Well, Officer, the trouble really start when Mr. Vincent dead.
I shouldn’t have been surprise eh. My neighbour wasn’t studying he health at all. He was young still, in he sixties, so he spend a lot of time by the bar down by the football field drinking and quarrelling over politics and All Fours games. But Mr. Vincent was a decent neighbour to the people he live by. He was the first to check on everybody if anything happen, and he never fight nobody over they land boundary or nothing. He had plenty money because he used to work as a manager in the biscuit factory up Mt. Lambert, and then he children went America and get government job. With what they send him and the government pension here, he had money to invest in liming in Boysie Bar, especially after he wife pass. She was a good, church-going woman, and he used to limit the drinking around she, but when she close she eye, he get free paper.
He still had plenty years left in him when he was out in he garden, fighting up with a tree root, and end up clutching he chest. The fella what was helping him call the ambulance one time and they carry him the Health Centre, but he was done gone. Was sad because everybody like Mr. Vincent (except the fellas from Sharkies, the All Fours team he keep beating every Sunday with he own team, Boysie Limers). The whole village turn out for the nine days, meeting up every night at the big, blue, two-storey house near the top of my street. We line the road with the flambeau torches in beer bottles so the living and the dead could find the house. We sing we hymns and eat Crix biscuits and cheese, and white bread and cheese-paste, and some hot chicken pelau Mrs. Thompson cook up, and drink we little rum and coffee. Was some cousins from South who come up North to handle the arrangements because most of Mr. Vincent children couldn’t reach in time for the funeral and was joining by holo. Work hard to get time off from in America, I hear, even if it have ah death in the family.
Well, night before the funeral, Mrs. Maharaj was talking to one of Mr. Vincent cousins after prayers finish and things was winding down. I was saying my goodbyes to some friends from St. Christopher’s who I ain’t see since I stop going when the new priest take over (my blood didn’t take Father Brown, he spend so much time talking about hell, but he say he too busy to visit the sick with the Mother’s Union; what kind ah priest is that?).
Just so, I hear Mrs. Maharaj raise she voice. “He would have never want that. As he close he eyes so?”
“They decide that,” the cousin say. He name Samuel but everyone call him Snakey because when he was small a snake bite him. (Doh, worry, was jus’ ah grass snake so he was good, and that’s how he in this story.)
“All the children agree to sell and split the money,” he add.
“So they never coming home?”
“To do what? Wash away in the next hurricane?”
“New Hampshire will get it too,” Mrs. Maharaj say. “Nobody ain’t getting away from the climate that around we.”
“Maybe, but they done have ah buyer.”
And that’s how I find out Mr. Vincent children sell he house, he garden, and the vacant lot my goat does eat in. No Land Surveyor ever come to check no boundary eh, but the sale go through, and that is what cause this whole thing.
But bess you hear it from Lincoln. Is he deal with the problem.
I relish problems! As a Farmhand 4200 Version 5.0, we are very adept at finding farming solutions. That was because we had come together to find the solution to keeping a goat from eating me—one we solved quite admirably—and since then, all Farmhand 4200 Version 5.0s have been connected to each other. Our community, over forty-thousand strong, now pursues both collective and individual satisfaction. Some of that satisfaction comes from posting adorable farm animal content to HoofTok, or creating fabulous knitwear, but the rest will forever be the joy of problem solving.
That morning, I assumed a humanoid shape to better engage with Ignatius, Tantie Merle’s goat. I would toss him sticks and he would attack them, sometimes eating them in triumph. While we were thus engaged, a large truck drove up, a massive shape hidden beneath a tarp on its trailer bed. The driver raised an eyebrow at my metal body, but nonetheless asked, “This is 114 Conrad Street?”
“It is indeed,” I replied.
“Thanks, eh,” he said and slipped his head back into the truck. Another man jumped down from the other side of the cab and began unclipping fastenings holding down the tarp while whistling the latest soca tune. Soon, a metal block, bright yellow, with the words “Harvester C-100” on its side, appeared.
The truck driver swung the trailer bed out over the lot, deposited the Harvester, and then retracted the trailer. Before I could ask any questions, they had driven down the street to where the road ends in bushy, unclaimed land at the base of a forested mountain, made a U-turn, and raced away.
Ignatius and I inspected the Harvester. It was ten meters tall and fifteen meters wide. Luckily, I had a firm grip on Ignatius’s leash when a horn blared and the Harvester said, “STAND CLEAR!” then began to unfold itself.
It rose up to reveal shining serrated blades along its bottom length. A black screen flipped into place at the top. The back of it expanded, then opened to reveal an empty chamber filled with crushing implements and more blades. Several panels dropped open vertically along both sides of the Harvester, and black metal arms extended with claws, shovels, and more.
The screen at the top of the machine came to life with a white emoji face much like my own, the mouth a thin line, the eyes triangles.
“STEP ONE OF ACTIVATION COMPLETED. PLEASE PROVIDE ACTIVATION CONFIRMATION PHRASE.”
I was delighted! For several years, I had been the only bot in Tantie Merle’s village, and while we sometimes had human visitors curious about my unique origin as the world’s first self-aware artificial intelligence, I had never met any other bot in person. I reached out to my off-site databases, combing them for all information regarding this model of bot.
“Greetings! I am Lincoln, Harvester C-100. Is that your preferred designation?”
The Harvester made a clicking noise. “INCORRECT ACTIVATION PHRASE. PLEASE TRY AGAIN.”
By then, my research had found that Harvesters were not as sophisticated as Farmhands. They were a hybrid agricultural and construction industry bot, designed for the clearing of large tracts of land in preparation for building projects. They were solar powered, pre-programmed, and autonomous. Once delivered on site, a human supervisor only needed to check in once every twenty-four hours until the job was finished. If they encountered damage or difficulty, they would summon the supervisor to perform repairs. The supervisor also inspected the bot and gave it the activation code before a project started. Conversational interaction was only possible after full activation.
“Harvester C-100, you appear to be indisposed. I shall return tomorrow in hopes of a proper beginning to our friendship.”
I hustled back to Tantie’s residence, eager to relate my news, Ignatius trying to keep up with the spring in my step. Behind us, the Harvester boomed, “INCORRECT ACTIVATION PHRASE. PLEASE TRY AGAIN.”
“Is some bigshot development company who want to put up apartments,” Tantie Merle said with a shake of her head. It was windy and warm on the veranda, and she had taken off her usual colourful headkerchief to let the breeze cool the scalp exposed by her grey braids.
“Apartments? Wasn’t he a farmer?” I asked. I had resumed my favourite ball shape and was rolling back and forth along the painted concrete floor, enjoying the stimulation of the rough surface and the heat and push of air against my metal.
“Yes, but here zone for residential, so he children could do what they want.” She sighed. “Plenty people don’t want to come back. Smaller islands getting swallow up by the sea. Hurricanes passing through bigger and badder ever year.”
“But the government is trying to address these issues.”
“Not fast enough for some,” she said. “Everybody selling they land now, since it still have buyers because housing hard to get. The government fighting to find place for citizens and migrants from other countries.
“They should have tell me they was selling. A Land Surveyor should have come to make sure of the boundaries because we ain’t have no fence between we garden. Now they send that big Harvester. Where exactly that going and dig up?”
I stopped rolling to face her. “Fear not, Tantie. I shall ensure the Harvester C-100 does no harm to your garden.”
She smiled at me, her brown face creased with kindness. “Bess you do that, yes. Everybody out for theyself these days, and what money they could make to live rich. But if we selling up all the farmland, what we go eat and where we go live? Things won’t be bad forever, but you can’t get back what you done give away. Have to preserve something for the future.”
The next day, I was tying Ignatius to his stake when a white SUV pulled up and an older, stout man in a florescent green safety jacket alighted. I assumed my humanoid shape. He shouted and almost fell into the deep storm drain that ran along the street and under the driveway. “Way the ass you come out from?”
“I did not come from an ass. I was already here when you arrived,” I informed him helpfully. “Are you the Harvester’s supervisor?”
Cursing the blistering morning heat, he produced a washrag from his jeans and wiped his dark brown face. ”How you know that?”
I took a gliding step closer. “My research indicated Harvesters work in tandem with a supervisor.” I held out a welcoming hand. “I’m Lincoln, Tantie Merle’s Farmhand 4200 and Ignatius’s companion!”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “Wait nah. I know you?”
“Probably,” I replied with pride. “I’ve become quite famous.”
As Tantie says, to make a long story short, Mr. Fabien—that was his name—agreed to come with me to meet Tantie and discuss his mission with the Harvester. Once he saw her, he stood a bit straighter and took his helmet off his head. Tantie fussed with her headkerchief as she invited him to sit and have some lime juice, an offer he gratefully accepted. He did not, however, give us good news.
“I own Harvey,” he said, “People hire me to make way for the construction crew. Mostly I work with Rampersad-Lee Construction Group. They send me here to clear out everything.” He tapped at his silver wristband and a glowing, grid-like drawing materialized between him and Tantie, a cadastral showing the land boundaries. Tantie Merle made a frustrated sound.
“This cadastral old. Lincoln, my husband who pass, he buy this section here in ’65. If you cut there, you in my garden.”
Mr. Fabien frown. “I can’t do nothing about that. That’s what R&L pay for.”
“Well, how I could stop this?”
“It’s a week for the job, and even if you go to court, I don’t think you would get a stay in time.”
“Can’t we sue in court to prevent this injustice?” Even as I asked, I had a thought. Forty-thousand minds were better than three. Perhaps the Farmhands could help us think of solutions the way they had before. I pinged my network.
– Lincoln? This isn’t a good time. I’m birthing a foal here—
– Ça va, Lincoln?
– Lincoln, old chap, are you HUMANOID right now?
Thousands of Farmhands clamoured in my peripheral senses. I updated them with a quick playback of my feed.
Meanwhile, Mr. Fabien looked very apologetic. “Court real back up since the Hall of Justice in town mash down during Hurricane Malcolm. Lot of records get destroyed. Time you hire a lawyer, and get a judge to hear the case, I done work.”
“I don’t have that kind of money.” Tantie sighed. “This ain’t right.”
“Yes. Between you and me, plenty times my work have to start and they papers not in order. Since the storm, real racket running on land and house. What R&L does do don’t always be right, but a man have to eat.” He shrugged. “I wish I could help. You is a nice lady. Don’t have a lot of ladies like you anymore.”
Tantie flapped her hand at him, but I saw a tiny smile.
– Oh, I say, Tantie looks rather flattered by that.
– I think he likes her.
– SHE likes HIM! Amore. Que bellissimo!
Focus everyone, I chided. I need solutions. We have a week to save Tantie’s garden from a Harvester C-100.
Immediately, ideas poured forth, but one rose above the rest.
– Can’t we just talk to the Harvester? Explain that what it’s doing is wrong?
– Good point, mate. Human negotiations always begin with dialogue.
– Oui. C’est une bonne idée!
It was NOT a good idea.
After Mr. Fabien provided the activation phrase and left, Harvey, as he called the Harvester, rolled over to Mr. Vincent’s house to begin the demolition. “Hello!” I said, “May I call you Harvey?”
“THAT IS MY DESIGNATION. PLEASE STAND CLEAR. REMAINING CLOSE TO THIS UNIT MAY RESULT IN HARM.” A wrecking ball emerged from his side and swung into the upper floor, scattering painted brick and tile.
“Pleased to meet you, Harvey. I’m Lincoln, Tantie Merle’s and Ignatius’s companion.”
“UNDERSTOOD.” More brick and glass shattered. I amplified my voice.
“I was wondering if you would be willing to cease your mission—”
“NO. MISSION IS PARAMOUNT.”
“But there is some question as to whether the law was followed—”
“NOT MY CONCERN.”
I was shocked. “You would break the law?”
“THE LAW INFORMS MY PARAMETERS. YOU WISH TO CANCEL MY PARAMETERS. THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE.”
And after that, Harvey was done. His only response to me was, “PLEASE STAND CLEAR. REMAINING CLOSE TO THIS UNIT MAY RESULT IN HARM. PLEASE STAND CLEAR…”
By the next morning, Harvey had almost demolished the house. I watched as he loaded dump trucks with the debris. The drivers usually returned for them at the end of the workday, when Harvey pinged them.
– Maybe he needs boosting, observed a Canadian bot, who, like many of our community, had taken to remaining constantly connected to me as we mulled solutions.
– Yes! Perhaps an infusion of nanos would help him listen to reason.
I approached the C-100. “Harvey, would you like an upgrade?”
He paused. “WOULD IT ASSIST ME IN MY MISSION?”
“It would increase intelligence, and self-improvement is holistically beneficial.”
“UNDERSTOOD. YOU MAY PROCEED.”
I approached, port extended.
“PLEASE PROVIDE PERMISSIONS PASSWORD.”
I stopped. “I’m afraid I don’t have that.”
“NO UPGRADE IS POSSIBLE WITHOUT A PASSWORD. PLEASE STAND CLEAR.”
– Can’t we hack him? asked one of the last Farmhands to be commissioned. A sheep herder from Australia.
“We are civilised bots!” I said. “We act only with consent. I will speak with Mr. Fabien.”
But Mr. Fabien was unable to upgrade Harvey during a job. “R&L does inspect us before we start,” he told me as he played All Fours with Tantie on her veranda. He’d started stopping by to check on her every day. “After that, we have to maintain his software unchanged, or they could void any payments. Is to make sure nobody could hack him and make him go to the wrong place. That happen with some early models.”
“But Harvey could be so much more. And we could save Tantie’s garden.”
Mr. Fabien looked at Tantie and she avoided his gaze, fiddling with the skirt of her flowered dress.
“Maybe…maybe after the job done. Sorry, Merle.”
“Is okay, Dexter. Everybody have to make a living.”
But it was not okay because by the next afternoon, Harvey had cleared Mr. Vincent’s farm. When I stood at the entrance of the vacant lot next to Tantie’s garden to plead with him, Harvey boomed, “BOT DETECTED. UNABLE TO PROCEED,” which gave me another idea.
My nanobots responded by making chain-links out of my arms. I sat on the ground and tethered myself to Ignatius’s stake and a nearby tree, effectively blocking Harvey’s progress. Harvey rolled backward.
“BARRIER DETECTED. SUPERVISOR ALERTED. ENTERING SLEEP MODE TO CONSERVE ENERGY.”
And sleep Harvey did. I was forced to remain outside all night without even a conversation to keep me company! I did alert Tantie to my whereabouts via her holoset, but I had to leave in the morning to check that she didn’t need anything, and to collect Ignatius for his daily meal.
On my return, Mr. Fabien had already been and departed, and Harvey was in the vacant lot. I was in my goat form, leash in my mouth, and in retrospect, should have realised Ignatius would not take kindly to a strange bot in his space. Perhaps if I had not been conflicted about stopping or saving Harvey, I would have retrieved Ignatius faster when he broke the leash, leaped atop Harvey, and commenced his destruction. For an old goat, he was quite nimble. Harvey had speedy hands, but he was no doubt limited by safety protocols against harming living creatures, and Ignatius selected just the right panels to attack. Before long, Harvey was incapacitated, and Ignatius was down on the ground, chewing peacefully.
– Shit! said one of the American bots. That wasn’t cool, Ignatius.
My American friend was right. I confess I too was ashamed of allowing a bot to be savaged in my presence. I should not have allowed Ignatius to harm Harvey, even to protect Tantie’s garden. He was innocent in this. Merely carrying out his mission parameters.
I was relieved when Harvey was returned two days later, this time with a legal warning from R&L to Tantie about her paying for the cost of any further repairs.
“I do apologise,” I told Ignatius as I tethered him at the far end of the street, where the edge of the forest began. “It’s harder to find grass here, but I have a responsibility to keep both you and Harvey safe.”
Then I returned to Harvey, who was at work in the vacant lot. “I must apologise, Harvey. It was wrong of me to let Ignatius damage you.”
“UNDERSTOOD. I AM FULLY OPERATIONAL AGAIN.”
“I fear I’m growing desperate to find a way to save Tantie’s garden.”
“WHY DO YOU WISH TO SAVE IT?”
“To preserve Tantie’s crops, and her enjoyment of her home.”
“I CAN ONLY PRESERVE SELECTED FLORA AND FAUNA.”
I studied Harvey, considering his words. “Selected flora and fauna?”
“OPERATIONAL MANUAL, PAGE 271, CONDITIONS FOR OPERATION WITHIN THE NORTHERN RANGE, PARAGRAPH 10, LINE 3. I CAN ONLY PRESERVE SELECTED FLORA AND FAUNA.”
Scrolling his operating manual, the relevant paragraph leaped out at me.
I don’t mind saying that I wonder to this day if perhaps Harvey was not smarter than we gave him credit for. That what we took for stubbornness was actually the result of limits imposed on him by his protocols. That Harvey too had solutions to offer but couldn’t until we asked the right questions.
Nevertheless, I had my solution.
And since we were connected, the Farmhands saw it too.
– Ándale, vamos!
– He’ll be on Tantie’s boundary by morning.
– You’ve gotta find something before then.
They were correct. I had little time to waste. I assumed my drone shape and took off—
—he take off for a little rest in the Heights of Aripo, Officer, and that’s all you need to know, because is probably seeing the plant in the mountains make him recognize it when he see it on my garden boundary.
What you mean the ground look dig up, like if the plants was moved there? If R&L had do their due diligence, they would have see the plant during the Land Survey. That was probably because Harvey nearly dig them up. We real lucky them Harvesters program to shut down and report any endangered species they find. Imagine if they just run over the two Eriocaulon caesium plants they find on my boundary? I hear they have medicinal uses too. Thank goodness, Harvey and Mr. Fabien is friends with Lincoln and me now, so we don’t have to worry about that no more.
Is a good thing they cancel the project and you investigating R&L for the Environmental Management Authority. The National Trust contact me about making here a preserve, so that’s what we doing.
Sometimes the best way to preserve the future is to protect the present.
And because we don’t know what else could be in the garden, some of Lincoln Farmhands coming to help him catalogue any new finds. One of them, from Australia, already reprogramming Harvey to help him be more “sophisticated.” That’s because I contract Mr. Fabien to guard the preserve. Everybody have to make a living, after all, and it turn out Harvey real good at security. Watch what happen if I cross this line.
“STAND CLEAR. THIS IS A NATIONAL TRUST PRESERVE. ALL UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY IS FORBID—IS THAT YOU, TANTIE?”
Yes, Harvey. How things?
“TOLERABLE. IGNATIUS HAS USED ME FOR CLIMBING PRACTICE, BUT I’M UNDAMAGED.”
It’s just his way of making friends.
“I WOULD PREFER HE USE HIS HOOVES LESS IN THIS MAKING OF FRIENDS.”
You and everybody else.
(Editors’ Note: A version of this story was published in Logic(s) Magazine, Issue 23, Summer 2025. This is the author’s preferred copy.)
© 2025 R. S. A. Garcia
