That Sort of Partners Read online

  Story copyright September 2018 by Hollis Shiloh. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from the author. All characters and events are fictitious, and any similarity to real people or events is coincidental. Cover image content is being used for illustrative purposes only and any people depicted in the content are models. Proofreading by Carol Davis. This story was previously a Patreon reward.

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  About the story:

  When Jake is assigned to work with the new guy at the precinct—their first robot cop—he's nervous, to say the least. But his new partner turns out to be a great guy on every level. They work together and learn from each other—and then feelings start to develop.

  Jake never thought he'd be the sort to fall for his partner. Or a robot.

  ~20,000 words

  heat level: sweet

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  That Sort of Partners

  Also By Hollis Shiloh

  That Sort of Partners

  by Hollis Shiloh

  Jake

  "Your new partner's here."

  I looked up to see the captain standing in front of my desk, scowling down, and a shiny new robot behind him, looking unwholesomely competent. Its metal gleamed like a smug college student's hair.

  I scraped back my chair and stood slowly. "How d'you do?"

  "Delta Green 1224." The robot extended a hand smoothly. "Call me Green. And you are?"

  "Jake Elliot. Jake." I shook its hand. Skinny, metal, and warm to the touch. The things they could do with technology these days. I remembered my psych eval and coaching, and added, "Pleased to meet ya." It would be best, the brain people all recommended, to start thinking of them as people as soon as possible. Since we legally had to and everything.

  "Well, Green, Elliot, I'll leave you two to get acquainted," said the captain. He still looked uncomfortable. "Remember, you're on beat today."

  Beat. Every detective loves being busted back to beat—and teamed up with a machine. Mechanical marvel cops, we called them, and we used to think they'd just be at the spaceports, gambling joints, that sort of thing, places that are usually understaffed. Used to be a joke that, if someone made a mistake, they'd be replaced by a robot. That wasn't so funny now.

  Ever since the introduction of the UltraCop 3000—a program for a bot, not a type of robot, since the shell didn't matter—precincts that had 'em had better records all around: fewer unnecessary deaths, fewer mistakes and human errors, more cases solved, and solved quicker. Enough to give us humans a complex or something.

  But the rates kept dropping, so the brass kept sending new ones in until they reached a certain point and the robots proved less efficient without humans around than with. The way I heard it, it was like the old trains they used to have, back in the 20th century, ones that could run without an engineer aboard. People were scared to use them. They felt safer if a person was aboard, even if they didn't actually do anything. Turned out it was the same with robot cops. Criminals didn't trust them. Wouldn't stop, kept running even if they could be shot. Oh, maybe in a generation or two, it'd be different. For now, a robot had to be paired with a human.

  Never thought I'd be just a pretty face.

  Green sat down at the desk next to mine, smooth and normal, like a person would. He was a person, I told myself, or anyway, I had to treat him like one. As he sat, one of the guys walked by—Ferson—and cast back a look of disgust. First robot in our precinct, and it had to be paired with me. I was expecting a lot of those looks.

  And I was right. The third dealer we busted, on the corner of 29th, turned his head while I was cuffing him and said, "Never figured you for a mech-lover."

  I pushed him back around. "Shut up, Durby. Don't you know your rights? Silence is one of 'em."

  The robot performed just fine, but it was still one of the toughest days I'd had in a long time.

  When it was nearly over and we were driving back, Green turned to me. "May I buy you a drink after we get off duty?"

  "Sure. Why not." I was almost too tired to go anywhere, but it still wouldn't do to get off on a bad footing on my first day with a new partner.

  We sat at the bar at Ugly Will's, me slumped low over my drink, bad posture and back pain. The robot—my new partner—sat straight as a rocket, one hand curled around a glass of oil. He turned the cup slightly and spoke without looking at me, a gesture I wouldn't have found disconcerting from a human.

  "I've noticed that you're not entirely comfortable. Please let me know if there's anything I can do to make this transition easier."

  "Thanks, but I'll adjust."

  No use lying and saying I was hunky-dory with everything. These guys were like walking lie detectors. Minute changes in respiration, perspiration, or heart rate were all as apparent to this guy as something as simple as eye color was to me. Of course that was really useful against perps—or if a bot happened to be around someone who was about to have a heart attack or a seizure—but it wouldn't make for a lot of comfortable interpersonal relationships.

  "I am curious why you were chosen as the first in this department to work with a robot."

  I shrugged. "I scored best on the test." I paused. Sipped my drink. "Or, as the psych docs would tell you, I was less poorly adjusted than the rest of the outfit."

  "I find it difficult to understand why so many ordinary or lower-class humans have difficulty adjusting to working closely with robots. The wealthy have no such difficulty."

  "Some people will tell you it's because us poor folks are ignorant bumpkins. But the truth is, rich kids grow up around robots, so they don't have any hang-ups on the topic. And they're not scared of losing their living to them. The rest of us just have to adjust, sometimes the hard way."

  And since the Acts, "have to" was no joke. You could no longer refuse to hire a robot, no longer refuse service to a robot. Anti-roboticists were unobliquely labeled bigots, but that didn't stop the undercurrent of unease and distrust, sometimes downright hatred. It was scary to have your job taken, especially. After the anti-bot riots of '09, you couldn't just come out and say you hated bots, though.

  For the first time, I turned to look square at him. "If robots come in and make this department more efficient, we'll probably have as much as a fifty percent reduction in staff. That means half our people fired, and probably no new jobs in sight."

  For a second, Green just stared at me with his faintly glowing eyes. I turned back to my drink. "I can see this would be disturbing. You are loyal to the people you work with."

  "Well, yeah. Even the jerks—you don't necessarily want to see them fired. Maybe take a punch in the face sometime, but not fired, especially if they've got a family."

  "In the long run, greater police efficiency through the use of robot power will mean more humans free to do other kinds of work—creative, mental, and otherwise."

  I snorted. "You ever met a cop who was cut out to be an artist or something like that? If they were cut out to be one, they'd already be one. Maybe in the future, what you say will be true—"

  "That is what I was talking about."

  "—but that's not much comfort now." Frankly, I didn't think there would ever be a world where robots could do everything and humans would survive. People needed to do things that mattered. Being told they should find a job in the arts wasn't going to cut it for everyone. If there were even that many paying art jobs around.

  "Of course. I can appreciate that perspective, and I don't wish to be unsympathetic. I do not think this is the start of a sea change, but simply a single new hire at the department. In time, everyone will accept me, after they realize I'm not puttin
g them out of work. Another drink?"

  "No, thanks." I twisted my nearly empty glass around, the way he'd done. "The fact is, they probably really stuck me with you—or vice versa; however you want to think about it—because I tend to be polite. They always stick me with the guy nobody else wants, because I can usually get along with people."

  I turned to look at him, already starting to feel more than half-soused. "And isn't that stupid? It's not like you're some yahoo too quick on the draw that needs to be paired with someone mellow to keep things calm. More the opposite, probably." I shook my head, trying to clear it. "I better get home. I can't keep track of what I'm saying. But you won't forget, huh?"

  Green

  I had some concerns about my new human partner, so I contacted one of my friends who had been a police robot in New York City for several months.

  Gamma Blue 9431 answered his vidphone on the second ring. "Hello, Green." He was in his housing niche and looked as if he was preparing to power down and recharge for a few hours.

  "Got a minute? I can call back."

  "Go ahead."

  "How did you put your human police partner at ease? I could use some advice."

  Blue stared at me for 2.5 seconds. "At ease? Why would you want to put it at ease? Once it has learned to respect you, you will get along better. You must impress it. A little awe, even fear, would not be amiss."

  I thought of Jake Elliot. It would not be difficult to accomplish what Blue had suggested. "I would rather not. I think we would work better if he was at ease."

  Blue emitted a slightly derisive beep. "You have watched too many human movies about cops. Real police work is not like that. You will carry the load of the work. You would be wise to establish yourself as the dominant partner right away. You do not want it questioning you later."

  Again with the "it." This was a side of Blue I hadn't seen before. I didn't like it.

  "So, you have no advice for me."

  "No. Except not to try. Robots that grow attached to humans are a pitiful lot. We've worked hard for our freedom. Don't let yourself get put back into a position of servitude by soft-heartedness."

  "I will bear that in mind."

  The conversation ended, and I left the call booth I had been using, feeling strangely downhearted. A robot standing in line entered next. Behind were waiting two humans and then another robot. Both were battered, farm-labor type robots now here in the city but still without means to repair their carapaces. The humans looked like transients to me, but I couldn't tell for certain.

  I moved down the street at a slow, calm walk that would mark me as no one's easy target. In the distance, a siren was wailing. Tomorrow, I would be back riding in a vehicle with a siren just like that. Would I think of a way, by then, to make the human fear me less?

  Then I thought, Blue is right. If he is already "the" human to me, how long before he is "my" human?

  I walked the rest of the night, getting the feel of the city: its heartbeat and the murmurs of its alleyways. I did not feel like switching off, and I would not need a charge for a few more days.

  Twice, in the worst parts of the city, I stopped and phoned in domestic disturbances, then remained nearby until a police cruiser had arrived and the officers (all human) had trundled inside.

  I did not volunteer my help. That would not be a good way in which to make myself more acceptable to the precinct.

  Jake

  I had a bit of a hangover next morning.

  There was a reason I didn't usually drink. Jean Harlowe, one of my old partners, used to say I could get drunk on a sip of champagne. She wasn't far wrong.

  Green nodded at me as I came in. Already at his desk. For a second, I wondered if the drink had been a ploy to make me look bad or put me at a disadvantage today. But no; how could he know about my low alcohol tolerance?

  Captain came by our desks and flopped a folder on Green's. "Thought you guys might be the ones to handle this." And then he got out of there.

  I leaned over. "What is it?"

  Green flicked through the pages, then handed them across. "A robot who has missed his last two adjustment appointments."

  I looked at him quickly—looking for some expression, I guess—and then looked back down at the pages. The robot, a Delta Yellow 9987, had outwitted officers twice before. Of course a robot would do a better job of finding another robot. For one thing, they could tell each other apart better than we could tell them apart. I wasn't even always sure of what color I was addressing, what with the newer robots who only had little badges for their color, sometimes in unexpected spots. I would get used to checking one area on the shoulder, only to have it completely missing on a different robot, and the robot would be gone before I could figure it out.

  The important question was, would Green resent being sent to track down one of his own? "It's not a serious infraction, is it? He won't go to jail or anything."

  "No. He will be adjusted in any way he's gotten out of balance. But the self-knowledge to realize he is out of balance and decide he prefers it that way indicates he is very out of balance. Caution will be necessary."

  He rose, and I followed.

  Green

  I didn't like this. My second day, and already I was tracking down other robots? But there was nothing for it, and obviously the Yellow did need his adjustment.

  Adjustment. We were each supposed to get one once a year—at least. Some robots were fastidious enough to get one once a month. Adjustment was simply a test of a robot's personality and various other cerebral functions. Certain variables fell within the norm—a wide variety of them. But pass a certain level—hostility, for instance—and you were adjusted to bring you back into range. In the old days, when robots belonged to humans, after two or three adjustments for hostility, your humans would usually have you destroyed as a bad deal.

  I suspected my friend Gamma Blue 9431 was getting out of balance with hostility. As for me, I had an appointment coming up soon. I didn't know if I was out of balance, and it wasn't something I liked to think about. There was something unnerving about adjustment, even though it was completely normal.

  The case file had not said in what way the missing robot was out of balance—indeed, how could it, since he hadn't gone in for the test?—but caution seemed wise.

  There weren't many robots who had committed homicide, either against humans or other robots. But it was never wise to tempt fate.

  The first thing I did was access the internet.

  The records showed the Yellow had last been spotted about two months ago in the Waterford district. Attempts to capture him had met with failure, and the police, busy and no doubt disturbed by the idea of a "rogue bot," hadn't tried since.

  "There's a robot bar on Waterford. We should check there first," I told the human as we headed for the car.

  He shrugged. "It's your party. Let's face it: what chance would I have of finding this guy alone?"

  Or with another human, I thought.

  That gave me an idea. "Listen. I am not usually one for deception, but I think in this case it might be justified. I propose you go in alone, as a cop, and ask about this guy. They won't tell you anything, most likely. Closing ranks against the humans is normal, at least in that part of town. But I will be situated in the bar—perhaps a half-hour before you enter—and will stay afterwards and listen to the gossip after you leave. Someone will be bound to know this Yellow's whereabouts, and they will probably discuss it amongst themselves. It is unorthodox for a robot to resist Adjustment, and it would make for a good topic of conversation."

  Jake

  I waited the half-hour for Green to get situated. Sat in the car, tapping my fingers on the wheel and thinking of everything that could go wrong.

  The robot bar. The moment I stepped into its dim interior, the place fell silent. The beeps and near-silent hums of robot language had mingled with the spoken word like you'd hear in any bar. Now, the only sounds were the tinkling techno beeps of the background music and
the whir of worn-down robot parts as dozens of robot heads swiveled, tracking me. Sweat broke out on my forehead.

  I realized I didn't know where my partner was. I couldn't recognize him in a roomful of robots.

  I flashed the badge, the missing robot's pic, and shared a description. Sure enough, the robots were as communicative as blocks of cheese. I finished the act with the obligatory "call this number if you hear anything" and headed back to the car, my neck still crawling from all their gazes.

  Green

  The human left more nervous than I'd yet seen him. It was probably just as obvious to every other robot there, and I felt ashamed for Elliot. Did he think he'd be attacked simply because he was the only human in the joint? And this guy was the least prejudiced on the force?

  Sure enough, his presence unsettled the crowd. I had no difficulty slipping into the general discussion that buzzed to life once he'd left. Many of the older robots fell back into robot language. It was a clearer, more unambiguous language, a verbal version of the original programming used for robots. You couldn't express as many subtleties as in human language, but any robot could speak it in his sleep, and anyone who preferred a little privacy around humans or whose speakers were too broken to speak clearly might resort to it.

  said the robot on my left, who had one broken speaker and a bit of fuzz in the voice of his other one. A large scar marked his chest plate; he would be hard to mistake for another robot.

  said the third at our table, a garish Purple in need of a repaint.

  I asked.

  trilled Broken-Plate, using that old way of quantifying the known data, narrowing down to an educated guess.

  asked Purple ironically.

  I would, I thought.