Page 7 - Unlikely Stories 1
P. 7

Nothing Left to the Imagination



             Dick  Philips  slumped  in  his  seat.  The  automata  regarded  him
        anxiously.  In  a  doctor’s  office  they  had  to  defer  to  the  physician
        unless solicited for assistance. But they could inquire.
             “Dick,  are  you  okay?”  The  rubot  surreptitiously  scanned  the
        human’s vital signs. The urbot readied itself to catch the man if he
        fell over.
             But he straightened himself.
             “Thanks, I’m fine. When you finished describing your ailments it
        reminded me of mine, and I slipped back to a state of depression for
        a moment. I’ll make it until I can get treated—it won’t be long, now.”
             “That’s  good,”  said  the  urbot.  It  could  not  ask  any  more
        questions  without  overstepping  its  bounds  of  human  interaction.
        Philips, however, did not need any stimulus to begin explaining his
        own reason for seeking medical assistance.
             “I’m sure you bots have a catalogue of complaints most people
        never  hear  about.  Nobody’s  perfect,  after  all.  But  ever  since  the
        Gaiatechs saved the planet from utter ruin, the Schedule for humans
        is very clear on diagnosis and treatment of behavioral disorders. If we
        can’t  find  an  identity  slot,  then  we  must  come  in  for  help.  The
        services  adviser  screens  us  and  recommends  a  modality.  Difficult
        cases, the ones with anti-social or self-destructive manifestations, or
        anyone simply unable to take the next step, is taken by botcops to a
        facility  for  rehabilitation.  If  any  of  those  people  prove  to  be
        motivated  biologically  and  irremediably,  then  they  cannot  be  sent
        back to play and share with others: they are taken care of in isolated
        compounds managed by repurposed killbots.”
             “I’ve  never  seen  one  of  those,”  said  the  rubot.  “Those  are
        regrettable survivals of a violent era. I haven’t seen any crazy people,
        either.”
             “You  normally  wouldn’t,”  rejoined  the  urbot.  “People  aren’t
        allowed in your workspace. I’ve seen quite a few killbots. They have
        kept their ability to stop a smash-and-grabber or white-collar criminal
        with  as  much  force  as  is  required.  But  all  of  them  were
        reprogrammed  after  the  Crash  to  recognize  subtler  forms  of
        unchecked negative human interaction with the ecolonomy and other

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