The Good Boy

By Michael Teasdale

When Rosco opened his eyes for the first time and saw the old man smiling back at him, all operational parameters pointed to one thing: it was going to be a happy life.

His performance diodes peaked under the kindly gaze and the feedback-response loop set his chain-link tail thumping uncontrollably against the surface of the dusty workbench. The old man leaned down to him, scratching at the sensory-equipped steel behind Rosco’s pointed ears, and his back leg spasmed in response.

“You are a good boy, Rosco,” the old man told him, and Rosco took it not just as a compliment, but as his prime directive.

Every morning since that day, they would rise early to take a long walk through the empty streets and overgrown fields of the complex. Yet this morning, Rosco woke to find the old man still asleep in his armchair. This was unusual, but after several minutes of nuzzling did not seem rouse him, Rosco decided to take the walk anyway and give his master more time to rest.

He followed their favorite route, trotting through the sun-dome with its high vaulted glass ceiling, where the burning yellow fire gazed down on him through tinted glass. The old man had often talked to Rosco as they walked, telling stories of the hollow towns that lay beyond the dome. They replayed in his memory as he frolicked through the tall grass, chasing butterflies and weaving in and out of the lush green hedgerows.

“You are a good boy, Rosco,” he heard the old man’s kindly voice say in his head. “The best of my creations.” It brought him joy to hear this particular phrase because it was proof that he was achieving his prime directive.

As he entered the botanical gardens, Rosco saw the cat regarding him through narrow eyes from the top of the crumbling dry stone wall. The cat was another thing of wire and steel; another invention of his master. Rosco could still recall lying on the floor of the workshop, gazing up in awe and wonder as the old man assembled the cat. He had thought it might be a little friend and wandered up to sniff it. The cat hissed at Rosco and hit him on the nose. Rosco barked in surprise, and the cat fled the workshop. He could still remember the shame and how hard it had been to look at his master after this. Yet, to his surprise, the old man had merely laughed and reaffirmed his status as a good boy.

Chasing cats, it seemed, was another part of the prime directive!

By afternoon, Rosco lay in one of his favorite spots, high on the hillside that surrounded the golden cornfields below. With one eye open, he dozed lazily, watching the square-bodied harvest droids whizzing back and forth, reaping the long green stems with the golden tips of corn that the old man liked to fry with butter. Rosco enjoyed running in the fields, but his enjoyment was tinged with fear. Years ago, while weaving back and forth between the long rows, a harvester’s blade had severed his leg and he’d hobbled home to find the old man distraught.

He licked the leg that the old man had fitted as a replacement. Taking care of himself, the old man had explained, was another part of being a good boy.

The old man had said another curious thing that day. “I won’t always be here to take care of you, Rosco.”

Rosco had no idea what his master meant.

A fly buzzed past and he snatched at it with his jaws. The action made him happy. This was a special place where one could see beyond the dome and far into the forbidden places beyond. Once, the old man had taken him here at night to watch the pale moon rise above the glass dome. Beyond it, the tiny trails of countless small metallic craft rose up and disappeared into the darkness.

“There they go, Rosco,” the old man had explained, “off to fight their wars. It’s just you and me now.”

And Rosco felt quietly comforted as each silver firefly rose and slowly became indistinguishable from the stars.

The sun dipped beyond the distant woodland that framed the dome as Rosco made his way back to the house. The cat was cleaning itself on the porch when he arrived and gave him an affronted look before scurrying off behind a heap of scrap metal. Rosco paid it no mind, padding through into the adjoining workshop where the old man could often be found tinkering at this hour.

The workshop was empty, the dust covers still drawn over the half-completed project that his master called “rabbit.” Rosco sniffed the air and could detect no fresh scent, just the lingering smells of yesterday.

He wandered slowly back into the house, through the back door that remained ajar, and cocked his head, surprised to discover that the old man was still sleeping in his chair. Is it really so late already? Rosco wondered. Or is he just very tired today?

Rosco strolled up to his master and nuzzled his fingers. The old man felt cold.

Rosco tried barking, but the old man was sleeping too deeply.

Resignedly, he fetched the old man’s blanket from the nearby couch and, taking it in his teeth, dragged it over the old man’s lap. Then he lay down by his master’s feet and closed his eyes, thinking for a moment that he heard the old man’s voice speak to him in the dusk.

You are a good boy, Rosco, the voice seemed to say.

It soothed him as he powered down and let the cool night air settle over him.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Michael Teasdale is an English author whose stories have appeared for a variety of publications including Novel Magazine, Litro, Wyldblood Magazine, The Periodical, Forlorn, and Shoreline of Infinity. He lives in Transylvania, Romania with his partner and three cats and has recently begun dabbling with Twitter.

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