Write-A-Thon Day 3

Private Roberto

By Donaya Haymond

The squad was immensely skeptical of the experimental robot at first, meant for seeking out and defusing mines. It had a set of retractable wheels for fast movement on roads, and eight pullout spindly spider-legs for rougher terrain. One long, hinged appendage tapering to a delicate multipurpose toolkit could disarm a standard piece of unexploded ordinance in a few minutes, while two stubbier mechanical limbs had the machinery to explore the ground and carefully do any excavation required. It had cost millions of dollars to develop and build, and was a great, shining hope for a future with far lower soldier and civilian casualties than in the wars of today. It also looked really, really silly.

It was a hobbledehoy of an artificial creature - all ungainly bits soldered together, the occasional loose part held tighter by duct tape, giving those observing it the distinct feeling (no matter how inaccurate) that a stiff breeze would make it crumple into a heap of scrap. It rolled erratically, like metal tumbleweed, when using its wheels; and its eight-legged scurry was similar to that of a tarantula with some kind of nervous system disorder. The military is concerned with function, not form or aesthetic. Prettiness lies within the domain of consumer products.

Codenamed “Private Roberto” and always referred to as “he” to prevent the enemy from targeting such a valuable piece of technology, its moniker immensely gave rise to jokes among the ranks that it was of Hispanic descent.

“You’re looking depressed, Private Roberto. Do I need to get a priest for you to confess to something you’ve done?”

“So, Private Roberto, is your family from Mexico, El Salvador, or one of those other countries?”

“Feliz Navidad, Private Roberto! Do you miss old Eve and Wall-E back at the hacienda?”

Private Roberto, of course, only replied with a gentle “Whir?” That’s all he ever said to anything. All other communication from him consisted of blinking lights or a message on his little screen, black digital typeface on a pale green surface, such as POWER LOW or PLEASE CHECK LEFT WHEEL. Whatever could be said against him, one couldn’t deny his programmed politeness.

As the months went by, despite the initial skepticism, it became clear that Private Roberto was very good at his job. He could clear a few hundred square meters of an open field, all by himself, in less than three hours, eliminating the breath-holding, tense tedium that was such work before his deployment. He had to be supervised by the bomb squad, but as they got used to how he operated, they found themselves with more time in between assignments to relax a little, write letters home, chat, and even play cards from time to time, on folding chairs while they kept an eye on what they were starting to think of as a pet. Their feelings towards him became close to one they would have had with a trained sniffer dog, even if Private Roberto was a good deal lumpier and more standoffish.

One day the technicians sent Private Roberto to inspect a patch of woodland before they sent any human beings there. He whirred, obliging, and quickly tiptoed to the assigned area to fulfill the mission. Less than ten minutes later, though, he stopped.

“What’s going on, Roberto?”

“You know he’s not going to answer.”

“I know it sounds stupid, but I worry about him when he’s out there.”

He let out several whirs, and the humans hearing it hoped they were only imagining that there was worry in those sounds, some kind of anxiety from a tool not meant to have emotions. Roberto tiptoed back to his handlers for input, one appendage held slightly away from his body.

He had a baby bird gently cradled in what passed for a hand. It was still in the ugly-cute pink stage with bulbous purple eyes, quite still and cold.

“Did he kill it?”

“It’s been dead for hours. Look at the ants crawling on it.”

“Why bring it to us?”

“I think the people who built him put in some kinda fail-safe to keep him from harming living things. Maybe he wants to check.”

“Whir?”

“It’s okay, Roberto. It’s dead. You can keep going.”

“Whir?”

“It’s dead, Roberto. As in…not alive. It was, but now it isn’t.”

“Whir.”

Roberto deposited the body of the baby bird at their feet and went back to his job.

Three of the men took Roberto fishing with them the next time they had a day off. They were neither reprimanded by those above them, nor mocked by those around them. One of the three took a photo of Roberto in a borrowed cap and jacket, with a fishing rod propped up next to him.

A new kind of bomb he was not programmed to recognize finally wounded – that is, damaged - Roberto, not beyond repair but enough to require extensive reworking. The reaction of his comrades surprised the journalist who had come to cover the newly declassified technology.

“No, you can’t just slap new parts on Roberto and make him go out again!”

“He needs rest. He’s done so much for us.”

“At least a furlough before he comes back into combat, if he can’t be honorably discharged.”

“Give him a Purple Heart!”

“Yeah, give him a Purple Heart!”

And so, after some consultation, Private Roberto was one of the first non-organic beings to receive a military medal. All his friends came to the ceremony, since he didn’t have any family…yet, anyway.