Fuzzy (2 page)

Vanguard did have a human principal, Mr. Dorgas, but everyone said—whispered, actually—that Barbara was really in charge. And they were right. She wasn't just running the school. She WAS the school.

Everything—every door, every camera, every screen, every sensor—was connected into the central computer running the Barbara software. All the janitor and lunchroom robots were under her control, plus dozens of others the students never saw, such as qScreen repair-bots, heating duct cleaners, and dumpsterdroids, all rolling around on wheels or treads and mostly consisting of metallic appendages designed for their specific functions.

The goal of #CUG was a perfect school—higher test scores, fewer discipline problems, and cheaper to run.

Every part of the school must be Constantly UpGrading—the students, the teachers, the “learning
materials,” the robots, the flow of traffic in the halls, attendance, physical education achievements, proper hand-washing in the restrooms.

Barbara gave everything a #CUG score, and that #CUG score needed to keep going up. Anything other than a constant upgrade in your Constant UpGrade score meant trouble.

Every student's #CUG score was recalculated in real time. Attendance, discipline, and citizenship points were added or subtracted instantly. Homework was graded by computer, and students' #CUG scores were adjusted within the first minute of class.

And once a week came those Live UpGrade Assessments. They were really just multiple-choice tests, but they had a big and immediate impact on every student's #CUG score . . . and on the teachers' scores, too.

And it was working! Vanguard was exceeding all of its Constant UpGrade goals. Academic test scores were way up—actually, the highest of any school in Florida—and discipline problems were way down. In fact, almost nonexistent.

Although Vanguard still had human teachers and a
human principal, the Barbara system kept finding ways to replace more and more of the school's staff, saving even more taxpayer dollars.

Already there were plans to open up other Constant UpGrade schools with their own Barbara systems across the country.

Because the students under the Constant UpGrade system really were being constantly upgraded . . . according to Barbara's data.

1.4
MAX
'
S HOUSE

Constant UpGrade didn't just cause Max trouble at school. The computer system's instant communication with her parents often meant that she'd come home to find them all worked up about something that was really nothing.

And today was no exception.

Don and Carmen Zelaster had received texts about Max's two discipline tags, along with a reminder that Max needed to study for the weekly UpGrade test.

So she tried to explain the whole scene with the robot to her parents, but that just made it worse, because her mother did not share Max's interest in robots. In fact, ever since she and their city's other police dispatchers
had lost their jobs to a computerized communications system, she had become anti-computer, anti-robot, and, Max thought, anti-everything. Now she was working at a small local library, downloading e-books for its patrons—at least until some robot took over there, too.

“I don't understand it,” Carmen Zelaster said. “You just step over the robot and you go to class. End of story. No discipline tags. How hard is that?”

“I couldn't just leave him there—”

“‘Him'? Honey, robots aren't ‘hims,'” Max's mom said, clearly struggling to hold on to her patience. “They aren't ‘hers.' They're machines. And if people start treating them like people, then we're really screwed. Just today I was reading about that failed Mars mission. The robot crashed the ship and it was just lucky there were no people abooard. Because, listen: They don't treat us like people. We're nothing more than just another machine to them, and once they're in charge—”

“Do we have to go into this again?” Don Zelaster interrupted quietly.

“It's important,” said Max's mom.

“I know it is, but so is her test on Friday. If she does as badly as she did last week, her . . . uh . . . #CUG score
is going to drop again, and she's
really
going to be in trouble!”

“She sure is!” agreed her mom. “Maxine, you—”

“So, that's why she needs to go study,” said her dad firmly, and Max was grateful.

She didn't know how to talk to her mom about anything anymore, and her test scores were a particularly touchy subject. She
had
studied for the test last week. And the ones before it. And she thought she had done pretty well on them. She couldn't understand her poor performances.

But whenever Max tried telling that to her mother, she would just get angry and snap, “Well, you better figure it out!”

2.1
HALLWAY B

Back at school the next day, Max was hoping to see the robot. But she ran into her friends instead, and apparently they were not done teasing her about yesterday's run-in with the robot.

“Hey, Max, where's your boyfriend?” Biggs asked.

“I heard they're packing him and all the equipment up and leaving,” said Simeon with a superior smirk.

“Aw! What a bummer . . . I thought he was kind of cute,” said Krysti, holding up a sketch she had done of the robot lying flat on his face.

Max didn't say anything. She was worried that Simeon was right. However, Simeon was famous for his
exaggerated and often just plain false factoids, so she wasn't sure what to think.

All of a sudden there was a little
bing-bong
sound, and everybody froze. The notes on the big learning screen at the front of the room faded out, and the principal's face appeared. Everyone relaxed. If it was an important message, it would have been Barbara. This was just Mr. Dorgas.

Dorgas was a grumpy little man whom everybody called Dorkus, including some of the teachers when they thought no kids were listening.

“Maxine Zelaster, report to the office, please,” he said.

All the other students in the room turned to stare at Max.

“Sounds gnarly,” whispered Krysti, although her uncharacteristic frown showed she was worried for her friend. “What'd you do?”

“Nothing!” Max then appealed to their homeroom teacher: “Ms. French! This isn't fair. I haven't done anything wrong.”

“Nobody said you did,” said Ms. French, “but you can't ignore Dork—er, Mr. Dorgas. I suggest you hurry so you get back in time for the UpGrade review.”

So Max hurried, walking as fast as she could without running. No reason to rack up another dTag.

She was almost to the office when a long durafoam arm sprang out of the wall and blocked her way. She knew from experience that, if she tried to go around or under it, it would extend a durafoam band that would actually encircle her and hold her in place.

A large section of wall lit up, showing Vice Principal Barbara looking firm but not yet angry.

“Discipline tag assigned to Student M. Zelaster. You are not authorized for this hallway at this time.”

“But, Vice Principal Barbara, I've been called to the office!” Max protested.

“No record found,” said Barbara, and the screen image became slightly grumpier. “You are not authorized for this hallway at this time.”

A keypad appeared on the touch screen.

“Press one to review hallway procedures. Press two to—”

Max was actually considering trying to duck under the arm and make a run for it when Mr. Dorgas came around the corner.

“There you are, Zelaster! Follow me.”

“I can't,” she protested. “Vice Principal Barbara won't let me.”

“Oops,” said Dorgas, like it was no big deal. “I forgot to key you in. Barbara: Override, code seven.”

The arm disappeared into the wall with a
whoosh
, and Max wished she could, too. Dorkus seemed to be in his usual bad mood. He stalked off down the hall, and she followed him.

“You know,” he said, “if you didn't have so many discipline tags, Barbara wouldn't be on the lookout for you.”

Max wanted to point out that if Barbara didn't have so many annoying rules, she wouldn't have so many dTags. But saying so might mean another tag, and it really wasn't worth it.

2.1.5

Meanwhile, Barbara was adding a discipline tag to Max's record anyway. She also added one to her internal record of Mr. Dorgas. Barbara kept careful track of every human who disputed her rules in any way.

2.2
ROBOT INTEGRATION PROGRAM HQ

Mr. Dorgas led Max to a door marked
FORUM
, a mini-auditorium meant for school choral concerts and plays. But Vanguard had done away with music and drama classes, so the room was never used.

Now there was a little sign taped to the wall.
ROBOT INTEGRATION PROGRAM HEADQUARTERS. ROSSUM TECHNOLOGIES. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
.

When Mr. Dorgas hit the button, the door swooshed open and Max saw what looked to her like paradise.

Computers and vid screens and wires and spare parts filled the space, and in the middle of it all, she saw the robot.

Her first thought was
Oh cool
, but then she realized
it was just propped up against a table, not moving. So her second thought was
Oh zark, it's still broken. Maybe Biggs was right and I really did break it somehow
.

“Here is the student you requested, Dr. Jones,” said Mr. Dorgas, and he pushed Max forward. Then he turned around and stomped out the door.

Everybody in the room—seven technicians, four security guards, and two people wearing weird helmets—turned to look at her.

One of the people in the weird helmets stepped forward.

“Uh . . . Maxine? Is that right?”

“Just Max, really,” she said nervously.

The man pulled the helmet off over his head and introduced himself.

“I'm Dr. Jones, RosTech project manager.” He was a lanky middle-aged white man with a receding hairline. Max noticed that he wore glasses. He must have been one of those rare types who couldn't tolerate ocular implants.

“And this,” said Jones, waving at the other helmeted person, “is Lieutenant Colonel Nina.”

A
colonel?
Max stepped back. Why would there be a
colonel here? Was she going to be some sort of gung ho army soldier who would yell at her for messing with the robot?

But when the “soldier” removed her helmet, Max saw that she was a friendly looking black woman, about thirty years old, with a nice, reassuring smile. She looked more like somebody's cool aunt than a soldier.

The woman gave Max another pleasant smile, and Max found herself smiling back.

“Hi, Max. Jones has to call me Lieutenant Colonel, but you can call me Nina.”

“Hi, Nina,” said Max. “It's nice to—”

“Right,” interrupted Jones. “And this is my team . . .” He gestured at the technicians—brainy-looking twenty-somethings, mostly—who had come forward to meet Max. “And they're all getting back to work, because we're on a very tight deadline and yesterday morning's failure sure didn't help.”

The brainy-looking twenty-somethings slunk back to their qScreens.

Max's ears turned red.

“About yesterday morning,” she said. “I didn't mean to—”

“Oh, we know that,” said Nina.

“Is the robot OK? Did I break it somehow . . . ?”

“Break it?” Nina laughed. “Max, you couldn't break Fuzzy with a bulldozer.”

“Fuzzy?” asked Max, getting less worried but more confused.

And then came a third voice:

“I am Fuzzy. Hello, Object 321.”

Max looked at the robot, but it didn't appear to have spoken. It didn't even appear to be turned on. It was still leaning against the table, not moving.

“Uh, was that the robot?” she asked, unsure of whom to talk to.

“Yes,” said the voice again.

Then she noticed another head nearby. This one looked less human at first, but then she realized it was just missing the wig.

“Uh, which head is talking?” asked Max.

Nina let out another laugh. “Oh, I think Fuzzy's voice is coming from the speakers on that qScreen right now. When he's running again, his voice should come from the head attached to his body. That other one is just a backup.”

“A backup head?” asked Max.

“Yeah, life with Fuzzy takes a little getting used to. He's more than an ordinary robot, but he's definitely not a flesh-and-blood human, either.”

“And its name is Fuzzy?”

“Yes, my name is Fuzzy,” said the voice again.

“Why do you call it Fuzzy?” Max asked Nina.

“Do you like it?” asked Nina, smiling. “I named him. His real name is—”

“Classified!” interjected Jones.

Nina rolled her eyes.

“Classified?” asked Max. “Why would it be classified?”

“Ha! Well, the reason it's classified is also classified,” said Nina.

Max felt more confused than she had ever been in her life.

“Basically,” explained Nina, “the government wants a smarter robot, so we've hired Jones and his team to create Fuzzy.”

Then Nina leaned in close to Max and, rolling her eyes again, said in a loud whisper, “They're civilians.”

“You still haven't told her why you named it Fuzzy,” said Jones.

“I was about to when you interrupted me!” Nina
said with mock outrage. Jones and Nina were starting to remind Max of her grandparents. They must have been working together for so long they were like an old married couple.

“Anyway . . . ,” continued Nina, “we call him Fuzzy because he is designed to use fuzzy logic. Have you heard of that?”

“Uh, yeah,” said Max. “Isn't that the thing where two plus two isn't always four?”