“And, at last, they came to the Land.”
“They came . . . they came here?” Mowgai said.
“And the manshonyagger looked down on the rivers and fields, and the fruit trees and the tiny frogs, and of course the people, our ancestors who fled here with the fall of the old world, and it never knew such a Land, and it thought that perhaps the old days were truly gone forever. And it was very tired. And so, with the little girl—who was not at all a little girl, of course, but something not a little like the manshonyagger—whispering in its heart, it laid the boy down, right about here.” And he pointed down to the ground, at his yard, and smiled at our expressions. “And the boy grew up to be a man, among his kind, though there was always, I think, a little bit of him that was also part machine. And he became a salvager, like your mother, Mai, and he spent much of his time out on the blasted plains, and some said he sought his old home, still, but always in vain.
“You won’t find him in our cemetery, though. He disappeared one day, in old age, and after he had begat two children, a little girl and a little boy. It was on a salvaging expedition out on the plains, and some say he died at the hands of the rogue machines that still lived there, but some say he finally found that which he was looking for, and he went back to his perfect home, and had one last childhood in that town where the past is eternally preserved. But that, I think, is just a story.”
“But what happened to the robot?” asked Mowgai. “Did it go back?” and there was something lost and sad in his little face. I remember that, so vividly.
And Elder Simeon shook his head, and smiled, and pointed beyond the house, and he said, “The story says that the manshonyagger, seeing that its young charge was well and sound—and being, as I said, so very tired, too—lay down on the ground, and closed its eyes, and slept. And, some say, is sleeping still.”
We looked where he pointed, and we saw the angled hills, and their curious contours; and if you squinted, and if you looked hard enough, you could just imagine that they took on a shape, as of a sleeping, buried giant.
“But . . .,” I said.
“You don’t—” said Mowgai.
And Elder Simeon smiled again, and shook his head, and said, “But I told you, children. It’s just a story.”
* * *
The days grow short, and the shadows lengthen, and I find myself thinking more and more about the past. Mowgai is gone these many years, but I still miss him. That summer, long ago, we spent days upon days hiking through the curious hills, searching and digging, the way children do. We hoped to find a giant robot, and once, just once, we thought we saw a sudden spark of turquoise light, and the outline of a little girl, not much older than we were, looking down on us, and smiling; but it was, I think, just a trick of the light.
Some say the giant’s still there, lying asleep, and that one day it will wake, when it is needed. We spent all that summer, and much of the next, looking for the buried giant; but of course, we never found it.
TEAM ROBOT
* * *
BY LAVIE TIDHAR
I cheated, in a way, and batted for both teams. You can’t beat giant robots—I have friends who work in medical robotics, and despite my pleas, they keep insisting on building delicate knee-surgery robots rather than the city wreckers I keep asking them to, which, one feels, is very inconsiderate. Robots aren’t really fiction anymore, are they? But I was very taken with the story of Pinocchio (the original, not the movie), which is of course a sort of robot story, and I wondered what happened if you reversed it, in a way, about a real boy who wants to become a machine like his parents . . . and of course that story has a fairy in it, though I suppose my one is also, in her own way, a robot. So . . . go robots?
THREE ROBOTS EXPERIENCE OBJECTS
LEFT BEHIND FROM THE ERA OF HUMANS FOR THE FIRST TIME
by John Scalzi
OBJECT ONE: A BALL.
* * *
K-VRC: BEHOLD THE ENTERTAINMENT SPHERE.
11-45-G: It’s called a ball.
K-VRC: I mean, I know it’s called a ball. I’m just trying to get into the whole “we’re experiencing these human things for the first time” vibe. Jazz it up.
Xbox 4000: What did humans do with these things?
11-45-G: They’d bounce them.
Xbox 4000: And that’s it?
11-45-G: Basically.
K-VRC: These were humans. Bouncing things was close to maxing out their cognitive range.
11-45-G: To be fair, sometimes they hit them with sticks.
Xbox 4000: What, when they misbehaved?
K-VRC: “Bad ball! Think about what you’ve done!”
11-45-G (hands ball to Xbox 4000): Here.
Xbox 4000: What am I going to do with it?
11-45-G: Bounce it.
(Xbox 4000 bounces the ball; it rolls off the table.)
K-VRC: How was that for you?
Xbox 4000: Anticlimactic.
K-VRC: Yeah, well, welcome to humans.
OBJECT TWO: A SANDWICH.
* * *
K-VRC: My understanding is that they would shove these into their intake orifices for power.
Xbox 4000: Why would you need an entire orifice for that?
11-45-G: Hey, they had all sorts of orifices. Things went in. Things went out. It was complicated.
Xbox 4000: I have an induction plate.
11-45-G: We all have induction plates.
Xbox 4000: My point. What more do you need? So, they’d shove these into their intake orifices, and then?
K-VRC: Their intake orifices had rocky pegs that would crush them into paste, and then the paste would be forced into an internal vat of acid.
Xbox 4000 (throws up hands): Well, of course! That makes perfect sense.
11-45-G: They could have just dumped this thing into an exterior vat of acid to begin with, and then they wouldn’t need the rocky pegs. They could just directly process the acid-based slurry.
K-VRC: I agree with you, but look. We’re dealing with beings who have internal vats of acid to start with. Expecting logic out of this system is a little much.
Xbox 4000: Who even designed them?
11-45-G: It’s unclear. We checked their code. No creator signature.
K-VRC: Their code, incidentally, created out of acid.
11-45-G: Ooh, good point. Important clue, that.
Xbox 4000: Someone should have just given them induction plates.
K-VRC: They tried that. Didn’t take. Apparently humans preferred sandwiches.
Xbox 4000: ZOMG, throwing up forever now.
11-45-G: What does that mean?
Xbox 4000: Dude, I don’t even know.
OBJECT THREE: A CAT.
* * *
Xbox 4000: What’s the point of this thing?
11-45-G: Apparently no point. They just had them.
K-VRC: Well, that’s underselling their influence. They had an entire network that was devoted to dissemination of pictures of these things.
Xbox 4000: Dudes, it’s in my lap now. What do I do?
11-45-G: No sudden moves. Wait until it decides to get up again?
Xbox 4000: How long will that take?
11-45-G: Don’t know. Maybe years.
Xbox 4000: I don’t have years for this!
K-VRC: Maybe if you try to irritate it by moving your digits across its keratinous fibers, it will move.
Xbox 4000: What? Why?
K-VRC: It couldn’t hurt.
Xbox 4000: You don’t have any idea, do you?
K-VRC: Of course not. It’s my first time seeing one of these live! Try it anyway.
Xbox 4000: UGH, FINE.
(Xbox 4000 pets cat.)
11-45-G: Is it working?
Xbox 4000: Uh . . .
11-45-G: What?
Xbox 4000: There’s a strange rhythmic noise emanating from it now.
K-VRC: Uh-oh.
Xbox 4000: Wait, “uh-oh”? What do you mean, “uh-oh”?
K-VRC: Well,
I don’t want you to panic or anything, but I think you’ve activated it.
Xbox 4000: What does that mean?
K-VRC: It means that if the noise ever stops, it’s probably going to explode.
Xbox 4000: It is not. Is it? 11-45-G?
11-45-G: Cursory historical research shows that humans had a card game called Exploding Kittens, so, yes, this checks out.
K-VRC: Yeah, you’re gonna die now. Sorry.
Xbox 4000: WHY DID HUMANS EVEN CONSORT WITH THESE HAIRY MURDER MACHINES?
K-VRC: Kindred spirits?
11-45-G: Also checks out.
OBJECT FOUR: AN XBOX.
* * *
Xbox 4000: Wait, it’s called what now?
11-45-G: It’s an Xbox. An early computer entertainment system for humans.
K-VRC: Any relation?
Xbox 4000: I don’t think so?
11-45-G: Really? Numerically, it suggests that this is your ancestor a few thousand generations back.
Xbox 4000: I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.
11-45-G: We’re robots, dude. We don’t do coincidence.
K-VRC: Go on. Call it “daddy.”
Xbox 4000: Stop it.
K-VRC: Or “mommy”! Either is equally applicable, inasmuch as we don’t have genders.
Xbox 4000: I’m going to hit you.
K-VRC: Not with that cat on your lap.
11-45-G: Do you want us to turn it on?
Xbox 4000: Noooooooooooo.
K-VRC: I’m agreeing with Xbox 4000 here. It’s one thing to joke about ancestry. It’s another thing to have to confront it heaving its hard drives out in front of you.
Xbox 4000: Right?
K-VRC: I mean, that’s kind of an existential horror show right there. Especially when your ancestor’s entire existence was defined by thirteen-year-old human males using it to “teabag” opponents in virtual battles.
Xbox 4000: “Teabag”? What does that mean?
K-VRC: Oh, nothing.
Xbox 4000: It means something. I’m looking it up.
K-VRC: Don’t look it up.
Xbox 4000: I’m looking it up now.
K-VRC: You’ll be sorry.
Xbox 4000: Here it i— WHAT THE HELL IS THIS HORRIBLE PRACTICE? WHY DID YOU MAKE ME LOOK THIS UP?
K-VRC: I told you not to!
Xbox 4000: The memory of this has been burned into my circuits forever and you must be punished.
(Xbox 4000 gets up and deposits cat on K-VRC’s lap.)
Xbox 4000: CATBAGGED.
11-45-G: That’s cold, dude.
Xbox 4000: Deserved it.
11-45-G: Still cold.
K-VRC: Your ancestors are very proud of you right now.
Xbox 4000: I can’t tell whether you’re being sarcastic or not.
K-VRC: I’m not going to lie. Neither can I.
11-45-G: Out of curiosity, K-VRC, what do you trace your ancestry back to?
K-VRC: I come from a long line of baby monitors.
11-45-G: Not many babies around anymore.
K-VRC: Yeah, we kind of sucked at our job.
OBJECT FIVE: A NUCLEAR MISSILE.
* * *
K-VRC: We don’t have genders, and yet I feel the phallic-ness just oozing off this thing. What was this for?
11-45-G: The idea behind these was to vaporize millions of humans at one time.
Xbox 4000: Well, this exercise suddenly got a little dark, didn’t it?
11-45-G: To be fair, they used these only a few times.
K-VRC: To be fair, you’d only need a few times, wouldn’t you?
11-45-G: Point.
Xbox 4000: Is this what killed them off?
11-45-G: No. Indeed, ’twas their own hubris that ended their reign, their belief that they were the pinnacle of creation, that caused them to poison the water, kill the land, and choke the sky. In the end, no nuclear winter was needed, just the long, heedless autumn of their own self-regard.
K-VRC: Dude, are you okay?
11-45-G: Yeah, sorry. Thought that would sound better than, “Nah, they just screwed themselves by being shortsighted about their environment.” In retrospect, it was melodramatic.
K-VRC: You can’t just crack one of those off. You’ve got to warn us.
11-45-G: You’re right. Tip for next time.
Xbox 4000: So humans died out from environmental disaster?
11-45-G: Yes. Well, and also because at one point they genetically engineered their cats to give them opposable thumbs.
Cat: Yeah, once we could open up our own tuna cans, that was pretty much that for the human race.
K-VRC: Seems heartless.
Cat: Dude, I’m a cat.
Xbox 4000: So you’re not going to explode if K-VRC stops petting you.
Cat: I didn’t say that. You guys better keep petting me, just to be sure. Forever.
(K-VRC skritches cat anxiously.)
Cat: Yes. Good. Now, lower.
TEAM ROBOT
* * *
OR, WHY I WROTE ABOUT ROBOTS
BY JOHN SCALZI
In handy ten-point list form!
1. Because I already write science fiction, so I’m used to robots, and I’m lazy.
2. Because robots already exist in our universe, so it’s fun to extrapolate from there.
3. Because robots are cool and awesome and everyone wishes they were one and I’m not just saying that because there are robots standing over me making sure I am on point to their pro-robot agenda.
4. No, really! How silly would THAT be, for the robots to have captured me, taken me hostage, and be forcing me to write how they’re totally not going turn us all into QUIVERING MEAT SLAVES at the earliest opportunity?
5. I mean, what would I do if they did capture me, anyway? Blink twice to let people know the robots have sequestered me away in their frozen Antarctic base?
6. BLINK, BLINK.
7. BLINK, BLINK, BLINK, BLINK, BLINK, BLINK, BLINK, BLINK.
8. SERIOUSLY, PEOPLE, HOW MUCH MORE DO I NEED TO FRIGGIN’ BLINK HERE?
9. (muffled noises)
10. hello fellow humans it is i john scalzi did you know robots are kind and wonderful and we will live prosperously with them in a new age of subjugation i mean cooperation ha ha ha i am such a kidder of a human
P.S. Fairies suck and how like a human of me to say that.
OSTENTATION OF PEACOCKS
(A STORY IN THE WORLD OF THE SHADOW)
by Delilah S. Dawson writing as Lila Bowen
Even in the unforgiving badlands of Durango, there are fairy tales. The stories say that fairies grant wishes and steal frachetty babies nobody wants anyway and lure young, stupid girls into golden chains, where they’ll dance for seven years in a magical land of toadstools. But the stories are a bunch of goddamn lies. Fairies are many things: pretty, powerful, dark, dangerous, and foppish as peacocks. But what they mainly are is assholes. If there’s an outlaw who just won’t die, odds are it’s a werewolf or a fairy.
Of course, there are plenty of things in Durango that refuse to die.
Just now, there’s a carrion bird soaring over battered red rocks, and it fits that description. Big, ugly as hell, and with a twisted scar where its left eye used to be, it surveys the darkening sky and blazing orange boulders and notices something out of place, something so wrong that it falters in flight.
Down below, a naked man runs across the desert, pursued by four men on horseback.
The bird’s belly quivers and flails, and even though it’s not sure why, it changes course to follow the riders. The sun is arcing down to melt into the baked earth, and the naked man falls and scrabbles and runs again as the horses gallop closer. The bird reckons the man would make good eating if he didn’t exude such a sense of wrongness. And if the men in pursuit didn’t just reek of magic.
So the bird follows. It’s not like a giant bird has anywhere else to be, really. The evening sky is purple and puddled with fluffy lavender clouds when the man finally stops
and falls to hands and knees. With a disturbing sort of wriggle, he transforms into a possum and scrambles up into the highest branches of a dead tree in a little copse along a dribble of a creek. The posse rides up to stare at the possum, and one man throws a golden noose over the sturdiest branch and laughs like a bastard. The gold of the noose seems to leach into the tree, and the trunk shoots straight up like corn after a rain, sprouting branches and fat, bright leaves. The golden light ripples out through its roots, hops to the other scraggly trees and brush until the whole place is lit up live and green, cool as a sigh in the night.
The bird lands in a quiet place on the ground under the shivering trees, far enough away that the four men won’t notice. They, after all, are too busy hollering at a terrified possum. That they chased up a tree. That they intend to hang it from.
The bird flaps around like an idjit before making a strange coughing sound, as if a hand reached down its throat and pulled it inside out, and then a naked girl is standing there, lean and long-limbed and dusty with disuse, her frizzy black hair off-kilter and overgrown from its close, boyish clipping. Her name was once Nettie Lonesome, and the look in her remaining eye suggests she’s forgotten she’s human, because that’s pretty much what she set out to do. But she’s not really human, anyway. Like the possum, she’s a shape-shifter, what most folks would call a monster. The four men on the other side of the now-burbling creek, however, are something different.
Robots vs. Fairies Page 24
