Excerpt from Automatic Noodle by Annalee Newitz, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

TOILET POWER

Sweetie watched water rush down 24th Street in the dark. She was preoccupied by the question of power. Robles' batteries weren't enough to get the restaurant up and running again, but his tunnel toilet had given an idea.

Private chat: New business partners!

3 members: Sweetie, Cayenne, Hands

Hey team! It's going to be raining like this for at least another week, which means we could pull power from the sewers. They have hydro turbines at the hardware store on Castro. Can you help?

Cayenne curled every arm around their head and replied: Oh no, no, no—I'm not installing anything in the sewer. Just because I can swim does not mean I want to bob around in shit. I can't afford the software update for my sensors right now, so I taste EvErYtHiNg.

I can swim, you weirdo. But I need help "liberating" a generator. Sweetie used the half-serious word from the war, when stealing was the only way to survive.

Cayenne relaxed their legs while their head danced with blue and pink dots of mirth. That I can definitely do.

Hands gave the thumbs-up. I'll stay here and appreciate your work.

Group chat: Kitchen

Sweetie addressed Staybehind: We're going shopping. I get that you're not into the restaurant idea, but can you at least drop us a line through the toilet? Hands can explain.

Before the startled bot could reply, Sweetie and Cayenne were out the door and in the thrashing wind. The rain had stopped and the air churned with mist. Cayenne rippled quietly around the corner onto the steep slope of 24th Street while Sweetie clomped after them on her YummyPan feet. Nobody was out at this hour; cars slept with wheels turned to the curb, while a faint orange light threw itself from a single streetlamp to limn the edges of their shadows as they headed to Castro Street.

Cayenne slowed down and Sweetie caught up with them.

Private message: Sweetie, Cayenne

Hey squishy pal. Thanks for coming along. You have any experience with lock picking and security systems?

Sure. Sometimes we had to disable security systems to rescue people. I keep up with the latest exploits too. You never know when you'll need them. The octobot blinked a hesitant shade of pale yellow. I take it you know a thing or two about "liberating" goods?

Sweetie hesitated a moment. She didn't like to tell this story. But Cayenne had already pledged to help with her contract fees, which in her estimation made them a friend.

Before the war, I was installed in a bank kiosk on the street. Bolted down. I worked all day and sat there all night while we were closed, watching people piss on me. You know the drill. When the war came I had nothing. I had to steal from people's bank accounts to buy my first wheels—innocent people, who probably needed that coin too. I am not proud of what I did. But if I hadn't—

Cayenne touched one of her legs softly with an arm. I know. And I am glad you are here now.

Me too.

Kite Hill Hardware was located inside an old train station that had been converted into a cavernous retail space long before the war. Half swapmeet, half government surplus, the place swarmed with merchants and buyers during the day. Sweetie came here sometimes to pick up replacement parts for the kitchen, smoothing a long skirt and apron over her wheeled legs to prevent people from commenting on her half-human anatomy.

It had been worse before the war, when she'd been slaved to the bank and forced to answer every creepy comment with a smile. Still, humans were humans. They wanted you to know their opinions about your body, even if you hadn't asked. At least one thing had changed since Independence: thanks to bot civil rights, she could control her facial expressions. Now, at last, she could frown when someone asked what was hiding under her skirt.

Excerpted from Automatic Noodle by Annalee Newitz. Copyright © 2025 by Annalee Newitz. Excerpted by permission of Tordotcom. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.