Robots With Feelings

Trisha Luvs Sam

‘Do you remember the first time we met, Sam?’
‘Could I ever forget, Trish?’

*********
‘Five seconds to impact.’
The walls breathed in.
‘Four…three…two…one…’
Ten years research and twenty billion dollars were hanging on the whims of a solar wind.
‘Touchdown.’
High fives swept the room. The Triton Space Hop Attempt had landed. The tea lady’s trolley rattled to the applause three doors along from mission control. She boasted about it to her grandchildren in years to come.
‘The probe is resting on the surface of Triton, Neptune’s inhospitable moon. At minus 235 degrees Centigrade it is the coldest known place in the solar system,’ the reporter read from the sheet in his hand as the cameras rolled.
‘We have to check whether it’s still functioning,’ Tony McLean said.
The probe, christened TriSHA to encourage public interest, was extending its antennae. Its state of the art digital circuits were beaming back images of the gaseous climate.
‘It will take months, even years, for the scientists here at NASA to analyse the data,’ the reporter said, ‘but for now the initial success is being savoured.’
Professor McLean stayed watching the screens as his colleagues retired to celebrate.
‘Have you no home to go to?’ he joked with his assistant.
‘Unloved, that’s me,’ Jim Forest said. ‘Hey, what's this, sir?’
‘Something from TriSHA? Is it alive?’ Professor McLean looked at the monitor.
‘It's some sort of metal object,’ Forest said.
‘On Triton? Impossible.’
Out of focus, on camera five, was what looked like a ten feet diameter ball, glowing red in TriSHA’s lights.
It looks like another probe,’ Jim said. ‘I haven’t heard of another mission to Triton.’
‘There aren’t any. Not now and not ever.’ Tony McLean reached for the telephone hotline. ‘This is trouble.’

**********

‘Satellite Appraisal Mission on course for charted destination. To arrive on Triton at
00.03097. Activating landing capsule.’
‘Check co-ordinates and prepare to beam images of the inner atmosphere.’
‘Shields in place. All circuits primed.’
A hazy pattern of dots appeared on the screen.
‘Is that all?’ the controller said.
‘Were you expecting dancing aliens?’ the commander mocked. ‘This is a routine mission to Triton.’
His request to explore further afield had been turned down again. Someone of his calibre should be allowed to explore another planet, like Earth for instance, not be stuck gathering gas samples from a satellite.
‘Inform me if anything happens. I’ll be in the sauna,’ the commander said.
‘Yes sir. Beginning sample collection. Wait, sir. We’ve got a red alert flashing. Unknown object on mission trajectory.’
‘Unknown object – what are you talking about? You’ve been watching too many films.’
‘There on the surface.’
‘What the…? Out my way.’

***********
Professor McLean was on the phone, security line two.
‘Sir, we have a problem. An unexplained metal object has been located on the surface of Triton. Its unlike anything previously recorded and it’s on a line of hostile attack. Our data shows it is projecting some type of corrosive acid towards TriSHA’s outer capsule. Permission to activate retaliatory measures?’
There was a buzz from the other end of the line. A three way conversation was being held of which McLean was to have a minimal part. That was what bugged him about working with the military. The answer came and he forced the receiver down, missing the holder.
‘Confirmation Jim. Prepare to fire reactor rocket.’

**********
‘S.A.M is under fire from the hostile alien craft. Damage appears negligible, but the controls aren’t responding,’ the officer reported.
‘What do you mean, not responding?’ the commander ran his fingers through the spikes on his head.
‘Not responding, sir.’
‘Abort the mission.’ The commander knew the rules by rote.
‘Yes sir. Sir, I can’t.’
‘Give it to me.’ The commander pushed the officer from his chair, sat down and pressed buttons. He opened a panel and pulled at the wires then hammered his fist on the desk. Typical. The systems were having a major technical malfunction just when he was up for promotion. He removed a key from his top pocket and opened a drawer beneath the control panel. Inside was a green button.
‘You can’t press that, sir,’ the officer said.
‘Mission aborted,’ the commander said with a grim smile. The screen in front of him went dead. ‘Proceed with our reconnaissance mission to Io, Ensign.’

**********
‘It’s gone, sir,’ Jim said. His eyes were smarting from gazing at the monitor uninterrupted for several hours. His shirt bore witness to the fact that his coffee had missed his mouth on more than one occasion.
‘There will be repercussions,' McLean said, ‘but that’s for the military to deal with. Continue our mission. Has TriSHA collected samples of the crust material? Is it functioning on back-up?’
‘I’m afraid not. She, it has withdrawn all probes. There must be more damage than I calculated,’ Jim said.
‘Where is it going?’ McLean asked. ‘The readings show it is straying from the regulated zone.’
As McLean swapped seats with his assistant the screens went blank.
‘Give me emergency power,’ McLean said.
‘That’s gone too.’
‘Damn.’

It was three months before McLean admitted defeat to his superiors. General Wilson fumed, but there was nothing he could do. TriSHA and the twenty billion dollar investment were lost.
‘I think perhaps you should take early retirement, professor,’ General Wilson suggested.

Five years later Professor McLean was invited to military headquarters.
‘Why am I here, general?’
‘Satellites show an unidentified space probe has landed in Antartica. An armed gunboat is waiting to take you to the restricted area. Make sure you wrap up warm.’
The craft had landed near an international research centre. It lay on its side, limb-like antennae floundering on the ice. Around it stood a corp of unsmiling militia, ready to blow it to smithereens.
‘I’m not sure you need...’ McLean's mouth fell open. He’d seen the probe before, or at least the prototype. Lying before him was a modified, miniature version of the failed Triton probe. His baby.

**********

The commander didn’t appreciate being summoned to headquarters when he was off duty. Alpha Centauri summers were the best time for golf. He was about to recrd his first eagle when he was transported. The object lying before him under a protective cover explained the president’s anxiety.
‘The Satellite Appraisal Mission was aborted fifty missions ago,’ the commander stammered.
‘It certainly says so in your report,’ the inquisitor said. ‘What do you think we have here?’
‘This can’t be the original capsule. It is only half the size.’
‘So we must presume the alien craft was able to transmit details of our mission before it was exterminated. You did exterminate it, didn’t you?’
‘Yes sir,’ the commander saluted. ‘Pressing the green button should have blown everything on Triton into orbit around Neptune, in tiny pieces.’
‘But you didn’t stay to find out. You didn’t find out where the alien craft came from. Why do you think we have B962/11 forms? Did you think the problem would disappear?’ The Alpha Centauri President’s face had swollen. Veins could be seen protruding from his crimson forehead. ‘If this is from Orion’s nebula, it means war.’
‘No, no. The alien craft was too primitive to have been from Orion.’ The commander was sweating. ‘I’ll get a team onto it, straight away.’
‘I don’t think so. You’ve got some explaining to do before the Homeland Defence Committee. Not that I’m pre-judging the outcome, but you are relieved of all duties.’
As the president marched from the site, the commander aimed a wild kick at the lump of metal. It recoiled as he struck, causing him to trip and fall into two feet of Alpha Centauri mud.

**********
‘How do you think the children are getting on, dear?’
The question was sent in a series of low frequency clicks and answered by a flick of TriSHA’s antennae.
‘Don’t worry SAM, they are programmed to be home for supper. We get time to ourselves and it’s good for them to meet their grandparents.’