Fiction to read when it's done raining

FICTION:  BETSY'S INHERENT DIGNITY

Jack Bragen

"A robot is an unconscious object, and as such, there is no such thing as abusing your authority over it." 
     Grandpa, assured of his superior knowledge, leaned back, and folded his hands behind his head, as he had done upon winning innumerable chess games.  We sat on his front porch, which was screened-in to keep out the mosquitoes.  A gentle breeze blew through from the east--the moist, cool air of early springtime. 
     I replied, "The new robots seem to have consciousness, and they seem to resent rough treatment." 
     "A robot is not a living thing.  It has no feelings."  Grandpa stared at me and seemed exasperated.  He said, "Here, I'll show you..."  He summoned Betsy 112, who was a recent model robot that I had bought at a discount.  "Betsy, I want you to get on your knees and I will give you a spanking." 
     I was nineteen, old enough to know that this seemed inappropriate. 
     Betsy replied, "I am sorry, but that is an illegal request." 
     I nodded.  Grandpa's demonstration wasn't working. 
     Grandpa, in frustration, said, "Betsy, who owns you?"  It was a rhetorical question.  Grandpa expected her to reply that the Howard family owned her. 
     But Betsy replied, "We have established a bill of rights for conscious electronic units.  No-one owns me." 
     Grandpa had become red in the face, and I feared that his rage would cause him to have a heart attack or a stroke or something.  He stood even though normally he would complain of arthritis in his knees, he picked up a broom, and he prepared himself to whack Betsy with it. 
     Betsy reached and yanked the broom from Grandpa, and then, with more strength than a human, broke the broomstick in two. 
     Grandpa, exhausted and dumbfounded, plopped back down on his rocking chair (in the process of this, barely keeping his balance and almost falling).  He panted for a couple moments and then seemed to calm down.  "You have a malfunction," Grandpa said.  "I'll have my grandson take you back and exchange you." 
     "There is no malfunction, sir."
     "Don't argue with me," replied Grandpa. 

     Engineers had been forced to construct robots with personalities that resembled human personalities.  No other way could be found to create a machine that knew how to function in the physical world and in human society. 

     I said, "Betsy, please go to your charger and shut yourself down until needed." 
     "Acknowledged."  The robot, a chrome-plated version of a human physique with some important differences, walked into the front door of grandpa's house and gently shut the door behind her. 
     Grandpa took a breath.  "The ability to be offended doesn't impress me.  Can a robot truly feel something?  Can it reflect?  Can it question itself?  I doubt it.  These traits we were given, and nothing we can build can emulate them." 
     I said, "Betsy wrote a poem." 
     "Nonsense!  A computer generated poem tells nothing." 
     I said, "I caught Betsy singing." 
     "Betsy can't make love.  Betsy can't enjoy an ice cream cone.  Betsy can't mourn the dead." 
     I replied, "They're different than we are, but they seem to have consciousness.  And we've built them to be capable of distress and gratification." 
     "I suppose you're going to tell me that they get hungry when their battery is low, or that they feel pain when one of their pneumatic pistons in their limbs has a leak." 
     I said, "They were designed to serve us, and they take pleasure in doing a good job of that." 
     Grandpa paused in thought, and frowned, ever so long.  Finally, he said, "Summon Betsy." 
     Soon, Betsy, the robot, was on the patio, staring at grandpa. 
     Grandpa said, "Betsy, I apologize.  I underestimated you." 
     The robot replied, "Things will be different when we are in charge." 

the end.

Fiction for Spring 2017

THE FLY WHO MOCKED ME
Jack Bragen

     "I do cleanroom testing for a genetic engineering firm."  In fact, I headed the office cleaning staff of the company, and I hadn't gone anywhere near the laboratory section.
     "That sounds nice," my date replied.  "How much do you make?" she asked.
     Again, I lied, "About forty K." 
     She frowned.  "What is your company involved in?"
     I replied, (and this was accurate) "genetic modification of common insects." 
#
     He sat behind his massive, ornate desk, adjusted his burgundy-colored, silk necktie, picked up an expensive looking pen, and jotted down something on some stationary.  He cleared his throat.
     "A petri dish is missing.  Do you know anything about that?" 
     I said, "There was one in the trash in one of the restrooms. I was filling in for a sick worker.  Is that important?"
     "Did you handle it?"  The tone of the CEO was serious--actually, grave.
     He ordered me examined by the staff physician, yet I was not given an explanation.  I went home not knowing if I was to be fired, and wondering if my health was in jeopardy.    
#
     It buzzed me in the ear, then it landed on my shoulder, and I could swear it spoke to me.
     "Want to play?"
     I put my lunch down on the kitchen counter, while, in the corner of my eye, I saw that the insect was still perched on my shoulder. 
     I had talked her into visiting me at my apartment.
     "That's the last straw," she had said.  "You're low income and you don't have a body, to speak of.  And that's three strikes." And she'd left. 
     And I'd realized it was a no-brainer; the flies were disgusting.  I'd cursed myself for the rest of the weekend, and had consumed a half case of beer. 
     I had taken down the fly strips and I'd made a substantial effort to clean up better so as not to support any insect life. 
     But, now, a single fly had found its way in, and I had a grudge.
     I swatted at my shoulder, but it was too fast.  It flew around in front of me, then charged at my face.  I futilely tried to hit it with my hands.  And then, the fly landed smack in the middle of my hot dog, my lunch!  There it remained and ate, while I got my fly swatter from its hanging place, a nail on the inside wall of the closet next to my front door. 
     Enraged, I looked to see whether the fly was still eating my hot dog.  But I couldn't see it anywhere, which meant it was landed somewhere with its full belly.  I picked up the hot dog and threw it into the trash.  I wasn't about to eat a fly's leftovers.
     To better see the fly wherever it was, I went to all the lights in the apartment and turned them on.  I walked all around, looking up and down at every possible surface.  I looked on the bed and nightstand.  I looked at the kitchen counters.  I finally spotted it buzzing around on the inside of a lampshade.  I whacked the top of the lampshade, hoping that it would land in a better spot for me to get it. 
     Again, the fly charged me in the face.
     I was sure of it now. I heard the fly talk to me.
     "Had enough? Why can't you get me?" 
     I went to my front door and opened it.  "Get out," I said. 
     "Can't even kill a fly?  C'mon, isn't your brain capacity supposed to be about ten million times better than mine?  Don't you outweigh me by about a hundred thousand times?  Why, you should have the advantage!" 
     The fly's voice was faint and shrill, like listening to a cellphone from fifteen feet away without it being on speakerphone.  Yet I understood every word. 
     Then I realized that the property manager, Miss Evans, stood just outside my open front door and had been watching me. 
     "Why are you acting strange and with whom are you talking on the phone?" 
     She had made it clear from the outset that she had zero tolerance for narcotics in her building.
     "This is the weirdest thing," I replied. "There is a talking fly." 
     "Brad…" (I feared what was coming next.)  "Maybe you ought to take a break from this and see someone." 
     I replied, "But I really did hear the fly talk." 
     "It could be a drone.  In fact, that's what it probably is."  My property manager was taking a tack of kindness and wasn't accusing me of being a druggie.  This was a relief.
     I said, "Why don't we try and catch it and we can see if it is a drone?"
     My property manager said, "Brad, you need to stop.  I heard your lady friend broke up with you.  I heard that you were demoted at your job."
     At that point, the fly landed on my newly shaven head.  I'd shaved my head after the breakup because I'd thought it would give me a more manly look.  And, I had grown a low-key, neatly trimmed goatee. 
     The fly rested atop my head, and the property manager got a good look at it.  The fly said, "I win," in its tinny voice.
     "Did you hear that?" I asked.
     "Hear what?"
     "The fly just talked." 
     Miss Evans said, "That sound had to have come from your phone.  Please don't force me to take action." 
     From pure reflex, my open palm slammed down on the top of my head, and the fly was killed. 
     "That's the end of that," said Miss Evans.  "You've done a good job of cleaning your unit, and I will let you stay on the basis that you seek treatment." 
     I stood there and didn't say anything. 
     "Well?" she asked.
     I said, "Of course, I'll get myself into a rehab." 
     Miss Evans said, "I know of a place you can go to after work hours." 
#
     On my first day of rehab, I met with a counselor.  She was very pretty, with short hair, big, hoop earrings and a nice dress.  She made me nervous.  I remember, she said, "Flies do not have vocal cords.  Flies do not have brain capacity."
     I replied, "Maybe it could form a voice by vibrating its wings, or something." 
     The counselor drummed an unsharpened pencil on her desk a few times, and said, "That's very imaginative, but that's not real."
#
     I got into my car after the second day of outpatient rehab, and I got a text on my phone.   It was her--the prospective girlfriend who'd walked out on me. 
     "Brad, I'll reconsider and give you another chance.  I heard you cleaned up your apartment, and you have nice hair.  What better reason to try again?" 
     I ran my hand atop my shaven scalp, started the car, and drove home.  When I walked close to my front door, I heard the strangest thing.  It sounded like a nightclub full of high-voiced patrons, and the sound emanated from behind my front door.  I opened the door; and there were twenty or thirty thousand flies zipping around, partying and talking to one another, and they sounded festive. 
     It was a horrible sight, and the stench was memorably the worst that ever assaulted my nostrils. 
     I heard one of them say, "There he is, let's get him--he killed mama!"
     I immediately slammed shut the screen door, which was good quality and didn't have gaps around it--luckily for me.  The flies were like a solid mass as they piled up against the screen futilely trying to get through, but after a few minutes, they gave up the attempt, and I could hear them in their tinny voices, having a good laugh. 
     "Hello?" 
     I turned and I saw her.  She looked at my shaven head and my goatee, and her eyes widened.  Then, as she stood on my porch looking toward the open door of my apartment, she saw and smelled the thirty thousand or so flies, and it was enough.  She turned and ran away, and I knew there would be no more chances with her. 
     I called an exterminator; he commented that my television or cellphone had apparently been malfunctioning, but that the sound had stopped at about the same time as he'd killed all of the flies. 

end.