An Android Dog's Tale

by David Morrese

  Okay. You’ve made your point. We can drop it now, he thought to himself. It would be best not to be defensive, so he simply reported what he observed. “I saw a woman working clay.”

  “Any sign of a potter’s wheel?”

  “No.”

  “Good. We’ll bring more jars and bowls with us next time. After what happened here today, it shouldn’t be too hard to convince Oslan that clay working is not worth the trouble. Did you see any sign of boats?”

  “No, but they may be retting flax in the river.”

  “We’ll bring more cloth with us next time, too. The harvest is still underway, so we can come back in a couple of weeks after we visit some other villages. We don’t want them to develop these things on their own. This project is already proving more difficult than average. The humans are no cleverer than most sentient species, but they do seem to be more curious and imaginative.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” MO-126 was not sure why he said this, but his partner seemed to take things far too seriously. He attributed it to their different programming.

  “I can’t see how it wouldn’t be. It makes our jobs more difficult and can shorten how long we’ll be able to remain productive. That’s not good for us or the corporation, and it’s not good for the primitives, either. If we’re forced to abandon this project, I doubt they will last very long.”

  “Maybe, but everything is fine now, and I think I kind of like them,” the android dog said. “The one I rescued was cute. Can I keep him?” He meant it as a joke, of course, but Tork did not seem to realize that.

  “It’s not up to me, but you don’t have enough experience for that kind of assignment yet. Sometimes the project manager does place a MO android in a village if it requires close observation. Who knows? Perhaps some day, if you’re good, you can have a boy.”

  MO-126 thought he might enjoy that, but the trader was right. He remained far too inexperienced for such an assignment. For now he could be content as a four-legged sidekick.

  They traveled east well into the night, following no obvious path. Hub Terminal Eleven was only six hours away, close enough they did not need to call for pickup.

  Eventually, they neared an outcropping of rock foreshadowing the mountain range beyond. From the direction of their approach, the rocks formed a flat, vertical wall. Without any noticeable action by either them or the gond, the rock wall opened downward to create a slightly inclined ramp leading into the darkness within. They entered, leading the gond laden with gourmet produce, and the door closed slowly behind them.

  Two - Sheep Lost and Demons Found

  1,874 Years Later

  (Galactic Standard Year 229674)

  (Project Year 6121)

  In which MO-126 learns that humans can be imaginative, creative, and disturbingly wrong.

  Gently sloping hills stretched to low mountains in the distance. Several more kilometers of tall grass and widely spaced clumps of trees remained on their route ahead, but MO-126 enjoyed the walk in the fresh spring air, and neither of his companions voiced any complaints. The pack gond chewed a mouthful of well-masticated vegetation with dull-eyed contentment while the humanoid leading him appeared lost in his own thoughts. He was probably planning his future.

  The trade android known as Tork, and by several other names over the years, would be leaving Corporation service after this assignment. He said he looked forward to it, which his long-time partner did not doubt. They had accomplished almost twenty thousand missions over the last eighteen centuries, but this would be their last together.

  Under Galactic Federation law, independently adaptive artificial intelligences were considered indentured servants, not quite property but obligated to their creator for at least three hundred years of dutiful service. Once they fulfilled this obligation, they gained the legal status of sentient life forms, with some minor exceptions, and could leave the jobs for which they were built—theoretically. Few did because the same law required them to pay back the cost of their initial construction, training, and subsequent upkeep. A complex formula including market costs of materials, maintenance, unit productivity, depreciation, licenses, interest, overhead, profit, and a fixed percentage convenience fee determined the amount of that debt and when it was met. Due to the magic of compound interest, some androids achieved legal independence but never got close to financial independence, sometimes owing the equivalent of the net worth of a reasonably well-off planet.

  For the last two thousand years, Tork applied most of his meager Corporation stipend to his debt, and he finally satisfied his financial obligation. He even purchased transportation off world in advance so he could leave debt free. He would also leave income free.

  “So what are you planning to do?” MO-126 asked his partner.

  The trader shrugged. “I’ll look for jobs while I’m in transit. There’s plenty of time.”

  There would be. The ship would be in transit for about two centuries before arriving at a civilized planet nearer the core of the galactic spiral.

  “No worries, then?”

  “No. I’ll find something. I’m looking forward to it. I know you like it here, but I’d prefer to spend the next few millennia someplace a bit less rustic.”

  With his debt repaid, Tork did have far more options than MO-126 would have in the same situation. Trade androids could normally find work. They were literally built for business, and with their training, experience, and opposable thumbs, they could fill slots from customer relations, to sales, to marketing, to advertising without any expensive modifications. With a bit of luck, Tork could eventually fund an investment portfolio and live a comfortable artificial life on dividends alone, free to pursue whatever interested him, as most Galactic Federation citizens did.

  The android dog’s options would be far more limited. He did not feel envious of his partner, exactly. What the trader said was true. MO-126 did like it here, and he felt a certain attachment to the primitives working this project. Not to any one human in particular. MO-126 never lingered anywhere long enough for that, but the species as a whole impressed him. On their own, they might be able to achieve great things, if they managed to survive long enough. Most sentient species did not. Normally they emerged, thought a bit about the universe, made up some stories to believe about it, and then banged rocks together for half a million years until the next ice age, super volcano, or big asteroid strike, leaving nothing to mark their passage except, perhaps, for a few scattered fossils and enigmatic paintings on deep cave walls. MO-126 wondered if humans were extinct on their home planet. Those working on Corporation projects might be all that remained of their species.

  Tork allowed their pack animal a long drink from a wide stream before turning to follow the bank. Eventually it would lead to their last stop on this mission, a small hill village east and south of the distant mountains. It was about two hundred and fifty kilometers in a straight line from the entrance to Hub Terminal Five in the northern portion of the continent. The route they took stretched as least twice that distance and required over two weeks of travel with a gond. They stopped at several other villages along the way with long stretches of nature, some native to this planet and some not, between each.

  Late that afternoon, they came upon a small flock of sheep being kept away from a flowering redfruit orchard by a sleepy shepherd and a diligent dog. The dog barked at their approach. MO-126 responded with a short “Woof.” Vaguely translated, it meant ‘We accept that this is your territory. We’re just passing through. We do not challenge your authority.’ It wasn’t much of a language as these things went, but it conveyed a lot for a single “Woof.” There were visual and olfactory components involved, too, of course, and those conveyed as much of the meaning as the vocalization did.

  The human shepherd looked up and waved but remained seated in the grass under a tree. The wave just meant, ‘Hello.’

  Their current assignment amounted to a simple status check. They would visit the villages on their list
, see how they fared, check for obvious signs of potential problems, and reassure the primitives that someone would be back in the fall to trade for their harvest of redfruit. They did carry a few items to trade for any wool or folk art the villagers might have to offer. Primitive decorative items of carved wood, bone, or stone were minor commodities compared to the food the villagers produced, but there were profitable markets for them as well. Collectors existed somewhere for just about everything, even useless and ugly items, which the android dog thought described much of the folk art, especially the figurines of overly large women with no noses. This apparently made them even more valuable to some. Many of those who were seriously into the hobby seemed to enjoy discussing and arguing among themselves about the hidden meanings these types of things might have to those who created them. MO-126 assumed the responsible human folk artists were simply bad at making noses, but then he did not have a great deal of artistic sensitivity. Dogs do not have much sense of aesthetics, so the corporation did not include it in the firmware of their android likenesses. Whether the things held any meaning or not, someone would collect them, and the rarer they were the better. Each of the things created by primitives on Corporation projects was handmade, and therefore unique.

  They followed the stream around another hill and came upon a cluster of circular huts with thick, dry-fit stone foundations and wattle and daub upper walls topped with thatched, cone shaped roofs. Smaller buildings around them were made of woven sticks, as were a number of fences and pens for chickens and goats. MO-126 and his partner visited several villages much like it over the centuries. He found none of this unfamiliar.

  The old woman tied to a stake outside the largest of the structures was a bit different, however.

  She lay curled and motionless on the ground, her face covered by a tangled mat of graying hair. A dirty and shapeless tunic of flax linen draped from her boney shoulders to her ankles, which, like her wrists, were bound with rope to a stout, vertical pole firmly embedded in the dirt. MO-126 could not see her face, but he detected her slow breathing and assumed she slept. Villagers sitting outside their houses or roaming past sometimes cast glances toward her, which ranged from angry to suspicious to uncertain to sympathetic. The first two emotional assessments seemed the most prevalent.

  The village headman, a middle-aged man by the name of Gault, greeted the trade android. “Welcome, Master Trader Tork. It is good to see you.”

  “Greetings, Gault,” the trader said, ignoring the strange sight of the woman tied to the pole. It was, after all, none of his concern; although MO-126 found both the woman’s situation and Tork’s disregard for it somehow disturbing.

  The headman and the trader continued to talk while the android dog approached the bound woman. He sniffed and listened. A sound of chuckling and a scrap of conversation came from two young men leaning against a nearby building. They were discussing if MO-126 would pee on her. Both seemed to want him to. He was going to disappoint them.

  The android dog cocked an ear when he heard the headman say “rope” and paid attention until it became clear the village leader was simply telling the trader what items he hoped to receive in trade.

  He returned his attention to the bound woman. Her situation confused him. She most certainly lived, but she must have been lying here for at least a day. Judging from her damp and soiled garment and from the condition of the ground around her, she did not leave even to relieve herself. Why would the villagers do this to someone?

  “Get away from her, you stupid dog, or she’ll call demons into you too!”

  MO-126 lifted his head and saw a broad-shouldered woman with autumn wheat hair and winter blue eyes. She stood by the door of one of the stone buildings. Her hands, balled into tight fists, rested belligerently on her wide hips, and she scowled at him.

  MO-126 searched his memory files. This was the headman’s younger sister, Ryenne. He remembered her from the last time they came here. She was talking to a redfruit tree at the time, and the tree, apparently, talked to her because she nodded and answered and patted its trunk in a consoling fashion as if she sympathized with all of its deciduous troubles—falling leaves, worms, ungrateful bees, or suchlike. At another time in another place, she might be diagnosed as schizophrenic. Here and now, she was considered holy. She was the village priestess, or whatever term they used. It varied from village to village, but someone like this existed in most of them. She provided their liaison to the gods, or to the spirits, or to the Force, or to whatever other mystical explanation the people here devised to explain the things they could not explain. MO-126 considered her harmless enough at the time, but now he suspected his initial assessment might require some modification.

  “Is there a problem?” Tork asked, walking toward her.

  “Of course there’s a problem,” she said in a tone that implied the trader was both an imbecile and blind. “Isn’t that obvious?” She unclenched a fist and pointed a finger to the woman tied to the post. “That’s the problem, but we’re taking care of it.”

  “What is she talking about?” the four-legged android sent to his two-legged companion.

  “I don’t know,” the trade android replied silently. “Maybe the old woman stole something or attacked somebody.”

  “Ask the headman,” MO-126 said.

  “No. We should stay out of this. It’s none of our concern.”

  That would be the proper response according to standard protocols, but MO-126 remained uncomfortable. Obviously they should not directly interfere. That would be overstepping their authority. If the situation required mitigation actions, a team would be sent in once the Mark Seven Project Manager determined the correct course of action. MO-126 felt that he and Tork should at least try to find out what was going on so that they could make a thorough report.

  Apparently the headman also believed Tork deserved an explanation because he offered one. “My sister has discovered that Galinda has been calling forth demons.” A nod of his head toward the disheveled old lady indicated her to be the aforesaid Galinda.

  The woman tied to the stake was either not asleep before or their voices wakened her. She struggled into a sitting position and raised her head. Dark bruises colored her forehead, cheeks, and eyes, clear signs of being intentionally beaten.

  “It’s not true, Gault,” the old woman said through cracked lips. I did not consort with demons. I don’t know who did, but it wasn’t me.”

  “Are you saying Ryenne is lying?” the headman said accusingly.

  “No. Of course not, but she must have made a mistake in her visions because it wasn’t me.”

  “The gods speak to me, and they do not lie!” Ryenne said sharply. “You are the one who called the demons.” The headman’s sister stepped closer to the bound woman but remained a few steps away, as if reluctant to approach closer. MO-126 doubted that it was solely because of the smell. She felt genuinely afraid. “You argued with Meyan about a clay bowl, didn’t you Galinda? I know you did because Meyan told me. And what happened to that bowl, Galinda? What happened to it after you argued with Meyan?”

  “It broke. You know that. But it was my bowl. I let Meyan borrow it, and when I asked for it back, she wouldn’t return it.”

  “That’s not the question. The next day, it broke; isn’t that so? They day after you argued about it, it broke.”

  “Meyan said she dropped it,” Galinda said. “I was real mad at her because it was my best bowl.”

  “Yes, you were mad at her, so you called forth demons to make her drop the bowl to spite her, didn’t you?”

  “No, Ryenne. I don’t know who did, but it wasn’t me. I didn’t call any demons, I swear.”

  The headman’s sister ignored her claim. “What about Mov’s chicken, Galinda. What do you know about Mov’s demon chicken?”

  “I didn’t know he owned a demon chicken,” she said, a bemused expression further distorting her battered face.

  “He doesn’t. It died before it hatched, thank the gods. But
when they broke the egg, they saw that the dead chick had teeth, and chickens don’t have teeth, do they, Galinda?”

  “No, Ryenne. They don’t as far as I’ve ever seen.”

  “So why did this one have teeth do you think?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it was sick or something and that’s why it died.”

  “Sick chickens don’t sprout teeth. But demons have teeth, and anything possessed by demons before it’s born would have teeth, don’t you think?”

  “Well, I suppose. I really wouldn’t know. I don’t know anything about demons.”

  “No? Then why was one trying to reach you in the body of chicken? Mov lives right next to you, doesn’t he? His chicken coop is close to your hut, isn’t it?”

  “Well, yes, but I didn’t—”

  “You didn’t? But you did, Galinda. You did, even if you don’t know you did. And do you know why? I know why. The gods told me why.”

  The old woman stared at her accuser with fearful curiosity.

  Ryenne lowered her voice. “There’s a demon in you, Galinda. It’s inside you, right there where your heart is, keeping it warm and alive with your hate and your disrespect. It’s found a good home in you, Galinda, and its reacting to your desires, whether you know it or not. It likes who you like, and it hates who you hate.”

  The old woman shook her head, her eyes wide and imploring. “But I don’t hate anyone. I just got mad at Meyan because she wouldn’t give back my bowl.” She sounded as if she might be trying to convince herself of this, as if she might seriously be entertaining the idea that Ryenne was right and that she did harbor an unknown demon.

  A crowd gathered while they talked. Several villagers nodded their heads, apparently much better able to follow the logic of Ryenne’s argument than MO-126 could. Most of it made little sense. He knew humans were not purely rational creatures, but most seemed to have at least one foot in reality. Ryenne might, at best, have a few fingers there with an extremely tenuous grip.