Robot Revolution Read online

  E goes over to the grumbling bots. “If I may…”

  “E!” says Geoffrey. “Good to see you up and about, old chap.”

  “Thank you. And to be quite honest, I didn’t need Mom’s help to restore my functions to their fully operational state. Sammy did it for me.”

  “I did?” I say, stepping out of the shadows so all the other robots can see me.

  “Yes,” says E. “You plugged me into my charger.”

  “Oh, right.” I shrug. “It was no biggie.”

  “Well, what the heck is goin’ on that’s so gall darn important that Dr. Hayes couldn’t just plug you in herself?” demands Hayseed.

  “Yeah,” grunts Blitzen. “She forgot to give me my lawn mowing coordinates this morning, so I plowed the front yard. Coach Rodriguez benched me for it.”

  “She also failed to program my feather duster settings,” says Mr. Moppenshine. “I destroyed two lamp shades and a chandelier today!”

  “Can you program yourselves to program yourselves?” I suggest.

  “We are, indeed, artificially intelligent,” says Geoffrey. “However, we still require human support and input.”

  “We need Mommy!” blurts Four. Then it pops its thumb back into its mouth hole.

  The others pick up on its demand. “We need Dr. Hayes!”

  Forget the robot rally… this could be a robot revolution!

  “Dr. Hayes is working on a top-secret, highly classified project,” says E, raising his voice slightly. He’s trying to calm the other bots, all of whom are pumping their fists in the air and saying stuff like “¡Viva la revolución!”

  “Like I said, what is she workin’ on that’s so dadgum important?” demands Hayseed, still jabbing a pitchfork in the air.

  “I do not know,” says E. “But I can only assume that it might yield enormous benefits.”

  “Benefits for, like, who?” demands Brittney 13.

  “All of humanity,” says E. “And most importantly, Maddie!”

  Immediately, the other robots stop chanting and pumping their fists and stabbing the sky with the pitchforks.

  “Maddie,” they sigh in unison.

  It’s true. The robots in our house are as crazy about my little sister as I am.

  “So let’s make a deal,” I say. “Let’s give Mom the time and space she needs to work on whatever it is she’s working on. And Dad is pretty tied up with his book deadline right now. So for the next few days or weeks or however long it takes, I promise I will get up extra early and program your daily operational routines.” I wiggle-waggle my phone. “I have an app for that.”

  The robots start nodding and mumbling their agreement.

  “Jolly good idea,” says Geoffrey. “Thank you, old bean. Now back inside, everybody. We all have work to do. Chop-chop.”

  “Um, like, what exactly are we supposed to do?” asks Brittney 13.

  “Take the night off,” I say grandly. “You’ll receive your new assignments in the morning.”

  They all happily WHIR and CLICK and SCHLUNK back into the house.

  Except E. He stays with me.

  “This is quite commendable of you, Sammy. To step in like that. Your mother and father are both so busy, you are the logical choice to take over day-to-day operational supervision.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “But E: There’s only one way this is ever going to work. You’ve got to do it with me.”

  E nods. “Agreed. I have the same app hardwired to my motherboard.”

  “Awesome!”

  We shake on it. Starting tomorrow, the whole house of robots will be run by E… and me.

  Hoo-boy. Wish us luck.

  I think we’re going to need it.

  The next morning, E and I both wake up two hours earlier than usual.

  If we’re going to be in charge of the house’s “robotic operations,” as E calls it, we need to hit the ground running.

  While E boots up and completes another charging cycle, I grab a quick shower. This time, when I step out, the Groomatron blasts me with a typhoon of oven-hot air. It’s so toasty, it doesn’t just chap my lips: it chaps my whole face like it’s a pizza crust.

  “Is there some problem?” asks E as he steps into my bathroom.

  “Yes! It’s baking me to a crackly crunch!”

  E holds up his palm and shoots some sort of reddish light at the Groomatron. It shuts down. “Mom equipped me with a universal infrared remote control. I can power on or off any bot in the house. I can also change TV channels and fast-forward DVDs.”

  “How do we fix this crazy thing?” I ask him when the Groomatron stops whirring. “I don’t want to shut it down.”

  “I have an idea.”

  “Good. Because I have burnt eyeballs.”

  “I suspect the Groomatron, as well as the other robots in this house, are in a rut, Sammy.”

  “Huh?”

  “They have all been programmed to do one thing and one thing only. Their routines have become too, for lack of a better word, routine.”

  “But they’re machines, E. They’re designed to do the same, specific job over and over and over again.”

  E nods. “What you say is correct. For machines. But do not forget: all of the robots engineered by your mother and her associates at the University of Notre Dame have been equipped with artificial intelligence. We are able to learn, change, and adapt. For instance, I can now say ‘Yo, bro’ when conversing with you because I have learned that such expressions are preferred to the more formal ‘Greetings, Samuel’ that I was originally programmed to recite.”

  “O-kay. So how do we get the Groomatron to adapt back to being a hair dryer again?”

  “Perhaps by allowing it to function as something else for a period of time. It is my theory that if we send electrical surges into underutilized circuits in all the various robots’ motherboards, the knowledge and skill sets related to their primary tasks will also increase exponentially.”

  “Wait a second. You’re saying the Groomatron will be a better hair dryer if we let it do something else for a while?”

  “Exactly.”

  “So that’s your plan? Shake things up? Get all of the bots to do things they’ve never done before?”

  “Yes. For instance, instead of drying your hair, what if the Groomatron functioned as your personal adviser?”

  “Huh?”

  E scoots forward and, using his clamper claws like socket wrenches, twirls a few knobs to open up the Groomatron’s outer casing.

  “Some simple rewiring coupled with a revised binary command code should do the trick.”

  One of his fingers becomes red-hot like a soldering iron. Another one flicks tiny microprocessor switches up and down.

  A few ZITZ, WHIR, and CLICKs later, the Groomatron looks like it always does. But then it starts talking.

  “Goooooood morning, Sammeeeeee Haaaaayes-Rodreeeeeeguez!”

  The box sounds like a morning deejay on the radio.

  “No need to pack a rain cane today, but be sure to grab a jacket or light wrap. We’re looking at temperatures in the sixties, dipping down to the fifties later on tonight…”

  It gives me sports scores, my horoscope, wardrobe tips, a rundown on all my homework assignments, and a word of the day: “Potentiality: a capacity or ability for growth and fulfillment.” All very enthusiastically.

  In other words, E is right. The Groomatron is happy doing something besides blowing hot air at my hair.

  E scoots around the rest of the house and reprograms all the bots. Today they’re all getting new jobs.

  When Maddie wakes up, E has already reprogrammed the Breakfastinator in her room.

  “With these new objectives,” says E, “will come increased efficiency when the bots return to their primary functions.”

  “Um, are you, like, one hundred percent certain of this?” I ask.

  “Sammy?” says Maddie. “No scientist is ever completely certain of the outcome when they start an experiment.”
/>   “So that’s what this is?” I say to E. “An experiment?”

  E nods. “Founded on some very sound theoretical thinking. Much like your science project, Sammy.”

  My science project! I have to remember to stop forgetting about that.

  The Breakfastinator starts executing its new task: sorting Maddie’s socks.

  “So who do you guys have making breakfast?” Maddie asks.

  “Hayseed. Consider him part of the new farm-to-table dining trend.”

  Hayseed scoots into the room toting two plates filled with leafy green things. “I done made y’all some vittles.”

  “It looks like a salad,” I tell him.

  “I reckon it does at that.”

  “What is it?” asks Maddie. “Because we usually have oatmeal or cereal or Greek yogurt…”

  “Cain’t get Greek yogurt straight from an American farm lessen it’s a dairy farm with Greek cows, I reckon. These here are dandelions.”

  I stare at the plate of weeds. “Seriously?”

  Maddie isn’t too thrilled, either. “Salad? For breakfast?”

  “It is quite customary in Japan,” says E because he can tell that, so far, his “experiment” isn’t going well in the breakfast department.

  “I think I’ll just split a peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich with Trip,” I say.

  “Nuh-unh,” says Hayseed. “You need to eat you some greens. Some yellows, too. Them dandelion flowers look deeeee-licious.”

  Maddie and I choke down our greens (and some yellows). When E and Hayseed aren’t looking, I pull a granola bar out of my backpack and toss it to Maddie.

  “Thanks, Sammy,” she whispers.

  “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” I tell her. “Except, I guess, in Japan, where they probably eat seaweed and raw fish in the morning, too.”

  “That’s on tomorrow’s menu!” says Hayseed.

  Great. I had to open my big mouth.

  Instead of playing our usual morning trivia, Maddie and I get quizzed on the differences between deciduous and evergreen trees. I feel bad for my sister, but I decide to head to school early.

  E and I say good-bye to Maddie and head downstairs. We’re biking to school today because the SUV-EX is still dead in the driveway. Blitzen, the lawn mower–bot who used to be a middle linebacker on Notre Dame’s robotic football team, is under the electric vehicle, banging and slamming stuff because, well, that’s what linebackers do.

  “Come on, engine!” he grunts. “Give me everything you’ve got or I’m pulling you out of the game!”

  I glance into the backyard and see Mr. Moppenshine dusting the grass.

  “Since Blitzen is on motorized vehicle maintenance duty today, I put Mr. Moppenshine in charge of lawn care,” says E. “His new command is to keep the grass looking tidy at all times.”

  “Great. He might be finished with the backyard by Christmas.”

  I don’t know about E, but I’m getting the feeling that this job-swapping experiment wasn’t the best idea…

  As we’re grabbing our bikes out of the garage, my phone chirps. I don’t recognize the number in the caller ID window but I answer it anyway.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Sammy. This is your personal valet.”

  I don’t believe this. The Groomatron—my automatic hair dryer—is calling me.

  “I just wanted to remind you that you need to show your science project progress at school today. So be sure to pack up all the equipment you’re going to need.”

  “Um, I can’t take it to school with me on my bike. The basket isn’t big enough to hold all the stuff.”

  “Might I suggest you stow it in the SUV-EX? Blitzen informs me that he’ll have the car up and running in no time at all.”

  “Come on, Soovee!” I hear Blitzen shout from underneath the car. “You can do it. Just give me two more!” More banging, clanging, bashing, and thumping.

  “Let’s do as Groomeo suggests, bro,” says E.

  “Groomeo?”

  “That’s the new moniker I chose for myself,” says the Groomatron over my phone. “I’m more than a grooming machine, Sammy. I am your personal assistant!”

  All righty-o. I’m starting to wonder if the idea behind E’s bot experiment is just not very good or actually cuckoo-loony.

  “I’ve already texted your father,” the Groomatron continues. “I reminded him to bring Maddie’s robotic dog with him when he drops off the rest of your science project supplies this afternoon.”

  That’s good. McFetch is a big part of our planned demonstration.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  E blinks his blue eyes like he’s waiting for me to say something else.

  “I mean, thanks, Groomeo.”

  “You are quite welcome, Sammy. And might I just add, I am enjoying the challenge of my new responsibilities.”

  “Me too!” hollers Blitzen. And then he starts hammering more metal against metal.

  E and I load the boxes for my science project into Soovee and bike off to school.

  We have a pretty good bro-bot chat along the way.

  “Mom is under so much stress,” I say. “How could building a singing robot take up so much of her time and attention?”

  “Perhaps she is working on something much more complex than what Maddie suggested.”

  “Sometimes I just wish Mom would tell us what she’s working on.”

  “But scientists need the freedom to fail, Sammy. And failure is something almost everybody prefers to do in private.”

  “You’re right. When I get a bad grade on my report card, I sure don’t like showing it to Mom and Dad.”

  “We must continue to give Mom the space and time she needs to complete her experiment, whatever it might be. For her sake as well as Maddie’s.”

  Halfway to school, Trip joins us on his bike.

  “Hi, guys!” he says. “I figured your car might still be dead and you two might be riding your bikes to school again, and guess what? I was right!”

  “Did you remember the electric air pump?” I ask him.

  “Yep. But where’s everything else?”

  “Packed up in Soovee,” says E.

  “The one that’s still dead in your driveway?” says Trip.

  “Don’t worry,” I tell him. “Groomeo promised me that Dad will deliver everything this afternoon.”

  “Cool,” says Trip. “So who’s Groomeo?”

  “My talking hair dryer.”

  “And personal assistant,” adds E.

  “Neat!” says Trip. “I want one of those.”

  I’m tempted to say he can have mine. But I don’t want to hurt E’s feelings.

  “You’re sure you guys packed up everything?” asks Trip. “You didn’t forget anything?”

  “Nope,” I say because I double-checked all the boxes after we loaded them into the SUV.

  But I do have a nagging feeling that I’ve forgotten something—I can’t remember what. Until after lunch.

  Because that’s when Mrs. Kunkel reminds me.

  After lunch, we come back to our classroom from the cafeteria and Mrs. Kunkel is writing Mom’s name on the whiteboard at the front of the room.

  “Boys and girls,” she says, “today is a day I have been looking forward to for several months! We have a very special visitor—a real scientist to help put us all in the mood for our upcoming science fair.”

  Uh-oh. I think we have something else to add to the list of Stuff That Mom Is Supposed to Do but Isn’t.

  “Today,” says Mrs. Kunkel, “Sammy’s mother, Dr. Elizabeth Hayes, a brilliant robotics professor at Notre Dame, will tell us about all the incredible robots she has designed and the work she’s doing on building robots of the future!”

  The whole class oohs and aahs. Then they start applauding.

  Well, everybody except Randolph R. Reich.

  “This is so cool!” says Trip. “Did your mom ride her own bike to school? Did that forklift robot, Forkenstein
, haul her here?”

  I just smile. Nervously.

  When the cheering and the applause finally stop, Mrs. Kunkel turns to me.

  “Has your mother arrived, Sammy? I hope she brought a few of the robots with her.”

  “Um, I, uh…” I want to crawl under the desk and hide until it’s time for high school.

  Mrs. Kunkel and the whole class stare at me. Except Randolph. He’s smirking.

  Finally, I just blurt it out: “I think she forgot that she’s supposed to be here today.”

  “Really?” says Mrs. Kunkel. “I called her yesterday to remind her.”

  “Well, she’s been kind of busy and distracted lately. I think she’s working on a top-secret project.”

  “After that preposterous electric SUV idea, what foolish invention is it this time?” sniggers Randolph. “A submarine with open windows? A helicopter that doesn’t fly?”

  There’s a knock on the classroom door. My hopes soar as high as Drone Malone on a windy day. Maybe Mom remembered after all!

  The door opens.

  It’s…Dad?

  “Sorry we’re late,” he says. “Our robots took longer to fix the car than we thought they would. Hi, Sammy! Hi, Trip! We put your science experiment boxes in the gym.”

  Oh yeah. I forgot he was dropping them off for me.

  “Thanks, Mr. Rodriguez,” says Trip.

  “Is, uh, Mom with you?” I ask hopefully.

  “No, but I saw her calendar and noticed that she was supposed to come speak to your class today. I’m sorry, Mrs. Kunkel. Liz can’t leave her lab right now. But since E has all our robots switching jobs, I thought I’d bring a substitute speaker for you guys.”

  And in walks Geoffrey, our very British butler-bot.

  Oh no. Of all the awesome robots in our house, why’d he pick Geoffrey?

  “See you at home, Sammy. Wish I could stay, but I’ve got that darn deadline to deal with. Forkenstein will come pick up Geoffrey in an hour. Buh-bye!”