"Grampz unit? It is me, Robot. I am home from school, and I have come to inform you that I will be leaving again shortly. I know I promised during my last visit to come play a game with you tonight, but it seems there is some sort of event going on at the factory, and my presence, as well as Mom and Dad Unit's, are required. I'm not sure if they told you anything about it, but I can't help but feel suspicious. I've never known an event at the factory that required formal wear. I wish you were feeling well enough to be transported with us tonight. Grampz? Grampz unit? Are you in there?"
Robot shouted into the old fashioned horn that was attached to Grampz's hearing receptor, but the old computer did not stir. Grampz sat silent with his lights blinking, which should have confirmed that he was awake, but it could have been one of the various malfunctions he was experiencing nowadays. Lately, Robot couldn't tell if Grampz was harder to wake because of his age, or if he simply didn't want to be woken up. Given that the screens stitched into the walls of his body were on standby, it almost seemed like Grampz was ignoring him, and given the extended periods that happened in between their conversations lately, Robot didn't even blame him. If that's what indeed he was doing, that is.
"Forget it," Robot sighed, half tired and half frustrated, slamming the lid shut on Grampz's hearing amplifier. His voice echoed as the amplifier's horn traveled down the old pipe, making Robot's normally quiet voice loud enough to overwhelm the constant rumble of Grampz's body in the cold, sealed basement, and the old machine was still unresponsive. If he was comatose, there was nothing Robot could do. If he was playing games with Robot, well, he could forget his grandson coming down to tell him about his daily events more often.
That afternoon, just as his mother had instructed, Robot came straight home from school. He finished his homework in half the time it took normal students to do, and removed his tuxedo from the closet. But before he put it on, he went to see Grampz unit to ask what he knew, if anything, about tonight's proceedings. But seeing as he wasn't going to be getting anything out of Grampz today, Robot stormed back up the stairs to face the task of actually putting the tux on.
Part of him worried about the lingering odor the clothes might carry, it having been what he wore the night that his exhaust pipe malfunctioned at its worst, but because he didn't have a nose, he had no way of knowing. He held it up to a cold fan for a while, just in case.
On its hanger, the bow was still surprisingly starchy, the shirt white as clouds. He'd only ever worn this suit once, only ever once needed to do so. To dress up excessively was to conform to a human expectation, and he felt conflicted in doing so.
It wasn't easy the first time, trying to fit his boxy frame into those pants and that jacket, and it wasn't a lick easier to do it the second time. If Robot ever wore clothes, they were looser, specifically for this reason. But a tuxedo didn't look good if it was baggy. It had to be form-fitting. So he gave himself thirty minutes before he would be picked up to get himself into the tux. He refused his mother's offer help the first time, when he wore this to the harvest dance, and he was glad, because at least he knew he could do it this time without ripping a hole somewhere.
With the flaps of the shirt aligned perfectly to the center of his neck, the last thing was put on the bow-tie. Being a robot, this was actually the easiest thing to do, his mind perfectly memorizing the motion, even though he'd only done this a couple of times. But as soon as he looked at himself in the mirror, a wave of disgust rolled over him. He looked exactly as he did the night of the Harvest Dance, as if the two years since that night never happened. The curse of a robot was the inability to physically age, save for broken or worn parts, and Robot had learned this the hard way, with his failed experimentation with growth spurts. After that, Robot had grown to tolerate the knowledge that he was never going to physically change, and until that night, he hadn't really thought about it much again.
But a lot had changed about Robot since the Harvest Dance. He'd grown in ways that couldn't be expressed by natural physical change. By not looking any different than how he looked two years ago was like a slap across the face to everything that he'd experienced since. And he resented it now more than ever.
Ripping the bow-tie off, and not having a proper replacement, Robot decided to go sans-tie entirely. His mother had been clear about the tuxedo, but not about the tie itself. It was a tiny victory against things that Robot could not control, one tiny detail that indicated that he was not the same stupid little robot that walked into Polyneux Junior High School two years ago, and he wasn't going to be taken advantage of in the same way.
The robot without the bow-tie would not base his entire world of happiness on the mutual affection of a human girl. Not again.
The van that was supposed to pick Robot up arrived at the exact minute it was supposed to-driven by robot JNZ workers, it was to be expected. Robot was late in arriving outside, only because he'd grown comfortable at the human idea of being 'fashionably late', at least by a few minutes. It was still surprising how difficult it was for Robot to get used to the ways of both peoples, remembering how robots behaved and treated certain scenarios after becoming so accustom to ways that humans did things. One thing meant something else to the other, and going back and doing things the robot way was like calling to a culture that Robot felt separated from again. He contemplated these thoughts as he was driven to the factory.
His drivers were a couple of middle aged robots who Dad unit knew. They were friendly enough to Robot, and drove just as erratically as his father did, but didn't try to force robot into deep conversation, and he appreciated that. They did, however, joke with each other in such slow, dry humor that Robot wanted to throw himself out the window a number of times. How had this become so alien to him?
When they arrived outside JNZ Robotics, the sky was already setting to a deep red that complimented the plain red bricks quite nicely. Robot briefly admired the sky before letting his driver-slash-chaperones guide him to the line for the door, and then left him on his own. They were on-duty tonight, and dropping Robot off was just one of the many jobs they'd been given.
Robot was most surprised at the fact that there was a line to get in. At the door, a man and a robot, both equally six feet tall, ran portable weapon detectors along the lengths of every patron, employee or not. On the robots, they went off quite often-as one would expect of metal detectors on robots-but both robots and humans waiting in line looked as if it was only a matter of time before that happened, and chattered as they waited for the robot to be searched.
It only occurred to Robot as he was next in line how everybody else was dressed. He himself had stood out as the most overdressed at the Harvest Dance two years ago, both he and his parents not knowing what to expect, but here, he fit right in. Every woman was in some sort of gown, every man in a suit, including the workmen off duty who showed their badges at the door to prove who they were, and the robots...
The robots. Robot had never seen so many of his own kind dressed up. Any bot who could fit into a gown or a suit was sporting one. Some even had hats and canes, and some definitely looking more ridiculous than others. It was like one of those award shows on TV, but for every human present, there was a robot. And because these were workmen and their families and robot workers and their families, everybody was talking with each other. It was like the cultural divide, the very verbal differences they had that normally made their conversations awkward didn't exist. There was no animus between them. Everybody was happy, and everybody made each other feel like they were equally welcome here.
If only school was like this, Robot thought. Integrating would have been so much easier.
As he reached the door, a pink headed shebot, same color as his mother, but quite different otherwise, swiveled her head in Robot's direction. "I dare say that I do not believe what my sensors are telling me," she said, breaking off a conversation with the guard, "Is that little Robot Jones I behold?"
Robot grimaced, having attention called to him. "Hello, Voice-Recog-natron."
Now everybody was looking at him, and he felt himself shrink. When he approached the shebot, and the guard who was checking for weapons, he wasn't even checked, the guard holding up his metal detector and smiling at him. "Not necessary for you, son. We know who you are."
They know who I am. Robot thought, blushing. It had been years since robot lived at the factory. He'd forgotten how he was treated, here. So unlike school. So unlike the rest of his life.
"I have not heard that voice in over thirty six months!" Voice-Recog-natron said. She swept up Robot into a hug that surprised him, Robot's eyes bulging out of his skull. A robot's hug was a death grip.
Voice-Recog-natron was the guard who kept watch over the door during regular work hours, and like her name suggested, allowed workmen and bots in via voice recognition. She had been there for as long as Robot could remember, a buy-off from another company that had fallen apart when the plant was still young, and always, always in a sickeningly good mood. And like a few of the robots who worked there, doted a bit too much on Mrs. Jones' little son. Robot had not expected to see her, but it was dawning on him quickly how many familiar faces he was going to see tonight.
The workman on duty who was checking for weapons handed Robot a laminated card.
"What is this for?" Robot asked.
The workman's smile fell, and smacked his metal detector, which was starting to whine as it become overwhelmed next to so many metallic entities. "Consider it a backstage pass of sorts. Your parents are expecting you on the main work floor-that's where everyone is meeting."
Robot was a bit confused, holding the card out before him, but he didn't say anything as he left the entrance to allow the guards to check more people inside.
Robot had thought he knew when the factory was loud, having spent the majority of his years there, and visited plenty of time during work ours even after the Jones' had moved to the suburbs, but he wasn't prepared for the roar of noise that assaulted at his ears when he entered the building. The lobby was filled with people, some of which were families of workmen and investors who hadn't seen each other since the last big celebration JNZ had held, and that was way back when Marvin Claymore had been named the new CEO. It was like walking into Polyneux on his first day to the third power. His sensors were overloaded with all the commotion, all the sights, all the outfits of the robots and the chitchat between the two species that he'd so rarely ever seen.
He looked at the laminated card in his claws, white as his shirt and displaying the big generic blue words "VIP" on the front. But scribbled on the back, Robot noticed as he turned it over, was a handwritten note that looked as it had been added at the last minute before the card was laminated:
Jones Robotics, first class.
Why did he need a VIP card in the factory that he practically called his second home? Robot knew this place like the back of his claws, which was actually saying something, considering how many people got lost here. He wanted now more than anything to find his parents and start unloaded a lot of questions, listeners being around or not.
But a heavy hand came to rest on his shoulder, and Robot spun around.
"Well, what a fine kettle of rotting heads is this?" asked another male computerized voice, as Robot stared into the critical orange eyes of a taller unit with bronze metal skin. "Didn't think my peepers would ever lay sight on the likes of you again."
Robot's voice caught, remembering this robot's name instantly. "Davvy unit."
If Robot had a nose, he'd have noticed this particular teenage robot reeked of rotten fish. But the oil-stained look of Davvy's probably only tuxedo was enough to confirm that this robot was still apprenticing in his father's fishing industry. JNZ's robots did a lot of different job, and Davvy's father's was a fisherman off of Davenport, for which Davvy got his nickname, and despite humans claiming he had a rancid odor to him, Davvy and his father were quite proud to be able to say that they were machines who faced the perils of water every single day.
"So elaborate, Tinyunit Jones," Davvy said, emphasizing Robot's last name for reasons Robot didn't know, "How is junior high school treatin' ya?" Like Robot had picked up slang like 'dude' and 'awesome' from his peers at school, Davvy had began absorbing the vocabulary of the fishermen that he worked under. "Have the humans taking a linkin' to ya? P'haps even feed you nuts and bolts out of a nice, big bowl on the floor?"
A shorter, stouter robot that vaguely resembled a mailbox, with less moving parts than either Robot or Davvy emerged from the shadows of a corner and joined Davvy's side. "Aw, com'on now, go easy on the lit'l corkscrew, Davvy, drowning in all that homework. Not like me, taking it nice and easy, pumping locomotives up n' down England to keep 'em going."
Robot frowned. "England?" They'd flown Phillips unit in from an international job for this meeting too?
"Ay, how correct," Davvy said, his screwed-on jaw turning into a wicked grin as the stout robot smiled back at him. "My sincerest apologizes, tiny bot. Yeh must be going through a ton o' stress, what with how clean and pressed ya made yer clothes."
Robot looked down at his clothes, and saw that Davvy was right-they looked so clean and tight, compared to not only Davvy and Phillips, but a lot of automatons here tonight. Though in good spirits, so many of them looked so dirty, so tired, compared to himself. Robot looked up and glared, remembering his absence of a bow-tie and feeling braver somehow because of it. "You don't know anything about me Davvy. And I didn't pick this job: I was assigned."
Davvy laughed, his voice somehow colder with the lack of human quality to it: "Sure, sure, as teh waters are blue. The last surviving Jones prototype, coincidentally given the task of integrating with the fleshy people. Poor, poor, spoiled little schoolboy."
"Eh, Davvy, what's the litl' nut got in his pincers?"
Robot snapped to attention, but it was too late. He was a robot up against other robots, and Davvy snatched up the little laminated card before Robot could think to hide it. "Ooo, what have we here?" he said, holding the card above his head mockingly, and keeping it out of Robot's reach as he jumped for it. "Phillips, care to read this fer me? T'was was hard keeping up me English lessons whilst on a rocking boat on the Atlantic fer two winters."
"Right-o, Davvy," the shorter robot said, taking the card from Davvy's hand, extending his own arm so that he could reach Davvy's. "Aight! It says here that this ell' fella is a Very Important Person."
"Person?" Davvy spat, a black-tar loogie bouncing off the floor, and hitting some poor bald man in the back of the head.
The man reached up to grab at it, looking confused and fearful, but had no idea where it came from.
"Never knew such a disgraceful word fer a unit." Davvy looked Robot in the eye, this time with something even Lenny Yogman didn't have for Robot: Sincere, and total disgust. "Ought to be ashamed teh call yourself a unit." With that, he grabbed Phillips by the shoulder, and said, "Come, Phillips, think I hear the distant rumble of me father beconing in the distance. Excuse us if yeh would," Davvy spat again, "Yer highness."
Davvy walked, Phillips rolled, away, leaving Robot burning like a fire in his spot. All at once, the memories of growing up in that factory came back like a storm. The robots that liked him. The robots, like Davvy, who hated him. Hated him because he was a Jones model-one of the ONLY Jones models that could attribute their existence to Harris Jones himself. Davvy and Phillips made fun of Robot's going to school, but not because Robot going to school made him privileged. Davvy and Phillips were a typical pair of robotic teenagers who didn't have the luxury of going to school regularly (Robot couldn't believe he was actually having to think of school as a privilege), but because he was going to an all-human school. There were segregated robot-only schools in other industrialized nations, but not in America. And nobody had ever heard of letting a robot attend school with the same student status as a human. To everyone's knowledge, that made Robot himself an anomaly. And to robots like Davvy and Phillips, to successfully integrate, as Robot felt like he was finally doing, was blasphemous to their species. It did not look good to other robots for Robot to successfully complete his task: To become, essentially, one of the humans.
His parents were so enthusiastic about Robot completing his mission at school. Robot wondered if they were aware that the consequence of it was that Robot grow up to be untrustworthy to many of his own kind. Maybe even a traitor. If so, why did they feel it was still worth it for Robot to do it?
He couldn't stand there any longer. Robot stormed off in the opposite direction, leading to the main work floor in a different way. Through the offices wing, Robot stormed, pounding his feet in the carpeted hallways. Thought the factory was full-fuller than Robot had ever remembered it being, in fact-this wing was empty, and Robot found it easier to let his frustration show on his face when no one was around to look at him. He used to sometimes do the same thing at school-wander the halls aimlessly when nobody else was around.
He turned and came upon a particularly large hallway, wide enough so that even the largest automatons could pass through, with a path leading out to the main work floor and the catwalk, with Marvin Claymore's office standing right above it. Right above everything.
And when Robot chanced to turn around. Hanging there on the wall opposite the main work floor were three large pictures, one for all three of the men who founded JNZ Robotics: One for Simon Nathans, an investor, one for his supposed best friend, Oscar Zamboni, an international businessman, and in between them, the biggest photograph of the three: Harris P. Jones. The man of technology. The robotics magician. The mystery.
All three men were considered dead now. Nathans and Zamboni definitely dead: Both had taken over the plant after Jones turned up missing, sometime before Robot's initial activation, and both had died a few years later in a car accident, at which point the factory went into limbo for a short while before Mr. Marvin Claymore had purchased the company. His photograph was not present here, honoring the three dead men who had erected this modest, but very successful factory, but everybody knew his face rather well.
It was not Nathans, with his wavy hair and dorky clothing, or Zamboni, with his old world mustache and husky figure, who Robot was looking at. He was stuck on Harris Jones. This man that Robot owed his existence to, but had never once met. This man appeared taller, and had a broader chest than the other two, despite looking at least ten years older, but without an inch of excess fat on his frame. In the black and white photograph, he had a a full goatee and thick, dark hair that hung over his medium dark skin like the leaves of a coconut tree. His eyes were the most notable thing. Like Robots, they seemed so big, too big for his face, and made worse by the hollowed out look of his eye sockets, like the man had never known a good night's sleep in his life.
My creator, Robot thought. The only human in the world he really owed something to. Robot passed by that photo a dozen times, and noticed something knew about it every time. This time was the first time Robot noticed how unfocused Jones looked, like someone had just told him something that shattered his world when the picture was taken. Was that really the best picture they could have found of him? Or was he really just that bad in photos to begin with? He looked so awkward, in the middle of the two confident businessmen, and Robot couldn't help but loose himself for a moment in the thought of what this man was like, when he was around. Was he really as much of a genius as everyone claimed he was, or was he more the shy, tall, awkward human Robot saw in the pictures? Or was Robot only desperate to see something like himself in the photograph of that man, so he could really believe that this stranger was responsible for his existence. He'd give up a lot just to be able to jump into the photo and talk to him. The question that was on his mind the most at the moment was: would Harris have liked seeing the factory as it was now, under Claymore's rule, successful, but becoming frilly? If Harris was still alive, would he wonder about what had become of his own robots, including Robot himself? He looked down at the VIP card in his hands, still unsure what it meant. Around here, being one of Jones's personally crafted robots was celebrated, but Robot felt like it was a shallow thing to be honored for, considering that he never known the man, let alone formed a bond with him, unlike his father had.
The gathering on the main work floor was growing louder, and Robot knew that whatever this assembly was about was going to start soon. His eyes lingered on Harris a bit longer before wishing him goodbye again, and walking the hallway to the clearing.
Robot found himself followed by a crowd that was pooling into the main work floor as he entered, and for the briefest second, he couldn't recognize it. The work floor that he had walked through so many times as a younger child had been cleared, repainted, decorated, and crammed with tables, chairs, and servant-droids in finely dressed clothing. Humans and robots alike were practically tripping over themselves, glasses of wine, food, or alcohol filled oil in their hands and pincers. The lighting was dimmer here, lit up by candles instead of the harsh industrial lights, and through the long skylights above, the stars twinkled.
"Robot Jones!"
The little robot immediately knew that voice. He turned, barely avoiding smacking into a tuxedoed man and his wife, and saw his mother. Only, he had to really look at her, because the sight of her was jarring.
Mrs. Jones had discarded her regular apron, the one that Robot had never once seen her remove, for a flowered skirt. It had lace on the ends and appeared to wrap around all sides of her body, and around her neck joint was a ring of huge, fake pearls. It was similar to what a child might adorn playing dress up in preschool, but on Mrs. Jones form, it was fitting, spilling over just slightly onto her chest plate.
"Mom, you look," Robot blinked hard, his eyes narrowing, "Elegant."
"I see you left the tie behind," she said, folding her arms across her chest.
Robot groaned, hoping she wouldn't notice, but instead of reprimanding him, Mrs. Jones outstretched her pump, and lead the smaller robot to the left side of the room.
"Robot Jones, I believe your memory banks will recall Mr. McLaughlin?" said Mrs. Jones, gesturing to a tall, muscular man with balding orange hair.
He was in a suit as well, but like Marvin Claymore, Robot Jones had never seen this man in anything else other than suits. At the sight of the little robot, his green eyes went wide. "Ah, if you didn't look a day's difference since I last saw yah-how long has it been? Three, four years now?"
Yet again, someone had to make a point that Robot didn't look any different than the day that he began his human studies, and yet again, something about that irked him. However, Robot had mastered the art of hiding one emotion while expressing one on his face, and took the outstretched hand of Mr. McLaughlin to shake it. "Four and three months," Robot answered. "And it does not appear that you have evolved much since I last experienced your company, sir."
"Not much changin' us old folk do," Mr. McLaughlin said, his Irish accent coming out thicker the more he spoke. "'Cept maybe puttin' on a few pounds." He patted his stomach for emphasis.
Despite being as large and wide as Oscar Zamboni in the black and white portrait in the hall, Mr. McLaughlin was wealthy enough to have suits tailored to fit him rather regally. He was one of JNZ's earliest investors, and unlike a lot of the other strange humans here in this room that Robot had never met, took a particular interest in getting to know the units themselves-those that had the capability of communicating with him, anyway. And he'd always been rather friendly to Robot and his family when he stopped by. That was saying a lot, considering some of the hard-hat wearing workers of the factory didn't waste their time trying to build any friendships with the robots that worked or were built there. Tonight, when most of the workers traded hard hats for suits and ties, McLaughlin's personable behavior around the robots are what helped him stand out. "There sure are a multitude of individuals involved in the factory here tonight," Robot said, hoping he'd get McLaughlin to mention what he knew about why they were there.
"It's a madhouse," McLaughlin said earnestly, watching a group of young robots, probably about five or six, running beneath the table and attempting to zap each other with the lasers in their eyes. "I didn't even get the call until yesterday. It was lucky I was at my office in New York when I got the call or I wouldn've made it."
Robot gaped. "Phillips unit was called all the way over for this England for this."
"Remind me, that the one with the squat body, kinda looks like an ugly mailbox?" McLaughlin asked.
Robot nodded, trying not to smile. In the restraint, he broke into giggles. Mrs. Jones resisted the urge to reprimand him for being rude, and sighed.
"For Jasus' sake," McLaughlin said slapping his face. "Claymore better have a good reason for this, pullin' everybody from their lives."
"At the very least," Mrs. Jones said. "This event has given everyone a chance to interact with each other again."
"True you are, Mrs.," McLaughlin nodded. As he spoke, his eyes caught on something behind, and just above Mrs. Jones head, and his smile wilted. "Speaking of the gah-goyle, he's comin' down right now. Probably means this thing's gonna start soon."
Robot and Mrs. Jones followed McLauglin's gaze up far to the top of the workfloor, where the manager's office stood, suspended on support beams jutting from the ceiling, and flowing into the offices wing of the factory via a catwalk. While Claymore wasn't seen in the factory very often, when he did visit, he took over the manager's office, overlooking the workers themselves, to do his business. Because JNZ was still a company with only one factory, it would have made more sense to just dedicate one of the offices in the narrow, carpeted wing to Claymore, but for some reason, the man enjoyed scrutinizing over the laborers themselves when he was here. It made Robot feel uncomfortable for his father, who was more than once probably stared at by Marvin Claymore when he had his back turned.
From the manager's office, the turquoise door squeaked open, and out came three suited figures. One lean and tall, with a grim, heavy walk that Robot agreed with McLaughlin made it obvious to be Marvin Claymore. One fat and short, who was the manger of JNZ, Hans Pike, and walked with more humor and ease. And the third was even shorter than Pike, and thinner than Marvin. Robot felt unease crawl up his servos. Isaac Claymore, Marvin's son, was with them, and almost immediately found Robot's eyes. He was exactly Robot's age, and went to some sort of private school. For as long as Robot had known him, he'd been taller than Isaac, but the boy that left that office was now a full foot taller than Robot, and as if he could tell that Robot had noticed immediately, a wicked smile broke out on that otherwise angelic face.
He set his glass of wine down on the white-clothed refreshment table set up near the wall. "Bett'a go find the beached whale and take a seat."
Robot watched him leave, confused. "You didn't bring your wife?"
"Who'd you think I was talkin' about?" Mr. McLaughlin said, and then threw his head back for a hearty laugh. "I'll be seeing ya two."
Robot grinned as he watched him get lost in the crowd of people, making their way to the front of the work floor, where a makeshift stage had been set up, presumably for Claymore and Pike to make their announcement-whatever that was.
Mrs. Jones sighed. "Robot Jones, as much as I enjoy Mr. McLaughlin's company, I hope to not see you imitate the human's crude sense of humor."
Even though he thought McLaughlin could be funny, he could never see himself being as bold as to make jokes like that human. "He's one of the only humans who projects comfortably around us," Robot remarked.
"You are correct," Mrs. Jones said. "But my point stands."
Robot held up his claws, in a silent way of saying that she had nothing to worry about. His smile fell, once he realized that their party was short someone. "Where is Dad unit?"
"Waiting for us up by the stage. It took him longer to get finished and cleaned up." Mrs. Jones said. "Come on, we should get going."
Robot followed, but felt a stab of worry. Them, up front? Why?
Closer to the stage were dozens of metal pull-out chairs, in two nearly perfect rows, with a wide aisle down the middle. Robot and his mother were squished between dozens of humans and machines, filing into the chairs wherever they pleased. Robots that couldn't sit in chairs moved them to the ends of the rows, so that scattered humans could take them and use them with their own little groups along the sides of the walls. Other than that, the rows remained intact. Finally, they were up against the stage, just one row behind the first. Up to that point, patrons had sat down freely, but guarding these two front rows on either side was another low-ranking workman on duty, his hard-hat off, but uniform still present. He was rather young, and probably new, which partly explained why Robot was asked for an ID.
"The laminated one, Robot," Mrs. Jones reminded him, when he returned a confused look to the workman. A moment later, Robot produced the card with the VIP wording on it, and handed it to the workman.
"Ah, you're the Jones'," the man said with a smile, handing the card back to Robot. "You're center down this second row to the right. Your dad's already there."
To this information, Robot's head jerked to the left, and sure enough, standing out like a sore thumb with his baby blue paint was Dad unit, waving his hand just above the heads of those who sat around him, some of which bent down nervously, afraid of getting a large metallic swat to the back of the head. Robot went running forward and saw that his father had also dressed up, as much as his body would allow, anyway. He was wearing a huge black bow tie in place of his regular long one, and now more than ever, Robot was grateful he left his little one behind at home-of all the robots in formal wear, Dad Unit looked the most ridiculous. Robot was just grateful none of his friends were here to make him feel more embarrassed about it.
Dad unit was standing-or sitting, depending on what you would call it- in a clearing amid the chairs, which was just wide enough for all three of the family. One again, Robot felt a stab of guilt for not feeling worse about Grampz unit not being here, but considering how much effort it was to move him, maybe it was just easier to let him sit in the basement, and tell him about tonight later.
"You look tired," Robot noticed also, standing next to his father. It wasn't a lie to avoid sitting in his hands-hedid look exhausted. Though Dad unit didn't verbally respond to this, he blinked heavy eye-lids to show that Robot was correct.
"Your father's had a long day," Mrs. Jones said. "We both have."
"Don't tell me you had to set up this place," Robot asked, looking at the extravagant set up.
"No, no physical work for us," Mrs. Jones said, half sighing. She was about to explain more, but the lights above them suddenly shut off with a distant whirr, and everybody in the room was drawn to a sudden hush, like they were at the movies and the trailers were starting. The sudden darkness caused some people to trip over their chairs as they sat down, but they recovered quickly enough. Some of the robots used their own bodies, eyes or other appendages, to produce extra light.
Robot's head spun around and decided to take advantage of the total darkness and his night vision to get a look at everyone, and he couldn't believe how many people he recognized. Davvy and Phillps sat with their fathers far in the back, behind the chairs. Nutz was there, too, in the same suit and tie that Robot remembered him wearing when he was working for the guy. He wondered if Nutz was still mad at him, and grimaced at the thought of running into him at some point. He made a mental note to avoid it as best as he could.
Robot hadn't seen so many people that he recognized outside of school in one place before, and something about that was chilling. Whatever was going to happen tonight, they would all experience it together. He turned to his mother. "What is all this about, Mom unit?" he whispered. Maybe it was supposed to be a secret, but he couldn't keep his suspense any longer, knowing she might know.
Mrs. Jones turned her head from the stage to Robot. "To be honest, Robot," she said, her voice somehow still sounding tired, "I cannot produce an answer."
Robot watched her turn her head back to the stage, and he did as well. Surely, if mom unit actually knew anything about what the assembly was for, she would have told him. His mom wasn't one to sugar coat things, let alone blatantly lie. Robot looked to his father, who reflected the same glowing yellow eyes that probably made himself stand out in the darkness. Mr. Jones turned to him, and his somewhat worried expression was all he needed: He didn't know either. So much for the perks of being VIP, Robot thought, finally setting his eyes on the stage.
At once, a spotlight shot down from the catwalk to the middle of the stage, and once again, everybody in the audience was drawn quiet. When most people's eyes were fixed on the spotlight's landing space, Robot's gaze trailed up. Two of the JNZ work-bots on duty were operating a makeshift spotlight on top of the catwalk, just outside Pike's office. The first man to take the honor of appearing on stage was Mr. Pike, his dirty, balding brown hair pulled tight towards his head with some sort of shiny gel. Robot almost didn't recognize him without the hard hat and yellow glasses, remembering the last time he saw him was when his father had taken him here to get an after school job. Once they recognized them too, some of the human workers here in suit and tie, and almost all of the robots in the audience began to cheer. Some of the teen-aged automatons whooping like warriors at the approach of their chief. Even though most teen robots felt jaded towards humans to some extent, Pike ran the factory in a way that earned slice of respect from them. Dad unit remained quiet, but his deep respect for the manager of JNZ was apparent, from the smile on his face. This was company pride in its purest form. Robot groaned at the thought that this event was just a way to get the workers of the factory pumped up to work harder. It would be even more boring than he thought it would be when he left home that night.
In the shuffling of the darkness, someone had placed a microphone and stand in the middle of the spotlight. Pike unhooked the mic from the stand as soon as he approached, coughing into his shoulder before beginning to speak. "Evenin', men and robots alike. For those who don't know me,"
he said, probably referring to the wives and children of the workers who didn't see this man every day, "I'm Hans Pike, the current manager of the factory of JNZ Robotics."
Screams of passion at the company name ran out from the back of the audience, where most of the robots sat. Mr. Pike, looking amused, gave them a moment to die out before continuing. "Yeah, yeah. Well, tonight is a very special night, I can tell ya that right now," he said, beholding his audience. He wasn't a particularly charming man, but he made it seem like addressing an audience of some couple hundred robots and humans was something he did every day. "But ta tell you why that is, everybody put your hands together for da big-shot, da one and only, JNZ's CEO, Marvin Claymore!"
The audience reaction this time was even louder, but among the cheers, there were boos. Many, especially robots who liked Pike hated Claymore, and the mixed audience reaction to his slow stroll onstage was proof. Unlike Pike, it was hard to ignore the long trail of shadow that followed Claymore as the spotlight followed him up the stairs, and to the microphone stand. Pike graciously handed the microphone to the other man, and Marvin turned up the ends of his tight lips to smile at him in a way that seemed painfully forced. Somewhere behind Robot, in the tiring crowd, he heard someone grunt, and he was pretty sure it was McLaughlin.
"Thank you," said Marvin, as Pike stood in the shadow behind Marvin's spotlight. If he was the slightest bit annoyed by the boos in the back, he didn't show it. "It's a pleasure to stand in front of you all tonight, and behold so many familiar faces, man and machine alike." His eyes scanned the rows of seats, the ones closer to the stage being the most visible, while the ones in the back were completely concealed in darkness. Almost instinctively, Robot saw Marvin's head turn to Robot and his family, and snapping away quickly, as if just checking off a list in his head to make sure they were there. For the first time, Robot noticed how his tailored suit looked too big on him, the sleeve that should have exposed his watch as he held up the microphone to his face was still inching up his wrist. It was as if age was giving him a skeletal look that would make Nutz jealous. "As Hans has told you, this night is very special, for the future of JNZ Robotics will be decided, and you are all here to witness it."
Hushed whispers began peeking up behind Robot's ears, and someone said something about another person hiding on the stage. Robot turned his night vision up as far as it would go, but he didn't see a third figure anywhere.
Marvin stood with the confidence of a successful businessman, his speech well-rehearsed. "Tonight marks the ten year anniversary of the day that I was appointed CEO of the JNZ corporation, and I can't express how proud I am of how far we've come in that time. At this day, we are tied between two other corporations for first place as the biggest privately funded robotics plant in the world. And while much of the credit goes to the careful planning of my business staff, the technological scientists, and the many investors who pledge their loyalty to our company's pursuits in the name of science, I owe my biggest thanks to you, the workers and maintenance staff who make it possible for this plant to function, every single day. So give yourselves a round of applause."
The audience roared. Robot and human alike didn't skip the opportunity to pat themselves on the back, but Robot was too fixed on what Marvin had said to move. So it was just an excuse to get the workers amped up, if the only reason Claymore could produce for bringing everyone together was that it was his anniversary. But why did it sound like Marvin had a lot more to say? He was sure full of it if he honestly thought the investors were all in it for the 'science' of robotics. McLaughlin was the only investor Robot knew by name, let alone who actually interacted with the robots themselves.
"And a special thank you for the staff who stayed on tonight in order to make this assembly possible," Marvin said, squinting his eyes up at the two robots who held up the spotlight on the catwalk. The robots smiled and gave him a thumbs up in return, and the audience roared again for the night workers. "The thing about JNZ that even our tied competitors don't always seem to understand is that we are stronger together than we are apart. We represent equal parts, human and robot, working side by side, doing the same jobs. In a world that restricts the integration of robots into commonplace society, we are the naysayers. We say, when robots cannot reach, make them taller. When they cannot think, make them smarter. This is how JNZ earned its respected place on the Fortune 500 companies, and this is how we will approach the future."
The audience managed to somehow get louder. But for every scream of agreement, there was a boo, again, mostly in the way back of the audience, where the lowest-ranking robots either stood or sat on the floor. Though he was VIP, Robot felt their anger. It was hard to see JNZ as this great progressive company that treated robots and humans equally when they were minimum wage robot workers who was in the back of the room, where the darkness made them invisible. Despite this, Robot knew JNZ still treated its robots better than other companies, so their front to the public wasn't exactly a lie.
Once again, Marvin behaved as if he didn't hear the negative voices, but for a flicker of a second, it looked less like he was smugly ignoring them, and more like he was too tired to think of how to acknowledge them. The spotlight was making the shadow of his sunken eyes stronger than Robot had ever seen them. "So it is on this night," he pressed on, raising his voice above the others, "that I come to you with news of an opportunity that offers to make our company, and our ability to reach what we pursue, even stronger. To help me explain, please welcome our esteemed guest, Ms. Donna Crowe, founder and lead operator of the Lightoller corporation."
The figure that Robot had been looking for in the dark behind Marvin finally stepped into the light, first a black high-heeled shoe, and then a long, blue evening gown. The robots overhead adjusted the spotlight so that it was large enough to cast light at the same time over Hans, Marvin, and a woman slightly shorter than JNZ's CEO, with ghostly white skin. Her hair was the thing that Robot found most recognizable from the photos he'd seen of her, though. It was as black as Cubey or June's hair, but chopped unevenly just above the shoulders, and ruffled like feathers. The way she sashayed into the spotlight was intimidating, given that she must be very aware that she was among enemies.
Her image alone brought a simultaneous gasp from the belly of the audience. At this point, anybody who had been shouting support to the things Marvin was saying ceased, so that only the booeres could be heard, and they were more agitated than ever. They were shouting so loudly that Robot could hear some of what they were saying from across the room.
"That is Crowe!" some robot kid yelled.
"What's she doing here?" another shrieked.
Marvin placed the microphone back onto the stand and backed up a few steps so that Ms. Crowe could step up to it. She did not take the mic off the stand herself, but wrapper her long, thin fingers around it, her navy colored nails visibly shimmering, even from this distance. "Thank you, thank you for welcoming me to your incredible factory," said Donna, smiling even though nobody smiled back, let alone clapped for her. Robot was sure the only reason they weren't yelling at her to get off the stage was that everyone had settled into a stunned silence.
Donna Crowe. CEO of the Lightoller corporation. One of the two major companies JNZ was tied for first place with. One of their biggest competitors. One of their biggest enemies. Here, tonight, standing next to Marvin Claymore, on the night JNZ was supposed to be celebrating ten years of unwavering prosperity. Instinctively, Robot looked at his parents. To his left, mom unit was standing still, watching without so much as a crick in her neck. From what Robot understood of her body language, that meant she was as floored as everybody else. But to his right, Dad unit took on a glare so potent it almost made him jump back. The air was hot next to Dad's exhaust, and Robot was sure that the only reason he wasn't shouting hateful things like the robots in the back of the room was Dad unit's unwavering respect for his own company and its image. Robot had to admire his restraint, given how easily prone dad unit was to outbursts.
"I realize all of you only know me via media outlets, and those tend to give a slanted perspective on individuals. So let me remedy that by telling you a little about myself." She attempted to put across a more humble expression, but it was hard to get that impression across, under bright red lipstick. And for whatever reason, maybe the disbelief that she was actually standing there, in their factory, the audience let her talk uninterrupted. "My name is Donna Crowe, I grew up on a small house in New York. My father was a technician for a small company that wasn't doing very well, and my mother was killed in the accident," she raised her right hand, and to the stunned eyes of beholders, removed what was actually a tight skin-colored glove, that started at the elbow. Beneath it was a complex cybornetic arm that gleamed in the spotlight, "That took my arm."
Gasps sprouted up like weeds among the audience. Robot hadn't known a lot about Lightoller's chief up until this point, but it was apparent that nobody at JNZ knew that she was an amputee-a cybornetically aided one, too.
Donna slipped the synthetic skin back into her artificial arm, and Robot watched it merge with the real ends of her skin at her elbow, and become seamless. "After that, my father turned his tinkering on me, trying to give me the best chance at a normal life, despite my disability. And that is what fueled me to create the Lightoller corporation: A robotics plant that specializes in synthetic materials and cybornetics. My staff and I have worked very hard, trying to understand what it is that people are looking for in the future of assisted robotic technologies, and be just that. Today, we have the honor of tying for first place with this," she looked deeply into the audience, like that would emphasize her words more, "Good. Company."
Robot's head was spinning, every inch of his brain trying to calculate the meaning of what was happening. What purpose did Lightoller corporation have in complimenting JNZ? The company that stole at least half of their potential clients? Millions of dollars?
"The gala we are enjoying tonight is at my company's expense," she said, with a click at the end, as if she needed to emphasize the implied cost of all these frivolous extremities like food and wine, when the meeting could have very well consisted of a group of metal chairs and nothing else. "Because there is some very important business I'd like to take care of tonight that requires your assistance." She stepped back from the microphone and gestured to the man on her right. "Mr. Claymore."
"Thank you, Ms. Crowe," Marvin said, taking the microphone off the stand again. "The CEO of the Lightoller corporation has been very generous to us tonight, because she comes to us with an offer that is very difficult to refuse." He waited a beat, allowing a couple of voices to let out their whispers to each other, before going for broke. "Ms. Crowe is giving us free reign and use of all of her specialized synthetic technologies, on the condition," he said with a raised finger, "That we merge with Lightoller."
The silence was shattered. Whispers among the humans, angry, confused, worried. Robots form every inch of the audience, not just the far back, were screaming.
"More like lie-tellers!"
"Incorrect and illogical!"
"Don't fall for it, Claymore!"
"She's playing you like a fiddle!"
"Get the shrew off stage!"
Some of the workmen in the audience were audibly upset, daring to shout their own versions of protests at the risks of their own jobs. Workmen who were in uniform and on duty, surrounding the perimeter of the stage, gave each other baffled looks. Robot let the cacophony wash up over him, taking in the sight of his mother, blinking rapidly as she was thinking as quickly as Robot, and his father, who looked so angry that he was going to melt down, right there, right now. And yet, of all the times he had a right to go on a rampage, his body was still, his hand not even twitching. He spun around to look at the audience behind him, his eyes falling last on McLaughlin, who sat next to a very confused, heavy looking woman Robot remembered to be his wife. McLaughlin himself buried his face in his hands. "Oh, this can't be good."
Of anything Robot could have thought of in that moment, the one thing that echoed through his mind was the definition of the word 'merge.'
Merge: To combine, or to make combined, into a single
entity.
To blend in such a way as the two original forms become
indistinguishable.
JNZ Robotics, this company that has built him, raised him, paid his father, ensured their health and well being, was going to become indistinguishable. Multiple emotions overwhelmed Robot, including one that he never really felt for the company before: Pride. He was proud of JNZ, proud to be one of its creations, proud of those like his father for their steadfast loyalty, and ashamed of the thought of it becoming muddled and lost with a strange company that he barely knew anything about.
The outraged audience was met by Claymore with only a lined-grin, and finally, he raised his arms and called for attention. "Now, now, everybody, calm down," he spoke loudly and clearly into the microphone, his deep voice bouncing off the metallic walls. With only the speaker's help, he was more powerful than everybody on the floor beneath the stage. "Calm down. Did anybody notice how I didn't say I agreed to her proposal?"
At once, aside form a few whispers, the entire audience went quiet again. Everybody close enough to the light of the stage had a baffled expression, robot and human alike. An assortment of voices saying "what?" could be heard.
As if on cue, Robot and his mother exchanged looks. Robot's confusion was far more apparent, but knowing his mother as well as he did, Robot recognized her confusion to be equal to his, just in her posture, and the bend of her neck when she turned.
Marvin chuckled a bit, turning his head from the microphone so only those in the first few rows heard. Ms. Crowe stood to the left, with her arms folded over her body, almost as if she was attempting to look gentle, but she swayed back and forth on her heels showed how much energy was building up inside of her. Composed again quickly, Marvin turned back to the mic. "Why do you all think you are here tonight? My good people, I would not make this drastic a decision without your input."
More whispers rang up through the crowd. Robot couldn't believe that he was hearing him correctly. Since when did a CEO need his worker's approval for a merger? Since when did Marvin Claymore think it was necessary? Something was not adding up. Something was going on that wasn't obvious to everybody else. And every second that passed made Robot even more worried.
"Workers, investors, and units alike," Claymore went on, "are going to get an equal say in this. Are we proud of this company?" he asked, throwing his arms out to his sides.
"Yes!" the audience answered, as soon as everybody realized the question required one.
"Do we want the very best, and only the very best for this company?" Marvin asked, his voice booming with energy.
"YES!" the audience practically screamed in unison, robot and human voices together. An indistinguishable blend already.
"Then we decide, together!" Marvin practically screamed into the mic, his skeletal body looking somehow stronger, like the room's energy gave him strength he didn't have when he first climbed up onto the stage. "But it wouldn't be a fair decision if we didn't allow for a demonstration first, would it?"
As soon as he said that, Robot noticed a ghostly figure moving in the dark, tanned hands guiding it forward. Ms. Crowe stepped left out of the spotlight and allowed a workman from JNZ to wheel a sheeted object on a dolly forward from the shadows behind the stage. The robots above on the catwalk extended the spotlight so that it could encapsulate Claymore, Crowe, and the sheeted object that now divided them, as Hans Pike was dismissed and exited the stage to the right to join the audience. Claymore then passed the microphone to Crowe, and this time, she held it in her hands.
"Thank you, Marvin," she said, winking to the man. "As much as we tie in sales, Lightoller admits JNZ's units are of the highest quality. Your machines are faster and stronger and more dynamic than ours." As she said that last part, her eyes found Robot's for the first time. Robot didn't know if his distrust was apparent, but Crowe's nose scrunched up before her eyes flickered off him.
For the briefest of moments, Robot wondered if his suit really did still smell like farts.
"But where we believe we could assist JNZ moving forward," she went on, easy as ever, "is in esthetics. This is the age of the android, and with your computer minds and our ability to make the artificial seem real, JNZ-Lightoller could be a formidable, unstoppable beast of a company." She spoke with passion, drool practically dripping off her cherry red lips.
Donna Crowe touched the top of the sheeted object with her palm. "To demonstrate what the Lightoller corporation has to offer you," Ms. Crowe said, "I have brought to the factory tonight a unit of my staff's own making. It is, without a doubt, the most ambitious project my team has ever embarked upon, and after many years of failed prototypes, it is finally perfected. Whether or not you, the staff and robots of JNZ, accept my offer to merge, consider this a present, in recognition of our fierce competition with each other. Behold:"
Without another word, she yanked the sheet off of the object to her side, and everyone in room, young and old, machine and flesh, hard-hatted or suited, melted together in a gasp.
The object beneath the sheet was roughly three and a half feet tall, only half the height of Claymore and two thirds the height of Crowe, with a large, doll like head, and every feature of her face and body curved with the perfection of a roman sculpture. But that wasn't what made them swoon-everybody in that audience had seen European androids that looked human in their design, and avoided hard edges.
It was the fact that she was entirely transparent, the harsh spotlight light bouncing off her skin, giving her a yellow outline and shine spots on her head and shoulders, being the only thing that made her visible to the naked eye. Every limb was clear to the point that you could see straight through them, to the darkness behind the stage. Her body was draped in a sleeveless gown made of silk, so thin as not to obscure the clear torso beneath. She looked just like an ice sculpture-even more perfect than ice, because there were no signs of white frost at her core. Nothing but pure shine touching where she curved.
"I proudly present to you, and the world: Project Zero:" Donna Claymore proclaimed proudly into the microphone, letting the sheet fall to the floor with her other hand. When she beheld the stunned audience, the JNZ audience that was just a minute ago hating her very sight, her eyes twinkled. "The Crystal Unit."
The very first instinct Robot had upon seeing that glass figure, that transparent... thing... Was to see how his parents had reacted. But the calmness of the room that had settled upon him was jolted by the fact that his father was no longer sitting at his right side.
Dad unit, the robot that never made the slightest movement without noise, had disappeared.
Originally Published March 15th, 2018
Author's Note for the Story:
According to the dates, I started writing this a week and a day ago. Holy God, it feels like it.
This factory gala night bit ended up being so long that I had to cut it off right here.
So here begins the beginning of 2nd big story element of this mega fanfic: The Crystal stuff. Basically, I've always wanted to see Robot interact with a female robot and compare her to Shannon, so I've re-worked this character again and again, trying to give her an interesting story and background and abilities so that she's not just a dumb, inter-changable fan character. I've been reading a lot of books that end up having some character made partly of glass and videos of people making glass-looking foods, and I guess the idea came to me to make this other girl, this robot character, made of glass. It is fiction, after all-why not an android that's entirely transparent? So I renamed her to match. Obviously at this point we haven't seen much of her, but she gets to do more than stand there like a doll in the next half of this gala bit.
I also wanted to write in some characters to act as the figure-heads of this JNZ corporation. Marvin, Donna and Isaac are as old as Crystal conceptually, and I'm finally getting these guys all written out. They've got their own sort of dynamics that make them more than corrupt business people who abuse robots because they can. And obviously, JNZ already had a manager, thanks to the Work episode, so I just gave him a name and presumed his Chicago accent (I think that's what they were going for.)
And there's also this interesting bit to explore as far as what Mom and Dad Units think of the factory and how it's run-how their loyalty and conscious minds are at war with each other-and that has to deal with why Dad unit took off at the end of this chapter.
If you're wondering where the Andy Fields stuff comes back into play, it pics up again in a later chapter. Right now I'm kind of picturing this how it would look as one of a series of continuous story-elements in a series of episodes, and that's why it's not important right now. The Shannon stuff is going to pick back up in the chapter after the next.
If you actually got through all of this, I'd really appreciate a comment. Even if you're just telling me to condense these freaking chapters, lol.
Whatever Happened to Robot Jones? © Greg Miller & Cartoon Network