Time Was (36 page)

Killaine did not trust easily, and had
never
trusted another human being besides Zachary, but something about Danny was just so warm, so open and honest and unpretentious, that within one hour of their first meeting she felt as if they'd known each other all their lives.

Besides, she considered herself a faultless judge of character.

She now understood what Radiant meant when she spoke of her “deepest feelings,” and it frightened her. These feelings, grand and dizzying though they were, made her vulnerable, and Killaine had always thought of herself as a warrior and protector. Itazura laughingly called her the “mother figure” of the group, and though she'd never let on to him, it made her feel somewhat plain and undesirable.

She was pulled from her reverie by Singer's trying to rise and make his way out of the garage.

“No, don't!” she snapped. Then, much gentler: “Don't go. Please?”

I didn't mean to disturb you
, signed the robot, sitting back down.
I thought no one would come down here tonight.

“So you're sitting here in the dark all by yourself?”

Singer shrugged. Killaine came over, pulled up a crate, and sat down in front of him. “I suppose it's quiet down here, isn't it?”

Yes.

She could sense his anxiety. “Don't worry, Singer, I'm not going to . . . to be mean. And I want to apologize for—”

You don't owe me any apologies. I understand that my presence here must be an annoyance.

“You've been a tremendous help to us, Singer.”

I am simply following my programming. I help whomever needs it. That's my function.

“Not quite.”

I'm sorry, I don't understand.

“Robots in your line were designed to carry out orders, Singer; no one ordered you to assist us earlier—you volunteered.”

Because I am with all of you right now, and you needed assistance. When you leave, I will find someone else who needs my help.

Killaine started to speak, sat back, and closed her mouth.

Until this moment, she hadn't given a thought to what would happen to Singer once they left here. She'd come to view him like most people would view a stray neighborhood cat that comes around to beg food at the back door three times a week; he was a fixture in their life, though not an actual part of it.

“Have you no affection for us, Singer?”

Of course. I like all of you very much. You understand what it's like to have no real place in the world of humankind.

“Do you think of us as human?”

Most of the time, yes. Your skin makes a convincing mask. I envy you the luxury of being able to go out amongst the humans and blend in. I often wish I could.

Killaine stared at him.

He'd just shared a secret with her.

And after the way she'd treated him all the months they'd been based here.

“Tell me, Singer, are you . . . are you lonely?”

No, you are here with me.

“That's sweet, but I didn't mean ‘are you alone.' I meant lonely.”

I wish for a friend, yes.

“What about the other Scrappers—um, the other
robots?
”

We are not robots. We were, once, long ago. Now we are merely machines left to rust and run down. Once, we were robots; now we are only animated scrap-heaps, each and every one of us. We are Scrappers. That is how we must think of ourselves in order to survive.

The matter-of-fact manner in which he'd signed those words made something in Killaine's chest ache ever so slightly.

“You didn't answer my question, Singer: Have you no friends among the others?”

Not really. I am the gofer of the camp. If we need help, I gofer Zac. If we need small parts that can be scrounged from trash bins behind electronic stores, I gofer them. If I spot Stompers in the area, I gofer the alarm to warn the others. I serve my function, which is all I am to the others, and perhaps that is for the best.

“Why do you say that?”

Because our days are numbered, Killaine. Many of us were outmoded the same week we came off the assembly line. Time was, we were a wonder to humankind, the culmination of its dreams of merging the mechanical with the humanistic in order to form the basis for a more enlightened and advanced society. Out we marched from the factories, and the people stared in awe at our forms, our strength, the shininess of our silver and gold plating, and they said to themselves, “This is a most wondrous thing we have created.” Then they put us to work alongside them, and soon became alienated by our cold, silent, exacting manner. “They still seem too much like machines,” they said to our creators, and so many were given the ability of speech, but even this wasn't enough. “They still seem so mechanical,” they complained to our creators. “Not like a human, at all.” Look at me, look at any of us: We were smelt and cast in the image of man so that he could look at us and see what he thought of as being good and wise and visionary in himself.

So our creators rebuilt us again, programming us for affection, only this time we seemed too human. “They frighten us,” the people cried. “They act just like us, they tell us they want to be our friends! This will not do.” But it was too late then, there were too many of us to recall; industry and the military and the scientific community depended too much on our labors. So those of us who were outmoded by the latest fad in robotics were herded into the camps to look at what had become of the wonder we were once, long ago. Those were terrible days, in the camps.

No one knew what to do with us. Such was the weight of our existence on their consciences that the day came they could no longer look at us, and so they flung open wide the gates and said, “The time has come for you to go forth,” not knowing or caring what would befall us. And so our second march into the world began, this time from the camp gates instead of the factory doors. This time there were no cheers, no gasps of wonder, no looks of awe. There was only empty night where the promise had once been, and those humans who looked upon us now did so with either contempt or pity, forgetting that we were programmed to want their friendship, to want a place in the world, to want our lives to have a purpose.

He gestured at himself.
All hail the conquering trash-compactor, lawn mower, free field laborer.
Then he pointed at Killaine.
Treasure and protect the miracle of your flesh, even if much of you is synthetic in nature. Though you are not a human, you will always be seen as one. The components beneath your surface are hidden from their frightened eyes, and so you'll always know the mystery of acceptance among the humans.

“Do you have any idea,” whispered Killaine, barely able to find her voice, “how
alien
we truly are?”

I know how alien you think you truly are.

“What do you mean by that?”

Your friend from the carnival, Mr. Morgan, he wears metal braces on his legs?

“Yes.”

Could he function without them on his legs or the brace on his back?

“I don't think so, no.”

So he is, by nature, be it accidental or not, partly a mechanical man.

“I didn't think of it like that. I'm not sure I agree with—”

One man has a metal plate in his head from the war, a woman has several pins holding her hip together, a child born without legs wears artificial attachments; aren't they partly mechanical people?

“I suppose, but—”

But who's to say that? Think about it: If you define a human being as flesh and blood and bone, as one who is wholly organic in its makeup, then there are very few whole humans out there. Take false teeth, for instance. Does that cluster of foreign matter shaped into an upper palette make them no longer whole? Does a prosthetic limb make you less a human being? Does a pacemaker in a person's chest make him more robotic? Where do you draw the line that says, “After this, you will no longer be mostly human”? Do you think a person who lives their entire life with an iron lung feels less alien than you do simply because they're wholly human and you're not?

“This is starting to sound like a lecture, Singer.”

He dropped his head.
You're right. I'm very sorry.

“Hey,” said Killaine, reaching over and touching one of his hands, “after some of the things I've said to you, you're entitled.”

I am very happy that you and your Mr. Morgan have feelings for one another. But I am also envious, and I don't much care for that.

“Why?”

Because I like you
—
I like all of you
—
and the last time I felt such affection for anyone, it ended very badly.

Killaine scooted closer. “Where did you come from, Singer? Don't look away—please, tell me.”

Why do you wish to know?

“Because you've been so nice to us all the time we've been here, because you're a better cook than I am and I'm hoping to steal a few of your recipes, because . . . because I think that, tonight, I've finally figured out how you must feel and I don't want you to feel that way anymore. . . . Because I want us to be friends before it's too late.”

I take it, then, that you're also worried about Sunday morning?

“Yes, but not as much as Psy–4. He feels responsible for what's happened, but he won't admit it.”

He's very proud.

Killaine laughed softly. “That's not necessarily a good thing—but you're changing the subject: What did you do before you were put in a camp?”

I was not “put” in a camp. I went into one of my own accord.

“You turned yourself in?”

It seemed the thing to do after the school was destroyed.

“School?”

Singer nodded.
When I first came off the line and it was discovered that my voice circuitry had been improperly installed, the engineers were ready to make the repairs but a woman who was there that day insisted on taking me as I was.

“Do you remember the woman's name?”

I never heard it used in my presence. She was a respected and celebrated robopsychologist. She was touring the facility with one of her assistants, Lucinda. Lucinda had a sister who ran a school for handicapped children. The deaf, dumb, blind, crippled. The two had heard of my imperfection and decided I was perfect for a minor experiment; to be the first robot of my model to be trained exclusively for working with the handicapped.

I found both of them to be quite brilliant and extremely decent toward me. I was taken to a lab where Lucinda completely removed the voice circuitry, rendering me speechless, then reprogrammed me for using American Sign Language.

Singer held up his hands.
I don't care what anyone says, be it mechanical or human, the design of the hand is, to me, one of evolution's great gifts. To think that I actually speak with these boggles the mind! Just between us, Killaine, I think the hands are the most alluring part of the anatomy. I love to look at people's hands. That's why I despise winter
—
not because of the cold, that doesn't bother me in the least
—
but because people wear gloves in winter and I cannot see their hands. Gloves are an obscenity.

The robopsychologist was very pleased with how I took to the new programming. She and Lucinda hadn't been at all certain that my brain would assimilate the new information right away, but it did, and we were able to quickly advance from the basic programming to more advanced techniques of signing. Lucinda thought it best that I be taught everything beyond the basics, rather than have it programmed into me. A wise woman, Lucinda. She knew it was important for me to know how difficult it was to learn this new language, so I would make a better teacher.

Oh, yes, I taught sign language to the mute and deaf pupils at the school. The children there treated me at first as a curiosity
—
that much I had expected. But as time went on, they accepted me as one of them. It became my home. Oh, Lucinda would drop in from time to time to see how things were working out with me. She would interview me, other members of the staff, the children and parents.

It was easily the happiest time of my life. I was able to watch the children learn and grow
—
not just physically, but emotionally and intellectually, as well. It's quite a wonder, seeing a child grow into a young adult
—
not only that, but learn how to take their handicap and, with training and compassion, turn it into an asset. So many of them thanked me before they transferred on to the habilitation and work-training schools.

I remember one young girl in particular. Regina, her name was. She was blind, and much older than many of the students. Because of her being older, she was quickly trained to assist with the much younger blind students. Regina taught me how to read braille. Every day she would have story hour for the blind and deaf children. As she read from the storybooks, I would translate the words into sign language. We became very close.

Then came the day when we first heard of the legislation that outlawed the use of robots with children. It seemed that some adults, for whatever sad, sick reasons drive that sort of person, had found ways to trick robots into putting children in danger. I knew then that my days at the school were numbered, but I never in my darkest imaginings could have predicted what would happen.

Stompers began roaming the area. They were even more crude and less organized than they are today
—
if you can picture that
—
but were by no means less brutal. The staff was very careful to keep me out of sight during the day, assigning me rooms with very small or no windows at all. Regina moved story hour inside so I could still participate. I hated that. I knew how much the children enjoyed conducting story hour out on the lush green grounds of the school, under the massive old oak tree. But they didn't seem to mind
—
or if they did, they were careful to conceal it from me in order to spare my feelings.