More Human Than Human

by Neil Clarke

  A deep thud made the floor shake.

  But before any eye could look outside, the sheriff added, “This is a paradox told by Plutarch. But speaking as an old ax, I am quite willing to let my head and body be replaced as many times as necessary. Just so long as I am here to debate the matters of my existence and nonexistence.”

  Cole was at the window. An angry voice said, “They’re trying to block the streets, Jess. They think they can bottle us up in here.” “They can’t,” said Frank.

  Jesse stepped up to the glass, calmly studying what was visible. Then it looked at the sheriff, mentioning, “There’s a lot to think about in what you say. And if I wasn’t so busy riding and fighting, I might have time to read up on these subjects.”

  “Food for thought,” the sheriff agreed.

  “But not today,” Jesse added. Then to its partners, it said, “Get the people on their feet. Tie their hands in front, and find some wire for the sheriff.” From its holster came a fat-barreled pistol—a single-shot horror that could punch an explosive round deep inside an old automaton. “Abe comes along with us too.”

  “You won’t even free one of these girls?” the sheriff asked.

  “Once we’re out of this shitpoke town, I will.” Then the machine winked, laughing as it added, “Unless I’m lying. Which is my nature, and who am I to argue with my nature?”

  Frantic, furious men had quickly thrown barricades across Division Street. Mechanical spiders and metal oxen were parked sideways in the right-of-way, with an assortment of wagons and buggies filling in the gaps. Dozens of armed citizens stood behind cover, and as the sheriff stepped out of the bank, twin murmurs came from both directions. Distance softened the voices, confusing the words. The sheriff believed it heard someone saying, “Don’t shoot,” while another said what sounded like, “Fire.” Was this a matter of combustion, or gunfire? Either way, it was critical that the world’s stupidity was kept locked up for now. Ten feet of bailing wire had been wrapped tight around the sheriff’s wrists. Lifting its joined hands as high as its neck, it called to everyone. “Do nothing!” it begged. “Nothing! We are well enough for the moment! Point your damned guns at the sky!”

  Men unaccustomed to running began to sprint back and forth behind the barricades. Faces dropped out of sight, while other faces appeared. But no rifles were aimed in their direction, and the panicking noises turned to watchful silence and the hint of whispers.

  Jesse said, “Good.”

  To the prisoners, the machine said, “One to a horse. Ride in front. And don’t worry, they’ll carry you and us just fine.”

  Each gang member uttered a senseless word. A code of some kind, no doubt. In an instant, the horses lowered themselves to their knees, making it easy for everyone to climb onboard. These Army machines were marvels. What kind of Babbage made them so smart? The sheriff imagined some champion bird dog being set inside a soul-catcher, its obedience and loyal nature now infused into these devices. Somehow that image troubled it more than anything else. Then Jesse poked the sheriff with the big-barreled pistol, saying, “Enough standing, Mr. President. Throw that long leg over the big neck now.”

  The sheriff’s iron carapace felt nothing but pressure and temperature, but the horse plainly did not feel like a living beast. It was too solid, too massive. The fires burning in its body gave it unnatural warmth, and when Jesse’s horse stood, the perceived effort was tiny. Give the beast wings, and it would probably fly.

  The sheriff laughed—a brief, nervous cackle.

  “You’re right,” Jesse agreed. “This is a funny day, isn’t it?”

  The sheriff sealed its mouth.

  “Which way?” asked Cole.

  Jesse and Frank exchanged meaningful looks. They were plainly brothers, and probably closer than most siblings. The younger one said, “It doesn’t matter which way. How can they stop us?”

  The sheriff thought of speaking, but Frank was quicker. “It looks like the bridge is still open. See, Jess?”

  Division Street was blocked, but something had gone wrong on the way to the mill. On the far shore of the bridge, a pair of wooden wagons had been turned on their sides. But men were scarce. For a moment, the sheriff could see Stanley standing in plain view, whispering orders to someone or something that plainly wasn’t doing what needed to be done.

  “Yeah,” Jesse said. “Let’s take the bridge out of here.”

  No eye, no matter how strong or sharp, can see everything. But the sheriff tried to miss nothing. The same young fellow who had asked about the machine’s political plans was standing on the bridge, several steps in front of the overturned freight wagon. To the world, he looked like a scared boy working very hard to hold his ground. Someone had foolishly armed him, the big dangerous pistol in his left hand, and with the first clomp of the metal hoof striking wooden planks, he started to lift the gun, first with the one hand, then both.

  The sheriff shouted, “Stanley. Get that boy out of my way.”

  Not “our way,” but “my way.” It seemed like an important distinction to make.

  Stanley muttered a few words.

  The boy didn’t seem to hear him.

  The sheriff dipped his head, talking backward to Jesse. “Get us in the lead. I’ll get him out of your way.”

  “Good,” said Jesse, but not caring much either way. “Son,” the sheriff yelled. “You don’t want to try that.” The boy didn’t act convinced.

  A mild kick and coded word sent their mount up to the front. Then with a careless laugh, Jesse asked, “Why don’t I just shoot him?”

  Stanley was behind the young man now. For an instant, his eyes met with the sheriff’s, and then he leaped forward and grabbed for the pistol. The boy said, “No,” and yanked and turned and took a blind swing, looking like a scared fool with his fist cutting through empty air.

  Suddenly the two young men were battling with one another. It was an unexpected, halfway intriguing sight. The gang kept riding across the river. None of them noticed the townsmen standing on the riverbanks, busily waving orders to those beneath the bridge. They watched nothing but the tiny, useless drama being played out before them. They heard one man curse, and then the other matched that word and its furious tone, and then the riders had come to the middle of the bridge—out on the long span of solid oak and iron fittings and iron nails—and somebody down by the river shouted, “Now, now. Push, push!”

  A dozen iron men, black and coal-fired and standing at the ready, now threw their weight and considerable strength against tree trunk pillars. The bridge was already stressed by the weight of the machines above. There was a sharp creak behind the riders, and then a prolonged groan from ahead and below, and just when it seemed as if the span might survive the abuse, the entire middle portion shattered, spilling machines and struggling prisoners into the cool wet depths where no fire, no matter how protected, could burn for long.

  Falling, there was barely time to think anything worthy. But still, the sheriff tried to look back over its shoulder, winking at that famous rubber face. “Dream well,” it managed to say, and then the big pistol was fired, and a fat round pierced its back, burrowing deep into the twelve-year-old Babbage.

  Now there will be a blast, the sheriff realized.

  Will I feel it?

  No, it did not. A little mercy waiting at the end of a long life . . .

  But for the wrinkled skin and the absence of hair on the sunburned scalp, the man was familiar. And then he spoke, his voice older but otherwise unchanged. “There was this ship on which the king of Athens returned from Crete,” he began, “and because it was a famous ship, from that day forward it was repaired and refurbished—every plank and swivel and oar made again as time and rot did their worst.”

  “The ship of Theseus,” the machine replied.

  “Very good, sir. Very good.”

  The automaton was lying on its back, in the midst of what seemed to be a field of tall grass. The sky was clear and filled with wind, and the scent of
damp earth played in the nostrils. That smell was the greatest shock among many. Quietly, it asked, “What has happened to me, Stanley?”

  The old man was turning screws in the machine’s chest. “You feel odd, do you?” “No, actually. I feel rather wonderful.”

  With stiff old knees, Stanley stood. “Sit up, if you can, sir. Everything should work just fine.” “Not yet,” the automaton replied. “As you wish.”

  There was noise in the distance—a steady explosive roar, not loud but moving swiftly. Stanley squinted, watching the sky and presumably whatever was making the noise. “I had an awful time recovering everything from your Babbage,” he explained. “It was shattered, quite the mess. In the end, I modeled the explosion, plotting the course of every piece of the bomb and all of the ballistic debris, and then I ran everything backwards to the beginning. Which is how I recovered most of your memories. Then I loaded everything into a fresh neural network. Which aren’t called ‘Babbages’ anymore, by the way.”

  Years had passed, but the man remained easily impressed with his own cleverness. “What about the James and Youngers?”

  “Parceled out to museums and the like. They get fueled up for important anniversaries and documentaries, but mostly, they just stand like statues inside their display cabinets.”

  Smiling, the machine felt the crinkling of soft flesh. It touched its lips and cheeks, feeling sensations through its fingertips. “Is this rubber?”

  “Better than.”

  The smile grew. “Thank you so much.”

  The clever man said, “I should mention, sir, there’s quite a lot that’s different about you. Your organs can repair themselves, most of the time. You’re quicker and even stronger than before. In many ways, you function as a man. A healthy, human man. And by the way, there’s no more coal dust for breakfast.”

  “Kerosene, is it?”

  “Hardly that,” he scoffed. “You won’t need your first meal for another eight years. And longer, if you keep doing nothing.” The automaton took a deep, wondrous breath.

  “I’m curious, sir. How much longer do you plan to stay down there?”

  “I don’t quite know, Stanley.” The machine closed its eyes. “When the smell of the earth grows old, I’ll move to my next pleasure. How is that for a plan?”

  Naomi Kritzer won the 2016 Hugo Award for Best Short Story for her story “Cat Pictures Please,” which originally appeared in Clarkesworld. (She also won the Locus Award for this story and was nominated for the Nebula Award.) Her short stories have also appeared in Asimov’s, Analog, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Lightspeed, and Apex, as well as various anthologies. Her early novels remain available from Bantam; she also has a short story collection in July 2017 from Fairwood Press. She is currently working on a new novel—about the AI from “Cat Pictures Please” and its teenage sidekick—for Tor Teen.

  ARTIFICE

  NAOMI KRITZER

  We toasted the end of Mandy’s relationship over a game of Hydro-King. “I never liked him,” I said, which was true. I didn’t add, “and what still puzzles me is that you never liked him, either, so why did you move in with him?” People say, “never try to change a man” (or, if you’re being egalitarian about it, “never try to change the person you’re dating”) but from the day they met, Mandy had viewed this guy as a work in progress. She’d even succeeded in dragging him to game night a few times, even though he clearly found board games unspeakably dull.

  “Find a nice gamer boy next time,” Larry suggested over the champagne. We met at night, in Larry’s apartment, because Larry had an actual job instead of living entirely off his citizen’s stipend like the rest of us. So on one hand, he was busy during the day; on the other, he had more money and could afford a much bigger space, big enough for seven people to meet and play board games.

  (You’d be surprised at how many people think it’s super retro that we play board games in person instead of immersive VR stuff. But did you know there are still Monopoly and Scrabble tournaments? Besides, when you get together with people in person, you can eat corn chips while you gossip.)

  “I’m swearing off men,” Mandy said. Larry’s housekeeper came through with a tray of snacks. Mandy stared speculatively at it for a moment. The housekeeper was mostly silver, with little swiveling robot eyes on stalks. It rolled around the floor so everyone could get snacks, and Mandy grabbed a fistful of chips. “Too much goddamn work.”

  “He’s probably saying the same thing about women right now,” muttered Quinn, my boyfriend, in an undertone. I snickered, then felt guilty, since I ought to be giving Mandy the benefit of the doubt here. Still. I had to admit, I hoped her ex was toasting the split with his own friends right now while watching . . . was it baseball season? Tennis? Squash? He was into that sort of thing. Mandy, not so much.

  Mandy had been in a great mood on game night, but I checked in with her the next week, just to see how she was doing. “Izzy!” she greeted me. “Come over! I want to introduce you to someone!”

  I cringed. “Already?”

  “It’s not what you think. Just come over!”

  I went over to Mandy’s apartment—the ex had moved out, and she’d already eradicated every trace of him. The alcove where he’d had his things was now fully repurposed as her studio, with a half-finished painting on a big easel. I glanced at it—it was another of her photorealism attempts—and then looked over at the brown-haired, pleasant-faced young man on the sofa. He looked way too young for her. “Joe,” she called. “Come here. I’d like to introduce you to Izzy.”

  He rose and strode over, holding out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said in a voice that almost vibrated with sincerity. “You’re the first of Mandy’s friends I’ve had the chance to meet.” There was a faint stress on the word Mandy and he glanced at her, which was a relief as he was making too much eye contact.

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s nice to meet you, too.” I glanced at Mandy, thinking, is this guy for real?

  Something about the self-satisfied look on Mandy’s face tipped me off. “Oh. Oh, you didn’t.”

  “My stupid ex got the housekeeper in the agreement,” Mandy said. “I needed a new one anyway, I just . . . upgraded.”

  I looked “Joe” over. You have to pay a lot more for a robot that really looks human, but that explained Joe’s unnerving perfection and slightly-too-youthful face. “You sure did. You couldn’t have gotten by with a standard housekeeping model and, oh, a really nice vibrator? Because I’m sure that would’ve been cheaper.”

  “I didn’t just want him for the bedroom. He’s going to be my boyfriend. Right, Joe?”

  He slipped his hand around her waist and leaned in to kiss her cheek. “I’ll be with you as long as you want me, Mandy.”

  She pulled back and looked at him critically. “I like the physical gesture there but next time tell me you’ll be with me forever.”

  He smiled at her with what looked exactly like human infatuation. “Of course, darling.”

  She turned back to me and said, “He learns really fast. I never have to tell him anything twice.”

  “You shouldn’t have to,” I said. “I mean, that’s the whole point of a robot, right?”

  “Exactly! I knew you’d understand.”

  Joe stood there, smiling at both of us. When we paused he said, “Can I get you anything, Izzy? A drink? A snack? I make excellent sandwiches.”

  If it had been an ordinary housekeeper I’d have said yes, but this was creeping me out, so I said I’d eaten and that I needed to get home because I’d promised myself I’d make some progress on the symphony I was composing, and I took myself off.

  Back at my own apartment, I sent my own housekeeper to make me a sandwich and some lemonade and sat down with the keyboard for a while to work, although mostly I stewed. My housekeeper was more basic and functional than Larry’s; it didn’t even have what you’d call a face, although it had enough functionality to cook (that was important to me) an
d clean (that was important to Quinn). Eventually Quinn came home and instead of playing him the piece I’d been working on, I told him about Mandy and her custom-designed man.

  “Well,” he said. “It’s sad to say, but this is probably healthier than seeking out men as projects. Robots are very good at following instructions, unlike human beings. Also, Joe will never leave the toilet seat up, unless she instructs him to leave it up.”

  “I’ve never understood why she didn’t just have the housekeeper check the bathroom after each use to flip the seat back down,” I said. “Instead of making it an issue.”

  “Well, this guy will never use the bathroom at all, unless he has to go in there to recharge,” Quinn said. “That’s one problem solved, anyway.”

  I shouldn’t have been surprised when Mandy brought Joe to game night.

  He still had that friendly smile on his face pretty much all the time. It had a friendly smile on its face, I should say, but the fact is, when a robot really looks human it’s hard not to think of it with a gender. Larry’s housekeeper was a a non-human-looking robot that was nonetheless sort of cute (the eyes “blink,” things like that) and he sometimes pretends it’s a pet, and Dawn and Shanice have the same basic model as me and Quinn but they gave theirs a name. Quinn and I were always very practical about it. Our housekeeper wasn’t a person or a pet; it was a machine that we’d bought so it could do our cooking and clean the toilets and run errands. Lots of people give their housekeeping robots names, but they don’t need names. (Unless you have two for some reason, but in a standard apartment space you don’t need more than one to keep up with the work.)

  We all knew by then that Mandy had bought a robot that looked human, so she couldn’t play the game of introducing Joe and waiting to see how long it took for people to figure out what was up. She led Joe around the room, introducing him to everyone; no one refused to shake hands, though Shanice was obviously pretty uncomfortable with it. Joe sat down on one of the folding chairs, leaving the comfier seating spots for the humans, and smiled happily at all of us, not interrupting.