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Not just rockets & robots...
"Science Fiction" means—to us—everything found in the science fiction section of a bookstore, or at a science fiction convention, or amongst the winners of the Hugo awards given by the World Science Fiction Society. This includes the genres of science fiction (or sci-fi), fantasy, slipstream, alternative history, and even stories with lighter speculative elements. We hope you enjoy the broad range that SF has to offer.


Maureen Tanafon lives in New England, along with a lot of monster legends and some beautiful night skies. She recently began expanding from writing only novel-length work into short stories and novellas, and rediscovered an old love of sci-fi as she did so.

Robot's first memory was wreckage partially obscuring their view of the sky. They could not move; one of their legs was missing, the other crushed, and their arms were pinned. They could not remember exactly what they were meant for, or where they had come from, but they knew that they were unable to do anything.
That bit them deep, in what humans would call a soul. Robots were supposed to have purpose, to do something; but all Robot could do was lie there.
Then the Scientist came; poking through the wreckage, loading bits and pieces of the other, far more shattered robots into the pack on her back. Her drawn face lit up when she saw the glow of Robot's damage-notification lights; but that light faded a little when she pushed aside the wreckage and saw how badly Robot was damaged. She reached out and touched Robot's face, and said "Status," tiredly, as if she didn't expect a reply.
"Damage critical," Robot croaked. "Advise destruction."
That had the opposite effect they had been expecting; the Scientist's face lit up.
"No," she said, mouth pulling into a smile. "You're fixable."
Robot had not thought it possible, but the Scientist made good on her word. She took Robot back to her home--a hiding-place made out of a partially collapsed building, fortified with metal and wood--where there were stacks and stacks of robotic parts, and began repairing Robot.
Robot did not know why the Scientist put so much trouble into them. Their memory card had mostly been erased, but their basic instructions informed them it cost more to repair a robot than to make one. They wanted to ask the Scientist why, but were afraid of saying the wrong thing; the Scientist displayed many irregular behavioral traits, and Robot feared she had some kind of mental illness. They were not a service-trained robot, and could not locate any in the vicinity with their scanner.
But they formed a theory, over time--they had not been designed to form theories, but the Scientist had added a few new parts to their brain, so they had begun to think more. They could not locate any other robots; they could not locate any other humans, and the Scientist never spoke of any. Perhaps they and the Scientist were the last sentient beings on Earth.
Soon, they decided, they would try asking the Scientist about it. Robot was fully repaired now and the Scientist seemed much more cheerful; always talking about what the two of them might do that day, exploring a new part of the destroyed city, trying to find medicine. She was rather preoccupied with trying to find medicine, which supported Robot's theory of mental illness--or so they thought.
On the fifth day since they were mended, they returned from foraging to find the Scientist lying within the door of the shelter.
They were not a service robot, but they had a scanner; and the scanner showed no signs of life within the building. Robot stood staring, mind whirring as they tried to process what had happened. The Scientist's eyes were part-way open, clouded, one hand outstretched; a piece of newspaper was clutched in her hand, some article about a "global catastrophe," but the Robot was no longer interested.
They went down on their creaking knees, the knees the Scientist had salvaged from a 56-Troi Heavyweight, down on the floor by her body. They touched her cooling face with their fingers.
Robot raised their head and looked around at the stacks of robot parts, then down again at the Scientist. They could picture the things she'd done to fix them clearly in their head; and all the parts were here.... They had been wrong before about critical damage.
"Fixable." The Robot said, and got to work.
The End
This story was first published on Thursday, February 26th, 2015

Author Comments

This story came to me first as a single word popping into my head--"Fixable." At first I thought it might be an idea for a song or a comic, but when I sat down at my computer I wound up writing "Repairs" in one sitting.

- Maureen Tanafon
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