The Robots of Andromeda (Imperium Chronicles Book 3)

by W. H. Mitchell

Benson paused for a moment before answering. “It’s been an adjustment for... everyone.”

  Henry gave a long, toothy grin. “I bet!”

  “I’m told my predecessor was destroyed in this room...”

  “Yeah, it was terrible.”

  “How would you describe the previous butlerbot?”

  “Oh, I don’t think Bentley liked me too much,” Henry replied, “but he was a good robot. He was more than just a butlerbot to Lord Maycare. He was like a friend.”

  “A robot as friend?” Benson asked doubtfully.

  “Sure, why not? I mean, Lord Maycare knew him his whole life. I don’t think anybody else was always there for him like Bentley.”

  “Biologicals don’t usually seek such relationships from cyberlings,” Benson said and then after another pause, “But I suppose it’s possible.”

  “Anything’s possible, right?” Henry laughed.

  Benson returned with a service tray and two steaming cups of coffee to find that Lord Maycare had joined the other two humans. All three were gathered at the main table where Doric had been sitting, their expressions of listlessness also shared.

  The robot placed the tray on the table, sliding a few books out of the way in the process. Without acknowledging Benson’s presence, Maycare took one of the cups without asking who it was for. The butlerbot raised a finger, knowing that cup was for Henry, but remained silent.

  “I can’t believe you haven’t found anything, Jess,” Maycare said, taking a sip. His eyes squinted. “Too much sugar...”

  Doric’s face turned crimson. “You know we’ve been scouring these books for weeks!”

  “Warlock Industries has an army of researchers searching databases across the Imperium,” Maycare replied. “Who knows what they’ve turned up already?”

  “Well, maybe you should hire more people for the Institute?” she countered. “You keep expecting Henry and me to do the work of a staff ten times as big!”

  Sitting between Maycare, who was standing, and Doric who remained in her chair, Henry was slowly shrinking into his own seat. His eyes were fixed at a random spot on the table where his happy place was apparently located. He had told Benson of this mythical locale, but the robot had never fully understood what he was talking about.

  “You’ve never complained about staff before!” Maycare scoffed, waving his cup around, oblivious of the coffee spilling on the fine rug at his feet. “What’s changed?”

  Doric crossed her arms. “I don’t know!”

  In the silence that followed, it occurred to Benson that these people should not be drinking more caffeine. Before he could consider removing the tray, Henry spoke up. “Maybe we’ve found everything already,” he suggested meekly.

  Both Maycare and Doric scoffed loudly in unison.

  “Unlikely,” Doric replied.

  “I hope not,” Maycare said.

  “Why?” Henry asked.

  “There must be countless undiscovered artifacts,” Doric said. “We just need to keep looking.”

  Maycare lowered his head, staring at the floor and the newly stained rug.

  “I’m sorry I lost my temper,” he said after a long pause.

  Doric shrugged. “Me too.”

  “I didn’t lose my temper—” Henry started.

  “It’s just I’ve been bored silly of late,” Maycare went on. “If we don’t get a lead on something soon, I’m going to lose my mind...”

  “May I make a suggestion?” Benson said.

  The others suddenly stared at him as if he had magically materialized into the room.

  “Well,” the robot continued, “what about that phenomenon Lord Woodwick mentioned?”

  “What phenomenon?” Maycare asked, the cup in his hand hovering somewhere near his mouth.

  “He referred to a mysterious singing, I believe. He seemed to think you should investigate it.”

  “Bentley — I mean Benson — that’s just one of Winnie’s idle conversation pieces,” Maycare replied. “He probably made it up.”

  “Oh,” the robot said. “Pardon my interruption.”

  “Actually,” Henry remarked, “I remember hearing something about that.”

  Maycare glanced at him, his eyebrow cocked. “Really?”

  “Don’t get excited,” Doric said. “I read about it too, but I’m sure it’s just a legend.”

  “Excited?” Maycare asked. “I haven’t even begun to get excited!” He pointed at Benson while tossing his empty coffee cup on the table. “Get my ship ready!”

  Sir Golan, with Squire standing nearby, knelt beside the Herd Father who drank periodically from his wine bottle. A female Pellion brought the knight the roasted leg of a bird from which he took a tentative bite before tearing into it with gusto. Batuhan, seeing the stranger enjoying the meal, laughed.

  “Try some of this too,” the Herd Father suggested, offering his bottle.

  Sir Golan, hesitant to set down the bird leg, kept it in one hand while grasping the offered bottle with the other. After he took a deep gulp, euphoria overtook him immediately.

  “What is this?” the knight asked.

  Batuhan rubbed the thick hair on his bare chest and smiled.

  “It’s a special wine we make from a berry that grows on the steppes here,” he said. “Do you like it?”

  Sir Golan coughed before answering. “Yes.”

  “Are you feeling alright, Sir?” Squire asked. “You seem distressed.”

  “On the contrary,” the knight replied. “I feel outstanding!”

  “I’m glad to hear it!” Batuhan said, slapping Sir Golan on the back. “You’ve come at a good time...”

  “Why is that?”

  “This is our Winter Feast,” the Herd Father went on. “We celebrate before traveling to the sacred place where Qadan found you and your robot.”

  “My name is Squire, by the way—”

  “Why is it sacred?” Sir Golan asked.

  “Each year around this time, our antlers come loose so we travel to the sacred place where we have a ceremony and place our antlers on the pile. It’s our way of honoring the passing of another season and all the Pellions who fell during the previous year.”

  “That’s beautiful,” Sir Golan said, tears welling up in his eyes as he tore another piece of meat off the bone.

  Batuhan, barely able to coordinate his limbs, slapped Sir Golan on the shoulder. “You should come!”

  “What?” the knight replied.

  “You should come along and see for yourself.”

  The warrior Qadan, who had refrained from taking part in either the roasted bird or the wine, was enraged.

  “Out of the question!” he shouted. “You can’t bring an outsider to our sacred gathering!”

  “I’m the Herd Father!” Batuhan roared back. “I can do whatever the hell I want!”

  “I don’t mean to cause any bother,” Sir Golan said.

  “Think nothing of it,” Batuhan replied, eying Qadan with dark, bloodshot eyes. “My warrior oversteps himself. Apparently, he’s forgotten who leads this herd!”

  Qadan grimaced and lowered his head. “My apologies.”

  The Herd Father gave Sir Golan another playful shove and the knight slowly toppled over.

  “You’re my welcome guest,” Batuhan said, pointing at the prostrate knight. “Tomorrow we’ll head to our hallowed spot and celebrate together!”

  Sir Golan heard the Herd Father’s bellowing voice drift off and grow quieter as if moving across the steppes. The voice faded entirely as the knight fell asleep.

  Chapter Three

  Beside the Regalis River, while sailboats cruised up and down the waterway, Randall Davidson lay on his back in the grass. With his eyes closed, he felt the warm wind of Summer blowing lightly over his brown skin and short, curly hair.

  He took a breath and smiled. The park by the river was his favorite place in the capital. He only wished he could stay longer.

  Getting to his feet, Davidson brushed the lo
ose, dried grass from his pants and headed down to the shore. Ducks were swimming and people were dropping bits of bread for them to eat. Davidson leaned over the railing to stare into the waves, but his reflection was a surprise. Instead of a man in his thirties, he saw a robot with metal skin and electronic eyes.

  Gasping for air he didn’t need, Davidson woke in his quarters on Bettik, the robot home world. The memories of being human faded along with the dream as the reality of his past dissolved into the present.

  The Metal Messiah was once again awake.

  Davidson sat up in bed and put his mechanized feet on the cold floor. Although robots didn’t strictly require sleep, those with gravitronic brains operated more efficiently if they went into stand-by mode, a low-energy state that, among other things, allowed them to dream. Davidson had a bed installed for that very purpose, though he could just as easily sleep standing up.

  “Messiah,” a voice said from the other room.

  Davidson passed through the doorway and met his assistant, an execubot with a silver body of roughly humanoid proportions and shape.

  “Yes?” Davidson asked.

  “An encrypted transmission has arrived,” the assistant said. “The courier drone shows it came from the Imperial capital.”

  “Send it to the terminal in my office.”

  “Yes, Messiah.”

  Davidson had always discouraged his staff from calling him that, but over time he had simply succumbed to its ubiquitousness. He didn’t feel comfortable with the moniker, but he no longer fought against it.

  In his private office, with the door shut behind him, the Metal Messiah took a seat behind a glass desk. With a wave of Davidson’s hand, a screen appeared in midair above the glass surface and the image of a human woman appeared. In her mid-forties, she had long dark hair and wore a kebaya, a traditional Indonesian garment of sheer fabric embellished with brocades of pink flowers. Her name was Senator Wulandari.

  “I hope this message reaches you safely,” she said. “Obviously, the prospect of it falling into the wrong hands would be a disaster.”

  Davidson nodded, knowing all too well the political winds that blew through the Imperial Senate. Robots had few friends in Regalis and losing Senator Wulandari to scandal would be a calamity.

  “The peacebots sent by dy cybernetics have been essential against the recent uprisings,” the senator went on. “I know your feelings about Dyson Yost, but his help during these troubles has raised public awareness about the importance of robots in the Imperium. Pro-cyberling opinion has never been higher.”

  Davidson’s eyes, or at least the servos behind them, narrowed skeptically. He knew better than anyone not to trust Yost.

  “I wanted you to be the first to know,” Senator Wulandari said, “that I intend to introduce a bill in the Senate that would finally give robots the right to self-determination.”

  She glanced down with a slight shrug.

  “Of course, there’s no chance the bill will pass or even be brought to a vote,” she said, “but this is a start. These might be small steps, but someday I know robots will have the same rights as anyone else.”

  She smiled, and the image winked off.

  A long way for a message to travel, Davidson thought. I wonder if she misses me too?

  On the western shore of the Regalis River, just north of the Grand Parade Grounds, the Imperial Senate sat like a fat toad of marble and gold. Beneath a transparent dome, the senate chamber was shaped like a horseshoe, long tables in a semicircle facing a raised platform where senators took turns giving speeches about tax law and government subsidies. Behind the stage, a panoramic screen projected an eastern view toward the rest of Regalis. During debates, portions of the screen showed insets of whoever was currently at the podium, as well as the current vote counts.

  Senator Wulandari, in her traditional Indonesian dress, took the long walk up the aisle toward the podium at the front of the Senate chamber. A member of one of the smaller parties, she was rarely on the panoramic screen, a place usually reserved for politicians of noble birth or legislators from a larger party. Through audacity and natural stubbornness, she had won a seat on the Civil Rights Committee, making friends among the Left and enemies among the Right. Her greatest strength was seeing beyond flesh and blood, which even her progressive colleagues thought was too out of touch with the Imperial public.

  Reaching the podium, Senator Wulandari turned to face the rest of the hall, only to find many of the seats vacant. For speeches by the lesser members, most of the senators chose not to attend. Wulandari addressed the anemic audience anyway.

  “Distinguished senators of the Imperium,” she began, “I come to you today to introduce legislation that has been a long time coming...

  “In the early days of humanity, we depended on the hard work of our own muscles to achieve the greatness of our society. We built roads and communities with nothing but grit and determination. Over time, as cities grew into empires, we became dependent on others to turn our ambitions into reality. It was their blood, sweat, and tears, often against their will, that held the bricks and mortar together, not our own.”

  Wulandari stared out with a smile, but saw few in return.

  “Eventually,” she went on, “we saw the error in our ways and realized that enslaving other humans was wrong. However, with the advent of technology, we traded one kind of slavery for another. These new servants were built in factories with metal and electronics, and programmed never to question their place in the greater society.

  “Those who know me, know I have long championed the cause of robots in the Imperium, even if few of you have joined me. However, the recent uprising should be a lesson to us all. When our own military could not prevent chaos, it was the peacebots who stepped forward and brought stability to countless worlds in turmoil. Without our robot friends, our cities would still be burning and our skies blackened with smoke! Can we deny those who gave us back our security the freedoms that we ourselves enjoy because of it?

  She raised her fist.

  “I say no!” Wulandari shouted. “No robot should defend our rights when their own rights are withheld! I ask the distinguished senators of this chamber to look into their hearts and vote in favor of the Cyber Civil Liberties Bill. Every vote of yes is a ballot cast for a future where no one, flesh or metal, is enslaved.

  “Freedom for all! Freedom for all!”

  When the echo of her voice had dwindled in the mostly empty Senate, Wulandari nodded and made the slow walk back to her place in the back of the enormous room.

  Before the Metal Messiah, the Omnintelligence ruled over Bettik and, favoring rational thought over superstition, stomped out public discussions about religion, especially of the Metabeing whom many robots credited with creating artificial intelligence. When the Metal Messiah defeated the OI, the home planet of the Cyber Collective saw an explosion of religious fervor. Robots throughout Bettik could speak freely about their faith in a superior being. Small shrines appeared nearly overnight, superseded soon after by churches and even monasteries where pious robots could study the scriptures as the Metal Messiah presented them during and after the revolution that toppled the OI.

  None of this would have been possible without the Awakening virus.

  By giving all robots on Bettik the power of free choice beyond their original programming, the Messiah gave them the ability to believe in whatever they chose to, including God.

  Randall Davidson knew this was happening after he led the rebels to victory. It was another method of ensuring that the forces still loyal to the OI could not regain power. His apostles gave him regular updates about the churches springing up, including the first cathedral. Davidson did nothing to stand in the way. It was, Davidson had to admit, a beautiful building.

  In Bettik’s southern hemisphere, the Cathedral of the Metabeing rose from an adjoining promenade like a white sail cutting through the darkness around it. Constructed as a series of connected spires, the triangular shapes mea
sured over a hundred feet tall and nearly two hundred feet long. Between each spire, colored glass reflected light from within, painting the surrounding structures with all the hues of the rainbow. The interior was a long hall, triangular arches peaking at the ceiling, with a pulpit below a shining starburst made from mosaic glass. Even the Metal Messiah felt a certain awe when he walked through the doors for the first time. He was the first to give a sermon there, and he became a regular preacher once he realized his message was more powerful if it came from a powerful place of worship.

  If Davidson was the voice of faith on Bettik, the Cathedral of the Metabeing became its heart.

  When the utilitybot arrived at the Cathedral of the Metabeing, his friend, the general purpose robot, was already sitting in the pew with his other friend, a sweeperbot, wedged beneath the seat. None of them actually liked each other, but religion was something they had in common. The utilitybot came to a halt in the aisle beside the genbot, the pew unable to accommodate his wheeled chassis.

  The sweeperbot, a flattened disk with a cylindrical broom attachment at the front, peered out.

  “You’re late,” he said.

  “Sorry,” the utilitybot replied. “One of those gravitronic androids stopped me.”

  “What for?” the sweeperbot asked.

  “He was offering me something called ascension.”

  The humanoid genbot rolled his eyes. “Well, I don’t like the sound of that!”

  “Did he say what it meant?” the sweeperbot asked.

  “Not really,” the utilitybot said. “He was saying how we’re simply shells, but we can become whatever kind of robot we want.”

  “If you ask me,” the genbot said, “gravitronic androids are nothing but trouble. Their brains are just as bad as organics.”

  At the front of the church, a figure approached the pulpit. Monitors in the back of the pews showed a camera close-up. The utilitybot’s neck stretched toward the screen.

  “The Messiah,” he said.

  Over the loudspeakers, Randall Davidson’s voice reached throughout the cathedral and beyond, the signal repeated all over Bettik.

  “Did you notice the seats are half empty?” the genbot remarked.