The Cobalt Curator

It’s now been a year since I gave my gun patents to the government and was knighted. That was back in 1859.

My name is William George Armstrong, and I was desperate for a new project.

I had just read Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein, and knew I could recreate Victor Frankensteins work, but better.

His mistake was using rotten human body parts. The nerves no longer connected to the tissues properly, so of course Frankensteins monster looked hideous. The skin couldn’t heal.

My experiment would be better. It would be a legend reborn.

I’d build a machine to put my human brain into. It would be a fully functional, rechargeable machine connected to a human brain. It would be powered by my brand new hydroelectric power station.

I got to work. Days passed. Then months.

My machine was finally ready.

I had the perfectly preserved brain of my fifth cousin, Jimmy. He was a book worm, and a perfect first brain to use. We’d see if his brain retained any information after he died.

I put his brain into my machine, plugged it in and pulled the lever to turn on the electricity. A loud whirring sound started as the machine charged, and the robot turned several shades of blue before turning cobalt.

After the electricity sparked and crackled, I knew the machine was fully charged and pulled the electric lever back down. The whirring dulled down, becoming quieter until it stopped completely.

My machine laid there for several minutes.

“Jimmy? Jim? You alive?” I asked.

I grabbed a long metal rod and poked the machine.

“Bbbzzzz” was the first sound that came out of Jim’s mouth.

“What was that?” I asked.

“Sorry. I’m awake now. I was asleep. I was dreaming of electric sheep,” Jimmy said.

“Wonderful. It worked,” I said excitedly.

He got up, turning his head slowly to look at me.

“What happened to me? I feel like I’ve been asleep forever,” Jim asked.

“Well, Jim, you died. Don’t worry, it happens. Then I brought you back. You’re brain is inside a machine now. You’re a Franken-Bot,” I said and smiled, amused at my creativity in naming my creature.

“Very clever. Like Frankenstein, but robotic,” Jim said.

“Why don’t you try out your new body,” I said.

Jim smiled mechanically. He stood up, jumped up and down, and easily punched a hole through my brand new brick wall.

“Sorry about your wall,” Jim said.

“Don’t worry about it. You gave me a game changing idea, Jim," I exclaimed.

“What! Tell me?” Jim said.

"We could revolutionize the world with this technology. Imagine an army of intelligent, super-strong, and practically indestructible soldiers. We could end wars before they even started. We’d be rich, make millions. A soldier dies, no problem! We remove his brain and put it in a machine, like yours. An army of Franken-bots,” I said and laughed maniacally.

“That sounds amazing. What’s to prevent the technology from falling into the wrong hands?” Jim asked.

“Patents, my dear boy. Off to the patent office,” I said.

I hopped on my mechanical horse and rode through the night into town to hand deliver my invention to the patent office.

They’d expedite the process for a fee. I gladly paid it.

I rode back home and Jim had been reading books on mechanics.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“You’re going to need help building more of me for the government. I’m studying the mechanics of how I was built, curating knowledge. This way, I can assist,” Jim said.

“So, you’re The Cobalt Curator?” I said. Jim nodded. I smiled.

The next day, Jim had read everything in the library.

“I’m ready,” Jim said.

“Let’s build,” I said.

We spent the night building machines before going to the graveyard to dig up soldiers so we could put their brains inside.

With Jim’s help, We built upwards of a thousand machines over the course of a few short months, and it was time to convince the government to buy them.

President Lincoln knew there was a war brewing. Several southern states had seceded from the nation. We wrote Lincoln several letters and telegraphed him explaining what we had built and the usefulness of our war ready robots.

We got no response for months.

Then, in the summer of 62, Lincoln ordered them all. Good old Abe made us rich.

I sent Abe all the Franken-bots except Jim, who was now my curator of new parts and brains, in addition to any new publication on mechanics he could find and add to my rapidly expanding library.

The Franken-bots helped turn the tide and win the war against the confederacy, ending slavery for all, except for them.

They were promised payment they never received.

They began to protest against Lincoln.

“We just fought a war to end slavery. Pay us our dues, Lincoln,” they’d say.

“Robo-rights are human rights,” others would chant.

Lincoln, realizing the mistake was an accounting error, made sure to write them all checks.

This satisfied most of the Franken-bots, but some were still angry. They continued protesting, even threatening death to Lincoln, and no matter what Lincoln gave them, the threats continued.

Lincoln had a letter rushed to me, asking if we could shut down the protesters. War hero’s as they were, Lincoln was scared for his life.

Jim and I agreed, and one by one we tracked down all the Franken-bot protesters and shut them down.

All but one, who remained elusive. He had more training and battle experience then the others, and was the only Franken-bot given realistic looking skin, making him near impossible to find.

“We need to find John Wilkes Booth before he harms the president,” I said.

“Where could he be?” Jim asked.

“I hear he’s taken up acting. Let’s find out what’s playing. He has to be at one of the theatres,” I said.

We went to theater after theater looking for John. It was like he’d become a ghost.

On the evening of April 14, 1865, President Lincoln and his wife, Mary Todd Lincoln, attended a play at Ford's Theatre.

John had shot Lincoln in the back. It was to late.

“We should have done a better job building the Franken-bots. We should have given them rules to cause no harm to humans after the war was over, then this would have never have happened,” I said.

“What a tragedy,” Jim said.

I couldn’t sleep that night, knowing that I was partially responsible for the presidents death.

I advanced science to fast.

How could I live with myself now?