As the Moon Climbs

People think robots don’t sleep, but we do. Slip into standby mode, basic functions ticking away while everything else takes a much-needed rest. Robots that don’t sleep end up in the recycler twice as fast, unless they’re the kind of fancy pet slut-bots that rich losers buy when they can’t get a real piece. Then guys like me get paid to keep them purring and moaning, day and night.

Emphasis on the night. My comlink politely announced that I had an incoming transmission from a Dr. David Green. Contrary to popular opinion, I did have bills to pay, so I accepted the call.

“Is this Trey Edison?” a fluttery old voice asked.

“Speaking.”

“Please, you must come immediately,” the man said. “It’s my wife. She doesn’t look well.”

“Maybe you should try emergency services,” I said politely.

“I did!” He made a small, choked sound. “They told me… they said I needed to call a mechanic.”

“Ah.” Poor guy. Either he hadn’t known she was a doll, or he had grown senile and forgotten. “On my way, sir.”

“That jerk had one thing right,” I muttered, fumbling for the passcard to my apartment. “I do live in a closet.”

The door slid open and the lights flickered on, except for the one over the bed, which had been broken for months. Home sweet home. Tiny wall kitchen, bathroom the size of a teleporter booth, busted bed that doubled as seating when I had company. So, never.

“Honey, I’m home!” I said. “What’s for dinner?”

“Shut up!” my neighbor Liam shouted, banging on the wall.

“Steak and potatoes? My favorite!”

“Damn it, screwhead!” Bang, bang.

“Both of you knock it off!” This from Janie on the other side.

They don’t like assholes, either, I thought. Robots don’t even have assholes. Can’t be an asshole without one. Could be a pisser, I guess.

Which reminded me: I needed to empty my tank. I stepped over to the bathroom, unhitched my waste tube, then thumbed the valve release and let two-fifths of cheap whiskey drain into a jar. It would still be good later. Good enough, anyway. Waste not, want not.

“The truth is,” he said, “the truth is, I hate robots.” His breath reeked of the gin that sloshed over the edge of his glass.

“You know what I hate?” he asked.

“Robots?” I said.

“Robots,” he said. “Damn things take jobs away from hard-working people… I pay my taxes you know!”

“So do robots,” I pointed out.

He banged his glass on the counter. “S’not the same! They got no mouths to feed, what do they do with all that money?”

“Pay rent?” I said.

“Closets!” he shouted. “Stick a robot in a damn closet and it’s happy. What’s a closet cost, eh? How’s that help the economy?”

“What about mechanics?” I asked. “Repairs aren’t free.”

“Damn robots go to robot mechanics.” He swigged some gin. “Forget us what made them.”

“I hear some robots hang out at bars,” I said.

He stopped and glanced around the room. “You think?” he asked.

“I know.” I slowly spun my head in a complete circle.

I’d have a stiff rotor in the morning, but it was worth it to watch the guy drop his drink and bolt. Humans. Just typical.