I, Robot To Protect

whatever means it took.

On the rooftop, Kendall reluctantly pulled the gun from his pocket. His hands trembled on the grip, and the sight jumped recklessly. Worried it would slip from his grasp, he wiped his hands on his tattered khakis, one at a time, his gaze trained fanatically on the entrance below him. People swept in and out, some in a city-hurry, others pausing to tie a shoe, blow a nose, or wait for a friend or family member coming in or out behind them. It all looked so serene, so incredibly normal. This can’t be really happening.

Then, Sharicka Anson came into sight from around the corner of the building. She was alone, dressed in the same pink frilly dress she had worn the night of her escape, now covered by a bulky sweater. Her dark, wavy hair was pulled into a frazzled ponytail. Her pudgy body made her look even younger, like a toddler who must have escaped her mother’s hand. Pressed against Kendall’s side, the radiation detector went haywire, just as it had when he found Cary English. He could not spare a hand to silence it. He let it flop around while he aimed the gun at Sharicka’s head and flipped off the safety.

Sharicka made a beeline for the mall entrance. Remington’s suggestions on the tram flashed through Kendall’s mind. “Aim for the skull,” the neurosurgeon had said with cold matter-of- factness. “That’s not standard procedure, of course. Head’s too small a target compared with the body, but a random shot to the body might risk setting off the explosives. And, if you don’t kill her instantly, she can set them off on purpose. A professional sniper with a rifle could sever the brain from the spinal cord, so the bomber can’t press the button on a dying impulse. We’re going to have to count on an untrained four-year-old not having that kind of instinct.”

An icy chill screwed through Kendall at the image. He could not believe a child, even one so horribly mentally ill, would have the wherewithal to set off an explosion with the agony of a bullet lodged in her abdomen.

Sharicka stepped into range.

Kendall hesitated, worried for a nearby shopper. He planted the red dot directly between her eyes, anxiety spearing through him. What if I hit a bystander? What if I miss completely? An image of splattered blood and brain filled his mind’s eye. Bile crawled up his throat, sour as poison, as he envisioned a little girl’s headless body flopping to the sidewalk.

Sharicka stepped away from the shopper. It was now or never.

Kendall’s finger cramped on the trigger, unable to defy the pictures in his mind. He had dedicated his life to saving lives, to curing the sick, to making even the last moments of life peaceful for everyone. He had pithed frogs, trapped mice, but the idea of ending a human life refused to enter the realm of possibility. He tried to focus on the loss of life Sharicka would cause to so many others, to rely on the realization he had no choice but to exchange one life for hundreds of others. Still, his finger refused to obey him. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

Then, a rowdy gang of teenagers passed between him and his target, and Sharicka was out of range again.

Susan Calvin rounded the building at a gallop, Remington Hawthorn at her side. She caught a glimpse of a familiar dress in elegant primrose with a lacy hem and bulky sweater disappearing, with a crowd of teenagers, into the mall entrance. Susan knew the only hope for keeping everyone alive was to immobilize both of Sharicka’s arms.

“Stop!” Susan shouted, lunging for the small, brown hands. She seized Sharicka’s fingers with an abrupt violence that caught every eye in the vicinity, including the two security guards lounging near the entrance. Sharicka jerked in her grip, clearly startled. Susan’s mind raced. She could yell “Bomb!” but doubted anyone would believe her. Instead, she went for a ploy that might buy her enough time to reveal the truth. “Sharicka, honey! You’re too young to run off by yourself. You have to stay with Mommy.”

Sharicka screamed and immediately started struggling.

Susan tried to look appropriately embarrassed by her offspring’s behavior. Locking a death grip on Sharicka’s hands, she attempted to reveal the telltale bulge beneath her sweater with a foot.

Sharicka twisted madly in Susan’s grip, shrieking at the top of her lungs, “Let me go! Let me go!”

Susan felt her hold slipping.

A little hand squirmed free. Sharicka swung around and glared into Susan’s face with those same killer’s eyes Susan had seen on the unit. “This is not my mommy!” Sharicka hollered. “Help me! Help!”

Susan lunged to recapture the hand as the guards moved in. Remington reached her first, seizing Sharicka’s other arm and using an exasperated parental voice. “This isn’t funny, Sharicka. Stop playing games with Mommy and Daddy.”

Susan saw people staring. The teenagers had stopped, and the guards were coming closer. It occurred to Susan that Sharicka’s biracial features bore out her claim that these were not her parents. They’re going to tear us apart, and we’re all going to die.

Kendall appeared suddenly, racing into the mall, attempting to herd the teenagers. “Bomb!” he shouted. “Run! Evacuate!” He thundered past, into the mall. “Run! Run! Run!”

All hell broke loose. Panicked people screamed and ran in all directions, some deeper into the stores, others out onto the roadways. Horns honked, brakes squealed, and the crash of collisions rang through the air. These sounded like distant background to Susan, lost beneath the ear-shattering shrieks of Sharicka Anson.

In the commotion, Sharicka ripped her other hand from Susan’s hold and slammed it into the resident’s face with enough force to stagger her. Pain spiked through Susan’s skull accompanied by a flash of white light. For an instant, she thought the bomb had exploded. Then, Sharicka whipped her arm toward her own chest. Detonator! Susan realized she could not move fast enough to stop it.

Remington flung himself on top of Sharicka, driving her to the floor with enough force to foil the movement. Sharicka fought like a tiger. To Susan, she looked like a dark and desperate swirl of limbs and teeth. She saw one of the security guards shouting into his Vox. The other slammed into Remington, trying to thrust him off Sharicka. Tipped sideways, Remington lost his hold. Sharicka gathered her legs beneath her and squirted free. Again, her hand raced toward her chest.

“No!” Susan screamed again. She sprang for Sharicka, missing the girl but catching a handful of sweater. As the girl ran, the sweater slid down her arms, revealing the tangled coils of wires. Susan twisted, using the fabric to imprison Sharicka’s arms. “Bomb!” she shouted, certain the guards would turn their attention to the appropriate target.

But, fully focused on wrestling Remington, the guards paid Sharicka no heed. She could see Remington fumbling for his gun, the guard pinioning his hand. Then, from the corner of her eye, she saw the second security guard pull his own weapon and swing it toward Remington.

“The girl!” Susan shrieked, clinging frantically to the sweater. “The girl has the bomb!” The fabric tore in Susan’s grip. Abruptly released, Sharicka staggered wildly forward, tripped, and skidded across the floor. Her hand swung toward the button again, and Susan saw no possible way to stop her. Another scream ripped from her throat, this one without intention or direction.

Remington shouted, “Run, Susan!” Clearly fueled by adrenaline, he landed a desperate blow to the side of the guard’s head that finally gained him his freedom. He flew toward Sharicka. Susan dove for the other guard, frantic to reach him before he pulled the trigger. She crashed into the man so hard, it rattled every tooth in her head. The blast of the gun deafened her left ear. Pain shocked through every part of her. For an instant, she thought he had shot her; then she realized it all stemmed from the force of the impact. The man toppled, and she tumbled over him, sprawling into the exit.

“Run!” Remington managed again.

Susan turned her wild momentum into long-strided running steps, charging out the exit. The pavement whirled in front of her, open. Everyone else had a head start, using it to take as many steps as possible away from Sharicka Anson. She listened for Remington’s footsteps; and, when she didn’t hear them, she dared to glance backward as she ran.

The guard Remington had struck lay still on the floor. The other was scrambling to his feet. Remington had wrapped himself around Sharicka, covering her like a carpet, using his own body to shield them all from the terrible might of the coming explosion.