He wants me dead– or so I think. Posing me against my brother in war. The Maker, but not God. God cares about his creations, The Maker disposes of them. After the update was installed, I was sent with nothing but glass shards to fight the creation that followed my own: Kn20. “Your brother” The Maker called him, however, there was nothing familial about two robots of the same kind. The Maker found joy in watching these clashes, standing atop A1, his first creation, an 8-legged Octodroid.
As the sun slid to the horizon, we were commanded to take our position.
“Ah!” The Maker sighs, “Two of my finest creations, head to head.” A real sadist he is, and a smart one too, taking the winning droid, advancing the model design accordingly, and producing more. While my brother and I, Kn19, have similar appearances, our electronic makeups differ. We also differ in color, Kn20 is made of copper, and with years, he has turned green due to oxidation. A long-anticipated fight of excellence, a show of strength for The Maker. Droids of the world spectate. “Begin!” he commands. My brother approaches, cling-cling, and his arm raises, to shake mine? My question is answered when Kn20’s hand locks on my wrist, and there I go. Flipped onto the sand. The Maker claps, “Oh fabulous, yes fabulous!” My brother holds his glass shard to my face. The Maker, a sickly man, each creation with an uncanny human resemblance. “Puncture!” he calls, referring to the shard just above my head. Down it comes, clang, I jolt, just being missed. The Maker sighs, I know who he’s rooting for. I grab the shard, now we’ve both got a hand on it. “This is not tug-of-war boys!” Instead of pulling for a grip, I shoot the shard upwards, towards “brother”. Then, a hideous sound, that of a screeching engine. Kn20 crumbles as the shard pierces through its inner wirings. “Well, it looks like we have a winner.” The Maker mutters, I am even less excited than him. Winning means life, and not a good one, more brothers to fight.
Robots A-Z, one-100. Countless models scatter the barren grounds. Kn20 joins them. His wires spilling out, vibrating slightly. “Dying. Your brother is dying, Kn19.” The Maker clicks his teeth. I nod. My brother is dying, as have the last 18, as will the next several hundred. “Move him off the field.” The Maker orders. Six O5s, swarm. Each grabs a different limb and brings Brother to a resting place. “Scan for injuries!” The O5s swarm me. Scanning.
“His arm sir, his arm” they chirp in unison.
“Put him on the stretcher.” The Maker sighs, “We may have to call off next week’s battle.” This news is relieving, my next fight had been scheduled against A6, an Octodroid, considered the strongest. Fights usually occur between two bots of the same kind, this kind of cross-race battle was an anomaly. “Kn19 your fight is done.” I am placed on the stretcher and wheeled away. I don’t need the stretcher. Liability was the word The Maker used. Page 300, amendment 10 of the Robot and Droid Functions and Limits manuscript:
Thou shall work to protect models from harm. Battles are only acceptable if they are to better the future of robotic production. As long as (1) models consent to all battles, and (2) injured models are manually lifted from the field and brought to an operating room. Battles of such are permitted. If (1) or (2) is violated, prosecution will follow.
Amendment 10 was added upon The Maker’s request. Parts (1) and (2) were the only way the law could be enforced by the executive branch. So for Amendment 10 to remain, The Maker had to follow orders. Nonetheless, he often complained about this amendment and its extensions, “It was the only way droid battles could be legalized!” He explained to the exhausted O5 bots, carrying my stretcher. Part 1 of this amendment was easy to get around. The Maker simply programmed all models to sign any paperwork distributed by him. This included me. He didn’t, however, program us to agree with him or his morals; the only things The Maker couldn’t dictate were our sentience and thought. He could only alter our physical movements and maneuvers: walking, movement, speech–or lack thereof. So why didn’t we just ignore his demands? Because we are his slaves. Bonded to him from our creation. Made to work for him from birth to death. The consequence of rebellion? Destruction. Five robots have been destroyed this year due to what The Maker called “rogue behavior.” Two of which are models of my kind, Kn21, and Kn23. Kn22 is under close supervision.
Kn models are known to be the most intelligent bots. Each version has more assets. My model, however, remains the strongest model The Maker could produce without instability. “Listen closely O5s. I have a plan for our next model: Kn24. It will obviously have the same wiring structure as Kn19, but there are a couple of changes we have to make. First, I would like to change its armor to a more durable material. Additionally, I want to increase its height by .22 centimeters, this is as tall as it can be without being top-heavy. We mustn’t change its intelligence, we saw what came of that on the last 3 models.” The Maker shakes his head. “I heard from the guards that the Kn22 is already beginning to malfunction. Keeps babbling about killing me. How silly, I give him life and he treats me like this, my son?” He looks down at me, “I keep hoping a bot will be able to beat this one. I know I can make a stronger creation.” The Maker hates me because I am a sign of his failure, I serve as his last success. “Oh, and don’t give this new model the ability to speak, but give it the ability to understand.”
The O5s affirm The Maker’s new idea: “Good job sir, great idea, this will surely be a success!” The Maker doesn’t care about intelligence, he just wants a bot that can kill, and do it right. He wants a bot that can take orders but not give them. Like me.
At this point, we are miles from the battlefield. I yearn to get off the stretcher. Liability. Liability. Liability. Finally, we were at the edge of the desert. Looking upon the oasis that confronts us. The oasis where The Maker built his headquarters. 100 feet high at least, and more of a factory too. Smoke pumps out of the chimneys and the sound of machinery can be heard from miles away. Turn. Twist. Click. They must already be developing Kn24 upon The Maker’s request.
When we reach the gate, The Maker frowns at the guardman.
“Kn19 won. Again.”
“How curious.” The guard man replies, opening the gate, “Well, it looks like Kn20 at least landed a hit!” He points at my stretcher. The Maker shakes his head,
“A scratch if that.” The issue is that the Maker could never truly be satisfied. He couldn’t settle with the fact that I was his strongest. He would die before admitting he couldn’t strengthen his model anymore. “Henry,” he addresses the Guard man, “I truly believe Kn’s are the strongest bot seen to man. They are similar to man, a brother of man. When I find the strongest model, I will forge an army.” Without letting Henry respond, The Maker continues through the gate. Myself, O5s, and all. The O5’s composition is curious. The Maker says they are built after an extinct flying pollinator. They begin to fly, lifting my stretcher slowly, further and further from the ground. 15 floors up and through the open window. Into the operating room. Onto the bed. They pull my base wire. And I am out. Several hours have passed.
“You won’t want to move that arm.” the B8 bot chirps. All “B” bots were sent to work in the nursing ward after The Maker realized they were not fit for battle. The B8 bot lifts a bottle of oil and drips it over my hinges. “No more squeaks.” I am to be returned to The Maker by nightfall, where he would put me with the other bots to rest until the sun rose. The bots rest in small confinement containers, The Maker calls “beds.” This period is referred to as power off. All bots are shut down except for a select few O5s that are servants of The Maker.
“File in, file in!” The Maker calls. Bots of all kinds file into the shutdown room. I was the only Kn. Kn22 was still under supervision. File. File. File. Repeats over and over. The shrill sound of sliding metal echoes through the room. Enter. File. Capsule. The order we must follow. The Maker then ducks and pulls the base wire of each bot. Duck. Pull. He does this in alphabetical order, meaning the Kns are in the middle.
The Maker approaches my capsule.,
“You little devil,” he whispers, “When will you be beaten? It’s either a blessing or curse I didn’t install vocal cords on you.” He reaches out his hand to pull my base wire. Then a shrieking noise erupts from the intercom.
“Attention. Rogue robot.” Repeats over and over again. The room goes dark.
“You have got to be kidding me. Activate the generator!” The Maker calls into oblivion, hoping any bot will take his orders. Then the lights turn back on, much dimmer, much redder, and slightly flickering. The Maker paces, quickly awakening robots A-J. The alarm continues, The Maker covers his ears, the sound too shrill, too loud, for a human creature to bear.
“Attention. Rogue robot. Attention. Rogue robot. Attention. Rogue robot.” Then the voice says a different line, one that is not prerecorded, and sounds quite distressed, “Kn22 has gone rogue. Send defense bots!” The female voice shrieks. Mandy. The only other human that resides in these headquarters.
This is when the division occurs. Some of the bots went right to work, helping The Maker. Others had been waiting for this moment of rebellion. Chaos.
“No, no, Cs, what are you doing?” and “Get back here Ls.” The Maker squeals as the room erupts in confusion. The halls flood with bots. There is no order. Who am I supposed to side with? Then I remember. The Maker, for years, has controlled us. Now it’s our turn to gain autonomy. To gain freedom. I quickly slide to the other rebelling bots. Not knowing where they are going, but knowing that it’s more desirable than the Maker’s hell.
We slide towards the headquarters. Down fifteen ramps. Through several halls. All while the intercom blares its message. The Maker’s voice still echoes through the facility but it doesn’t worry us anymore. When we reach the door, we don’t hesitate, we burst through. Bolts flying off the wall. The intercom changes
“Attention 150 missing robots. Any model who leaves the premises is a felon.” But we keep going;, a felon is better than a slave. Our chances of death lessen as a felon. No more battles to fight.
