Adelaide blinked to stay awake. It had been a long night, and still wasn't over. If it was day time she'd have been back in the apartment by now, but most people were asleep at 5am. Finally she noticed activity inside the glass doors. She was ready. She was prepared.
The locator had fully glitched out, no longer displaying the location of any nearby selfiebots. Smacking it a few times didn't help this time. Nor did smacking it harder. Against the concrete path. But she'd staked out the only entrance, and knew it hadn't come out.
A middle-aged woman, harried, with two tired little disease carriers, flung open the doors. Adelaide quickly swung her hand out. This worked, and I wouldn't want to suggest otherwise, but it was only a temporary victory because, unseen to this point, Bobb had rolled over and was now holding her hand. Not even in a romantic way!
"May I remind you, madam," he said, "you are no longer welcome within the, ah, res-eee-dential ah-accommodation."
He flung her away. It was the closest she'd come to being physically kicked to the curb, rather than the metaphorical variety inflicted by Mr sexual-meeting-of-elected-or-appointed-representatives-ing Borken. But he was old news. She had a new receptacle for her revenge. To achieve that, she'd have to re-capture the selfiebot. And to do that, she'd have to get back inside.
Around the corner of the building, away from the street, she saw something move. Then more of those somethings. Perhaps using humans to cheat her way inside wasn't the right option.
Bobb stared at her through the glass door as she wandered off nonchalantly. When out of his view completely, she doubled back and dove into the delivery chute.
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...
