262
R. Barrett and P. P. Delsanto
12.11 RT and the Quantum Chip
Oil Can Harry, the Tier 1 robot, who ran the Lubrication Station
near Sandsanrock Beach, had just completed his final grease job
for the day, and was about to carry out the routine maintenance that kept his equipment in peak working order. His was
the prime lubrication station in this part of the Dominion, and
he was proud of its AAA rating. It was Harry’s attention to detail
that was largely responsible for its success.
Being only a Tier 1 bot had its advantages. His software did
not allow him to become bored with routine tasks. His mind
drifted back to the incident last year when a Tier 3 comrade
had decided to walk into the nearby ocean to test out some
theory about the meaning of life. Questions of this nature had
never troubled him. He knew what his purpose in life was—it
was printed on his duty statement—so he just got on with it.
Harry paused in his effort to disassemble the grease gun.
Something was blocking out the light, and he turned to find
the cause. To his surprise, there stood the very Tier 3 bot that
had been occupying his thoughts. He recognised him only by the
insignia RT118/17 etched into the carapace over where his heart
would have been, if he’d had a heart.
Arty, as Harry had dubbed him, was still an imposing sight.
However the arrogance, that last year had been so intimidating, was now gone, replaced by a remoteness, as though he
now found his surrounds unworthy of his attention. This was
reflected in his personal appearance. His carapace was coated
in dust, intermingled with specks of what appeared to be rust.
In short, he looked just plain shabby, and when he moved, his
joints emitted a grating noise that sent Harry’s auditory sensors
into oscillation.
However, it was in his optics where the change was most
noticeable: they no longer had the fierce stare that could bore
through to your innermost chip. Instead, his gaze flitted over his
surrounds with all the purpose of a drunken butterfly, as though
disconnected from a mind that was totally engaged with deeper
pursuits.
“Arty?” queried Harry. “It is you, isn’t it?” The optics
alighted for a moment on the lubricator’s face, before resuming
their spasmodic twitching search pattern. “What on earth has
R. Barrett and P. P. Delsanto
12.11 RT and the Quantum Chip
Oil Can Harry, the Tier 1 robot, who ran the Lubrication Station
near Sandsanrock Beach, had just completed his final grease job
for the day, and was about to carry out the routine maintenance that kept his equipment in peak working order. His was
the prime lubrication station in this part of the Dominion, and
he was proud of its AAA rating. It was Harry’s attention to detail
that was largely responsible for its success.
Being only a Tier 1 bot had its advantages. His software did
not allow him to become bored with routine tasks. His mind
drifted back to the incident last year when a Tier 3 comrade
had decided to walk into the nearby ocean to test out some
theory about the meaning of life. Questions of this nature had
never troubled him. He knew what his purpose in life was—it
was printed on his duty statement—so he just got on with it.
Harry paused in his effort to disassemble the grease gun.
Something was blocking out the light, and he turned to find
the cause. To his surprise, there stood the very Tier 3 bot that
had been occupying his thoughts. He recognised him only by the
insignia RT118/17 etched into the carapace over where his heart
would have been, if he’d had a heart.
Arty, as Harry had dubbed him, was still an imposing sight.
However the arrogance, that last year had been so intimidating, was now gone, replaced by a remoteness, as though he
now found his surrounds unworthy of his attention. This was
reflected in his personal appearance. His carapace was coated
in dust, intermingled with specks of what appeared to be rust.
In short, he looked just plain shabby, and when he moved, his
joints emitted a grating noise that sent Harry’s auditory sensors
into oscillation.
However, it was in his optics where the change was most
noticeable: they no longer had the fierce stare that could bore
through to your innermost chip. Instead, his gaze flitted over his
surrounds with all the purpose of a drunken butterfly, as though
disconnected from a mind that was totally engaged with deeper
pursuits.
“Arty?” queried Harry. “It is you, isn’t it?” The optics
alighted for a moment on the lubricator’s face, before resuming
their spasmodic twitching search pattern. “What on earth has