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“Aliens.”
“Advanced AI that grew beyond their original functions and have such become partially sentient.”
“Aliens.”
“Advanced AI that…”
“Oh, honestly, Prescott!” Mrs Neederlander huffed. “We’ve been at it for half an hour already and I’m not backing down! You’re only refusing to acknowledge those robots are aliens because you don’t want to become a laughing-stock again after your flop of a broadcast about Mr Buffskin’s cows.”
Huxley Prescott twitched. “Yes, thank you so much for bringing that incident up again, Mrs Neederlander. And I refuse to believe they’re aliens because given all the rogue technology this island keeps stumbling about, I find it perfectly fitting! It’s actually far more probable than aliens! And it’s certainly more probable than Mrs Luskey’s theory about human brains grafter on mechanical bodies,” he added as an afterthought.
“Point,” Mrs Neederlander conceded after thinking about it for a few seconds. One had to wonder where the Mayor’s wife had gotten that idea. Probably from one of those conspiracies websites…
“All I’m saying,” Huxley Prescott tried again, “is that maybe we shouldn’t trust those robots so much. You know how rogue AI can be like…”
“And what, next you’re going to tell me they’re the new Skynet?” the old woman asked sarcastically.
Prescott snorted. Of all the outdated movie references for the old lady to pick from, she had to choose that one? “Oh, I think we’d have noticed by now if they were – and if you must known, I was thinking more along the lines of Vigil.” He and Mrs Neederlander winced together in remembrance. “Though knowing they’re not just mindless is worrisome,” he added as an afterthought.
“We don’t ‘know’, we ‘suspect’, Mrs Neederlander corrected him. There were only so much little details that could slip everyone’s notice before people started to talk, compare notes, read a book or two on artificial intelligence progresses (because it was Griffin’s Rock; you’d be hard pressed to not meet someone who had either some budding interest in one science field or the other or didn’t go at least one per week to the well-furnished library – when it wasn’t under attack by material-recycling lemurs, anyway) before someone eventually caught on and realized that no, even the best AI couldn’t explain why the Burns’ family robots reacted like they did – especially when they thought no one was watching them.
Griffin’s Rock as a whole didn’t speak about it, if only because if the Burns hadn’t said anything (or Doc Greene, since he was obviously on it too) so it was obvious it was supposed to be a secret, but you couldn’t stop the subject to be talked about in small groups, usually through whispers that didn’t carry over – cue the impassioned discussion between the old lady and the intrepid reporter. “And I don’t see what you find worrisome; regardless of what they are, they still do their job just fine, just like the Burns.”
Huxley grunted in acknowledgment. That would have been hard to deny. “There are so many questions I’d like to ask the Burns…”
“And you won’t,” Mrs Neederlander warned him. “The Burns are keeping quiet for a reason and unless they decide to share, then we’re all going to act as if nothing is out of the ordinary and as if their robots aren’t holding conversations with each other when they think nobody see them. If you ever pester them, I’ll sic Mister Pettypaws on you, Prescott!” The white cat she held meowed as she petted him. “He can be ferocious when he likes something, and he likes those robots a lot.”
“Given the number of time they helped him climb down a tree, I’m not surprised,” the reporter said dryly. “But excuse me if I’m not convinced that a cat is a good judge of character – not that I don’t believe Mister Pettypaws doesn’t have good instincts!” the reporter immediately backpedaled under a narrowed look. Insulting the old lady’s cat was one of the surest ways to gain her ire and that wasn’t something he wished to deal with right now. He stayed quiet a moment until…
“I’m still saying they are just terribly smart AI, though. I’ll even bet my monthly wages on it!”
Mrs Neederlander raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Care to make it a wager, then? Because I’m ready to bet the same amount that they are aliens.”
The two humans looked at each other. “Deal!” They exclaimed at the same time.
(An actual alien invasion later (and not one which turned out to be a phony broadcast), money changed hands. “Told you so,” Mrs. Neederlander later said to a disgruntled Prescott as she recounted her winnings. “And you’re short 100$, Prescott; I know how much you win, remember? So give me the rest of my money, will you?”)