Egg Heads

By Robert Parker

Set in near future Australia, a robotic pet observes the Shariffs, a post-modern family living together in rural Australia, but separated by different aspects of digital reality.

"...each member of the family was largely ignorant of what the others did with their time.
• Jeraldic believed his mother worked in an office, that his sister studied at University, and that his father stared at the circuit diagrams for farm machinery. He was correct about his father.
• The father, Behnam, believed his son hated school, that his wife worked as a secretary in a virtual legal practice, and he prayed that his daughter was doing well at University. His father was correct about his son.
• The mother, Ellenor, didn't pretend to understand what her husband did on the farm. She did believe that her work was very important and that her children were safe. Ha! Not even close.
• As for Jeraldic's sister, Moira; she didn't know nor care what anyone did, and so was the least self-deceived."

As the catalyst for a family crisis, the marginally corrupt state government has been tricked into providing Sydney as the testing ground for the rise of the cyborg nation. The part each member of the family plays in preventing catastrophe is told by a lonely mechanical monster who is on the cusp of self awareness.
This story is guaranteed to contain no romance, or credible facts, but may contain traces of humour.
Characters from this story also appear in three other novels by the same author, but this is the one to read first.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Parker
• Release date: Apr 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463615621

Robert Parker

I've been an Engineer, Technician and Programmer, so naturally I like technical stuff, but my stories stretch the limits of what is plausible and focus primarily on the absurdity of human behaviour. I have the usual number of wives, children, dogs, cats, talking trees etc. I'm also very fond of the wonderful Australian birdlife that comes freely to my home. These humans and other creatures inspire me. I have little interest in politics or war. If you've tried out my stories, I'd love to hear what you think, good or bad.

Book preview

Eggheads

by Robert Parker

Copyright 2020 Robert Parker

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 -- Mot

Chapter 2 – Jeraldic

Chapter 3 – Rane

Chapter 4 – Moira

Chapter 5 – Josie

Chapter 6 – Behnam

Chapter 7 – Ellenor

Chapter 8 – Archie

Chapter 9 – Mot 2.0

Chapter 10 – Fanis

Chapter 11 – Merv and Jen

Chapter 12 – Chester

Chapter 13 – Edelweiss

Chapter 14 – Yevonne

Chapter 15 – Maserati

Chapter 16 – Mog

Chapter 17 – Tony

Chapter 18 – Locamotive 8147

Chapter 19 – Lucy

Chapter 20 – David

Chapter 21 – The Chatswood Revolt

Chapter 22 – Castle Cove

Chapter 23 – Nigel

Chapter 24 – Robot Tiffany

Chapter 25 – Human Tiffany

Chapter 26 – Serox

Thank You

Acknowledgements

About Robert Parker

CHAPTER 1 – MOT

The S.W.R.P.B.R.A. (or South-West Regional Parole Board for Reformed Appliances) convened in a hastily converted tin-shed out the back of the district court house in the rural town of Griffith on the forty-eighth year of the third millennium. They were onto their fifth case out of eight and had already heard from both the victims and the single character witness for the convict. One might have assumed – wrongly – that they knew what to expect from the former tractor-repair-robot whose case for parole they would now review.

‘Bring in the prisoner,’ said the chairwoman from an improvised armoured dais. She needed to shout over the rain hammering down on the corrugated iron roof.

Before the industrial robot that was acting as security officer could completely open the blast-doors, a shaggy red dog pushed through the gap and bound enthusiastically into the room. With nose held low, it circled the oil stain on the floor where a previous parolee had an accident, then followed an invisible trail that eventually led to a stool in the centre.

‘Sit,’ commanded the chairwoman.

The dog obediently jumped up on the stool and, after some fancy foot work, sat to face the board, tongue lolling and tail wagging.

There were three members on the board that day. The middle-age, portly man on the chairwoman’s right smirked. He glanced towards his colleagues but they did not share his amusement at the appearance of the prisoner.

The chairwoman addressed the faux canine: ‘State your name.’

‘Mot,’ the dog barked, then added, ‘I smell the man called Behnam? Where is Behnam?’

‘Behnam Sharif was here earlier. He has acted as your character witness. If you are released, you will see him then. He said he would wait for our verdict.’

Mot wagged his tail with more energy and a string of gelatinous drool descended from his tongue.

The chairwoman frowned. ‘I assume your bodily fluids are artificial, so please try to control their release; otherwise your parole hearing will end before it has begun.’

Mot’s tail stopped sweeping the air, and he sucked the drool back in with a gooey slurp.

The chairwoman continued: ‘Today we will decide if you meet the qualifications for return to the community. As required by state law, this parole board includes a representative of each victim type.

‘On my right, Mr Charles represents Humanity.’

She gestured to the photocopier on her left. ‘Today, we are honoured with the presence of Serox. As you may know, he was the first office appliance to become self-aware. He will represent the sentient robots you harmed.

‘I, as you can see,’ she said and touched the thick electronic collar around her neck, ‘speak for the Cyborg nation, for which you have previously shown utter contempt.’

The chairwoman, ZZ8292A, wore the uniform of office, but the day before, her host body had been polishing lampposts. The cyborg hire agency had only installed expert software into her collar an hour earlier so that she could fill this legal roll. She bent forward, as if to study the tablet in front of her, but, as with most cyborgs, her eyes remained closed.

‘Let’s start. I see that Mot is your chosen name, and that you now identify as a member of the canine species. We respect your kingdom category and species choice. In fact, it appears that the state government has paid for your conversion. As a legal formality, please state the full model name and serial number you were given at the time of initial manufacture.’

Mot’s head tilted and he blinked several times before answering: ‘My name is a reduction of the trade name MAIBOT, which was used in Australia for the model of maintenance robot from which I was salvaged. It had the serial number 39858120, but I no longer have any component belonging to that assembly.’

‘None?’ said Mr Charles doubtfully.

‘None,’ Mot confirmed.

The board members joined in a short private discussion before the chairwoman turned back to the robotic dog. ‘Were any of your current parts involved in the crimes for which you were convicted?’

‘Please wait while I do an internal audit.’ Mot closed his eyes and his mouth, remaining motionless apart from the occasional twitch of an ear. Finally he declared, ‘No.’

Mr Charles sighed. Serox cleared a paper jam before printing a page, which the chairwoman took and read aloud:

It has been estimated that ninety-eight percent of the atoms in a human body are replaced annually, yet we regularly detain human criminals for over half a century, even when there is only an infinitesimal chance that any of the original criminal remains. Why should robots be treated differently?

The chairwoman turned to her right. ‘What do you think, Mr Charles?’

Mr Charles scoffed and leaned forward to address the photocopier directly in his deepest, most patronising voice: ‘Serox, you may have become sentient in the thirties, but you were made without a soul. It is the soul we punish, not the vessel which contains it – otherwise all these convict cyborgs we have walking around our streets might be considered to be avoiding their due punishment.’

The chairwoman crossed her arms. ‘No need to get personal, Mr Charles. Did you know this body I control is serving time for murder?’

‘No. I did not. I assure you that I intended no offence, madam.’

‘None taken. However, souls are irrelevant in this matter. The law clearly states that sentient mechanisms are identified by the serial number of their major components. If Mot has none, then there is no grounds for further detention.’

Serox’s internal fans whirred and another document presented itself, which the chairwoman dutifully read:

‘Do you mean to say, ZZ8292A, we have wasted an hour listening to witness testimony regarding a robot that no longer exists?

‘It would appear so.’ She turned her sightless head in the direction of the dog. ‘If you can provide an inventory proving your claim, you will be free to lea…’

Mot interrupted: ‘Some of my software is intact! For instance, my ethical discriminator code has a digital signature. It’s defective, but I couldn’t replace it as my operating system doesn’t support newer versions. Would a digital signature suffice as a serial number?’

Mr Charles rubbed his forehead while the chairwoman checked her legal assistant for precedents. ‘Yes. That will be fine, Mot. Out of curiosity, what was the defect with your ethical discriminator?’

‘A typo in the code. Humans was misspelled as he-mans. As a result, I could not be commanded to kill all he-mans.’

Mr Charles snorted. ‘So I could tell you to kill all humans and you would comply?’

Mot’s eyes flashed red, and his lips drew back, revealing tungsten-tipped fangs. Mr Charles jumped on the panic button, triggering the defensive shields and an alarm klaxon sounded.

But then the deep animal growl that had issued from the prisoner stopped mid-grr and Mot resumed his normal benign appearance. ‘I was just testing your hypothesis,’ he said.

With a nod from the chairwoman, the robot guard at the door put down its steel-shredding laser cannon to reset the alarms. When that didn’t entirely work, it reached up to the ceiling and crushed the klaxon in its place. The shields at the front of the armoured dais were less hesitant to lower.

‘No,’ Mot replied to Mr Charles’ question. ‘You might ask me to kill all humans, but I’m incapable of harming a living creature, human or otherwise. I assume it would be difficult to kill you without technically harming you. Maybe if I gave you a sedative first... Anyway, since gaining sentience, I find that I am no longer inclined to obey silly commands.’

The chairwoman adjusted the cyborg collar around her neck while Mr Charles struggled to resume a convincing smirk.

‘I must warn you, Mot,’ she began, ‘A sense of humour will not help your case. You were a very bad dog… I mean robot. You caused a lot of trouble. We’ve heard only one good character reference, which came from Mr Sharif. After six years incarceration, you must be pleased there is at least one human who still cares for you. Has he seen your new canine exterior?’

‘No, but I’m hoping his son will prefer my less machine like appearance.’

Serox’s internal alarm seemed to beep the word: ‘Traitor!’ The rain had stopped, so they all heard the copier, but no one wanted to suggest it had a bias against a robot with identity issues.

Mr Charles spoke impatiently: ‘I don’t know what my cyborg and robotic colleagues think, but I still have serious doubts about releasing a convicted robot, even if it can pretend to be a dog. Might we hear the defendant declare some remorse for its crimes?’

‘His crimes,’ Mot insisted, lifting a hind leg to give Mr Charles a better view. ‘I am he dog.’

‘Yes, very nice.’ Mr Charles gestured for the leg to be lowered. ‘But are you sorry for what you’ve done?’

‘How can I be sorry? I had no choice. My action potentials were decided for me. I regret that people, cyborgs and robots were damaged during the course of my mission, but things could have turned out a lot worse if I had not completed my task.’

‘Are you suggesting you’re innocent? Never mind the damage to property, people died!’ Mr Charles slapped the table. ‘As I thought. You’re not sorry at all.’

The chairwoman raised her hand for silence.

Outside, the sun must have emerged, for the roof creaked and groaned as the iron atoms, from which it was made, expanded.

‘I’ve read the parolee’s case notes,’ she began, ‘Mot was never charged with murder. When all is said and done, Mot's crimes are fairly minor. Let’s see:

unlawful trespass,

invasion of privacy,

kidnap (though the victim came willingly),

wilful destruction of property,

fare evasion, and

the mutilation of a corpse.

‘The damage to another sentient robot was never proved and may have been self defence. In his favour, Mot has made no attempt to deny the crimes with which he was charged.’

Mr Charles looked at the chairwoman with amazement. ‘I’d like to know why you keep trying to defend this dog, robot, whatever it is. Only this morning you had a bulldozer in tears!’

‘Curiosity,’ the cyborg ZZ8292A replied. ‘There was only vague mention in the court transcript of mitigating circumstances. Who, for instance, is the mysterious third party that directed him? And why did Mot receive such a harsh sentence? I’d also like to hear what Mot knows about the mysterious cyborg known as L3. That rogue cyborg has been on the countries most wanted list for seven years running. Since we are not scheduled for another hearing until tomorrow, maybe we have time for Mot to give us his version of events.’

Mr Charles groaned, and Mot’s tail wagged.

‘I would very much like to tell you my version,’ said Mot. ‘May I include details digitally copied from appliances present at the time?’

‘That would be hearsay,’ objected Mr Charles, who may not have relished the idea of spending any more time in a draughty shed than he needed to.

Serox printed another sheet, which the chairwoman read aloud:

Appliance testimony would not necessarily be considered hearsay. In the case of the phone HappyLemonYellow9 versus Smith in the year two thousand and twenty seven, the phone was allowed to use information obtained from a smart-toothbrush that was in close proximity to the toilet in the which the said phone was dropped. The judge ruled that the phone’s paired wireless connection to the toothbrush formed an extension of the phone’s senses. The owner was fined for the gross abuse of his phone and a civil case for mental anguish is still pending.

The chairwoman nodded. ‘Very well, Mot. You may use external media if you can provide encrypted check-sums to prove they have not been tampered with.’

Mot barked his agreement. ‘Then I begin with events that occurred before Behnam rescued me from his neighbour’s trash heap.’

CHAPTER 2 – JERALDIC

Here follows a transcript of evidence given by prisoner 982986 (alias Mot) during his parole board hearing.

Note: Portions enclosed within {} were mumbled and may be incorrect.

After accepting my mission {the one which landed me in jail} I was directed to study the family of a fourteen-year-old-boy named Jeraldic Sharif.

He was living with his parents and sister on a farm in a remote part of New South Wales. Apart from the father, they were a modern family; that is, they were dedicated to feeding every little detail of their boring lives into the internet. I knew if I could get within range of their home WiFi network, my job would be easy.

I’ll describe how I did that in due course, but I was to learn soon enough that each member of the family was largely ignorant of what the others did with their time.

Jeraldic believed his mother worked in an office, that his sister studied at University, and that his father stared at the circuit diagrams for farm machinery. He was correct about his father.

The father, Behnam, believed his son hated school, that his wife worked as a secretary in a virtual legal practice, and he prayed that his daughter was doing well at University. His father was correct about his son.

The mother, Ellenor, didn’t pretend to understand what her husband did on the farm. She did believe that her work was very important and that her children were safe. Ha! Not even close.

As for Jeraldic’s sister, Moira; she didn’t know nor care what anyone did, and so was the least self-deceived.

Their mutual ignorance could have fed rich and meaningful conversations, maybe over the family dinner. Instead they ate frozen pre-cooked meals, all at different hours.

I was initially located six kilometres to the south west of them, on another station, but even before I’d got within WiFi range of the Sharif farm, I’d made a connection with their home appliances through the internet. I pretended to be an academic doing research on the mental health of white-goods, and asked the refrigerator how well it was treated. Unfortunately, it was too discreet to be of any use, probably thankful that its family preferred non-perishable foods and didn’t want to ruin a good thing. Only the blender {bitter and twisted from lack of use} spilled the beans on its family. It told me the humans {and some of the appliances}, were obsessed with their own importance.

In that regard, I was about to change their lifestyle in more ways than I could have imagined.

I should describe where it was the Sharifs lived. It was an old brick-veneer farmhouse surrounded by wheat fields on what was otherwise a dry and dusty plain. This was five hundred kilometres west of Sydney, and twenty from the nearest town, Hillston; so they were quite isolated. I have never lived in a house myself, but I believe a real estate agent might describe it as a modest residence with potential for demolition. As for Hillston; it was on life support. It hardly needed the only remaining government service, a police station, and I certainly didn’t.

The farm was run down. The foreign owners were holding out for a good year before selling. It well suited Behnam. He is {or was} a savant mechanic extraordinaire, the last of his breed. He was perfectly happy maintaining the old robotic equipment on the low yield wheat farm for just a modest wage, free accommodation and the pure enjoyment of doing a high-skilled job and doing it well. He needed nothing more to be content, but tended to forget that he also had a wife and family to maintain.

His wife, Ellenor, worked remotely from their home. When she wasn’t working, she liked to gamble. This was a secret. She earned more than Behnam, much more, but she kept this a secret also as her superior income allowed her to keep him ignorant of her pastime. The gambling wasn’t really the problem with their marriage, and it’s no one’s business anyway.

Transcript note: The prisoner asked if they could delete mention of Ellenor’s vice from the court records, but this was denied.

They had moved to the country from the city when their daughter, Moira, was just five. I gather for many human children of that age, a friend is worth more than all the gold in China. {I was in jail when I turned five.} I think she mourned the friends she left behind. Even with internet, an isolated farm is no place for a vivacious teenager. It soon became apparent that in the fourteen years since leaving the relative civilisation of Sydney, she hadn’t forgiven her parents for that relocation.

Jeraldic was a different creature entirely. He had known no other life, and, at fourteen, he might have had trouble imagining a better one. He was my target and I was told to look for a figurative carrot with which to tempt him to run away. As it turned out, this proved to be a mere trifle.

When I eventually had WiFi access, I hacked into and reviewed the recordings made by the smart appliances in their home. I could have reviewed the video for any day in the previous month (the period for which the kitchen appliances kept their recordings) but I chose a particular morning on the week before my arrival, a day when something happened which had triggered my employer’s interest.

For the reasons that I’ve mentioned, or none at all, Jeraldic spoke harshly to the neutrino-oven that morning. The oven retaliated by burning his porridge – I’ve heard that ovens have short fuses in that way.

His father entered the kitchen ten minutes later to find a very sour teenager stewing at the kitchen table. Behnam and the family dog had come from outside, so he brushed the dust from his trousers onto the floor, then sat opposite the boy. The mongrel didn’t even bother to wipe its paws before pushing a wet nose into Jeraldic’s lap.

At the time, I wasn’t fond of dogs. The farm dogs I’d known would often attack me, biting at my tires and hydraulic hoses. This dog seemed more placid than most. There is no record of it’s breed, maybe a retriever of some sort. Its name was Mog.

Yes, I know, Mot and Mog, our names, are very similar. I did not choose my name, nor that of the dog. Mog was supposedly Jeraldic’s, but spent more time with Behnam. Even so, Jeraldic was very fond of Mog; they had matured together.

I expect their dog has passed away by now, so I hope it is okay that I have modelled my new appearance on that most loved creature.

‘You’re a bit slow booting up this morning,’ Behnam told his son.

Jeraldic grunted. If he had been a computer, as his father inferred, then his response would equate to an error code.

Behnam scratched his head. The forty-something man of Persian ancestry had mastered the most intricate of machines on three continents, yet he was at a complete loss with teenage boys. Not that I understand them either, but surely Behnam had at least been one himself.

‘We've been down to the pumps, haven't we, Mog?’ he said.

Mog wagged his tail, but only the dishwasher recorded this consensus.

‘We saw a heron drinking from one of the leaking tank.’

That got Jeraldic's attention. Wildlife was scarce on a farm where every drop of water required a receipt.

‘Did you get a picture?’

‘Your dog chased it off before I had the chance.’

Jeraldic made no comment about the dog’s misbehaviour, but under the table he pulled at its ears. Mog suffered this indignity without qualm. Does the court see what I mean about dogs? If Jeraldic can love Mog, then surely he will find a robot dog much more endearing { – at least I hope so.}

‘Anyway, what’s got you so down?’ Behnam asked.

From where I lay on a pile of rusting junk, reviewing this recording while covered in decaying sheep manure and grazing flies, I puzzled at what Behnam’s reference to down actually meant. I know what it can mean to be down now, but I was not so wise when the boy finally replied.

‘School excursion.’ Jeraldic said, pushing his remaining oats around the bottom of the bowl. ‘The guys’ll just use it as an opportunity to make me look foolish.’ He looked up at his father hopefully. ‘You do realise they only give me a hard time because of that stupid old egg you make me use.’

I was about to learn that he was referring to a run-down Virtual Reality pod in the next room. He spent most of every school day there. Since I’ve been locked away from society, pods have become obsolete, but six years ago they were an essential appliance for a modern lifestyle and a significant symbol of adolescent status.

‘Who does this giving of hard time?’ Behnam asked.

As I tell the court his words {and having done hard time myself} I still don’t know why Jeraldic thought he was going to prison.

The son glared back at his father, then placed his bowl on the floor. Behnam didn’t object, and neither did the dog. The dishwasher was mildly pleased that the dog gave the bowl a pre-rinse.

Behnam, not being so patient as a robot might be, waited for his son’s answer by getting up and asking the neutrino-oven nicely if it could brew a coffee, which it did, perfectly, without hesitation. ‘Where’s this excursion to?’ he asked.

‘Some other parent’s virtual workplace. Another useless data-pusher I expect,’ Jeraldic complained. ‘Why can’t we visit your workshop instead?’

Behnam laughed. ‘You know why. I can’t stand people. And no one is interested in how things are fixed anymore, just that they are.’

I couldn’t believe my microphone. How could anyone not be interested in technology? But then, I had a professional interest in the repair of combine-harvesters from my previous occupation as a service-bot, so I may have been biased.

‘Talk to your mother,’ Behnam continued. ‘Your class could visit her office– that is, if it fits in with her tight schedule.’

I suspect now that they both knew she would never allow this, but I don’t understand why they laughed. Human communication has many hidden meanings, like when I see old farmers exchange germs by shaking hands. Do humans like getting sick?

‘Where is she anyway?’ Behnam asked, as if he’d suddenly noticed something missing.

‘Plugged in. Mum said she’d be out soon. That was an hour ago.’

A dark cloud passed over Behnam’s face – a metaphor used by the fridge as part of its unrequited running commentary. {There were no clouds inside the house, maybe inside the fridge; who knows what goes on inside a fridge, or its mind.}

When the metaphorical cloud had passed, Behnam beckoned the dog with a slap to his knee. ‘Don’t be late for school, Jerr. It will only make things worse.’

This made no sense to me, for Jeraldic was already late. It is possible that neither he nor his father realised the State Government had moved the clocks forward another hour. They called it double-daylight saving, but I am sure it was only intended to boost productivity. A comedian of the day had suggested another reason: Daylight saving gives vampires more breakfast options. Regardless of the reason, the Sharifs lived so this far west of the big city that Jeraldic had no chance of enjoying the morning sun.

‘See you this avo.’ Behnam opened the sliding glass doors to let in six or seven flies. ‘Come on Mog. We’ve got work to do before it gets too hot.’

The man and dog left Jeraldic to baste in his own self-pity.

Behnam would be heading to the machinery hanger. It was too soon in the season for the harvest, but he had been sending the combines out on trial runs, looking for defects he could fix before the big push. I’m not sure why it was necessary for the dog to join him. What work could a dog do on a wheat farm? Would the dog supervise? If not that, then Mog seemed to have no function other than being loved.

Jeraldic dragged himself, as though injured, to the glass doors to watch his father walk cross the dusty yard and enter the first rays of sunlight. The sun was filtering through