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Somewhere deep within Walter Manor, an alarm went off.
Michael Reed, latest of the noble Reed family to be charged with the daily care and keeping of robots, considered this a worrying sign. Especially since, to his knowledge, there weren’t any alarms in place in the manor. Few burglars were interested in stealing from someone with a reputation like the Walters, and fewer still since Norman Becile had taken up answering the door. Something about being greeted by a towering misshapen monstrosity put most thieves off.
Actually, the lack of alarms was something that had always bothered Michael. He’d grown up listening to stories of the strange things that happened in unmapped corridors. Becile himself was a walking example of only one of the things that could go wrong when one tampered with the creations of any of the Walters. He’d mentioned once or twice to his absent minded employer (when he could hold his attention, anyway) that he’d feel a lot more secure if there was some sort of system in place to monitor any or all of the volatile experiments and doors to nowhere, but Mr. Walter the Sixth had shrugged it off.
“The Spine keeps an eye on all that,” he’d said dismissively. “Useful guy, the Spine. You two should meet.”
“Er, we have, actually. But there are a lot of dangerous things around here, and if he were to miss something, or if he was out for repairs, or the wifi goes down…”
“Don’t worry about it. I got a guy around here somewhere who takes good care of the metal boys. If the network goes down, he’ll know what to do.”
Further attempts to bring up the subject had had similar results. It didn’t take him long to recognize a lost cause when he saw one.
So when Michael was jolted from an admittedly unproductive creative endeavor, he was more surprised that there even was an alarm than the fact that it was sounding. Any ordinary security system would’ve been triggered (and discreetly disabled by the Spine, most likely) at least twice a day, and the thought that something was actually serious enough to warrant a very urgent-sounding klaxon despite Mr. Walter’s reassurances was deeply troubling. He set aside his guitar and reverently lifted a battle-scarred banjo from where hung on the wall. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but it was always best to go prepared.
He nearly collided with Rabbit as he left the room. The automaton’s mismatched eyes flickered and refocused.
“Mister Reed! We gotta hurry, before it’s t-t-too late!” Gears ticked as he turned his head and took note of the banjo resting on Michael’s shoulder. He nodded approvingly. “Hate to say it, but yo-you might need that.”
Rabbit swiftly led the way. Any request for an explanation was quickly pushed aside with an insistence that there was no time to talk. The closer they got to the source of the alarm, the more worried Michael became. Rabbit worked with a purposefulness he’d rarely seen, and for once, he wasn’t distracted by any of the doors that beckoned as they passed (some quite literally, a rasping voice calling out “open me” just barely audible over the din).
The noise peaked outside a heavy oaken door with an angry red light flashing overhead. Michael noted with dismay that it had no doorknob on the outside, or any other visible means of opening. The Jon stood in front of the door, frantically running his hands over it as if searching for weak spots in the wood. He looked over his shoulder when he heard Michael and Rabbit arrive.
“It’s locked from the inside,” he said plaintively.
Michael mentally went through his Troubleshooting in Walter Manor checklist. Number one: confirm Rabbit’s location (on this plane of existence, away from household appliances). Check. Number two: confirm the Jon’s location (on this plane of existence, away from any of the more arcane musical instruments). Check. Number three: carry a spare can of Crystal Pepsi. Didn’t seem immediately necessary, but he had one just in case. Number four: confirm wifi is up. He flipped open the bizarre Walterphone his father had bequeathed to him and checked the signal. Excellent connection, all systems functional, close proximity reading on all three bots. Which left him with the fifth and final item on his checklist: if all else fails, ask the Spine.
He took a deep breath and forced himself to speak calmly. “Where’s the Spine?”
The Jon shook his head and pointed. “He’s inside.”
“What’s in there?”
“I told him not to go in, I told him, I didn’t even know he was there until the alarm went off.”
Rabbit simply shrugged. “I dunno. He wouldn’t tell me. Just said it was important to keep everyone out.”
Michael sighed, but nodded. “Alright. Well, here goes. Jon, Rabbit, you might want to stand back.” He hefted his banjo and took aim at the door as the robots scurried out of the way.
The first swing connected with a deafening crack. The banjo bit into solid oak like a dull axe. Another swing, and it was clear that in the battle between door and banjo, the banjo was winning. Michael continued swinging, and the door splintered.
He’d never asked where the banjo came from. It looked innocent enough, if well-worn. He’d found it lying around in a room full of strange artifacts and discarded toe socks. As a man of music, he was always willing to try out a new instrument, and to his delight he discovered that the banjo came naturally to him. He hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. Rabbit had given him a strange look the first time he found him playing it, but he’d refused to elaborate.
Then strange occurrences had begun to stack up. Sam cut his finger idly plucking a string—strings that never snapped and never needed tuning. None of the robots would touch it. Dogs howled when he played, even when there were no dogs in the area. Steve strained and sweated to lift it, arms that bent steel and pumped the forge bellows apparently inadequate for a simple banjo. And once, in desperation, when facing down a fearsome lollipop golem (“You summoned a what?!”), Michael had reached for the nearest potential weapon and closed his hand around the banjo’s neck. The golem had shattered. The banjo remained unharmed. Since then, he’d been wary to actually play the thing, but it was invaluable in a fight.
The door gave way. Pieces of wood flew inward, leaving a hole easily large enough for the trio to step through.
The room on the other side had a pristine tile floor and was neatly wallpapered with a tasteful floral pattern. On the far wall, a refrigerator and stove appeared to have been lifted straight from the 1950s. A heavy chain had once held the fridge shut, but the padlock on it was broken and the chain dangled uselessly.
Sitting at a dainty little table and staring at the remnants of the door with shock was the Spine. He held a half-eaten quesadilla, poised at his mouth for the next bite. Michael let out a sigh of relief and lowered the banjo.
“We weren’t fast enough,” said Rabbit, solemnly shaking his head.
The Jon let out a wail. “My quesadilla! Spine, how could you?” The Spine looked a way guiltily and wiped off an incriminating spot of salsa.
“That isn’t the quesadilla, is it?” Michael whispered to Rabbit.
“What? Oh, no, of course not! That thing hates the Spine. It oughta be in the stables, unless Steve took it out for a walk.”
“The… stables. Right.” Michael was very practiced at the time-honored technique of “smile and nod.” He clapped a hand on the Jon’s shoulder. The golden bot was on the verge of tears. “Tell you what, Jon, let’s head back to the main kitchen, and I’ll make you a quesadilla with anything you want on it.”
The Jon looked up at him with oil-blurred photoreceptors. “You got sour cream?”
Michael smiled reassuringly and patted his shoulder. “And at least five kinds of cheese, last I checked.”
“Did you guys say you were going to the kitchen?” said Rabbit, perhaps a bit too eagerly. Michael recalled Troubleshooting Point Number One.
“Ah, actually Rabbit, maybe you should stay here. Help him to think about what he’s done,” he added with a stern look at the Spine, and Rabbit followed his gaze. The Spine quietly seemed to shrink under all the negative attention.
Michael carefully steered the Jon out of the room by his shoulders and pointed him in the general direction of the main kitchen. Once they were through the jagged doorway, the Jon immediately set off skipping ahead at a brisk pace. Michael struggled to keep up with him without running.
Rabbit and the Spine stared each other down. “Would it help if I said I was sorry?” the Spine offered meekly.
“Depends. You gonna eat the other half?”