Mickey Reichert - I, Robot - To Protect

Protestors mobbed the grassy swatches outside Manhattan Hasbro Hospital, their signs throwing checkered shadows in constant motion across the sidewalks. Among the hospital workers and mostly bewildered new interns, Susan Calvin headed grimly toward the entrance, already beginning to question her residency decision. Having graduated medical school at the top of her class, with impeccable references, she could have matched at any hospital, including the quieter and smaller private facilities upstate. Instead, she had returned to the bustling metropolis of her youth, to a massive facility at the cutting edge of technology and, also, the one closest to the father she missed and loved.

In the middle of the screaming and chanting demonstrators, someone lost his balance. The sudden jolting movement spread, wavelike, through the crowd, sending a young man staggering over the invisible perimeter onto the sidewalk and directly into Susan’s path. For an instant, he stood, looking stunned and uncertain, clutching a sign reading DESIGNER BABIES ARE A SIN.

Instinctively, Susan caught his shoulder, steadying him. “Are you all right?”

For an instant, his dark eyes caught her pale blue ones, and he seized the moment. “You’re not planning to work here, are you?”

As he seemed to have regained his balance, Susan removed her hand, tossing back straight brown hair without a single wave. Though she had never worn makeup, and her familial slenderness robbed her of significant curves, she still displayed the natural beauty that often accompanied youth. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

“Do you know,” he said as he drifted from the sidewalk, “that Manhattan Hasbro fashions babies? That they create infants outside the womb and —”

Susan expected the protestor to couch his argument in eugenics, in the murkier science of choosing intelligence, gender, and height; but she suspected his actual concern lay with the classic religious arguments against artificial reproduction. She cut him short. “You mean . . . they help infertile couples conceive?”

Apparently, Susan had struck the proper nerve. The man’s lips compressed into a grim line. “If God wanted them to have children, he would have blessed them with a pregnancy.”

“Like the crack whore down the street who delivered her sixth baby into the toilet? Or the drunkard under the Verrazano who sold her infant daughter for a fifth of gin?”

Apparently unmoved, the protestor shrugged. “God works in mysterious ways.”

“Yes,” Susan agreed, shoving past him. “Like blessing us with the technology to ‘fashion’ babies.” She rejoined the crowd funneling into the foyer.

Blocky, padded chairs in links of five filled most of the open area, with small wooden tables at the end of each grouping. Glass cases hung on the walls. Paintings done by children on the pediatrics ward filled one, while another held craft items with tasteful price tags attached. A third displayed a history of Hasbro toys: from ancient clunky-looking Mr. Potato Heads and antique G.I. Joes, through the years of garish My Little Ponies and Transformers, then a slew of fly-by-night television-and movie-based creatures to the sleek, familiar characters and realistic, interactive animatronics of the day.

People slumped in some of the chairs, many sleeping, seemingly oblivious to the foot traffic peeling off in several directions around them. Susan Calvin followed an arrowed placard that read WELCOME, NEW RESIDENTS, winding her way through the chairs and passing the general patient updating area, an information desk, three cafeterias, five restrooms, and an in-house pharmacy before following another sign that took her down a long hallway filled with physicians’ offices, an ethicist’s station, and a legal wing.

An additional sign turned Calvin ninety degrees to an auditorium with the doors thrown wide. Tables in front of it held row after row of plastic name tags, interspersed with papers that presumably organized them in some logical fashion. A mass of mostly twentysomethings paused here, all in standard outfits of dress polos and pleated pants, the majority wearing tasteful khaki. Susan knew her blouse and canvas blues fit right in with the attire of the other interns. Murmurs suffused the group, occasionally split by a laugh or cough. As individuals grabbed their pins and headed into the auditorium, Susan gradually moved nearer to the tables.

Susan deliberately gravitated toward the leftmost table, assuming the name tags had been set up alphabetically. But, as she reached the tables, she found the papers divided them by specialty, and she had to edge toward the other end. Spotting PSYCHIATRY, she reached toward it, only to bump hands with a man already clutching his pin. She raised her head to apologize and met a pair of green eyes beneath prominent brows, and a generous straight nose, fine lips, and chiseled cheekbones. A mop of dark blond curls swept from his forehead. Finding him unexpectedly attractive, Susan could not help smiling shyly before speaking. “Sorry about that.”

The young man smiled back and acknowledged her with a nod. “No apology necessary. I’ll take any excuse to hold hands with a pretty woman.”

Susan’s grin broadened, and she could feel warmth crawling across her cheeks. “How sweet.”

“Remington Hawthorn.” He pinned his name tag onto his dress polo; it contained his name and his residency program: NEUROSURGERY. “Harvard Medical, class of ’35. Kristy Honor Society. Nominated AOA.”

Susan recognized the distinctions. Only the top ten percent of any medical school class got nominated for AOA, and only a third of those received the honor. Currently, Harvard was the second-ranked medical school in the country. She reached for her own tag, pinning it to her shirt. “Susan Calvin, Psychiatry.”

Remington’s grin wilted. Mumbling an excuse, he turned to leave.

Susan followed him only until they had moved out of the way of the interns behind them. He had switched off the charm in an instant, and Susan believed she knew why. Many surgeons saw the strictly medical fields, particularly the primary care specialties, as beneath them. Susan pursed her lips, irritation flaring, and caught his shoulder.

Remington turned to face her, his features bunching curiously.

“You didn’t let me finish my introduction,” Susan explained coolly. “Thomas Jefferson Medical.” She named the one school that had consistently bested Harvard in the past decade. “Class of ’thirty-five. Hare Honor Society. Earned AOA.”

Remington’s brows inched upward. “Really?”

“Really.” Susan studied him, waiting for the apology she deserved.

Other residents passed them, pouring into the auditorium.

“Forgive my directness.” Remington seemed incapable of taking his eyes off Susan’s name tag. At least, Susan hoped that was where his attention lay. Otherwise, he had fixed his gaze directly and fanatically on her left breast. “But why?”

“Why?”

“Why waste such incredible credentials on a specialty so . . . so . . .” Remington seemed incapable of finding an inoffensive term. “Well, unscientific?”

Susan spoke volumes with one crooked eyebrow. “Because I’m excellent at reading people, without the need to slice them open first. For example, I can tell you’re an arrogant jerk who judges people on shallow criteria, then wonders why you get stuck with nothing but vapid bimbos.” With that, she turned on her heel and headed into the auditorium.