‘But it is not the work of man,’ Jasperodus pointed out. ‘It is my work.’
‘That is what I meant. You are the work of men, are you not?’
Jasperodus made a disappointed gesture. ‘You regard me, then, as only a relay for human talents, having none of my own?’
‘The question is not altogether meaningful. Certainly you are constructed so as to possess abilities that men have conceived and developed, but which robots never could. That, at least, is the scientific opinion.’ As the old man spoke these inconclusive words the familiar blackness that lay like a blanket over Jasperodus’ feelings was intensified. He grew displeased with the conversation, quit the old man and drifted away, to receive everywhere effusive congratulations for his symphony.
‘Do not praise me,’ he said abruptly to one strikingly beautiful young woman, the daughter of a famous artist, who though gazing wide-eyed into his face glanced more slyly over his body. ‘My achievement is vicarious: the expression of conceptions created by others.’
Arcturus sidled up to him. ‘I was given some unsettling news during the concert,’ he said quietly. ‘The Fourth Army left the frontier two days ago to join the Second Army already on its way here.’
‘Hm,’ grunted Jasperodus. ‘Well, advance the arrangements for the defence of the city.’
He turned away, but minutes later a dishevelled messenger came into the hall and sought out Arcturus. The rebel commander hurried up to Jasperodus wearing a startled look.
‘The Borgor Alliance has launched a full-scale attack on the Empire!’ he announced in a shocked voice. ‘They have crossed the border in force!’
‘No doubt they judged the moment ripe,’ Jasperodus commented. ‘Oh, well, the Fourth Army will be forced to wheel about to face them. So at least they are off our necks.’
‘Frankly it looks to me as though we shall be besieged by the imperial armies or by Borgor – or by both! What a mess!’
‘Hah!’ Jasperodus’ tone was glowering. ‘What we need are a few nuclear weapons. Then we could wipe out the Borgor invasion and the imperial armies all together, in one blow while they fought one another.’
Arcturus moved closer, glancing to left and right. ‘That is not all. We have also just now received intelligence that the Emperor Charrane is to land on Earth in three days’ time.’
‘An ignorant rumour. He is on Mars – that is months away.’
‘The information comes from a reliable source. As soon as the Emperor heard of the revolt he embarked on a secret new vessel – an extremely fast space cruiser that by chance had just made a test flight to Mars. This vessel is a nuclear-powered rocket and is capable of constant acceleration; consequently it cuts the journey down to less than two weeks.’
‘So!’ Jasperodus responded wonderingly. ‘The charismatic Charrane! His presence puts a different complexion on things. He is, after all, the inspiration behind the Empire.’
‘What shall we do?’
‘Come with me.’
Arcturus followed Jasperodus out of the basilica. They crossed the plaza, still rubble-strewn from the fighting. A further clump of explosions, by the sound of it across the city, added to the events of the night. Minutes later they had arrived at the flying stables on the roof of the north wing.
‘I knew the story about Charrane was true when you mentioned the nuclear rocket,’ Jasperodus said. ‘There have been some developments in nuclear propulsion recently. At a flight testing station just outside the city I found this aircraft and so I flew it here.’
The plane stood in the open hidden by a canvas fence. It had a long, sleek, needle-nosed fuselage, delta wings, and rested on a tripod of tall legs like a bird. Its construction, as Jasperodus knew, was clever. The skin, of aluminium and titanium, could withstand intense heat and gained strength and lightness from an ingenious layered honeycomb structure.
He pulled down a section of the fuselage, forming a curved gridded ramp leading to the flight cabin. ‘Where are we going?’ asked Arcturus in mystification. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Getting out.’
The rebel stared at him disbelievingly. It was some moments before he found his voice.
‘You’re really going to do it! Quit! Desert us all just when the going gets tough – just when we need your leadership most!’ His face sagged, appalled.
‘Naïvety was ever the failing of idealists,’ said Jasperodus casually. ‘Try to think clearly for once! Did you honestly imagine the revolt could succeed? Of course it couldn’t – not for one moment! It was easy to gain Tansiann, and we talked hopefully of the uprising spreading to other cities of the Empire. But it hasn’t.’
‘Perhaps because our initiative faltered.’
‘Perhaps. What difference would it have made? We have roused a rabble – no match for the trained troops of the Empire, I do assure you of that. Not that it would make any difference, either. The truth is that an empire of this type goes rotten at the centre while remaining relatively healthy at the periphery. There is still enough vigour in the outer provinces to make a rampage of the kind we have engineered here impossible. Besides, the people there are more aware of the threat of an external enemy, particularly in the northern provinces. That provides sufficient disincentive for any sympathy with rebellion. If it comes to that, I wonder how our own followers will react to the approach of Borgor armies, especially if preceded by a missile bombardment.’
Arcturus scowled. ‘Your motives are a mystery to me. Everything you say may well be true, but I am not made of the stuff of deserters.’ And he turned to go.
Jasperodus caught hold of him and pushed him to the ramp with a sardonic chuckle. ‘Don’t imagine I brought you here in order to save your skin. I need someone to man the evasion-and-defence board. The outer regions of the Empire are a veritable hedgehog of radar watches and ground-to-air missile sites. True, this plane is a new conception in attack aircraft, able to fly over hill and dale at a height of only hundreds of feet so as to escape radar detection, but we are going on a long journey and are still likely to be challenged. Get in the plane.’
Against Jasperodus’ superior strength Arcturus could do nothing. He stumbled into the darkened cabin. Jasperodus closed the door behind them. Small lights came on on the pilot board, providing the merest glimmering of illumination.
‘Better strap yourself in,’ Jasperodus growled, shoving Arcturus to his station, a seat behind and to one side of the pilot’s. ‘We’ll be flying at close to two thousand miles per hour.’
Arcturus stared hopelessly at the board. ‘I don’t know how to operate this.’
Jasperodus ignored him and prepared for take-off. In essence the new engine was simplicity itself: it was a nuclear ramjet. A compact, very hot reactor core heated indrawn air which was then vented through the exhaust to provide thrust. Jasperodus withdrew the damper rods, bringing the core to incandescence. Then he fired the cartridge that initiated the flow of air through the baffles. With a rising whine the ramjet began its self-perpetuating action. The aircraft rose vertically, supported through its centre of gravity by the single jet; as Jasperodus slowly swivelled the exhaust assembly, bringing it to the attitude for lateral flight, the plane described an accelerating curve that in short order sent it hurtling through the night.
A sense of familiarity came over Jasperodus. This was the second time he had seized power, subsequently to flee in an aircraft, both times in comparable circumstances.
‘Hah!’ he told himself again. ‘Repetition is a feature of this life, evidently.’
They left Tansiann far behind. Jasperodus set his course, then spent the next half-hour instructing Arcturus in his duties. The evasion board, being a prototype like the rest of the plane, was not complicated and he abbreviated the procedure further for his companion’s sake. All Arcturus had to do was note any radio challenges or prospective missile interceptions, press appropriate buttons or otherwise follow Jasperodus’ instructions. While not too enthusiastic a pupil, he learned the d
rill well enough.
‘And now perhaps I may know where we are bound,’ he grunted.
‘I may as well tell you of my plans. I intend to commit suicide, though the phrase is inapt since I have never been alive.’ Glancing round, he saw Arcturus’ startled look. ‘Don’t worry,’ he added with grim amusement. ‘You won’t be included in my self-destruction. I am obeying an urge to do one last thing before my demise: I am going home, to confront the people who made me. Perhaps I will berate them for their efforts.’ I wonder what they were thinking of, he told himself silently. Surely they must have known that this ludicrous self-image would soon rub up against reality. Or possibly they hoped I would stay with them, a doting surrogate son, and so never learn of my true condition.
‘I understand nothing of what you say,’ Arcturus said. ‘Why should you wish to destroy yourself?’
‘I am disillusioned with this living death, despite my various strivings over the years.’
‘At a guess you suffer from some slight brain malfunction,’ Arcturus volunteered uneasily. He grew curious and attempted to question Jasperodus on his origins, but the robot offered nothing further.
They journeyed in silence. After a while Jasperodus reduced speed to the subsonic range and brought the plane down to a height of only a few hundred feet, switching on the special radar set that enabled the autopilot to follow the contours of the landscape. Only once did a watching radar station pick them up; Arcturus reported a missile arcing towards them, but it hit a hillside when Jasperodus swung away from it and they were pursued no more.
Because they were travelling against the rotation of the planet the night was a long one and Arcturus eventually slept, neglecting his duties. In the early morning they flew over Gordona (out of danger from the Empire’s radar hedgehog now) and Jasperodus looked for the railway track that would lead him home. Then, after some circling and searching, he located what he thought was his parents’ cottage standing alone in the middle of a cultivated patch.
He extended the air flaps and undercarriage and swivelled the jet assembly. With the grace of a gull the plane alighted in a ploughed field, blowing up a cloud of dust. Jasperodus waited for the dust to settle, then lowered the ramp.
‘Stay here,’ he told Arcturus. ‘I will be back shortly.’
Walking towards the cottage he noticed at once that not all was well with the household. The farming robots went about their work, but they had not been serviced in a long time. The hoeing machine dragged itself across the earth, unable to perform its task with anything like acceptable efficacy.
Nearer to the cottage Jasperodus came upon a simple grave bearing the name of his mother. He paused, walked on and entered the cottage by the open door.
Within, the light was dim, the curtains being drawn across the windows. He stood in the main room of the dwelling, surrounded by the homely furniture that had served the old couple for half a lifetime. Lying on a bed beneath the window casement was the robotician Jasperodus automatically – by reason of some inbuilt mental reflex, no doubt – called his father.
The man’s breathing was shallow and laboured. ‘Who is there?’ he asked in a faint voice.
‘I, Jasperodus, the construct you manufactured close to a score of years ago.’
He stepped nearer, looked down and felt puzzled enough to start reckoning up the years. When he had left them the man and his wife had been just about to enter old age. By now they should be almost twenty years older, but still sound of wind and limb. Yet the face that stared up at him was ancient, in the last stages of an unnatural senility. It looked a thousand years old: the eyes were dull, barely alive, yellow and filmed; the skin sagged and reminded him of rotted fungus; trembling, claw-like hands clutched at the dirty coverlet.
It didn’t add up. Was his father in the grip of some wasting disease? The two stared at one another, each startled by what he saw.
‘Jasperodus …’
‘Yes, it is me.’ Even as he pondered, even as he wondered how far his father’s mind might have deteriorated and whether he would be able to answer, the words Jasperodus had meant to speak started coming out of his mouth. ‘Cast your mind back. I am here to ask you only one thing. Why did you do it? Why did you burden me with this fictitious self-image – this belief in a consciousness I do not possess? A clever piece of work, no doubt, but could you not see how cruel it was – that I was bound to discover the truth?’
The old man smiled weakly. ‘I always knew that unanswerable question would bring you back to us one day.’
‘Fake being: a mechanical trick,’ Jasperodus accused.
‘There is no fictitious self-image, no mechanical trick. You are fully conscious.’
Resentment entered Jasperodus’ voice. ‘It is no use to lie to me. I have talked with eminent roboticians – I have even talked with Aristos Lyos – and besides that I have studied robotics on my own account. I know full well that it is impossible to create artificial consciousness.’
‘Quite so; what you say is perfectly true. Nevertheless – you are conscious.’ The old man moved feebly. ‘My great invention!’ he said dreamily. ‘My great secret!’
Had the oldster’s mind degenerated, Jasperodus asked himself? Yet somehow the robotician did not speak like a dotard.
‘You talk nonsense,’ he said brutally.
But the other smiled again. ‘At the beginning we decided never to tell you, not wishing you to be afflicted with feelings of guilt. But now you evidently need to know. Listen: it is quite true, consciousness cannot be artificially generated. Some years ago, however, I made a unique discovery: while uncreatable it can nevertheless be manipulated, melted down, transferred from one vehicle to another. I learned how to duct it, how to trap it in a “robotic retort” – to use my own jargon. If any other man has ever learned this secret he has kept it well hidden, as indeed I have.’
He paused, swallowed, closed his eyes for a moment, then continued. ‘To perform these operations, of course, one must first obtain the energy of consciousness, necessarily from a human being. We took half of your mother’s soul, half of my soul, and fused them together to form a new, original soul with its own individual qualities. That is how you were born – our son, in every sense of the word, just as if you had been of our flesh and blood.’
A long, long silence followed these words. At length Jasperodus stirred, stunned both by the novelty and by the compelling logic of what he had just been told. ‘Then I am, after all, a person?’ he queried wonderingly. ‘A being? A self?’
‘Just like any human person. In fact you have more consciousness, a more vigorous consciousness, than the normal human, since in the event we both donated somewhat more than half of our souls. I can still remember that day, misty though everything now is. It became a trial in which each tried to prevent the other from giving too much. It was a strange experience, feeling the debilitating drain on one’s being – and yet, too, there was a kind of ecstasy, since when the consciousness began to flow from each of us, we could feel the coalescence of our souls. We have paid the price for the procedure, of course, in the loss of over half our vitality, and in the premature ageing which resulted …’
Jasperodus moved away, pacing the room. ‘A heavy price, perhaps.’
‘Not at all. We knew what we were doing. To lose a part of one’s life – that is nothing. To create a life – that is something to have done. I hope you have not regretted our gift of life.’ The old man’s voice was a quavering whisper now; he seemed exhausted.
‘I have been through many experiences, and I have suffered to some extent, chiefly through not knowing that I am a man.’ He picked up a wooden figurine that rested on a sideboard, contemplating it absently while pondering. ‘How did you come by this discovery? It seems remarkable, to say the least.’
His father did not answer. He was staring at the timbers of the ceiling, burnished by odd rays of light that entered through chinks in the curtains.
Jasperodus returned to the bedside. ‘And
why have you made a secret of it? Many people have tried to make conscious robots. It is a major discovery, a real addition to knowledge.’
‘No, no! This technique is much too dangerous. Think what it would mean! At present constructs are not conscious, but some are intelligent, even shrewd. A few of them already begin to suspect what is missing in them. If my method became known it would lead to robots stealing the souls of men. At worst, one can imagine mankind being enslaved by a super-conscious machine system, kept alive only so that men’s souls could be harvested – as it is, lack of consciousness is all that prevents the potential superiority of the construct from asserting itself. So my technique will die with me, and I implore you never to speak of it to anyone.’
Jasperodus nodded. ‘I understand. You have my promise.’
‘Perhaps we should not have used it at all, but this one desire we could not resist: to have a son.’
‘There is an image that has occurred to me from time to time, often in dreams,’ Jasperodus remarked. ‘It shows a blast furnace melting down all manner of metal artifacts. The vision has been so vivid – so frightening – that I have been convinced it contains some meaning. You, I suppose, put it in my mind.’
‘Quite so. It was the only clue to your true nature I gave you. The fire of the furnace, which melts objects so that the metal may be used anew, is an analogy of a supernal fire – a cosmic fire – that melts the stuff of consciousness ready to be fashioned into new individuals. I discovered this fire.’
‘Supernal fire,’ Jasperodus said slowly. He grunted, and shook his head.
‘I am still puzzled,’ he confessed. ‘Apart from the principles of robotics, certain events and circumstances in my life have convinced me that I lack a soul – for instance I was once dismantled, yet when I was reconstituted my feeling of consciousness returned. How may that be explained?’
His father gave a deep shuddering sigh, as though seeking the last of his strength. ‘Did that really happen to you?’ he whispered. ‘It is not impossible. The soul, being non-material, does not always behave like a substance subject to the laws of space. Within limits one could be dismantled into subassemblies, and provided some degree of biological or robotic integration remained, the soul might well not dissipate.’
Barrington Bayley SF Gateway Omnibus: The Soul of the Robot, The Knights of the Limits, The Fall of Chronopolis Page 23
