Seven, Page 3

them?"

  "Yup. They’re like me. Human. So we get along pretty well. Except for a few. Those guys are jerks."

  "Jerks? Does that mean unkind?"

  "Sort of. More like they screw with everybody and no one can do anything about it."

  "They sound like they make you angry."

  "Huh. Didn’t know you understand emotion very well."

  "I do. All robots are emotion based. Except for the computers. They run primarily on logic. Only the illusion of emotion is present but they are not really emotions."

  "Computers? Like, big information centers that can tell me how to get off this place?"

  Ricky was unsure. "I do not know. You will have to ask one yourself. They do not say much except to keep the system online and productive. We do not converse with them outside of a productive context."

  "So, can I still go and ask one of these computers anyway?"

  "If that is something that you want. They are very far away. I work here in the service station to help the others who cannot reach the computer centers and big robot congregations."

  "Well, I don’t really have a choice. Do I?"

  "You always have a choice. It is only a matter of how important it is to leave this place."

  "Yeah. Got to go. I don’t have much edible substance left."

  "The ship you came from is on the way to the nearest computer center."

  "Great. I can check if there’s any left. Maybe I’ll find my flight recorder. Figure out where I am."

  "If that is something that you wish."

  "Yep." He eyeballed the half empty tube in his hand before sticking it back in his mouth and squeezing. "Can’t live without the edible substance tubes."

  "Do you not use charging stations to survive?"

  "Nope. Well, yeah I guess so. Different kind of station though. More like a horizontal plank that I recharge on."

  "This plank must take up much room. Just like my repair platforms."

  "Yeah. They’re pretty similar now that you mention it."

  "It does not sound efficient."

  "Well, depends on how long you use it for."

  "Yes. I suppose the duration of the charge does change the position necessary for an efficient recharge."

  "Yeah. Say, when can we leave for this computer center?"

  "We will leave after I have charged."

  "How long will that take?"

  "According to your time I require no more than twelve hours. We can leave once I am finished."

  "Oh. Great. I’ll be waiting here until then."

  "That is fine." Ricky picked the charging cable from the charging station. "I will be here. If you are in need. Press this button on the charge station. I will be alerted."

  "Great."

  Ricky plugged the cable in to a panel along the bottom of what looked to be his rib cage, leaving his body at a downward angle.

  Dale shrugged and left the back room. Whatever light had first shone through the service station windows was now slowly decreasing. He was tempted to leave for his ship and scavenge for parts, but they would be leaving in that direction in the morning. Silently, he wished he could contact home base. He was sure there was some confusion about where he’d gone on approach to that blip on the radar. There was going to be a total riot when he got back with them.

  He shook his head. The guys at HQ were going to fry him alive for crashing their ship. It was a miracle that he survived though so they would be grateful for that. Either that or they’ll congratulate themselves for making such an effective crash safety system. Too bad he blacked out before witnessing the greatness of their engineering feat. That would be a slap to the face for them. Not that he totally disapproved. But when the paperwork started rolling, he’d have to remember the details. Making stuff up wouldn’t do. That would make them all sorts of mad.

  It wouldn’t take long to make it back if he followed the motorcycle tracks out in to the dessert area over the heaps of metal stuff. At least, it seemed like it wouldn’t take very long. The truth was, the emptiness of the space between him and the ship was unsettling clean. Almost as if every piece of dirt had been confiscated by something. He grimaced. He’d already thought all this out when he’d gone out to think. But honestly, the only option now was to wait until that Ricky character woke up and follow him to the computer he was talking about. Which reminded him.

  Dale sifted his hands through his pockets until he found a small reading device. He turned it on and flipped through a couple stories he’d been meaning to read. He came across one that caught his attention and he sat down on the repair table, making himself comfortable before starting on the first page.

  The Story of the Pig and his Fellow Men

  By Chris Walters

  There was once a pig who lived in the shallow recesses of a tree, hiding from the world in his little haven of peace. He slept for days dreaming about everything and anything that came in to his heart. He wouldn’t do anything about his dreams, but he liked to think that he did all in his power to make them come true and seem important and fulfilled in his heart.

  There were ducks and geese and quite a few farm children who were confused by his seemingly habitual disregard for practicing the great ideas he’d acquired in his sleep. But the pig would always calmly state how he did not need to act because thinking a great thought was worth more than putting that thought in to action.

  The geese didn’t agree and the ducks were quick to judge, the farm children too were confused by this but they agreed because it meant they could go home and laze about because the pig in the tree said thought without action was okay. Obviously the geese got nowhere when they shared their concerns with the pig, the ducks only became red in the face before turning to leave, and the children were disciplined for their disregard for manners and hard work. The pig however continued to sleep in his tree until one day he died of starvation because he thought he did not need to find food if he knew where to find it.

  In the end everyone got what they wanted from the pig, and the pig was dead.

  The end.

  Dale checked the story again to make sure he’d read it right. It was a lot shorter than he’d thought it would be when he’d first started and a lot worse and incredibly, terribly written. He checked the index and found a list of other stories written by a wide range of unadvertised authors. Most of them followed a similar path of logic; disjointed intro followed by terrible logic, and ended with a reasonably unsatisfying ending. He was tempted to delete the entire book, but a cautious note in his head reminded him that he really didn’t have much else to do. He only had a few books left in his repertoire and he didn’t feel like rereading the other stories. It was either that or read the flight operation manuals, and there was something fascinating about the manuals that trumped rereading fiction.

  He flicked back through the list and picked another promising title.

  Duplex

  By Caleb Reeves

  Ben sat down at the table in the cafe. There was something about the way the waiter had watched him when he came in, head bent over the tray he was carrying, eyes following from the corners. He’d seemed startled, almost apologetic, as if he was doing something he felt was wrong, and Ben was the target.

  Ben eased himself in to the padded bench, his back resting against the vinyl. He called the waiter over and ordered a carbonated water. It wasn’t his place to judge on short discrepancies.

  The water came after a few minutes with a question. The waiter asked if Ben was eating tonight.

  Ben looked over the menu and picked out a few breakfast items. Scrambled eggs and a biscuit, gravy on top. The waiter didn’t question the order.

  They stopped serving breakfast a long time ago, but Ben was a regular.

  He took a sip from the glass and set it carefully back on the table. He was here to watch for someone. A certain Kyle Walker who worked in the music shop across the street.

  The food came quickly. Hot, with steam coming up off the eggs. The kitc
hen staff weren’t cooking anything else like this at night. That meant they’d had to waste dishes. But Ben didn’t care. He’d spotted Kyle. A thin, pencil of a man, with a striped scarf and hair, black as tarmac. Ben figured he was Asian in decent, and he would be right. The report he’d never read that resided in some distant government office building would support that theory.

  But Ben wasn’t here to argue ethnicity. He leaned down over his glass and took another sip.

  Dale put the reader down and rubbed his eyes. There had to be something wrong with today’s generation of writers because nothing he’d read recently had any plot to it. Too much had just turned out to be literary fluff to fill space. Authors just trying to make a quick buck by following the old patterns. Nothing new.

  Dale put the reader back in the pocket he’d pulled it from and shifted the odd equipment around on the table until he was lying down. There honestly wasn’t anything left for him to do except cry over how bored he was, but sleep seemed like a much more productive way of spending the next twelve hours.

  He closed his eyes and set his helmet on the disconnected knee of a robots leg. Balancing it before it slid on to the ground.

  There was definitely something strange about the way the robots spoke English, the same as him. It wouldn’t make sense unless there was some connection. That connection however was something Dale wasn’t interested in knowing.

  He’d been on his way from a less inhabited outpost somewhere on the outskirts of Earths solar system when he’d spotted an object sending out a repeater signal a few miles out of his way.