The Robot From Beijing
by Alan Loewen
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Howard’s home was more like a mansion, part of an estate he had inherited from his late parents. Both father and mother had been lawyers and left their only child a comfortable residence as well as an endowment that assured a comfortable lifestyle, exotic liquors included.
Howard answered the doorbell and ushered Brendan into what used to be the library of Howard’s parents. There, on the floor, lay a large, bulky wooden crate eerily reminding Brendan of a coffin.
“That’s a lot of whiskey, don’t you think?” Brendan asked.
Howard rolled his eyes. “It’s not whiskey. It’s something far more fascinating. Help me open it. I wanted you to be the first to see it.”
With the help of a crowbar, the two men opened the crate to reveal wads of packaging, newspapers all in Chinese. Eventually, the contents were shown to be a humanoid robot about five feet tall.
“What is this?” Brendan asked.
Howard looked at him with a smug expression. “It’s my newest acquisition. A robot with the latest in artificial intelligence.” He grabbed the instruction booklet taped across the robot’s chest.
Howard grimaced. “Definitely written by somebody who had English as a second language. Help me get this thing out of the box.”
With a few grunts, they had the thing lying on the floor. Howard thumbed through the manual. “Okay, it’s evidently charged from the factory. Let’s see what this thing can do.” He read a little further. “Voice-activated? Okay. Robot, stand up!”
Both men jumped back as the robot sat up and slowly stood, its eyes glowing green.
“I don’t know, Howard,” Brendan said. “I don’t know if this thing is safe.”
Howard laughed. “Worrywart! It’s programmed with Asimov’s Three Laws of Robotics. It can’t do me any harm.” With that he went to the large oaken desk, opened a drawer and took out a pistol.
“Um … You know what?” Brendan said, “I believe you. Let’s not do anything rash.”
Howard shook his head in derision. “Let me show you.” He turned to the robot. “Take this pistol.”
With a smooth motion, the robot reached out and took the proffered firearm.
Howard winked at Brendan and turned once again to the robot. “Robot, I order you to shoot me.”
The robot promptly shot him.
Minutes later, Howard and Brendan cowered behind the door of Howard’s bedroom listening as the robot rampaged through the mansion, breaking down doors looking for them.
Howard clutches his side where the bullet had grazed him. “I will never buy anything from China ever again,” he muttered. He patted his pocket. “Great. I left my cell phone downstairs. You?”
Brendan checked his phone. “No signal. You live too far out in the boonies.”
Down the hall they heard a door shatter as the robot drew nearer in its search.
“Okay,” Howard said. “We’re on our own. Here we are in my second-floor bedroom with no weapons.” He turned to Brendan. “What do you suggest?”
Quickly, Brendan went to Howard’s king-sized bed and threw back the covers. “Open that window,” Brendan said. “And be quick about it.”
Brendan took the sheet, cover, and counterpane and tied them together. Securing them to the bed’s poster, he threw the improvised rope out the window. “You first,” he said.
With a groan, Howard eased himself out the window, and clinging for his life, made his way gracelessly to the ground below. Losing his grip, five feet above the ground, his fall was broken by an arborvitae.
Seeing his friend safe on the ground, Brendan took out his lighter, triggered a flame, and held it to some paperbacks on a nightstand.
Ten minutes later, Howard and Brendan watched the mansion as flames consumed it.
“You know,” Howard said, “the difference between you and me is that if I see a fly on the wall, I roll up a newspaper, and the fly is dead. You, on the other hand, take a cannon and blow the entire wall away.”
“True,” Brendan nodded, “but the fly is dead.”
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