An Android Dog's Tale

by David Morrese

  The meeting was not secret. Everyone in the village knew where and when it would take place, but only the family elders were allowed to attend. Men who were senior but not elders formed a cordon around the area to ensure that no other villagers came near. This exclusion did not extend to a simple dog, and no one objected to MO-126’s presence just outside the stone circle.

  Forty-two men representing the village’s extended families stood in their finest linen tunics listening to the current elder of the last headman’s family, a bent-backed old man with a gray beard and clouded eyes, standing behind an altar stone.

  “My nephew departed us without leaving a successor,” the bearded man began in a croaked voice. “Two men have stepped forward to take on the duty, Movey and Ranex. You all know them, and each of them has support from several families. This has only happened once before in the spoken memory of our people. At that time, according to legends told by the fires, the new headman was chosen by a tally of the family elders. It is for this reason that we are gathered here today.”

  Without a clear successor, the village descended into a form of democracy, which might be a fine system for an enlightened population, but MO-126 held doubts about how it would work for a group of Neolithic illiterates. They lacked a procedure for weighing their available choices with respect to any objective criteria. They could not examine records, present evidence, nor have the candidates’ ideas on various subjects debated by experts in the applicable disciplines. All they could do is take a vote to determine which candidate currently enjoyed the greatest popularity, which is a fickle thing. It is easily swayed, even in a well-informed society.

  “Each of you has been given two small clay disks,” the old man went on, “one marked with a circle and one marked with a square. If your family wishes to have Movey as the new headman, put your token with a square in the jar.” He lifted a narrow-mouthed clay jar on the stone slab and shook it noiselessly to prove it was currently empty. “If Ranex is your choice, drop the token with the circle. I will collect the tokens you did not drop as you pass. When all have made their choice, you will watch as I lay out the tokens to see which of the two men has more.”

  Lining tokens was a common way to determine relative quantities. The counting system used in most villages included names for numbers up to somewhere between seven and twelve. Anything greater than this they normally just considered ‘many.’

  “Let us begin.”

  A line formed with no apparent direction from anyone. MO-126 observed people do this before and concluded from it that humans possessed some kind of queuing instinct. It might be a carryover from their early mammalian evolution going back to when the number of small mouths could exceed the number of available teats.

  The men approached the altar stone and dropped their tokens with an audible clunk. It took them less then ten minutes. The elder ostensibly in charge of the gathering emptied the jar and began making two parallel lines of tokens, one row for the squares and one for the circles. When he placed the last stone, the conclusion became clear. There were two more circle tokens than square ones. Ranex had won.

  ~*~

  A crowd gathered outside Ranex’s hut the morning after his election. MO-126 hovered a short distance away to observe this example of orderly transition of political power. Later, he felt he should have expected what happened next, but he did not. Neither did Granny Greenflower, and she understood humans far better than the canine mobile observer did.

  Their error may have been because they subconsciously tended to think of humans as children, the unsophisticated, happy, and largely docile creatures they were portrayed as in corporate advertising. They were not. MO-126 liked them, as a whole, but there were deviants who unwittingly tried to change his opinion from time to time. Some among them seemed to lack the basic cooperative instincts shared by most creatures that evolved to live in groups. He suspected that if two normal hungry humans were locked together in a room for a day with a single apple, they’d share it and make the best of things. He felt fairly sure that if two of the deviant types were in the same situation, only one very well fed one would come out, and the apple would have been used as a garnish. Oddly enough, this deviant type of human seemed especially adept at swaying others.

  It soon became clear that not everyone waiting in the cool morning breeze came to seek an opinion or a judgment from the new headman. The android dog understood that Movey supporters would not be pleased, but the family elders had met and chosen Ranex. Most of the village witnessed it. No one could argue about it not being fair. But they did. One man kept shouting about injustice. Another used very short words to voice his discontent with the wisdom of the elders who cast their lots for Ranex. Shouts turned to arguments. Arguments turned to shoves. Shoves turned to fights, and soon became a brawl full of name-calling, unreasoned slogans, and dubious truths emphasized with fists and sticks.

  His first thought as a loyal Corporation operative was to record the conflict for the PM. He felt sure it would want to analyze the event. The fight also might lend support to Granny Greenflower’s request to bud the village. Surely, it would be better to separate the two groups than to have them clash like this.

  He went about clandestinely recording from a reasonably safe spot at the rippling edge of the scuffle when he noticed Steffin hobbling into the mob on his walking sticks, shouting for everyone to be reasonable. What was the young man thinking? MO-126 knew humans could be reasonable, but they were best at it when alone and otherwise unperturbed. The ability declined sharply when they were agitated and especially when they were in groups being agitated by other groups.

  The club-footed young man raised one of his canes, probably for emphasis or attention. MO-126 could not tell if Steffin was struck or pushed or if he simply lost his balance. With a head a meter lower than the shortest man in the mob, the android dog did not have a good perspective on the scene. The mob surged over the crippled man heedlessly.

  The android dog tried barking to warn everyone, but several village dogs barked and nipped around the ankles of the men fighting, and his warnings were lost in the general clamor. The dogs appeared to be trying to divide the clashers into separate groups to break up the fight. Their inherent reasoning abilities were more limited, but they currently seemed unimpaired, unlike those of their masters. The men were not being cooperative. Humans can be extraordinarily difficult to herd at times and disturbingly easy to at others, with no obvious relationship to the wisdom of the herder’s intent.

  There was no option. He must try to get Steffin out of there.

  He rushed in, weaving in and out between shifting legs in an effort to find him. The artificial dog soon did, but Steffin was not the only one being trodden on by those still up trying to knock down others. Several men crawled on the ground attempting to rise to rejoin the fray. Others either could not or simply decided it would be best not to try. None of them appeared to be as badly injured as Steffin. He lay unconscious, one arm clearly broken, and his breath came in shallow, rapid gasps through blue-tinted lips. MO-126 hesitated to move him, but, again, what choice did he have?

  Another man fell almost on top of them. Blood gushed from his nose and splattered both the dog and the man he was trying to rescue. MO-126 grabbed Steffin by the collar and dragged him while calling silently to Granny Greenflower for help. He did not know what she might be able to do, but with thumbs and an ability to speak, she certainly had more options than he did.

  “I’m coming,” he heard her say. “Just get Steffin out of there.”

  MO-126 pulled on the tough linen fabric, dragging his unconscious charge as he tried to back out of the crowd. Men shouted and punched with powerful effect and little meaning around them. A temporary break in the tangle of legs showed a clear path out of the fight, and he rushed through, revealing, perhaps, a bit more strength, agility, and speed than prudent. He doubted anyone around would notice.

  He failed to appreciate how strong the reek of sweat and body odor in the low
er regions of the forest of fighting men was until they emerged from it. A faint breeze brushed away much of the smell and some of the dust kicked up by the scuffle. It also carried a new sound to the android dog’s sensitive ears.

  Granny Greenflower, leading a group of village women armed with switches, brooms, and bristly attitudes, approached. The ladies laid into the outer edges of the fight with blunt weapons and sharp tongues for which the men could offer little resistance. Soon those men who could still walk away did so, humbly. Others crawled or lay where they fell to be found and tended by whatever women chose to claim them.

  “How is Steffin?” the nursery android asked. MO-126 looked up and saw her hastening toward them.

  He was no healer, but Steffin did not look well to him, and he told her so. She made her own examination a minute later and confirmed his inexpert diagnosis. The crippled young man most likely would not survive the night.

  ~*~

  Steffin never regained consciousness. He died late that night in the healer’s hut and he was cremated the next day in accordance with this village’s customs. MO-126 sent a full report with video recordings to Field Operations, but they said this did not alter the PM’s decision. The primitives were resolving their dispute in their decidedly primitive way and things would return to normal soon. Intervention was not required.

  The android dog wanted to believe this, but he suspected this eventual return to normal would take a few detours before it arrived. Some villagers claimed Steffin’s death was no accident and called for justice. Others wanted revenge. Some could not distinguish between the two or just wanted something to happen soon so they could go back to their quiet lives of growing vegetables and raising children and were upset because this seemed unlikely.

  Ranex’s supporters blamed Movey’s people. They said they should accept the decision of the family elders and stop causing trouble. Movey’s group claimed that the incident resulted from Ranex not being able to maintain order or protect his people. This conflict was not over.

  It erupted in violence again the next day. MO-126 did not witness the altercation, but it apparently concerned a goat, a soiled tunic, and who should have been watching what. When one of the disputants suggested they visit the new headman to resolve the issue, the other refused, claiming he could not expect a fair judgment from Ranex. They attempted to settle the matter themselves with hoes, using them for purposes for which they were unintended but nonetheless adequate. Both men required visits to the healer’s hut.

  “This has got to stop,” Granny Greenflower mumbled to herself after bandaging the two men and sending them on their way.

  “Can’t they just work together and be, well, co-headmen?” MO-126 asked naively from his spot in the corner where he had been attempting to observe unobtrusively.

  She looked up in confusion and then around the room. “Oh, MO-126. I forgot you were here,” she transmitted.

  He took no offense. As a dog, he was accustomed to being ignored. In fact, he often depended on it.

  “I know that seems reasonable,” she continued, “but it requires more objective rationality than most humans posses, I’m afraid. If they disagree on an issue, and they will, who will make the final decision then? No, it has to be one or the other.”

  “Well, I suppose they eventually will resolve it themselves, like the PM said. It just seems a shame that they can’t do it without hurting one another.”

  “Eventually, yes. That might be tomorrow or it may not be for a few years, not that it matters as far as the project manager is concerned. Whenever it happens, the resolution will leave either Movey or Ranex dead at the end. Of that, I’m sure.” She placed a stack of clean unused bandages back in the trunk they came from and slammed closed the lid.

  “They’ll be dead soon, anyway,” the android dog reminded her. “Humans don’t live long.” He no longer fully agreed with this paraphrased bit of corporate policy, but he did appreciate the importance of maintaining emotional distance. The field androids should not become too attached to individual primitives.

  “Don’t spout corporate guidance to me,” she said. “I know more about humans than anything you’ll find in Corporation policy documents. The length of their lives matters far less than the quality of the living, and these people live pretty fully, if you ask me. Their lives are important, and I won’t stand by and see them wasted just because they don’t affect corporate production goals.”

  “So what are you going to do?” he asked her.

  “Something. I don’t know. And unless you really believe that Corporation nonsense about these people being little more than livestock, you’ll help me.”

  MO-126 said nothing. There was no point. They existed solely because of the corporation’s project, and the PM represented the final authority on this planet. They could not challenge it, and they could not change things.

  “I see,” she said finally. “Well, at least don’t get in my way.”

  ~*~

  MO-126 lay in the dirt behind Ranex’s hut early the next day. The mobile observer android could do little except monitor the situation, so this is what he did. An almost constant stream of villagers came to the newly elected but not universally acknowledged headman’s hut. He listened to arguments and passed judgment on issues regarding irrigation ditches, sick goats, and mysteriously molting chickens. All the families involved had supported him. He also met with a man who told him that Movey arbitrated a conflict earlier that morning between two other families that had not. They were already essentially divided into two villages, which would work fine until an issue emerged involving people not on the same side, and it inevitably would.

  The next person to call was not technically a villager, or even human.

  “Granny Greenflower,” Ranex said. “Please come in.”

  MO-126 did not signal to let her know he was listening. It would have been courteous to do so, but curiosity stopped him. He wanted to hear what she would say to Ranex. Besides, she specifically asked him not to interfere.

  “Ranex, we need to talk,” she said.

  “Has someone else been hurt?” he asked.

  “Not yet, but more will be if we don’t do something to stop it.”

  “I think you’re right, and I’ve been thinking I should just abdicate in favor of Movey for the good of the village.”

  “And how do you think he’ll treat those who have supported you if you do?”

  “Not fairly, I imagine. But it still might be better than if I don’t.”

  “There is another option,” she said.

  Her voice fell to a whisper, but MO-126 increased the sensitivity of his audio receptors and clearly heard every subversive word she said.

  “You need to leave,” she told him. “Start your own village with your followers.”

  “Leave?” he said. “We can’t leave. Everyone knows about the demons and wild animals that prey on travelers. No one but the Master Traders can travel safely, and we don’t have their magic. Even if we could, where would we go? I’ve never been more than half a day’s journey from the village. No one has.”

  “That just means you’ll need a guide.”

  “And where would we get one? You? Can you get us safely through the unknown wilderness? Do you know where we can build a new village, somewhere with good water, a redfruit orchard, and fields where we can grow vegetables and grain? Even with Movey as headman, life can be good here. I can’t ask people to follow me into the unknown.”

  “You can and you must,” Granny Greenflower said. “Your ancestors came from another village. Your stories tell you this.”

  “Yes, but they also say they were shown the way by a Master Trader, and that they traveled many days, and that each night they could hear demons moaning and animals howling in the distance kept away only by the Traders’ magic.”

  “Yes, I am sure that is what they say. But I can tell you this, if you do decide to leave and your people say they will follow you, someone will come to guide your way
.”

  “A prophesy, Granny Greenflower? I did not know you possessed the gift.”

  “No gift is required. I simply know them, and if they think you’re going to leave anyway, they’ll have someone here to guide you.”

  “How will they know?”

  “They’ll know.”

  “You are one of them, aren’t you? The same people as the Master Traders.”

  “More or less. Actually, more than less,” she said.

  “I always suspected they must have their own villages, and that they did more than trade. I mean, where do they get the trade goods, for one thing? All the pots and tools and other things they trade? Your people make them, don’t they? They must be masters at a great many things beyond trading, I think.”

  “I won’t say more, so don’t ask. In fact, I’ve already said much more than I should have, and you must never tell anyone that I did. Will you do this? Will you ask your supporters to follow you to create their own village?”