Free Barren Cove by Ariel S. Winter Page A

at the small form sleeping in the bed. Master Vandley had laid in that bed, also shrunken, his biological children long since gone, first from his house, then from this life, victims of the plague that had never reached Barren Cove. And yet, what difference had that made? Master Vandley had been so sick anyway—hours upon hours Asimov 3000 had watched over his body. Yes, he knew how to take care of a sick human. The fresh bread that Mary had made yesterday morning had fooled him, made himtrust her, causing him to forget—his own children didn’t know humans. He couldn’t blame her.
    The water. He was afraid to leave. Surely it would be fine for just a moment.
    He went down the hall. As he passed Mary’s room, he looked in to find her sitting in her chair in front of the vanity. She was asleep, though. Kent called from his room. “Father?”
    â€œI’m getting water,” Asimov 3000 answered as he passed by, and went downstairs without looking in on his son. In the kitchen, Asimov 3000’s system froze just inside the swinging door, paralyzing him for a moment. He needed to go forward, to go forward, to go forward, and yet he was riveted to the floor. Take a step, he thought. Water. Take a step. But his system remained frozen. And then he was walking across the room to the cabinet. He filled a glass with water and headed back upstairs.
    Beachstone hadn’t moved. Asimov 3000 set the glass of water on the nightstand beside the bed and then took up his seat. He hadn’t just skipped rebooting the night before. He hadn’t rebooted the whole week of Beachstone’s illness. The freeze in the kitchen—he should sleep. “Beachstone,” he said.
    The boy slept on.
    Master Vandley had had so much to say, even in the end. “It is only fitting,” he had said so often. It was only fitting that Asimov 3000 have Barren Cove. It was only fitting that male and female robots have different programming, a new development at that time. “You’ll be one of the last that can procreate asexually,” Master Vandley had said. The last time Asimov 3000 had been to town he had felt out of place even among the robots.
    Master Vandley had been right. When Asimov 3000 built Kent and then Mary, he encoded them each with a discrete sex. It was only fitting, then, that he didn’t understand them any better than they understood their new brother. Beachstonedidn’t know why he had been left on the beach or by whom, or at least that was what he claimed, and so Asimov 3000 didn’t know either, but he knew that he was meant to bring the boy home. He knew that there needed to be a human in Master Vandley’s bed again. He knew that Kent had cut the boy. And he worried about that.
    But Mary had taken to the boy like, well, like a human, like the way Master Vandley’s daughter had taken to the town boy. But Mary had still hurt him—no water! He tried to wake Beachstone again. He had to.
    He stood and shook the boy. Beachstone mumbled in his sleep, shrugged away from Asimov 3000, and then opened his eyes. “You need to drink,” Asimov 3000 said, holding up the glass.
    Beachstone took it and brought it to his lips. He began to gulp.
    â€œSlowly.”
    Beachstone stopped, coughing, then belched, and then started drinking again, watching Asimov 3000 with big eyes.
    Perhaps he needed to worry that Mary had taken to the boy so closely as well. When Beachstone finished, he took the glass. “How do you feel?”
    â€œWe made it to the town,” Beachstone said, breaking into a large smile.
    â€œWhat were you thinking?” Asimov 3000 asked.
    â€œNobody was awake,” the boy said, and then went back to sleep.
    Asimov 3000 sat down. I should go fill the glass again, he thought. He didn’t get up. I should sleep. But he watched the boy breathe instead. His chest rose and fell, a deep intake, a short burst out through the nose. Rose and fell.