Robot Adept

by Piers Anthony

The robot was required to tell his joke first. He did so mechanically. “A smart humanoid robot was concerned that his employer was not satisfied with his performance and sought a pretext to fire him. The employer always assigned him the least rewarding tasks, such as supervising the maintenance menials. When the employer gave him an assignment to report to the robot repair annex, he feared he would be junked. So he tinkered with the wiring of a cleanup menial robot, an inferior machine, and caused it to respond to the humanoid’s identity command. Thus the menial went off to the repair annex for junking, instead of the smart humanoid!”

  There was a robot in the audience who found this very funny, and two androids who smiled. But the joke fell somewhat flat for the human beings.

  Now it was Fleta’s task to top it. If she could do so, she would nullify it, and leave her opponent scoreless. She had to think quickly: what would reverse the situation in a funny manner? She thought again of Mach. What would he say to a joke like this? That gave her the key.

  “But it turned out that the robot was being sent to the repair annex not for junking, but for upgrading to superior status,” she said. “When the menial robot returned, it was much smarter than the humanoid robot, and was made the new supervisor, bossing the humanoid himself.”

  Several humans laughed, and the two androids smiled. They liked that reversal. Only the humanoid robot in the audience failed to see the humor of it. Fleta had succeeded in topping the joke.

  Now it was her turn to start. She remembered a little story she had imagined as a young filly, back when she was learning to assume giriform. “A mean man of Phaze caught an innocent young unicorn in human form, when she was trying to learn the human ways so she could handle the form perfectly. He grabbed her and clapped his hand over her forehead, covering her horn button, so she could not change. ‘Now I won’t let you go unless you teach me how to change form as you do,’ he told her. ‘Teach me, or I will do something terrible for you but nice for me.’ She knew he would rape her if she did not agree, so she gave her word to help him change to equine form.

  “He could not do it exactly the way she did, because he was not of her species, so she had to translate the magic to a verbal command that would work for him. Actually it was two commands: the second to change him back to manform. He tied her to a post and tried the first spell, and lo! He became his analogy of the equine form, which was a silly ass. Immediately he tried to change back, but he only brayed, because his assform was unable to speak in the human mode. He was stuck for the rest of his life as an ass.”

  There were a few smiles in the audience, but it seemed that most of the serfs had been expecting something like this, so were not surprised. It was after all a pretty weak joke.

  It was the robot’s turn to top it. Unfortunately, he had found the joke hilarious: man becoming ass! That was almost as funny as having a menial robot sent off to be junked in one’s place. He tried to come up with an improvement on it, but his thought circuits were inadequate, and he could not.

  But he was not completely dull. “Maybe there is no topper,” he said. “If there is no topper, then it doesn’t count!”

  AGREED, the screen printed. TELLER MUST TOP OWN JOKE FOR VICTORY.

  Oops! Fleta had not anticipated that! She had never devised a reversal of this one, having had no motive. If she was a human being, and wanted to turn the joke to human account, how would she do it?

  The challenge brought the response, and she had it. It was in the form of her worst fear as a young creature. “Then the unicorn changed to her natural form, for she was just coming into heat and needed to be far from here before the mating urge took her. But she forgot that she was still tied, and the rope was too strong for her to break. She was trapped—and there was this ass, smelling her condition, eager to—”

  She was drowned out by a surge of laughter. The serfs found that fate very funny!

  She had won the match—but at the cost of allowing her secret self to be raped by an ass. She was not completely pleased.

  Mach visited her again. “I have located Bane,” he said. “I have explained what my father wants. He has agreed. But he says that Agape is far from here. He will have to go to her, and explain, and bring her here. It will take at least two days.”

  “Then needs must I win again on the morrow,” she said.

  “You have been doing very well,” he said. “You have qualified for Round Four; you are one of the final 128 contestants. Almost 900 have been eliminated.”

  “That many!” she exclaimed in wonder. “But I be just lucky!”

  He shook his head. “I’m not sure of that. I think you may be cut out to be a Game player. Your instincts have been good, and your play good. Considering your unfamiliarity with this culture and your inexperience with the Game, that suggests a very good potential.”

  “Nay, it be but luck,” she protested. “I fear for each new contest, that I may muff what I might have played well.”

  “Which is exactly the attitude of a superior gamesman.” He smiled. “In any event, you have to get through only one more, and then you can exchange.”

  “One more—and then be separated from thee,” she said, with mixed emotions.

  Her Round Four match was against a Citizen. Fleta saw him approaching the console with horror; how could she defeat such an opponent? Furthermore, she recognized him: he was the Purple Adept, here known as Citizen Purple.

  Now she knew that the Contrary Citizens had caught on to her identity, and somehow arranged to get close to her within the Tourney. If she lost this one, Purple would have her, and Mach would be helpless. The alliance of Citizens and Adepts would have both sides of it, and Bane and Mach would have to work wholly for them. Their noose was closing.

  Purple looked at her, and grinned. “I mean to have your hide, animal,” he said. “You have led a charmed existence, but I have a score to settle.”

  Terror coursed through her. This man was serious—and deadly. Mach had said something about the way Agape had escaped captivity by this man, and Mach himself had escaped, in a violent confrontation. Certainly Purple had a score to settle—and she knew he was an evil man.

  “Thou canst not touch me in the Tourney,” she said with as much bravado as she could muster. She had to cling to the console, for her knees were melting.

  “But the moment you wash out, as you are about to, I shall preempt the deportation process and take you with me,” he said. “Citizenship hath its privileges.”

  Could he do that? She feared he could. The Game Computer had protected her from external threats, but could not bar a legitimate contestant, and Citizens did have special powers. She had to win! But could she? She greatly feared that this man had her number, as the serfs put it.

  Her screen showed that she had the letters. That meant she could choose ANIMAL. But Purple would be ready for that, and have some devastating trap ready. What, then, was left? What she understood least was MACHINES, having had no experience with them prior to her meeting with Mach. Purple knew that too, and he was of course thoroughly conversant with the most sophisticated machines. It would be folly for her to choose that category.

  So it was between NAKED and TOOL. In her own unicorn body she would have been confident with NAKED, but in this Amoeba body she was doubtful. It was a wonderful body, but she hardly understood it well enough to trust it to direct physical competition—and she was afraid that that was exactly what Purple would choose. TOOL? That could be anything, including weapons; he was surely skilled with those, while she understood only the weapon of her horn—which she lacked, here. She seemed to have no good choices!

  But maybe she could surprise him! With sudden resolve, she touched the very worst of her choices: MACHINE.

  He had chosen PHYSICAL, as she had surmised.

  Maybe Mach was right: she did have a touch for the Game, being able to judge her opponent’s likely choice. But she was still stuck in a box she didn’t like.

  She hoped she would get the numbers, this time
, so she could avoid INTERACTIVE or COMBAT and perhaps COOPERATIVE; she wanted no contact with this brutal man!

  Luck did not help her. She got the letters again, and had to choose between E. EARTH F. FIRE G. GAS and H. H2O. She had learned that EARTH meant a flat surface, such as a ball could roll on, and that FIRE meant a variable surface that a stick might help to cross, and GAS meant a broken surface, such as might have been carved up by a knife, and that H2O meant water, where anything went. She didn’t trust any of them, but as a unicorn she preferred the flat surface, such as might be grazed or run on. Therefore she avoided that, still trying to surprise the Citizen, to get into some combination that, however bad it might be for her, would be worse for him. So she touched FIRE, with a sense of futility.

  He had chosen 6. INTERACTIVE. Thus they were in 1C6F: Machine-assisted physical activity on a variable surface, interactive. That, when they played through the choices, turned out to be SNOWMOBILE BUMPING.

  “Well,” Purple said, making a motion as of lathering his hands. “It will be a pleasure to return to this sport.”

  She realized that she had nothing to lose except the game, and her freedom. There was no point trying to placate the Citizen, but perhaps she could learn something from him. “Thou wast good at this?”

  “I was good at everything, in my youth,” he said. “But especially mountainside sports, because of my association with the mountain range.”

  The Purple Mountain range, of course. That made sense. She had after all walked into the worst of choices!

  They adjourned to the Snow Sports range. The snowmobiles turned out to be machines that could cruise rapidly up and down slopes. A steeply banked track circled the central housing. The route was not long, but had plenty of variety, and because it circled, there was no end to it. The two would circle until one bumped the other out of the track.

  Suddenly Fleta realized that this was very much like a game she had played with others of her Herd. They had gone up into the snowy regions and beaten out a track, then ran in it, trying to shoulder each other out of it. She had not been the best, because she lacked the mass and power of some of the others, but she had been good, because she was fast and sure. Had her physical assets matched the others’, pound for pound, she would have been the best.

  The snowmobiles were machines, all the same size and shape and power. The only difference in the contestants would be that of their own body masses—and their skills in the game. Fleta had never before used such a machine, but she suspected that once she became accustomed to it, she would be able to compete with anyone.

  The Citizen thought he had an easy victory. He might discover he had no victory at all!

  They donned heavy clothing, for the range was cold. This was one of the few occasions when serfs were permitted apparel. The attendant explained the use of the machines, which turned out to be simple: a wheel mounted sidewise for steering, and a pedal to set the speed.

  They got into their mobiles and exited simultaneously on opposite sides. They would circle left. It was possible for the two to avoid contact by traveling at constant speed on opposite sides, but if too long a period elapsed without a bump, both would be disqualified, and both would be out of the Tourney, with a bye granted to whatever contestant would have encountered the winner in the next round. Purple might be satisfied with that, but Fleta couldn’t afford it. She hoped that Purple’s pride would require him to mix it up, and not go for the ignominious disqualification, just to get control of her.

  As she moved out into the snow, she concentrated on attuning to the machine. She had only a little time to ascertain the range of its capabilities. How fast could it gallop? How quickly could it slow? How welt could it maneuver? She had to get the feel of it, so that she could use it without thinking, exactly as she would her own body.

  She pushed down on the pedal, and the mobile leaped ahead, spewing out snow behind. She lifted her foot, and the thing stopped so suddenly that only her restraining harness prevented her body from being thrown forward and out of it, while snow flew up in a small cloud.

  The machine was responsive!

  That made her think of Mach, the most responsive of machines.

  But Purple was overhauling her rapidly. She leaped forward again, lest he ram her and bump her out before she got started. As she did, she steered to the side, and the machine quickly swerved. This was an excellent unicorn!

  Now she was ready, and barely in time, for Citizen Purple’s mobile was upon her. It had maintained speed while she experimented, and she could not gain on it from a standing start. The Citizen was aiming to ram her, he being on the inside of the track and she moving more slowly on the outside. She would be out of control in a moment if he scored.

  But she had a body that was close enough in principle to her own, and experience in exactly this kind of tactic. She gauged the likely point of impact, and as he speeded up to add more impetus to the bump, she cut suddenly left, crossing in front of him, and abruptly slowed.

  Caught by surprise, he struck her right flank and caromed off to the right. She was already steering left again, countering the shove of her rear. Then, as he tried to compensate for his unexpected impetus, she cut right, accelerated, and bumped him hard from the inside.

  He careened out of the track so violently that his vehicle collided with the outer retaining wall. A buzzer sounded: the contest was over.

  Fleta had not only won, she had won decisively. She had made an experienced gamesman look like a duffer. “How dost thou like that manure, Citizen?” she called gleefully.

  Then, realizing that caution was in order, she guided her snowmobile quickly inside, and departed before Purple could get there.

  As she returned to her chamber, she knew she had secured her chance to return to Phaze. But now, oddly, she wished she did not have to go just yet. After all, she had just qualified for Round Five, one of only sixty-four survivors! That was halfway through the rounds! Who knew how far she could go if she remained in the Tourney!

  But Mach was waiting at the chamber. “Don’t get notions, filly,” he said severely. “You’re safe, now—but if you play again and lose, we might not be able to coordinate the exchange before you got shipped offplanet.”

  That sobered her. “Agape will have to play in my stead,” she said regretfully. “Mayhap she will win the Tourney and become the next Citizen!”

  “Maybe,” he agreed. Then they made love, for it would be their last night together for a time.

  “Remember,” he said in the morning. “Keep the secret. Bane tells me that the Adverse Adepts are raising an army. He has to learn more about their plans, and only he can spy on them without their knowledge; I am too much a duffer at magic, and if they mean to betray us and break the truce—”

  “Aye,” she said. “That other tourney be not over yet.”

  Then, before the call for the next game came, Bane arrived. There was no sign of him, but Mach could tell. “She’s with him,” he said. “Come, embrace me, and concentrate on Phaze: your desire to return.”

  “Aye,” she repeated, embracing him with mixed emotions.

  Now she felt the presence of the others. She willed herself to Phaze, to the lovely open plain that occupied this spot there, and the exchange took hold.

  Chapter 9

  Masquerade

  After a horrendous three-day stint with Stile, operating from a hidden retreat and spying on demons who tended to stomp butterflies on sight, Bane made contact with Mach and learned that it was time to return Agape to Proton. He explained his own plan, and they agreed.

  He returned to the Blue Demesnes to discover a change. There was an evanescent glow about the castle that could only signify a rare happiness. If the Lady Blue was happy, she surely had good reason. He could think of only one likely event that would have this effect.

  Was that why his father had decided to pursue his investigation elsewhere, instead of returning to the Blue Demesnes at this time? Stile had withdrawn his opposition to Ba
ne’s union with Agape, but the situation still prohibited it; perhaps Stile simply preferred to stay clear of the inevitable awkwardness.

  “Anybody home?” he called.

  His mother came out to meet him, smiling. With her was a young woman who looked like Fleta, but was not.

  The woman stepped into his embrace. This was Agape, all right! He did not need to ask; he knew she accepted Phaze, now. He had not realized how important that acceptance was to him until this moment. This was his world; he wanted her to understand it and approve of it, however surprising her introduction to it.

  He summarized the news of his spying as they entered the castle. His mother knew it, of course, but would not have said anything; she was not one to speak carelessly. He wanted Agape to know why he had neglected her all this time. “They mean to use thee as a lever against me,” he concluded.

  “I know,” Agape said.

  Then he went into more detail about his recent activities as a spy and butterfly, but she just hugged him and seemed satisfied with that.

  But there was one thing he had to be sure she understood. He took her for a walk outside the castle, and explained. “Mach contacted me, while I was in the field,” he said. “Fleta be about to be shipped to Moeba.”

  That got her attention. “She can’t go there! It’s an entirely different world!”

  “Aye. So thou must return tomorrow. It be not a strange world to thee.” He took a breath. “And must needs I remain here. The Adverse Adepts watch me too closely; an they think Mach be back, their suspicion may diminish, so I can learn what we need.”

  She nodded sadly, understanding. “And I will not see you, after that.”

  “Nay, I joked not when I said I would visit thee there. Mach has been there, and promises to leave a program for me.”

  “A program?”

  “In his brain. He has compartments, and in them are programs for many things, such as the speaking of alien tongues or the application of special skills. With his program, I will know all he has learned, and can survive on thy home world. Thou hast experienced mine; now will I experience thine. Our acquaintance be not at an end.”