“Is it safe?” the Force Commander asked, guardedly.
“Perfectly. The computer cannot allow injury to come of anyone in the holodeck. I give you my word that you will not be harmed, and that you will make it back to the hearing on time and unmolested.”
Sawliru relaxed, and sipped his drink. “Where are we?”
“A place called Italy, on the European continent, Mediterranean sector, Earth, during the ascendancy of one of Earth’s greatest empires. It will later gradually decline and fall, to be re-established under a variety of names. I chose this stark location to demonstrate the flexibility and accuracy of the system,” he finished.
“I’m impressed,” Sawliru said, as he watched birds of prey circle overhead. Though they looked strange to him, birds were birds. He could understand that. “And all of this is illusion?”
“For the most part. Yet if you fall to the ground, the computer has instructions to create a realistic feeling surface for you to land upon. If you lean on a hill, or pick up a rock, then they, too, will appear to be real.”
“Incredible,” the commander said, looking around. “It looks, feels, even smells real. Your technology is so far advanced . . .”
“Yet the technology in this time and place is barbarically primitive,” Data replied. “If we encounter computer-controlled denizens of this era, they will behave with realistic fervor. Do not be alarmed.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” The two of them started walking toward the distant city. The landscape around them changed with each step, and again Sawliru experienced a wave of confusion. He could not tell this illusion from the real thing. Every few meters they would clear the dust from their mouths with sips of their drinks. He didn’t question the direction they were taking; if you walk through a dream, he reasoned, it mattered little which way you walked.
“Why are you showing me this, Commander?” he asked. He disliked addressing the machine with such a term of honor, but as a military man, and a captain of a ship, he knew enough to respect the rank, even if he didn’t respect its bearer. “For the past few days, I’ve been trying to destroy your friends, yet you make me a drink and walk me through a dreamscape.”
“ ‘If you are going to kill a man anyway, it costs nothing to be polite,’ ” Data said. “That is a quote from one of Earth’s greatest leaders. I bear you no personal enmity for the attempted destruction of the androids. You were merely doing what you were ordered to do. We are all players in this situation. I simply was interested in much of what you said in your plea, and wished to discuss it further.”
“Is that so?” Sawliru said, suspiciously.
“Yes, In particular, I wished to know exactly why you hate androids so intensely. Have you been personally injured by them?”
Sawliru paused on the dusty road and surveyed the clouds in the distance. Data stopped alongside him.
He didn’t particularly want to expose his personal feelings to anyone, especially when it had no bearing on the issue at hand. But Sawliru figured that Data, being who he was, didn’t count as a real person anyhow. “I have lost some family to the revolt,” he said, swishing his drink around in his glass. “My son was at the site of one of the bombings. I hadn’t spoken to him for some time—we were at odds, politically. But I don’t consider it a factor. I do what I do out of loyalty and duty, not out of vengeance.”
“I am sorry for your loss.”
“What do you know of loss?” Sawliru asked, bitterly.
“I have lost comrades—friends—in the line of duty. I have lost my father, the man who created me, and my brother, an earlier prototype. I cannot say that I have been unaffected by their passing.”
Sawliru thought of his son, and winced with the pain of the memory. “Yes, perhaps you have, in your way. But you haven’t felt it as I have, as a real man can feel it. That’s why we resent you the most, I guess—because you claim all the privileges of humanity and don’t seem to take any of the painful responsibilities.”
“Is that why you pursue the Alphas with such tenacity? You resent them?”
“Hah!” he spat. “Hardly. I can’t even imagine wanting to own a dead piece of circuitry and plastic, much less be one. I enjoy life too much.” They continued toward the city. “My pursuit is a matter of loyalty to my people. They desired the return of the androids, and it is my duty to fetch them back. Or destroy them in the attempt,” he added, casually.
“Yet the performance of your mission does not depend upon your personal attitude. You continue to treat the Alphas as simple, nonsentient machines, despite all evidence to the contrary.”
“If you’re wondering why I hate androids, Commander,” he said, using the title to remind himself of their relationship, “that’s an easy question to answer. I hate androids because they were ruining my planet. I have fought long and hard to eradicate them, and killed a million men to do it. And I’d do it all again, in an instant. Alkirg is twisted up about the revolt, about all the damage that was done, all the people that died. Hell, the revolt was the best damn thing that ever happened to us.”
It was Data’s turn to stop to ponder. “Could you please explain the logic behind that conclusion?”
Sawliru scratched at the rough paved surface of the road, scuffing his boots. Amazing, the realism possible here. I wonder if my boot will stay scuffed, he wondered, after I return from this place.
“Data, my people were a lot like your creators. We pulled ourselves out of rank barbarism by our bootstraps—no one helped us do it. There was a time when the military was much more important than it is now. A time of warring tribes, which became warring city-states, which became warring nations. Everyone scrambled over who owned what piece of land, and how much there was to eat, and who ate it. Our oceans became puddles as our technology developed—common moats that we stared across, eternally vigilant, to spot a potential attacker before he struck. People were poor, they suffered, were oppressed, starved, and died of disease and neglect. Millions perished in horrible wars, and our world was growing tired of us. Even our ecosystem was beginning to fail.”
“Humans went through a similar period,” Data remarked. “As did many other races. It is often considered a test of a race’s worth, how it deals with its self-destructive periods. It must have been a horrible and terrifying time.”
“It was a wonderful time!” Sawliru exclaimed. “Don’t misunderstand me. There was much suffering—terrible, awful suffering. But you can’t measure the value of a race solely on the numbers of people you can healthily maintain.”
Again, the continued walking along the dusty road. Data seemed puzzled by the Force Commander’s outburst. “What exactly do you mean?” he asked. “I have always understood that peace and prosperity are the goals of a rational culture. Are the Vemlans not a rational people?”
Sawliru shook his head and laughed a little. “Perhaps not. Yes, that’s what we were striving for. Peace and prosperity. And we got it, too—good and hard.”
He paused to take a long sip from his drink. “The androids were the perfect solution. An endless source of cheap labor, a masterpiece of engineering that could cook, clean, sew, and teach your children at the same time. They could write poetry, compose music—you could even have sex with one. With enough androids, having food, shelter, and anything else you wanted was as easy as asking for it. We put them to work cleaning up the environmental messes a few centuries of riotous living had created.”
“It seems, indeed, a perfect solution, from the Vemlan point of view,” Data said, obligingly. “What, then, bothers you about androids?”
“Ever since Vemla switched over to an android-based economy, our culture has declined immeasurably. Some people think it’s a mark of distinction and sophistication to have androids doing everything—from weeding the garden to composing the music you listen to. It’s just plain laziness, though, that’s all. Institutionalized laziness. Hell, the wars were awful, and I’d never want to go back, but they gave us something to be passionate abo
ut. The only passion I’ve seen on Vemla in the last thirty years came from the lips of an android. The androids were killing us, Data; killing us slowly, but killing us nonetheless.
“I was waiting for us to be invaded, when the revolt broke out. Most people think I’m crazy, but we needed something to get us angry again, to get our passion back, and there’s nothing like a war to be passionate about. I don’t really know why Jared and his friends started the whole thing; in a few years the androids would have been running everything anyway.”
“What about exploration?” Data asked.
“Most people didn’t want to bother, and when the people don’t care, the government certainly doesn’t. Only the scientists and the technical androids cared about exploration. And the military,” he said. “If it wasn’t for them, the Conquest would never have been built. Your average Vemlan didn’t care much about anything. It was as if when we created the androids we passed on to them the fire in our culture—the spark that makes us do things. We had nothing to strive for in the last century, because everything was given to us on a platter of gold by our servants—slaves,” he admitted.
“Cultural declines are integral to developing races. Though I can see how you would be upset at the symptoms, I think it can be safely said that your planet would have recovered from the decline.”
“Not if there aren’t any real people left. The birthrate was way down. Oh, there was an initial surge, but after a few generations, people just stopped having kids regularly. They weren’t old-age security anymore, and most of the time it wasn’t worth the problems that having children involves.”
“And you attribute this decline to the introduction of androids into the culture?”
Again, the Force Commander laughed bitterly. “The androids were just a symptom, Commander; the source of this illness is in the way our government is set up. One particular group, to which the esteemed Mission Commander Alkirg belongs,” he added sarcastically, “came into power, and saw the means of remaining there depended on stemming off potential trouble by using the androids as a cure-all. There wasn’t a problem too large that you couldn’t throw androids at it.”
He shook his head in sadness as he shuffled his feet in a relaxed, uncharacteristic manner. “I can’t really talk, since I’m technically part of the system myself. But the trouble on Vemla is political in nature, not mechanical. The androids were merely a convenient tool for those in power.
“I’m not a political creature by nature, Commander. I do what I know best: action, combat, struggle. There was talk of phasing out the military completely, letting the androids defend us, but I couldn’t let that happen. The civilians we protect from outside dangers consider us outmoded, unnecessary, a barbaric waste of resources that could be better spent elsewhere. My son thought I was a vile, atavistic warlord in a tin-soldier army. The truth is, I don’t like violence. I’m just very good at it. Had I been a politician, I might have done something about what I saw happening. But I wasn’t.
“I hid in the military and hated the androids in peace and silence. Then they revolted, and I tried to use the revolt to kick the people out of their stupor. If every android on the planet is gone, then the people are going to have to face reality sooner or later. There’s no way they’ll let androids back in our society, no matter what happens.”
“Yet you seek to punish the androids, though they indirectly do you a service?”
“Hell, androids are tools, just like handsaws, hammers, lasers, and starships. Tools to be designed, built, and used. Even in death, they are useful. Each android that died in the revolt was another step back to life for my people. I—”
Sawliru was interrupted by a motley group of ragged-looking men and women leaping out from behind a bend in the road. They were dressed in a crude, colorless fashion, in garments of rough-woven cloth stained with food, dirt, sweat, and blood. Some were armed with crude knives, clubs or axes, and here and there a sword or spear was in evidence.
“Stand where you are!” came a shout. Though Sawliru was severely out of practice in unarmed combat, the group was gesturing menacingly, and he responded in kind. He threw his half-full glass at the leader, and took up a combat stance, ready to defend himself.
The glass sailed gracefully through the air and shattered in the face of the leading man. He dropped the club he carried and howled as he spat teeth and blood. The others were visibly shaken by the sudden response, but did not drop their guard.
They didn’t come any closer, though.
“Are these some of the charming denizens of this program?”
“Yes, Commander. I would suggest you move cautiously and treat them as if they were real. A wound from a weapon will not injure you, but the computer may well stun you into unconsciousness.”
Sawliru nodded, and turned to their attackers. “Who are you?” he asked.
“Men freed by our own hands!” came the response. “We killed our overseer, then the plantation owner, and we’ll kill you and anyone else who stands in our way!”
The shuffling pack of humanity pressed forward, though they were all clearly reluctant to risk injury from Sawliru.
“Ho, there! Stop!”
The small mob parted, and a short, heavily muscled man came forward. He was better dressed, wearing a finer cloak and tunic, and armed with a short, sturdy-looking sword. His hair was cropped closely to his head, and scars marked his face like a spider web.
“Britannicus! Why did you attack these two travelers?’’ he asked. “Our quarrel is with the slavelords of Rome, not with wandering folk. Did you mistake these men for senators, walking alone on a public road in the middle of the day, without escort or servants?” The slaves laughed heartily, and even Britannicus, who held his bleeding mouth, smiled sheepishly.
“No, Spartacus. But with them skulking around out here, they couldn’t be up to much good!” the wounded man said in defense.
The well-dressed man looked up to the rest of the crowd. “This from an escaped slave who’s out to murder Roman citizens!” Again the mob roared with laughter, and even the wounded Britannicus could not contain himself. The man continued, “There is much to be done tonight, my friends, and many more farms to free. A passing stranger or two will neither help nor hinder us. And stark robbery has never been a policy of mine, and I’ll kill the first ten men that differ!” He scowled, his scarred face contorting.
Once the band had begun lowering their weapons and moving on, he turned to the two men.
“I apologize for my comrades. They are giddy with their newfound freedom, and not easily controlled. I can tell by your dress that you are not Romans, though the fashions the citizens subject themselves to get stranger every year, by Jupiter. Are you foreigners, then?”
“Yes,” Data supplied. “We are merchants from far away.”
Sawliru nodded in assent; the thought of speaking directly to a computer-generated image, even one so lifelike, was still somewhat frightening to him. He gained confidence quickly, however, and adapted. “From very far away.”
“Are you Egyptians, then? Or Greek?”
“We are Babylonians, from the far eastern provinces,” Data offered. “On our way to Gaul.”
“Ah, then truly we have no quarrel. My people war on the Roman slavelords only, as yours did.”
“Who are your people?” Sawliru asked, relaxing a little.
The image of the ancient warrior gave him a dead stare. “All slaves are my people. My brothers. I am Spartacus, former gladiator, former slave. Where I was born matters not.”
“I am Sawliru,” the Force Commander said.
“I am called Data.”
“And you both head to the city. Well, my way lies with yours for a span. Tell me, how are things on the Tigris?”
“I am more interested in what is happening here,” Data said, tactfully avoiding a lengthy fabrication. “The news of your rebellion has spread far and wide. How does it go?”
The imaginary man frowned an imaginary frown. “I
t goes. Whence, I cannot say. Each day the gods smile on us, we free another handful of farms, kill a few overseers, arm another hundred slaves. Yet these are not trained men—they are field hands and laborers. For us to remain free, we must battle Roman legionnaires before long.”
“Experienced soldiers?” inquired Sawliru.
“The best in the world,” Spartacus said, sadly, but with a trace of pride. “Rome may be rotten at the core, but her armies will conquer all the world one day. They will send the legions after us, once we have gathered in numbers, and destroy us all at once.”
“I thought you were a warrior,” Sawliru interjected. The scarred man shook his head again, and sighed.
“I am but a gladiator. Put a sword in my hand and sand at my feet, and I’ll give any man the hardest day of his life—if not the last. But armies and soldiers and discipline—the magic of Mars is not known to me. My people will be cut down like corn, but they will die free men,” he said, satisfactorily.
“Is it that important to you?” asked Sawliru. “You can only use freedom if you’re alive to enjoy it.”
“Not one man is free as long as there is one man in bondage to another, friend Sawliru,” Spartacus explained. “I knew this was hopeless from the start. I, of all people, know the military might of the Romans. Yet if these people die, and myself along with them, they’ll die quickly, of their own free will, not in some disease-ridden hole with none but rats for company, or in the fields under the overseer’s lash, or, worst of all, crucified for some petty offense for the entertainment of the senate and people of Rome.”
“Crucified?” asked Sawliru, puzzled. He was unaware of the term.
SPARTACUS Page 21
