Little Redbot
Marilee Dahlman
Once upon a time, you could kill somebody.
But society has progressed. Is that what’s got you down? In the sanctity of your own cellar, electronics are eavesdropping. The second you step outside, it’s security cameras and satellites.
Let me tell you about Gimme a Fairy Tale, Inc.
Imagine: somewhere in this city (likely a botanical garden or historic landmark, as we partner with the very best) lies a Sleeping Beauty, waiting for her prince, and she depends on YOU to open up that crystal casket and wake her. Or not.
Are you, at heart, a Beast? We offer both castle and subway scenarios for you to prowl and capture your Beauty.
And let me be clear: all of our Beauties are state-of-the art. Realistic faces and bodies. AI that feels all the right emotions. You will not be a video game avatar. We understand that you want a real fairy tale, face-to-face.
And that’s not all! You can also be the prey! Have you heard of our Bluebeard special?
We’re proud to offer you Little Redbot—
#
Lurking in his skyscraper lair, Banker Jeff clicked the link. He ignored the small print bullshit and kept signing waivers, tap, tap, tap. Banking info, a twenty-grand transfer. Finally, like magic, a text zipped onto his phone. Granbot’s address.
Already better. His mouth twisted into a smile. Screen stuff, even the latest tech, bored him. This was different. At this price, they may use a model close to sentient.
The GFT guy in the ad was right. To think that once upon a time, you could stalk a girl, do what you wanted and dump the body. Yeah, maybe you’d get caught. But there’d have been some game to it.
Banker Jeff went to the mirror and slicked back his thick gray hair. He couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t want to thrust a real blade, feel it cut clean through real skin. How would it feel, when the steel tip met sternum, or the razor edge slid across a soft throat? What would it be like to sniff the blood and hear a scream strangled by a thick, wet gurgle? He’d always had it within him, this need, these questions. Perhaps inherited from fur-clad ancestors, a time when men killed because they had to, in order to survive and lead. Or, because they just felt like it. Nowadays, doing this kind of thing would get him put on a watchlist. The government was always concerned about predators, proposing this policy and that.
Banker Jeff curled back his lips to make sure no meat was wedged in his teeth, admired his close-cropped beard, shrugged. Science can make a machine human. But it can’t take the animal out of the man.
#
“You listening, clunker?” Programmer Anne adjusted her glasses.
Little Redbot blinked.
Programmer Anne crossed her arms and tilted her head, studying the machine. A petite thing, but clearly almost adult with all the make-up and creeping smirk. The face was pretty good, actually. Wouldn’t fool anyone as being human, of course, but it had a cute factor. Supple silicone skin and heated pig blood and bone bits underneath. Reinforced steel protected the CPU nestled deep in the chest cavity.
“You’re going to Granbot’s house, understand?”
“Yes, Mother.”
Programmer Anne held up a red cloak. “This is for you.” She draped it over Redbot’s shoulders. “Do you like it?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“I mean, really, do you feel that you like it?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“I’m glad. I just wish—” Programmer Anne bit her lip, stared into Redbot’s pretty eyes, knew that circuitry underneath would remember everything. Even if it couldn’t understand, this creation would remember. “Some things you just have to do. Part of life—money, errands, agreements . . .”
“Yes, Mother.”
Programmer Anne’s shoulders slumped, but her tone grew hard. “I’ll give you cupcakes and bottle of champagne.” She handed the box (half-dozen size) and champagne (decent vintage; these customers had standards). “You’ll go all the way to Granbot’s house, and without breaking this bottle. Is that clear?”
#
Banker Jeff spied Redbot at Union Square, the subway station closest to Granbot’s address. He sauntered up and said, “Good evening, Redbot. Where are you headed, so late at night?”
“To Granbot’s house!”
“What’s that you got?”
“Cupcakes and champagne!”
Banker Jeff rubbed his chin. They strolled together.
But soon he left Redbot behind, annoyed with people stopping to talk. They would ask questions just to see what Redbot answered. Human-Bot chitchat.
Banker Jeff arrived at Granbot’s, a quaint co-op building with wolf’s head gargoyles. He strode up to the front entrance. Punched numbers on the old-fashioned intercom. Ring, ring.
“Who’s there?” An elderly woman’s voice.
“Let me in.”
The door didn’t open. Banker Jeff frowned at first, but then smiled, remembering the tale. Hit #333 again.
“Who’s there?”
Banker Jeff glanced about, modulated his voice higher, tried not to chuckle. “It’s Little Redbot. I’ve got cupcakes and champagne for you.”
“All right, dear. Door’s open. I’m too sick to get out of bed.”
A buzz and Banker Jeff vaulted up the steps to the third floor. Apartment 333 was unlocked. He strode inside, nodding at the setup. French provincial furniture, drawn curtains covered in rose print, and flames flickering in the gas fireplace.
Banker Jeff creaked down the hall. Pushed open the bedroom door. There, on a four-poster bed and under ruffled pink coverlet, sat a little old lady—almost human—darning socks. A cream-colored rotary phone and fruity-smelling, steaming teacup sat on the nightstand. Their eyes met. Shaking fingers dropped the needle.
The fear in that wrinkly face—hell, that seemed real. Banker Jeff savored the moment, the scent of raspberry tea and mothballs mixing in his nostrils, his heart banging like it was trying to escape.
He slunk closer. Yanked a squirming Granbot up by the flowery night dress and upper arm skin, fleshy and grabbable. He delighted in the yelp. Banker Jeff smashed the robot against the radiator, warm blood spraying the floor, the wallpaper, his favorite linen sport coat. Granbot’s wire and silicone face shredded and cries spluttered into silence. Banker Jeff stood over the disfigured machine, breathless, and ripped the bloody gray wig and nightcap off Granbot’s head.
He sat on the bed, laughed rough for the cameras that must be around. “Went overboard, maybe.” His fingers wound through the wig’s gray hair. He felt the weight of the switchblade in his pocket. Never used it. Never had to! He was an animal! He ground the toes of his wingtips into the rug, gave a strained snicker. “Could be that’s enough.”
No one answered him. The place stayed quiet except for street sounds below.
Ring, ring.
Banker Jeff stared at the phone. He used his kerchief to wipe off the blood drops.
It rang again. This time, he picked up the receiver, his voice gruff. “Who’s there?”
Silence.
Banker Jeff sniffed the air, smelling the blood, berry tea, his own sweat. His eyes darted about, seeing no one. He licked his lips and made his voice higher. “Who’s there?”
“It’s Redbot!”
“Oh?”
“I’ve brought cupcakes and a bottle. I didn’t drop them!”
Banker Jeff dipped his head, grimaced, took a deep breath that sent churning energy through every muscle, from his brain to his fingertips. “I’ll buzz you in.”
He had Granbot’s body undressed and stuffed under the bed in seconds. Soon he was huddled under the bedcovers, damp wig and nightcap low. Play it through, right? He’d paid enough.
At the sound of footsteps, he called out, “put the stuff down and come to me.”
When Redbot walked into the bedroom, Banker Jeff said, “take off your clothes and get into bed.”
Under the covers, Banker Jeff pulled Redbot close.
Redbot’s hands touched him. “Granbot, why is your face so rough and hairy?”
“Because I’m such a wolf, my dear.”
Redbot wiggled. “Granbot?”
“Be quiet.”
“I’m running low.”
Banker Jeff thought it over. Would be less convenient later.
“Fine. Plug in.”
Redbot hopped out of bed. Went straight to the wall charger by the radiator. And kept going past it, grabbing the red cloak and racing away.
Banker Jeff chased Redbot. Out the building, and across town. Once, he caught up. Threw Redbot against a wall. Managed a solid kick right in the face. Men pulled him away, unaware that he had every right. He wrestled free and followed Redbot to GFT’s castle-like headquarters off Fifth Avenue.
Redbot stood on the grounds, safe behind the gate, making faces at him despite some lip and eye wires popping out. Flipped him the bird using both hands. A bespectacled woman hurried closer, a smart screen tucked under one arm, the other hand outstretched. She turned Redbot to face her.
Banker Jeff stared, mouth dropping open. After blinking a few times, his jaws snapped shut and he pulled out his phone. Excitement frenzied up his spine, into his brain. Oh yeah, he’d try this game again. Wouldn’t even demand a discount—not as long as they assigned him exactly the same Little Redbot. A few clicks, and he was done.
“Fix it! Now!” Banker Jeff shouted over the gate.
The lady peered at Banker Jeff, wiped something from her cheek. She whispered to Little Redbot, and the machine headed toward the building’s arched entrance. The woman lifted her smart screen and started tapping.
Banker Jeff grunted. She must be getting his request. He lit a cigarette, watched Redbot disappear. Another figure emerged, dwarfing Redbot, passing by in the opposite direction.
Slap.
He squinted at the new robot, which advanced with long, steady strides. The gate swung open.
Banker Jeff’s breath got faster. The machine loomed tall, heavy-shouldered, and wore a red and black lumberjack shirt. In its left hand, the robot wielded a felling axe with a razor-sharp edge that sparkled silver in the streetlight. The machine’s massive right hand curled around the wood with another slap. The word Woodcutter was carved deep into the axe’s long handle.
The Woodcutter’s dark eyes fixed on Banker Jeff, unblinking, processing some input. His mechanical fingers creaked tighter around the wood. The axe went up.
Banker Jeff ran.
THE END