Expedition Westward by Brian Bakos
***
Things lightened up a great deal the following day. Star began to emerge from her mental funk and became more communicative. Winston’s fears of Visionist pursuit had faded somewhat.
Who knew if any of the cultists had even survived? Maybe they’d all blown themselves up. And if any did survive, they would have no idea which direction to go. Nobody had questioned Winston about their travel plans, and if Star had said anything to the ‘messiah,’ well ... that gentleman wouldn’t be talking about it now.
As far as other humans were concerned, it was hard to imagine any of them suddenly appearing out of the empty landscape. And if they did? Better not to obsess about that.
The biggest alteration was in Bert. Away from his gang, his madness seemed to abate. Everyone sensed this – even Ripper had relaxed his vigilance a little. Winston was able to engage the former scrapper in occasional bits of conversation:
“How did you learn to drive?” Winston asked at one point. “Surely it was not part of your original design parameters.”
“It just came to me,” Bert replied. “I was second in command of the old gang, and I often watched Edward drive, so I knew what to do.”
“Ah, yes, Edward.” Winston flexed the lower leg that he’d obtained from that demised scrapper. “He’s never far from my affections.”
“After Edward was destroyed by that ... Iridium wolf, and my arm got ripped off,” Bert said, “it seemed only natural that I should take over the driving duties.”
Winston mulled this information over in his mind.
“As I recall, Edward was missing an eye,” he said.
“Right,” Bert said, “he was injured in an explosion.”
“Perhaps the loss of a body member is a prerequisite for overcoming programmed restrictions against operating motor vehicles,” Winston said.
Bert shrugged his good shoulder. “Whatever.”
“When we get to the RDC, there’s a technician who can fix you right up,” Winston said.
“Oh?”
“Certainly,” Winston said. “It will be interesting to see if you retain your driving ability after having a new arm installed.”
“I’d rather have the arm,” Bert said. “To hell with the driving.”
“He could help you in other ways too,” Winston said. “You know, return your programming to original design specs ... that sort of thing.”
Winston let the delicate subject peter out. Once they made it to the west coast, then would be the time to take it up again.
Dr. Rackenfauz would have a field day with Bert, not because of the simple limb replacement procedure, but because it would give him a chance to examine a scrapper brain ‘in the flesh’ so to speak. If anyone could straighten out Bert’s corrupted programming, it was Dr. Rackenfauz. He might even be able to design therapeutic routines for normal robots to inoculate them against the Che Syndrome madness.
Winston knew from his own experience how the Syndrome followed a predictable sequence for robotic life forms that had lost their purpose for existence:
1. Rapid psychological decay
2. Descent into a state of imbalance
3. Suicide / OR:
4. Banding together of similarly affected robotic life forms
5. Attainment of a psychotic equilibrium
6. Destructive group behaviors
He shuddered at the memory of how close he’d come to caving in himself. Even now, thoughts of suicide by defenestration were never far away. The presence of Star was the main thing that kept him sane.
Heck, once Bert got fixed up, he could be a valuable addition to their company, Winston believed. If Bert retained his driving ability, he could get them back to Mech City in record time. Once their other business on the west coast was finished – whatever that might be – they would be heading back there.