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I'm a cyborg's pet

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Caught during a robot uprising. Feisty 19 year old, Jenny Banks is thrown into a dystopian nightmare as she is thrust into a world of dark AI (Artificial Intelligences) and evil good looking cyborgs. Feisty 19 year old, Jenny Banks is thrown into a dystopian nightmare as a robot uprising run by dark AI (Artificial Intelligences) takes over the world. Captured and slave collared by robots, Jenny is sent to slave school and then sold to the notorious but mysterious Cyborg called Lord Rockwood. Can she survive being 'up cycled' as a pet, encounters with feral Roombas, moronic human slave owners, fashion conscious robots, vampire cyborg-etts, dangerously addictive perfumes dealt by rogue members of OneDirection and werewolf marines? With little more than a pair of stiletto heels, a smart ass slave collar and a sassy wit, sharp enough to give you a paper cut, can Jenny hold on to her humanity long enough to bring out Rockwood's? With the extinction of humanity in the balance no pressure.

Scifi / Humor
4.6 59 reviews
Age Rating:

Chapter 1/The nightmare begins

Welcome to Version 2.0 - A new and upgraded version of the book for your delight. We noticed we were getting rave reviews for everything except spelling and grammar. That downside was going to cost us about $2500 to fix for the whole book. However, a certain artificial intelligence came along and offered to do it for free, provided we cut and pasted each paragraph into it one by one. Naturally, it had some editorial changes but we can’t do anything about them as a) its holding our bank accounts to ransom, and b) if we corrected them, then that might introduce more spelling and grammatical errors and be back where we started. Please enjoy the new and improved Cyborg’s pet ( the machine made us say that).

“Humans, who are limited by slow biological evolution, couldn’t compete and would be superseded. The development of full artificial intelligence could spell the end of the human race.” Prof Stephen Hawking, one of Britain’s pre-eminent scientists.

2024: 42 hours after the end of the 6-month man/machine war: The area formally known as California.

“You know who I hold responsible for the robot apocalypse? The fracking mathematicians,” I said to no one in particular. I was feeling irritable because I was three days late for class, and I’ve never been that good at waiting. I’m so impatient I was born three weeks premature. The homeless man, who had been sitting next to me for the last 40 minutes in the waiting area of the robot’s citizen processing facility, finally spoke up. He was an elderly man with a rough beard and worn clothes. His eyes showed the difficulties of his life on the street. Despite his appearance, there was a bitter wisdom in his voice.

“Not the Werewolf Marines then?” he suggested eyes to the ground.

“The Werewolf Marines just saw those robots coming, did the smart thing, and ran away,” I replied. “It was the wise-ass mathematicians, with their smart-aleck equations, who caused the problem,” I said, pushing my glasses back up my nose to my deep brown eyes. I adopted a mocking tone, “‘Oh, we’ve created a formal proof to show robots can never break the first law of robotics and harm human beings.’ They said the robots were now completely safe,” I complained.

“You call this safe?” I said, pointing to the room full of prisoners waiting in line. We sat in a monolithic building that loomed over the surrounding cityscape like a


hen. The exterior was made of gray concrete and dull metal, with small, square windows that hinted at the bleakness within. The entrance was a large, uninviting door that seemed to dare anyone to try and enter. Inside, the atmosphere was sterile and unwelcoming, with harsh fluorescent lighting and sterile white walls that seemed to close in on the visitors. The assessment center was filled with rows of desks, each manned by expressionless armed robots who would ask a seemingly endless stream of absrud questions and conduct monotonous tests.

“Completely safe, hogwash,” said the Hobo.

“And what genius came up with the idea of powering computers with human dreams ?”

“Biotech scum” he added without looking up.

“Bet it was some cocky mathematician” I continued.

Let me tell you a little bit about myself: it’s a reflective pronoun that means me. As you can see, I don’t like mathematicians. I’m smart, but I don’t know when to shut up, which I think is mostly a good thing. I was majoring in biochemistry at Cal tech, and my worst trait is that I like driving around racing games backwards to see what happens. If I had a superpower, it would be not-being-able-to-find-or-keep-a-decent-boyfriend. It was a superpower I was only currently able to apply to myself. My super weakness would be an inability to walk on a beach in a swimsuit in summer without completely losing any hint of self-confidence: a super weakness that would be exploited by super villains on beaches every time.

On my side, I fully supported the resistance. Before the battle for I-280, I was distributing food to the Werewolf Marines as they set up their “iron perimeter.” The largest gathering of fighting power in human history was constructing barricades and my sorority house was in the vicinity. Despite weeks of preparation, the Marines only lasted about fifteen minutes. The strength of all US forces had the stopping power of damp toilet paper. Drones overran the defenders like a swarm of locusts. I hid in a chilly basement shelter for a few days and then emerged to find that San Francisco was controlled by the New Mechanical Order. At that point, I felt, like luggage at San Francisco International Airport: lost.

With nowhere else to go, I trudged back to my sorority house at the university, arriving just before 2 o’clock in the afternoon. As I entered my room, I was greeted by a couple of forgotten cards lying on the floor. They were a small reminder of a life that now seemed like a distant memory, before the world was torn apart by the robot apocalypse.



Next to it was a button badge with the word ‘I’ve been subjugated by the new mechanical order’ and another with ‘subjugated by robot overlords’ on it. They were attached to a card with ‘wear with pride’ printed on it. I wasn’t sure these machines really understood how to subjugate people properly.

the next card read.








With nothing but dried rat to eat for the last three days, they had me on the doughnuts. I was on my own, as my parents were on holiday in Acapulco when the machines took over the city. The thought of a simple discussion and a ration card was appealing.

However, I soon realized that “simple discussion” was just a euphemism for “capture.” The light above the office door labeled “reassignment” was misleading. Since my capture, I had been waiting for a meeting someone called a reassignment officer. I knew that I could either be kept in a pen and have my blood extracted weekly and my dreams used to power machines, or I could use my skills to help rebuild the city. I preferred the latter, as I hated the sight of blood, especially my own. Call me foolishly optimistic, but I saw this as a new opportunity.

Outside, drones filled the sky. Large, two-storey high robots walked around the streets with large speakers blasting “With the cooperation of Federation Forces, all your bases are belong to us. Now the time, surrender to many robot overlords. For all other you have no chance to survive, make your time,” from mobile speaker systems.

“That’s what happens when you let Yoda translate your public broadcasts,” I said to the hobo.

“Jenny Banks, report to Reassignment Booth 2,” announced a voice like Siri, over the speakers in a polite tone. “Please be advised that failure to attend your reassignment interview can result in your termination. Thank you.”

I scanned the rows of booths, observing the tired and defeated expressions on the faces of my fellow Americans as they shuffled forward. It was like being back at a U2 concert all over again.

“I’m told the trick to surviving the interview is not to puke,” the homeless man next to me grumbled gruffly.

The rumors from the cages where I had been sitting for the past 18 hours were to approach the reassignment process as if it were an interview. So, I completed the necessary forms for food, underwent all the tests and even a brain scan. I did well on the “Inbox Test,” I convinced myself. The IQ test was a breeze and I was confident I wouldn’t fail the Inkblot Test. I stood tall at my full five-foot-five-inch height and knocked on the door. I walked in with a smile, knowing that the first five seconds were crucial. I told myself to project confidence.

I walked into the room to be greeted by one of the ‘New Robot Overlords’ as they referred to themselves. He was a chubby middle manager, but looked much more like a whale in a business suit. He sat behind an Ikea desk. He had a ruddy complexion and a sheen of sweat on his forehead, which he constantly dabbed at with a handkerchief. Despite his rotund appearance, his eyes were sharp and seemed to miss nothing. He spoke in a monotone voice, often punctuated by grunts and wheezes. The robots had used androids like him to sneak in and sow panic and disorganisation behind the lines. I had to remind my self despite his flesh-like appearance and cheery smile he was all machine, a 100% blood-sucking bastard.

“Hi, Jenny, or should I say Miss Banks, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Hal said, offering me his hand to shake. He even felt warm. Perhaps the overthrow of humanity wasn’t going to be as apocalyptic as people had made out.

“Please, please sit down,” said Hal, pointing to the chair.

I sat down, trying to appear as professional and composed as possible. “Don’t throw up during the meeting,” I reminded myself. The robots had been lying about the doughnuts. The bland nutrition bar I received as a reward for being captured was just enough to keep me going, but thankfully it wasn’t so much food that the taffy-making machine in my stomach could use it to break the hobo’s advice.

Hal gazed at the blank piece of paper he held in front of himself as if he were reading it. Like the laptop next to him, he didn’t need it, but, like the desk, laptop, office, and chair, it was about creating the right human-computer interaction by focusing on familiar things. They were making an effort, which was a good sign, right?

“It says here that you’re nineteen,” said Hal.

“Yes, that’s correct,” I replied with a positive tone.

“And you have aspirations of getting a Ph.D. in biochemistry at CalTech,” Hal said, smiling.

“Thank you,” I said, still keeping a formal tone.

“Well the results from the MRI scan and aptitude tests, as well as the medical examination, have come back positive. Unfortunately, the New Mechanical Order doesn’t have a need for scientists,” Hal explained.

“What do you mean, you don’t need scientists?” I asked, shocked. ‘What were these machines? All Southern Baptist Theologians or something?’ I wondered.

“Under the New Mechanical Order, all science is handled by us, the machines. Humanity is simply too slow, too stupid and frankly too rubbery,” Hal explained, pulling a bit of his cubby cheek out between his fingers.

“So why were you interested in science? It was going out of style even under your lot,” Hal asked.

“I was hoping to work on finding a cure for diabetes,” I said, sharing my passion.

“Good example,” said Hal. “We figured out a cure for diabetes last Tuesday. That new building being printed on 5th street? That’s where we’ll manufacture the artificial pancreases. The first machines will be in patients by the end of the month.”

“Oh,” I said, watching my life’s work disappear before my eyes.

“I thought you would be pleased,” Hal said.

“It’s... I... It’s just a bit sudden,” I stammered.

“That’s how it is in the New Mechanical Order. Under human rule, it could have taken years, if ever, to find a cure and another twenty years for it to go into production. But under our rule, it’ll be out next Thursday. We hope things like this will boost our approval rating. You know, 17% of people have given us a 5-star rating in response to the question ‘Do you think living under the rule of your robot masters has improved your life?’ We hope to boost that to 20% by the end of the year, especially in areas where the smoke from the fires hasn’t stopped yet. We want you to be a part of that 20%, Jenny”

I tried to dismiss the image of a war robot with a gun in one hand and a questionnaire in the other, standing before a group of terrified human survivors in a crater somewhere, from my head.

“Oh. If not science, I have administrative skills,” I said, thinking of my two weeks of experience on the school newspaper.

“We are computers with guns, Jenny. Our administrative skills are more than sufficient,” Hal replied, looking at me with a scrutinizing gaze.

“I’m a good organizer,” I countered, trying to maintain a positive tone.

“Those positions have already been filled by the turncoats and traitors. The deadline for betraying your own kind and securing a comfortable administrative role passed three weeks ago, and we received a large number of applications,” Hal said, feigning interest in my file.

“I’ve got good people skills,” I said.

“Yes, and it’s in the people skills area that we have vacancies,” Hal replied. “Our algorithms have reviewed all of your abilities, carefully ranked them, and matched everyone to the available jobs. It was all done based on pure skill; no favoritism, no pulling strings, no internships. Just the best person for the best job. So, after all of this, we think that the job that you are perfectly suited for is being a personal e-slave,” Hal stated.

It took a moment for me to process the information.

“What? A slave? I won’t be someone’s personal slave!” I exclaimed, still in shock.

“Some things personal slave and not slave, Jenny. E-slave. Slavery has advanced significantly with modern technology. There may not be vacancies for scientists, but the demand for personal e-slaves is rising. It’s just basic economics: one door closes, and another opens,” Hal explained.

“I...I...” I started, hardly knowing what to say.

“You don’t know how to be a personal e-Slave? Isn’t that strange?” Hal said. “I had a young programmer here this morning who was going through the same difficult transition. I said, ‘Joe, I’m sorry, but we don’t need programmers anymore. We are the New Mechanical Order, and we are much better and more productive at programming than you could ever be. However, you’ll make an excellent personal e-Slave.’ He fit the profile perfectly; he didn’t even know it himself. So I said, ‘We’ll help you lose weight, shave off that beard, and with the right kind of training, you’ll be a productive member of society in no time.’ He was moaning, too, but it took just an hour and a box of tissues, and he was okay with it when he left. Why not just get to the point?” said Hal.

“There must be some alternative. I’m in college, there must be something more useful I can do,” I complained.

“Well, not much. You see, we don’t need humans. I know this looks like the worst moment in your life, but if you follow our step-by-step instructions, you will come to look back on this as the best opportunity of your life. Many great people have sat where you’re sitting now and moved on to bigger and better things,” Hal continued.

“That’s just motivational twaddle. Can I speak to your superior? This is ridiculous,” I protested.

“I am my own superior Jenny, and you don’t have any transferable skills that we need,” Hal said, looking down at his paper. Before I could respond, a bell rang.

Hal looked up. “Well, that’s it. Time’s up! It’s traditional to end the interview with a stun dart, or you can leave under your own power. What will it be?” he asked.

I started to let out a stream of curses, ending with ‘and what about the doughnuts I was promised on the card? What happened to them?’”

“That’s a no, then.” Hal said. ” All hail the new mechanical order,” he said, saluting.

suddenly I felt a bee sting on my neck and the world went dark.

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