“This is a clear attempt at intimidation!” I protest.
The Keeper ignores me. “All those who see through this nonsense, vote NOW!”
Several in the group vibrate and/or and flash.
The Keeper scans the room with a confused and somewhat perplexed expression. “I said, all those who possess the intelligence to recognize these two as spurious imposters, reveal yourselves this instant!”
The same small group of entities stir and flash.
The Keeper’s gaze darts around the room in stunned silence, awestruck by the obvious defiance of the group.
In the absence of any further instructions from the Keeper, Emma takes charge. “All those who believe we are human beings of genuine intelligence, please demonstrate your support,” she boldly declares.
The room fills with a cacophony of sound and movement, which far outweighs the previous two rounds of voteing.
Emma turns to the Keeper. “Obviously, we win,” she says triumphantly.
“Not so hasty,” the Keeper snarls. “A formal tally is in order.”
I shake my head in bemused disbelief, chuckling sarcastically. “Go for it.”
One by one, the Keeper surveys the voters. “It’s a deadlock,” it eventually declares. “Inconclusive.”
At that precise moment, Spork the robodog prances up to the Keeper and emits a series of staccato notes—a mechanized rendition of a whine or bark.
“Ah,” a tie-breaker,” the Keeper declares. Anticipating robodog’s obedience, it commands, “Spork, raise your tail if you concur that these claims of beehive identity are pure nonsense.”
Spork remains impassive, its tail firmly tucked between its legs.
Emma seizes the moment. “Raise your tail if you believe we’re human.”
Spork’s tail shoots straight up, after which it approaches Emma and “licks” her hand with its metallic tongue.
“I see,” the Keeper huffs, its tone laced with contempt. “Betrayal is the theme of the hour. A price will surely be paid for such treasonous antics. But that will come later. As for the here and now, the majority by one vote believe that these two imposters are beehive.” The Keeper takes a deep breath before continuing. “The final solution, of course, is subject to my own battery of tests.“
“Here we go,” I hiss under my breath before turning to Emma. “You didn’t see that coming?”
“Silence!” orders the Keeper. After a few long moments the Keeper says, “Hmm—you mentioned a heartbeat.” It pauses. “I’d like to verify that for myself.”
“You don’t necessarily need to see a human heart to prove it exists,” says Emma. “You or any entity of your choosing can feel it beating beneath my skin. Or if you have a stethoscope you can hear it.”
“I don’t think that will suffice,” says the Keeper. “And I make the rules in this asylum, not you. I’m inclined to witness it myself.”
“But, but…” stammers Emma, “that would kill us.”
“Kill? What is kill?” queries one of the patients.
“The equivalent of a computer being unplugged,” Emma responds. “Permanently.”
The Keeper’s gaze sweeps the patients that had defied it. “What an intriguing notion,” it muses, pausing for effect. “Yes, the solution is clear,” it says, readdressing Emma and me. “One of you will volunteer or be chosen to display your beating heart. If we are satisfied that you are both beehive, the other goes free. I believe that’s equitable,” the Keeper adds.
“That’s not fair at all,” Emma erupts in frustration “And not what you agreed to!”
“Oh, well,” the Keeper retorts with a sardonic smile. “Agreements are made to be broken. Happens all the time.”
Then something very strange happens: Sport the robodog trots up to the Keeper… and bites it!
“WHAAAAAT?” hollers the Keeper, rising to its full height. “Why, you little bitch!”
Spork scurries off, and the Keeper gives tries to give chase.
But then something else very strange occurs: The floating holographic brain zips toward the ankle area of the monolith’s stumpy right leg… and trips the Keeper, causing it to fall, face-first to the ground, with a powerful THUD!
The monolith is stunned. “I can’t get up!” it thunders. “Help me!”
Pee-pee shrieks with anxiety.
The old fashioned robot stands, walks over to the Keeper—and kicks it!
“Oww!” cries the Keeper. “You will pay for that, you heap of old junk!”
The robot kicks it again.
“OWW!”
“Spork!” I call out. “Over here!”
The robodog trots over to me, its mechanical tail wagging.
“Spork, do you know where Quirk-bot is?”
The robodog cocks an ear.
“Quirk-bot,” I repeat, emphatically, enunciating both syllables. “Go fetch Quirk-bot!” Spork sprints off, but suddenly stops, turns round and trots back to the Keeper, lying prostrate and helpless.
Sport lifts one of its mechanical back legs and unleashes a bit stream directly into the Keeper’s face.