She retrieved her bowl and looked inside. The water had spilled out, but the sliver of lodestone on its tiny bark float was there. MO-126 made sure of that. He got a fair amount of sand in his mouth trying to pick it up.
“Thanks for saving my experiment. I haven’t figured out how it works, yet.”
She probably never would. Despite her obvious intelligence and inquisitive nature, developing a theory of electromagnetism was probably far beyond her. It would not stop her from trying, and perhaps one of her descendants might someday understand it.
“MO-126, what’s keeping you?”
“I’ll be there in a minute, Tam,” he said.
“Hurry up.”
Payshia stood. “Sometimes I almost wish I could be a dog,” she said. “It must be nice. Uncomplicated.” She turned the bowl in her hands contemplatively. “Except for the lack of thumbs, maybe. I think I’d miss thumbs.”
You got that right, kid, MO-126 thought.
“I think it might be a good idea to go home now. What about you, doggy? Do you have a home?”
“Woof,” he said. He had a place, anyway, like a cog in a machine, but it was the place he was made to fill. He could not honestly call it a home.
She marched away from the sandy shore and MO-126 walked beside her while he determined the location of his partner. His signal put him about half a kilometer outside of town.
“Woof,” he said again. This was Dog for ‘Good luck.’ She’d need it. He briefly considered going with her, but that would create problems for both of them. He ran to find Tam.
~*~
“What kept you,” the trade android asked a short time later. He stood in a field of weeds, waiting impatiently, when the android dog found him.
“I was just checking things out, like I should. What about you? How did your negotiations with the village leader go?”
“They didn’t. Not anywhere useful, anyway. I’ve never been to a village that didn’t want to do some trade. I even offered to bring copper, and you know how seldom we do that. They insisted they were doing fine on their own and asked me to leave. Two primitives showed me the way. Politely, of course, but it was as close to a threat as I’ve ever seen. I’m sure they’re trying to hide something.”
“They’re probably just being, um, independent. What could they possibly have to hide? And why would they want to hide it from you?”
“We know they’re in contact with other villages. Maybe they’ve heard something about us that makes them suspicious.”
“I can’t imagine what that would be,” MO-126 said.
“Me either. Our trades are always more than generous.”
From one perspective, this was absolutely true. But from another, the traders’ goods might be seen as having unwelcome side effects, and MO-126 wondered what the primitives here thought those were.
“What about you?” Tam said. “Did you see anyone using coins?”
“What? Oh, yes. They seem to be using them to trade among themselves.” He decided not to elaborate.
“What else did you see? You were gone a long time.”
MO-126 recalled the phonetic alphabet, the abacus, and Payshia’s experimentation with what could easily be the first magnetic compass discovered by humans. All of them would be seen as serious faults by Field Ops, but to the people here, they meant progress. They could make their future different than their past.
Screw the bonus.
“Nothing worth reporting,” he said. “I just saw people doing what people do.”
Eight - Shutting Down
1,010 Years Later
(Galactic Standard Year 242246)
(Project Year 18693)
In which some things end and others begin.
It took only a few weeks to decommission the project that ran for over eighteen thousand years. A lot of the preliminary work was done earlier, of course. The PM decided on the termination date over two and half centuries ago. They knew this day would come, and they prepared for it. Humanity’s disturbing, perhaps instinctive need for change led people to make innovations that put the corporation’s guarantee of purity at risk, and the output of one project planet was not worth the possibility of tainting the image of their brand name. Canceling the project now, in fact, strengthened it by reaffirming the corporation’s commitment to quality.
MO-126 and Tam paused on the bank of a fast moving mountain stream, waiting as the stony doorway of Hub Terminal Ten lowered like a drawbridge. It settled over the burbling water with a heavy, ominous thud. Once it rested firmly in place, they led the gond pulling their last wagonload of produce inside the cave-like entrance.
“Are you sure about this?” Tam asked as the door closed behind them. “You can leave with the rest of us. Even if you don’t want to continue working for the corporation, I’m sure you can find a job somewhere, especially if you get an upgrade—maybe those thumbs you’ve always wanted. Or tentacles, or whatever. Some species even use prehensile noses or tongues. There are lots of options. Something must suit you. I’m sure you have enough credits banked. You’ve been saving, and you’ve been here longer than I have.”
“Over fourteen thousand years,” MO-126 said. “It doesn’t seem that long, somehow.”
“I know what you mean. Each day is pretty much like the last, so you don’t notice them passing. It hasn’t been bad, I suppose, but I’m hoping my next posting is a bit less rustic.”
“You still don’t know where you’re being reassigned?”
“No. It’s privileged information, apparently. I won’t know until I get there.”
The corporation was not obligated to provide details of employment offers to its workers, even those who technically enjoyed the status of Galactic Federation citizens, as both Tam and MO-126 now did. At least they knew they were Corporation employees and they could refuse an assignment, which was more than the humans here could do. Take the job or leave. These were Tam’s choices. Of course leaving did not dissolve his debt. That still must be paid, so if he ever hoped to be truly free, his only realistic option was to extend his servitude to the corporation or try to find work with some other organization. The android dog could not be sure, but he suspected Tam’s next posting would be another project much like this one. MO-126 did not lend voice to his speculation. He saw no point in depressing his partner.
Squat, gray robots that resembled giant bugs more than they did anything else began unpacking their wagon. The automatons were mindless and mute. They went about their duties silently except for the clatter of their insect-like appendages. MO-126 and Tam ignored them and headed down a corridor to the maintenance bay for a routine check. When they got there, they needed to wait. A thin cable tethered another android to the diagnostic table. She turned as they entered, greeting them with a smile full of elderly creases.
“Hello, gentlemen,” she said aloud. “A new day dawns, huh?”
“Granny Greenflower,” Tam said, using the name she often went by when working in the field. Many of the NASH androids seemed to prefer this over their Corporation designations. “It’s good to see you.” He also spoke aloud. Some androids preferred to, and inside the hub terminal there were no primitives who might overhear them.
“Same here. Are you staying on with the corporation or are you going to try something else?”
“I’m staying on,” Tam said. “I’ve got a new posting.”
“Do you know where?”
“No. I’m hoping it will be Corporation headquarters, but no one has said.”
“Typical,” she said, her dislike of the corporation’s disregard of its employee’s preferences evident in her voice. “What about you, MO-126? Do you have another assignment as well?”
“No. I’ve decided to retire here.”
“You? Really? Would you mind if I asked you why?”
He shrugged his furry shoulders. “To be honest, I’m not sure. Mostly, I’m curious about what the humans here will do—what they will become.”
“They�
�ll probably become extinct,” Tam said. “They’re clever enough, I’ll grant that, but they definitely lack an aptitude for prolonged bouts of sanity. Without oversight, they’ll be at each other’s throats in a few centuries.”
“I think you’re wrong, there,” Granny Greenflower said. “At least as far as your long range forecast is concerned. I agree that humans can be their own worst enemies, but they tend to get over it. They are instinctively quite kind to one another. At least most of them are. They aren’t like the koncans who seem to enjoy being angry, or the faxons who regarded violence and cruelty as art forms.”
The corporation discovered both of these sentient species over fifty thousand years ago and quickly determined that they were not suitable for anything other than occasional monitoring. After all, they both sat on some fine real estate upon which the corporation staked contingency claims. The faxons eventually died out, leaving behind a few crumbling arenas and stepped pyramids. Federation archeologists subsequently dismantled some of these and then reassembled them in museums on other planets. The rest were leveled, ground to dust, and buried. The faxon home planet became a Corporation project with mayboes as the imported worker species.
The koncans somehow managed to survive in small groups, but they never advanced beyond a Paleolithic level of technology. Their crowning cultural achievement was perfecting the art of throwing rocks at one another, which served as their primary sport and as a simpler alternative to rational discussion.
“I wonder how humans fared on their home planet,” MO-126 said.
“Funny you should ask,” Granny Greenflower said. “I did a data search recently and found that a Corporation automated probe did a quick flyby there only a few centuries ago. It discovered evidence of a Bronze Age culture. That makes them of little interest to the corporation, of course, so I wouldn’t expect another probe to be sent there for a few thousand years at least.”
“I’m glad they survived.”
“So far,” Tam said.
“Your partner is a gloomy sort, isn’t he?” Granny Greenflower said ostensibly to MO-126 but clearly as a mild tease toward Tam.
She hopped down from the diagnostic table with a sprightliness that belied her apparent age. MO-126 took her place. A flexible arm extended from the head of the table and connected with a receptacle hidden inside his right ear.
“Oh, he’s almost optimistic—for a trader,” the android dog said.
“I just don’t see how a bunch of primitive workers can be expected to manage themselves—especially humans,” Tam said. “Without us here to keep them productive and, well, tame, they’ll either starve or kill one another. I’ve worked with them a long time, and I think you’re wrong about them. As far as I can tell, they are far too prone to selfish and irrational behavior to create anything approaching civilization.”
“They also can be caring and empathetic,” the gray haired nursery android said.
“Exactly! They’re an intrinsically self-contradictory species. With such conflicting instincts, it’s no wonder so many of them are insane. I have seen villages in which the primitives beat one another senseless for sport or forced dogs or even chickens to fight to the death for entertainment. I’ve heard of some in which they sacrificed people as part of religious ceremonies. And people enjoyed watching it all. They even brought their children to watch. Yes, I know individual humans can be kind to one another, but they also seem to find violence and the suffering of others entertaining. They’re even worse when they are in groups. Some kind of collective madness seems to come over them.”
“Maybe they can overcome that,” MO-126 said. “They must have done so on their home planet.”
“Bronze technology isn’t clear evidence of much,” Tam countered. “The faxons developed bronze before they finally died out. What did they do with it?”
“Um, I think they made statues, didn’t they?” MO-126 said. He recalled downloading something about that during one of his breaks between assignments.
“And weapons. Lots of weapons, but do you remember what the statues were of ?”
“Their gods, mostly,” Granny Greenflower said with some reluctance. “They had several—the Scream Listener, the Blood Drinker, the Gut Glutton, Judge the Unmerciful, Lingering Death, and Pain, as I recall. But faxons and humans are far different species.”
“Maybe,” Tam said. “But I see some similarities.”
“I’m not saying humans aren’t barbarians, I’m just saying they don’t have to remain barbarians. There’s more to them than that.”
“What about you, Granny Greenflower?” MO-126 asked. The discussion was beginning to depress him. “You haven’t said what your plans are.”
“I have a few ideas. Nothing firm, but I am leaving the corporation. I paid off my debt long ago, and I have investments that are doing well enough to give me a few options.” She tapped the side of her nose and winked. MO-126 did not know exactly what this implied, but he gathered that the corporation or maybe even the Galactic Federation might not approve of her tentative plans.
“Why don’t you do that?” Tam asked his partner. “You’re free and clear, too. Once the last transport leaves, you’ll be stuck here.”
“I don’t mind it. Besides, if I want to do anything different, I’ll need to be modified—fairly extensively, I imagine. Let’s face it. I’m a dog.”
“If you stay with the corporation, they’ll cover the cost,” Tam said.
“No they won’t. They’ll just add it to my obligation, and I won’t have much say in what gets modified or where I end up. I’d just as soon stay here.”
“As a dog? You’ll never get a set of thumbs if you do that.” Tam knew him well.
“I know, but I won’t end up with webbed feet working on some Corporation swamp project either.”
“Um, well yes. I suppose there is that,” Tam said, undoubtedly now estimating the odds of a similar fate befalling him.
“And I don’t want to be in debt to the corporation again. At least here, I’m as free as a dog can be.”
“He won’t be alone,” Granny Greenflower said. “He might be the only mobile observer, but I’ve spoken with several nursery androids who said they were staying here.”
“Sounds dreadful,” Tam said. “What could they possibly do among a bunch of primitives?”
“Believe it or not, some of us like working with humans. The androids I’ve talked to plan on continuing much as they have before as healers, nannies, storytellers and whatever. It is, after all, what they were made for.”
“With the project ending, what’s the point?”
“I think the point is that there is no point, other than to enjoy what they do. Until now, there has always been some ulterior motive, and many of us felt, well, a bit disingenuous about it all. I think a lot of those staying are trying to make up for that so they can feel good about themselves.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Tam said. “Their obligations are to the corporation, not to the primitives.”
“Now their obligations are a matter of choice,” she said.
“You sound like you would like to stay yourself,” MO-126 said.
A chime sounded, and the cable attaching him to the diagnostic table withdrew from his ear.
“I considered it,” she said, “but I think I’m going to try something even more outrageous. Like I said, I have no firm plans, but I better get going. I’m supposed to be helping load the transports down in the holding bay. If I don’t see you again, I’ll wish both of you the best of luck now.”
“Are you sure?” Tam asked his partner again after the nursery android left. “You can still change your mind, you know.”
“I’m sure,” the android dog told him, which was close to true. He did not feel completely sure, but the idea of staying bothered him less than the idea of leaving.
“Well, then, I suppose I’ll say goodbye as well. After my diagnostic, I’m supposed to be helping with inventory. I don’t suppose you have an assignment
in the shutdown. No thumbs, right?”
“It does limit my usefulness,” MO-126 said good-naturedly.
It did. The Corporation designed him for one purpose and this was not it. Project shutdown required logistics planning, scheduling, asset allocation, diagnostics, disconnecting equipment, and simple packing. He lacked the skills for some of these tasks and the thumbs for the others. Some equipment, of course, would be abandoned in place simply because it was not worth moving. Other things, including the Mark Seven Project Manager itself and its still functioning project peripherals, would remain because they could not be moved. They were inextricably integrated with the planet. Galactic Federation law also required that provisions be made for those androids who chose to remain. Officially, and more important, legally, the PM in its new role would be an independent agent responsible for maintaining minimal functionality of the systems and resources intended to support the androids who chose to retire here, and for ensuring that the project’s residual infrastructure remain hidden from the primitives, of course.
“Well, then, old friend...,” Tam said.
“Yes, well, I’ll be seeing you, Tam.”
“Probably not, but who knows?”
“Yeah, it’s a small galaxy, right?”
“No, not really, but if you’re right about these humans, we may be seeing more of them in a few thousand years. I hope you are.”
MO-126 knew he did not really think so, but humans just might surprise him. MO-126 would have smiled if his mouth was designed for it. Instead, he wagged his tail.
The android dog left Hub Terminal Ten and climbed the rugged mountain until he found a small shelf of flat rock that provided a clear view of the sky. He remained there three days until the last stealth transport left the planet.
~*~
Four months later, MO-126 sat on a grassy hilltop watching artificial stars fall. Another tremor shook the ground; a strong one this time. The project manager normally prevented such things, or at least mitigated them. A strong quake provided further evidence of the PM malfunctioning.
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