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317 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2008
'Name's Mack Megaton. I'm a bot. Or automated citizen, as the Learned Council liked to phrase it.'This is a ridiculously entertaining story. You follow a huge bot Mack Megaton on his journey to find his purpose. He is one of a kind bot, though. Built as an almost invincible war machine, he is on probation for a full citizenship in Empire City ('...if your ideal tomorrow was a sprawling, impersonal city with rampant pollution, unchecked mutation, and dangerous and unreliable weird science, then I guess you would be right at home.'). Four more years to go. He even visits a therapist.
'If I'd been paranoid, I might've assumed the dispatcher didn't like me. Especially since every shirt he owned had a patch for the Biological Rights League stitched on the pocket.'...
'Messy business, biological existence. All fluids and tissues and passing DNA around in some vain hope that it'd produce something useful.'...
'There were odd paintings on the wall, full of shapes and colors but all abstract and unrecognisable. Somewhere a six-year-old finger painter was making a fortune.'...
'In the messy business of biological evolution, defective designs were inevitable. It wasn't much different than robots, except we got to learn our lesson after one or two unsatisfactory prototypes. But biologicals, they just kept churning out the useless ones.'Mack and compliments:
"I look exquisite, Mack." I nodded. "Like you're going to church. Or maybe a very casual funeral."Mack and romance:
'She stepped beside me, and we silently admired the view for seventy seconds.'...
'One-sixth of a second from confused to idiot.'...
'I stood beside her. We enjoyed the view for twenty-five seconds.'If it weren't for a therapist's unfortunate and distracting name (one mention was too many), this would be perfect.
It's always a little strange for me sitting with another robot that hasn't qualified for citizen status. Here I was with all the rights (well, most of them anyway) of a biological citizen, while Knuckles was basically considered a walking refrigerator. I could bust him to pieces, and it'd only be considered an act of vandalism. We were both made up of the same basic components. Except I'd passed my minimal sentience examination, and he hadn't. Maybe no one had ever bothered to get him tested. Maybe he had taken the test and flunked out on the Rorschach portion. Maybe when they showed him that blot of ink he'd answered honestly, saying it was just a blot of ink instead of lying like I had.
Butterfly, my tin-plated ass.
Of course, they'd known I was lying. That was okay. It was one of the marks of sentience, the ability to distinguish reality from fantasy and still indulge in fantasy. In other words: I lied, therefore I thought.
For whatever reason, I always felt bad among less fortunate robots. Even an old Mark Three that, from what I could tell, would've been a real exhaust port.