That didn’t sound good.

  “Sorry, Mom.” I dropped into a nanoplastic chair that automatically fitted itself to the natural contours of my body. “You should have seen me a few minutes ago.”

  “I can just imagine,” she said dryly. Although in her early fifties, she looked at least ten years younger, with short auburn hair and green eyes. Her rumpled flannel shirt and jeans told me she had been working in her studio all day. She shrugged her shoulders, not too upset by my untidy appearance. “At least you’re getting plenty of exercise. I can’t complain about that.”

  “Trust me, I got quite a workout just now.” I greeted the rest of my family. “Hi, Dad, Sandy.”

  “Hello, son.” Dad continued to scan the news reports. His short blond hair was streaked with gray. A wrinkled brow gave away his age, but, like Mom, he had chosen laser surgery over glasses. People say Sandy and I got our blond hair and blue eyes from him, which I guess made us walking proof that genetics were all they were cracked up to be. A light-weight tweed jacket was draped over the back of his chair. “Glad you could make it.”

  “Uh-huh, hi,” Sandy murmured, distracted. She was busy text-messaging someone—probably her best friend, Philly—via a combination wristwatch and PDA. Sandy’s fifteen years old, one year younger than I am, and is only a pain some of the time, as sisters go. She fired off her IM, then eagerly read Philly’s response. Her eyes widened in surprise at some unexpected tidbit of news. “No kidding?” she exclaimed out loud. “Get out of here!”

  Mom shot Sandy a glance. “Tell Philly you’ve got to sign off. No instant-messaging at dinner, remember?” My mother swept her gaze over Dad and me, as well. “That goes for the rest of you, too. You know the drill. No e-mail, IMs, phone calls, Web surfing, virtual-reality role-playing, et cetera during meals.”

  “Understood,” Dad said. He pressed a button on the underside of the table and the communications console sunk out of sight, disappearing beneath the surface of the table. Sandy switched off her wrist unit, and I hit the “Do Not Disturb” button on my interface with Q.U.I.P. The artificial intelligence would hold my calls, except for absolute emergencies.

  Fine with me, I thought. At the moment, I was craving food, not info. Bites instead of bytes.

  A large assortment of fresh sushi was laid out on the table, along with a salad and a pitcher of fruit punch. Of course, I thought, finally identifying the mouth-watering aroma that had lured me to the dining room. Dad had picked up “Sozomu,” a computerized sushi maker on his last business trip to Tokyo and had been dying to try it out for days. I was all for giving it a test run myself. My hungry stomach felt like it could consume an ocean’s worth of raw fish and seaweed.

  I helped myself to a salmon roll.

  “So how was your day, Mary?” Dad asked my mom. He must have gotten home from work while I was facing off against SwiftBot in the lab. His office upstairs allowed him to work from home most of the time, but occasionally he still had to trek over to SE headquarters, on the outskirts of town. “You making progress on that new figure?”

  My mom’s a pretty famous sculptor whose wildlife pieces are displayed in galleries all over the world. Mary Nestor Swift is as big a deal in the art world as my dad is in the scientific community.

  “I think so,” she replied. Bits of reddish clay were embedded beneath her fingertips. Even though she had her own private studio over the garage, the clay always managed to find its way into the rest of the house. The smeary residue kept the cleaning ’bots busy full-time. “The hawk sculpture is almost finished, though I’m going blind doing the detail work on all those feathers.” She shook her head and laughed. “Whose idea was it to give birds feathers anyway?”

  “Don’t look at me,” Dad joked. “My inventions are strictly featherless.”

  Changing the subject. Mom looked across the table at me. “So, tomorrow’s the big day, right? You and SwiftBot ready to go?”

  “You bet,” I answered. Tomorrow marked the beginning of the national finals of the first official Robot Olympics, a major event being sponsored by the White House Office of Science and Technology. Teenage inventors from around the country had built their own homemade robots and competed in a series of athletic competitions, testing their machines’ strength, speed, and versatility. Now the winners of the four regional divisions were coming to our city to vie for the national championship. The ultimate champion would win a grand prize of $50,000, but I was more interested in the bragging rights of claiming the number-one slot. If SwiftBot came in first, I planned to donate my share of the grand prize to my favorite charity: Geeks Without Borders, a nonprofit organization committed to providing computers to schools and clinics in developing countries. Yolanda intended to do the same. “Yo and I have been tweaking his b-ball programming ever since the last meet. I think we’ve finally worked out most of the bugs.”

  “Well, good luck, bro,” Sandy said. “Philly and I will definitely be there to cheer on SwiftBot.”

  A sleek gray tabby meowed at her feet. No doubt provoked by the smell of the raw fish, the cat sprang into Sandy’s lap. “Not now, Emma,” she gently scolded her pet. Reaching into her pocket, she dug out a fluffy pink sphere about the size of a golf ball and hurled it into the corridor outside the dining room. “Go chase!”

  “Works every time,” Sandy said with a chuckle. She had constructed the cat toy herself to occupy Emma whenever Sandy was too busy to keep throwing the ball herself. “Too bad there’s not a Cat Olympics. Emma would get the gold medal in chase for sure.”

  “She gets enough practice,” I admitted, but refrained from pointing out that, IMHO, robots were infinitely cooler than kitties, no matter how cute. “But SwiftBot would still beat her at basketball.”

  Sandy stuck out her tongue at me.

  “I still remember building my first robot,” Dad said. He smiled nostalgically. “Of course, we didn’t have integrated circuits and microchips back then, just vacuum tubes and old-fashioned pneumatic cylinders, but I was awful proud of it at the time. There was quite a commotion the first time it got loose and strolled into town!”

  “I’ll say!” Mom confirmed, remembering. “You practically threw all of Shopton into a panic.”

  Sandy rolled her eyes. “Because of that old thing?” She and I had both seen the ’bot in question, which was now on display in the lobby of Swift Enterprises. It was pretty clunky-looking by modern standards. “Boy, people spooked easily back in the day.”

  “Things haven’t changed all that much,” Dad observed. His expression grew more serious. “TRB just released another statement condemning the Robo Olympics.”

  “So what else is new?” I said angrily. TRB, short for The Road Back, was a nutty terrorist group that was completely opposed to modern science and technology. Its members were totally convinced that science had made the world a worse place, never mind all the amazing things the human race had achieved over the ages—like wiping out smallpox, or going to the moon. Just thinking about TRB made my blood boil, and I’m certain the feeling was mutual. As one of the premier scientific think tanks in the world, Swift Enterprises was near the top of TRB’s enemies list. My family and I had survived a number of run-ins with TRB over the years, none of them pleasant. “Why don’t they just give it a rest for once? Why try to spoil the competition for the rest of us?”

  “Fanatics don’t give up easily,” Dad pointed out. “They’re afraid that robots are going to replace humanity—and see the Robo Olympics as ‘anti-human propaganda …’” Concern deepened the creases in his forehead. “I just hope that there will be plenty of security at the games. Isn’t Theodora VanderMeer scheduled to attend?”

  I nodded. “At the final awards ceremony.” Dr. VanderMeer was a Nobel Prize-winning expert in artificial intelligence and the president’s chief scientific adviser to boot. “She’s going to present the grand prize to the winning robot and its inventors.”

  “You mean you and Yo,” Sandy added optimistically.

  “Here’s hoping,” I said, crossing my fingers.

  Thirsty, I reached for the pitcher of fruit punch and refilled my glass. My fingers were still sweaty from the game, however, and I accidentally hit the rim of the cup with the spout. The glass tumbled off the table, spilling bright red punch all over the floor. “Oops!” I blurted. “My bad!”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Mom said, calmly nibbling at a morsel of rice and eel. Dad and Sandy barely gave the spill a second glance.

  One of the perks of living in the house of the future was that our home could take care of accidents like this on its own. Before I could even bend over to retrieve my unbreakable plastic glass, a team of cleaning ’bots had scurried onto the scene and begun sucking up the spilled liquid. Within seconds, not a drop remained. Emma, arriving moments later, looked distinctly disappointed that there was nothing left for her to lap up. She gave the departing robots a dirty look.

  Me, I was glad to see the mess disposed of so efficiently. With any luck, SwiftBot would perform just as reliably at the upcoming Olympics.

  Whether TRB liked it or not.

  3

  The Games Begin

  I cruised through downtown Shopton in my red hybrid. We had lucked out with the weather, getting a clear sunny morning, so I drove with the top down, letting a cool breeze rustle my hair.

  The car responded like a dream, just as I had designed it to do. Next to SwiftBot, this car was my latest pride and joy. I’d spent months assembling it, and I had equipped the car with all sorts of cutting-edge features, such as a convertible nanoplastic shell, capable of changing color and configuration on demand, and “active wheels,” which automatically adjusted to changing road conditions. The SW-1, also known as the Swift Speedster, was strictly one of a kind, though Sandy was already talking about designing her own version next year.

  I couldn’t blame her for wanting one of her own. Sure beats riding the bus, I thought. In a pinch the Speedster could navigate on its own, but I was having too much fun to surrender the wheel to the onboard computer. Besides, I knew the route by heart.

  SwiftBot rode shotgun beside me. Ordinarily he traveled in a special trailer that Yo and I had converted into a mobile workshop/robot garage. For the first day of the Robot Olympics, though, I figured he deserved to arrive in style.

  Shopton High School was straight ahead. Our school had been selected as the site for the national finals, due in part to the excellence of its science-education programs. Swift Enterprises, among others, had donated generously to the school district over the years.

  I turned into the parking lot. The opening ceremonies were still hours away, but the lot was already filling up. I eased into one of the spaces reserved for the contestants.

  “There you are!” a voice called out to me.

  “About time!” another voice added.

  My best friends, Bud Barclay and Yolanda Aponte, were waiting for me. Yo’s own set of wheels, a turquoise hybrid coupe, was parked a few spaces away.

  “What’s the rush?” I called back to them. The Speedster’s doors opened automatically, and SwiftBot and I stepped out onto the blacktop. Behind me, the car’s nanoplastic shell extruded a glossy red top as it sealed and locked itself. “We’ve got plenty of time to get SwiftBot checked into the competition.”

  “I know, dude,” Bud said with a smile. (He was a skinny, African American kid with an easygoing vibe.) “We’re just giving you a hard time.” He fished a digital camera from his pocket and took a few steps backward. “How about a glamour shot of you and your metallic buddy there?”

  “Sure thing,” I answered, putting my arm around SwiftBot’s shoulders. Bud wrote for the school paper, the Shopton Gazette, and seldom missed an opportunity for a good story or photo op. While he clicked away with his camera, I touched base with Yo. “You get that b-ball footage I zapped you?”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Yolanda said. She munched on an energy bar as she spoke. Unlike Bud, she can be pretty intense. “We should take another look at SwiftBot’s software. You saw through his fake out way too easily, but I think I’ve kluged up a fix for that. I just need to install a few new subroutines.”

  “Okay,” I agreed readily. With anyone else, I would have been nervous about tinkering with the robot’s programming at this late date, but Yo was a genuine computer wizard, even if her athletic physique hardly fit the stereotype of the nerdy computer geek. Years of martial-arts training kept her in shape. Behind her dark brown eyes was a brain that could make even the balkiest CPU jump through hoops on command. I couldn’t have asked for a better partner in this competition. “Let’s open him up after the inspection. I want to defragment his hard drive one last time anyway.”

  Yo nodded. “We probably ought to check his neural nodes while we’re at it—make sure the parallel processing can cope with the latest refinements to his ‘fuzzy logic’ parameters.”

  “Enough technospeak!” Bud protested. “My eyes are glazing over already.” Bud isn’t much of a science guy. He prefers actual books to technical manuals, if you can believe it, and he’s even been known to write out his news stories longhand.

  Go figure.

  He plucked a pencil from behind his ear and extracted a notepad from his back pocket. “So what’s the deal with this ‘inspection’ business anyway? Aren’t SwiftBot’s workings top secret or something?”

  “Sort of,” I explained. “Way back at the beginning of the competition, before the first regional events, contestants had to submit their basic designs and blueprints to a panel of experts in order to qualify for the games. This information is supposed to be kept confidential, though, so none of us contestants can get any inside information on the strengths and weaknesses of the other robots.”

  “And this inspection deal?” Bud pressed.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Before the finals actually begin, the judges get a chance to check out the robots to make sure that they’re still essentially the same machines that entered the competition months ago, allowing for some fine-tuning and improvements. It’s a formality mostly.”

  “Just the same, I’ll be glad when it’s over,” Yo said. “I’m always afraid that we’re going to get disqualified on some technicality.” She glanced at her watch. “Speaking of which, it’s almost time for SwiftBot’s appointment. Let’s get this over with.”

  Leaving the parking lot, we headed for the science building, where the inspections were being held. SwiftBot walked smoothly beside us. His easy gait filled me with confidence.

  My dad would have been reassured by the tight security surrounding the school grounds. Even with official passes identifying us as contestants, we still had to pass through the metal detectors like everyone else. It was a hassle, but I couldn’t complain. Given TRB’s attitude toward the Robo Olympics, all this security was a reasonable precaution.

  Only SwiftBot got to skip the metal detectors, for obvious reasons.

  “Looks like you’re not the only reporter covering the event,” I said to Bud as we approached the building. About a dozen journalists from various papers and cable networks turned their cameras and microphones toward us. It wasn’t exactly a mob scene—this was the Robot Olympics, not the Super Bowl—but I was glad to see the competition getting so much publicity. With luck the news coverage would increase the publics interest in robotics—and maybe even inspire a new generation of young inventors.

  Take that, you TRB loonies.

  “Tom! Tom Swift!” a voice called from the gang of reporters. A guy wearing a tan sports jacket rushed forward and thrust a microphone in my face. “Luke McCabe. United News Network,” he said, identifying himself. He had the bland good looks, and blowdried hair, of your typical TV newsman. “What do you think your chances are?”

  I stepped closer to Yo, making sure she got her fair share of attention. “We’re feeling pretty confident,” I said, “although it’s sure to be an exciting competition. The other contestants have to know what they’re doing, or they wouldn’t have made it all the way to the finals.”

  “What about that balance problem?” McCabe pressed. “Have you got that licked yet?”

  I frowned, annoyed at the reporter for asking that question right in front of SwiftBot, even though I knew he could hardly hurt the robot’s feelings. Silly, I know, but what can I say? I couldn’t help feeling protective of SwiftBot.

  Yo, on the other hand, knew just how to handle the question. “You’ll have to wait and find out!” she said with a grin.

  McCabe liked her sound byte too. “I guess so.”

  A loud voice intruded on the conversation. “What’re you talking to those losers for? I’ve got your future winner right here.”

  A stocky, red-haired kid emerged from the science building, accompanied by a hulking, black robot. All eyes turned toward the new arrivals.

  “Oh boy,” Bud said sarcastically. “Look who’s here.”

  “Be still my heart,” Yo added.

  Aware of the news cameras all around, I tried not to look too ticked off. Andy Foger wasn’t exactly my favorite person—for good reason.

  “Hey, Swift!” he bellowed. “How’s that walking junk pile of yours doing? My FugBot is going to turn your wimpy windup toy into so much scrap metal!”

  Andy’s dad ran Foger Utility Group, Swift Enterprise’s major competitor. FUG had a well-deserved reputation for playing dirty, and so did Andy. He had been a cheat and a bully for as long as I had known him, which was way too long.

  “Hi, Andy,” I said coolly. We had known, of course, that Andy and his FugBot were going to be here, but that didn’t mean we were happy about it. “Good luck in the games.”

  “Save it,” he grunted. “You’re the one who is going to need all the luck. FugBot’s going to kick your robot’s butt!”

  “Is that why you’ve kept him thousands of miles from here?” I shot back. Even though the Fogers lived in Shopton as well, our robots had yet to compete against each other. Because his parents owned a vacation home in New Mexico, Andy had been able to enter FugBot in the Southern regional events instead. I liked to think he had avoided the East Coast meets in order to skip going head-to-head with Yo and me. “Afraid of the local competition?”

 

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