Chapter 5 #3
"Visuals are clear," Maxwell reports. "The resolution is exquisite. I can see the serial number on the artificial aorta."
"Great," I say. "Now, let’s test the 'Active Motion Compensation' code we just invented while eating hawaiian pizza."
"It is not code," Maxwell corrects. "It is a parameter adjustment. I have increased the sensitivity of the master-slave interface to anticipate rhythmic motion."
"Right. You made it twitchy. Go for the valve."
Maxwell takes a breath. "Advancing Instrument Arm 1. Grasping the needle driver."
The robot arm moves. It’s smooth. It’s elegant. It picks up the tiny curved needle.
"Okay," I say, stepping closer. "Now, simulate the trauma. The heart is beating erratically. The patient is crashing."
I reach over to the control panel on the wall and turn the "Heart Rate" dial on the mannequin from Normal to Chaos.
Bob’s chest starts to heave. The synthetic heart inside starts bucking like a mechanical bull.
"Compensating," Maxwell says tight-lipped. "Engaging the algorithm."
He moves his hands.
The robot... reacts.
But not in the way we hoped.
Instead of moving in sync with the heart, the robot arm seems to interpret the motion as a threat. It lunges.
Thwack.
"What was that?" Maxwell asks.
"Uh..." I wince. "You just slapped the heart. It was a firm slap. Very disciplinary."
"I was attempting to stabilize the annulus," Maxwell says, sounding flustered. "Adjusting gain."
He twists his wrists.
The robot arm spins 360 degrees. It looks like something out of The Exorcist.
"Max," I say. "The arm is possessed."
"It is recalibrating!" Maxwell insists. "I am attempting to—"
Suddenly, the second robot arm—the one holding the cautery hook—wakes up. It hasn't been given a command. It just decides to join the party.
It shoots forward and stabs Bob in the neck.
"Hostile!" I yell. "We have a hostile robot!"
"I did not tell it to do that!" Maxwell pulls back on the controls.
The robot resists. The arm holding the needle driver begins to vibrate violently. Then, with a sound like a sad trombone, it throws the needle across the room.
Ping.
It hits the metal sink.
"Needle is out," I report helpfully. "Safety hazard neutralized."
"This is impossible," Maxwell growls. He is fighting the controls now, wrestling the machine. "The latency is too high. It’s overcorrecting."
"It’s having a seizure, Max. Shut it down."
"No! I can fix it. I just need to dampen the—"
The robot arms cross. They tangle. Then, in a final act of defiance, the camera arm plunges downward, burying itself deep into Bob’s synthetic liver.
There is a loud CRUNCH.
Smoke starts to rise from Bob’s chest.
"Fire!" I shout. "We have fire in the hole!"
Maxwell rips his head out of the console. His hair is messed up. His glasses are crooked. He looks wild-eyed.
"Did I kill him?" he asks breathlessly.
I look at Bob. He has a camera sticking out of his liver, a stab wound in his neck, and he is smoking.
"Well," I say, examining the damage. "His heart condition is no longer his primary concern."
Maxwell slumps back in the chair. He puts his head in his hands.
"We are frauds," he whispers into his palms. "We are charlatans. I just destroyed a thirty-thousand-dollar simulator."
"To be fair," I say, trying not to laugh, "Bob was asking for it. He had a bad attitude."
"This is not funny, Jax. Sterling wants data. He wants a protocol. And all I have is a robot that thinks it is a blender."
He looks devastated. The Golden Boy, defeated by faulty coding.
I walk over to the console. I put a hand on his shoulder. He’s tense, vibrating with frustration.
"Hey," I say softly. "Look on the bright side."
Maxwell looks up, miserable. "There is a bright side?"
"Yeah. If the robot uprising ever happens, we know their weakness."
Maxwell stares at me. "Which is?"
"Arrhythmia," I say. "We just have to dance at them aggressively, and they’ll short-circuit."
Maxwell blinks. Then, a small, reluctant snort escapes him. Then another. He starts to laugh. It’s a desperate, hysterical sound, but it’s real.
"We are going to prison," Maxwell wheezes, wiping his eyes. "For murder of a mannequin."
"Nah," I say, leaning down until our faces are level. "We’ll just tell Sterling the data was corrupted. We’ll buy time. We’ll figure it out."
Maxwell looks at me. The laughter fades, replaced by that intensity that always hits me like a physical blow.
"You really think we can?"
"I think," I say, "that between your brain and my ability to improvise, we can fake anything. Except maybe the robot dance. You should never do that again."
Maxwell straightens his tie, recovering his dignity by the millimeter.
"I do not dance," he informs me. "I execute movement protocols."
"Right. Well, let’s execute a 'Get the hell out of here before the smoke alarm goes off' protocol."
I offer him a hand.
He takes it. His grip is firm.
"Agreed," he says.
We flee the scene of the crime, leaving poor Bob smoking on the table. We’re liars. We’re frauds. And we’re absolutely screwed.
But as we walk down the hallway, Maxwell’s shoulder brushing mine, I realize I haven't had this much fun in years.