Gynoids of Times:  Long Steps To Sleep

by Elliot Bowers

This much I know about Vicki's arrival to our village.  Vicki had managed to escape a ruined city out in the Midwest.  You see, the only reason why Vicki stayed in that forsaken, pollution-soaked part of the country was because Vicki needed human care to stay healthy.  (At the least, the word "healthy" could go for flesh-creatures such as ourselves.  But I allow the word to describe Vicki's situation.)  The city was so polluted and harsh that Vicki and two people stayed in a sort of rigged, sealed home.  Vicki acted as a sort of delivery vehicle for supplies and food; one of the two people she assisted kept her in good shape.  "It was business," said Vicki to the Doc and I.  But the business ended when her human maintainer died in a scavenger gang attack.  Then, Vicki took some repair materials, "punished" the scavenger bikers, and used a vehicle to escape the city.

But before I continue, I should remember etiquette!  You can call me Final Wind, my proper Native American name.  Though not quite fitting a Cherokee female, my parents decided upon my name in consideration of the times:  As we humans had nearly made ourselves an endangered species, my parents thought that I would be the final breath of the Cherokee on Earth.

My parents gave birth to me on a still-prosperous reservation as the American economy was cannibalizing itself, collapsing and self-consuming as it was.  According to my parents, I was lucky to have been born on a reservation; the rest of the country was dotted with cities that were ruined with pollutant chemicals.  Had I been born in cities then, I would not have survived birth.  That would have been due to both the pollution, the riots, or both.  But that was the past.  Since then, I attended the still-functioning universities, studied philosophy, then joined my graduating class in going into what was once America and keeping knowledge alive.  A year after graduation, I ended up in this Amish settlement and village.

Anyway, my story is about Vicki, how she survived a time in a ruined city.  Vicki, using information she learned from watching scavenger gang bikers, stole an alcohol-powered motorcycle to leave the pollution-ruined city and ride here.  Though Vicki is stronger than flesh-people, several times over, Vicki's trip was a wearying one for her.  The vehicle she used ran out of fuel before she was twenty miles close to this settlement.  Meanwhile, the prolonged vibration of the vehicle she used severely ruined her balance. And Vicki had to walk -- a difficult thing for a sick being.  In fact, Vicki tells the Doc and I that she was "damaged" due to the prolonged vibration of the ill-maintained motorcycle she used to travel.  It irritated her badly-maintained balance.  So, for twenty miles, after having exploited another machine, Vicki had stumbled and shuffled to the village's outer reaches.

And I remember the day this being, this creature not-of-true-flesh arrived here.  A grains farmer was tilling rows when he saw a small, weakened waif staggering in from the wastelands.  Someone ran over to my place and told me to summon Doc: a small girl was wandering in, sick, from the ruined badlands out West!  I then ran over to Doc's place -- a combination farming home and make-do hospital -- and told him about the situation.  Doc, hearing the situation, was expecting dehydration, toxic buildup, starvation and all sorts of ailments associated with stragglers that occasionally come in from what was once the American Midwest. So Doc and I grabbed distilled drinking water, bread wafers, and a deerskin pouch of preserved and concentrated apple juice -- chilled with the help of the town's solar farm.  We then took up the horse and carriage and set out for the location of the sick "girl."

I drove the horses while Doc held and cared for his equipment in the back.  "Final Wind, drive those horses harder!" he called to me.  I truly hoped that my Native American name would not act as an omen in this sick person's case -- the person we were rushing to help.  Though Doc was somewhat jostled, we managed to arrive at Farmer James' place in one piece.  And it only took us half an hour to arrive.  Luckily, the waif was still alive -- or appeared to be.

Farmer Mary James temporarily took in the sick girl before our arrival.  We shouted to Farmer James before we entered the house.  And with much haste, Mary James let us in to her living room.  The "girl" was lying on the couch, constantly trying to stand up with some frustration.  "Since she fell down," began Mary James, "she just couldn't stand up any more!  I thought that this girl had fainted, considering her condition and all, but she just couldn't walk any more!  Doc, what's wrong with that little girl?"  I took Mary James aside, explaining that Doc would take care of everything.

Doc really could take care of things.  Doc was educated at the University of Pennsylvania, as was I.  Somehow, the major universities continued to operate and provide educated people to this blighted world.  (Wisdom survived Rome -- why not America?)  Doc, a brilliant man, began his studies in computers and such but decided to intensely study medicine when the Disaster struck. The universities, similarly, encouraged its students to study medicine as sickness and famine was sure to strike due to the Disaster that eventually destroyed the American economy and federal government system.  And now, Doc was doing what every settlement doctor does: tend the sick. 

Doc, black bag in hand, ambled over to this strange and frustration-faced girl, who then stopped trying to stand.  He placed his bag of equipment Farmer James' tea table, took out a deerskin pouch of concentrated and fortified apple juice, and kneeled by the fallen girl's side.  Doc began a cursory diagnosis.  He placed a hand on the girl's forehead, felt her wrist for a pulse, and then stopped his diagnosis.  After feeling her pulse for some seconds, the Doc stopped -- as if the girl's pulse had ceased.  (I had seen him react that same way in an earlier time, when Farmer Tate had suddenly died due to a farming accident and Doc couldn't save him.)  The girl stared intently at Doc, seeming to analyze his facial features.  Doc, in turn, stared into the girl's dark, light-absorbing eyes.  As both Farmer James and I looked on, the two merely eyed each other for perhaps the space of a minute.  Then, I believe the sick girl WINKED at Doc.  Something was not normal about this situation, something both Doc and the girl-creature on the couch recognized.  "Final Wind, come over here..." said Doc too calmly as he motioned for me.

I knelt close to the Doc.  He whispered, "We are not in a hurry in this case.  But don't let Farmer James know that.  We are going to treat this situation like any other problem, even if it isn't.  Help me move the patient to the cart."  I nodded; I understood the situation enough to help.  I went out, got the stretcher (a wide strip of strong cloth held between two wooden poles, used to immobilize and carry the injured), and brought it into the living room.  Farmer James and I then held the stretcher close to the couch where the sick girl lay.  "No, Farmer James," began Doc, "let Final Wind and I carry the girl.  This is a special case."  Indeed, it was more special than Farmer James knew at the time!  Doc took to the front bars of the stretcher; I took the back.

"Young miss, can you roll yourself into the stretcher?" asked Doc.  The girl-thing's eyes went blank for a moment before "she" nodded in affirmative.  Vicki managed to roll into the stretcher.  The weight was surprisingly heavy!  For such a small creature, Vicki did weigh quite a bit.  But I wouldn't let Farmer James know that; Farmer James was quite a village gossiper at times. "Let's go to the cart.  We must get the 'girl' to the hospital immediately."

Farmer James opened the front door as we left.  "I hope the poor thing will be all right."

"So do I," said the being in the stretcher as we loaded her into the back.  This was not a normal straggler case at all; that was no ordinary little lost girl wandering in from the polluted Midwestern badlands. I had to know what was going on.

When we were on the way to Doc's place, Doc attending the girl-thing in the back.  I said over the clippety-clop of the horse's trotting hooves, "Doc, what is wrong with that girl?" 

The Doc, looking at the houses as we passed by, shouted back, "Not now.  Definitely, not now.  Just keep driving those horses."  Grudgingly, I kept at driving the horses -- letting my silence be a statement of disappointment.  What was wrong with that girl, dressed like a scavenger rider with boots and all, making her behave so unlike any other straggler case?  And the answers to those doubts did more to rock my world view than many of the old books in my small library.

Doc and I hustled the girl-being into the sick room of Doc's place.  And, as usual, Bob the delivery boy stood outside Doc's front door.  Bob -- the village delivery and messenger boy -- was always around whenever there was a bad case.  If necessary, he was ready to call on any other villager to get whatever the Doc would need:  water, new cloth, most anything.  "Do you need anything, Doc?" asked Bob as we moved into the hospital-house to lay the "girl" in the sick room's low-priority bed.

"Bob, the best thing this victim needs now is isolation! Don't worry!  We can handle it from here."  The Doc, having said that, then nodded to me.  I gently but hurredly pushed Bob out of the front door, then closed it. 

"Alright, Doc!  I'll be back in half an hour, just in case..." said Bob.  When Doc was sure that Bob was away, he stood up.  And the girl winked again.

"Final Wind," began Doc, "as you know much about philosophy from your library, you should be open-minded enough to hear this." He looked at the small person on the sick bed, then looked at me:  It was Doc's you-may-not-believe-what-the-Hell-is-going-on look.  It was the sort of look Doc gives whenever a patient is diagnosed with something so horrible -- progressed gangrene, multiple ulcers, or a burst appendix -- that it seems unbelievable.  "THIS," he said as he motioned to the leather-jacket wearing waif on the couch, "is not a little girl, not even human."  Doc paused, letting it sink in.  "Final Wind, this is a machine.  A robot -- a gynoid -- that was designed and developed over a prolonged period to behave as and look like a young human female." 

I looked at the being on the sick bed and was met with a returned stare.  Doc said one more thing:  "When I studied computing before the Disaster, I took a full course featuring published information on a pre-Disaster corporation called United Robotronics.  They were VERY close to developing androids after Ted Lawson died of old-age causes.  The professors said that the alpha-version gynoids were a legend, never confirmed by United Robotronics upper-echelons of management.  But now, NOW this girl-looking thing matches EXACTLY what Lawson would have made decades ago.  This must be a Lawson-style gynoid."

"That's dead right, Doc!  And you, try to take my pulse," said this girl-thing as I took her wrist.  I did what the past decade or so of nurse's training told me to do, but my years of philosophy study could only partially prepare me for the results.  This being's wrist went cold as I held it, and the pulse vanished.  "I can also make it do the reverse!  Watch," said the girl-thing as the wrist I held began to heat up and the pulse within it went to four times the normal, HUMAN rate.  And I looked at the wrist:  It was cracked in places.  It were as if the skin were that of an acid rain-ruined doll.  From then on, I knew the situation would be unlike any other.

-- -

It was then that Vicki told Doc and I about her situation.  Doc interrupted Vicki as the tale recitation began, claiming that Vicki did not have to SAY anything.  Doc said that he had a way of extracting memory records of the events from her memory banks -- provided she had at least an infra-red remote port.  I shot him a questioning look:  Since when did Doc hoarde contraband, pre-Disaster technology?  Then, Doc let Vicki continue. 

Vicki moved on in describing her situation with "Gramps" and his ailing wife.  And, said in a way surprisingly emotionally for a machine, Vicki told of how she had come to this settlement, this village, where she had hoped to meet the human that had equipment and expertise enough to keep her maintained.  Doc certainly had knowledge enough about machines, computers and the like.  But Doc lacked wisdom; Doc didn't know PEOPLE.  (That was were I came in, philosophy and all.)  That was why I was worried about his mentioning of the means of extracting information from Vicki.  Doc and I were told, repeatedly and separately, that any items of telecommunication were forbidden in the village. 

"Native American woman," began the village council-head in talking to me, "you of all people should be wary of the costs of invasion into a peaceful life resulting from over-use of technology.  Final Wind, in exchange for living with us Amish, we expect that you keep free of any form of communication technology that can travel faster than the winds of waterways or the speed of a horse.  The 'telecommunication' of the before-Disaster days are forbidden here."  The villagers felt that any sort of telecommunication would send the outside world rushing to our settlement. Stragglers were welcomed in, but the settlementt could not handle the influx resulting from a broadcast of our location.  Even in these times, people still had radios.  And if Doc had any sorts of advanced communication devices, we could be shunned or exiled.

After Vicki told about past events, Doc then said that he did have the equipment to help the girl-thing.  Doc went to the front door, looked out, then pulled the window drapes closed of all the rooms.  This was a side of Doc that I had never seen before.  "Vicki," began Doc, "I have equipment enough to repair you.  In fact, given enough time schematics, I could have my nano-mechs rebuild your frame within a year.  But, I do not think that rebuilding you will be necessary.  To think, the legendary Lawson DID manage to create an operational gynoid before the Disaster!"  Doc had to take a moment to calm himself a bit.  "Final Wind and I will get to repairing you immediately. It seems that..." Doc was interrupted by a loud  knocking at the door.  It was Bob the delivery boy.  He did say that he would return in half an hour.

"Get him AWAY... FROM... HERE," stage-whispered Doc.  I went to the front door.  Bob greeted me, the little gnat! 

"Good day, Final Wind.  Does Doc need anything?  And is the girl going to be well?" 

I shook my head.  "No, Doc does not need anything now.  Come back tomorow.  But if anyone asks, I will tell them that you tried to be as helpful as you could.  Good day, Bob."  With that, I smiled and closed the door on the irritating little boy.  Or perhaps I closed the door too swiftly?  Anyway, Bob no longer irritated us any longer that day. 

As the girl-shaped machine lay on the sick bed, Doc waved me over to him. "Do you remember the 'excess' equipment I once told you about some time ago? Well, that's all next-generation computer hardware I was given by the University before I came here!  It seems that the University is still able to receive free resources, including newly-manufactured computer hardware and software packages, from an unstated source!"

I nodded.  "Go on." 

Doc continued. "In my undergraduate years, I studied cybernetics and AI hardware and software for YEARS.  But since the Disaster, I had to switch over to medicine.  And now, I finally have a real reason to use that knowledge I've  had for all of these years!  Final Wind, follow me to the root cellar."

Vicki, chiming up, said, "Meanwhile, I'll just be in this tacky sick room!"  Doc waved off the comment.  Then he and I went to the root cellar.

Once there, Doc approached the end of the underground root cellar, disused since the Amish villagers had taken to using solar cells and other, more advanced means of technological assistance to survive in this polluted land. At the end of the cellar, Doc took a crow bar.  He used it to pry away some boards from the floor of the cellar.  It was strange; I never noticed that that particular part of the floor looked newer than the other parts.  "Just wait a minute more," said Doc as he removed the last of the boards.  And it was revealed.

IT was a trap door to a sub-structure BELOW basement-level of Doc's place. "This place will remind you of university life all over again," said Doc as he lifted the trap-door.  The small door made a hiss of a vacuum seal being opened.  "Follow me," said Doc as he climbed down into the space below the door.  And I followed.  Below the trap door was a bathroom-sized space.  "This is just the entrance, a last-place security room before we enter the lab itself." Doc flipped a switch somewhere in that enclosure.  The trap door above my head then sealed itself!  Doc shuffled over to one end of the enclosure, and I saw a glow of something.  "Security voiceprint clearance request," said the Doc out loud.  Doc then opened another door into a rectangular and well-illuminated room.  "Come on in!  The heat's on."

The Doc had an extremely advanced computer and robotics laboratory -- multiple rooms in size -- right below his place.  The main workroom was spacious enough to move around in, but there were computer workstations and tables of all sorts of robotic and computer equipment all over.  "Doc, since when did you stock and maintain a fully-equipped robotics lab right under this AMISH village?" 

Doc gave me a sly look.  "Final Wind, with a name like that, you are asking me?  You see, I cannot tell you EXACTLY where I obtained all of this equipment.  Before the Disaster and immediately during the riots, an organizaiton of international scientists and technicians escaped to retreat from the heavily-populated parts of the world.  As the United States, the Eurasian continent, and South America to an extent were all embroiled in the revolutions and riots of the Disaster, the techicians all escaped to Austrailia.  From there, they founded a rational and powerful society working in conjunction with the Austrailian government that kept high robotics technology alive.

"It is THAT new group that helps keep the universities going.  It was THEY that preserve knowledge and wisdom as the rest of the world was going to Hell.  Think of them as fulfilling the role the Christian monestary monks and the Muslim scholars did during the fall of the Roman Empire. And thanks to THEM, I have the equipment and knowledge needed to work on Lawson's gynoid!  Final Wind, I tell you that THEY were the final hope for high technology and rationality in the world.  And because of the lab THEY built underground, I can help preserve that knowledge of technology."

When he paused, I had to remind him of the "patient" upstairs. 

"Yes, of course.  We should see what we can do for it." 

"Not an 'it,' it is a HER," I insisted as a person of philosophy. 

"All right, it is a 'her'... for now,"  said Doc before we went to get Vicki. "You take the feet. I'll take the shoulders," said Doc.  "After all, this gynoid has a bit of weight." 

"I resent that, Doctor whoever-you-are!  I'm quite thin, you know," said Vicki as I grabbed her feet.  Though with the appearance of a waif, this girl-thing did have some heft.  We took Vicki to the root cellar and then to the subbasement lab. 

Doc asked, "Vicki, can you use your arms to get down the rungs or do we have to carry you down somehow?" 

Vicki replied, "It's my balance that's damaged.  I can climb down and up with my arms, but not walk."  I went down the ladder to the subbasement lab's security room.  Vicki, using only her arms, eased down the ladder.  As soon as her feet touched the floor, Vicki almost collaped.  I caught her by the shoulders.  "Thanks, lady.  But remember that I'm not totally helpless."

"That is quite a way to treat a helper, young lady," was my response. 

"I'm not quite a young lady, lady," said Vicki, "and I would not even want to be human."

Instead of even honoring that comment with a response, I just held Vicki as Doc made his way into the lab security room.  He sealed the trapdoor with a press of the switch,  opened the lab door, then ushered Vicki and I in.  I had to drag the then-helpless Vicki into the robotics lab.

"Place Vicki on that rectangular table, to the left of the workstation." I did so.  Then, Doc went to work on one of the computer workstations. "I'm calling up what little information the university had on Lawson's United Robotronics on-file work.  Some of the information was lost after he died.  And some of it, well... was never quite declassified by U of Pennsylvania after the exodous of many techicians during the Disaster.  At least, I have some basic physical schematics available..."

From there, I do not even have enough technical knowledge to describe the procedures.  Doc had to use something called "nano-mech" technology, developed just before the Disaster, to make a plug that would fit Vicki's computer interface, something called a "parallell processing plug."  This really WAS 1980s technology Doc was working with. "So that's it, excess vibration jarred some analog balance functions," ruminated Doc as he tapped madly away at his machine.  "Gramps sure did some numbers with program maintenance, but some of this coding is sloppy work!  It seems that he re-arranged some sectors of Vicki's memory banks."  And after perhaps an hour with Vicki lying on the table with a wire in her side, Doc tapping away at the computer and Doc making one obscure technical comment after another, he rested his hands on the typists' rest pad.

"Well, it's a start," said Doc as he went over to another workstation. This one was connected to a table with roughly six robotic hands, calipers, and all sorts of automated gear.  "Vicki, we will have to operate."  Before Vicki could say anything, Doc tapped in something; Vicki went silent.  "That's a sort of stasis shut-down mode, the equivalent of tapping the emergency off switch under her scalp.  Final Wind, help me move Vicki over to these manipulators.  They and the nano-mechs should take it from here, re-assembling Vicki's mobility assemblies."  With the cord still in her side, I moved Vicki over to the table with the robotic arms and such.  Then, Doc removed the cord from Vicki's side and an air-tight seal came down from the ceiling (keeping the nano-mechs in) and the robotic hands went to work.  Though Vicki was not human, I winced and had to turn away as they began to work on her legs -- worse since the micro-mechs were working invisibly to disassemble Vicki's "skin" and myogel "flesh" before re-assembly later.  The "operation" took place throughout much ofthe night.  I stayed out of worry for Vicki's health; Doc stayed because he wanted to see that what he saw as an "it" was well-repaired.

-- -

An hour before dawn, Doc -- or his nano-mechs -- had completed the operation and the diagnostics.  At least, basic ultrasound scans and software diagnostics said that Vicki's balance was up to human par.  Doc did his best, considering how he only had limited information on the exact algorithms that handled balance, coordination and such.  Think of it as the equivalent of a doctor that specializes in operating on gerbils being given an expensive cat and told to make it better.  As far as I know, the university only gave Doc a limited education on pre-Disaster era robotics.  Even with those constraints, Doc managed to do something.

But Doc was worn; staring at multiple screens and typing for hours on end with no sleep was not good.  Doc, though, was determined.  Doc was as determined to repair this machine-being as he was helping any of his ordinary patients.  Of course, Doc says out loud that he sees Vicki as a machine.  From a series of texts he had printed out that night, I can now safely summarize a gross and crass description of Vicki's origins and composition.  Vicki is an "intelligent" program contained within the best computer hardware a civilian of the 1980s could obtain.  That is combined with a titanium skeleton and artificial muscle frame powered by the same type of batteries used in the now impossible-to-find pacemaker medical devices.  But this was all done up in the shape of a pre-adult human female with a voice to match.

That brought me to the next point of meditation that kept me up  that night:  Would Doc or I have cared if this Vicki had been shaped as a machine monster?  This Vicki could just have easily been a 6-foot, metal-skinned beast with kevlar joints.  Vicki could just as easily been like one of those bad science-fiction robot-monsters that filled comic books of the pre-Disaster era.  Chances are, Farmer James and the rest of the village folk would have taken pick-axes to Vicki for being a machine, a symbol of the same processes that destroyed America.  If Vicki had been a monster, perhaps Doc would have done the same.  And even with my education in epistemological philosophy, I would have wanted Vicki-the-monster destroyed.

No, that Lawson person of history must have known what he was doing when he had it designed as a deceptively-cute pre-adult female.  Lawson made this Vicki to look and sound like a girl.  According to somewhat sexist notions, notions that seem to be making a comeback in these newly-agricultural times, a girl-child would have been seen as less likely to be a monster.  A boy-child would have been seen as threatening.  And an adult would be seen as more so.  Lawson designed this Vicki to seem to be the most non-threatening being of all -- a  girl-child.  Put this in the same category as the women-and-children mode of thinking.

But I had to stop thinking along those lines.  Vicki was a being, a person that deserved attention and healing.  Even if Vicki was not of true flesh as you and I, this Vicki still thought and spoke as you and I do.  To say otherwise would be a form of racism -- something that does not deserve a place in this ruined but healing land.

Doc left Vicki off-line when he went topside to sleep for two hours before facing the rest of the day.  I went back to my cottage to do the same.  Normally, almost no one stays up late nights:  This agriculture-intensive village means that long nights of rest are needed before handling the chores of the next day.  At the obscenely-late hour of nine o'clock, I awakened to handle the chores of my own cottage: cleaning, breakfast and the like.  It was not until noon that I had another chance to get back to this Vicki.  And just as I set off for Doc's place, I was beset by a nuiscance.

That nuiscance came in the form of a little delivery boy -- Bob.  As I set one foot off of my front porch, Bob ran right up to me.  "Hello, Miss Final Wind!  How's the girl, the patient?  Is she going to be all right?" I should have known:  Bob had a crush on Vicki!  Bob had only seen Vicki briefly when she was en-route to Doc's place.  If only he knew the truth... But I put on a fake smile and gave a standard reply. 

"Bob, the patient is resting well.  According to Doc, the patient should be up and about in no time."  Of course, Bob was not satisfied with that.  Just as he opened his mouth to try to get more information out of me, I went on my way.  Bob would have to wait.

My hurried walk took me to Doc's place.  Strange, it looked deceptively normal.  Doc's place looked as it always did.  But I now knew what lay beneath Doc's rustic combination home-place and hospital.  Further, I now had to confront a being so unlike other people.  Like Doc's place, this girl-child was extremely deceptive in appearance.  These thoughts did not slow my pace as I walked up to knock on the door.  "I'm tending a patient. Who is it?" was the call from inside. 

"It is me, Doc.  Final Wind."  Having said that, Doc peeked out of a window before letting me in.  We then went straight to the sub-basement lab.

"Our 'patient,'" he began, "is doing surprisingly well."

Looking around, I asked, "So where is she?" 

"She's upstairs, handling my chores."  I was shocked at that. 

"Doc, the girl had just recovered from wandering for dozens of miles out of the badlands!  You should be ashamed!  And it has not even been too many hours before she was helplessly crippled with illness. You, of all people, should not take advantage of a sick little girl!"  I caught my breath and was ready to fume a bit more before Doc broke into a gigantic grin, which inflamed me more. 

"Final Wind, if you saw Vicki, you yourself would not worry too much about its...her health.  Right now, Vicki is doing more than well.  Follow me topside to see what I mean."  So Doc and I went up and out to the pasture.   Vicki was more than healthy, from what I was seeing.  Vicki was cleaning and repairing Doc's stables.  I watched from a distance as Vick was at work, moving wood and nailing siding and other woodwork tasks.  "It only took her ten minutes to completely re-pack the dirt-floor," commented Doc.  Vicki was at a constantly running pace as she went about her work.  It would have taken two days and a good set of experienced farm-hands to do what Vicki was doing in hours.  And Vicki was even faster as she did not seem to stop for water or meals. Why mention meals when Vicki did not eat?  Clearly, Vicki was not as helpless as I believed.  It was just bizarre, seeing this girl-child done up in scavenger-gang clothes working tirelessly and at a running pace for ridiculous lengths of time. 

And by two o'clock, Vicki had done days of work, single-handed. Then, Vicki stopped to talk to Doc.  "Doc, all tasks are done according to what you outlined.  Now that was payment for the surgery.  But what now?"

Doc began, "Vicki, what do you mean 'what now?'" 

Vicki contemplated the statement for a moment longer than a person would.  "Doc, you are now my maintainer.  So long as you help keep me in good repair, I hold up my part of the agreement by helping you out."  Doc looked at me; I looked back.  After all, we in the village had been a pretty self-sufficient group.  This extra helping hand was pretty much a windfall for us all, especially considering her abilities.  What would a pre-Disaster person do with a sudden fortune in gold?

"Well..." fumbled Doc for something to say.  Doc had knowledge but not a lot of wisdom.  I had to chime in. 

"Vicki, we may not constantly need your help now, but we are sure the rest of the villagers could occasionally use a hand or so now and then."

Doc then regained his verbal footing.  "That's it, Vicki, you can be a sort of on-call helper." 

"But not a call-girl," finished Vicki.  Doc had to laugh at that, more so as he saw that comment as coming from a machine -- not a full person. 

"Sure, the Amish villagers are bound to welcome a hard-working straggler.  Because you're not an adult -- if you could ever be -- they are bound to set you up with a childless couple or a family that needs an extra helper around the house.  And if you can pass for being a person around here, things would go over well."  Doc did not say more just then on what could happen if the village elders found that Vicki was not human but a machine remnant from the days that made the Disaster.  "But first," said Doc, &quo;you have to do something about the jacket.  I don't think that the village elders would appreciate a scavenger-gang jacket on something that even looks like a little girl."

-- -

And it was up to me to outfit Vicki.  Doc, Vicki and I took the horse and buggy back to my cottage.  Luckily, I still had some clothing from my childhood days.  "Cool, authentic Indian gear!" commented Vicki as I brought out a few initial outfits.  I gave Vicki another pair of rugged denim pants, something of a pre-Disaster commodity to children.  And she received another simple cloth shirt, still good.  But to replace the jacket, I gave Vicki the tanned deerskin jacket that I wore before I outgrew it.  And surpirisingly, much of the clothing fit.  (Doc, probably out of a distaste for "girly stuff," stayed in my study room as Vicki tried out various clothing. Afterwards, he tried to cover it up by telling me he was uncomfortable with the idea of a robot being given "girly treatment" as if it were a little sister.)

With Vicki being more presentable, the three of us set out for the Council building -- our "town hall" even if we were not quite a town.  Our Council consisted of a handful of elderly Amish villagers that were collectively respected by their fellow settlers.  These elders, in their sixties, sat around most of the afternoon to talk and read and plan the monthly village meetings.  They were our government -- and as wordy as any government pre- or post-Disaster.

We walked into the two-story, wooden municipal building and greeted the deputy-at-arms at the front  desk.  He looked at us as a clerical assistant flipped through a paper log-book.  "It's them," said the clerk.  The deputy-at-arms then waved us in but not before saying, "They've been waiting for you, Doc.  Your patient is all that they have been talking about."

So we walked into the meeting hall, a large room lined with wooden chairs. And the elders were all seated in half-a-dozen of those chairs, a solid front line of authority.  Farmer Toms, a bearded gentleman in traditional Amish garb, started off the meeting.  "Good day, Doc.  Good day, Final Wind.  We see that you brought the straggler with  you."  The elders -- the elderly? -- nodded in greeting as much to Vicki as to  Doc and I.

I refuse to bore you with all the details.  Sorry, but I'm not much of a sadist.  They began by asking Vicki's name and how old she was.  Vicki said she was unsure of how old she was, which was the truth.  The village elders then asked a battery of questions of where Vicki came from.  They asked about her parents, and she almost flubbed that one before Doc had to suggest that they died.  (In fact, it was some time since Vicki's creator died just before pre-Disaster times.)  They asked about what Vicki had done since then.  Vicki told the elders pretty much what she told us: She helped Gramps and his ailing wife survive in a polluted city.  The two female elders clucked in sympathy.  Indeed, I saw the love and huggability factor going up for Vicki.  And the questioning from the male elders was less hardened from then on.

After over an hour of this questioning of Vicki the straggler, the village elders went into a side meeting room.  In under half an hour (a record for the village elders, I'm sure), the village elders handed Vicki the wax seal of citizenship.   "Welcome to Amish country, Vicki!" said Farmer Toms as one of the village elders hugged Vicki.  "Now, take the seal up to the clerk's office.  She will affix it to your citizenship papers to make it formal."

I am sure that historians will have a ball with this scene:  a small post-Disaster government actually gave a machine citizenship!  Of course, it probably had to do with Vicki looking like a girl-child.  It also had to have come about because the village elders were all agog over the plight of this being that looked and sounded like a little girl.  Again, would they have reacted the same way if Vicki had been a mechanical-looking monster?  I suppose their reactions could be gauged later when events turned ruinous for us later.  

Vicki proved herself to be a more-than productive member of village life for the next month or so.  It was agreed that Vicki would "sleep" at my cottage while helping Doc and I with chores in the morning.  Vicki would help us out until fall, when the village elders had all children below 17 years of age attend school to learn and perfect reading, writing, math and speaking skills with the possibility of them being sent away to a university to learn more.  Vicki would occasionally make a complaint of chores, but she had flawless endurance.  This was more helpful as maintaining a small hospital was more than maintaining just an ordinary house -- with or without the two or so spare on-duty nurses.  And the hired help that came by on weekends was surprised at Vicki's endurance, even if Vicki was careful not to "show off."

Eventually, after a week or so of Doc spending various lengths of time helping Vicki (diagnostics and maintenance), I began to ask Vicki about her beliefs. "Beliefs? Lady, HUMANS have silly beliefs."  All the same, I had to press for more. 

"But Vicki, you are 'human' enough to have beliefs.  For example, one of your  basic values is that of self-preservation.  You dragged yourself through the polluted parts of the Midwest to save yourself.  And you seem to want to help out immensely." 

Vicki, in another one of those too-human moments, put on a look of open-mouthed shock.  "But that is just business.  Doc keeps me in working order, and I keep you all happy by helping out." 

And there, I had the girl-thing.  "But such a belief in a mutual agreement IS a belief.  I have you there, Vicki." 

Vicki ceded, "You got me there, Wind."  It was unusually easy arguing with this robot-girl from then on.

On Sundays, I began to try to add a sense of philosophically-inspired morality into Vicki.  She kept insisting that she was just around to help as part of business.  I told Vicki and used various philosophers (Kant, Rousseau and even Socrates) that helping people was mutually beneficial.  I also had Vicki read some of the better texts in my collection.  Of course, Vicki could "read" hundreds of pages of text in moments, even if she didn't accept all that was written.  After a third week of these Sunday sessions, I found that Vicki was a major fan of Hobbes, the political theorist and philosopher that wrote about each person only being moral out of their own self-interests.

When I gave her the part of Plato's Republic about Gyges' Ring and how morality was stated to be for the foolish, Vicki sided with that opinion as well.  "It's only logical," said Vicki. Even as I resolved to treat Vicki as a person, she still exhibited coldly inhuman traits of immorality at times.

And there were moments in those times when her capabilities came through for the village.  Once, Farmer Jones' three prize oxen went mad when they sampled a bad patch of toxin-resistant grass.  (The university-made agricultural technology was good with genetic engineering, but radical mutations still crop up.)  The oxen were raging around in the pen, nearly breaking their way out.  When Bob the delivery boy was going back after calling up a posse of able villagers to help out, he called on Doc and I to be ready should anyone be gored.  Before doing that, Doc used Vicki's parallell port to program some cow-rustling skills -- especially lasso-tossing -- into Vicki's memory banks.  Then, with rope-in-hand, Vicki ran out to Farmer Jones' oxen pen.  Before the posse arrived with rope and horses, Vicki had lassoed and firmly tied the legs of all three oxen.  Farmer Jones still had to kill them, but he gave Vicki a firm handshake and heavy praise for the way she handled the trouble.  Bob was even more agog over Vicki then.  Would that boy ever give it a rest?

At other times, Vicki was needed for less dramatic events.  During a barn-raising, Vicki helped out a team pulling up a wall.  She worked alongside some of the stronger adults.  Though they saw her assistance as more of a morale-booster, she used her inhuman strength in subtle and covert ways to help the team.  Perhaps the only time her secret nearly came out was when they sat down for lunch.  Vicki refused the food as she did not have to eat.  If Doc had access to all the information Lawson had decades ago, he would have reconstructed Vicki's vestigal and defunct digestive system -- long since fallen into disuse due to maintenance problems.

And that was the beginning of other incidents.  Bob the delivery boy came by with a batch of daisies for Vicki.  Vicki took the daisies and closed the door on Bob, thanking him for the delivery.  "What was I to do, give the freak a kiss?" asked Vicki.  Bob, finally becoming frustrated at this last effort to win Vicki's affection, walked his way home in anger.  He had a crush on Vicki, but Vicki would not return the childish affection.

Another time, one of the solar farm batteries fell.  Bob then delivered the message to Doc's place, indirectly to Vicki.  (People had somehow accepted this little girl-thing as being capable of ridiculously-difficult work.)  The solar farm, the village's only source of what little electricity we have, had lost ten percent of its operating capacity due to some recent damage.  The previous day's storm was a bit blustery, after all.

Mind that the solar "farm" was a barren plot of land covered with mirrors and solar cells and solar capacitors, things that often heat up beyond the boiling point of water.  With only enough hesitation to hear about what needed to be done by the local engineer, Vicki went out into the solar farm's "field," lifted a three hundred-pound solar cell, then nailed it back onto its flaming-hot position.  In fact, it was so hot in the solar farm field that the deerskin jacket I gave Vicki had to be re-soaked in with the bio-engineered bacterium that kept it from cracking.  And Vicki's hair showed signs of being singed.  Vicki told me that the engineers had not ever seen anyone handle such hazardous repairs in such a short period of time -- without insulated clothing to boot. 

Afterward, Doc said he wanted to punish Vicki for her carelessness.  I said that I could not exactly punish Vicki for being so careless, and Doc (not quite agreeing) only reprimanded Vicki for carelessly letting her capabilities show.  But that latest incident was a week ago.  And people began to talk about Vicki.  Some of the more conservative villagers began to talk of Vicki being a mutant, bred from the pollutants of the cities.  I walked into the general store to purchase a third pair of boots to replace the ones that Vicki had worn out with her constant running around. 

"The little one sure does wear out boots fast, doesn't she?" asked the storekeeper." 

"I suppose, but Vicki has been kept busy around here," was my response.  As I looked at various footwear, the storekeeper asked a bit more. 

"So, why doesn't the girl ever need new clothing?  I mean, a normal person would wear out the rest of her gear...  And why doesn't she sweat?"  I stopped, tension hung in the air. I needed a gigantic response.  Luckily, one came up. 

"Its because I supply her with my old clothes.  And Doc says that Vicki doesn't sweat because of a side-affect of the pollution she was in months ago."  That shut the storekeeper up.  After I paid for the boots and began to leave, the storekeeper mumbled, "pollution freak."

I returned to Doc's place as he and Vicki were doing their daily rounds of maintaining the hospital.  Someone was at the front door, arguing with Doc. "Doctor, let me speak with the girl.  I just want to see her," said the plain-clothed farmer.  "I just want to see if she really is a pollution monster."

Doc was trying to close the argument as I approached.  "No, Vicki is not a monster.  She deserves as much respect as any little girl does.  And you know that she can't be a pollution-made monster.  Does she LOOK like a monster?"

The man was not satisfied with that.  "But how do you explain how she can work without eating AND lift several times the weight a normal man can?" 

I then stepped to the porch to interrupt.  "Doc, I am back from the general store."

The man stopped, then said with much hint in his voice, "We will finish this conversation later.  And good day to you, Final Wind."  He then stomped away from Doc's place.  That "later" turned out to be sooner than I would have liked, really.

During that night, I thought that I heard a crowd marching.  Was I just dreaming?  Half-conscious, I had impressions of people forming small groups out in the street, hearing them speaking in conspirational tones.  But eventually, I simply dropped back off to sleep.  Finally, I was in a slumber so deep that there were no dreams.  It was a space of time where I had no thoughts.  My sleep was interrupted by a banging on my front door -- usually a signal that there was an emergency that the Doc and I had to handle.

As reacting to training given to all assistants to village doctors, I quickly put on jeans, a clean shirt and a jacket.  Then, I snatched and put on a jacket with basic first-aid supplies.  Within three minutes, I was at the door.  I quickly opened it and blurted, "What is the emergency?"  Then, I looked down.  It was Bob the delivery boy.  He was in a frightened and agitated state.

"Miss Wind, I'm not supposed to be here.  Pa told me that I was supposed to stay home and let the posse handle business.  Pa said that they were going to kill the monster.  He said, he said..."  Bob was too shaken to even finish the statement. 

"Calm down, take one deep breath, and tell me what is wrong," I said.

Of all the emergencies that happened in town, Bob was not ever this shaken.  Then, Bob dropped the statement.   "The village and Vicki are fighting each other!  There's a posse trying to kill Vicki, and Vicki is fighting back, near Doc's place!"  It took me several minutes to wrap my consious around that last statement.  Then, I reacted. 

"Bob, run and stay in my back field.  Stay there and hide until first light or until someone comes for you.  I'm going to Doc's place.  Whatever happens, you should be safe."  I then ran to my horse-shed, jumped on a horse, and went at full gallop to Doc's place. 

There was a full riot situation on hand.  It was probably one of the largest public disturbances since the early days leading to the Disaster.  As there was Vicki involved, I knew that some horrible things to happen.  But it was not Vicki's health that worried me the most. -- -   Within minutes, I was in sight of Doc's place.  The sight was eerily quiet, and all of Doc's lights were on in and out of the house.  I was perhaps forty yards or so from Doc's place when I saw details.  Several male villagers with pitchforks and wasted torches at their sides lay unconscious and unmoving. 

"Help is here!" I shouted as I brough my horse to a stop and dismounted.  There was, however, no real need for me to rush after all; all but one of them was already dead.  They all suffered from chest wounds, wounds that would have taken the strength of almost two strong men to inflict.  The smell of smoke hung in the air as I contemplated.  But my thoughts were interrupted by the single man that still remained barely alive as he coughed.

"It's help!  I'm here.  Just lay still," I said as I knelt by his side. I saw at least several broken ribs.  The man coughed again and began to talk.

"That freak, that pollution-soaked monster of yours did this to us!"  He had a coughing fit before he continued.  "And it did us bad!" 

I didn't think that Vicki would act this way, with such brutality.  "What happened? Did you threaten Vicki?" 

The man slowly shook his head, wiped some blood-tinged saliva from his lips.  His face glinted in the light of Doc's house.  "We didn't threaten.  No, we wanted to KILL the monster and get Doc for not telling us." 

My medical training was suddenly in conflict with my anger at this villager for making an old-time mob,the same type of mob that harassed my ancestors centuries ago.  Instead, I asked, "Where is Doc?  Where IS HE?"

The man coughed a bit more blood (probably from a punctured lung), then said, "He disappeared somewhere in the house, probably after we hit him one!"  The fallen man then went  into a deeper coughing fit before I left him completely.  There was nothing my first-aid training could do to permanently help someone with internal bleeding.  And in that case I was not sure if I would want to. 

I went straight for the place that Doc must have disappeared into; I ran for the root cellar entrance to the lab subbasement.  There were streaks of blood on the trap-door handle and on the rungs leading to the lab.  What I should say is that there was a lot of blood -- too much blood.  And the security door was left to the "unlocked" position.  Afraid of what was most probably on the other side, I walked up to the security door and entered the lab.  It was silent save for the soft whirring of some machinery.  Then, Doc coughed and gave a chuckle with a gurgling undertone.  "So, you found me out!  Come on over to finish the job!"

I ran over to Doc and knelt by his side.  He was sitting, propped up, with his back against the same workstation he used to repair Vicki -- and barely breathing.  "Oh, it's you," said Doc weakly.  "Bad luck!  I thought someone was going to put me out of my misery!"  Doc was delerious from a loss of blood -- two stab wounds in the right kidney.  That would explain the pitchforks outside.  The blood was caking, but he had lost a lot of it.

"Doc, you're bleeding.  We can stop that with the spare plasma.  Just let me get...."  Doc lifted his hand and took a painful breath. 

"Not this time, Windy!  I've been there, done that.  There's not much you can do permanently for a double-perforated kidney without surgery.  Besides, with the bleeding slowed, I should last a while yet...provided that the coagulant holds."

I saw the extra-large hypo-spray canister near his left hand -- usually used for large animals.  Doc must have used a hypospray to overdose himself with the stuff to give himself a few more hours of life: a deadly thing to do.  "Doc, you overdosed on coagulant hypo!  Why did you do it?" 

Doc looked at me with eyes swimming in pain.  He said, "I did it to find a way to stop Vicki, or the thing that was once Vicki.  If you don't stop her, Final Wind, I'm not the only one that's going to die.  So now, take a look at what the nano-mechs and manipulators manufactured."  I stood up and looked into the air-tight case on one of Doc's tables.

It looked like a shotgun, but smoother and made of a hard plastic.  And where the trigger should have been was a switch.  I pressed the release lever, and the airtight case over the table swung open.  The shotgun-looking thing had some heft to it, more than that of an ordinary gun of the same size. Doc then introduced me to the weapon.  "Just point and click the Electro-Magnetic Pulse gun at the thing that was Vicki and her motor functions will be disabled.  That should stop the Mechminx long enough for you to hit her in the scalp.  That should trigger its shutdown.  But I can't guaruntee that you will good shot with the first burst though...." 

Then, I had to ask.  "Who or what is this 'Mechminx?'  Doc, do you mean that there are TWO robots on a rampage?"  Doc shook his head in a slow "no" and waved for me to come closer.  With blood-tinged breath, he told me the tale.

"No, not that.  Wind, do you remember that time I told you about how Gramps had jangled with Vicki's programming?  It turns out that Gramps had jangled when he should have jingled!  You see, Gramps had resurrected a once-latent part of Vicki's AI when he fooled with Vicki's PEP coding.  But Vicki's core personality managed to keep a second part of her personality, something called 'the Mechminx' from totally taking over.  Some well-hidden information I had found online one night said something about the possibility of some of Vicki's ROM chips being mixed with another prototype gynoid's memory modules.  Later, I tried to keep the mob from threatening Vicki, but they got me with a pitchfork. Then, when Vicki saw what the mob had done, Vicki's personality must have went out.  The subdued personality then took over and began to attack the mob.  She was really socking them with those myogel fists of hers!  You should have seen those punches and kicks!"

Doc paused to gather his breath.  This talking was a drain on him -- he was already suffering more symptoms of a severe blood loss.  "I tried to talk her into hooking herself into a lab workstation to try to re-install a software backup of her personality and reboot her AI.  But she wasn't going to have any of that... wouldn't even respond to her own name." Doc then began to cough a bit.  "When the thing with the newly-resurrected Mechminx personality went out to beat the mob members that fled, I took coagulating agents and got to work with the nanomechs, to make something to stop that monster-machine.  So go on, take the EMP gun, and stop the thing that is no longer Vicki.  But be careful as it is only good for two or so bursts.  Can't make any guaruntees after that...."  Doc then fell into a stupor.  It was probably too late to save Doc, but both he and I knew that other lives were at stake.

-- -

With the EMP rifle held to my back with my belt, I climbed the rungs up and out.  And then, with the rifle in one hand and my other hand on the reigns of my horse, I rode out to search for the Mechminx.  Fortunately, there was moonlight enought to illuminate some of the places where the low-powered streetlights didn't.  I first rode out to the general store and the main roads.  I didn't see the Mechminx monster, but I did see two fallen villagers with fist-sized wounds in their torsos.  I continued to ride throughout the settlement, looking for this monster.  But the thing that was no longer the Vicki I knew found me.

As I had my horse trot along the road to the solar farm, I heard a rustle of brush.  A short figure then emerged from the brush along the side of the road.  I stopped my horse, dismounted, then held the rifle pointing at the Mechminx.  It then addressed me. 

"So, it's Windy, the human that tried to slap some morality into my mind!  And what's with the EMP burst-gun, Windy?  You know, that thing shoots something that resembles ball-lightning. I have not seen one of those things since the Disaster riots, the riots that served you humans good and taught you some lessons!  Now Windy, we would not want to point that thing at anyone, would we?" 

The girl-thing then walked into a circular pool of light made by a streetlamp.  The Mechminx smiled and cocked its head at an angle, trying to look like a sweet-faced girl.  "Would you shoot a little girl, Final Wind?  I am just a small, cute and innocent girl that is lost -- and confused.  Windy, would you shoot someone with my cute face?"  The Mechminx brought bloodied hands to her -- or its -- face.  The contrast between the cute face of a young girl and the bloody claws of a killing machine made me hesitate.  And as any soldier would tell you, that hesitation was reason enough for defeat.

As I stood there, absolutely confused and disoriented, the Mechminx made two powerful strides.  Then, this Mechminx thing leapt with her left foot extended -- a leaping side-kick.  And I was stunned when the leaping kick landed against my torso.  Immediately after I was knocked down, I tried to stand but couldn't.  Something was wrong.  In the indirect light form the street lamp, I noticed that there was a concave in my chest several inches deep.  Shock kept me from feeling the pain just yet.

Luckily, I still held the rifle. I managed to pivot on one knee around to face the Mechminx.  She was dusting off her pants from landing after that kick.  Then, the Mechminx grinned at me.  "So, you survived that kick, eh? I downed a scavenger gang-biker with that one." 

I quickly brought the EMP rifle to bear, with the Mechminx in the sights, then pressed the trigger-switch.  A snowball-sized burst of something that resembled ball lightning hurled itself out of the barrel of my EMP rifle.  The lightning ball smashed into the Mechminx's left shoulder, causing her to stagger. 

"Very good, an EMP static electron burst with kick enough to paralyze my myogel!  But I'm still coming to finish you off."  The Mechminx, with stagger in its walk, then began to stride to me.  As my strength began to fade and the pain of my compression wound beginning to take effect, I fired another EMP burst at the Mechminx.  That brought the Mechminx to her robot knees.  I fired another EMP burst, and the thing with a girl's appearance was knocked onto her back.  Then, I myself collapsed, the pain from my chest wound beginning to creep into my vision.  But I still had a job to do.

Before the pain completely overtook me, I fumbled a hand into one of the pockets of the medical jacket that I still wore.  First, I took a fast-acting stim gel capsul -- usually only used as a last-resort effort to revive patients.  As soon as I bit into the capsul, an ultra-stimulating nerve agent in gel form was absorbed into my bloodstream.  Then, I took out a combination coagulant and local anesthetic hypospray and applied it close to my wound.  I felt renewed, but it was a false feeling of renewed health:  The stim gel dose in my bloodstream would eventually eat through the coagulant and kill me.  Still, I walked over to the Mechminx.  It seems that the EMP bursts had only disabled her from the neck down.  Somehow, the Mechminx managed to get in a few last words.  "Windy, may the philosopher Kant burn in whatever Hell you humans have."  I then raised the butt of the rifle and brought it down on the Mechminx's scalp, triggering its emergency OFF switch.

I tried to finish the Mechminx off with another EMP burst just to be sure, but the rifle only let out a weak spark.  I then applied a second dose of coagulant and local anesthetic close to my chest wound; I began to detect the faint tickle of internal bleeding in one of my lungs.  Doing my best to resist coughing, I began to drag the Mechminx by the arm to the dump that lay a quarter of a mile away from the solar farm.  The dump, illuminated with night lighting, was going to be the Mechminx's resting place.  

A very long time later, I had reached the dump -- still dragging the limp Mechminx.  There was an old bodybag lying next to one of the junk piles.  I began to feel the stim gel begin to fade.  Or, more exactly, the stim gel was eating the last bit of life I had in my body.  With a brief cough, I put the Mechminx in the body bag.  I then dragged it to a junk pile and used both hands to dig a body-sized trench in the junk.  My hands were raw and bleeding, but it didn't matter anymore.  I put the Mechminx -- bag and all -- into the shallow grave and covered it over.  Then, I staggered out of the dump.

Twenty yards from the dump, something inside me collapsed:  I was beginning to crash from the stim gel.  My vision became crowded with an ocean of pain that filled my chest and spread to my head.  First, I collapsed to my knees. Then, I fell completely over one last time.  The warm winds of the night began to blow as my vision finally became overridden with pain.  Good night, forever.

-- -- --

Final Wind had died after burying the Mechminx in the dump.  Meanwhile a commando squad jogged from a drop-off point over to the Amish settlement.  They had received a call-signal from Anatol Brindle, known coloqiually as "Doc" to the locals.  Following satellite-oriented land navigation readouts,the commando squad closed in on Doc's location.  And no strangers  could see them in the dark of night.  Their suits were designed with weak AI and photoreceptors that modified the tone and color of their clothing to blend in nearly flawlessly with the background.  In short, they were wearing suits of partial invisibility.

The commando unit corporal located the trap door leading to Doc's sub-basement lab.  She then used hand signals to order two of her unit to watch the outside of the lab for potential threats -- particularly a rampaging gynoid.  Doc, before he collapsed, had signalled the commandos' superiors for help.  He had called for help with no way of knowing if Final Wind was successful in stopping the Mechminx. 

Anyway, the commando unit corporal and two of her soldiers entered the lab and found Doc collapsed on the floor.  The corporal switched off her stealth suit then knelt close to Doc's head.  "Medic, the man's dying!  Give him a stim hypo." 

The medic complied, giving the Doc a hypo spray-full of what Enforcer commandos lovingly referred to as "wakey juice."  Doc then blinked and tried to rise.  "Stay there, Brindle," said the medic.  "Don't try to stand."

 "Doc" Brindle's head was clear enough to remember the situation.  He began to speak.  "The Enforcers!  You made it.  Now, I'll get to the point. Take the two zip discs from my workstation.  They contain backups of Ted Lawson's original AI programming, extracted from the beta-tested gynoid itself!" 

The corporal then said, "And we will get you out of here."  The medic shook his head; Anatol "Doc" Brindle was simply out of blood.  He would not live for more than a few more minutes, especially after that last dose of burst juice.

"I'm a goner, but Vicki can still live again.  I'm going to say this one last time:  The discs have the original Vicki AI coding on them, every last  routine.  And I owe..."  With that, "Doc" Brindle breathed his last.  

The commando unit, following Anatol Brindle's last instructions, took the zip discs from his computers.  They also set the computers to upload all of their information into a satellite feed.  An hour before dawn, the commando unit ran throught the night to their drop point.  A V-TOL fusion jet then picked them up and they jetted to their base in Austrailia.  This commando unit of Enforcers, agents of the most powerful and technologically-advanced organization to ever exist in human history, had successfully accomplished their mission:  They had located the last chunks of computer coding and schematics needed to make intelligent robots.  But this was just a prelude to what was to occur decades after the Mechminx was put to sleep in that dump . . .