EUSciFi Competition Second Prize: Robo-Rebus
February 27th, 2010 Posted in CompetitionThe winner of the second prize in our EUSciFi competition.
Robo-Rebus by Emily Pritchard
The turn-out for the Mark III was less impressive than for the previous models. At the Mark I unveiling the First Minister had given a speech, celebrating a triumph of science in the field of policing. After that disaster, the Mark II had been shown off by the Lord Provost, waxing lyrical about a new era of automated criminology. The Mark III had commanded only Chief Inspector Mohammed Fitzpatrick, of Lothian and Borders Police, some nervous looking Bobbies and a smattering of press.
The Chief Inspector eyed his crowd warily; they were clearly all expecting another disaster. It wasn’t an unreasonable expectation, and all precautions had been taken against it. The army were waiting outside Fettes HQ, armed to the teeth with all the latest equipment, and a squadron of RAF fighters were circling the Edinburgh skies. At the back of the hall was a reinforced bunker, it couldn’t fend off the Mark III indefinitely but at least until the forces could disable it. But despite all doubts, CI Fitzpatrick knew they’d got this one to work, the Mark III was almost human.
That was the problem with the two previous models, they weren’t human enough, they were too perfect. The Mark I had been carefully programmed to know and understand every nuance of the law, and to enforce it unquestioningly. Compared to the Mark I, Jesus was a bit of a naughty boy. The Mark I was, in short, too good. It wasn’t long before the Mark I had gone on a violent rampage, obliterating anyone who had broken the tiniest of laws – children who nicked sweets from their siblings, drivers who parked their hover vehicles seconds past the time on their tickets, people swearing before the nine o’clock watershed. It was only stopped by a confined explosion of a nuclear warhead.
When they made the Mark II they decided to iron out these problems by programming it with criminal psychology. If the Mark II understood why people commit crimes, then it could treat criminals with a level of leniency appropriate to their crime and circumstance. Unfortunately the Mark II understood criminals too well, and realised that the old adage ‘Crime doesn’t pay’ is only applicable to individuals who cannot take down an entire police force with the arsenal in their big toe. Indeed, it was not an unreasonable surmise as the Mark II was now running the biggest drug ring the world had ever seen. The only possible way of infiltrating the gang and destroying the Mark II was with the Mark III.
The scientists had considered the Mark III long and hard. It needed the moral backbone of the Mark I, the criminal understanding of the Mark II and something else, something less tangible – empathy, instinct and understanding. It needed to be human. Programming a real human personality into the Mark III had been rejected by a government ethics committee. They had suggested instead to programme in the personality of a fictional police officer. Inspector Rebus was chosen for a number of reasons, not least because Ian Rankin was one of the most prolific writers of the 20th and 21st Centuries. DI Rebus also had knowledge of the area, and a certain kind of bloody-mindedness that CI Fitzpatrick, despite berating his own officers for it, secretly admired.
The Inspector Rebus texts has been inputted into the hard-drive of the Mark III, along with the legal knowledge of the Mark I and the criminal psychology of the Mark II. CI Fitzpatrick was sure that this time they’d cracked it.
It was time. The Chief Inspector stuck the vocal amplifier patch to his neck and cleared his throat.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “I am pleased to welcome you to the unveiling of the Mark III Automated Policing Android, or as we like to call him, Robo-Rebus. Unlike the previous models, the Mark III has been programmed with the personality of the fictional detective, Inspector Rebus.”
There was a small burst of applause.
“Before we switch him on,” he warned, “I have to remind you of our safety procedures. If the robot happens to malfunction,” (the onlookers glanced at each other cautiously) “the security bunker is located at the rear of the hall, and you are advised to stay there until it has been deactivated.”
There was a grim silence. Some of the audience were all too aware of the dangers if the Mark III malfunctioned. The Scotsman’s Evelyn Chung had entered the building on cyborg legs as a result of an encounter with the Mark I. CI Fitzpatrick could only admire her determination to return to report on later models.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Robo-Rebus.”
An automatic door lifted, and the Robot was revealed, in a cloud of smoke. The Mark III looked much the same as its predecessors, about 2m tall, the height of the average man, approximately humanoid in shape, but with enough artillery to hold a small country to ransom. CI Fitzpatrick placed his hand on the oversized switch – the whole thing was a little too theatrical for his taste – and pulled it down. The thing spluttered into life.
“Is there any chance of a pint?”
The voice spoke in an archaic dialect. The Chief Inspector recognised it as a Scottish accent, but so many of the younger generation never watched the old films. Most of them would have never heard a regional accent.
A pint though. He racked his brains to remember what a pint meant. He knew he’d heard it somewhere. Beer! A pint meant beer.
“We’ve got champagne,” he said hopefully.
The robot turned to focus on him. It appeared to shrug, “Aye. That’ll do.”
It was like somebody had suddenly opened a valve. Around the room everybody let out the air that they’d been holding in their lungs since CI Fitzpatrick pulled the switch. Chuckles rippled around the room, before spontaneous applause broke out.
The Mark III looked embarrassed, as much as a robot can look embarrassed. He walked out of his holding over to the refreshments table. Behind the table the waitress was visibly shaking. He took as glass of bubbly and examined it quizzically.
“Haven’t got a mouth, have I?” he said, “Isn’t that a bugger.”
Robo-Rebus found his chemical testing probe and plopped it into the glass. He stared at the probe miserably.
Evelyn Chung was by his side almost immediately; “Inventive,” she said, gesturing to the probe.
“Aye, doesnae get you drunk though,” he said with a grimace, “Eh, those are fancy legs. How’d you get them?”
“Your predecessor,” she replied with a wry smile, “Everybody gets cyborg limbs after injuries these days.”
“My Sammy could have done with a pair of them. My daughter she… I don’t have a daughter, do I? She’s a fictional character. Fuck me. I could really do with a drink right now, or a smoke. You don’t have a fag do you?”
Evelyn handed him a cigarette and lighter, “I’m afraid you’ll have to smoke it in the airlock. It’s over there.”
“I’m surprised they haven’t made these things illegal.”
He walked over to the airlock (the only authorised place to smoke) as if the world were resting on his shoulders, shut the door on himself, placed the cigarette into his air-vent and lit it. After a few seconds he put it out and came back out again. He looked despondently at all the eager faces and sighed.
“That didn’t work either.”
The crowd surged forward, the journalists desperate to speak to him, to get a unique quote that no-one else had. But he batted them all off, moving slowly over to CI Fitzpatrick who was quietly sipping champagne.
“Are you my superior?” he asked.
The Chief Inspector nodded.
“DI John Rebus,” he said, proffering his hand.
“CI Mohammed Fitzpatrick,” he shook it.
“Is there a case I can get working on? I need to start work as soon as possible. There’s nothing else for me.”
And CI Fitzpatrick understood. The Mark III might be the greatest asset Lothian and Borders Police had ever had, but he was also John Rebus, the loneliest man who had ever lived. He wasn’t going to go on a killing spree, or become a drug baron, but he was a bigger failure than the Mark I and the Mark II put together. They had created a human being, with nothing to live for.
