I, Robot To Protect

all expression and communication hidden. There was more to it than fear. Susan knew she was seeing something else, another emotion she could not yet recognize. Think, Susan. Think.

Nate continued fake-driving, and Monterey’s face returned to neutral. The robot turned his attention to Susan, silently requesting more direction.

Susan ran through her mind, trying to remember what seemed out of place. A dipping of the body, almost hiding. Shifting gaze. She gave Nate a subtle thumbs-up to indicate he should continue as he had started.

Nate cleared his throat. “Rey-rey, if you’re not going to talk to me, how will I know where to take you?” Again, he turned. “This is our special day.”

Susan watched Monterey as closely as she dared. Again, she saw the fear reaction written plainly on her face and also the hunching into her seat, as if she wished to disappear. Her gaze shifted, and she again jabbed a finger forward.

Guilt, of course. Susan believed she had plucked the micro-expression from the overwhelming concern for safety. Monterey’s not worried for her own life; she survived the accident. She’s worried for Nate. And feeling guilty for killing her father. That fit in with Susan’s previous discussions with Nate and John Calvin. The affliction spoke for itself. There was no doubt about it anymore. She definitely said something that caused her father to take his eyes from the road.

The same possibilities presented themselves to Susan as before, the only two things a six-year-old might request in a moving car that a parent might indulge: food or a toy. Susan tweaked her memory by attempting to recall all of Monterey’s nursing notes. She was certain the girl had never shown any aversion toward food, not even the pickiness that usually afflicted young school-aged children. There had been a recent incident regarding a toy. A missing stuffed animal. Monterey had gone as frantic as a mute child can until one of the nurses found it wadded under a sofa cushion in the patients’ lounge. What was it? Susan tried to remember without success. The nurses had referred to it only as Bobo. Bobo. A different memory found itself lodged in Susan’s mind, one of Sharicka watching television with an unfamiliar plush monkey that looked worn and well loved. Bobo.

Susan sprang forward, keeping her voice calm. “Nate, Monterey dropped her stuffed monkey. Its name is Bobo. You don’t want to drive for an hour with a bored child, do you?”

Nate played along. “Definitely not. Where is Bobo?”

Susan planted her gaze on Monterey. The girl’s nostrils flared, her brows drew together, and her upper lip rose. Susan could see an artery in her neck pulsating so wildly it seemed to vibrate. Monterey had gone beyond fear to welling terror. “It’s in the passenger seat, just out of your reach. You’re going to have to unbuckle to get it.”

“Right.” Nate pantomimed releasing a seat belt and started leaning toward the passenger seat.

Abruptly, Monterey dove forward, catching Nate’s neck with both arms and squeezing with such violence that Susan took a step forward before remembering Nate did not need to breathe. A low humming sound seemed to come from nowhere. It took Susan a moment to realize it originated from Monterey’s throat.

Unable to move without first dislodging the girl, Nate rolled his gaze to Susan.

Susan tried to make sense of the noise emanating from Monterey. Gradually, she pieced it together as a deep, guttural “no” repeated so rapidly in succession it became a constant sound.

Suddenly, Monterey screamed. The sound was raw agony, a depthless, primal howl from some forgotten ancestral memory. Susan’s blood froze in her veins. Remington leapt to his feet, Nate went still, and Susan rushed toward Monterey. Before she reached the girl, another scream ripped from Monterey’s throat, then another. Worried she would bring the entire building running, Susan enwrapped the child as well as she could from beside the gurney and spoke in the calmest voice she could muster. “It’s all right. He’s a robot. He can’t die, Monterey. He . . . can’t . . . die.”

It was not wholly truth. Otherwise, there would be no need for the Third Law of Robotics: “A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First and Second Laws.” But Monterey could not know that.

Nate spoke in a muffled voice. “If I could die, it might be by strangulation.”

The screaming stopped. Slowly, Monterey’s arms slipped from Nate’s neck. She grasped Susan into a hug so fierce that she had no trouble lifting the child from the gurney and placing her on the floor. “It’s all right, Monterey. Everything will be okay.”

Monterey heaved with great sobs. Susan’s dress polo absorbed the tears, and she could feel the warm moisture seeping through to her chest. She grasped the girl more tightly, afraid to let go.

Nate stepped away from the gurney, readjusting his collar. Remington watched Susan and Monterey, not daring to break the near silence that followed those heartrending screams.

Susan gave man and robot uncertain looks. Clearly, things had changed for Monterey, but whether for better or worse remained to be seen. One thing seemed certain. To make Monterey well, they needed to address the burden of guilt she carried. In her heart and mind, she believed she and Bobo had killed her father, and Susan would have to disabuse her of that notion.

“Thank you,” Susan mouthed silently to Nate.

The robot only shrugged and smiled.

Chapter 15

By the time Susan got Monterey Zdrazil resettled in her room, the gurney returned to Pediatrics, and finally took herself back to the charting room, it was almost nine p.m. She found Nate and Remington seated in plush chairs, chatting amicably. Both of them looked up as she entered.

“I’m so sorry,” Susan said before either of them could speak. “Nate, I put you in a difficult position.”

Nate waved off the apology. “Sometimes I think you’re the one forgetting I’m a robot. I was built to serve mankind and the physicians at Manhattan Hasbro in particular.”

Susan had not thought about those things, and the reminder might have made her smile had she not felt so guilty about how she had treated Remington. “Remy, I imagine I’m the worst date you’ve ever had.”

The neurosurgery resident rose. His green eyes sparkled in the shadow of his sandy curls, and a smile split his face to show the perfect, white line of teeth. She had always found him handsome, but never more so than at that moment. “Believe it or not, I’ve had worse. And I’d rather not go there, if you don’t mind.”

Susan laughed. “If they’re worse than this, I’m sure I don’t want to know the details.”

Remington’s smile broadened. “I enjoyed watching you work your magic. You’re an aggressive doctor, a risk taker. I like that.”

Susan nodded, unconsciously psychoanalyzing her boyfriend. Surgeons had a reputation for leaping in without fully assessing a situation, changing strategies on the fly, and making enormous changes swiftly, for good or ill. It reminded her of a classic joke about four physicians duck hunting. The psychiatrist studies the creature flying over, thinking it looks like a duck but trying to determine if it really feels like a duck. The internist notes the beak, webbed feet, and feathers are consistent with the creature probably being diagnosed as a duck. Then the surgeon catches sight of the creature and immediately shoots it down. He turns to the pathologist and says, “Go over there and find out what that was.”

Susan could understand where a surgeon might find her approach to Monterey commendable, even while her fellow psychiatrists were horrified. The effects of what she had inflicted upon the girl might not fully manifest for weeks. Now that the excitement had waned, exhaustion crushed down on Susan. She glanced at her Vox. It felt unbearably rude to postpone the date when Remington had waited so long.

But the neurosurgery resident had tuned in to Susan’s mood. “It’s getting late, and we both could use our sleep. What’s on your agenda for the weekend?”

Susan considered, then groaned. “Rounds in the morning. Should be finished by ten, but I’m supposed to inject two study patients after that. Sunday, I’m on call.”

Remington nodded, sighing. His schedule would prove every bit as busy as hers. “No problem. I don’t know who’s on Sunday for neurosurg, but whoever it is will jump at a chance to switch with me. That should get us on the same rotation schedule.” He stroked his chin and a few wisps of blond hair clinging there. “By law, they have to