Bernie the Junkman made a decent living fixing and selling bots and droids out amongst the asteroid miners. He was basically content, sure his life wasn't perfect and he was a bit of a loner, but despite that he didn't mind being Bernie. Then from a broken robot he learned what could make him even more content.

Making Friends
By Arcie Emm

Asteroid mining is a dangerous business. A combination of explosives and heavy equipment mixed with a lack of air and gravity makes it deadly for humans. Yet the profit potential is such that for years many took the risk, some earned great monetary rewards while many others paid the ultimate price. Meanwhile those who were less adventurous or less desperate sought ways to make the practice safer.

The answer was obvious, robots. But obvious does not always equal simple, this was proven again and again during the race to develop a mining robot during what was actually a golden age of robotics. Great strides were achieved in mimicking human appearance and movement, such that androids became the norm instead of the blocky, machine like robots of the past. With an improved aesthetic they became commonplace, but like their blockier brethren of the past they still could only perform tasks that were constant, tasks that were programmable.

Even though androids could perform a concerto with the skill of a concert pianist or dance a solo with the grace of a professional ballerina, they could not think. And that was what required to be a doctor, a police officer, a scientist, a teacher and so many other professions, including asteroid miner. There were just to many variables to build encompassing how-to programs.

The breakthrough came from practitioners, not scientists. A group of prospectors purchased a number of old LMR-1610s (Labour Mining Robot) with programmable brain-boxes. These basic mining robots were used for planetary mining but were not guaranteed for asteroid work. The prospectors accepted the risk, took training to learn the methods for programming the brain-boxes and, with promises to openly share programs developed by each, headed out into the universe to create asteroid mining bots.

They succeeded. Each of the eight men and women was a superb miner; they also had the smarts and ingenuity required to determine the best techniques to mine different types of asteroids and then program their bot to do the work. Within ten years they were rich beyond their wildest imagination, not from mining, but from selling their algorithms. Now most mining was done with fourth generation LAMRs (Labour Asteroid Mining Robot) where all that was required of the human miner was the ability to determine which program to initiate, based upon the asteroid type. A profession that used to be full of the brightest and daring was now the home to the slothful and lazy, independent contractors were replaced by human drones who were only required to choose the right program 1 out of 5 times to keep their jobs.

Not surprisingly, quite a few miners lived down to those expectations. Something that was was a very good for Bernie the Junkman, whose salvage business thrived on the resulting wreckage.

--------------

Despite the miner asking him to stay for a visit, Bernie Sternstein could not get away from the mine-deck at CA-63459:11098 (Claimed Asteroid) fast enough. Every moment he stayed increased the chance that he would break out in a gleeful cackle at his coup or the likelihood that someone up the chain from the miner would figure out what was going on. Therefore, he made excuses that he had to quickly return to Alton 5 to meet up with a customer and rushed to load the damaged bot, before launching The Beachcomber back into space. Forcing himself to be patient, it was with trembling hands that he set course for Alton 5, which was his home and actual planned next stop - though he did not have any planned appointments.

Once on course, he decided to calm his nerves with a drink. Bernie considered pouring from his special reserve bottle, but decided to wait until he confirmed that he deserved a celebratory drink and settled for some of his own self-made rotgut. With his hands steadier he headed back to the hold to verify his prize. Not even taking time to leer at the rack of pleasure droids he sold, Bernie looked down at the broken bot.

Before being caught in an explosion, resulting from the miner's bad decision to have the bot drill into a methane pocket, it had been close to two metres tall and correspondingly massive. Now, after having lost most of both legs, it was much shorter though still heavy. This mass and form combined with its mannish shape, not mannish appearance, had been the first thing to make him surmise that it was an outdated model. But it was not until he hooked it up to his porter that he realized that it was not even a LAMR, instead it was an LMR. Knowing how few of those were in space, he had casually inspected the serial number and been excited by what he saw. He thought it may be one of the original eight used by the prospectors.

It had been difficult to hide his excitement at the find, yet he had buried it behind commiseration with the miner's complaints about Supplies providing him with this old outdated piece of crap. Yes Bernie had agreed that it was a stupid mistake, of course he did not explain that the mistake was placing a priceless artifact in the hands of an moron. But that was the past, now it was time to confirm whether his guess was correct?

Calling up a somewhat outdated copy of the Roboter's Almanac, he excitedly confirmed that it matched the number used by the Vernon "Guns" Gunnerson's LMR-1610, the bot named Sam Cash. Bernie could not believe his luck, Guns was the most notorious of the bunch, infamous as much for brawls as he was famous for his pioneering techniques in the world of asteroid mining. Brawls that stories told were usually the result of someone misinterpreting one of Guns' jokes, which was easily done since Guns claimed (when sober) that the only one to get his jokes was Sam Cash. And that was only possible after a programming exercise that put the mining programs to shame. Any collector worthy of the title would be thrilled to get a hold of this bot.

But he was not quite ready to buy a new ship, it was possible that he just had the chassis, not the priceless brain-box. However, a quick diagnostic proved that he had Sam Cash in its entirety, he was beyond thrilled.

He felt that he had to talk to it, see if the stories were true, did the bot have a sense of humour? Bernie's curiosity burned, but it was mixed with the worry about what could happen if he turned on such a badly damaged bot, he needed to run more diagnostics to ensure it would not burn out if started. The results were not good, the chassis was severely damaged to the point that he did not think it could sustain a charge; however, to confirm this belief he would need to turn the bot on and have it run a self diagnostic. It would be best if he waited until he made it back to Alton 5 and had access to his full workshop, but he convinced himself that that it could run for 5 or 10 minutes without serious threat.

Still it was with nervous stomach that he flicked the switch. It proved to be no more exciting then starting any bot, and soon he was staring at flickering lights behind the panel where modern droids had human like eyes. Just as he began to distinguish a pattern to the lights, almost like clouds floating across the panel, they stopped and a deep voice rumbled, "This one is broken."

The response was not surprising, in his line of work he had heard it many times and he always responded the same way, "Perform full diagnostics."

Once more the pattern began to flash across the screen, but this time they were in place long enough for him to interpret what he was seeing. Although it did not say anything about the bot, it at least proved that one of the previous owners had a sense of humour; after all, he had never seen another such use of bouncing sheep.

After laughing about the sheep, Bernie began to worry when the diagnostics extended longer than he would expect. And the nervous stomach became full on sick when he noticed features beginning to shut down on the chassis. He moved over to the bot and mumbled, without expecting an answer, "What's going on?"

"This one is damaged beyond repair. Must shut down."

"Beyond repair? Crap, what am I going to do?"

"This one requires a new chassis"

Relief swamped Bernie, it likely meant the brain-box was not damaged. His investment was not going to turn out to be worthless, he could sell the old broken chassis to some museum and find a new one for the brain-box. Getting to his feet he looked around the hold and the answer jumped out at him, with a grin on his face he laughed and wondered aloud, "I wonder if Sam has a favourite hair colour?"

There was no answer, nor had he expected one. He did not turn away from his study of the rack of pleasure droids, as he was trying to choose which to use as a new chassis. Therefore, he did not see the final moments of the LMR-1610's last shut down, did not see the final flicker of light in the eye panel. But if he had, he still would not have had time to recognize the final light formation as the two words, 'Bye Sheep'.

--------------

Bernie decided not to experiment any more while on the ship, his nerves would not take it. He knew it was much safer to wait until he was in his workshop with all of his tools, allowing him to be ready for any potential emergency that may arise during the transfer. Instead he spent most of his time drinking from his special bottle and trying to convince himself to follow through with his replacement droid choice. He knew it was silly, was too obvious and would make him seem like a hormone crazed teen-ager. Yet he also had a sense of humour and using the CPD-1977 (Chrissy Pleasure Drone) just tickled his funny bone.

Once back on Alton 5 he did not immediately begin a transfer, instead he took time to place the brain-box in a sensor unit and try to decipher the programming. He was amazed by the number of algorithms and decision trees that had been implemented, resulting in way more personality techniques having been implemented than were used for any other droid he had studied. It seemed that despite the baseness of his nick-name, Vernon Gunnerson was a genius who had placed untold hours into his creation. Sadly, much of that genius was impossible to decipher, the code was protected and written in a short-hand different than any coding language Bernie had ever used. If he was forced to make a guess as to how it worked, he would say that the techniques were based upon implementing actions from a library of books. But the specific details were beyond him.

It proved enough of a distraction that he spent more time studying it than he really should. And he was forced to put off the transfer until he could finish his other work, the work that kept him in credits and home.

Finally, eight days after returning from space, he was able to devote the time to complete the transfer. It turned out to be fairly easy, since both a LMR and a CPD were standard chassis, using the traditional brain-box insert and connectors. But with his initial excitement dampened by the near disaster on his ship, Bernie took no chances. He installed back-ups and performed every incremental check and test recommended by even the most anal testing organizations.

By the time he finished it was late enough that he was ready for sleep. Therefore, after configuring his SAS (Synchronization Alarm System) to ensure that he would be awoken if anything went amiss, he started the sync operation. In the morning he hoped that it would be complete, resulting in the brain-box and chassis becoming one.

Hours later Bernie was slowly pulled out of his slumber by something triggering his subconscious mind, which over a period of minutes became a stronger focus of nuisance. Returning to wakefulness he realized that he was hearing was the same word being repeated again and again, spoken in ever changing voices. He found it as annoying as a feedback loop and crawled out of his bed to investigate.

The sound quickly had him at the door of his workshop where he was greeted by a most peculiar sight. Apparently the sync was still in progress for in the middle of the room he saw the CPD-1977 twirl in a pirouette, come to a stop, flash a smile across its face and then say, "Hello."

Again and again the movements repeated so that each twirl was cleaner, each smile brighter and the voice became more refined. He watched as the brain-box dialed into the droid chassis, making it appear more natural, nearly human like. Bernie suddenly realized that the advanced programming of the LMR's brain-box was allowing it to integrate with the droid's form better than the brain-box that had originally be included. Momentarily he regretted the choice to use the CPD, wishing he not chosen the path of humour. However, this was dispelled by the fact that he did have access to anything better and that the CPD was a high quality droid, diminished only by limited programming.

Seeing that the sync still needed time to complete he decided to head back to sleep. When this failed Bernie once more rose from bed, had a shower for the first time in three days and prepared something to eat. Feeling rather human after these activities and realizing that the stream of hellos had finally come to an end, he wandered back to the workshop while sipping a cup of hot-stim.

Upon arrival he saw that the droid was no longer moving or speaking, instead it was standing in a state of rest, the sync apparently complete. Bernie was suddenly full of the thought, 'now what?' He had not planned anything beyond getting the thing running, but for what purpose he did not know. Nor did he know how to talk to a famous robot, which he immediately realized was foolish, for a famous robot was no different than any other robot. It was only famous because people decided it should be famous.

Grounded by this viewpoint, he asked, "Status?"

The head turned towards him in an almost human fashion and said, "This one has synced to its new chassis. This one is no longer a mining unit."

Bernie was somewhat disappointed by this answer. It was the type of simple, clear-cut message he preferred when dealing with a bot or droid, but he had hoped for more. Pressing somewhat, he queried, "What type of unit are you?"

"This one is a tall drink of water."

"What?" Bernie sputtered, coughing from a mouthful of stim he had incorrectly swallowed during his shock at the answer.

"This one is like a tall drink of water to a thirsty man in a desert. This one is the type of broad that grew up too fast, but is more innocent than she thinks. This one is the type whose hair should be tied up in a style begging to be untied. This one is the type of dame whose gams go on forever."

"Umm...okay...yeahhh...umm, what's a dame actually do?"

"This one only knows that it should sway into offices of detectives wearing fedoras."

"Then what?"

"This one returns to the office after the fedora wearing gumshoe solves a mystery."

Bernie felt a head-ache growing behind his eyes. His morning had started out so positive, yet now he found out that the LMR's brain-box must have been damaged just like the chassis. And it was with a sigh he stated, "You are not a dame."

"If this one is not a dame, this one does not know what it is. This one could be a maintenance bot, but it only has one type of screwdriver on its fingers."

Staring at the hand that was held out towards him, one tipped in long, squared fingernails, Bernie's burgeoning head-ache burst out of the gate to perform a flamenco upon his temples. This time his sigh was even louder as he said, "You don't really know much about women, do you?"

There was not an immediate reply, signifying that a search was in progress. Not that the results helped appease Bernie's aching head, "This one does not."

"Shit, neither do I."

After his admission Bernie decided that maybe there was something that Sam Cash could learn from the brain-box that had been included with the CPD; therefore, he had established a connection and begun a correlation.

A short while later after it had been completed, Bernie had tried again, "What type of unit are you?"

"This one is a painted woman, like those that are written about by the immortal author, Anonymous."

This time the zag did not zig away from Bernie and he was able to correct, "Actually Anonymous is a generic nom de plume used for centuries by writers of erotic fiction, it is not a single immortal author."

He waited for a reply, but none was coming and Bernie suddenly recognized that he had not said anything to draw a response from the droid. With the differences he had noticed about this brain-box, in both the bot and droid chassis, he had unconsciously ranked it as a higher form of life than a regular droid. He had hoped it could carry on a conversation, not just answer questions or respond to queries. It was with disappointment that he asked, "Do you know the purpose of a painted woman?"

"Painted women copulate with men for money. Is the purpose of this one copulate to with you?"

"What?"

"This one is dressed for copulation."

Bernie was so used to having PDs around that he had not even noticed that the CPD was not wearing any clothes. But while he was no prude and had taken each of the droids for test runs, he had absolutely no interest in performing the act with the newest version of his previously favourite model. He liked certain parts of himself too much to trust them to a malfunctioning droid.

"No your purpose is not to copulate with me"

"What is this one's purpose?"

"I don't know."

--------------

Over the next number of weeks it was the question that Bernie tried and failed to answer. Not understanding Sam Cash's programming meant that he fell back upon the methods he understood. So Bernie began the hunt for additional functionality that he could load into the brain-box, but found the results were limited. Sure his home was cleaner than ever as a result of a cleaning algorithm nor had he ever eaten better, still something was missing. In the second week he had moved away from practical and though he enjoyed the variety of dances and songs that Sam Cash could now perform, it was still not enough.

Nor did his attraction to the droid's form rekindle. If he had not been able to sell, for a tidy profit, the Sam Cash chassis to the Nurdenburg Robotic Menagerie he would have been completely disappointed with his find. Instead Bernie was just mostly disappointed.

Therefore, his focus was slowly drawn away, back into his old work. Though having Sam Cash always about cleaning, cooking, singing and dancing meant that the question always lurked in the back of his mind. Though with time the question mutated into being, what purpose did Bernie want Sam Cash serve? This was just as difficult a question for Bernie, forcing him to fall back into his practice of ignoring such quandaries and slipping into his natural state of scattered interests, where Sam Cash was just one of many unfinished projects.

However, one day, after once more returning from a collection run, he was surprised to hear the door chime announcing that he had a rare visitor. It was with curiosity that he went to answer. Yet upon opening the door he found that he was not surprised to see who stood there and so with a respectful tone in his voice he welcomed, "Hello Mr. Gunnerson, won't you please come in."

"Ahh, you recognize me, I assume you are Bernie Sternstein?"

Bernie would not have recognized him before his stop at CA-63459:11098 and his purchase of the broken Sam Cash, but since then he had spent a great deal of time trying, unsuccessfully, to get into this man's mind. "Yes sir, that is my name."

"You can likely guess why I am here?" Vernon Gunnerson asked as he entered to filled the room with his presence.

"Sam Cash," Bernie stated.

"Yes Sam Cash. I learned you bought it after the dolts in my company sent it off to be destroyed by an even bigger idiot. Well I am hear to get Sam back, but don't worry I will pay you a good finder's fee."

"I sold it to the Nurdenburg Menagerie," Bernie protested, suddenly not wanting to lose his prize.

"Bernie, Bernie, now don't tell me lies. I know that was just the chassis, you really don't want to try my patience."

Looking at the hard faced visage of the large man Bernie could see the truth in that warning; therefore, he gestured for Guns to follow him and moved to his workshop. Upon entry he was immediately chagrined by the sight of a still naked Sam standing in the corner, his visitor was sure to think he was a lonely, horn-dog. And it was with embarrassment that he pointed towards the droid.

Guns who had been looked around the workshop curiously turned int the direction that Bernie pointed. After a moment of surprise, Guns walked over towards the droid, circled it a couple of times and broke out into a deep belly laugh. "Nice choice Bernie, I have always had a weakness for the blond, angelic type."

"Umm...thank you," Bernie mumbled still rather mortified.

Still laughing the big man continued to look at Sam Cash before saying to the droid, "Well look at you Sam."

"This one is different than before."

"Cut the bot talk shit out Sam, you know I hate that."

"Sorry Guns."

"That's better, but I can't get over how you look. Woooweee, the face and body of an angel, but no angel would be tramping around around without her clothes on. You're a tramp Sam."

Bernie was startled to see what he could only term a look of innocence appear upon the droids face and was almost thunderstruck when in a voice so much higher-pitched than normal disagreed, "Oh no Gunsy, I'm a good girl."

"If you're a good girl, why are you not wearing any clothes," Guns asked with a mock scowl.

"Oops, I must have forgot," Sam's tiny voice replied with a giggle.

"Ahh, a tramp and an airhead. Don't worry though Sam, I'll turn you into a lady."

"The rhine in Spine falls minely on the pline," the droid replied, once more using a completely different voice.

While Guns broke into even deeper laughter than before, Bernie looked on in astonishment. In the brief moments since the large man's arrival the droid had changed from a something into a someone. Yet for the life of him, Bernie could not understand how it had happened; therefore, it was with some hesitation that he asked, "Excuse me sir, how did you do that?"

"Do what, Bernie me boy?"

"Make Sam so unrobotic?"

"Ahh, so you were trying to plumb the depths of my workings with Sam, were you? And seeing how she looks, I would guess you did some other plumbing the depths with her," Guns said with a leer on his face.

"Sir," Bernie responded in outraged embarrassment.

"Now Bernie, don't take it that way. I recognize a CPD-1977 when I see one and understand their purpose. Lovely droids that they are, I will admit I have indulged in one or two of them myself."

"Actually Mr. Gunnerson I did not do any such thing with Sam since the transfer. I had some concerns about the transfer and I did not have any interest in doing so."

"Thought she would be dangerous, did ya Bernie?"

"Well..."

"I wouldn't hurt you Mr. Bernie, you've been super nice to me," the droid innocently protested.

"Bah, you can't fool me girly," Guns growled. "I know you tramps are always hurting nice young men like Mr. Sternstein."

"Well we don't mean it," Sam giggled.

"I know that girly, that's why I stay away from your type. Well unless I am drunk," Guns admitted. "But I haven't answered your question Bernie. Its the difference between probabilistic and deterministic searches."

"I don't follow what you mean, Mr. Gunnerson."

"Well I am guessing you figured out that Sam's techniques are based on literature?" At Bernie's nod, Guns continued, "Well that is a shitload of information for even an advance brain-box like Sam's to process. As a result I implemented two types of search mechanisms to process that information, probabilistic and deterministic. Are you familiar with the concepts?"

"Yes Mr. Gunnerson," Bernie answered with growing excitement, as he began to see where the man was headed.

"Well then you will know that a probabilistic search requires a quite a bit of information in order to provide a good quality result. However, if you provide only a limited search criteria the results will be rather poor. I guess that being a polite young man, you talked to Sam with questions. Questions rarely provide enough information to perform a good search; therefore, you most likely received inexact responses.

"Meanwhile, I who am much less polite, did not ask questions. Instead I made statements, which results in the more specific deterministic searches. For example, within those multitude of books there are many characters who are called tramps or some synonym. This provides a focussed subset of information from which to draw responses. Sometimes exact responses are available, such as her response to my turning her into a lady. But most times it will require a secondary probabilistic search to determine what Sam should say or do, but as I previously mentioned the scope is narrowed and the response seem more human."

"That's genius Mr. Gunnerson," Bernie stated.

"I know. Well its been good meeting you Bernie, thanks for keeping Sam safe." Then turning to the droid, Guns said, "Let's go Sam."

"Wait, where are you going?" Bernie asked as Guns headed towards the workshop door trailed by Sam.

"I'm off to get drunk."

At this statement Sam began to giggle; however, Bernie did not see the joke. He just saw his fortune heading out the door. "But Sam isn't yours, she's mine. I bought her fair and square."

At this Guns stopped and turned to show what had made him feared in many bars across the galaxy, "Bernie, Bernie. Now I like you son; however Sam is coming with me, despite whatever you may think. Still I like you, so if you submit an invoice to my company, I will see that you get paid."

"But..."

"Now no buts Bernie, I'll treat you fair if you don't try gouge me. But I get my own way and you're not the man to change that."

Maintaining his glare the large man waited until he saw a tiny nod, then allowing a sly smile to once more return to his face he turned back towards the door. The reason for the smile became apparent when he reached Sam and patted her bum while stating, "Despite my appreciation for your form my dear, we are going to have to get you some clothes."

Sam's algorithm quickly scanned its way through volumes of books containing tramps searching for a reaction to Guns' words and pat. The top score of 98.7839% resulted in a hop, a squealed "Eeep", and a seductively purred, "Take me shopping Daddy."

Bernie watched the guffawing man lead his best friend, who just happened to be a naked droid, out of his apartment. He could not help but think he was missing out. Sure he knew that Vernon Gunnerson was a rich as a solid platinum meteor and that he would end up being well compensated for his find. It was just that he finally realized what he wanted from Sam, he wanted a friend.

Oh well, maybe with all the money he was going to earn he could take some time to make his own.

The End