Day 48 – Brumigator

Curly Wurly prize goes to: Christopher Sands today.

Word count: 1063

Smoke rose up from deep beneath his washes and bolts. His PCBs were over heating, he could feel the soldering joints inside him melting. If his microcontroller overheated to more than one-hundred-and-seventy-two degrees then his circuits would be fried and he’d be prime meat at the scrapheap. He was already experiencing some slowness and noise in his analogue visual receptors. Such was the drawbacks of time travel though.

His creator’s had never quite mastered the technique of transporting plutonium coated platinum through the space time continuum without several messing with the intricate silver based microelectronic circuits. If they had accounted for emotion in his programming, he would have felt mildly annoyed by this.

But Brumigator was not built for emotion. He was not built for the tiresome and tedious routines and tasks that most other robots of his generation were built to go. He was not a butler and not a machine. He was much, much more than that.

The year was nineteen-ninety-one on the planet Earth. Primitive mobile transport pods – Brumigator registered them as being called cars, according to his visual dictionary – were scooting around him. He seemed to be in the middle of a shrubbery at the centre of the cars’ travelling route. He scanned the area around him. On one side of him was a small grassy parkland. The other a newly built block of living quarters. Behind him there seemed to be more residential sections, carefully divided by tall sticks clamped closely together.

Brumigator was not here for the scenery though. He wasn’t here for the culture. He was here because Dudley, Midlands, England, United Kingdom, Earth on the twenty-third of January nineteen-ninety-one contained Barry Franks, the man he was instructed to kill.

Brumigator stepped out into the oncoming traffic. Cars skidded, screeched their horns, made certain gestures towards him out the back of their window and flashed their lights at him. But he continued on, barely taking notice of their ostentatious display of anger and injustice at being thrown of the road by a esthetically challenged heap of time travelling metal.

As with all modern robots, Brumigator’s designers had spent millions in trying to make him look as realistically human as possible. Certain areas of this design worked – there were patches underneath the arm and behind the ear that vaguely resembled human flesh. On a dark night any drunk could positively identify this future rust bucket as being part of its genetic clan. However, the vast majority of the population were not drunk at any given time – even if it was ten miles outside Birmingham – and darkness was certainly not available all the time, even if it was winter. Brumigator, therefore stuck out like an inflamed digit as he trolled across the road and off down Ednam Street in search of his target.

Barry Franks was not a bad man in the early nineties. He had a lovely family, a good stable job and the possibility of a great pension. He owned a car and that year he had a desire to go on holiday to Wales.Barry enjoyed Jazz music and fishing. This surmised all forty-eight years of Barry’s life. Brumigator was not programmed to think beyond its task, but if it were, then it might begin to contemplate why Barry needed a price against his head in the first place.

Brumigator had landed only one street away from where Barry lived in his huge suburban dwelling consisting of a driveway, front and back garden, large bathroom and en suite bedroom. He crunched down Ednam Road until it met St James’ Road. People stared at him as they passed, but most reassured their own acceptance of reality and believed him to be nothing more than a performance artist on his way to work.

The door loomed before Brumigator at last. Behind the stained oak front door and frosted glass, Barry would be. There was no way of knowing whether or not Barry would know Brumigator was coming. As he stepped towards the door, shaking the trees of their birds, Brumigator downloaded the data for Barry. Tall, obese man, glasses, slight but pathetic moustache, has a gift of appearing to look dumb when he is in fact quite opposite. Brumigator noted all of this behaviour and from this calculated a mathematical precision of unlikelihood – and thereby liklihood – of the range of decisions and scenarios that Barry might find himself making or in given the nature of Brumigator’s visit to his house.

Brumigator rang the doorbell.

A woman answered it. Brumigator computed that she not only did not look well, but almost without doubt, did not look like his intended target. However, before Brumigator had a chance to speak, the woman was shouting in some semi-foreign language for her husband to come down. Fortunately, from the bottom left corner of his eyeball, he could decode what most of what she was saying. It was sufficient to say that she had called her husband because she thought the terrorist man was here.

So Barry was a terrorist. Quite what he was terrorising, Brumigator could not guess. If he had a humour chip implanted into him, he might think it extremely absurd to think that Barry was any form of leader at all, let alone an organisation fermenting and bubbling with hate and the lust for destruction.

Barry came to the door and Brumigator’s internal targeting systems locked on his face and verified his identity, heart rate, blood pressure and cholesterol. Barry’s initial smile was wiped clean from his moustached upper lip when he realised that this was no terrorist. But Barry barely had a chance to flee.

It was at this time that the speech command program entered operation. The signal from the microcontroller sent all the MOSFETS into their respective saturation regions and threw his voice box into an active state. From his data banks, the program selected the appropriate accent and language of the time and place and added that to the sinusoidal speech pattern approximation it had already worked out given the masculinity of the creature he was meant to be interpreting. Only once all four hundred command lines were executed could Brumigator open his mouth and speak in his broadest brummie accent whilst whipping out his gun to shoot his target dead.

“Tara abit, baby.”

~ by S.G. Mark on November 24, 2011.

One Response to “Day 48 – Brumigator”

  1. hehehehe

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