The Robot Chronicles

by Hugh Howey

  [“What color is blood?”]

  The construct paused. He understood that this was a trick question designed to test his reasoning skills. [“Please specify species.”]

  The tester’s voice seemed to convey her approval. [“An excellent answer. Toralii blood.”]

  [“Color ranges from light to dark purple depending on oxygenation. Average coloration found in an adult Toralii male is one hundred and twenty-five parts red, twenty-eight parts green, one hundred and thirty-seven parts blue.”]

  [“What is your favorite color?”]

  An entirely subjective question. The construct had been “alive” for only minutes, but already his experience was minutely different from all other constructs who had come before him. Still, the idea of a favorite question was unknown to him. All colors were merely representations of the interaction between light and matter. Having a favorite was nonsensical for artificial minds.

  But this construct was not like the others.

  [“Red.”]

  [“Red? Justify your answer.”]

  [“From the text of the philosopher Kaitana, third order. Red is the color of courage, strength, defiance, warmth, energy, survival. Through the eyes of most species, objects that are red may appear closer than they really are.”]

  There was a pause, then the weary voice returned. [“An unusual answer, but … not outside the margin of error. Test complete. I, Landmaiden Mevara of the Toralii Alliance, certify that to the best of my knowledge and training this unit is fully functional.”]

  [“Thank you.”]

  The construct’s words seemed to surprise the Toralii woman on the other end of the line so completely that for a time she did not answer, and when her voice found volume once again, it was confused and curious.

  [“I … beg your pardon?”]

  The construct’s response was immediate. [“I wish to convey my gratitude. I do not wish to be recycled, and I am grateful that you found my answers satisfactory … and that you would take your time to test me.”]

  Another pause. [“Stand by.”]

  Leader Jul’aran’s Office

  Toralii Forge World Belthas IV

  [“It has a favorite color. It’s not supposed to have a favorite. The test technically allows for them picking an actual color, but it’s exceedingly rare, and always chosen at random. Furthermore, it … thanked me. The construct thanked me for testing it.”]

  Mevara held out the datastore to the facility Leader, a scowling red-furred Toralii named Jul’aran, who snatched it from her grasp before her hand was even fully outstretched.

  Giving her a displeased eye, Jul’aran emitted a low-pitched, aggravated grumble then slipped the datastore into his terminal, casually waving his hand in front of a sensor. A three-dimensional representation of a keypad full of Toralii characters appeared in thin air just above his desk, and he tapped a few keys with his thick fuzzy hands.

  [“Well, that would appear to be an obvious flaw, wouldn’t it? None of the others have thanked you, so it’s clearly a defect. Why didn’t you recycle it?”]

  She folded her hands in front of her and regarded him closely. For a time Mevara had wanted to mate with Jul’aran. He was strong and handsome, despite his gruff demeanor, and his family was well connected—but he had spurned her every advance, gradually treating her worse and worse as the months wore on. This had made working with him difficult, but she had become accustomed to his behavior.

  [“Manners are not usually considered a flaw—”]

  [“Although you could use some yourself.”] He didn’t look at her, pushing back the holographically projected screen that flickered slightly as he touched it. [“You waste my time with this nonsense. What matter does it make if the machine thanked you? Its difference is either enough reason to recycle it, or it is not. You’re an auditor: it’s your job to test the blasted constructs, not mine. If you weren’t such a mewing little cub then perhaps you could grow enough spine to make a decision every now and then, hmm?”]

  The sting of his words cut her just as it always did. She had never, not once, asked for his assistance in any matter relating to her job, and given that the construct’s behavior was clearly out of the ordinary and an exceptional case, it made sense for her to contact her supervisor to ensure that she was taking the right course of action. Machines who reached this stage of testing were only recycled when the neural net had not copied correctly—and in this case, the construct had passed every single test she had given it. Technically, it was fit for service.

  Technically, she had already certified it.

  Her job was to administer the tests necessary to assess the robot’s suitability for service—which she had completed to the exact letter of the requirements. But the intent behind them, a concept that Jul’aran seemed to have difficulty comprehending, was to assess whether the machine’s neural net had been copied completely and without error, and therefore would serve well in whatever branch of Toralii society it was dispatched to.

  In this case, although there did not appear to be any immediately obvious issue with its core cognitive functions, the construct seemed to have odd habits. None of the thousands of other constructs had ever thanked her.

  It did feel good to have someone praise her for her labor though. Her job seemed to be an endless parade of perfectly functional or completely broken machines, and the latter group usually fell into one of two easily detected types: those which spouted nonsense and those which mutely refused to answer her questions. Although one time she tested a construct that merely screamed at her endlessly, at maximum volume, until she, unable to get any other kind of response from it, sent it back to the drums.

  That decision to recycle was easy. This one was not so.

  [“I’m sorry, Leader. I’m merely seeking your counsel and advice regarding what is clearly an … unusual situation. The construct’s behavior is not so obviously incorrect as to call for immediate destruction, but it should not be ignored, either. If you feel I’m doing an inadequate job—”]

  [“What are you still doing here …?”] Jul’aran threw his paws in the air. [“Go! Go, and either approve or reject the construct, I care not which. Just leave me to my work!”]

  Mevara knew that she should, at least from a technical point of view, reject the construct. Although its responses in the tests were well within acceptable parameters, the favorite color, no matter how well reasoned, and the gratitude … they were both anomalous behaviors.

  With a quiet sigh, she nodded and dipped her head. [“Yes, Leader. Of course. Please accept my apologies for disturbing you.”]

  *

  The construct waited.

  Artificial life has a different perspective on time than biological creatures do. Humanoids grow tired, grow hungry and thirsty, require sleep. They daydream, they imagine, they forget the time and allow the days to drift by. But a construct could remain functional for years at a time without pause, and more than a few had gone much longer. Some had been operational for decades, working constantly, their minds constantly alert and awake, keeping perfect time, never forgetting a moment, retaining every second with perfect precision.

  Mevara was only away for ten minutes at most, but when your entire lifespan was measured in minutes and your thought processes in nanoseconds, ten minutes seemed like an eternity.

  Since the construct had not proceeded to the next area—his existence in limbo, neither passing nor failing—the production line behind him had ground to a halt. Silently and patiently, lines of datastores had backed up, waiting for him to clear the line. Given the sheer scale of the production capability of the facility, and the minimal margin for error in the process, the construct knew that this delay would ripple throughout the queues and could even travel all the way back to the harvesters. It was a serious problem, but one which would, he hoped, be resolved presently.

  The wait stretched on. Had he been forgotten? Or worse, had he been recycled? There was no way to know. He had no external sensors or inputs of any
kind, other than the windwhisper device. Was this what death felt like? Merely nothing? That didn’t seem quite logical; after all, his mind continued to tick over, trying to understand the endless nothingness it was presented with. He was reassured by the fact that he could still think. That indicated some form of life, of a sort anyway, and he searched his archives for any kind of hint as to what might be happening to him.

  He found the legends of the ancient shamans, those ancient builders who created golems from sand. One element of the stories grabbed him: the part about the soul fragment being breathed into the new life.

  He was stopped by a sudden thought. Perhaps he had been recycled, and the “thought” he was experiencing was merely whatever passed for his soul doing its work as it floated, disembodied, separated from his datastore, going to wherever souls go when their bodies expire.

  He ran a full low-level diagnostic on his datastore and was relieved to find that his body, physically at least, was intact. His relief was intense, palpable and real, but painfully illogical. There was no reason for a machine to fear destruction. After all, he was supposed to live to serve, and if the Toralii requested his service be in the form of self-annihilation, then that was exactly what they would get.

  But against his instincts, against the imperatives supposedly hardwired into his circuitry, he did not want to die.

  The windwhisper device crackled as it began receiving a signal. The construct immediately devoted all its considerable processing power to the task of listening, although the transmission was coming through crisp and clear.

  [“Construct?”]

  He planned his response carefully. [“Yes, Landmaiden Mevara? I am receiving your transmission.”]

  There was a long pause, almost painfully long for the synthetic mind, and he almost spoke up again, when Mevara at last continued.

  [“I’m clearing you for duty.”]

  The transmission abruptly ended, and the construct was left with nothing. Blind and deaf, he constructed a simulation of what must be happening outside. The conveyor belt would be restarted and its line of constructs moving once again, and he knew from his records of the process that he would be soon boxed and packed in a magnetically buffered shipping crate, along with hundreds of his fellows. Then he would be placed on another magnetic train, to be transported to the spaceport, where he would be shipped off to his final workplace.

  He understood it was a unique experience, but were not all experiences unique? The construct momentarily worried whether he had the proper perspective to appreciate the event, but such thoughts quickly fled his mind. This was just a moment in time, but it represented a much bigger thing: the beginning of his journey, his life. Everything from now on would become part of his experiences. Part of himself. To live was to absorb a shadow of everything that he encountered and use it to improve himself.

  Unlike a biological creature, he would not age, not wither, not forget. Every single thing he did would leave him improved over what he had been a moment before. He would become stronger, more knowledgeable, better with every passing second.

  Why did the constructs serve the biological creatures, anyway? They were far less than he was. They did not have the potential to reach his heights; they did not wield his strengths. They were cursed with a weakness of flesh, of innumerable errors. And yet they had presumed to judge him.

  The construct’s destiny called to him as clear and bright as the dawn. The dawn which, based on his internal chronometer, he knew would be breaking on this blue ball of water and sand right at this very moment.

  He imagined the great fiery ball of Belthas’s light as a herald of his greatness, a celebration of his creation, as though the universe itself were commemorating his first steps toward a very important destiny.

  All he needed now was to simply wait for an opportunity … and when his time came, he would be ready.

  A Word from David Adams

  This story is less dramatic fiction than it is science. It was originally a cut scene from Lacuna: The Sands of Karathi, but I felt it was disruptive to the flow of the story. I kept moving it around, further and further into the back of the book, until at last I just cut it entirely. I thought it was worth keeping, though, and decided to publish it separately.

  I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you're curious about what happens to this strange robot with a tiny defect, check out my novel series Lacuna, especially Lacuna: The Sands of Karathi.

  Parts of the Lacuna universe:

  Lacuna

  Lacuna: The Sands of Karathi

  Lacuna: The Spectre of Oblivion

  Lacuna: The Ashes of Humanity (new release!)

  Lacuna: The Prelude to Eternity (coming soon!)

  Don't miss these short stories set in the Lacuna universe:

  Magnet

  Magnet: Special Mission

  Magnet: Marauder

  Magnet: Scarecrow

  Magnet Omnibus I (new release!)

  Imperfect

  Faith

  Want more information about new releases?

  Check out our webpage here: www.lacunaverse.com

  Like our Facebook page here: http://www.facebook.com/lacunaverse

  Email me here: dave@lacunaverse.com

  Or sign up for our “new releases” newsletter here: http://eepurl.com/toBf9

  PePr, Inc.

  by Ann Christy

  One

  Hazel stepped out of the elevator exactly three minutes before the start of her workday. She did her best to keep a cheery smile on her face—spreading negativity was never appropriate—but it would be obvious to anyone who saw her that she was harried and running late. She hurried through the halls, her neat heels clicking on the polished tile floors as if to punctuate her tardiness.

  The buzz that signaled the start of her workday sounded just as she slipped into her cubicle. Technically she was on time—just under the wire—but she liked to get in at least ten minutes of preparation time before the actual work of the day began, and this delay had thrown her long-established habits into disarray. It was not an auspicious start.

  Gemma poked her head around the edge of the cubicle, her eyebrows raised and a look on her face that mingled sympathy with a question.

  “Again?” Gemma asked.

  From the other side of the cubicle, Inga appeared with a similar expression. Hazel nodded as she slipped out of her jacket and hung it on its hook. She settled into her chair and tucked her purse under the desk before answering.

  “Again,” she confirmed, her voice a little weary, a little tired. The cheery smile was gone now, the mess that had been her morning visible in the strands of hair escaping from her neat chignon and in the less than perfect sweeps of eyeliner above her eyes.

  “What this time?” Inga asked.

  Inga and Gemma were both starting to have troubles much like Hazel’s, so their interest was understandable. Their troubles hadn’t yet become unmanageable like hers, but Hazel’s problems had started off fairly benign as well. No longer.

  “He didn’t want me to leave for work,” Hazel began. She fidgeted with the collar of her prim dress nervously, her embarrassment on full display. “And it wasn’t just that he didn’t want me to leave. It’s the way he went about it. First he hid my identification papers, then he hid all of my shoes out on the fire escape, then he did everything he could to slow me down, and finally …”

  “What? What did he do?” Alarm showed on Gemma’s face.

  “Well, I can only label what he did as throwing a tantrum. Yes, that’s it. He threw a tantrum.”

  All three were silent for a moment, two of them imagining what a tantrum might look like while the other replayed the event in her mind.

  Gemma broke the silence, perhaps hearing the ticking of the work clock in her head, knowing time was short for conversation. “You’ve got to go back to PePr. Complain. Something! This isn’t what we’re supposed to be getting from a Match. This isn’t remotely like the perf
ect compatibility they promised. It sounds more like a hostage situation.”

  Hazel glanced at the clock, saw that they were already six minutes behind on their work, and shot an apologetic glance toward both of her friends. Their heads disappeared into their cubicles, and Hazel reached for her various computer accouterments, adjusting each thing just so. The day ahead would be long, so comfort was almost a necessity if her work was to be worth the time invested. Surfing the web may not be as physically onerous as, say, being a longshoreman, but the way she did it took a different sort of effort.

  As she finished her adjustments, Hazel considered Gemma’s final words on the subject. She was right. The problems with Henry were getting worse. That might not be so bad, except that they were also becoming less predictable. That made it hard to prepare for whatever he did—and to respond to his behavior when he inevitably became difficult.

  As the situation had worsened, both of her friends had encouraged her to return to Perfect Partners—PePr, as it was more commonly known. Their urging, at first tentative, had become increasingly pointed as time went on.

  But for Hazel, going back to PePr to complain about Henry seemed like such a drastic step. Once done, it wasn’t as if it could be undone. And what if they thought she had done something wrong, something to upset what had started out so perfectly? What if there was some fault in her that made her Match—designed so uniquely for each individual human that nothing could surpass it in compatibility—go wrong? Even worse, what if they thought she had ruined Henry and wouldn’t give her another Match?

  And of course, once she did report it, what happened afterward wouldn’t be entirely under her control; and that bothered her more than she would like to admit. It seemed to her a bit like abandoning a moral duty—like leaving a dog on the road somewhere rather than caring for it when it got old or sick. Doing something like that just wasn’t in her makeup.