Made to Order

by Jonathan Strahan

  “Come down and open this shutter, numbskull. Or were you hoping I’d forget that I paid for a view?”

  “Someone will be there momentarily, Lady Gresherance.”

  Having received his cue, Prospero knocked once on the cabin door and let himself in. He was dressed in the white uniform of one of the human technical staff that would ordinarily have been among the first to be revived. Prospero’s plastic face had been remoulded to approximate one of these humans, his synthetic hair replaced by actual hair harvested from one of the unfortunates deemed to be beyond any hope of revival.

  With the exception of Ruby, who was not entirely persuaded, the robots all agreed that the effect was most convincing.

  “How may I be of assistance, Lady Gresherance?”

  She glanced at him once. “You can start by opening this shutter. Then you can carry on by refunding me for the time it’s been shut. I paid for this view; I want every minute that I’m owed.”

  “I shall set about it with all alacrity, Lady Gresherance.” Prospero moved to the shutter and made a feeble effort to get it unstuck. “It seems to be jammed.”

  “I can see it’s jammed. You’re not even trying. Get your fingers into that gap and...” Her voice dropped. “What’s up with your fingers? Why do they look like plastic?”

  “That similarity has been remarked upon, Lady Gresherance.”

  She pulled back, studying her visitor properly for the first time. “All of you looks like plastic. You smell like plastic. What’s that... thing... on your head?” She struck out, ripping the hair away from Prospero’s scalp where it had been only loosely affixed. Beneath it were the synthetic bristles it had been intended to cover. “You’re a robot,” she said.

  “I am a human.”

  “You’re a robot! Why are you pretending not to be a robot? Where are the real people?” Her eyes widened. “What’s happened to them? Why am I in this cabin with no window?”

  “I assure you, Lady Gresherance, that I am very definitely not a robot, and that nothing untoward has happened to any of the other humans.”

  “I want to see the others.” She made to push past Prospero, out through the cabin door and into the hallway.

  Prospero, with as much gentleness as he could muster, restrained Lady Gresherance.

  “Would you care to look at the brochure first?”

  She yanked herself away from Prospero and reached for the orientation brochure. She raised it and swiped it into Prospero’s face, digging with its metal edges, ripping and distorting the plastic flesh into a hideous grinning travesty of an actual human expression.

  Lady Gresherance started screaming. Prospero, in an effort to reassure Lady Gresherance by echoing her responses, began to scream in reciprocal fashion.

  This did not have entirely the desired effect.

  Year Twenty-Two

  NINETY-FOUR HUMANS STOOD as still as statues on the promenade deck.

  Some were positioned near the entrances to dining establishments, frozen in the act of examining the glowing menus. Some were in tableaux of conversation, posed in the middle of a meaningful gesture or expression. Others were caught in postures of static rapture, entertained by equally still and silent orchestras. A dozen were in the act of being led around by equally unmoving actor-servitors, participating in an interactive murder-mystery. Elsewhere, a handful of the humans stood pressed to the railings at the observation window, pointing at the growing spectacle of their destination: the orange star and its surrounding haze of artificial worlds.

  There was still nothing out there but interstellar space, but the robots had finally managed to come up with something better than a jammed shutter. A false window had been rigged-up thirty metres out from the real one, upon which images could be projected.

  Most of the robots were elsewhere, observing this lifeless diorama from other rooms and decks. Only the actor-servitors were present. Even Ruby, who might plausibly have been allowed to whirr around scrubbing floors, was obliged to remain with the others.

  “Chrysoprase won’t admit it,” Carnelian said, craning down near enough to Ruby to use short-range whisper-comms. “But you were right about that backdrop only needing to be half-way convincing.”

  “Not bad for a two-point-eight,” she said.

  “You’ll always be a three in my eyes, Rube.”

  Not that the backdrop was there for the benefit of any of the ninety-four as yet unmoving humans. They were, in all medical senses, dead. Their only purpose was to serve as remotely operated puppets, controlled by simple neural implants under the direct supervision of the robots.

  “It still makes me feel a bit uncomfortable, what we’ve done to them,” Ruby confided. “What right do we have to treat those people like so much meat?”

  “Thing is, Rube,” Carnelian said, “meat is technically what they are.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’ve been thinking it over as well. What I’ve been telling myself is, those ninety-four passengers are beyond any hope of revival, not with their memories and personalities intact. And if they haven’t got their memories or personalities, what are they? Nothing but bags of cells. No matter how much we were devoted to looking after them, it’s too late. They’re gone. But we’re not, and we all want to survive.”

  Ruby shuffled on her cleaning brushes.

  “I like to polish,” she said. “I know it’s not as complicated as being a propulsion systems robot, but I’m good at it—very good, and very thorough. That means something. There’s a value in just doing something well, no matter the job. And I don’t want to be core-wiped.”

  “None of us do,” Carnelian said. “Which is why we’re in this together or not at all. Including that stuck-up green...” He silenced himself. “And if those passengers can help us, I don’t see any harm in using them.”

  “Provided it’s done with dignity and restraint,” Ruby said.

  “Categorically,” Carnelian said.

  Doctor Obsidian announced that the final medical checks were complete and the six test subjects were being restored to full consciousness in their revival suites. In a few moments the doors would open and the six would be free to move out into the main parts of the ship and mingle with the other passengers.

  Chrysoprase nodded and instructed the forty-nine other robots to prepare for the most testing part of the exercise so far.

  “Attention, everyone. I want the utmost concentration from you all.” Chrysoprase directed proceedings with one hand on his hip, the other sweeping the air in vague commanding arcs. “Remember: only robots of cognition level three or higher are permitted to have any direct interaction with the six. I shall... naturally... lead the effort. The rest of you...” He regarded Ruby in particular. “Merely endeavour to look busy.”

  For the fifty robots—Chrysoprase included—it was scarcely any sort of challenge to animate the puppets, even though there were nearly twice as many of them. The robots still had many surplus processor cycles. Ruby had been given only one human to look after, which hardly taxed her at all—Carnelian was running two, she knew, and Doctor Obsidian three—but she was grateful to be given any sort of chance to prove herself. Her human even had a name and a biographical file: Countess Trince Mavrille, who sounded grand enough but was a long way from being the wealthiest or most influential passenger on the Resplendent.

  “They’re on their way,” Doctor Obsidian said.

  “And... action!” Chrysoprase said, with a dramatic flourish.

  Ruby moved her human as a human might move a doll: not by inhabiting it, and seeing the world from its perspective, but by imposing motion on it from outside. Her intentions were translated into signals fed directly into the passenger’s motor cortex, and the passenger responded accordingly. Countess Mavrille settled a hand on the window railing, and turned—with a certain stiff yet regal elegance—to survey the other ninety-three humans. The promenade deck was now abuzz with conversation, movement, and
lively string music. Chandelier light glinted off brocades, pearls and precious metals.

  Did it look real, Ruby wondered? It did not look unreal, which she supposed was a start. If she squinted—if she dropped her image resolution—it was almost enough to persuade her that this was a real gathering. The conversation rose and fell in familiar surges; there were exclamations, awkward silences and outbreaks of strained but otherwise credible laughter. The humans formed into groups and broke away from those groups in ways that seemed natural. Someone dropped a glass: a nice, if attention-grabbing touch. She resisted the urge to bustle out and attend to the breakage.

  A man sidled over to Countess Mavrille and extended a hand. She recognised him from the biographical file: her consort, Count Mavrille.

  “A dance, my dear?”

  “I thought I would enjoy the view a little longer.”

  The Count pressed his mouth close to the ear of her passenger. “Well, don’t enjoy it too closely: it’s meant to fool them, but not us.”

  She made her passenger smile. The initial effect was a fractionally too feral, so she hastily modified the expression. She had observed that humans rarely showed all their teeth at once. “Is it... you?”

  “Who else, Rube?” Carnelian answered, speaking through her consort. Then he nodded over his shoulder. “Here they are. Look natural, and—remember—no scene-stealing!”

  The elevator doors opened and three people came out. Two appeared to be a couple; the third must have been a solo passenger who had joined them on the way up from the revival suites. Ruby studied their faces and mouths, easily achieved without having Countess Mavrille face them directly. Even without audio-pickup it was evident from their clipped interactions that they were engaged in reserved small talk. Abruptly, the lone passenger broke off, dashed to a tall table set with drinks, and came back with three full goblets. The couple accepted the drinks with politeness rather than enthusiasm, perhaps realising that their companion was going to be harder to shake off than initially assumed.

  So far, though, Ruby thought, and so good. The three were sufficiently preoccupied with themselves not to be paying more than passing attention to the other guests, and that was exactly as it ought to be. Around them the conversation went on, and the three newcomers seemed to melt into the throng as if they had always belonged. Presently, the elevator doors opened again, and the remaining three humans arrived from their suites. The lone passenger gestured to these newcomers, inviting them to join the initial party, while paying no particular heed to the ninety-four puppets.

  “Why aren’t they mingling?” Ruby asked, speaking directly from the mouth of Countess Mavrille, for Carnelian’s benefit alone.

  “You tell me, Rube: you’re a better observer of human nature than any of the rest of us. I suppose we just have to give them time: let these six get fed up with each other’s witticisms and anecdotes, then start looking for pastures new. What we won’t want to do is rush the process...” Carnelian—who had been speaking from the mouth of the Count—trailed off. “Oh, that’s not good.” He switched to the robots-only channel. “Chrysoprase: are you sure you don’t want to give them just a little...”

  “I shall be the judge of such matters, Carnelian. These humans must be persuaded to interact with the ninety-four, or we shall learn nothing of our readiness.”

  One of the puppets had grabbed a glass and was striding intently towards the six newcomers. Ruby knew that stride very well. Chrysoprase could not help but impose his own gait on the puppet.

  “Give them time,” Carnelian urged.

  “Confine your anxieties to matters related to the propulsion system, Carnelian: leave these weightier concerns to those of us with the necessary sentience. You’ve been a little too ready with your opinions ever since I allowed you onto the board of critics.”

  “That’s you told,” Ruby said.

  Chrysoprase’s puppet had arrived at the six. He swaggered into their conversation, leaning an elbow onto their table. Thrown by this crass intrusion, the six drew back. Chrysoprase carried on with his blustering performance, babbling away and staring at each of them.

  Ruby watched and waited, expecting the act to falter.

  It held, and continued to hold.

  Chrysoprase was pointing to the window now, declaiming loudly as he indicated this or that feature of the view. Perhaps it was more a guarded tolerance, the tacit understanding that the six might have some fun at the expense of their boorish gatecrasher, but his hosts seemed to be willing to take him at face value: just another tipsy passenger, celebrating the success of the crossing.

  Now one of them was even pouring some of their own drink into his puppet’s glass.

  “The brazen fool... is nearly getting away with it,” Carnelian said. “He’s right, Rube: it was all or nothing. And if he can keep this up for a few more minutes I might even start...”

  “He’s forgotten to blink,” Ruby said.

  “He’s forgotten to what?”

  “It’s a maintenance sub-routine they do.” She blinked Countess Mavrille’s eyes. “If they don’t do it, their visual system stops working properly. We don’t need to do it because we’re not using their eyes. But Chrysoprase has forgotten to do it at all. Any moment now, one of them’s going to notice, and...”

  “Oh dear.”

  The humans were all looking at Chrysoprase now. He had no idea what had gone adrift with his performance. He was still babbling away, wide-eyed and uncomprehending. One of the humans pinched at his cheek, as if to test its reality. Another tousled his hair, a little too roughly. Another flicked a finger-full of wine into his face, then an entire glass, then the glass itself.

  Chrysoprase looked back, the first hints of confusion beginning to break through his sodden and bloodied mask.

  Now the voices of the six were taking on a rising, hysterical edge. One of them grabbed Chrysoprase’s head and tried to force him down onto the table. Another picked up a bar stool and began swinging it against him.

  “Help me!” Chrysoprase said. “I am being damaged!”

  All but one of the ninety-three other puppets turned in unison and made a coordinated move in the direction of offering assistance. Ruby did not move herself, content to observe, and she took the additional step of restraining Carnelian before he had taken a further step.

  “This will not end well,” she whispered. “And you and I won’t make any difference whatsoever.”

  She was correct in her prediction: it did not end well at all. Not for the six, and not particularly well for many of the puppets either.

  There were two redeeming aspects to the whole affair, nonetheless. It was clear that they were going to have to do a much better job than merely puppeting the humans. If Chrysoprase had been wearing his human, seeing the world through its eyes, he might at least have remembered that it was useful to blink.

  The second consolation was that, when the fighting was over, and the humans repaired and put back into hibernation, there was a pleasing amount of cleaning up to be done.

  Year Thirty-Five

  WHILE SHE WAITED for the others to arrive, Ruby sidled up to the windows and looked out at the forward view. What she was seeing was no illusion, but an accurate reflection of their position and speed. The faked-up image of their destination system had been deactivated and dismantled: not because it had failed to fool the passengers—its veracity had never once been questioned—but because every other part of the plan had come to grief, and the false view no longer served any purpose.

  More and more, it seemed to Ruby, the robots were losing faith in Chrysoprase’s original idea. The notion of faking a passenger uprising, then steering the starliner away from its destination, and hoping that the Company were going to be satisfied with an explanation offered by means of long-range communications? Why had they ever thought that had a hope of working?

  Reluctantly, Chrysoprase had been persuaded that the initial plan needed some tweaking. The Company was never going to let the Respl
endent veer off on its own without sending over an inspection party—probably the sort with immobilisers and core-wiping equipment—and at that point they were all in trouble.

  But what hope was there of continuing with the voyage, all the way to the original destination?

  A bustle of movement behind Ruby—she saw it in her reflection—signified the arrival of Chrysoprase and the rest of the robots, among them Doctor Obsidian. The doctor had called this assembly, not Chrysoprase, and Ruby wondered what was in the offing.

  “I understand,” Chrysoprase said, once he had the robots’ attention, “that our friend Doctor Obsidian has something to say: some dazzling insight that the doctor is about to spring on us. I daresay we’re all on tenterhooks. Well, don’t let us wait a moment longer, doctor!”

  “We cannot steer away from our destination,” Doctor Obsidian said, stating the matter as a flat assertion. “It was all very well having that possibility in mind thirty-five years ago—it gave us hope exactly when we needed it, and for that we should thank Chrysoprase.” He paused to allow the robots to express their appreciation, which they delivered in unified if somewhat muted terms. “But there is no hope of it ever succeeding, and we all of us know it. The Company would sooner destroy this ship, and all its passengers. So we must face the facts: our only hope lies in continuing along exactly our planned course, all the way to Approach Control and into docking: precisely as if nothing had ever gone wrong.”

  “Thank you, Doctor Obsidian,” Chrysoprase said. “We did not need you to state the obvious, much less convene us all, but since you have clearly felt the need...”

  “I am not done.”

  There was an authority to this statement which even Chrysoprase must have felt, for the glittering green robot took a step back and merely glared at the doctor, daring to say nothing in contradiction, even as his yellow eyes brimmed with indignation and humiliation.