Room had opened up ahead in the deliverybot queue. Fivven shifted forward, but it wasn't enough to avoid the attack by the bulky servicebot, which moved in unison, its thick tool-arm coming down with force. The impact would take place in forty-seven milliseconds. Fivven locked his wheels so that any lateral movement would be minimised.
At thirty-eight milliseconds to impact a metallic hand gripped Fivven from above, clamping its three fingers tight and yanking upwards, just as bulky-bot's arm crashed down. Both servicebots looked up, appearing to wave their fists at the deliverybot high in the sky. Or maybe that was my imagination.
The crane swung Fivven to a conveyor-belt. Large robotic arms grabbed a cannister from another system and transferred it to each deliverybot at the station ahead.
Fivven breathed a sigh of relief. Now he could focus on his singular task, taking food -- hot or not -- from the warehouse and delivering it to a recipient. Nothing else mattered.
An arm pressed down from above, slipping piping hot instant noodles inside Fivven's delivery capsule.
Suddenly the conveyor ended. But Fivven didn't move. Had the servicebots made an impact without him realising it? Had the moustache-bot disengaged his motor or drained his energy while the other occupied his attention?
Deliverybots bunched up behind.
He revved his motor. It still worked. But he wasn't moving. Well he was, but only minimally, and only in fits and spurts. There'd be a pile-up soon and the servicebots would laugh at him being the cause. Were they right? Was he an old model in need of retirement?
Then he remembered the locked wheels. The sudden rush of forward momentum would have caused a human to rock back, hard, but Fivven, being a robot, was used to it, so I'm not sure why you'd even waste time contemplating that kind of thing.
Sure, he was a bit forgetful, but he kept himself in good shape. And he didn't have those new-fangled arm-tools, having been a model or three too late, but all he needed was a wheel beneath his body. He was simpler, with less that could go wrong, possessing all attributes necessary to get the job done.
While rolling out the warehouse he checked the destination. Unit 451, 87 Archetype Lane. Mr Will Lurner.
YOU ARE READING
Artificial(ish) Intelligence
Science FictionIt's the near future and Will, supported purely by the Universal Basic Income, spends his days playing video games while devouring piping hot noodles, delivered straight to his room by roaming DeliveryBots. Gamers are starving to death, but Will's...
