Asimov’s Future History Volume 8

by Isaac Asimov

  A few seconds later they stood in the atrium at the heart of Central, facing the massive black slab that held Central’s console input/output devices. Basalom couldn’t quite put a manipulator on it, but he felt a sense of vague disquiet in the presence of the great machine. There were annoying, itchy subsonics in the air, and a deep, unsteady thrumming on the 104-Mhz band. The positronic potentials rose in his brain, meshed, and pointed toward a fuzzy conclusion: Something was wrong. But what?

  Dr. Anastasi grew impatient. She crossed her arms. She tapped a foot. She cleared her throat loudly. At last, Central’s one red eye slowly came to life. Clicks and grating sounds emanated from its voice synthesizer, followed by a burst of white noise and a 6O-cycle hum that slowly resolved into a word.

  “Hmmm?”

  Janet uncrossed her arms and stepped forward. “Central, I am Dr. Janet Anastasi, and I’m here to —”

  “Good morning, Dr. Chandra,” the machine said. “I’m looking forward to beginning my lessons.”

  Janet blinked, shook her head, and tried again. “Anastasi. My name is Anastasi. And I’m a little short on time, so —”

  “Time,” Central said, “is a convention shaped by the collective mind of all sentience. It has no objective meaning outside the vision.”

  Dr. Anastasi turned to Basalom. “Do you have any idea what he’s talking about?”

  Basalom tried a brief query on his commlink, but got nothing but static in reply. “No, madam.”

  Janet shrugged and turned back to Central. “One more time, then. My name is Janet Anastasi. I am a roboticist. Roughly a year ago, I left an experimental learning machine on the surface of this planet. Its mission was —”

  Central’s eye flared brightly, then dimmed again to extinction.

  No answer was forthcoming; Central had gone back into sleep mode. Turning to Janet, Basalom found her staring at her feet and counting to a very high number. The situation was saved by the arrival of a tall, slender, pale blue robot built along the lines of the Avery Euler model.

  The robot swept into the atrium and began talking in a harried, accelerated voice. “Hello, you must be Dr. Anastasi. Please accept my apologies for not meeting you at the spaceport. Your arrival caught us completely by surprise.”

  Janet looked up. “No, really?”

  The city robot was unused to dealing with humans, and therefore not tuned to detect sarcasm. “Truly, I am City Supervisor 3. You may find it more convenient to address me as Beta. I was involved in a major research project, but I came as soon as I was able to delegate authority. If it is necessary, my fellow supervisors can be summoned as well. You may consider the entire city to be at your disposal.”

  Janet looked around the hall and thought about the many meanings of the word disposal. “Thank you. To be honest — Beta, is it? — I don’t want to spend any more time here than I absolutely must. I only came here to get one question answered.

  “Before I ask it, though, I’ve got a new one. What the deuce is going on with Central?”

  Beta’s eyes dimmed, and he shuffled his feet nervously. Basalom detected a slight leakage of sadness on the commlink channel... Central has been... damaged,” Beta said.

  “No kidding. What happened?”

  “A rogue robot invaded the hall and attacked Central.” Beta looked up... You must understand, this was before we realized the need for tight security measures.”

  Janet absent-mindedly rubbed her upper arm. “Yes, I’ve met your security measures. But back up a moment: You said a rogue robot? No offense intended, but I’ve never heard of a rogue robot before, much less a rogue Avery robot.”

  “This was not an Avery robot.” Janet was suddenly stricken with a nasty, sinking feeling. “What kind of robot was it?”

  Beta’s eyes flashed, and he looked to Basalom for a moment. “We are not certain. It was not a design that we were familiar with. For example, it was constructed of a cellular material similar to our own, but of a much finer grain. And, while it was subject to the Laws of Robotics, it seemed to have no clear idea of what constituted a human.”

  Basalom switched to commlink. Stand by for download of data. When Beta had acknowledged, Basalom transmitted a summary of the learning machine’s design specification. Was this the robot that attacked Central?

  Why, yes. Then on audio, Beta repeated, “Yes, that’s it. The rogue robot was a unit of the type you describe as a learning machine. This explains a lot of things.”

  Janet grabbed Beta and turned him to face her. “Like what? Exactly what did the rogue robot do?”

  Beta’s eyes flashed again, and there was a hesitation in his voice. “Or. Anastasi, the rogue apparently became convinced that it was a member of the local species. It assumed their form. It took over leadership of a small socio-political unit. From what we have been able to establish lately, it has apparently been adopted by that unit as a minor deity.”

  Janet let go of Beta and sagged. “Frost...”

  “The learning machine led repeated attacks against Robot City. It destroyed several hunter/seekers, a number of worker robots, and City Supervisor Gamma on two different occasions. Ultimately, it attempted to destroy Central.”

  Janet sat down on the floor and buried her face in her hands. “Frost, frost, f —” She looked up and grabbed Beta’s knee. “What happened to it?”

  “Master Derec-are you familiar with the human called Derec, also known as David Avery?”

  Janet smiled at the mention of her son. “Oh, I’ve heard of him.”

  “Master Derec arrived and convinced the rogue that he was human. It took the form of a fairly normal robot, and has since left the planet as part of Master Derec’s entourage.”

  Frowning at Basalom, Dr. Anastasi got to her feet and began straightening her hair. “Well, I suppose that’s the best we could hope for. At least it isn’t destroyed.”, She turned to Beta. “You say the learning machine assumed leadership of the primitive sentients?”

  “Yes, madam. Our current research project involves studying the primitives. From what we have been able to decode of their language, it appears that primitives now regard the learning machine as a messiah figure. It has caused considerable disruption to their social order.”

  Or. Anastasi stroked her chin. “I see. So now you’re looking for a way to undo the damage?”

  “No, madam. We have concluded that the disruption is too significant for us to repair. Instead, we are seeking ways to take advantage of it, in order to persuade the natives to take up residence in the city.”

  “What?”

  Beta blithely continued. “Robot City exists to serve humans. Since there are no humans in permanent residence on this world, we have concluded that the intelligent primitives are human equivalents, or near-humans. Therefore, in order for us to protect and serve them, they must take up residence in the city.”

  Janet went back to staring at her feet and counting to high numbers. Basalom switched to thermographic vision and noted that Mount Anastasi was building up to another eruption.

  Janet said, “Next I suppose you’re going to tell me that this is for their own good.”

  “Of course, madam. Our observations have shown that the near-humans live in a dirty, dangerous environment. If they can be persuaded to accept some changes, we can make their lives much more pleasant.”

  This time, Janet defused the angry outburst herself. “Okay, Basalom. Contact the ship. Tell it we’re going to be staying here for a while. We may as well try to steer these tin fascists onto a constructive path.” Basalom opened his commlink channel and did as Dr. Anastasi instructed.

  While he was still on the commlink, though, he intercepted a coded transmission intended for Beta. The code was a simple one, composed of prime number transpositions, and Basalom cracked it in about 50 nanoseconds. He was just in time to catch Beta’s answering transmission.

  Go ahead, Linguist 6.

  We have been engaged by a hunting party of near-humans. Supervisor Gamma ha
s already been destroyed.

  Again? Very well; try to salvage his brain, if they’ll let you.

  That may be difficult. Biologist 42 is down with a damaged leg, Organic Chemist 20 is locked up in a First Law dilemma, and I’ve lost my left arm below the elbow.

  Understood. Mission aborted. Return to the city.

  Will comply if possible. The near-humans are circling back. They’ve cut us off. I don’t think we’re going to make it. We’d better upload our observational data now. Stand by for core dump.

  Ready.

  I am commencing to trans

  After that, there was only static.

  Chapter 11

  MAVERICK

  A FOREST GLEN: sunlight filtered cool and green through the leaves, while nesting redwings darted through the lower branches of the trees, piping cheerfully. High in the canopy above a newly emerged cicabeetle announced its successful pupation with a loud, low-pitched drone, and off in the distance the happy cries and howls of hunting kin echoed across the valley.

  The bowl-shaped floor of the forest clearing was covered with rocky outcroppings, mossy old stumps and fallen logs, and the mangled remains of four robots.

  A skinny youngling sauntered past, proudly carrying his prize by the wires that had once connected it to a neck. Someone on the other side of the clearing shouted, distracting the youngling; he dropped City Supervisor Gamma’s head onto a slab of exposed rock, and the resulting clang sent him scampering away. By the time the youngling realized what he’d done and turned back to retrieve the head, it had begun rolling down the slope. Picking up momentum, it skittered across a patch of wet slimewort, dinged off a jutting rock, and took an off-kilter hop and then a long, wobbling bounce. The youngling bounded down the slope after it, trying to catch up with the rolling head.

  He skidded to a stop when the head thudded to rest in a pile of soft humus and rotting leaves at the base of a mossy tree stump, not half a trot in front of the tough-looking stranger’s nose.

  The head apparently annoyed the stranger. He got to his feet, yawned, and cast a baleful glare at the youngling. Then he sniffed the head in a disinterested fashion, marked it with his scent, and sat down again.

  The youngling decided to go find another trophy.

  Maverick watched the young kin turn tail, then turned his attention back to the head. So that was a WalkingStone, eh? Big furry deal. It wasn’t so tough. He brought a hind paw up and indulged in a good scratch behind the ear and resumed picking at the bit of grainy material that was stuck between his front teeth. On the other paw, I can’t say much for the way they taste. Dislodging the shred of Linguist 6’s arm, he spat it out and turned his attention to the group of kin that was busy dismembering the last relatively intact carcass. WhiteTail was easy to spot.

  And that’s the old guy’s daughter, huh? Yuck. She’s got spindly legs. Walks like she’s got starch in her tail. And she’s a bit young, even for your tastes.

  Still, what the hey. Maybe in a year or two she’ll turn into something worth howling about. And in the meantime, let’s not lose sight of why we came here. The old guy’s in charge, and he depends on her. Off paw, I’d say that she’s definitely the angle to work, for now. Maverick yawned again, in a deliberately casual way, and gave the rest of the clearing a once-over.

  On the whole, he had to admit that this group hunt business hadn’t turned out too badly. At first it’d looked like something straight out of one of his worst nightmares: A chaotic mob of two hundred clumsy pack-kin charging through the briars and stingworts, barking and howling loud enough to send even a deaf smerp running for cover.

  But by the time they’d gone a hundred trots from PackHome, the mob had started to break up. Somebody who actually knew something about hunting caught a whiff of a smallgrazer and led a split off on that trail. A bunch of younglings treed a nuteater and stayed behind to bark like fools, jump around a lot, and prove once again that kin can’t climb trees, no matter how hard they try.

  Other groups splintered off to chase other promising scents, but Maverick kept his eyes on LifeCrier. There had been a lot of twists, turns, and feints-for a moment there he’d had the absurd idea that LifeCrier was trying to ditch them all and sneak back to PackHome-but even though his left hind leg had started to throb, he’d managed to stick with the old kin the entire way.

  After all, that was the whole point of coming to PackHome, wasn’t it? To find the center of power, get close to it, and work your way up In the pecking order. And up to a certain point, the plan really had seemed to be working. The group following LifeCrier was down to fewer than ten kin when they’d burst from the underbrush and run straight into the pack of WalkingStones.

  Maverick let out a disgusted little sneeze. WalkingStones? You mean the horrible, nasty, killer monsters that we need SilverSides to protect us from? Mother, I’ve seen trees that put up a better fight! Despite all the scary talk about silent death and glances that killed, there’d been no lightning, and no thunder. The WalkingStones had simply stood there on their hind legs, staring at the onrushing kin, looking for all the world like a bunch of startled whistlepigs caught out in the sunlight.

  If LifeCrier had shown even a second’s hesitation, that would have been the end of it. But the old fool obviously believes this SilverSides business. He charged right in.

  And OldMother help me, I followed him. One of the WalkingStones had started to point its left foreleg at LifeCrier. Maverick really hadn’t had time to think, or even slow down; he’d feinted, stutter-stepped, and charged straight for the WalkingStone.

  It was a good gamble, Mavvy old boy. If the stories about them throwing lightning from their paws are true, you saved the old guy’s life. That could have been a real good play, gratitude-wise. With a mighty grunt, he’d gathered himself and sprung upon the WalkingStone, seizing its foreleg in his jaws.

  That’s where everything had gone wrong. Biting the WalkingStone’s limb was like biting gravel. Between the cold pain in his teeth, the oily and utterly unappetizing taste of the WalkingStone’s flesh, and the apparent lack of any bones in the limb, Maverick had momentarily forgotten everything that he knew about balance and timing. He’d been counting on his momentum to pull the WalkingStone off its two feet, just as he’d been counting on its inertia to check his leap.

  Instead, the thing’s foreleg had simply tom away in his teeth and he’d gone flying head-over-haunches into a patch of blooming stingwort. His heroic leap had ended up as a clumsy pratfall.

  Maverick looked around the clearing again — a clearing full of kin who were not noticing him-and felt a sense of frustration. It’s definitely darned tough to impress the locals by landing fiat on your tailbone.

  Of course, I suppose it could be worse. Though at the moment it’s hard to imagine how.

  Between getting the wind knocked out of him and giving his sore leg a bad twist, he’d managed to take himself out of the fight for a few minutes. By the time he’d crawled out of the stingworts and gotten back up on all four legs, the battle was over. Old LifeCrier was up on a rock giving a victory benediction (though Maverick had to admit that the old kin did look a bit pale and shaky), the younglings were doing an extremely sloppy job of skinning and dressing the downed carcasses, and WhiteTail was busy braiding a bunch of those silly little amulets, like the one LifeCrier wore, and handing them out to the kin who’d managed to stay in the thick of the fight.

  His gaze locked on WhiteTail again, and he allowed himself a wry smile. Okay, Mavvy old boy, so much for coming into PackHome like a conquering hero. Guess it’s time to try Plan B: Fall in love with the leader’s daughter. He groomed his fur a little bit, straightened up his shoulders, and started rehearsing his opening line. Then he gave WhiteTail one last appraising look, and grimaced. All the same, her legs are spindly. Oh, the things I do for my meals. Pasting a cheerful smile on his face, he started his tail going in a slow, friendly wag and sauntered over.

  The rest of the younglings had wandered off, draggi
ng the detachable parts of the last WalkingStone with them. WhiteTail was squatting beside the now headless torso, carefully stripping out the thin, tough veins that were threaded throughout its chest cavity. She seemed to be picking them out on the basis of color; the impression was reinforced when she measured out three equal lengths of yellow, green, and black vein and quickly braided them into a necklace.

  With deliberate casualness, Maverick sat down and watched her work, an interested expression on his face. When she failed to notice him after a minute or so, he discreetly cleared his throat and wagged his tail a bit more vigorously.

  She looked up; their eyes met for an instant. No sparks flew. She went back to her work.

  So much for love at first sniff. Mavvy old boy, you’re going to have to talk to her. After a few moments of silence, he cleared his throat again and spoke up. “Praise SilverSides.”

  “Praise SilverSides,” she answered, without looking up or slowing her work.

  Okay, Mavvy, let’s turn on the charm. “Say, WhiteTail, can you believe that fight? We took four WalkingStones down and didn’t even get singed. I tell you, SilverSides must be watching over us for sure.”

  WhiteTail paused in her work long enough to fix Maverick with a strange look. “Do I know you?”

  The question caught Maverick by surprise. “Well, no. I mean, er —”

  WhiteTail’s ears went up, and she leaned in closer to sniff at Maverick. “Still, there’s something familiar about you.” She sniffed again, and then her eyes narrowed just a hair. “Oh, I remember now. You were in the front row at the meeting, weren’t you?”

  Okay, lad, there’s your opening! Maverick leaned back a bit, puffed his chest slightly, and gave her an easy smile. “As a matter of fact, I was. Fascinating sermon, simply fascinating. Your father is —”