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Posted By: Theophilus Feb 10, 2005 - 05:32 pm

Smelly brown liquid poured down onto the dry shrubs and flowers, running off into the sodden garden soil. Cv9A made a processor note to remind the masters to order more gardening supplies when they returned; otherwise, there was little he could do for the garden. The droid emptied his watering can and trundled across the lawn, the dead grass crunching beneath his podular units. His servos whined and his joints groaned as he moved. He was in need of a maintenance job, but that would have to wait until the masters returned. For now he maintained things, but no one maintained him.

Cv9A opened the back door and stepped into the kitchen. He immediately noticed that the soil level on the floor was twenty percent higher than acceptable. The droid extended his sweeping attachment and began scraping ineffectually at the grime. He retracted it and made a processor note to remind the masters to get a commercial cleaning done.

Cv9A grabbed his watering can and went to the sink. He activated the tap, and with an unhealthy cough a trickle of thick brown liquid slithered out. Cv9A waited patiently for the can to fill, and then walked outside across the dry lawn until he came to the swampy garden patch. He let the liquid ooze down onto the brittle vines until the can was empty, then creaked back to the kitchen. Once inside he noted that the soil level on the floor was twenty percent higher than the accepted standard and extended his sweeper attachment. He tried vainly to scrape up the dirt but was utterly unable to part it from the floor. He was about to make a processor note to remind the masters to procure a commercial cleaning upon their return when he was interrupted by a distant whoosh. While his processors analyzed the sound it grew steadily into a roar. The house began to vibrate, making the doors on the kitchen cabinets rattle.

The wall facing the backyard exploded, taking a sizable chunk of the roof with it and hurling Cv9A across the room. Smoke swirled all around him as his processors struggled to make sense of his sensor input. He struggled upright, servos grinding, and steadied himself against the doorframe while his gyros re-calibrated. His system gave the robotic equivalent of a sneeze as debris settled into his components.

The rear wall was shorn completely off the house. The backyard was a smoky haze; the ground scorched black. He filled the watering can and picked his way over the wreckage to the garden—or the crater where the garden used to be. To his distress he saw that there were no longer even dead plants for him to water. He made a processor note to ask the masters to order gardening supplies when they returned and began making his way back to the house.

“Hello?”

Cv9A halted. He would have jumped, had he been programmed to do so. It had been a long time since he had heard a voice. His head swivelled around a few times before he located the speaker, a figure emerging from the smoke. It seemed to be both humanoid and organic, and Cv9A was programmed to be courteous to humanoid organics. He activated his long-dormant speech unit. “Greetings,” he crackled through a layer of dust and disuse. If he had been programmed to think such things, he would have thought that hearing his own voice sounded odd.

“Who are you?” called out the person stumbling toward Cv9A. He was a tall figure in a tattered flight suit and obviously injured; limping and holding his arm uncomfortably.

“I am Cv9A,” the droid replied, “Cybernetic maintenance unit.”

The man surveyed the dead world around him with dismay. “For whom?”

“Pardon, sir?”

“Who do you serve.”

“The masters, sir.”

“Where are your masters?”

“They are gone.” Cv9A was programmed to be courteous, but did not have to put his routine aside for a mere stranger. He decided he had taken quite enough and began trundling back into the house. “Good day, sir.”

“Wait,” called the man, stumbling after Cv9A. “When will your masters return?”

“That is not within my knowledge base. You may wait for them if it pleases you.”

“I’m injured, and it’s been days since I have eaten.”

Cv9A saw that the man was indeed injured. He powered up his transponder and dialed Emergency Services. There was no answer.

“Attempt to contact Emergency Services failed,” he said. He surveyed the wreckage of the kitchen and saw that there was nine-hundred percent more dirt than allowable. He extended his sweeping attachment and began working.

“That surprises you?” rasped the man. “This place is dead.”

“I have made a processor note to remind the masters to order more gardening supplies when they return.”

The man blinked. Then he spied the sink, partially torn from the wall. Hopefully, he turned on the tap and a sickly, thick brown liquid seeped out. The man turned his face away in disgust and disappointment.

Cv9A decided that the job was beyond his capabilities. He made a processor note to ask the masters to seek a commercial cleaning. He filled his watering can and went out to the garden.

The stranger followed. “Are there any people on this planet at all?”

Cv9A was not programmed to be annoyed, but he felt a certain impatience with the continued interruption of his routine. “There are no organics on Delsa. Good day, sir.”

To his dismay, Cv9A saw that the garden was a disaster. He made a processor note to remind the masters to order more gardening supplies after their return. He started back for the house.

“Were there ever any organics here?” the persistent stranger asked.

“Yes,” the droid replied tersely. He noticed that the soil level of the kitchen was nine-hundred percent over the acceptable level and began sweeping.

“Where did they go?”

Cv9A paused. He had never wondered this himself—he was not programmed to wonder. It took a few moments to recall the data from his musty memory banks. “I was never told specifically, sir, but there was talk of sickness.”

“Of the organics?”

Cv9A resumed his sweeping. “Of the earth and the plants and the animals.”

The task was too much. Cv9A made a processor note to tell the masters, upon their return, that a commercial cleaning was needed. He filled his watering can and headed to the garden.

“You are stuck in a routine loop,” the man said, again trailing him. “Your command sets are corrupted.”

“I am fulfilling my duties,” Cv9A replied. Although it did seem as if he had just watered the garden. That was not possible.

“What happened after the sickness?”

“The masters left. They said they would return.” Cv9A halted, taken aback at the state of the garden.

“How long ago was that?”

Again Cv9A had to pause and process. “Five standard sun cycles.” Then, not knowing why, he told the stranger, “They will return.”

“What will you do until they do?”

“I will maintain the home as I was instructed.”

“If they never return?”

“They will return,” insisted the droid.

“Process question hypothetically, then.”

“I will maintain the home until I cease to operate.” One of his servos buzzed wearily.

“How long will that be?”

“My atomic battery is rated for one-hundred sun cycles. They will return.” They would. They had said they would, and whatever the masters said was true.

The organic looked at Cv9A with a mixture of curiosity and pity. “Do you...” he hesitated, as if afraid of sounding foolish, “miss them?”

Of course not. Cv9A was not programmed to miss anything or anyone. It was his duty to serve the masters, to cook their meals, watch their children, bathe them, wash their clothes, sweep their kitchen, water their garden. There were his orders and he derived satisfaction from completing them. His satisfaction was in caring for the masters.

The masters were no longer there to care for. He was not programmed to miss. He was not programmed not to miss.

“Yes,” he said. He stumbled on a rock as one of the servos in his leg threatened to give in to fatigue. The soil level in the kitchen was nine-hundred percent higher than the accepted level. He deployed his sweeper and began working. The attachment snapped off.

Cv9A’s head swivelled to face the man still following him. “I miss them.”

The man gave Cv9A another odd look. A thoughtful, solemn frown crossed his features and he slowly reached behind the droid, fumbling after his power switch.

“No!” objected Cv9A. “I must maintain the home for the masters!”

“You have done a good job of it, too,” the stranger said softly. He flipped the switch.

Darkness. Servos disengaging. Processors running down. Processor note to—

Rest.
----
© 2005

Posted By: Bmat Feb 10, 2005 - 06:26 pm

Well done! I enjoyed it greatly!

If you are looking for critique, about all I could wonder about is the robot's saying that it missed the masters- it seemed out of character to me, especially since it was not programmed to miss them, IMHO. But I don't think that I'd recommend that you change anything. This is a creative story that is well-written. It draws the reader in while establishing the scene and the story of the planet.

Posted By: Theophilus Feb 10, 2005 - 06:43 pm

Thanks! I'm thrilled that you like it. :-)

Posted By: Magus Feb 10, 2005 - 06:45 pm

***I will read this tomarrow. I'm tired now and want to read my book. I'll get to this after I get back from school... so around 1:00 site time.***

Posted By: Theophilus Feb 10, 2005 - 06:47 pm

"about all I could wonder about is the robot's saying that it missed the masters- it seemed out of character to me, especially since it was not programmed to miss them, IMHO."

Well, yes, that's true. Cv9A would not have realized he missed them had he never met the stranger. The stranger brought him to a realization, if you will, of his situation, which he could not recognize on his own.

Posted By: Bmat Feb 10, 2005 - 06:54 pm

Thanks for the explanation. I also thought that the missing made a good reason for the stranger to turn off the robot - a compassionate move.