“He can sleep in our room,” Sarah said in a tone so matter-of-factly that Erica almost believed it would happen.

“I don't think it sleeps at all. And if it does, there's a perfectly good pantry for that.” Sarah didn't quite shoot her sister a look that could kill, but it certainly had the potential to require ointment.

“Look, if you saw it do what I did earlier, you'd want to be cautious, too.” To illustrate her point, Erica gestured at the robot by spinning her wrists in a clockwise fashion. It did the same in return, its hands a blur of metal as its blades sliced the air around them and created a whirring sound. Sarah produced her notebook and began furiously taking notes and drawing the framework for later sketches. She began listing all the possible applications for such a tool, but optimistically stopped short of writing 'bloody and violent murder.' “Why did I expect this to have a different result?” Erica gasped, unable to contain her incredulity.

“Of course, I'm going to need to examine him fully!” Sarah's excitement had reached boiling point and the last part of her sentence had condensed into a barely-decipherable squeal.

“I'm happy for you. Really, but we can do this tomorrow.” She looked at the robot. “Pantry's there.” She removed her toolbox and gestured for the creature to get inside. She wasn't sure if it was happy with the arrangement, but it obligingly pottered inside and waited for her to close the door behind it. “See, now everyone is happy.” She wedged a chair under the handle. Sarah underlined an item from her list and held the notebook open for Erica to read. It said, 'cutting wood.' Erica opened the cupboard next to the sink and produced a pair of oven gloves, then held them up triumphantly and went to un-wedge the chair. The robot still stood facing the wall where she left it. “Turn around. Arms, please.” The robot turned and extended its arms. Erica wedged a glove over each clawed hand and tied the strings as tightly as they'd allow. “Good night,” she said curtly, then closed the door in its face and re-wedged the chair. “Crisis averted. Put that one in your notebook.” Sarah absolutely put that in her notebook. 'Thud thwud thwack' came a noise from within the pantry. “I heard that!” Erica yelled. The robot beeped and turned to face the wall again.

***

Sarah couldn't sleep; she tossed and she turned and she thought of all the things she would do in the morning. She thought of the experiments she would perform and the questions she would ask, she thought of the notes she would take and the sketches she would draw, but most importantly, she thought of how proud her father would be. And once this incredible metal person showed her where he was, it would only be right that he tell her himself. Secondarily to this, she thought about the giant and, if we're being honest, slightly unreliable, spring bolted to the floor underneath the bed she’d been relegated to sleeping in. She resisted the urge to get out and check if it was secure, but did come to realise that an alarm clock that stops you from sleeping in the first place wouldn't actually make for a very good alarm clock. Sarah wasn't about to step into the world of making torture devices, but she reckoned that if she ever banged her head one day and suddenly decided it was a good idea, this would make for a fantastic one. “And it wouldn't leave a mess,” she mumbled to the wall as she rolled over and went to sleep.

***

The sun rose, as often was its wont, and Sarah slid out of bed as soon as the first ray of light tickled her nose. Before the light had reached any further than the middle of her pillow, she’d snaked her way into her dressing gown without loosening the belt and donned her sister's slightly-too-large-but-I-destroyed-mine-earlier slippers. She completed the look by slathering her toothbrush with far too much toothpaste and shoving it in the corner of her mouth. As she rushed downstairs, oblivious to how terrible an idea that was, she chewed on the brush and just generally moved it from side-to-side with her tongue. This definitely counts, she thought. At the bottom of the stairs, she turned and headed towards the kitchen, the toothbrush dropped in an old, battered umbrella stand as she went. During the short walk to the kitchen, she had both the time to swallow the toothpaste and regret it immensely for a duration of time that seemed to far outlast the length of the walk itself.

When she entered the kitchen, she found two things; the first was the shredded remains of a pair of flower-patterned oven gloves, the second was a pantry door that had neatly had its hinges severed. It was placed carefully against the wall next to the chair. What she didn't immediately find was her test subject where she expected to find it. The robot had let itself into the living room and was now examining a dirty plate it had taken from the sink as if in doing so it might unravel the mysteries of the universe. Thus far, it had yet to unravel the mysteries of last night's dinner, but it was hopeful. The living room door hung at an awkward angle where the creature had sliced through the topmost hinge. At some point between that and entering the living room, it had clearly had an epiphany over the use of doorhandles.

“I thought you'd run away,” Sarah said, completely disregarding the natural disaster that had struck their kitchen. The metal person finished smearing what appeared to be the remnants of a pasta bake all over its face. Vast streams of data, made up of incalculable strings of ones and zeros zipped through its system at speeds well over the speed of thought of an organic nervous system. As soon as it had started processing, it had finished, and upon doing so, a file was created with clear instructions to not do that again because it seemed really very silly. There was a knock at the door. It whistled softly and dropped the plate to the ground that shattered and chipped a part of the stone floor, sending a gout of pasta sauce up a nearby skirting board. There was a knock at the door. It turned towards Sarah and immediately extended its arm. She grasped its clawed hand and shook it so enthusiastically that the creature's cylindrical body wobbled ungracefully atop its pipe-cleaner legs. There was a knock at the door.

“I'll just bloody get it, then, will I?” Erica stormed downstairs, her hair partly brushed, the brush still dangling painfully from a tangle at the back. She threw her boots into the corner by the door and forcefully swung it open. Rasmus stood in the doorway, his cane held under one arm and the speaker-box carefully clutched to his stomach as he stood precariously keeping the weight off his bad leg.

“I thought you might find yourself in need of this,” he said. He pointed down to the box with his chin. “Also, I wonder if I might properly meet our friend today? Bosco has been more than a little vocal on the subject, as you may well know, and I do think that I must insist.”

“Of course, please come in, Mr. Rasmus.” Erica turned and set the speaker-box down on the hall table.

“Did you know you have-”

“Yes, thank you. It's all the rage, fashionably speaking. Please follow the trail of abject carnage and giggling.” Erica ushered Mr. Rasmus towards the living room, then wrestled with the brush stuck to her head as soon as he was out of sight. Rasmus hobbled into the living room.

The unsupported weight of the door had now torn the bottom hinge away from the frame, and it hung Damoclean by the tip of a heavily-bent screw. Sarah giggled, oblivious to his presence, as she tried to clean the remnants of last night's dinner from her new friend's face. It rotated its face and head at different speeds and in different directions, all while trying to avoid the slightly damp cloth Sarah chased it with. It stopped briefly to fix a look at Rasmus as he warily weaved his way around the door, allowing Sarah to remove the last piece of sauce from below its right eye. The creature beeped defeatedly. Sarah followed its diverted gaze to Mr. Rasmus, who stood quietly in awe.

“Hello. Mr. Rasmus! He's great, isn't he? And there are others!” She dropped the cloth on the floor in among the shattered crockery and bits of pasta.

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

“Aren't you going to-”

“-Later,” she said. “We have lots to do. You positively must help, Mr. Rasmus. Please.” Rasmus hummed and hawed and made a point of stroking his chin in a way that he hoped signified deep contemplation rather than fleas. “Yes, I do believe that would be acceptable. Lead the way.” The door's last supporting screw finally succumbed to gravity and it came loose from its frame. It landed corner-first on the coffee table and cracked its glass top before sliding flat to the floor with a thud.

“Oh, bloody hell!” came a cry from down the hall. A similar unheard cry emanated from the family of termites inside the door itself. Rasmus placed a finger to his lips and quietly signalled for everyone to expedite their departure from the room.

“Later,” he whispered. Sarah led the robot out of the room by its hand as fast as its insubstantial legs would allow it to. Perhaps she would skip the speed test, though she really did want to use that treadmill for something today.

***

“Four-feet, eight inches,” Sarah mumbled to herself as she wrote in her notebook. She’d sketched a perfectly competent likeness of her new friend slash test subject slash to be decided, and was filling in its various attributes alongside the sketch. The metal man stood an inch shorter than she was, but weighed decidedly more. In fact, she'd had to recalibrate the scale twice just to be sure, and both times it was said to weigh three-hundred pounds. Rasmus sat silently at the desk that had once again been reclaimed from the cluttered wilderness, a cup of tea in hand, and watched in fascination as Sarah worked.

“I'm not sure you realise how alike you and your father are.”

“I can't wait to see for myself,” she said, as she took a momentary glance up from her notes.

“So you believe – it really feels very rude to not give our guest a name – is telling the truth?”

“He told us what I already knew – my father is alive. I just have to find a way to let him tell me where he is. And you're right, Mr. Rasmus – I was thinking Peter. I've never met a Peter, I'd quite like to.” The robot beeped. Sarah didn't understand what it meant, but it pleased her greatly to think it was a yes, so she thought exactly that.

“Very good, then. Very pleased to meet you, Peter.”

“Peter, is it?” Erica set the speaker-box down on the workbench across from the table. “Well, Peter has destroyed two doors, not to mention my favourite pair of oven gloves by virtue of them being my only oven gloves, and smeared pasta sauce halfway up the living room wall.” She paused for a breath and poured herself a cup of tea.

“It's stewed,” Rasmus said.

“That makes two us, then.” She gulped down the tea and gave a visible shudder.

“It's not his fault,” Sarah protested. “It’s all new to him, like it was new to us.”

“You're right, Sarah. I'm so sorry. I forgot all about the time I cut the hinges off the doors with my blade-hands as a child.” Rasmus stifled a chuckle with a cough, which then turned into an actual cough, so it worked out quite nicely for him. Then he remembered he was the only adult in the room, so did his best to mediate.

“Now, please, girls. Time spent arguing with one another is time that could be spent helping our friend here. The sooner we find our answers, the sooner Peter can go home, and the sooner the damage can be remedied.”

“I agree, Mr. Rasmus,” said Sarah.

“I suppose it makes sense,” her sister begrudgingly added.

“Peter agrees,” said Peter. The room fell silent. Peter stood with the speaker-box held up to his chest, a wire protruded from the nape of his neck and down into the back of the box. Peter looked at everyone in turn, his stoic metal face showed no sign of the confusion that dialled through his circuits at incalculable speeds.

“Peter said Peter concurs.”

Silence. “Well, I'm glad we've sorted that out,” his logic-board said to his processor. “Crisis averted.”

“Brilliant!” Sarah cried, hastily leafing through her notebook for a blank page. Loose sheets flitted to the floor like leaves on a gentle breeze. She jotted something down, then immediately asked her first question.

“Where is my father, where is Sebastian Hubert?”

“Home,” Peter replied.

“Whose home?” Erica asked. “Your home?”

“Yes.”

Rasmus sat forward in his chair, his chin propped on the handle of his cane – it was his turn for a question, he fancied. “And where is your home, Peter?”

“Classified. Mission data cannot be made available without authorisation. Please present authorisation,” Peter responded.

“I'll authorise you, you useless bloody thing, you.” Erica reached for the nearest thing to hand and flung it at Peter. Her father’s notebook harmlessly hit the back of Peter's head and flopped to the floor in much the same way you'd expect a small bundle of a paper to do. Peter turned his head back towards Erica and looked down towards the notebook. It lay open, its pages face up. Peter observed the jumble of characters and pictograms that littered the pages, then systematically started to run them through his array of cyphers, compiling the results of each one in turn and discarding any that didn't match a recognised routine.

Peter's eyes flashed. “Authorisation granted.”

“If you're hearing this,” the speaker-box crackled. “You're either very confused or you're my daughters. You could actually be both. Anyway, I’m rambling.”

“Daddy!” Sarah shouted excitedly.”

“This little metal man, its called a Pilot Fish. The chaps in R&D thought they were being clever with that one- You put those hands down!” A robotic whirring rose up and drowned out the sound of Sebastian’s voice. “Hands down!” he shouted. “So rude, so rude. Rude! Is that what you came out the factory like, rude?”

Rasmus shuffled closer and almost ran out of seat. “Remarkable!”

“I’ll keep it brief. The Pilot Fish were to send a signal when they found somewhere matching the requirements of life. They found one – we called it Cadia. Our world is dying, this was a fresh start. Your mother and I fled here and closed the path behind us. If I had known this world were inhabited, I'd have never-- There! I’ve rerouted the signal. I don’t have the tools for anything else. I’ve told them to wait, I’ve told them to hide. If the signal ever starts transmitting again, I’ve told them to find you. And I guess they have. Love you both, see you soon.” The speaker-box hissed and returned to silence. Sarah threw her arms around Peter and danced in a circle with hops of excitement while Peter’s head bobbed up and down on a ratchet.

“See you soon!” she shrieked. “Soon! How soon is soon?”

“I don’t understand any of this. Mr. Rasmus, what’s a Pilot Fish?” Erica asked.

“I think it might mean we’re in trouble,” he said grimly. “Small, mostly harmless.” He nodded towards Peter. “They travel in the shadows of predators.”

Sarah stopped her dance and looked towards Mr. Rasmus. “What does that mean?”

“It means-” Erica said.

“-A shark is coming,” Rasmus interrupted.