Mickey Reichert: I, Robot: To Protect

Nate turned back to face Susan again. “That depends on whom you ask.” He smiled. “The USR believes my purpose is to demonstrate the usefulness, efficiency, and safety of robots, thereby opening the market for their products. To the hospital administrators, I’m a competent and thorough worker who draws no salary and never complains. To those physicians who know of my existence, aren’t leery of me, and don’t automatically despise all I stand for, I’m a proofreader, fact-checker, footnote-finder, hypothesis-tester, sounding board, source of ideas, and research assistant. To the Society for Humanity —”

Susan found herself interrupting. “The Society for . . . Humanity? That’s a pretty ambitious title.”

“It’s a bipartisan political action group dedicated to ‘rescuing’ mankind from advanced intelligence, particularly the artificial type, and raising ethical challenges to several forms of robotic and medical technology. Surely you’ve seen them protesting outside?”

Susan could only nod. She had no idea the protestors had a particular name or united cause. “All those protestors are here because of . . . you?”

Nate pursed his lips, shook his head. “Not me particularly, no. Though not exactly a deep dark secret, my existence has not become common knowledge, either. And the SFH makes up only a small portion of that mob. Some of the other action groups have their own pet concerns: stem cells, prolongation of comatose life, assisted suicide.” He shrugged. “That issue has protestors on both sides. Reproductive technologies of myriad kinds, in-vitro procedures, in-vivo fetal procedures, DNA-based diagnostics, reparation of disabilities, medication benefits versus side effects, appetite suppressants and stimulators in addition to fat-resistance therapies, cosmetic procedures . . . You name it, someone is vehemently for or against it. Manhattan Hasbro has had throngs of protestors since long before my creation. They’ve become such a normal and expected part of medicine, they don’t even make the news without resorting to profound and extreme measures.”

Susan suddenly understood the full significance of Manhattan Hasbro commandment number one — don’t engage protestors in any fashion — and why Manhattan Hasbro had entire wings devoted to legal matters and to ethical ones. If this trend continues, lawyers and ethicists will soon outnumber doctors in the medical setting.

Nate shrugged, still looking at Susan with an all-too-human expression. “The Society for Humanity would have me disassembled in an instant and my positronic brain erased. That’s why I’m sent to the less populated areas of the hospital: record keeping, research, copyediting, and the like. I used to act as an orderly, but I don’t get to do that very often anymore. And when I’m near the general public, I can’t mention I’m robotic.”

“You could do so much more,” Susan realized aloud. The possibilities seemed endless. She could think of twelve grand ideas with only a moment to consider the matter.

Nate only nodded. “May I go now?”

“Of course.” Susan waved a hand, feeling guilty for keeping him so long. She looked at her Vox, which currently read 8:08 p.m. Within the hour, the staff on the PIPU would be putting her patients to bed, not long enough to do significant research. She would have to wait until the morning to see them, but she could study their charts overnight, which already gave her a leg up on the other R-1s. They would have to come in early to prepare before rounds.

When Susan looked up from her wrist, Nate had already disappeared.

Susan sat for a moment in consideration. Was that really a robot, or just a human male with knowledge of my family and an odd sense of humor? She did not know for sure, but her instincts told her she had actually conversed with the highest level of artificial intelligence mankind could currently create. Yet, to believe her instincts meant her near-perfect father had misled her for years and that he had lied and hidden information. That thought seemed too heinous for serious contemplation.

Susan stared at her Vox, driven to call John Calvin and straighten out the situation as swiftly and decisively as possible. In the end, logic won out over impatience. It made far more sense to wait for a face-to-face confrontation, where she could read his every expression and prevent him from disengaging until she had her answers.

For now, Susan Calvin returned her attention to her palm-pross and to her patients’ diagnoses and histories, hoping no emergencies cropped up during the night. It seemed the one advantage of starting her residency on a chronic ward with numerous rigid protocols. She would, almost certainly, get a full and good night’s sleep.

As Susan expected, the other R-1s came in early the following morning to cram their patients’ charts before Dr. Bainbridge arrived for morning rounds. Later in the month, the chain of command would go in the opposite direction, but for now, the residents remained mostly silent as the nurses made tactful “suggestions” for changing orders and ways to handle patients they already knew well.

Having done her patient research the previous night, Susan found time to make brief visits to her charges. She began with Monterey Zdrazil, knocking on the child’s door. As expected from a traumatic mute, Susan received no answer. She edged the door open a crack and peeked inside to make certain she had not caught the girl in an inconvenient stage of dress.

Skinny and chalky white, the twelve-year-old sat in bed, her back rigid against the headboard. She wore her brown hair short, hacked into a functional, masculine style. Dressed in a red T-shirt with a rainbow motif and faded blue jeans, she stared solemnly at the far wall, which was decorated with a collage of colorful get-well cards and children’s drawings.

Uncertain how to approach such a child, Susan smiled broadly. “Hey, Monterey!” Realizing she had just rhymed, she carried it further. “What do you say? How’s your day?”

Monterey’s hazel eyes rolled toward Susan, but she did not speak. That did not surprise Susan; the girl had not said a word in more than six years. The doctors had tried a myriad of medications and combinations, play therapy, group therapy, regression therapy, and others. Her single mother had subscribed to special diets, spinal manipulation, herbal remedies, and other desperate measures, all without result. Susan had not expected an instant breakthrough.

“I’m Dr. Susan Calvin. You’re my very first patient, Monterey, which makes you extra special to me. If there’s anything I can do to make you feel better, you just let me know, okay?”

Monterey only stared.

“Now,” Susan continued, catching herself about to ask if Monterey would mind an examination. Susan realized she had best avoid phrasing things as questions that she planned to do anyway, in case the children answered “no.” “I’m going to look you over a little bit. If you have a problem with that, let me know.” Susan took her stethoscope off her neck and headed toward Monterey, who made no protest. The R-1 listened to the girl’s heart, lungs, and abdomen, finding nothing amiss. A flashlight shined in the eyes revealed normal pupillary function. Reflexes responded appropriately, liver and spleen were the proper sizes, and Monterey was closing in on the fourth Tanner stage of pubertal development. Susan hoped someone had explained menstruation to her, because it would be coming soon.

Susan put her penlight back in her pocket and slung her stethoscope across her neck. “Great. You’re a normal almost-teenager, except you don’t sass your mother enough. If you’re going to develop into a proper teen, you have to practice your sarcasm, eye rolling, and door slamming.”