Terrorist Guide - Mac the Droid
Version 1.0
Danyl Strype
Anti-copyright 2003
The narrow doorway slouched beneath a freehand sign that said "Odds" in large
angular capital letters. We walked in, noting the ceiling-high, black, metal
shelves crammed with all manner of blackened and dusty implements. The Neon's
Compassman fixed me with an expression as narrow as the door, "You think
any of this actually works?", he asked skeptically.
"Of course is does," I replied grinning like a cheshire cat, "the proprietor
of this fine establishment knows his work intimately, being mechanical himself..."
He raised his eyebrows at that. "You have to remember mi amigo," I continued,
"'among the scenic moons of Yankee'" I quoted flippantly, "'all self-maintaining
entities have equal status'. Besides," I added trying optimistically to keep
his temper in check, "who could make a better repairperson of necessary gadgets
than a droid?"
Somalin the Compassman didn't like the idea of independent machines being
recognised as Silicon Lifeforms. He didn't mind computers, in fact the presence
of the Artificial Personality Interface plugged into the Neon's systems had
made his job much simpler. But he liked giving instructions instead of pressing
buttons precisely because it seemed less like interacting with a machine.
Besides there were still buttons to press if need be and Harpy had no way
to override the manual controls. It lived in its little alloy catridge (he
was unable to think of Harpy as a 'she') and if faulty could be ripped from
its housing in seconds.
Autonomous robotics on the other hand were a different story. They could
move about wherever they liked and were often far too clever for their own
good in Somalin's opinion. Not to mention the fact they could seize hapless
bioforms and rip their appendages off if their self-programming algorythms
became corrupted. Not that this had ever happened but Somalin's paranoia
was legendary (he liked to think of himself as cautious) and in his mind
marginally plausible meant likely.
Unlike Somalin I like autonomoids. In some ways I prefer them to biologicals.
They are generally friendly, accomodating and relentlessly honest unless
they are programmed otherwise - many a well-to-do family has found themselves
caught short due to unscrupulous robutler manufacturers. It occurred to me
then that I thought of Mac as a friend while Somalin was merely tolerated
as a shipmate.
The repairperson in question chose that moment to come trundling out of his
workshop along the network of rails criss-crossing among the shelves of his
shop. Mac was an old model, long since out of production and he had to resort
to constant customizations to keep himself going. Compatible parts were getting
harder and harder to come by I always kept an eye out for them.
It had been five sun-cycles since his tripod legs had finally given up the
hydraulics. His grubby, scratched torso dangled precariously from a simple
rubber-wheeled pulley system which hauled him along rails made of old pipe.
His many arms, fitted with all the tools of his trade, protruded from what
used to be his neck. His head was fixed right-way-up into the front of his
torso and and slid up and down to meet each of his customers face-to-face.
He had considered various styles of wheels and caterpillar tracks until he
realized that everything he needed was brought to him in the course of business.
Then he decided to build himself into his shop. In a way the shop WAS the
robot and we were as much inside Mac as in front of him. I pointed this out
to Somalin, enjoying his look of distinct unease.
Mac recognised me immediately and his status indicators lit up in welcome.
"Seryn! Numerous time-units have accrued since last you were present in my
estab -stab -stab..." here he swatted at the voice synthesizer below his
dusty camera lens, Somalin turned a fascinating shade of off-white and took
a nervous step backwards, glaring at me in alarm. After a couple of slaps
to the face with his rubber mallet attachment he was able to continue, "...stab
-stablishment. How may I aid or assist?" I made a mental note to keep an
eye out for a new vox box.
"I'm flying with a foreigner, the Neon. This is the Compassman," I rolled
my eyes towards Somalin, "he'll tell you what he needs." Somalin proceeded
to do just that. Most of the jargon went over my head but Mac seemed to understand
perfectly and trundled away searching for the items Somalin had described.
When he returned with the equipment on one of his trailers, hung like himself
from the overhead pipes, I pulled a small red box out of my weavefibre sidepack.
"Payment satisfactory?" I enquired grinning stupidly. Mac's head jerked around
and a chainsaw-like noise burst forth from his vox box. Somalin reached for
his energy blade but let his arm drop when he recognised the din as Mac's
self-programmed laughter.
"Where did you find this?" he asked. Plucking the unit gently from my hand,
he disassembled and then reassembled it on his trailer, his camera eye clicking
through various magnifications as he searched for faults.
"The Neon was issued with a Macguyver 20.1 which has long since fallen to
pieces. They've used all the parts for other purposes except for this. They
couldn't figure out what it was for." Mac chuckled again.
"I will have... fun with this," he said holding up the little red box, "thank
you Seryn. Pleasantry aside good customers, I have much work to do. Corrosion
flee the Neon and all who fly with her." And off he went jiggling back down
his rails into his workshop.
Somaline had packed his replacement components into a carry-case abd he hoisted it onto his shoulder.
"What was that?" he asked. I smiled and set off out the door back towards
the craft of my current employers. The Compassman may he asked but he definitely
didn't want to know.
Last Updated: 10 Oct 2003
Screw you guys I'm going home...
Page Design: Danyl Strype
strypey_at_orcon.net.nz