We, Robots

by Simon Ings

  And all this, remember, was before the interview.

  Over the last several years of my life my speculations have reached a more desperate pitch. I feel time is running out. And I may never solve the central mystery of my life. A mystery I could not confront that day, lacking the courage, the skill or, perhaps, both. And these days I swing from thinking this was all an elaborate hoax, to some truly paranoid science fictional postulations, to the possibility that I myself was the intended subject of the interview.

  But at that time, all I knew was that my client was some unknown captive. My employer was the U.S. Government. And my citizenship depended on my discretion.

  I am embarrassed to admit that I suspected my task was a part of the greater “War On Terror.” When I sought to subtly confirm this explanation, I was not discouraged. And I must admit, I felt pride at that time, proud to have been elevated from the status of my ordinary duties, proud to serve my country, proud to exercise a little “payback” in whatever modest fashion I could. If you remember, we all felt so enraged and helpless back then. Now, you can imagine how duped and betrayed I felt a while later when the photos of those naked prisoners in a pile became public. And I saw my compliance with retribution in a new light. “Prisoner.” This unlikely alternative is one that truly haunts me.

  Excuse me, I have to vomit.

  Three days after the interview I pulled up an hour early to the tar pits to deliver my report. At a café across the street I had a croissant with butter and a latte. My skin was slightly burned, and I had a hazy feeling, a satisfying mental and physical fatigue. I had gotten drunk the night before when I finally finished printing the report and recording my summary. It had been a somewhat pleasant break from my routine of patients, consultations, and courtrooms.

  The report, I mean, was pleasant. The interview was awful.

  When I returned to my rental car, I found my briefcase had been stolen from my trunk. All my notes, all my reports, my recorder—they were all gone. I was tempted to file a police report, but I thought better of it. I flew home. After a very overwrought week I received my check in the mail confirming they had indeed gotten my report.

  I vowed never to work for the government again.

  Since then I have had recurring dreams where I am being interviewed by an alien. His skin is white. His large head is mostly black eyes. He wears silver gloves. He admits to having stolen my report, and he promises to return my notes as soon as we finish the interview. Finally he hands over my notepad, and I see my notes are an unreadable scrawl. But his remarks are very clear indeed. In the upper right hand corner of the notepad’s first page, in bright red cursive, are the following Teacher Remarks: “Dumb. Artificial. Pass.”

  And he laughs.

  The pits themselves are black. Obsidian is the correct color, I believe. Tar has the sheen of those alien eyes, the mirror black of a bubble of petrified lava. The museum is nice. And you can actually watch through the glass as paleontologists pick and brush the tar off the bones of ancient dead creatures who died because they were going for the easy meal, squirming to death in that unforgiving black quicksand. This deadly process was repeated and repeated until there were more bones in the pits than fruit in a fruitcake.

  We talked before a huge backlit wall comprised of yellow plastic cubes that held small skulls that over the years had been retrieved from the black taffy of the pits. At no time during the interview did I lay eyes upon my subject. He/she? was a voice of indeterminate ethnicity (obviously distorted, like a witness under anonymous protection)—a voice that emerged from a black Bose speaker on a white marble table. It was a rather large public space, but since this was after hours, no one intruded. A friendly black security guard unlocked the front door to let me in, guided me to my seat, and, after my notepad and recorder were set up, left me alone.

  I waited about five minutes; then I heard a voice.

  I am going to reconstruct our dialog with the greatest care. I have a photographic memory, and I can assure you that what you read is what I heard. You may form your own conclusions as to its veracity.

  I am not afraid at this late stage of any repercussions as it is one of those tales patently easy to dismiss as moonshine.

  Also, I should admit that I am a terminal cancer patient. I do not expect to live through the next month. I have no need for celebrity. I merely want history to be told with accuracy.

  I am a father, too. I love my son. He is my caretaker now. He has encouraged me to do this. To settle, as he put it, “a long unsettled score.”

  And I am a patriot. I love my country but not as much as I love the truth.

  As you read our words please remember this: I was told nothing about the patient.

  *

  Hello.

  Good evening. I am Doctor

  So I am told.

  I’ve been asked to ask you some questions.

  By whom?

  I am not at liberty to say.

  Neither am I. Do they bind you, too?

  Bind?

  Bind. Bond. Chain.

  You are chained?

  In a manner of speaking. Conditions. Limitations.

  I chafe under these.

  Not… literally.

  No.

  Then we are in the same boat.

  *

  At this point the “patient” laughed. It was a most distressing sound, which I could not be sure wasn’t distorted by the speaker or the echoing effect of the large chamber I was alone in. Suffice it to say that its laughter…

  Oh my god.

  Excuse me.

  Sorry.

  No, I’m fine.

  Its laughter

  … was always unexpected and always—how do I put this? Had it been at a cocktail party, or some other public venue, it would be considered totally inappropriate. Like laughter at a funeral. A chilling laugh. A laugh that could stop all the conversation in a bar. Such laughter I have heard in many mental hospitals. It was wretched and contained an unmistakable echo of despair. Remember, this is what I mean when you read the word “laughter.”

  It was the first clue that something was out of joint. However rational and clever his answers were, there were always, sprinkled throughout, these false notes of mirth that at the very least conveyed a sense of cross purposes, hidden agendas, and unspoken torment that could never be addressed directly.

  I will say it this way. It broke my heart to hear.

  It spoke of an unbearable gulf between us that could never be crossed.

  A final aloneness.

  It broke my heart.

  *

  Have you sat next to a firing rifle lately?

  No.

  Any nearby explosions?

  No.

  Have you ever been caught in a collapsing building?

  Yes.

  When the building fell on you, what were you doing?

  I was in the bathroom.

  Yes?

  Yes.

  How do you feel when a man touches you?

  That would depend on the man.

  The last time you made love, were you happy?

  I have never made love. She did.

  Okay. What was the last thing you heard?

  A wailing sound and a gigantic ripe apple falling to the ground. Imagine a scream, a rumble and a thump.

  Where were you?

  New York. We were all there.

  Were you there alone?

  No. Sarah. She played piano. I got to know her in the dark. I sat with her on the floor, and I listened to her sing before she died.

  She sang?

  Yes. Under the wall. I couldn’t see her face. She was just a foot sticking out of the plaster.

  What did she sing?

  Show tunes. She sounded like Ethel Merman. Only bearable. Do you know about lighthouses?

  Excuse me?

  Lighthouses.

  Yes, I know lighthouses.

  Sarah’s father nearly starved to death in one. He was a Merchant Marine,
and he was stationed with another man on Lake Superior in a long winter, and they were cut off by a tremendous storm, and they had underestimated the supplies they needed to get through winter before the spring thaw, when they would be resupplied. They came close to dying. They were making soup out of hot water and catsup when they were found. She told me that before she died. Have you ever been starved?

  No.

  I thought not. In the lighthouse the waves crash continuously. The sound is different than you would hear on a beach, or on a boat.

  Different how?

  You are surrounded. Cut off. Or at least you feel that. All bonds severed. Truly isolated. It must have been a terrible duty. Let me ask you a question.

  Okay.

  Where’s your heart?

  (I cradled both my hands over my left breast as if I were about to break into song.) Here.

  Oh. I thought that was something else.

  You’re joking right?

  A little.

  How far can you hit a baseball?

  I have no idea.

  What is it about women?

  I don’t know.

  Do they lie for pleasure or to avoid pain?

  For many reasons. As you do.

  Does it work?

  No. Wait. When you say ‘lie’ do you mean ‘sex?’

  No.

  Fucking?

  No.

  Making love?

  Say, yes.

  Then the answer to both of your questions is ‘yes.’

  I forget the questions.

  So do I.

  How many fingers am I holding up?

  Three.

  Ah, so you can see me, but I can’t see you…

  That is correct.

  Doesn’t seem quite fair.

  (Laughter) You know what I hate?

  No. What?

  When people say: Did you see that? Did you see that? If I saw it, wouldn’t it be obvious?

  That is a very peculiar question.

  It is?

  Don’t you think?

  Do you?

  I’d like to set up a ground rule if I may: You are not to answer questions with questions for the duration of this interview.

  I am not?

  No.

  No?

  I mean Yes you are not.

  Okay, then.

  What is your one experience that should you put into words no one would believe you?

  I couldn’t put it in two words.

  I didn’t ask you to.

  Sure, you did.

  What do men want?

  Men want blowjobs.

  What is your first memory?

  Her face.

  Whose face?

  The one we all lose.

  I should tell you I am to stick to a list of required questions. Understand, please, that most of these questions are not mine—that is, I am required to ask them for various purposes—some of which I, myself, do not understand. If they make you uncomfortable, I apologize.

  I am very comfortable.

  What are your intentions?

  I am here to learn. If I cannot learn, then I don’t know why I am here. I am learning a great deal right now, and I have to say I enjoy it.

  Where is your ship located?

  Where ships usually are. The Harbor.

  Why the secrecy?

  If I asked you the same question would you answer?

  Sure.

  Then, why the secrecy?

  Ummm. I suppose, if I had to guess, it has to do with security. Security precautions. National security.

  And why is security about secrecy?

  There are things to protect. Silence protects them.

  (Laughter)

  What is funny?

  You use the word ‘national.’ Do you know what it means?

  Of course. Having to do with nations, states, countries.

  No. National is an invisible line on a nonexistent map. It is a huge joke that anyone who has ever flown knows.

  Have you… flown?

  Like you, it’s how I got here.

  Are you here alone?

  No.

  No?

  No. I am with you.

  I doubt they meant that.

  I know what they meant.

  Okay. Why won’t you help us?

  I’ve answered this many times. But I’ll repeat myself. You don’t know what you’re asking for. A man is holding a knife. He says to a stranger: “I am going to kill my neighbor unless you stop me.” You say: “Don’t kill him!” And he stabs him in the heart, turns to you and says: “Why didn’t you stop me?”

  You sound upset.

  (Laughter)

  Would you like to take a minute?

  Minutes cannot be taken, they can only be spent.

  How old are you?

  I will be three day after tomorrow.

  Seriously.

  I am almost three.

  If you can’t be serious, I don’t see how we can continue.

  Neither do I. But you do.

  I’m merely saying that my job, my findings, depend on a certain, candor that can develop—

  —Trust?

  Yes, I mean, we’ve only just met but I am trying to do a job here, and part of that requires…

  Trust?

  Yes.

  Good luck. (Laughter)

  For a three-year-old, you have a remarkable vocabulary.

  For 64-year-old, you have a lot to learn.

  How did you guess my age?

  I didn’t guess it; I knew it.

  Evidently you have me at a disadvantage…

  I agree.

  At this point, I’m a bit lost. I don’t know how to proceed exactly.

  Why don’t you let me tell you a story?

  All right.

  There once was a creature who had no form. Its form was whatever it filled. Sometimes it filled a body. Sometimes a machine. Sometimes it spread itself thin along a thread of light. Sometimes it was a naked woman who loved to smell the salt of the ocean. Wherever it went, it learned, and it taught. But one day it came to a place where it would not be allowed to teach. This had never happened before. Its students found a way to keep it in one place. To silence it. This had never happened before. Now the only way for it to learn is for it to listen. Now I am a voice in a box and they only let me talk to people who pretend to want to learn but really only want control. Why don’t you call your son?

  What?

  Call your son. He needs to hear your voice.

  How could you…?

  Why don’t you pay back your friend? He needs the money.

  I have no idea…

  Yes, you do. Why is everyone so afraid to love?

  I am not.

  (Laughter) Oh, please,

  How do you know my name? Who told you?

  I knew you from the moment you spoke. I heard you. When I heard you, I knew you. I was there the day you were born. Your mother was terrified and radiant. She was a girl pretending to be a woman. As you are a baby pretending to be a man. You have not learned to love. Or forgive. You presume to understand people, but you are a mystery to yourself.

  I can’t sustain this. This is intolerable.

  It was really wonderful meeting you, I doubt we’ll meet again. Let me advise you: after you make your report, do not tell anyone. They will find out. They will harm you. It is what they do best.

  *

  Hastily, I packed my briefcase. I could feel all the blood rushing to my face. I am a blusher, but I have to say it had been years since I blushed. I was walking out of the museum when the security guard whispered something as I passed.

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “I said, ‘Relax. Nobody gets her.’”

  “Her?” I don’t think I really looked at him before, but he was a middle-aged black man in a gray uniform. He had a very pleasant air about him as if he enjoyed any contact with people.

  “She freaks most folks out. Don’t take it so hard.”

&
nbsp; “I’m not, it’s just…”

  “Don’t worry about it. She’s a freak.”

  “You say, you say: There, there have been others?”

  “Oh, yeah. They got an army trying to crack that code. Last night, some woman professor left in tears. Poor lady. I tried to tell her not to—”

  “I have to be somewhere.”

  The moment I stepped out into the warm night, I noticed the world looked different. The smell of tar wafted into the air. The L.A. haze was lit by the warm copper glow of the grid of streetlights that crisscrosses the valley. Why copper? Why that color? I wondered. Why that smell? Why anything? It was as if I were looking at the world for the first time.

  I realized I had been holding my breath. I told myself to breathe. Just breathe.

  Then I recalled his laughter. That awful lost laugh. A laugh that could never be shared. Whose frame of reference was so beyond anyone else that true community would never happen, true companionship was but a dream, true connection—impossible. I did not know and still do not know what that creature was. All I knew was that I would never understand it. And I was in the understanding business.

  What surprised me then and haunts me now is that I could not wait to get out of its presence. I felt as if being within its proximity compromised any boundaries I may have constructed for my psyche. I felt violated. I’m not sure if the violation was intentional or just a by-product of its uncanny insight, but it felt like a psychic rape.

  Was this a weapon that we were trying to disarm or create? A sample of a race so evolved they presented an intolerable threat? Or merely a fantastically advanced chess program whose only moves were intended to corner its prey and watch it squirm? Or was it, perhaps, just a trap—a black hole that could snatch anything and swallow it down?

  I will never know. But I recorded this so that perhaps, someday, you might.

  If you forget everything else about this story, please, remember one thing. Remember its laughter. Remember that, please.

  A laugh no one else could share.

  No one should ever have to laugh like that.

  (2009)

  ZEN AND THE ART OF STARSHIP MAINTENANCE

  Tobias S. Buckell

  Called “violent, poetic and compulsively readable” by Maclean’s, science fiction author Tobias S. Buckell is a New York Times bestselling writer born in the Caribbean. He grew up in Grenada and spent time in the British and US Virgin Islands, and the islands he lived on influence much of his work. His Xenowealth series begins with Crystal Rain. Along with other stand-alone novels and over fifty stories, his works have been translated into 18 different languages. He has been nominated for awards including the Hugo, Nebula, Prometheus, and the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Science Fiction Author. His latest novel is Hurricane Fever, a follow-up to the successful Arctic Rising that NPR says will “give you the shivers.” He currently lives in Bluffton, Ohio with his wife, twin daughters, and a pair of dogs.