Fred You Betcha

“What are you doing?” Turkish asked.
Portia made her way to the empty cabins. The streets were clean and empty. No rubble. No debris. The lawns were manicure and not a weed marred the smooth green expanse.
Turkish caught up with her. “I said, what are you doing.”
“Exploring.”
“There’s nothing to see here.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Derek Crosby said they’ve been through all these old cabins before.”
“Do you really believe him? He also said they never come here and clearly they do. Who mows the grass?”
Turkish looked down at the ground. “Huh, never thought of that.”
“Besides, can you imagine the state Bea will be in if I didn’t find Kate’s cabin? She’ll want photos.”
“Your grandmother certainly is a piece of work.”
“Come on. Which looks captainly to you?”
“They all look the same.”
Portia picked a cabin at random. It had been painted yellow at one time. The yellow paint was weathered and rusting at the seams. The glass was clouded over with age.
“This is ridiculous,” Turkish said.
Portia tried the door, placing her hand to the sensor pad. It was unlocked and slid open. “You’re such a little girl,” she said, stepping into the cabin.
It was exactly like a cabin on a ship. The lights flickered on when it detected a human presence. Solar power never fails. The bed/sofa unit was built into the wall. A food processor was also installed. Small bath and toilet facilities. Small statues and a few books lined the shelves. All in all a very modest home.
“Down right tiny,” Turkish said. He sat down on the sofa. He raised an eyebrow at Portia, “Do you wanna?”
“This is serious.”
“Look at my face. I am a serious man.”
“Let’s keep looking.”
The next cabin was equally empty but sparsely furnished. It felt as if the inhabitants had to move but could not take everything with them, leaving behind most of their possessions.
The third cabin had been painted blue. The door was locked.
“What do we have here?” Portia asked. Her hand was pressed against the sensor pad but the door would not open.
“That’s is odd. Why bother locking an abandoned home?”
“Exactly.” Portia withdrew her data pad and established a linked. A few lights blinked and then the door slid open agreeably.
“Is there anything you can’t do with that thing?”
“A few.”
Turkish stepped inside first.
“What are you doing?” Derek Crosby was walking very swiftly towards them, waving his arms in an unhappy manner.
Portia waved brightly back. “It’s okay! You just want to check something.”
Portia stepped inside. It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting.
Turkish was facing down a tall silver robot. Actually, he was trying to back away and the robot kept inching closer, chirping and babbling nonsense. How long since it saw a human?
“Hello, hello, top of the morning to you, how may I help you?”
The silver robot stopped inches from Portia’s face. It had an amalgamation of human features, a strange mesh of metal that shifted and moved. It appeared friendly.
“That’s incredible,” Portia said.
“It is. It’s incredible, wondrous, stupendous, fantastic, and all around a good thing,” the machine chirped.
Portia reached out a hand slowly and touched the soft metal mesh that made the face. “An A1717, wow. I didn’t think there were any of you guys left in the universe.”
The A1717 seemed to blinked slowly and smile. “There’s always Fred, you betcha. Fred’s always here, waiting, waiting, waiting.”
“How long have you been waiting Fred?”
“Ten thousand nine hundred and fifty three days. Two hundred sixty two thousands eight hundred hours. Approximately fifteen million…”
“Thank you, Fred,” Portia said loudly, “that’s enough.”
Derek Crosby ran into the cabin, slightly out of breath and clutching onto the doorframe. “What is that thing?”
“It is Fred, you betcha,” Fred said. “How do you do, state your name and business.”
Turkish continued to take apprehensive steps back. “Why is it like that?”
“The A1717, while a very progressive design on artificial intelligence,” Portia recited from memory, “was able to customize the affectations of the robot to suit the personality of the owner.”
Fred was now singing a Boone Fabulous song in a warbled, off key voice.
“Unfortunately, the model was very unpopular due to the annoying phase of the robot learning to adapt itself.”
“I can see that. So, did you memorize every owner’s manual for every robot ever?”
“I thought you said that was hot.”
“Was. Now it’s a bit weird.”
“That thing,” Derek Crosby said, “has been here all this time?”
Fred turned an unblinking eye towards Derek Crosby. “Fred is not a thing, no no no. Fred is a machine with the soul of a poet, of Shakespeare, to be or not to be, of Milton, and of Dickens, it the best of times, it was the worst of time. Fred is more than the sum of his parts, Fred is.”
Portia cleared her throat. “Apparently Fred has been waiting for quite some time, haven’t you, Fred?”
Fred nodded. “Fred waited and waited and waited for the Jack to return. Larry Moe Curly said the Jack would be back for Fred so Fred waits.”
Turkish looked at Portia. “Larry Moe Curly, that’s what the colonist called the aliens.”
Fred could speak for himself and seemed to delight in being the center of attention. “Fred translated for Larry Moe Curly. The Jack could not speak Larry Moe Curly’s language but Fred could. Fred is happy to serve, you betcha.”
“Do you know what happened to the colonists from the Hope?” Derek Crosby asked.
“A trade, a bargain was struck, a deal was made, cold hard cash, coin crossed palms. Give us a bunny. Show me the money.”
“I don’t have a bunny,” Derek Crosby said, confused. “What bunny? What money? What is Fred talking about?”
“Fred,” Portia said, placing on a hand on the machine arm, causing its eyes to focus on her. “Where did the colonist go?”
“Give us a bunny, we give you a ship, good ship. Blue ship.”
This wasn’t working. “Where’s Jack?”
Fred burbled coordinates. “It’s a good planet. Better than this planet, you betcha. Not a big but extra nice. You like it, give us a bunny.”
Portia turned to Turkish. “Are those coordinates legitimate?”
“Could be. They sound good.”
“Sound good, they are good, good to the last drop, rain drops keep falling on my head.”
“How long does the annoying phase last?” Turkish asked.
“Don’t really know. He’s been alone for a long time; maybe he’s reverted back to his factory settings. Can we take him with us?”
“No.”
Derek Crosby spoke, “He is property of the Hope Colony and therefore property of the Crosby. I can not allow you to leave with our property.”
“Take me home, country roads,” Fred sang. “To the place, where I was born, born in the USA, I was born in the USA…”
“You can keep him,” Derek Crosby said.