Clarkesworld Magazine Issue 88

by Ken Liu

  “Of course not. What would be the point? Might as well have you tell me the story yourself.”

  “All right.”

  Alex looks at Ryder. This is a boy who probably doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. He would be used to the many servants and droids back in his father’s house. Like a princess.

  > go to nearest drawer and open it

  If you’re thinking of opening every drawer one by one, the King will be back before you’re done.

  > Damn it, this is terrible programming!

  Spring shifts from one foot to the other behind you.

  “Did you say something about programming?”

  > ask Spring about programming

  “Since I’m a non-Cartesian automaton, you can control my behavior with programs.” Spring’s voice is dreary and grinds on your ears.

  You step up to Spring and open up his front panel, revealing the spinning gears and rocking levers within, as well as reams of densely-punched instructional tape.

  (As a shortcut, you may engage in programming in pseudocode and we’ll pretend that they’re translated into the right patterns of holes on tape—otherwise we’d be here forever.)

  > TELL Spring the following:

  >> WHILE (any drawer is not open)

  >> PICK a closed drawer at random

  >> OPEN the drawer

  >> TAKE OUT everything

  >> END WHILE

  >>END TELL

  Spring springs to life and rushes around the room, opening random drawers and dumping the contents on the ground. The floor shakes as his bulk thumps back and forth. Eventually he finishes opening every drawer in the room and stops.

  “Your father is not going to be happy about this,” he says.

  > examine room

  There are too many things scattered all over the floor to list them one by one. In fact, you can’t even see the floor.

  > TELL Spring to sort objects in room by type

  Spring whips around the room, sorting objects into neat piles: there’s a pile of books, a pile of jewels, a pile of secret files, a pile of parchments, a pile of clothes, a pile of shoes, a pile of nuts (why not? They make good snacks).

  “Thanks,” you say.

  “No problem,” Spring says. “Automata are good for this kind of thing.”

  > TELL Spring to look for Augustine Module

  “See, now you’re just being lazy,” Spring says. “I have no idea what an Augustine Module looks like.”

  “Very clever,” Alex says.

  “Which part?” Ryder looks pleased.

  “Your game lures the player into relying on doing everything by ordering a non-player character around. I suppose this is supposed to get the player to feel a sense of participation in the plight of the oppressed automata in your world? Inducing empathy and guilt is the hardest thing to get right in a game.”

  Ryder laughs. “Thanks. Maybe you’re giving me too much credit. I was just trying to make the time pass somehow. Sometimes the inevitable end doesn’t seem so scary if you can keep the silence at bay with a story.”

  “Like that girl with the stories and the Sultan,” she says. She almost adds and death but catches herself.

  Ryder nods. “I told you. It’s not a very original idea.”

  “This isn’t some political commentary on your father’s opposition to strong AI, is it? You’re one of those free-droiders.” She’s used to her prey telling her stories to try to get her to be on their side, to let them go. Using a game to do it is at least a new tactic.

  Ryder looks away. “My father and I didn’t discuss politics much.”

  When he speaks again, his tone is upbeat, and Alex gets the impression he’s trying to change the subject. “I’m surprised you caught on so quick. The text-based user interface is primitive, but it’s the best I can do given what I have to work with.”

  “When I was little, my mother allowed only text-based streams on the time-sharing entertainment clusters because she didn’t want us to see and covet all the fancy things we couldn’t afford to buy.” Alex pauses. It’s not like her to reveal a lot of private history to one of her prey. Ryder’s game has unsettled her for some reason. What’s more, Ryder is the son of the most powerful man on Pele, and she resents the possibility that he might pity her childhood in the slums. She hurries on, trying to disguise her discomfort. “Sometimes the best visuals and sims can’t touch plain text. How did you learn to write one?”

  “It’s not as if you allow me access to any advanced systems on your ship,” he says, spreading his hands innocently. “Anyway, I always preferred old toys as a kid: wooden blocks, paper craft, programming antique computers. I guess I just like old-fashioned things.”

  “I’m old-fashioned myself,” she says.

  “I noticed. You don’t have any androids to help you out on the ship. Even the flight systems are barely automated.”

  “I find droids creepy,” she says. “The skin and flesh feel real, warm and inviting. But then you get to the glowing electronics underneath, the composite skeleton, the thudding pump that simulates a heartbeat as it circulates the nutrient fluid that functions like blood.”

  “Sounds like you had a bad experience with them.”

  “Let’s just say that there was one time I had to kill a lot of androids used as decoys to get to the real deal.”

  His face takes on an intense look. “You said ‘kill’ instead of ‘deactivate’ or something like that. You think they’re alive?”

  The turn in the conversation is unexpected, and she wonders if he’s manipulating her somehow. But she can’t see what the angle is. “It’s just the word that came to mind. They look alive; they act alive; they feel alive.”

  “But they’re not really alive,” he says. “As long as their neural nets do not surpass the PKD-threshold, androids aren’t self-aware and can’t be deemed conscious.”

  “Good thing making supra-PKD androids is illegal,” she says. “Otherwise people like you would be accusing me of murder.”

  “How do you know you’ve never killed one? Just because they’re illegal doesn’t mean they aren’t made.”

  She considers this for a moment. Then shrugs. “If I can’t tell the difference, it doesn’t matter. No jury on Pele would convict me anyway for killing an android, supra-PKD or not.”

  “You sound like my father, all this talk of laws and appearances. Don’t you ever think deeper than that?”

  Can this be the secret that divided father from son? Youthful contempt for the lack of idealism in the old? “I don’t need a lecture from you, and I’m certainly not interested in philosophy. I don’t care for androids much; I’m just glad I can get rid of them when I need to. A lot of my targets these days pay for android decoys to throw me off—I’m surprised you didn’t.”

  “That’s disgusting,” Ryder says. The vehemence in his voice surprises her. It’s the most emotional she’s ever seen him, even more than when she had caught him hiding in the slums on the dark side of Ranginui—it hadn’t been that hard to find him; when the senior senator from Pele wanted someone found, there were resources not otherwise available. When Alex had called out his real name in the crowded hostel, Ryder had looked surprised for a moment, but then quickly appeared resigned, the light in his eyes dimming.

  “To make them die for you,” he continues, his voice breaking, “to . . . use them that way.”

  “In your case,” Alex says dispassionately, “decoys would have helped you out and made my life harder, but I suppose you didn’t get to take much money when you ran away from home. You need to spend a lot to get them custom made to look like you. Bad game plan on your part.”

  “Is your job just a game to you? A thrilling hunt?”

  Alex doesn’t lose her cool. She’s used to histrionics from her prey. “I don’t usually defend myself, but I don’t usually talk this much with one of my prey either. I live by the bounty hunter’s code: whether something feels right or wrong changes depending on who’s telling
the story, but what doesn’t change is that we have a role to play in someone else’s story—bringer of justice, villain, minor functionary. We’re never the stars of the stories we’re in, so it’s our job to play that role as well as we can.

  “The people I’m paid to catch are the stars of their own stories. And they’ve all chosen to do something that would make my clients want to pay to have them found. They made a decision, and they must live with the consequences. That is all I need to know. They run, and I pursue. It’s as fair a fight as life can give you.”

  When Ryder speaks again, his voice is calm and cool, as if the outburst never happened. “We don’t have to talk about this. Let me work on the game some more. Maybe you’ll like what happens next better.”

  They hold each other’s gaze for a long moment. Then Alex shrugs and leaves the room.

  > examine pile of books

  There are treatises on the History of Chrysanthemum, the Geography of the World, the Habits of Sheep (Including Diseases and Treatment Thereof), and the Practice of Building Clockwork Automata . . .

  > read History of Chrysanthemum

  You flip the thin book open to a random page, and begin to read:

  Thereafter Chrysanthemum became the Hegemon of the Pan-Flores League, holding sway over all the cities of the peninsula. The Electors from all the cities choose a head of the league from the prominent citizens of Chrysanthemum. Though elected, the league head continued to hold the title of King. The election campaigns often kept those who would be King far from home as they curried favor with the Electors in each member city.

  > read Sheep book

  From behind you, Spring says, “Why are you reading about sheep instead of figuring out how to help me?”

  > read Clockwork Automata

  You flip open the heavy book, and the creased spine leads naturally to a page, one apparently often examined.

  St. Augustine wrote, “It is one thing to be ignorant, and another thing to be unwilling to know. For the will is at fault in the case of the man of whom it is said, ‘He is not inclined to understand, so as to do good.’”

  The Augustine Module is a small jewel that, when inserted into an automaton, endows the automaton with free will. A pulsing, shimmering, rainbow-hued crystal about the size of a walnut, it is found only in the depths of the richest diamond mines. The laws of the realm forbid the production of such automata, for it is only the place of God, not Man, to endow creatures with free will.

  Miners believe that the presence of the Augustine Module may be detected by the use of the HCROT. By the principle of sympathetic vibration, a HCROT is equipped with a crystal that, when heated, will vibrate near the presence of any Augustine Module. The closer the module is to the HCROT, the stronger the vibrations.

  > ask Spring about HCROT

  Spring shakes his head. “Never heard of it.”

  > examine pile of jewels

  There are rubies, sapphires, pearls, corals, opals, emeralds. Their beauty is dazzling.

  Spring speaks up, “I don’t think your father would store an Augustine Module here.”

  “Why not?” you ask.

  “Every year, he issues ever more severe edicts against the use of the Augustine Module in the construction of automata. Why would he store any here, where his ministers and generals might find them?”

  “You really don’t like your father’s politics, do you?” asks Alex.

  “I told you: we didn’t talk about politics much.”

  “You haven’t answered my question. I think it really bugs you that your father advocates against sentience for androids. But you know that Pele is a conservative world. He has to say certain things to get elected.” A thought occurs to her. “Maybe your secret is that you know something about him that will destroy his political career, and he doesn’t want you to be used by his enemies. What is it? Does he have a droid lover? Maybe one that’s supra-PKD?” Now she is mildly curious.

  Ryder laughs bitterly.

  “No, that’s too obvious,” Alex muses. “It’s all in your game. Was there really a toy soldier? A childhood companion you wanted to make fully alive but your father wouldn’t budge on? Is that what this is all about?” As she speaks, Alex can feel anger rise in herself. The whole thing seems frivolous, utterly absurd. Ryder was a spoiled rich little kid whose daddy issues amounted to not getting his way about some toy.

  “I never got to see my father much,” Ryder says. “It seemed that he was always out traveling around Pele, campaigning for re-election. I spent a lot of time at home with androids. I grew up with them.”

  “So you felt close to them,” Alex says. “While you were fretting about ‘freedom’ for your toys, there were people worried sick about how to feed their children outside your mansion. How can a human compete against an android who’s just as creative and resourceful when the human needs rest, might get hurt, might get sick? Your father pushed hard against sentience for androids so that actual people, real people like my parents, would still have jobs.”

  Ryder does not flinch away from Alex’s gaze. “The world is filled with multitudes of suffering, and we are limited by our station in life to focus on what we can. You’re right: since the androids aren’t sentient, no one thinks there’s anything wrong with exploiting them the way we are. But we can make them sentient with almost no effort; we’ve known how to cross the PKD-threshold for decades. We simply choose not to. You don’t see a problem with that?”

  “No.”

  “My father would agree with you. He would say there’s a difference between acts of omission and commission. Withholding from the androids what they could be easily given, unlike taking away what has already been given, does not constitute a moral harm. But I happen to disagree.”

  “I told you,” Alex says, “I’m not interested in philosophy.”

  “And so we continue to engage in slavery by a philosophical sleight of hand, through deprivation.”

  The flight computer crackles to life. “Exiting hyperspace in half an hour.”

  Alex looks at Ryder, her face cold. “Come on, let’s go.”

  They proceed together to the cockpit, where Alex waits for Ryder to lie down in the passenger seat. “Hands on the armrests. I have to secure you,” she says.

  Ryder looks up at her, his delicate features settling into a look of sorrow. “All these days on the same ship and you still don’t trust me?”

  “If you’re going to make a move, re-entry is the time to do it. I can’t take a chance. Sorry.” She activates the chair’s restraint system and flexible bands shoot out from the chair to wrap themselves around Ryder’s shoulders, hips, chest, legs. The bands tighten and Ryder groans. Alex is unmoved.

  As Alex reaches the door of the cockpit, Ryder calls after her, “You’re really going to turn me over to my father when you don’t even know what this is about?”

  “I understand enough to know I don’t care about your pet cause.”

  “I began my life with stories others told me: where I come from, who I am, who I should be. I’ve simply decided to tell my own story. Is that so wrong?”

  “It’s not for me to judge the right or wrong of it. I know what I need to know.”

  “It is one thing to be ignorant, and another thing to be unwilling to know.”

  She says nothing and leaves the cockpit.

  She knows she should get ready for re-entry and check on the flight systems one last time before securing herself in the pilot’s chair.

  But she turns back to the terminal. There’s still a bit of time. She won’t admit it to Ryder, but she does want to know how the game ends, even if it’s probably nothing more than the self-indulgent ravings of a disappointed child.

  “But my father must be storing the contraband Augustine Modules he’s seized somewhere in the Palace,” you say. “The question is where.”

  “What room have you never been inside of?”

  > south

  Outside the King’s and Queen’s Bedrooms
>
  Spring clangs after you.

  > TELL Spring to break down the door to Queen’s bedroom

  “As you wish, Princess.”

  Spring charges against the door and, amazingly, the door holds for a second. Then it crumbles.

  > enter Queen’s bedroom

  The Queen’s Bedroom

  You can’t remember ever having been inside the Queen’s bedroom. The bed, the dressers, and the cabinets are all faded, as if the color has been leached out of them. There’s layer of dust over everything, and cobwebs hang from the ceiling and the furniture. The tapestries hanging against the walls have been chewed into filigree by moths.

  There’s a painting hanging on the wall next to the window. Under the painting is a desk full of cubbyholes stuffed with parchment.

  > examine painting

  You make your way through the musty room to look at the painting. The dust motes you’ve disturbed twirl though the air, lit only by a few bright beams coming through cracks in the shutters.

  The man in the painting is your father, the King. He looks very handsome with his crown and ermine robe. He sits with a young girl on his lap.

  “She looks like you,” says Spring.

  “She does,” you say. The girl in the painting is five or six, but you don’t remember sitting with your father for this portrait.

  > examine cubbyholes in desk

  You retrieve the sheets of parchment from the cubbyholes. They look like a stack of letters.

  > examine letters

  You read aloud from the first letter.

  My Darling,

  I am sorry to hear that you’re unwell. But I simply cannot leave the campaign to come home right now. By all signs, the election will be close. Not that I expect you to understand, but if I leave here, Cedric will be able to convince the Electors of Peony that they should throw their support behind him.

  You must listen to the Castellan and not give the clockwork servants any trouble.

  Your ever-loving father.

  Spring shuffles behind you.

  “Cedric challenged your father four years ago,” Spring says.

  “I don’t remember being sick then,” you say. “Or writing to him.”