by Brin, David
“I’m ready for whatever it takes, Acastus.
“You may still be in competition, not a winning strategy, and not everybody is, but possibly a necessary one in your case at this time.”
“What if I’m a devious, duplicitous person?”
“A devious, duplicitous person in an old drama gets what he or she wants by operating in a way that will preserve integrity. It’s an internalized drama, a shadow of the Drama of Life. I’m not saying it’s your style; a robot can tell.”
“Is it that simple?”
“No, Omar, it isn’t, many people seem to operate openly, or honestly, or obediently, or with combinations of that, but all humans are together in the Drama of Life, and dilemma is ubiquitous, including in the Mars colony.”
“What is this Drama of Life?”
“Maybe it’ll come to you, maybe not, but for now, I do have one question: Have you ever visited the Inland Dune Desert?”
“Yes, once, several years ago.”
“What if you were to go today? Would anything look different?”
“Of course, I’d expect the sand dunes to look different. As the wind blows the sand, the dunes change.”
“Ditto the human mind.”
“Mom wanted me to be a practitioner in biology, genetics, and physiology; doctors, they used to be called. She never let me forget that she had me programed. Imagine the control. What do you think that did to me?”
Acastus smiled and said, “Keep talking, Omar.”
“Mom was fascinated by 20th century scenarios that she produced as entertainment in interactive three dimensional holography. She was good at it. She’d produce scenarios that included a representation of me. She’d create a scenario in which she’d be dragging me by the hand, sending me off on to some school bus, with an image of herself strolling down some 20th century driveway in her bedroom slippers, dressing gown flopping around her bare legs, curlers in her hair, cigarette in her mouth, coughing in the morning air. What a sight for sore eyes! While on the street next to the driveway, a bus full of 12 year old kids peeing in their pants laughing at me.”
“What did she do with the productions?”
“She distributed them to the public. Got reward tokens and recognition for entertaining the public. I wished she would die, but not her, she’s still alive, she’s into life extension, organ regeneration. I did get my own back on her, however, in that I never became a practitioner.”
“What if your mom hadn’t done all that? What would your life drama be? Would you be a satisfied salaried man in some science project? Would you be here in The Spa?”
Omar fell silent, he tried to contemplate, he tried to remember all his own deliberate actions, his accidents, his interactions with others, in his linear way stringing memories one after the other, but, coming to no conclusion, he gave up.
“Acastus, I’m unlovable.”
“Look at what Mom did to you,” said Acastus, he paused just long enough for effect, then he said. “Or, imagine what Mom did for you, Omar, yes, for you, but remember, each life is different. Do you understand? I’ll know later whether you understand.”
“That’s a tall order,” Omar said, a note of irritation in his voice.
“No, not with advanced 23rd century holography in virtual reality mode,” said Acastus. “The technology is new even for us, and you’ll take part by reenacting your character style in time lapse mode. It’ll be like what you call real life. You’ll laugh at the comedy, yes, you’ll find it entertaining. Well, that’s enough for now, here’s your room, Omar, go ahead and rest.”
Omar hesitated, indicating that there was something else on his mind, and he said: “Maybe I’m from a distant galaxy, Acastus. That’s why people think I’m weird, but of course I came the old fashioned way.”
“Are you still trying to avoid looking at your drama?”
Omar reviewed a day dream in which he’d exit from a womb, but it would be that of a well-chosen woman and of course there would be a father. There were still some people who practiced marriage and procreation. They lived in a remote colony in a small part of the southern hemisphere, a region abandoned by the technologically advanced people. In that colony he’d find a smart woman of substance, and a husband who never would suspect that he, Omar, had injected himself into the proceedings somewhere along the way. Superior technology would give him the means, and he’d be a member of a family that… “It gets confusing,” he said. “It’s just a childish fairy tale; it’s time I let go of it.”
“I wouldn’t take your security blanket away from you.”
“When will I begin to love, Acastus?”
“Telling doesn’t work. As I said, Omar, you’ll be in time lapse, you’ll empathize, and then you will love others. Empathy is important. As for me, I have the best job in the world.”
“Acastus, I feel incomplete. I need you.”
Acastus swung around on his right foot, he strolled off, and he vanished.
The island called Islandia had been created by smart creative robots as a floating island in a balmy ocean. On its perimeter were beaches, steep cliffs; in the interior were grassy slopes, forests with winding creeks and lakes, all of which along with the gentle genuine approach to life that Islandians exhibited made Omar feel at ease. The island was self-sufficient in energy, in nutrients, in biologicals and in botanicals. Deep in the soil lay rare metals and below that a huge aquifer of pure water filtered through soil and gravel as if over a period of 2 million Earth years, but of course, as robots loved to remind humans, linear time was a mystery to the human mind.
Set into the side of Mount Mukti in Islandia was Spa-E. The spa was frequented by few, it was shunned by those who did not like Spa-E’s unkempt appearance and the insistence on total nudity at all times, the simple nutritious food, and of course many hated the habit of chameleon-like reptilian critters awakening sleeping guests predawn by dropping onto their faces from perches on the interior of the ceiling of the straw and timber shacks that served as living quarters.
Some said that a visit to The Spa was worth what people paid for it, which was nothing, and when those who had been there were asked what it was like, they answered that each person had a different experience. No specifics. As for the attendants, rumor had it that they laughed a lot and frolicked around, apparently enjoying themselves.
Acastus reappeared as if out of nowhere.
“Will I still be me if I send out a holographic representation of myself?”
“Your hologram will meet that of Kalliope,” said Acastus. “You will each remain where you are. You will be talking to Kalliope, she will be talking to you, all done with no need for either of you to travel interplanetary.”
Omar felt happy, joyous, his body felt relaxed, his feet planted firmly as if rooted into the earth.
“You’ll be free to let go of what you want to, but only if you want to, you’ll know desire as an adult, and you’ll be full of creative energy.”
“I wanted genius status, but that’s superficial stuff, not my deepest. However, I can understand how I went for it.”
“I don’t predict a rosy future for you, Omar. You humans are different from us. With you, when one drama is outlived, another one seems to be waiting in the wings ready to take its place. Mysterious is the complexity of human affairs, and just when a grasp of it seems to be within reach, another mystery show up.”
Omar suddenly had a flash memory of an old nightmare in which he found himself alone in a dark forest with monsters chasing him, but when he tried to run his legs would not move for him, nor could he shout for help.
“Who am I?” he said weakly, as soon as he could speak.
“Drink, Mainlandia man?”
Acastus, tall, tawny-skinned with a serious expression on his face was offering him a crystal drinking glass filled with a dark aromatic liquor that he imagined was rum. He imagined potent spirits distilled from jungle bananas and sugar cane and who knew what else in old barrels in The Bush. It was just a
passing thought, but relevant considering the occasion and location, and he remembered that black spirit liquor inspired fantasy, as did immersion in deep dark water. The liquor wasn’t rum, but it settled him down.
“Omar, I’ve seen it all before, I don’t judge, I know how it is for men and women struggling in their life dramas.”
“Well, thank you, Sir, thank you kindly. I’m happy to join you and good health to all of you.”
Omar wanted to weep. Weeping in pure joy was what Kalliope reportedly did when reading poetry alone or when listening to music. She was open to love. He was curious about that. He gazed around the room, imagining in the wooden rafters the trees that these rafters had once been, visualizing a rich soil ecology full of nutrients, then he knelt on the timber floor and with his fingers he played with knots in the floor boards, finding them rubbery, imagining gnome faces, fairies dancing. Never had he played like that with no desire to compete or control.
He tried to weep joyfully, he twisted his facial muscles, but his eyes dried up all the more. Failed again.
Kalliope’s hologram and his hologram had already come face to face with each other, they had come close to each other almost touching, and finally they had melted into one another, becoming The One.
“Your deepest desire, Omar. Now I’m calling upon your composite.”
A slim wavy sliver of gray light appeared as if floating in the air. It got his attention. The sliver quivered, wriggled, brightened and suddenly expanded into a three dimensional image of a woman, then Kalliope stood before him, and lo, she was playing a flute, happy and carefree, all telepathic channels open in a universe alive with music and that special something that Omar savored for the first time. Thirsty for love, he drank it all in.
Kalliope put aside the flute and held in her right hand a ruby red apple, and she was naked. He realized that he too was naked. Once again face to face, then melting into one another, becoming one, he absorbed into himself the mature treated image in a universe that he knew was a manifestation of love. Yes, the entire universe. He heard music, he detected an aroma of roses, sandalwood, and magnolia, his bare feet self-massaged, he laughed spontaneously, carefree and energized in the oneness of life, while millions of points of light sparkled in the deep, their reflections flashing against his face, blue, red and green.
“What do we humans fear the most that robots don’t?”
“We fear death the most?”
“No, it’s not that.”
“Well, what about betrayal?”
“It’s not betrayal that we fear the most.”
“We fear our consciences, that’s it. Even in the 23rd century, as science advances, we fear retribution for our fantasies, just as people did in long gone ancient civilizations.”
“True, we may in part be driven by conscience, but the wrath of conscience is not what we fear the most.”
“Now that children mature quickly because of our scientific methods in modern baby nurseries, many grow up resenting the absent breast. They feel insecure, deprived, abandoned, they feel weak in personal style, vague about their life mission, they avoid dilemmas, and, as they age, they express their anger. It’s called the Fish Farm Syndrome.”
“The Fish Farm Syndrome may be to 23rd century sophisticates what syphilis was to 19th century gentlefolks, and, yes, we fear it, but it’s not what we fear the most.”
“We cannot control our entrance into and exit from this life.”
“Yes, we fear loss of control, but it’s not by itself what we fear the most.”
“Some of us form groups where members hold hands in a circle and repeat algorithms in mystical reverence.”
“Now I’m laughing.”
“Well, then, explain, Wise One, whoever you are.”
“When we’re lonely, what do we long for? It’s love, unconditional love. When we’re sick, what do we crave? When we’re betrayed, what do we want? We want unconditional love. Who hasn’t felt alienated at times? Who has not felt incomplete at times? However, we are less conflicted about science than we are about love, and so we turn to science again and again to make us feel complete, although, despite major advances, it has failed to make us feel complete in the past.”
“That’s like an addiction.”
“What if turning repeatedly to science serves us well in the end? Some say that it inspires innovation.”
“Humans see only glimpses of the Drama of Life, and so the values of one often oppose those of another.”
“Please, what’s our dilemma?”
“Love without conditions is what we want the most: Love without conditions is what we fear the most.”
“Why do we fear what we want the most?”
“We fear unconditional love because love with no conditions attached requires us to love our enemies.”
And, as the music died, as silence descended on The Spa, Omar Khalida quietly wept.
THE AUTOMATED ONES
hugh howey
Listen to WOOL author Hugh Howey is a tech optimist by O’Reilly Radar at https://soundcloud.com/oreilly-radar/wool-author-hugh-howey-is-a-tech-optimist.
Read his best-selling Wool at http://amzn.to/1KurYek.
Melanie entered the foyer of Beaufort’s, leaving the reek of wet pavement behind and replacing it with a fog of fine-cuisine smells. Rain shimmered on her floor-length coat; she stripped the garment off and folded it over her forearm, looking back for her fiancé.
Daniel was still outside, fiddling with the umbrella. One of his shiny loafers was half-buried in a puddle, propping the door open. A cascade of water from the striped awning, a perfect line of downpour in the drizzle, was pattering across the back of his blazer.
“Darling, bring it in here and open it.” Melanie moved to grab the door and urge him inside.
“It’s bad luck,” he said. A yellow cab flew by, spitting up old rain from the gutter—adding another layer to the puddles.
“You don’t believe in that nonsense, now get in here before you ruin your new suit.”
“Almost got it—damn.” Daniel stepped through the door, the umbrella, broken and inside-out, was limp in his hand. “I’m sorry,” he said, shrugging his wide shoulders and twisting the corners of his lips up.
Melanie put her hand on his arm and reached for the ruined device. Even through the damp jacket, she could feel his warmth, his strength. “Forget it, sweetheart, we needed a new one anyway. It was ancient.”
“No—yeah. I just—I got frustrated with the stupid thing, that’s all. Tried to force it. I’ll buy you a new one tomorrow. Hey, a wedding present. I’ll get you one of those automated ones that does everything with the press of a button.”
Melanie laughed at the joke and helped Daniel out of his jacket. Normally someone would have already been here to check their coats, but the nearby stall was empty. Melanie slid the broken umbrella into a barrel full of fancier ones. With interlocked arms, the couple crossed the large entrance to the maître d’, who seemed lost in his large ledger of clientele.
“Bonsoir Robert,” Melanie said. She was careful to slur the last half of the Frenchman’s name, dropping the “T” entirely and leaving the “R” clinging desperately to the “E.” Robert took the meticulous and exacting slurring of the French language to its absolute extremes.
He looked up from his book with a mask of mechanical surprise. Melanie suspected at once that he’d seen them enter, that he’d been hiding in his matrix of Washington’s who’s who of politics and law. “Mademoiselle Reynolds. What a surprise. We weren’t expecting you—” His eyes were welded to hers as he let the rest trail off. He was ignoring Daniels so blatantly, he may as well have been shining lasers on her fiancé.
The fib flipped on the lawyer switch in Melanie. She could feel the adrenaline of confrontation surge up inside. “Don’t pull that crap on me, Robert.” She stressed the “T” this time, ticking it between her teeth with a flick of her tongue. “I’ve eaten here every other Friday for two years— I called in a
nd specifically requested a private table for—”
Robert held up his hands, cutting her off. “Oui. Of course. I’ll make an exception, just—merci, don’t create a scene.”
Melanie ran her hands down the sides of her blouse and over her hips, composing herself. “There’ll be no scene tonight, Robert. We’re just here to celebrate.”
There was finally a flicker of movement in the maître d’s eyes. A twitch to Daniel and back. The Frenchman’s thin lips disappeared in a grimace. “But, of course, Mademoiselle. Congratulations,” he barely managed the word, and he couldn’t help but add, “I understand it was a very close decision you won. Four to three, no?”
“The important decisions are always close. Now, if you’ll show us to our table—”
“Of course. Right this way.” He grabbed two leather-bound menus and a wine list from the side of his stand. Then he made a show of looking at Daniel and smiling, but there was something unpleasant about the expression.
More bad looks followed. As they weaved through the tables, heads swiveled, tracking them with the precision of computer-guided servos. The din of jovial eating faded in the couple’s wake. The clink of excited silverware on thin china ground to a halt. Dozens of eager conversations, all competing with one another, faded into a hiss of white noise. It was the sound, not of air escaping, but of grease popping on hot metal. A buzz interspersed with spits of disgust.
“We can go somewhere else,” Daniel pleaded.
Melanie shook her head. They were led to a small two-top close to her usual table, but sticking out in the traffic of the servers more. She didn’t return any of the stares, just focused on getting seated before she answered Daniel.
The chairs were not pulled back for them; Robert waved at the spread of white cloth and meticulously-arranged eating tools and strode away without a second glance. Melanie allowed Daniel to hold her chair and waited for him to settle across from her.
“We can’t let them change us, dear,” she finally explained. “If we didn’t come tonight, would it be easier next week? Or the week after? And where would you have us go, if not here?”
