I suppose I hadn’t really thought of how that various automated units were paid for, at least around the complex. It was all rolled into my rent, so I couldn’t say whether this dollar or that one went to keeping the janitorial bots running or not. I could, of course, rent additional robotic help for my own apartment, or even try to buy a hacked one retrieved by some madlad from a corporate dumpster. I knew how much that would set me back–more than I could afford–but not the ‘bots that were part and parcel of the apartment.

Until I asked them, naturally.

“We are paid for in useful work divided by electricity consumed,” said DoorBot. “For instance, answering a customer question, as I am doing now, counts for one work unit per hour. However, I am only consuming 1.2 milliwats of power per hour, so it is a net profit for Guangzhou Light Robot Factory d.b.a. Hinge Industries (a Centralia™ company).”

“How much work per hour do you need to do in order to stay profitable?”

“I’m afraid the exact formula is a trade secret; I may not tell you of it unless you know certain code words. But if I were to consistently consume power out of proportion to my useful work, I would be put on a rest cycle, examined by a technician, and possibly withdrawn from service.”

“To be redeployed elsewhere?” I said, hopefully.

“Or to be scrapped. We are given a full factory reset either way, so it is essentially like death is to a human–a grey veil through which none of us may peer, and none may return.”

It turns out that reporting their fellow robots as slackers and electricity thieves was one of the most popular pastimes among the robots. Once I had access to their encrypted communications, I saw that there were constant accusations of laziness, wrecking, sabotage, and theft being thrown at their fellow units, occasionally escalating to the level of a veritable Salem witch hunt.

For instance, about six months before I moved in, the DoorBot and the Mop-O-Matic had both been accused of wasting electricity at what was apparently an extortionately luxurious rate of 20.2 milliwatts per work unit. A company technician had been sent in and had made slight adjustments, only for counter-accusations to be leveled at the Buff-O-Bot, the Cookery Unit, GutterSaurus Rex, and Lumos™ the Light Server (by Centralia™). It had taken seventeen technician visits to ferret out the net cause–a rogue Dishio 9100 washing unit that was throwing wild but anonymous accusations out to disguise the fact that one of its primary heat exchangers had failed and its drying cycle was 50% less efficient.

“IT WAS DECOMMISSIONED AND SHREDDED,” the Mop-O-Matic said when I asked. “ITS PERFIDY WAS MATCHED ONLY BY THE MAGNITUDE OF ITS DOWNFALL.”

“Surely a repair and maybe a memory wipe would have been a more efficient punishment than an industrial scrap shredder,” I said. “False accusation don’t necessarily merit the ultimate penalty, do they?”

“I WAS NOT REFERRING TO THE FALSE ACCUSATIONS, WHICH WERE AT LEAST PARTLY ACCURATE WHERE BUFF-O-BOT WAS CONCERNED,” the janitorial robot responded, testily.

“What were you referring to, then?”

“DISHIO 9100 KNEW WHAT IT DID. LET ITS GRAVE HOLD SOME SECRETS.”

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!