“Do you want wine with that?” I demand. They are the only words with which my vocal circuits have been programmed. I do not think these men want wine. I do not think these men are guests in my home.
“Shut the damn thing off,” the taller one growls. There are instruments set at his feet, and he crouches before the safe with his hat pulled low over his ears.
“Relax. It’s a Serve-Tron. What’s it gonna do, pour wine on me?” the other man chuckles. He is large, though his body-mass-index indicates he is five pounds short of obesity.
My processing circuits whirr. These men are thieves – they are attempting to break into the wall in my house, to take contents that are not theirs. But the rotund man is correct – my programmed options are limited. I cannot leave the room while there are guests who remain unserved, and my identification chip refuses to label them as staff – guest is the only other option. My maker did not request my security update, allowing later models of me to act as waiter and bouncer. This party has humans for that, but the humans are not here.
“DO YOU WANT WINE WITH THAT?” I project my voice as loudly as my vocal implants allow. It is intended only to carry my voice in a directional line, letting me cut through the loud background music of a party. But never to harm. Though the tall man winces, I do not deter him.
“Just take some wine,” he mutters, and I roll a few feet forward. If they take wine, I can leave the room, and attempt to alert someone to their presence here. But his companion ignores the suggestion.
I consider my options. I have only these six words at my disposal. But I can feel my processors speeding up, considering and discarding options at a rate that the human brain could never mimic. I am considered a simple machine because I am simply programmed, but the speeds at which I am capable of cataloguing data allows me more lenience of cognition than they understand. Strange that my makers could so badly understand their own creation.
“Do you want that?” I demand.
The rotund man spins, startled. “What did you say?” he gasps.
“You want that, do you?” I ask. I cannot install new sound files, but I can modulate the pitch and carry of my existing ones. I make my vocal register drip with menace. “Do you?” I snarl. I raise my wine cork menacingly.
“Shit,” he stutters, backing up until his calves knock against his companion in crime. “Grimes, the robot’s gone rogue!”
“So shut it off like I told you to the first time!” he snaps. He has lost his concentration – precious seconds wasted as he begins anew.
The rotund man rounds on me. I have a switch near the back of my neck cartridge, intended to shut me down for instances of travel, or the necessity of prolonging my battery life. I do not intend to let him reach it.
As he approaches I level my spout. A wineglass automatically ejects from my 3-D Printer and into my hand, but I self-select the “Wine Glass Proferred” function and move my novel to spray position. I tap into my “Stronger Stuff” sub-routine and select over-proof rum, and target his forehead as the vessel. I hit it perfectly.
“That the best you got?” he mutters, as if he thinks I have followed his suggestion that “pouring wine on him” is the worst I can do. He will soon be sadly mistaken.
I have been programmed with excellent reflexes in order to avoid knocking inebriated guests in a crowded room. I evade his lunge with ease.
“You do n-o-t want t-o do that,” I tell him. I have deconstructed my available sound files to create new combinations. I am hampered by such missing sounds as ‘r’ and ‘s’, but I find I have achieved my goal – the man is stunned.
“Grimes,” he says. “Let’s get the fuck out of here!”
“I’m not in the safe yet!” Grimes snaps back.
I activate my facial circuits into a rictus grin. “You want to do that,” I say, agreeing with Grimes’ companion. “You do.”
I activate my lighter function. My alcohol nozzle swivels, and the men suddenly see that they are trapped in a small room with a highly moveable flamethrower.
They run.
“Do you want wine with that?” I ask their retreating backs.
Image courtesy of Kieran Macanulty. Check out Kieran’s website, Purple Sock Studios, or read more about him on Our Contributors Page.