Samaritan
By boundless piles of clutter and trash there, scrounging about neighboring rats, was a man. His name was Chester but he, understandably, went by Chet. It was stitched in yellow cursive on his jumpsuit, spangled against gray darkened from well-worn grime and innumerable oil stains. Oil seemed to cover most of him, embedded permanent even into the pores of his skin. His rotund frame plunged deep into the hill, with only his loosening boots jutting out. When he emerged he had in his gloved mitts a muffler just the fit for a pickup truck waiting for him in his abode and he stashed it with other disparate gems in an accompanying motorbike, itself fashioned from the very chaff surrounding it.
As he began saddling his vehicle he noticed a near-imperceptible green incandescence in the packed base of a facing heap. He'd have given no inordinate thought had it not flickered twice in quick succession, a scant beckoning of some cryptic value lurking within reach. He started the vehicle and wobbled toward the light under the weight of the salvage in tow. He removed his industrial goggles and secured them above the brim of his cap and peered inside an alcove in the mountainside. Two eyes affixed to a face, robotic and blank except for the still pulsating bulbs. An arm extended out toward the open. With workmen's gloves he grabbed a hold on the machine's collar and pulled, only to feel the compounded density above it begin to quake and the robot not giving an inch. He thought perhaps of leaving it. An old and discarded piece of hardware couldn't be worth a crushed arm or worse. But there was something to its countenance that gave him pause and he entertained the notion of its potential usefulness. If nothing else, it could land him a healthy profit.
He attached a cable from his bike to the machine and hauled it forth with, surprising to him, little collateral damage in the way of collapsing debris. It lay prostrate on the dirt, hand still reaching to something unknown. It was a bronze color, crusted and splashed with metallic gray. The body was mostly rounded with a rectangular pack on its upper backside and the head fastened close, itself curved around to a square, perforated box. The form was a humanoid approximate, with two arms and legs where you'd think. Calves and feet like heavy boots and the forearms like gauntlets. The left arm and leg were crushed down to the thread and mostly detached. A corpse beset with rigor-mortis, aged and roughened from faraway years. Its severed limbs trailed behind in the sand.
He drug, slowly, the thing back to his hovel by cable for he hadn't near the strength to lift it up. The place was a long-abandoned truck stop by a cracked and eroded highway replete with a diner that he'd outfitted into an apartment. Around the back was a garage and stacked workshop which he delivered the machine into using a construction power lifter, rolling tremorous with bestial growls. He sat it down on a cargo crate, popping the frozen limbs back down and removing the damaged ones. He took a screwdriver to its back and removed the thick husk and blew into the plugs and buttons and wiped them thoroughly. Under the crud was a small plate bearing the designation O.S.K.R. and he plugged a power cord connected to a generator into the vacant entryway above it.
"Hello? Can you hear me?" The man asked.
The machine's shoulders hung sulking and it stared at his knees. The green eyes shuttered and finally steadied and it moved its head up and side to side as though it had woken from an old slumber. The moving joints made whirring noises and out of the voice-box came a warbled baritone.
"I. Can... Understand. Yes." It said.
"Can you tell me how well you're running? I can't exactly do a physical on you."
"6% power and rising... Main CPU online... Memory. Audio/visual processors functioning. Motor functions... Question?"
"Uh, sure."
"Left arm. Left leg. Where are they?"
"I had to take em off. They were crushed under the pile of junk you were in. Y'know, you're lucky those were the only parts broken. You looked like you were under there a long time."
"6 months. 5 days. 21 hours."
"Wow... How could you have been on all that time?"
"Only visual receptors online. In state of hibernation."
"You could see me?"
"Yes." While speaking the machine moved every part of its body, rotating and retracting down to the fingers. Actuating itself even as it carried full conversation.
"You're not one of those combat drones the military uses are ya?"
"I am not. No."
"Your name's Oscar, right? There was a tag on your back."
"Observational Salient Kaleidoscopic Reconnaissance. Yes."
"Um... okay."
"Primary function is recorder. Environmental information. Collecting/analyzing data."
"You look like you're built stronger than that. For manual handiwork or something."
"I possess additional capabilities. Yes."
"My name's Chet."
"Yes."
"I'm also what you might call a collector..."
The machine stopped moving and began emitting a lower, heavier series of noises from within its barreled chest. Its head continued to shift around and pause on certain aspects in the room as if to take note of them before turning to the next item. It asked no further questions, needing no further answers.
"Whelp." Chet said. "Maybe once we get you fixed up you can help me out around the shop. In the mean time I should probably let you recharge or recuperate or... whatever it is you gotta do. Tomorrow I'll take you to town and see about gettin' those limbs repaired."
He stood up and pushed aside the stool from which he sat and closed the garage next to the robot. As he left he half-expected a goodbye or parting words of any kind and felt foolish when he received none. The checkerboard patterned door shut and left a lasting visage in its round window; the machine, fallow and stout, hunched over in the dark, eyes still glowing a conscious green.
As he began saddling his vehicle he noticed a near-imperceptible green incandescence in the packed base of a facing heap. He'd have given no inordinate thought had it not flickered twice in quick succession, a scant beckoning of some cryptic value lurking within reach. He started the vehicle and wobbled toward the light under the weight of the salvage in tow. He removed his industrial goggles and secured them above the brim of his cap and peered inside an alcove in the mountainside. Two eyes affixed to a face, robotic and blank except for the still pulsating bulbs. An arm extended out toward the open. With workmen's gloves he grabbed a hold on the machine's collar and pulled, only to feel the compounded density above it begin to quake and the robot not giving an inch. He thought perhaps of leaving it. An old and discarded piece of hardware couldn't be worth a crushed arm or worse. But there was something to its countenance that gave him pause and he entertained the notion of its potential usefulness. If nothing else, it could land him a healthy profit.
He attached a cable from his bike to the machine and hauled it forth with, surprising to him, little collateral damage in the way of collapsing debris. It lay prostrate on the dirt, hand still reaching to something unknown. It was a bronze color, crusted and splashed with metallic gray. The body was mostly rounded with a rectangular pack on its upper backside and the head fastened close, itself curved around to a square, perforated box. The form was a humanoid approximate, with two arms and legs where you'd think. Calves and feet like heavy boots and the forearms like gauntlets. The left arm and leg were crushed down to the thread and mostly detached. A corpse beset with rigor-mortis, aged and roughened from faraway years. Its severed limbs trailed behind in the sand.
He drug, slowly, the thing back to his hovel by cable for he hadn't near the strength to lift it up. The place was a long-abandoned truck stop by a cracked and eroded highway replete with a diner that he'd outfitted into an apartment. Around the back was a garage and stacked workshop which he delivered the machine into using a construction power lifter, rolling tremorous with bestial growls. He sat it down on a cargo crate, popping the frozen limbs back down and removing the damaged ones. He took a screwdriver to its back and removed the thick husk and blew into the plugs and buttons and wiped them thoroughly. Under the crud was a small plate bearing the designation O.S.K.R. and he plugged a power cord connected to a generator into the vacant entryway above it.
"Hello? Can you hear me?" The man asked.
The machine's shoulders hung sulking and it stared at his knees. The green eyes shuttered and finally steadied and it moved its head up and side to side as though it had woken from an old slumber. The moving joints made whirring noises and out of the voice-box came a warbled baritone.
"I. Can... Understand. Yes." It said.
"Can you tell me how well you're running? I can't exactly do a physical on you."
"6% power and rising... Main CPU online... Memory. Audio/visual processors functioning. Motor functions... Question?"
"Uh, sure."
"Left arm. Left leg. Where are they?"
"I had to take em off. They were crushed under the pile of junk you were in. Y'know, you're lucky those were the only parts broken. You looked like you were under there a long time."
"6 months. 5 days. 21 hours."
"Wow... How could you have been on all that time?"
"Only visual receptors online. In state of hibernation."
"You could see me?"
"Yes." While speaking the machine moved every part of its body, rotating and retracting down to the fingers. Actuating itself even as it carried full conversation.
"You're not one of those combat drones the military uses are ya?"
"I am not. No."
"Your name's Oscar, right? There was a tag on your back."
"Observational Salient Kaleidoscopic Reconnaissance. Yes."
"Um... okay."
"Primary function is recorder. Environmental information. Collecting/analyzing data."
"You look like you're built stronger than that. For manual handiwork or something."
"I possess additional capabilities. Yes."
"My name's Chet."
"Yes."
"I'm also what you might call a collector..."
The machine stopped moving and began emitting a lower, heavier series of noises from within its barreled chest. Its head continued to shift around and pause on certain aspects in the room as if to take note of them before turning to the next item. It asked no further questions, needing no further answers.
"Whelp." Chet said. "Maybe once we get you fixed up you can help me out around the shop. In the mean time I should probably let you recharge or recuperate or... whatever it is you gotta do. Tomorrow I'll take you to town and see about gettin' those limbs repaired."
He stood up and pushed aside the stool from which he sat and closed the garage next to the robot. As he left he half-expected a goodbye or parting words of any kind and felt foolish when he received none. The checkerboard patterned door shut and left a lasting visage in its round window; the machine, fallow and stout, hunched over in the dark, eyes still glowing a conscious green.
*****
In the morning he secured it in the back of his pickup truck and put a brown tarp over its head. He said, out loud, that it was just for protection. The limbs he kept in the passenger seat wrapped with bungee cords and cloth like some tentative package and he wore his cleanest pair of overalls equipped with wrenches and screwdrivers of varying size. The engine gasped and wheezed and shook on the dilapidated pavement, nothing in its sight save the distant haze of a cityscape. He sped off toward it, leaving a mixed plume of exhaust and dust in his wake.
He parked the truck in a driveway behind a shabby boutique cramped up in a block. While backing up he narrowly avoided a gang of children playing soccer among the heat and made sure to keep his cargo hidden from them. He met Frank, the owner, and with his help transported the machine to his shop as subtly as they could. To the kids it looked as though they were escorting an elderly reprobate, veiled for ominous reasons.
"This ain't like any bot I've seen before." Said Frank. Mustached and cigar-chomping, smelling like emphysema. "You said you found this in the junk yards?"
"Yeah", Chet said. "Told me he'd been out there six months."
"In that case it's in great shape. So you talked to it?"
"That's right. Hooked it up to the ole electric IV. Said he was some kinda data collector or something."
Frank unscrewed and removed the back of the machine's skull, carefully separating the wires through trifocals with surprising delicacy. He peered into its cranial cavities with a flashlight and a pair of tweezers. Behind him a cork-board rack adorned with power tools and trophies of rare electrical parts spoke of his unique, grubby expertise. To Chet this was a master craftsman at work, tinkering in his element. A man to be admired.
"Hey, come 'ere and look at this." He said without looking up from his work.
"What is it?" Chet braced his left arm on the bench next to the machine and looked in close to what Frank was showing. Strange markings like hieroglyphs on its brain. "What..... Can you read these?"
"Is that a serious question?"
He looked at Frank's blank, granite face. "No."
"You did ask it where it came from, right?"
"Sure I did... I mean, I was going to... When I got here."
A crooked, understanding smirk cleaved under his mustache. "Well let's turn him on then."
They rolled it around to a desktop and plugged a jack cable right into its cortex. The computer monitor, dusty and jaundiced with age, flickered on and began interpreting the robot's thoughts. Thousands of lines of jibberish dashed before settling on some coherence and the strange symbols crammed above the blinking cursor. The robot reanimated with an understated jolt like a sluggish animal.
"Hello Oscar?" Chet spoke to it.
"Yes?" The machine said. The screen recited its speech with white, complex digits on black glass.
"This here is Frank. He wants to ask you some questions."
"So, uh, Oscar." Frank said. "Do you remember how you got to the junk yard? Where Chet found ya."
"I do not. No."
"What d'ya mean? What were you doing before you got there?"
"... I have no record of time prior to shut down."
"How? Was your memory wiped?"
"... Yes." An unusual pause was in its cadence.
"Well, that doesn't help me at all." He leaned back against his counter and folded his arms and thought about what to say next.
"Do you know anything about these?" He pointed to the glyphs on the screen.
Oscar turned his head and focused his specs on the coding. Again he paused, longer this time as though he struggled to find an answer. "There is no record of significance."
"Seems to me you don't know much of anything."
"Look Frank." Chet stepped up and moved toward him. Oscar sat in between them, indifferent. "Let me just leave him with you and you can do the work we agreed on. You know I'm good for the money."
"I was just trying to see... What I'm working with here."
"I know. It just isn't... uh..." His voice trailed off and he turned to the floor.
"Yeah, I get it Chet." He looked down to his cobalt wristwatch. "Come by around this time tomorrow and I'll be finished."
"Thanks again." As he walked out the door rang his exit and the dirt on the road rustled and greeted him. He had a taste of bourbon in the dive across the avenue and thought long of Oscar's nature. His inquisitive, reserved purity that Chet discovered himself admiring. Wholly dissimilar to any he had encountered prior, man or machine.
"Hey there Oscar!" Chet beamed.
"Hello Chet." His voice was as clean as the metal.
"Man are you looking spiffy. Like after taking a long, hot bath. You must feel a lot better."
"My systems are operating at a more optimal level. Yes."
"I can practically see my reflection there. So where's Frank?"
"Over here." Frank sat on a stool in the corner of the room, still wearing his leather apron and a baby blue surgeon's glove on one hand. He smoked a lean, black cigar and reposed amidst the silvery wisps under dark-tinted glasses. "He's been doing that for a while now. Just going around the room and looking at things. I asked him what he was doing and he said he was cataloging. But for what?"
"Have you been up all night?" Chet asked.
"That's right. Eighteen total labor hours. It was a unique challenge."
"Well I gotta hand it to ya. Not that I was expecting anything less, but this is great work."
"Yeah, about that. I need to talk to you. In private." He stood and led Chet into another room with a desk all muddied with loose scraps of paper and drill bits. Musty, tight, and lit by a single gold lamp. He sat on a frayed and squeaking office chair and put his glasses on the plywood and iron surface.
"So what's the topic of discussion?" Chet asked.
"It's about the robot." He dabbed his ash in a halved coffee can. "I've... never seen anything like it."
"How so?"
"First off, none of his hardware had any serial numbers. No bar codes, no designations, nothing. It wasn't that someone etched em off or what have you. The parts were custom made. All of him is custom made. Luckily for me the stuff was close enough to industry standards that I could work with it. But I'm telling you right now if you're planning on selling him for parts you're not gonna get any buyers."
What Chet didn't say then but had already decided was that he was never going to sell the machine, no matter the price. He realized as he looked at Frank munch on his cigar and the rattle in his disposition that this was not a meaningless collection of polished waste, but a strange prize to be cherished. "That's interesting." He said.
"And I looked up those funny looking symbols he had on him. They're closest to Egyptian. Supposedly they mean: 'He Who Sees, Acts'. Whatever that's supposed to mean."
"Huh."
"The thing's a bonafide enigma, man... I didn't see no A.I. processor in there but he behaves a lot like he has one. You've seen how he is."
"Yeah, I have. So's there anything else I should know?"
"I just... I'm at a loss with this one. Truly. You're best bet might be to try to sell him wholesale to a museum or something. To science, I don't know. That kind is better off tinkering with him than me."
Chet put a hand on the man's shoulder. "You did a great job, really."
"You're gonna keep him, aren't you?"
Chet nodded. "Yeah."
"It's just as well I suppose. Don't expect an explanation, though."
"I don't think I need one."
Frank sighed and leaned back in his chair. "He'll be in great hands. The both of you will."
He parked the truck in a driveway behind a shabby boutique cramped up in a block. While backing up he narrowly avoided a gang of children playing soccer among the heat and made sure to keep his cargo hidden from them. He met Frank, the owner, and with his help transported the machine to his shop as subtly as they could. To the kids it looked as though they were escorting an elderly reprobate, veiled for ominous reasons.
"This ain't like any bot I've seen before." Said Frank. Mustached and cigar-chomping, smelling like emphysema. "You said you found this in the junk yards?"
"Yeah", Chet said. "Told me he'd been out there six months."
"In that case it's in great shape. So you talked to it?"
"That's right. Hooked it up to the ole electric IV. Said he was some kinda data collector or something."
Frank unscrewed and removed the back of the machine's skull, carefully separating the wires through trifocals with surprising delicacy. He peered into its cranial cavities with a flashlight and a pair of tweezers. Behind him a cork-board rack adorned with power tools and trophies of rare electrical parts spoke of his unique, grubby expertise. To Chet this was a master craftsman at work, tinkering in his element. A man to be admired.
"Hey, come 'ere and look at this." He said without looking up from his work.
"What is it?" Chet braced his left arm on the bench next to the machine and looked in close to what Frank was showing. Strange markings like hieroglyphs on its brain. "What..... Can you read these?"
"Is that a serious question?"
He looked at Frank's blank, granite face. "No."
"You did ask it where it came from, right?"
"Sure I did... I mean, I was going to... When I got here."
A crooked, understanding smirk cleaved under his mustache. "Well let's turn him on then."
They rolled it around to a desktop and plugged a jack cable right into its cortex. The computer monitor, dusty and jaundiced with age, flickered on and began interpreting the robot's thoughts. Thousands of lines of jibberish dashed before settling on some coherence and the strange symbols crammed above the blinking cursor. The robot reanimated with an understated jolt like a sluggish animal.
"Hello Oscar?" Chet spoke to it.
"Yes?" The machine said. The screen recited its speech with white, complex digits on black glass.
"This here is Frank. He wants to ask you some questions."
"So, uh, Oscar." Frank said. "Do you remember how you got to the junk yard? Where Chet found ya."
"I do not. No."
"What d'ya mean? What were you doing before you got there?"
"... I have no record of time prior to shut down."
"How? Was your memory wiped?"
"... Yes." An unusual pause was in its cadence.
"Well, that doesn't help me at all." He leaned back against his counter and folded his arms and thought about what to say next.
"Do you know anything about these?" He pointed to the glyphs on the screen.
Oscar turned his head and focused his specs on the coding. Again he paused, longer this time as though he struggled to find an answer. "There is no record of significance."
"Seems to me you don't know much of anything."
"Look Frank." Chet stepped up and moved toward him. Oscar sat in between them, indifferent. "Let me just leave him with you and you can do the work we agreed on. You know I'm good for the money."
"I was just trying to see... What I'm working with here."
"I know. It just isn't... uh..." His voice trailed off and he turned to the floor.
"Yeah, I get it Chet." He looked down to his cobalt wristwatch. "Come by around this time tomorrow and I'll be finished."
"Thanks again." As he walked out the door rang his exit and the dirt on the road rustled and greeted him. He had a taste of bourbon in the dive across the avenue and thought long of Oscar's nature. His inquisitive, reserved purity that Chet discovered himself admiring. Wholly dissimilar to any he had encountered prior, man or machine.
*****
When he came back in, the next day around the same time, he saw Oscar sidling along the outer perimeter of the store, lifting his arms and taking objects from the wall and speechlessly observing them. He was shorter than Chet had expected on both legs, squat even right next to him. The top of his polished dome measured up to Chet's ribcage and he looked up at him with a full face hiding curiosity not unlike a child's.
"Hey there Oscar!" Chet beamed.
"Hello Chet." His voice was as clean as the metal.
"Man are you looking spiffy. Like after taking a long, hot bath. You must feel a lot better."
"My systems are operating at a more optimal level. Yes."
"I can practically see my reflection there. So where's Frank?"
"Over here." Frank sat on a stool in the corner of the room, still wearing his leather apron and a baby blue surgeon's glove on one hand. He smoked a lean, black cigar and reposed amidst the silvery wisps under dark-tinted glasses. "He's been doing that for a while now. Just going around the room and looking at things. I asked him what he was doing and he said he was cataloging. But for what?"
"Have you been up all night?" Chet asked.
"That's right. Eighteen total labor hours. It was a unique challenge."
"Well I gotta hand it to ya. Not that I was expecting anything less, but this is great work."
"Yeah, about that. I need to talk to you. In private." He stood and led Chet into another room with a desk all muddied with loose scraps of paper and drill bits. Musty, tight, and lit by a single gold lamp. He sat on a frayed and squeaking office chair and put his glasses on the plywood and iron surface.
"So what's the topic of discussion?" Chet asked.
"It's about the robot." He dabbed his ash in a halved coffee can. "I've... never seen anything like it."
"How so?"
"First off, none of his hardware had any serial numbers. No bar codes, no designations, nothing. It wasn't that someone etched em off or what have you. The parts were custom made. All of him is custom made. Luckily for me the stuff was close enough to industry standards that I could work with it. But I'm telling you right now if you're planning on selling him for parts you're not gonna get any buyers."
What Chet didn't say then but had already decided was that he was never going to sell the machine, no matter the price. He realized as he looked at Frank munch on his cigar and the rattle in his disposition that this was not a meaningless collection of polished waste, but a strange prize to be cherished. "That's interesting." He said.
"And I looked up those funny looking symbols he had on him. They're closest to Egyptian. Supposedly they mean: 'He Who Sees, Acts'. Whatever that's supposed to mean."
"Huh."
"The thing's a bonafide enigma, man... I didn't see no A.I. processor in there but he behaves a lot like he has one. You've seen how he is."
"Yeah, I have. So's there anything else I should know?"
"I just... I'm at a loss with this one. Truly. You're best bet might be to try to sell him wholesale to a museum or something. To science, I don't know. That kind is better off tinkering with him than me."
Chet put a hand on the man's shoulder. "You did a great job, really."
"You're gonna keep him, aren't you?"
Chet nodded. "Yeah."
"It's just as well I suppose. Don't expect an explanation, though."
"I don't think I need one."
Frank sighed and leaned back in his chair. "He'll be in great hands. The both of you will."
*****
"I build new things out of the stuff I find in the junk yards and sell them usually. Or just sell the scrap as is. Do you think you could help out with that?" Chet said.
"If I am asked to. Yes." Oscar responded.
"Well, yeah. What I mean is, if you had the choice what would you wanna do?"
"... What best suits my purpose."
"That's a good answer. And for the time being, I'll take that in the affirmative."
"Question?"
"Shoot."
"Was it for this purpose that I was reactivated?"
"I, uh... I guess I'm still asking myself the same thing."
"Rephrase: Why did -you- initialize my reactivation? There were not any significant disparities between you and the others."
"Others?"
"5 in total. All male. Of comparable builds and approximate disposition. They did not retrieve this unit and initialize reactivation. You did."
Chet looked out beyond the road and fluid, transient sands to the garbage dunes erected like giants in a picturebook. "I think I recognized something in you when I found you out there. A similarity or a kinship maybe. Or maybe I just needed someone to talk to and you were the most interesting thing I saw. I dunno... At any rate, I'm glad I did. As I'm sure you are too."
"I am appreciative of your decision. Yes."
"Good deal."
They sat on monster truck tires in front of the white, stained diner and Chet sipped a cold beverage and wiped his bald forehead with a bandanna. Oscar said nothing else and hardly budged his form on the tough rubber cushion, keeping instead his subtle attention on the ground and its shapes and its wrinkles. They both knew then, in their own way, what they were to each other. Pals.
"Well, yeah. What I mean is, if you had the choice what would you wanna do?"
"... What best suits my purpose."
"That's a good answer. And for the time being, I'll take that in the affirmative."
"Question?"
"Shoot."
"Was it for this purpose that I was reactivated?"
"I, uh... I guess I'm still asking myself the same thing."
"Rephrase: Why did -you- initialize my reactivation? There were not any significant disparities between you and the others."
"Others?"
"5 in total. All male. Of comparable builds and approximate disposition. They did not retrieve this unit and initialize reactivation. You did."
Chet looked out beyond the road and fluid, transient sands to the garbage dunes erected like giants in a picturebook. "I think I recognized something in you when I found you out there. A similarity or a kinship maybe. Or maybe I just needed someone to talk to and you were the most interesting thing I saw. I dunno... At any rate, I'm glad I did. As I'm sure you are too."
"I am appreciative of your decision. Yes."
"Good deal."
They sat on monster truck tires in front of the white, stained diner and Chet sipped a cold beverage and wiped his bald forehead with a bandanna. Oscar said nothing else and hardly budged his form on the tough rubber cushion, keeping instead his subtle attention on the ground and its shapes and its wrinkles. They both knew then, in their own way, what they were to each other. Pals.
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