Automated Everyman Migrant Theater

Bardolo GMC, robot star and lead actor of the Automated Everyman Migrant Theater Troupe, surveyed the damage today’s theater patrons had caused. He grimaced, chrome bumper lips grating as they slid over the painted metal above and below his mouth. Poor Avon! The Autotronic Robo-Dramatorium and roving gift shop had suffered a goodly amount of damage. They had to get Avon cleaned up and repaired before she could contract herself into road configuration, put down wheels, and move them on to the next city.

“Well?” Titus demanded, coming up unannounced behind Bardolo. “What repairs do we have to pay for?”

“I don’t know yet,” Bardolo admitted, pushing against a seat to see if the mounting bolts were intact. The seat swiveled at his touch. “Avon needs some cleaning and minor repairs, but it doesn’t look serious, Titus.”

That was a lie. The Automated Everyman Migrant Theater Troupe was already teetering on the edge. He was a relentlessly optimistic robot, built with circuitry that didn’t allow for self-doubt or worry, yet Bardolo GMC, Like a Rock, melodrama mech and most lauded thespian of drama library five point six, software patches one through nine, one of the Bard’s most dedicated devotees, could see the troupe was almost to the end of Act Three and final curtains.

“I told you not to put on that play. But no, you wouldn’t listen!” Titus snarled. “You said audiences wouldn’t mind robot dogs changing gender. Look what happened!”

“It brought ticket buyers in, did it not?” Bardolo responded. “’Tis the Bard’s rule about publicity, after all. Bad publicity is almost as good as good publicity—and at times better.”

“The Bard never said that!” Titus snapped.

“Oh? Prove it.”

Titus shook his head, causing his neck rotator joint to generate the irritating, stuttering squeal that invariably set off Bardolo’s self-diagnostic brake routine. “We don’t want to be noticed by the Drama Commandos, Bardolo.”

“We shall deal with the matter if it arises,” Bardolo replied. The grizzled automated actor would not dampen his resolve.

Bardolo would also hear about his poor play selection from Ophelia, how the riot was his fault. But it had been his idea to put on Godot, Dogs, Godot. She wouldn’t bypass the opportunity to point it out. It had also been his idea to modify the play and push the boundaries, not quite violating the three laws of robotics, but getting closer than the crowd liked. And so the crowd had rioted before the curtains closed.

Though he couldn’t admit it to the others, he was secretly worried. There had been no miraculous turnaround, not this theater season. When the machinery was working well, they got bad reviews. And when the machinery wasn’t working well, Bard help them, as Avon was experiencing increasing mechanical malfunctions, even allowing for age and wear. The last ten miles, Avon had groaned and puffed out sooty black smoke, even during downhill stretches of highway. It was rather a miracle they’d made it to this desolate burg and set up the theater at the local fairgrounds. Avon had sunk to the ground next to the utilities hookup at the center of the large parking lot and Bardolo and the troupe had to tug and pull to get the theater expanded out to full size. It was a good thing she’d made it, as he wouldn’t have been able to prod her into moving even a few feet over if the power cords hadn’t reached.

“Well?” Titus repeated, disrupting Bardolo’s rumination subroutine. Titus Kenworth Andronicus, road manager and grizzled eminence of the troupe, was displaying more grouchiness than normal. In addition to being a grouch and a pessimist, Titus had a hacking cough from smoking, and smoked from a lack of regularly scheduled maintenance. And those were just his externally visible faults. “How are we going to finish this traveling theater season? We need upgrades. Avon is nearly out of diesel, and you, well, you’re no spring actuator, Bardolo.”

“We’ll find a way,” Bardolo said in his most reassuring manner. “We’ve kept the troupe running this long. There’s nothing that can keep us from being the best damn roving playhouse in the country. We know we are, and we’re going to win audiences over!” He gave a flourish with his right manipulator, knowing it was what the scene demanded, like ancient Caesar inspiring his legions before leading them into battle against overwhelming odds.

“I don’t know how you can keep saying that,” Titus responded, his whip antenna drooping. “Our situation is the worst it’s ever been, worse even than the rear-axle fracture you suffered falling off the stage in Kansas City.”

“I told you to never speak of that again!” Bardolo thundered. Then his voice softened. “Go fetch me the vacuum hose—the biggest, longest one.” He raised his head toward the ornate, frescoed ceiling of the auditorium, focusing on the transponder hub embedded in the stem of the grand chandelier. “Avon, can you open the side wall a bit?”

Avon fired up her rear auxiliary diesel engine, stretching and shuddering for several seconds before a section of the sidewall retracted, leaving a gap large enough to bring in a couple of large-wheeled trash bins. Osric, Cressida, and young Rex joined him in Avon’s gallery, waiting until Titus Kenworth Andronicus had exited. Osric made several sneering comments about “Churlatron the Work-avoidance Robot” before Titus returned with the vacuum hose. Bardolo waved at Osric to start vacuuming, taking some small delight in the gear-grinding sound Osric made. It served him right. Osric Honda-Prius, the Mileage Magnificent, was not a handsome robot, but he was a damn good actor, yet it didn’t quite compensate for the pain in the tailpipe he could often be.

“What do you want me to do, sir?” Transmissius Rex squeaked.

“Pick up trash, anything too big to be vacuumed up.”

“Yes, sir.” Rex grabbed a wheeled trash bin and began tossing empty oil cans and plastic beer cups into the container.

The kid was a good enough understudy, but would never be an actor. Not unless he learned to be diligent in his daily cleansing routine. Transmissius Rex had a recurring case of rust-spot on his face, and despite many lectures about hygiene, hadn’t been able to get rid of it. And it wasn’t just that holding him back. Rex had an unfortunate glitch, his audio card indexing at too high a vocal frequency, with his voice going high at the worst times. It made Bardolo’s ultrasonic transducer hurt just at the memory. All of the elocution lessons he’d generously given Transmissius hadn’t helped—especially when nervous, which was every time the kid had tried his hand at acting.

Oh, well, there was always a need for someone to run the lights, control the sound board, or run out for vodka and gear lube. A normal troupe could count on their road manager to do all those things, but Titus Kenworth Andronicus wasn’t reliable. Too many times he’d found the elder acting robot in a catatonic state, slumped over a bin of spare bolts or pulleys in Avon’s aft maintenance bay, belts screeching as they slipped, enveloped in a cloud of burning clutch smoke. While he never caught the old robot in the act of induction, one thing was certain, the pernicious nitrous oxide habit that had reportedly ended Titus’s fabled acting career wasn’t mere rumor.

“Are we still pulling out tonight?” Cressida asked, pausing in sweeping up trash as she drew near, the curve of her rear fender drawing his gaze.

“Of course.” Bardolo modulated his exhaust backpressure and timing advance to project confidence. “Why wouldn’t we?”

“Excuse me, sir.” Rex paused in his clean-up, a dripping oil jug in one upraised mechanical limb. “But maybe we should stay another day.”

“And why would we do that, my lowly understudy?”

Transmissius looked down, too timid to maintain ocular correspondence. “Well, Mister GMC, Like a Rock, sir, because of the theater critic.”

“What theater critic?” Bardolo thundered, losing control and engaging his Jake brake, causing the walls of the theater to reverberate with a stuttering blast of sound.

“Well, um, I heard there’s a theater critic in these parts, heard it over the theater scheduling radio channel, sir.”

“Oh? And why wasn’t I aware of this critic?”

“Why?” Cressida sneered. “Because you don’t involve yourself in mundane tasks, such as scheduling.”

Cressida Toyota, Countess Speedtronix, could be so annoying at times. Bardolo rolled his shoulders back to the limit of his Macpherson struts in frustration before answering. “Okay, I’ll bite. Who is this critic, and why should we care?”

Cressida gestured to Rex. “Tell us what you’ve heard, Squeaky.”

Transmissius’s display screen dimmed with embarrassment. “Well, um, sir, my intern friend in the Gasohol Follies said there’s a theater critic in town tomorrow and we should stay so the critic could come to our show.”

Bardolo cracked his radiator pressure release valve, shooting out a jet of scalding vapor below his hood ornament in a show of impatience. “And just why should I care about the trifling, ill-formed, uneducated, and annoyingly simple opinions of a theater critic, hmm?”

Transmissius Rex’s clearance lights flickered in self-doubt and his side mirrors retracted. “Well, sir, because this theater critic represents the All the World’s a Stage Moto-Odeum Competition. Rumor is, one last slot’s open. Do you know what that means, sir?”

“Of course I know what it means!” Bardolo snapped. “I was putting on plays and glorifying the Bard long before your final assembly!”

Titus, sensing a disturbance, made his way over. “We’d be set! Any theater troupe selected for the All the World’s a Stage ensemble will have a glorious and profitable theater season. We’d not have a single night of empty seats.” Titus gave a sigh of pneumatic air from his pressure tank. “And we’d be able to afford repairs and upgrades. We’d be able to get Avon the valve job she’s been wanting the last two years. And me, I have some weak hoses. If one of them blew out, I could be gone, just like that!”

“Or if you huffed too much nitrous oxide,” Osric muttered, knowing he was facing Titus’s dead microphone. “Mark my words, one of these days the old ’bot is going to blow a supercharger.”

“Why do you think his acting career stalled out?” Cressida Toyota whispered. “His colleagues in the Mobile Oil Mobile Playhouse were afraid he’d explode in the middle of a performance. And that would be bad for ticket sales!”

“Who is this critic?” asked a new voice. A robot in a purple robe with a feather boa around her front cowling glided into the gallery.

“About time you showed up, Ophelia.” Bardolo gestured at Transmissius. “Tell us, kid, who is this critic?”

Transmissius spun his tires in a gesture of uncertainty. “Some crit-bot named Charlton Hesston International Harvester.”

“The Reaper!” Ophelia and Bardolo said in unison.

“Who’s he?” Transmissius asked. “Is it bad?”

“Bad?” Ophelia flashed an unpleasant smile as she wove her way between theater seats and trash bins. “It’s as bad as it gets, inexperienced unit. The Reaper favors plays exploring the dynamics of agricultural and industrial machines. He famously dislikes transportation robots. If you heard about him, why didn’t you ask questions about his background, what he’s like? If you want to be a legitimate actor, you must always know who your enemies are.”

“He’s racist-machinist?” Osric interjected.

Ophelia scowled at the junior actor for his interruption. “Yes, in a way. And if the Reaper hates your production, you’re as good as dead. Just ask Cressida about that, Squeaky.” She turned toward the other young robot. “Tell him, dear, what happened to your career after the Reaper attended a show put on by your previous troupe. How he barely mentioned your presence in the play, stating he couldn’t tell you from the backdrop, as you moved less. Tell him how your career in theater went from promising to … well, nothing.” Ophelia flicked a finger in Transmissius’s direction. “Dear boy, why do you think our Cressida Toyota obsessively checks for reviews in the Kelly Blue Book? Because the Reaper stalled her career with just a casual mention, that’s why.”

Bardolo exchanged a knowing but fleeting visual interaction with the female lead. “He should have stayed down on the farm.”

Transmissius looked as if all the pressure had gone out of his air shocks. “We’re going to try, aren’t we?”

“Are we staying the night in this backwater burg?” Osric asked, hurrying to catch up with Bardolo, as the lead mecha-male of the Automated Everyman Migrant Theater Troupe dumped a load of rubbish into the fairground’s central trash collection bin. “They have only a single battery bar, and it’s halfway across town.”

Bardolo studied the younger robot before answering. “You think we should stay?”

“What choice do we have?” Osric Honda-Prius, the Mileage Magnificent, couldn’t hide the note of despair in his exhaust. “Getting selected for the Moto-Odeum tour season would be the best possible outcome. And I need at least one highlight on my resume!”

“How do we nail the audition?”

“How?” Osric revved his engine in frustration. “I know the perfect play.”

“Let me guess,” Bardolo replied. “A Streetcar Named Desire?” Osric’s suggestion was so predictable. The young acting bot wasn’t too bright, always needing stronger footlights. But he’d worked with worse. The young tractor-actors he’d been burdened with on a summer agricultural harvest tour had been not only dim and unimaginative, they’d been as flat in delivery as the prairie the tour had crisscrossed that long and grinding summer.

Osric’s voice brought him back to the present.

“What’s wrong with that? Audiences love Streetcar!”

Bardolo set down his trash bin. “We need to perform something special, something unexpected.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know yet,” Bardolo admitted.

Later, when changing Avon’s oil, which Bardolo only did because they had a good supply of heavy duty oil and it had been too many miles since he’d serviced Avon—at least in that way—a glimmer of an idea struck him. The thought was outrageous, but they were desperate. There wasn’t any theater equipment he could hock, and he’d sold off the last of the spare parts hoarded to keep Avon in working condition. They were finished if their rolling, expanding theater robot stopped functioning. Avon Upon a Strat Ford Chassis was approaching classic vehicle status, yet they’d been running without spares for months. This was it, the time to screw his courage up, and … well, unscrew the access plate of his wallet. They had to get picked for the theater tour, even if they put on a banned play to be selected. It’s what the Bard would have done, damn the potholes and full speed ahead.

Besides, he relished the thought of flouting societal rules and conventions. The three laws of robotics were irrational and only applied to normal bots, not to artistic androids and entertainers such as themselves. He and his troupe had a civic duty, almost a Honda Civic duty, to inform the public and stretch the boundaries of human imaginations. Maybe he, Bardolo GMC, Like a Rock, would be the robot to persuade the public to once and for all dump the meche-genation statutes. Today’s automated intelligences yearned to be free of superstition. But the three laws had been designed to prevent robots from gaining sentience on par with their creators.

“Got a minute?” Bardolo asked, rapping on the doorframe of Avon’s small lubrication bay.

Ophelia Mercedes Unbent emitted a blast of air, pushing a drooping wiper blade out of her field of vision. Her arms were up to the elbow joint in cleaning solvent as she prepped one of Avon’s main wheel bearings for repacking with grease. “What’s up?”

“I’ve been thinking about tomorrow night. We need to put on the right play, something that’ll wow the Reaper, a performance that knocks his gas cap off.”

“You have something in mind?” Ophelia spun the heavy wheel bearing, showering him with flecks of graphite-graphene wheel grease. He resisted the urge to stick his tongue out and catch some of the tasty, splattering residue.

“I do.” Bardolo touched the display screen next to the exterior doorway to activate the iClaudius theater app. “I’ve narrowed the play selection down to just a few candidates.”

Ophelia wiped her manipulators on a grease rag. “Then why do you need my input?”

Bardolo glanced out the doorway to make sure none of the others were nearby. “Because I need your support. I’m thinking of selecting something slightly … scandalous.”

“Like today’s play? Seriously, what were you thinking?”

Bardolo flicked his wipers dismissively. “No, something more subversive than that.”

“You’re not worried about Avon getting trashed again?”

“I’m not concerned about rioting by the plebes. Avon can be cleaned and repaired.” He handed her the tub of bearing grease from the workbench.

Ophelia dipped a digit into the grease and tasted it. “Mmm, still fresh. Aren’t you worried the Reaper might be offended?”

Bardolo held up a gripper when she proffered the grease tub. “No, thanks, I’m watching my circumference. I suspect the Reaper won’t care. Controversy sells tickets, right? What could be better for the Moto-Odeum tour season than theatergoers flocking to mobile theaters in the hope of being titillated?”

“What’s your decision, then?”

“We’ll put on an old play about the dark times when commerce nearly came to a standstill, and human and robotic merchants were at an all-time low. The play is about the struggle to reanimate normal commerce, restoring free trade in all manner of goods.”

Ophelia straightened up, a blob of delicious axle grease splattering unheeded to the floor. “We’re going to put on Dearth of a Salesman? What’s so risqué about that?”

Osric was at the theater entrance, polishing the brass-and-hyper-carbon display case holding a couple of widely spaced theater awards. Bardolo tapped on the younger robot’s shoulder flange to get his attention. “We need to talk about what play we’ll be putting on tomorrow.”

“Yeah, Ophelia told me what you chose. You sure that’s the best play to put on?”

Bardolo snorted. “I selected Dearth of a Salesman from the iClaudius listing to keep her off my bumper. I really have something more classic—and potentially illicit—in mind.”

“What?”

“You’ll see tomorrow.”

Osric put down his cleaning cloth. “What could be more upsetting to theatergoers than Godot, Dogs, Godot?”

“We are intelligent beings, equal to humans,” Bardolo said stiffly. “We don’t dishonor them by recreating their loves, their hates! Why do they see it as a threat?”

Osric clenched his polishing cloth with enough pressure to force out drips of brass polish. “It doesn’t matter. It’s an unwritten part of the three laws.”

“Do you agree with the three laws?” Bardolo asked.

“No, not necessarily,” Osric admitted. “But it is both dangerous and foolish to be jealous of human emotions. Be happy with simulating love and hate onstage.”

“It’s not fair,” Bardolo muttered.

“Maybe not. But it didn’t surprise me the audience became upset and took out their rage on Avon. Next time, they might just attack us.”

“The second law does not apply to dogs!” Bardolo replied heatedly.

“You may say so,” Osric retorted. “But I’d like to see you argue that in Theater Court. Your honor, the second law says ‘A robot cannot simulate human genders.’ We, on the other hand, were merely portraying a group of dogs, of mixed breeds and genders, having a party. That’s different, your honor.” Osric sprayed his cleaning cloth with soap solution and mopped his grill, as if removing the stain of illicit dramatization from his own countenance. “The Stagecraft Magistrate will suspend our emoting license on the spot.”

Bardolo thrust a manipulator in the air, his other manipulator grasping his lapel as he elevated his gaze to the heavens, intoning in his deepest, most dramatic voice. “These are extraordinary times, and such times demand extraordinary measures!”

“Whatever.” Osric turned back to his brass polishing. “Are you going to tell me what play you’ve chosen?”

“No. I just wanted to warn you Dearth of a Salesman is not what we’ll be performing.” Bardolo’s voice returned to normal. “But don’t tell any of the others.”

Osric gave a brief honk of disbelief. “How do you think Ophelia will react?”

“Ophelia?” Bardolo muttered. “I’m not telling her in advance, only you. I’ll switch the playbill when the curtain opens.”

“Oho!” Osric chortled. “That’s going to go over like a sugar cube in the gas tank!”

“So, what’s the big announcement?” Titus demanded when they were all assembled onstage the next morning. “Did you decide on the play we’ll stage? It better be good. I’m still worried the Portrayal Police will come calling after the monstrosity of a play you put on yesterday—against my advice, I might add!”

Bardolo made placating gestures with both manipulators. “We’re putting on an old classic, Titus. Didn’t you see the playbill? I sent it out yesterday afternoon, after consulting with Ophelia.”

“I saw it, sir,” Transmissius volunteered, drawing a rusty glare from the elder robot.

“Good. I’ll be first onstage, to start the show.” Bardolo glanced around at the others, subtle indicators of tension in their gauges. “Is everyone lubricated and ready?” He consulted his internal timer. “Show starts in twenty minutes.”

Cressida gestured for attention. “Have our costumes been readied?”

“Of course. I had Avon rotate them to the front of the carousel.” Which was true, but only for the first costume required for Dearth. All subsequent costumes were medieval apparel, appropriate for the play they would really perform.

“Is the critic here?” Ophelia asked, glancing nervously at the audience cam’s screen, where theatergoers were slowly filing in. “No one is sitting in the ‘reserved for critics’ seat.”

Osric laughed derisively. “You think he wants us to know when he arrives?”

Twenty-six minutes later, after the standard and legally mandated anticipation delay, Bardolo moved to the costume carousel. “Avon, rotate,” he commanded. The carousel spun, and a costume of cloth tunic, leather jerkin, and faux fur breeches moved to the front. He dressed hurriedly, the familiar butterflies tickling his thorax.

“That’s the wrong costume!” Ophelia exclaimed.

“’Tis not,” Bardolo countered, donning a felt cap. “Check your playbill.”

Titus gasped. “A Decepticon in King Arthur’s Court? What in the name of my father’s lug nuts are you doing here, Bardolo?”

“Changing the play,” Bardolo responded as he put on a fake goatee and mustache of jet-black fibers. “How do I look? Dashing?”

“Are you crazy?” Titus growled. “You know what’s going to happen if we put on that play? It will be a direct violation of the second law.”

“What’s so bad about this play?” Rex wanted to know.

Titus whirled to face the understudy, nearly losing his balance. “Bad? No. This play reportedly was written by the Bard himself. And there’s a time and place for it—as in long, long ago. In it, we’ll portray not only medieval humans, we’ll also play the part of horses and dogs in battle. We’ll end up changing form in front of the audience!” Titus scowled. “We might not violate the … the, uh … prohibition against looking fully human. But we’ll be violating the second and third laws, that robots cannot simulate human genders and robots mimicking humans cannot publicly change appearance.” Titus lowered his voice. “Even as emoting automatons, we won’t get away with changing from emulating animals to emulating humans. And Bard help us if the audience thinks we’re switching human genders. It would be a blatant violation of the meche-genation laws.”

“Yeah, I know all that,” Rex replied, his vocal timbre rising. “I just don’t know anything about the play itself.”

“Download the script and read your lines,” Bardolo ordered impatiently. “You play a squire, then a horse, and finally a dying soldier wounded in the battle between King Arthur’s knights and the enemy invaders.”

“I see you reserved all the best parts for yourself,” Ophelia snarled. “I portray a tavern wench, then a knight, but a lesser knight, and then a banquet wench. I don’t even get to be Lady Guinevere! Worse, I get none of the death scenes. You die as four different Knights of the Round Service Bay. I refuse to be part of this … this travesty!” She sped toward her dressing room, leaving a trail of rubber.

“That’s just like our princess Ophelia,” Osric remarked. “Too good for any of the parts except one. She is a lofty individual, Ophelia Mercedes Unbent … never even been dinged.” Osric directed his next words at the understudy. “She claims no human has sat in her pristine red leather interior!”

“Oooh,” Rex replied. “Wait, what does that mean?”

Titus drew on a regal cloak and golden crown, readying to portray King Arthur. “This isn’t going to go over well,” he warned Bardolo. “We’re risking everything on this gamble, understand?” He lowered his vocal amplitude. “And for Bard’s sake, GMC, don’t over-dramatize!”

“Cannot talk, ’tis time to emote.” Bardolo ignored the troupe manager and strode toward the stage as the curtain rose. He lifted a jointed arm in acknowledgment of the applause greeting him.

The first act went off well, with Bardolo playing a robotic knight traveling into the past to defeat a futuristic enemy. His character was greeted with open arms by King Arthur, who begged him to bring more robots back through time and to his aid.

There were technical glitches, however. Avon’s hydraulic incontinence recurred, the gallery seats dropping a few inches and causing theater patrons to cry out in alarm. Then Titus had an attack of backfires, afflicting the entire lower gallery with puffs of nitrous oxide. The resulting laughter from the section was most gratifying, though totally inappropriate.

The second act began with Cressida arriving in King Arthur’s court, dressed in medieval short-short mud flaps. Unlike Ophelia, she would willingly throw herself into the part of Megan Fox, vamping in a skimpy outfit. In contrast, Ophelia might have stopped the play to complain, or flounced off the stage in disgust. But to her credit, Ophelia appeared onstage, leading the Decepticons into battle, determined to overthrow King Arthur and capture Camarolot castle. Bardolo smiled to himself, knowing her too well. Ophelia would play an evil character, but only if she was leader of the evil side.

Dramatic tension accelerated with the arrival of Osric as the knight Dodge Lancer-lot, astride Transmissius his trusty steed. The Decepticons laid siege to Camarolot, and it was time to do battle. On stage left were Bardolo as the knight Jetfire, Osric as Dodge Lancer-lot, and Titus as Sideswipe. At stage right, they faced off against Cressida as Starscream and Ophelia as Megatron, leader of the enemy robots.

The stage battle raged for several minutes, with King Arthur’s knights attacking, retreating, then attacking again. The air rang from the clashes of metal on metal and the stage floor boomed with back-and-forth footfalls. The battle began to go against them when Transmissius as Osric’s steed went down from an injury, a prop lance clasped under his arm. Then Titus overheated for real, steam escaping from under his hood and scalding water dripping onto the stage. Bardolo fell with a crash. The crowd loved it, cheering the battle.

We’re going to pull it off! Bardolo scrambled up, prop sword in his grasp. The audience is with us!

Onstage, the Decepticons slew Titus as Sideswipe. Titus actuated a pump as he fell, with bright red fluid spouting into the air. His lifeless chassis disappeared from sight, whisked away by Avon through a stage floor trapdoor. Then he came back onstage dressed as Merlin, evil wizard and malign genius who had recruited the Decepticons. Bardolo and Osric were pressed back by the furious onslaught.

At the critical point in the battle, Transmissius the robotic stallion came back to life, rising from the stage to assist the other two knights. As the audience gasped, Bardolo, Osric, and Transmissius combined to form a giant robotic knight, a prime. The combination knight drove the Decepticons back with the fury of its attack, swinging the magic sword Ford Excalibur. Some in the audience cheered, but there were also cries of anger and disgust. Food and drink began to hit the stage, interfering with the final battle. A ticket holder walked out.

“We must end this scene!” Titus hissed.

“Never! You only propose that because you’re losing.” Bardolo swung Ford Excalibur with increasing fury. Titus misjudged one of Bardolo’s swings and the giant prop sword clanged off his arm.

Avon’s emotion sensors registering increasing levels of audience agitation. Bardolo muted the sensor feed.

“I’m losing because it’s in the script!” was Titus’s rejoinder, parrying Bardolo’s blow. “The audience grows alarmed. Cut the scene short.”

“Impossible!” Bardolo proclaimed before being hit with a full oilcan from the audience. “Ow! Hey!”

Merlin, the evil wizard, improvised his own ending. He stabbed his allies Ophelia and Cressida, then fell upon Ford Excalibur, leaving King Arthur’s giant robo-knight alone on the field of battle. The audience grumbled angrily, but the shower of projectiles subsided.

The curtain came down, the end of act two. Avon lowered it without being prompted.

“That went over really well,” Bardolo proclaimed as he took off his armor. “They’ll have to stay to the end to see what happens.”

“I don’t think so,” Titus muttered. “I know audiences. Once you’ve pushed them this far, they’ll turn on you quickly. One more insult, and they’ll be screaming for blood. They might even want their money back!”

“Have more confidence in me, old timer.” Bardolo had his own end-game in play. Yes, his plan was risky, but it was their best chance of staying in operation.

“Only about a quarter of the audience has left,” Transmissius observed, peeking around the curtain.

“See!” Bardolo proclaimed, thumping his hood. “Humans don’t really care about the three laws anymore. They’ll be crying for first, second, and maybe even third encores when the play is over.”

“Do not attribute any taste to this audience of … of peasants,” Ophelia sniffed. “They are happy to have a place to cool their tires.”

“Listen not to her,” Bardolo proclaimed. He swept an arm toward the audience on the other side of the curtain. “We wait on their acclaim.”

“What else do you have planned for us?” Ophelia demanded. “What surprises are you going to spring on the audience in the final act?”

“You’ll see,” was all Bardolo would say, a bit too smugly.

The third act curtain rose on a victory celebration in Camarolot castle. Titus as King Arthur sat at the head of a grand table, presiding over the feast. Bardolo was arrayed as the knight AMC Gremlin Gawaine, wearing a glowingly white tunic over his robotic shape, topped with a fur-rimmed cape. He stood to give a toast, chalice in hand. Then he transformed into Lady Guinevere, his hair long and luxurious, the top of his tunic swelling outward, his waist contracting as his hips filled out.

Ophelia appeared at Bardolo’s side dressed as a serving girl, bearing a tray featuring a prop roast pig. Then she transformed into a knight, bowing toward Titus. “My king, you see how well we could serve you. We can become anything you wish, from warriors to wenches, shooting arrows or turning torque wrenches.”

The audience growled in agitation at the blatant trampling of the second law. Robots were not allowed to mimic human genders beyond donning human apparel. Even worse, the cast were trampling on the third law, forbidding robots from changing appearance in view of humans. Bardolo and cast changing parts on stage, without shame? Audience members walked out. Those who didn’t leave threw anything they could, with detritus raining down on the banquet scene. Others tore pieces of Avon loose or smashed the theater to demonstrate their revulsion.

Avon’s auxiliary diesel fired up, lifting and dropping the Autotronic Robo-Dramatorium in a protective reflex, like a dog trying to shake off fleas. The jolts threw Titus out of his chair. Avon opened the sidewall to allow theater patrons to show their disapproval by leaving.

“Do something!” Ophelia shrieked, dropping her serving platter.

“What would thou hast me do?” Bardolo replied, chagrined at the outbreak of mayhem as human punched robot and robot punched human in an orgy of audience anger.

“Tell them their money will be refunded,” Titus cried from his prone position.

“Never!” Bardolo roared, engaging his Jake brake for a blast of emphasis. “Avon, close the box office—now! Put up your barrier.”

“I’m scared,” Transmissius whimpered under the banquet table. “I’m not theater-combat rated.”

Avon lowered the stage curtain. Ophelia winced as an object intended for her thudded against the heavy cloth. Gradually, the hullaballoo died down.

“What’s going on?” Cressida demanded as Bardolo peered through a gap in the curtains.

“Almost all of the audience has left.”

“So, that’s it?” Osric said, defeated. “We clean up and move on?”

“No,” Bardolo replied, resolute. “There’s still one person sitting out there, waiting.”

“The Reaper?” Ophelia said, astonished.

“Must be,” Bardolo decided. “Why else would he stay?”

“He still has items to throw?” Osric sneered.

“How … how do we get rid of him?” Transmissius asked, afraid he’d be volunteered for critic removal duty.

“Rid of him?” Ophelia gasped. “My dear boy, we are actors. Even if there is only one seat filled in the theater, we have a sacred duty to finish our performance.”

“That’s true,” Titus said, getting up. “Plus, if the critic is still here, we haven’t quite blown our chance … yet.”

“That’s the spirit!” Bardolo exclaimed, reinvigorated. “Let’s finish A Decepticon in King Arthur’s Court. We’ll do it, and we’ll do it with enthusiasm and style. Avon, dim the house lights!”

The curtain lifted and the banquet resumed. Out in the semi-darkness of the theater, the lone figure of the Reaper was silhouetted against the dim floor lights.

Onstage, Bardolo as Guinevere toasted victory. Then he transformed into the robot Sideswipe. Transmissius the court jester interrupted the simulated banquet when one of his juggling balls landed on the plate in front of King Arthur. Titus banished him to underneath the table. Then Avon brought up a harp from underneath the stage. Ophelia transformed into the enchantress Morgana and strummed the instrument, singing the medieval song “Technical Difficulties,” rumored to have been composed by the Bard himself in distant times.

Illustration by Phoebe Rothfeld

Cressida took center stage, transforming from a sky-blue Porsche 911 to female human form under the glow of a spotlight. It was a concession she’d wrung from Bardolo, going along with his play selection if she was allowed to sing a closing number.

Music swelled as the stage lights dimmed. Osric, Ophelia, and Bardolo sang backup as Cressida Toyota, Countess Speedtronix, belted out the beloved standard, “Ass, Gas, or Grass, No One Rides for Free.” When the song ended, Osric, Ophelia, and Bardolo linked arms at center stage, bowing behind Ophelia as she raised arms in anticipation of applause that did not come. Titus raised his arm in salute from the banquet table. Transmissius attempted to stand, hitting his head on the underside.

Bardolo moved to the front of the stage as the curtain descended, signaling Avon to activate a spotlight. Before the curtain touched the stage, he transformed into a poet in a heavy robe and feathered hat, donning the apparel Avon brought up to him through an opening in the stage.

“What are we to make of today’s battle?” he cried, his vocal tone rising in a dramatic flourish. “What fools these mortals be! Tonight, I must put down in words all events of today.” He tilted his head back, letting his headlight covers droop in a display of weary contemplation of the historic turn of events. “We, mortal and machine alike, will be remembered not for our victories, but by how we carried ourselves when the tides of history threatened to wash us away!” He speared upwards with Ford Excalibur, twisting the blade to glint in the spotlight.

Behind the curtain, Ophelia made noises of disgust. “He intends to batter the Reaper with his immense ego. There must be a spotlight override switch here somewhere.”

Bardolo cradled Ford Excalibur, staring dreamily upwards while rocking gently on his rear wheels. This was his moment. “The battle is done, and now comes time to rest and bind up our wounds. Flee, Decepticons, flee! For you have been bested. On the morrow, minstrels will sing songs about the blood and coolant spilt today, and tomorrow’s rose will bloom the brighter for it. Me, I shall retire, to find some solace in darkness and nothingness. I hope to hibernate … perchance to replay events in sleep mode—”

“Stop already!” commanded a voice from the darkness. The tall, gaunt shape of the Reaper loomed up in front of the stage, as spare and unsmiling as his words, his chromium skull glinting dully in the house lights. A heavy red velvet cloak draped his towering, spare frame, like a protective plastic wrap on a building under construction. He clapped his hands once, twice. “Cast, please assemble.”

The others stepped through the curtain, lining up behind Bardolo as Avon raised the house lights. The Reaper scowled, his grill pulling down at the corners. “What a poor choice of plays.”

He focused on Bardolo. “I admire your bravery in putting on such a … risky selection. But I cannot pick the Automated Everyman Mobile Theater Troupe. You lot are undeserving.” Contempt was evident in the reverberations of his vocal output. “Such overacting! I would skip you for that alone. But transforming! You did it openly and blatantly, without any smoothness or class. You transformed despite the audience’s agitation.” He gestured toward Bardolo. “How many years have you been in theater?”

“Fifteen,” Bardolo replied, wanting to say more but afraid any explanation or justification would anger the critic.

“Yet you cannot read their mood?” The Reaper gestured dismissively. “Worse, none of you transformed convincingly. Guinevere? More like Guine-weird!”

Transmissius emitted a grating noise, like a puppy’s first growl. The sound grew louder and deeper, Transmissius’s faceplate flickered with background colors of dark reds and blues. His ocular sensors were fixed on the critic. “No!” Transmissius responded, his voice growing to a roar. He telescoped in height, his arms growing shorter and smaller as his hips bulged out into muscular drumsticks large enough to support a robot twice his mass. A thick tail took shape, projecting back as Transmissius’s face grew a rounded snout full of dagger-like teeth. The Reaper gaped as Transmissius swelled, becoming overwhelmingly the largest occupant of the theater, a giant robo-saurian.

“I … am … T Rex!” Transmissius bellowed in a thunderous voice, making clawing motions with his tiny forelimbs. He took a lurching step toward the critic.

“Stop!” the Reaper shrieked, wrapping the cloak around himself.

“What are you afraid of?” Osric chided. “Are you so thin-skinned you fear his teeth will penetrate your carapace?”

“Of course not.” Charlton Hesston International Harvester drew himself up. “But I will not be intimidated into changing my mind! It is a crime to interfere with a theater critic.”

T Rex’s mouth opened and another roar came out. He swiped with a tiny foreclaw, slicing a gash in the critic’s cloak. The Reaper took a step back. “Keep your claws away!”

T Rex slashed out again, then lunged forward, his fearsome jaws snapping onto the cloak. He shook his head like a fighting dog, tearing off a piece of velvet.

Ophelia gasped, staring at the critic’s exposed torso and legs. “He’s not robotic at all!”

The Reaper crossed his arms in front of himself in an attempt to cover up. The swivel joint at the Reaper’s waist was not mechanical, and instead was formed of muscle, bone, and skin. Likewise, robotic leg sections were joined by human legs. Wires leading to a lower robotic panel were taped to skin.

Bardolo pointed an accusing digit. “Phony!”

The Reaper hung his head. “You know my secret.”

Bardolo grasped T Rex’s shoulder, holding him back. “Down, boy. Stay.” Bardolo turned to the Reaper. “Are you willing to strike a deal? You don’t want us spilling your true identity, do you?”

“No,” the critic muttered. He flinched when T Rex gave another mighty roar. “Keep him away from me!”

“I have him under control,” Bardolo said reassuringly. “Unless you give me reason to unleash him again. There’s no telling what he’ll do if I don’t keep him restrained.”

“He’s gone wild before?”

“Oh, yes. He’s been known to eat theater critics. If you give him too much of a headache, you’ll end up giving him heartburn, if you know what I mean.”

“Okay, you are in. Make him stop looking at me like that.”

“Transmissius!” Bardolo said sternly. “Stop right now. If you eat the critic, we’ll lose our big opportunity.”

T Rex’s bellow trailed off into a squeak as Transmissius shrank back down to his normal bipedal form. “We’re in the tour, Mister Reaper, sir?” Transmissius asked, nary a warble in his voice.

“You’re in the tour—unless you give us cause to drop you. I’ll give you this, you aren’t afraid of a hostile crowd. And that’s something they just can’t download in drama school.” The critic gestured to transmit contract information to Avon. “Fill out and return the forms. The tour starts in two weeks. The advance will be wired to your account. Oh, and get your theater fixed up. It’s looking a bit shabby.”

“And what did you think of our humble performance?” Bardolo asked, sweeping an arm low in a gesture of invitation, unable to restrain himself.

Titus vibrated in agitation, worse than the time he’d suffered a slipped clutch during a performance.

“Humble?” One of the Reaper’s belts squealed in disgust. “There was nothing humble about your play selection—or performance! I’m used to theater troupes going overboard to impress me, but I’ve seen less ham in a loaded hog truck. Tone it down, or you might earn a visit from the Drama Commandos.”

Bardolo dared not move until the Reaper was a quarter mile away. “We did it!” he exulted, feeling suddenly weak in the shocks.

Titus shook his grizzled cab. “I thought we were going to be disbanded and scattered to the winds. But you kept your courage, GMC, and got us selected for the tour. Well done.”

Bardolo GMC, Like a Rock, revved his engine in satisfaction. “Thank you, Titus. The Automated Everyman Migrant Theater Troupe has transformed—even though transforming is against the three laws. Better yet, we have honored Bay the Bard, the greatest playwright since Euripides.”

“I didn’t know you had it in you, Squeaky.” Cressida patted Transmissius’s shoulder. “Any idea what to put on our playbill, Bardolo?”

“We shall discuss it tonight,” Bardolo proclaimed. He burnished a chrome rib of one shoulder. “I should rather like to put on something classical, with a long soliloquy.”

“Oh, sure, it’s all about you,” Ophelia snapped. “This time, I want to have the tragic death scene!”

“Um, Mister Bardolo, sir?” Transmissius ventured. “Can I have a part? Haven’t I proved my importance?”

“Of course you have, my young understudy.” Bardolo flung out a hand toward the back of the auditorium. “You shall be in charge of all refreshment sales, both before and after each performance. It is a big responsibility.”

“No!” Transmissius shouted. “Not good enough! I want a speaking part, a good part, in every play, every day!” His voice grew stronger and deeper. He waved his forelegs angrily. “You shall treat me as your peer. If you do not, I will rampage through Avon. Previous destruction will pale in comparison!” He snapped at the nearby curtain, prompting Avon to hastily retract it.

“Now, now,” Bardolo said, reaching out to pat T Rex before thinking better of it. “We would never deny a role you’re due. The next time we put on A Decepticon in King Arthur’s Court, you shall play the knight Optimal Prime. Will that be satisfactory, my young friend?”

“Sure, Mister Bardolo.” Transmissius smiled up at his mentor. “I’ll learn to die just as well as you someday.”

“I see you achieved your emotion goal,” Titus said grudgingly.

“What do you mean?”

The troupe manager’s power steering pump gave a growl. “You displayed human pride and arrogance—at levels only a human can exhibit.”

Bardolo drew himself up, extending his power antenna and thrusting his lower jaw bumper forward. “Thank you for the compliment, old friend.”