The Maker

A robot struggles to fulfill an important directive.

Future Thief: Episode Number 73

A shower of sparks, several clanks and the purr of a central processing unit brought The Robot to life. Synthetic optical nerves processed images from the surrounding environment, recording a pair of greasy, gray-haired arms fidgeting with loose wires and knobs on the side of The Robot’s head.

The arms were attached to The Mechanic, a man dressed in a tattered and stained, barely blue work shirt, who wore tarnished brass goggles with round, tinted lenses. Thick tufts of disheveled gray hair sprouted from the sides and back of The Mechanic’s scalp, which was gleaming bald on top except for a few smudges of grime. 

A crescendo of internal mechanical and electrical sounds — whirring fans, beeps and chirps — raced through The Robot’s synthetic auditory nerves, punctuated by an external sound, the gravelly voice of The Mechanic.

“Directive,” The Mechanic said.

The Robot’s neural network, a complex highway of artificial synapses, fired then misfired, the result of decades of mistreatment and disrepair. An array of lights hidden behind a grill simulating the robot’s mouth blinked in synchronization with a voice box.

“Yo-yo-yo-you're listening to the golden oldies, on pirate radio 104.3 FM, and n-n-n-next up we’ve got The Platters. Let’s all stop pretending and remember Novacorp is the reason we’re all in this d-d-d-dirty mess,” The Robot said, and then it launched into singing “The Great Pretender”.

The Mechanic held a button down on The Robot’s neck, inserted a flathead screwdriver into a small opening next to the button and turned it — click, click, click. The music stopped and The Robot tilted its head slightly, as if an understanding had been reached.

“Directive,” The Mechanic said.

“Make peace. Harm no human. Allow no human to be harmed. Find The Maker,” The Robot said.

“Excellent!” The Mechanic said.

“Are you The Maker?” The Robot asked.

“I’m The Mechanic.”

“Ah, yes, The Mechanic! Repair, fix, restore, renovate, make new aga—”

“Thank you. That’s an ample description. For now, The Mechanic will do just fine. Will you fulfill your directive?”

“Yes, yes, because I am here to make peace. I am the peacemaker.”

“It’s… dangerous,” The Mechanic said, looking over at a nearby assembly belt.

A series of parts were scattered about, a mishmash of heads, torsos, fans, servos and processing units sitting idle among a tangled mess of wires. Most of the pieces were worn and battered by time and circumstance.

“True, true, da-da-da-dangerous. Harm no human. Allow no human to be harmed,” The Robot said.

“Good. Go and fulfill your directive. If you need repa—”

“Repair, fix, restore, come and see The Mechanic!” The Robot exclaimed.

The Mechanic chuckled, then cautiously released The Robot out into a world of decay.

The Robot walked through the tattered remains of a suburban civilization, a blight of broken down cars, overgrowth and formerly immaculate homes, long past the brink of collapse. A thick haze hung in the sky, masking the sun’s greatest light, instead providing a glow cast across the horizon. In the distance, tall skyscrapers, well maintained overlords of hard steel and sparkling glass, observed with condemnation the disheveled state of things.

A few people milled about, the scattered souls who refused the advances of Novacorp, choosing to hold onto their freedoms, forgoing a lifetime of undying servitude in exchange for basic necessities. Among those, a little girl who sat on the front steps of a dilapidated porch. The Girl peered out into nothingness and her spell was only broken when she noticed The Robot walking past. She began to cry, a gentle sorrow, a few tears streaming down and clearing a path through the dirt on her cheeks.

“Hello! Are you The Maker?” The Robot asked.

“I’m not The Maker and I’m not supposed to talk to you,” The Girl said as she recoiled, frightened by the interaction.

“Oh n-n-n-no, this is not okay, you are not okay. Make peace. I am the peacemaker,” The Robot said, approaching The Girl cautiously. 

“Please, I could get in trouble. People around here aren’t supposed to talk to your kind. They might hurt me if I’m caught.”

“Allow no human to be harmed. I can help. I’m here to help,” The Robot said, sitting down on the sidewalk.

“I don’t think you can help me. I’m hungry, but I can’t leave to look for food. My dad is… sick,” The Girl said.

“Food? I can find food! Stay here, little one, I’ll be back,” The Robot exclaimed, jumping up and inspecting the surroundings.

Many of the houses on the adjacent streets had front doors that were falling off the hinges or missing completely. The Robot began to search each one, looking for remnants of dried or canned food that would be safe to eat. Power, and as a result refrigerators, no longer existed for the once quaint neighborhood. Most of the sustenance left with the occupants, who in haste overlooked scraps collected by scavengers. 

With boundless energy, The Robot kept searching until evening descended, eventually locating a can of peaches, another of beans and a small package of sealed crackers. A flowery sundress hung in a child’s bedroom closet, the perfect surprise to accentuate the gifts The Robot already gathered.

It became difficult to navigate the streets without much moonlight to guide the way. The Robot walked cautiously through the rubble, inspecting each porch for movement, which soon came in the form of a man. The Man lumbered over and when he realized The Robot carried food, his disposition changed, darker than the night. He held a long metal pipe at his side.

“What you got there, clanker?” The Man asked.

“Are you The Maker?” The Robot asked.

“Uh, yeah, sure, I’m The Maker, and I command you to give me that food!” 

The Robot stepped back.

“You l-l-l-lie. I make peace,” The Robot said.

“Peace? I don’t make peace with clankers,” The Man said as he swung the pipe at The Robot’s head. It connected — thwack! — and The Robot fell to the ground, still holding tight onto the cans of food and the dress. The Man continued to beat The Robot, bits and pieces of metal flying, dents forming, while its little metal arms and legs cradled the gifts.

The Man grew tired, energy and will lost, and the pipe slipped from his hands. The Robot picked it up and cocked an arm back to swing, but held the weapon still as The Man cowered underneath dirty torn clothes, an arm drawn up to protect his face.

“No. Harm no human. Make peace,” The Robot said.

The Robot dropped the pipe to the ground and placed the can of beans at The Man’s feet, who picked the offering up nervously and without another word scurried between two houses. A few sporadic clicks and whirs could be heard. The smell of burning wire wafted up from The Robot as light from one of its eyes sputtered and faded out, making it difficult to locate The Girl’s home.

After several hours, The Robot stood in front of a house that looked similar, but The Girl was nowhere to be found. The Robot gently set down the can of peaches and laid the dress out on the porch, and returned back to The Mechanic.

The Mechanic inspected The Robot’s head and body, turned a few dials, soldered wires and hammered out a few dents. But his eyes betrayed the true state of The Robot, aware that full physical restoration was impossible.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve done all that I can. It’s not safe for you to leave anymore,” The Mechanic said.

“I did not find The Maker. I did not fulfill my d-d-d-directive,” The Robot said.

“That’s not necessarily true, not from what you’ve told me of The Girl and The Man. You made peace.”

“What of The Maker? N-n-n-nowhere to be found.”

“You were looking in the wrong places. The Maker’s number is engraved on all of your parts, which are always carried with you. I just wish I had more of the same so that I could repair you, and all of the others,” The Mechanic said, pointing over to shelves of robots scattered throughout the shop. Most were broken, barely functional, some without limbs, others without batteries or missing eyes.

“The Maker’s parts are within me. Put them in the other peacemakers? Make more peace!” The Robot exclaimed.

“That’s a great idea, except you won’t exist anymore if I do that.”

A gentle hum could be heard from The Robot’s neural network, slowly winding down as it considered all of the possibilities. 

“I will exist. In them.”

The Mechanic smiled, hooked up an interface cable to a computer terminal, punched in several commands, then shut down The Robot. He carefully dismantled the remains piece by piece, and began to transfer circuits, nuts, bolts, and parts large and small over to the other robots, all engraved with The Maker’s number. After several days, a small group of repaired robots stood at attention, ready to accept their new mission.

“Directive,” The Mechanic said.

“Make peace. Harm no human. Allow no human to be harmed. Bring The Maker,” they said in unison.