and held it defensively against
her chest. “Not after what you told me happened to the last dude
who tried it. Are you crazy?”
“No?” John replied, more a question than an
answer.
Ronika reservedly handed him back the
robot.
“Okay, check it.” Ronika bounced back to her
desk and pulled out a pair of seemingly ordinary arm-length gloves
that had been deliberately hand-marked in a rainbow of colors. She
slid them over her hands and sat in front of a large, modified
webcam sitting between her twin monitors. After a few clicks of her
computer’s mouse, she held the gloves up to the camera. As she
moved her arms to the left, John was surprised to find Mouse’s arms
mimic the action precisely. Ronika grabbed the headset from next to
her on the desk and put it over her head. She unhooked it from her
computer and plugged it into the front of her webcam. Mouse
continued to replicate her movements.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Mouse,” Ronika said
into the headset’s microphone. Her voice played simultaneously out
of a tiny speaker in the robot. She extended her hand toward the
camera, as if to shake its hand. Mouse extended his pincher-style
hand to John in tandem. John took it gingerly between his left
pointer-finger and thumb. He shook it in introduction.
“This is amazing,” John said.
Ronika beamed at the comment. “You really
think so?” she asked.
“I really do,” John answered. “But, Ronika,
how is this going to help?”
“Well, I can talk to you and stuff. Maybe
help? Plus, I can see what Mouse sees, too. Look.”
John looked toward her monitor and saw
himself from the robot’s perspective. He looked into the metal
visor where Mouse’s eyes would be if it were human. He waved his
hands in front of it and watched the live video of him doing so on
Ronika’s monitor.
“This is great,” John began, losing volume as
he spoke. A weakness was washing over him. It was almost time. He
backed up and sat on the couch before his condition forced it.
“John!” Ronika yelled. “Is this it? Is it
happening?”
“Put Mouse in my messenger bag so I don’t
drop it. Get in your feathery blanket thing,” he said as calmly as
possible, quickly losing the strength of his voice.
Ronika quickly followed his instructions.
After securing Mouse, she curled tightly into her ball of fluff on
the couch and watched in wonder at John’s arm as it began to spasm
wildly.
“Amazing,” she whispered.
John groaned and tried to steady his arm.
“John,” Ronika said quietly, leaning into
him, “would you be angry if I told you I was excited?”
John disappeared.
January 31st, 1972:
With each left step, Felix absently dragged
the bottom of his foot across the floor as he made his way toward
room B13. The friction of his sole against the freshly polished
tile caused a choppy vibration that hummed down the corridor
between his footsteps. The noise was a welcome one and, for him,
oddly calming. He’d never liked the quiet, and certainly wasn’t
likely to find much else down the long, lonely halls of Harvard
University during this time of night.
He took a moment to look down at the
partially cracked face of his wristwatch. In three minutes it would
be precisely one thirty in the morning, which meant that come three
minutes from now, he will have missed the entire class he was
supposed to be arriving at one hour and fifty-seven minutes ago. He
wasn’t particularly sure why he was still on his way to the
soon-to-be-empty classroom after its dismissal, but assumed that
he’d figure it out by the time he arrived.
Felix heard the professor speaking in his
head: What’s the point of participating in the program if you
refuse to apply yourself and take part in our discussion? It
was the same tired objurgation he’d heard many times before. He
could recite it backward by now and decided to do so in his head as
he walked farther down the way.
A foreign noise echoed from the stretch of
corridor
her chest. “Not after what you told me happened to the last dude
who tried it. Are you crazy?”
“No?” John replied, more a question than an
answer.
Ronika reservedly handed him back the
robot.
“Okay, check it.” Ronika bounced back to her
desk and pulled out a pair of seemingly ordinary arm-length gloves
that had been deliberately hand-marked in a rainbow of colors. She
slid them over her hands and sat in front of a large, modified
webcam sitting between her twin monitors. After a few clicks of her
computer’s mouse, she held the gloves up to the camera. As she
moved her arms to the left, John was surprised to find Mouse’s arms
mimic the action precisely. Ronika grabbed the headset from next to
her on the desk and put it over her head. She unhooked it from her
computer and plugged it into the front of her webcam. Mouse
continued to replicate her movements.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Mouse,” Ronika said
into the headset’s microphone. Her voice played simultaneously out
of a tiny speaker in the robot. She extended her hand toward the
camera, as if to shake its hand. Mouse extended his pincher-style
hand to John in tandem. John took it gingerly between his left
pointer-finger and thumb. He shook it in introduction.
“This is amazing,” John said.
Ronika beamed at the comment. “You really
think so?” she asked.
“I really do,” John answered. “But, Ronika,
how is this going to help?”
“Well, I can talk to you and stuff. Maybe
help? Plus, I can see what Mouse sees, too. Look.”
John looked toward her monitor and saw
himself from the robot’s perspective. He looked into the metal
visor where Mouse’s eyes would be if it were human. He waved his
hands in front of it and watched the live video of him doing so on
Ronika’s monitor.
“This is great,” John began, losing volume as
he spoke. A weakness was washing over him. It was almost time. He
backed up and sat on the couch before his condition forced it.
“John!” Ronika yelled. “Is this it? Is it
happening?”
“Put Mouse in my messenger bag so I don’t
drop it. Get in your feathery blanket thing,” he said as calmly as
possible, quickly losing the strength of his voice.
Ronika quickly followed his instructions.
After securing Mouse, she curled tightly into her ball of fluff on
the couch and watched in wonder at John’s arm as it began to spasm
wildly.
“Amazing,” she whispered.
John groaned and tried to steady his arm.
“John,” Ronika said quietly, leaning into
him, “would you be angry if I told you I was excited?”
John disappeared.
January 31st, 1972:
With each left step, Felix absently dragged
the bottom of his foot across the floor as he made his way toward
room B13. The friction of his sole against the freshly polished
tile caused a choppy vibration that hummed down the corridor
between his footsteps. The noise was a welcome one and, for him,
oddly calming. He’d never liked the quiet, and certainly wasn’t
likely to find much else down the long, lonely halls of Harvard
University during this time of night.
He took a moment to look down at the
partially cracked face of his wristwatch. In three minutes it would
be precisely one thirty in the morning, which meant that come three
minutes from now, he will have missed the entire class he was
supposed to be arriving at one hour and fifty-seven minutes ago. He
wasn’t particularly sure why he was still on his way to the
soon-to-be-empty classroom after its dismissal, but assumed that
he’d figure it out by the time he arrived.
Felix heard the professor speaking in his
head: What’s the point of participating in the program if you
refuse to apply yourself and take part in our discussion? It
was the same tired objurgation he’d heard many times before. He
could recite it backward by now and decided to do so in his head as
he walked farther down the way.
A foreign noise echoed from the stretch of
corridor
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