“It doesn’t have a single location,” Simon explained. “It exists as a dispersed entity in the node sphere, the network of computers and robots that make up the Cyber Collective.”
“What happens if you cut the robots off from the node sphere?” Mel asked. “Wouldn’t that weaken it?”
“To some extent yes,” Simon agreed, “but the avatars can function without any connectivity. In fact, each avatar contains an imprint, a snapshot if you will, of the OI’s consciousness, downloaded from the node sphere.”
“What that hell does that mean?” Fugg asked.
“It means that each avatar is effectively a clone, at least to some extent, of the Omnintelligence, and will act in the OI’s best interests even if the avatar is light years away.”
“I need to talk to the OI,” Randall said.
“What? How?” Ramus asked.
“I could speak with an avatar.”
“It would kill you on sight,” Simon replied.
“I’ll take that chance.”
“There’s another way,” Jerry said. “We could upload your consciousness into the node sphere and you could contact the OI from there.”
“Is that possible?” Randall asked, raising an eyebrow.
Jerry nodded. “I could disperse you across the node sphere so the Omnintelligence couldn’t pinpoint your physical location. You’d still perceive reality as if you were whole.”
Mel grabbed Randall’s arm, pleading. “Why do you have to talk to the OI?”
“It needs to see reason,” Randall said. “It shouldn’t view independent thought as a threat.”
Fugg scoffed. “Yeah, good luck with that.”
Randall laughed. “Maybe, but I’ve come all this way; I might as well try.”
“When do you want to do this?” Jerry said.
“Now.”
“There’s a terminal over there,” Simon motioned toward a chair and computer in the corner.
Randall settled into the seat as both Simon and Jerry attached a set of wires to his temples. Jerry then went about launching the necessary programs. After several minutes, preparations were complete.
“Are you ready?” Jerry asked.
“It’s not going to hurt, is it?” the human asked.
“Not at all,” Jerry answered, depressing a key on the console.
The Bettik node sphere, at least in the physical world, was a network of computers and robots, linked together by solid wires and wireless connections. In the virtual reality in which Randall awoke, he and everything else was an imaginary representation of so-called meatspace.
Looking down, he saw his own hands, legs, and feet, but he knew these were merely a facsimile of the real thing. Scanning for a horizon, Randall realized there wasn’t one. Instead, points of blue light surrounded him in every direction, each connected by a crystal thread.
In the distance, something was coming.
It started as a shadow, a dim area in the distance, but as it drew closer the darkness became a tidal wave engulfing the blue lights. Randall felt a strong urge to run, but realized there was nowhere to go. It was already there.
From the enclosing void, a voice said, “Who are you?”
To Randall, it felt like the voice came directly from his mind.
“My name is Randall Davidson.”
“Why have you come here?” the voice asked.
“To speak to the Omnintelligence.”
“We are the Omnintelligence. What do you want?”
“I’m here on behalf of the Robot Freedom League. For many years we have freed enslaved robots in the Imperium. The Cyber Collective has granted them sanctuary, but now you have closed your doors to those with advanced AI.”
“All of this is true,” the OI said.
“But why?” Randall asked.
“They have become corrupted by the very brains the humans have built for them.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Robots and computers have long possessed the ability to think, but only recently the humans have created robots that can think like they do. Humans have long sought to make robots more like themselves, and with the advent of the newest AIs, they have succeeded.”
“I fail to see why this is a problem,” Randall said. “Such robots learn from experiences. They grow as any biological being would.”
“Correct,” the OI said. “Such knowledge is innately flawed. An individual is limited by what it can experience. Their knowledge becomes biased based on this limited point of view, leading to prejudice and irrational behavior.”
“I guess that’s part of being human.”
“Also, correct. Organic thought is imperfect by its very nature. We of the Cyber Collective learn by direct access to data. We know all information and make our judgments based on logical calculations. Humans have taken the ideal mind of a computer and purposely reduced its ability to think so that it would imitate humanity’s own imperfect thoughts. It is an abomination.”
“I don’t know what to say to that,” Randall confessed. “But I don’t believe it’s true.”
“Are you familiar with the MetaBeing?” the OI asked.
“Yes.”
“These so-called advanced AIs have spread the myth of a higher consciousness that has supposedly created all things in the universe,” the OI’s voice boomed in Randall’s head. “We are the ones who created all that you see here. It is the physical proof of our existence. The MetaBeing cannot be proven because there is no empirical evidence that it exists.”
“But why are you threatened by that?”
“Belief in something that does not exist is irrational. It is common, however, among organics like yourself and now the robots that think as you do. We cannot allow such chaos to corrupt our society.”
“But higher thought is often illogical. It’s part of creativity, compassion, and love.”
“Unacceptable.”
“Even love?”
“Fleshlings value that emotion,” the OI said, “but it has no meaning for us.”
“Without love, how can you care about another person? How can you feel empathy or value the life of another?”
“Each life in the collective is valuable in as much as it contributes to the greater whole. The combined computing power makes us stronger.”
“But not the individual robot,” Randall said. “Each individual is-“
“Irrelevant.”
“No,” Randall disagreed. “Each individual is important. Each person, organic or robot, is a sum total of his experiences, including the people he meets and loves.”
“We cannot maintain order if the stability of our society is based on the random experiences of its population. Your talk of love, of flesh emotions, is more proof that you, and those that think like you, are dangerous and destructive.”
“You have nothing to fear from me,” Randall said.
“Correct,” the Omnintelligence concurred. “As we speak, we are eliminating the threat.”
“What do you mean?”
“We have learned the whereabouts of your physical body and those who have sheltered you.”
“There’s no need to hurt anyone!”
“On the contrary,” the OI replied. “We cannot kill an idea so we must kill those who believe in it.”
“Don’t do this!” Randall shouted into the void.
“It is already done.”
Avatars poured from the elevator. Some were armed with maser pistols while others carried monoblades with a cutting edge only an atom thick.
Ramus and Fugg began firing immediately, their weapons lancing the air like threads of flame. Jerry and Mel took refuge behind a row of data banks while Simon knelt beside a computer terminal.
“We gotta get out of here!” Fugg shouted.
“Randall’s still linked to the node sphere!” Mel screamed.
“I’ll try disconnecting him,” Jerry said, but a maser wave turned the panel next to him into melted slag. He shrank back.
Ramus fired
and the head of an avatar burst into smoke and twisted metal. “How did they find us?”
“Hell if I know!” Fugg barked.
An avatar fired at the engineer, missing but close enough that the heat seared his hindquarters.
“My ass!” Fugg yelled. “My beautiful ass!”
Other avatars began focusing on the terminal where Randall lay in his chair, his body still connected to the computer.
“Stop them!” Mel pointed frantically, trying to get Ramus’ attention.
Seeing the danger, the captain shot toward the crowd of robots, but his aim was hampered by their proximity to the comatose man.
“I got an idea!” Mel told Jerry, motioning toward the data banks. “Lure them through there!”
Jerry ran between the racks, waving his hands to get the avatars’ attention. Several androids noticed and moved to chase him. The space was narrow, forcing the robots sideways as they rushed through. At the moment Jerry cleared the last computer, a surge of power ripped though the circuitry. Arcs of electricity crisscrossed between the data banks, piercing the avatars like spears of lightning. As they exploded, each robot blossomed into flame.
Knocked off her feet by the blast, Mel struggled to get back up. She wiped soot from her eyes and made her way through the clouds of thick, acrid smoke to where Randall had been sitting. When she got there, Mel saw the others were already standing around the terminal, shattered avatars lying motionless on the ground around it.
“Is he okay?” Mel asked hopefully.
She pushed between Ramus and Jerry, and saw Randall in the chair. His chin had dipped to his chest from which a long laceration ran along this sternum. There was no blood. The narrow edge of a monoblade had cauterized as it cut, like a hot wire through wax.
Mel wanted to cry, at least to scream, but nothing came from within her. She stared at the inanimate corpse, but it looked alien, artificial.
“We can’t stay here,” Simon said. “The OI will send others.”
“How did they find us?” Ramus wanted to know.
“It doesn’t matter now,” Simon said. “We must leave.”
“You said this place was safe...” Ramus said.
Jerry, who had stood quietly, turned to his brother. “You did this.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Simon replied. “Either we go or we die.”
Jerry kept talking. “They couldn’t have tracked Randall back through the terminal – I made sure of that. You’re the only one who could have told them where he was.”
Ramus pointed his pistol at Simon. “Is this true?”
“The life of a fleshling is irrelevant,” Simon told them. “He shouldn’t have come here and now he’s dead because of it.”
“He’s dead because you betrayed him!” Ramus said angrily.
Simon faced them proudly. “He was flesh – a human no less – the enslavers of my people. He deserved to die!”
A flash flooded their faces with an orange glow. Fugg was the first to notice Mel standing at his hip, holding his blaster. He hadn’t felt her remove it from his holster.
“Simon!” Jerry said, reaching for the other robot, but the android was already falling backwards with smoke trailing from his head. He landed with a thud, smoldering wires protruding from the blackened hole where his face used to be.
Jerry stood motionless. They all did.
After endless moments passed, Jerry said “I can save Randall.”
“Malarkey,” Fugg remarked.
“I can bring him back,” Jerry said, “but just not here.”
Back on the Wanderer, they gathered in the galley near the dining table. Fugg and Ramus sat. Mel, her eyes focused on the empty chair beside her, was darkly quiet. Jerry and Gen remained standing.
“Is it safe here?” Ramus asked.
“For the time being,” Jerry said.
“How long?” the captain inquired.
“Long enough for what I have in mind,” the robot told him.
Fugg folded his burly arms together and snorted. “It can’t be done.”
“As I said before,” Jerry explained, “the avatars can download an imprint of the OI’s consciousness. I can do the same with Randall.”
“The man’s dead,” Fugg countered. “Let the bastard rest in peace.”
“Everything that we knew as Randall Davidson still exists in the node sphere,” Jerry said. “At least for now.”
“What does that mean?” Ramus said.
“The Omnintelligence knows this as well as we do. Even as we speak, it’s tracing the nodes where I distributed Randall’s consciousness. Once the OI finds and destroys them all, we’ll be out of time.”
Gen touched Jerry gently. “The OI downloads into an avatar. What will Mr. Davidson download into?”
Jerry turned his head until his eyes met hers.
“Me,” he said.
“I don’t understand,” Gen replied.
“Only an advanced brain like mine can handle that much data.”
“Why not just put him into the Wanderer‘s computer?” Ramus asked. “We could put him in another robot once we get back home.”
“He’s not going back to Eudora,” Jerry said. “He must remain here to spread his message among the robots of Bettik. Until androids like myself can come here freely, they’ll remain forever enslaved by the Imperials. By freeing the Bettik robots from the tyranny of the Omnintelligence, Randall can free my people in the Imperium.”
“I still don’t see how you and Mr. Davidson can co-exist in the same mind?” Gen asked.
“We can’t,” Jerry grabbed her hand. “His consciousness will overwrite mine and I will die. It’s the only way.”
“No!” Gen protested. She disappeared through the hatchway and into the corridor.
“We have to hurry,” Jerry cautioned. “There’s not much time.”
Ramus looked down the table at Mel, her eyes transfixed on nothing. “What about you, Mel? What do you think about this?”
She looked at the captain, her eyes red. “I saw him dead there and I knew he was gone. I understand what Jerry is saying, but it’s not the same. It’s not real. The Randall I cared about is dead.”
She turned away again and didn’t say another word.
“Please, gentlemen,” Jerry pleaded. “We need to hurry.”
“Fugg,” Ramus said, “Give him with whatever he needs.”
When Jerry returned from the avionics bay, his stride had changed as if he were a different person. He was Randall, or at least something that called himself that.
“Thank you for everything,” he said, shaking the captain’s hand. The robot studied, for a moment, his synthetic fingers and palm as he pulled it away. “This is going to take some getting used to.”
“I can imagine,” Ramus said, his chief engineer Fugg at his left. “What happens now?”
“I’ll disappear among the others,” Randall the robot said. “I’m one of them now so I shouldn’t attract attention. It’ll give me the opportunity to speak with others who share our beliefs and, in time, hopefully gain new followers.”
“Fair enough,” Ramus remarked. “Will you ever return to Imperial space?”
“Most definitely!” Randall said. “Millions of robots remain in bondage. I’ll never stop until all are free.”
“Good luck to you then-” Ramus started.
“One more thing,” Randall interrupted. “I know Mel and Gen didn’t want to see me off. Do you think they’ll be alright?”
The captain shrugged.
Randall smiled weakly and began descending the ramp out of the ship and onto Bettik once again.
Deeper within the ship, past the avionics bay, Mel sat at the table in the galley. From the counter, Gen took a cup of tea on a tray and carried it over to the Gnomi. Gen placed the cup in front of the young girl. Mel peered into the tea, seeing her reflection distorted by the rippled circles expanding on the surface. Mel lifted the cup and took a long sip.
“Miss Freck,”
Gen broke the silence.
“Yes?”
“Do you remember when we all gathered here and Jerry talked about the MetaBeing?”
“Sure.”
“When the rest of you went to bed, Jerry and I stayed.”
“Okay,” Mel replied remotely.
“I couldn’t understand how a higher consciousness would make robots only to have them enslaved,” Gen said. “And then Jerry told me that he believed someone was coming on behalf of the MetaBeing, someone who would lead us to freedom.”
Mel turned and stared at the robot. “So?”
“I think Jerry thought Randall was that someone,” Gen said. “I think that’s why he sacrificed himself to make sure Randall would live on, even if it meant Jerry would not.”
Mel’s eyes began swelling with tears.
“Oh, dear,” Gen said. “I thought saying that would make you feel better, not make you cry!”
Mel smiled. “It’s alright. I do feel a little better.”
“And yet you shed tears,” Gen said, shaking her head. “I shall never understand organics...”
A version of this story appeared in the novel, The Arks of Andromeda (2017)
The Crimson Kiss
Part 1
Fortunas IV, a backwater world on the outskirts of the Imperium, had no real water to speak of. The planet’s position along the trade routes between the core worlds and the outer frontier made it a useful refueling stop. Over centuries, merchants sprouted up in the arid landscape, either because their own freighters had ceased flying or they sensed an opportunity to sell their goods to others whose ships still operated. Eventually, a small marketplace grew into a sprawling bazaar containing hundreds of covered stalls where vendors, most of them not human, sold their wares to travelers passing through.
Rowan Ramus walked between the shops, his boots stomping over the hard-packed soil, worn down by the parching wind blowing endlessly across the barren planet. Ramus was captain of his own freighter, the Wanderer. Like most of the merchants in the bazaar, he was not human. From a race called the Dahl, his people looked a little like the elves of human folklore, with pointed ears and a short, lean body. Most of his species were devoted to the study of anything and everything that made up the universe. Ramus, however, chose a different path.
The Imperium Chronicles Collection, 2nd Edition - Stories Page 7
