use our sleep. What’s on your agenda for the weekend?”

Susan considered, then groaned. “Rounds in the morning. Should be finished by ten, but I’m supposed to inject two study patients after that. Sunday, I’m on call.”

Remington nodded, sighing. His schedule would prove every bit as busy as hers. “No problem. I don’t know who’s on Sunday for neurosurg, but whoever it is will jump at a chance to switch with me. That should get us on the same rotation schedule.” He stroked his chin and a few wisps of blond hair clinging there. “By law, they have to give us Monday off. What say we get up at the crack of noon and go skating at the mall?”

Susan brightened. She was a decent skater, and the hectic residency schedule had made exercising nearly impossible. “Perfect.”

They entered each other’s vital information into Vox, v-in-v as it had come to be called. Then Remington opened his arms, and they hugged tightly, almost viciously, and kissed until Susan felt flushed with desire.

Discreetly Nate turned away, feigning interest in one of the nearby portables; but a grin wreathed the robot’s face.

By the time Saturday morning rounds finished, Monterey had not yet awakened. Susan gave a brief description of her efforts the previous night and promised to check on her patient when she finished her work for Goldman and Peters that afternoon.

When Susan entered the sterile room, she found her supplies bundled on the counter and her patient sitting regally on the examining table. The woman wore a purple silk pants suit and a matching cape trimmed with white faux fur. A tiara, garish with rhinestones, perched upon her head. She had wrinkles etched deeply into her face and watery blue eyes that still seemed full of life. Her hair was cut short, completely white with age. She might have appeared like anyone’s great-grandmother if not for the costume, better suited to a preschool girl.

The chair beside the examination table held a weary-looking, thin man with a full head of gray hair. He wore a black suit with a white shirt and wide, striped tie, the like of which Susan had seen only in old pictures, videos, and books. He clutched a palm-pross in his hands.