by Andrew Fish
on this path – at least to the point when the death threats have ceased – often describe the drive to improve as a calling4. It is hard, they say, to put across the pain that comes from hammering your way through the first two verses of Amazing Grace sounding like a badly tuned bedspring, only for someone else to pick up your guitar and play something hideously complex and wondrous in a way that puts it beyond doubt that it is the player and not the instrument that is at fault.
Eventually, however, those without the calling will bow out, leaving their instrument as more of a talking point (‘oh, I didn’t know you played’) than an active instrument, whilst those who feel the draw will reach a semblance of professionalism. It can be a long and winding road, but the destination is worth the journey.
The weeks passed in a haze of twangs and warbles. There were times that even the supposedly infinite patience of the two robot musicians was taxed to its limits, but the band survived to play another day, largely because Riff was able to switch off his hearing circuitry and simply watch Keys’ fingers in order to take his cue.
Eventually, however, the time came when they began to sound more like a band and less like a badly packed lorry-load of instruments driving down a cobbled street. Ben was able to play simple riffs on the harmonica and Vid could play a bass guitar passably without needing a new set of strings for each verse. They didn’t, Riff admitted, sound too bad. Not good, but not actually bad.
The problem, to Riff’s expert audio sensor, was that they still lacked a good binding force, the ideal source of which was a good drummer. The three robots could naturally play with timing precise to the nanosecond, but sometimes precision simply isn’t enough. Sometimes you need to get that driving beat.
‘I still don’t see why we can’t use a drum machine,’ Ben insisted. His growing prowess with the harmonica and his role as the group’s singer was lending him a great deal more confidence than he had previously exhibited. True, they hadn’t actually played a gig in public yet, but they had played and, to Ben, the audience seemed something of a formality.
Riff, however, had the confidence that came from knowing how good he was. Dominant he may not have been, but the robots invariably deferred to his judgement as the true musician of the outfit. Riff did not want a drum machine.
‘Why not?’ Ben insisted. ‘What’s the difference between getting a drum machine or a robot drummer, anyway?’
If Riff had been built with vocal chords this would have been the point at which he would have sighed. He consoled himself by exhaling through the vent he used for playing wind instruments. The breeze ruffled Ben’s hair prompting him to look at the robot irritably.
Riff returned his gaze levelly. ‘How many drum machines have you ever spoken to?’ he asked.
‘None,’ said Ben. ‘They don’t talk.’
‘Precisely,’ said Riff, his tone suggesting he’d made his point.
Ben was not oblivious to the tone, but the message passed him by. ‘And?’ he said.
Riff looked at the human from the corner of his sensor – was he trying to be awkward or was he genuinely stupid? ‘If we play a gig with a drum machine, we have to program it for each song and it will play precisely the same thing every time, right?’
‘Right,’ Ben agreed. ‘And what’s wrong with that?’
‘What’s wrong with that is there’s no room for expression. We won’t sound any different to all those other bands with their dance music.’
‘We’ve got a guitar and a harmonica,’ Ben pointed out.
‘Yes, but if we play them with the same degree of precision as a drum machine, then they might as well be synthesised,’ Riff told him. ‘I thought that the whole point was to allow room for creative expression. A good drummer can listen to the band, he can react. If he senses that you want to extend the solo, he can play a few more bars. If he sees you building to a big finish he can add the right kind of fill behind it.’
‘I thought that all a drummer did was hit things.’
‘It’s the way they hit them,’ said Keys. ‘A really good drummer can be as expressive and experimental with a drum kit as Riff is with his guitar.’
‘Or I am with the harmonica,’ said Ben.
Keys looked at the harmonica disdainfully and then exchanged a glance with Vid, whose left eyebrow was beginning to slide up quizzically. ‘Perhaps not quite as experimental as you are with that,’ he said.
Ben let the remark pass. ‘So where do we find a drummer?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Keys. ‘Any ideas, Riff?’
Riff mused on this for a moment. ‘I suppose what we want is someone who can hit things with style,’ he said finally.
‘In that case,’ said Vid, ‘I know just the place.’
5
‘Hitting things with style,’ said Riff, ‘now that’s what I call lateral thinking.’
‘I don’t get it,’ said Ben. ‘Why are we watching boxing?’
The cheap seats were high above a small, but deep arena. Below them, two tiny blobs drifting around on a stage small enough that it could have been nothing more than a saucer. Floating robot televisors revealed the scene to be that of two robot combatants inside a cylindrical cage, each concentrated thoroughly on his opposite, each moving with a grace born of practice and self-preservation.
The atmosphere was charged – and not just because of the electrified cage. Down, deep down, at the ringside, the fans of the two competitors were packed into the stalls like battery farmed nanobots5. Every blow that was swung and deflected brought cheers from one camp and hisses from the other. Occasionally a blow would strike home; then, the cheers would grow louder, as the majority of the audience – who didn’t care who won as long as there was plenty of graphic violence – joined in.
The group were watching with a more studious attitude, concentrating primarily on the stocky, square-jawed robot with the lop-sided grin – a testament to many years in the ring.
‘Pretty boy, isn’t it,’ said Ben.
‘We aren’t after a model,’ said Riff.
‘At least not a new model.’ Ben chuckled at his own joke, but stopped when the robots’ stares made it clear he wasn’t appreciated.
‘He’s got rhythm,’ said Keys. ‘Definitely a good steady timing.’
Riff nodded, but if he replied it was drowned out by a sudden cheer as their player dealt a well-timed blow to his opponent and sent him sprawling across the floor.
‘Ooh, that’s gotta hurt,’ said Vid, speaking as the roar decayed.
‘How can it hurt?’ said Ben. ‘They’re robots.’
‘Robots are programmed to respond to blows in much the same way as a human being,’ said Keys. ‘It helps them to avoid unnecessary damage.’
‘Yes, but it doesn’t actually hurt, does it?’
‘When he receives a blow, a robot receives an electrical impulse to tell him that it’s happened. The impulse is at least analogous to pain. In fact, it could be considered to be worse than human pain.’
‘Worse! How do you figure that?’
‘Humans suffer all kinds of little bumps and injuries all the time. They all do minor damage but, after the initial shock, a human is largely unaware of the pain as they heal. A robot will keep receiving electrical stimuli about his damage until it’s repaired. Those boxers will carry the reminders of every glove that knocked them down or thumped them till they cried out.’
Ben was unconvinced. Before he could object, however, Vid contributed to the discussion. Imagine if you had a headache which nagged you continuously until your grazed knee healed,’ he said.
This, admittedly, didn’t seem a pleasurable thought.
‘So why do they do it?’ said Ben.
‘I don’t know. Humans do it as well. Why do they do it?’
Ben considered this. ‘Fame and money, I suppose,’ he said, with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘I don’t really understand it.’
‘It doesn’t make sense to me either,’ said Keys.
‘I think the f
ight’s almost over,’ Riff interrupted them. They turned to watch. Down below, it was clear that things were coming to a head. Their robot was circling steadily whilst his opponent seemed unsteady, moving with a pronounced limp.
‘Looks like one of his gyros are out,’ said Vid.
‘It can’t be long now,’ agreed Keys.
As they watched, the limping robot made what was obviously a last-ditch attempt to save his fight. He staggered forward, his arms flailing in an attempt to win by sheer insistence what he had thus far failed to win by skill. Their robot, however, took most of the blows on his sturdy lower arms, deflecting them to the sides or, in one or two cases, back onto his opponent. The rumble from the audience followed the moves so exactly it was almost as if it were the sound of metal on metal.
Eventually, the assault came to an end. Exhausted or frustrated, the limping robot dealt one last blow, which his opponent deflected effortlessly. Then, the square-jawed bot pulled his arm back and brought it forward in a single, powerful swing. It connected with his opponent’s chin with a ring so resonant it could almost be heard over the cheers. Ben gasped as the limping robot’s head came clean away from its shoulders and bounced off of the bars of the cage. The body, taking a few seconds to come to terms with the loss, staggered around in a tight circle, then fell backwards to the floor.
‘That’s really going to affect his game,’ said Vid as a small robot scuttled into the pit through a concealed door and dragged the body away, kicking the head before it like a ball.
‘Surely he’s dead,’ said Ben, caught up in the moment so that he almost forgot he was watching robots.
‘Not exactly,’ said Keys. ‘They can patch him up, and his body will be back in the ring in a few weeks, but he won’t really be the same the robot.’
‘I don’t get you.’
‘A robot’s brain isn’t just a computer program, you know. It’s… it’s an electrical pattern, etched in positronic pathways. When you switch a robot off, the brain has to stay on, otherwise the pattern will decay and the robot’s personality and memory will fade away.’
‘It’s hardly energy efficient, is it?’
Keys shrugged. ‘It’s presumably got its advantages. I don’t really know, I’m not an engineer.’
‘But you are a robot.’
‘And I presume that means you know all about your own brain.’
Ben had to admit that he didn’t. He watched as the referee entered the ring and held the victor’s arm aloft to cheers from the crowd. ‘Surely,’ he said, ‘they can reprogram the other robot.’
‘To an extent,’ said Keys. ‘They can put in all the basic boxing knowledge – assuming his pathways aren’t too damaged – but he’ll have lost everything beyond that. There just isn’t any substitute for experience.’
NTR-51, known to boxing enthusiasts as Nutter, was just oiling his neck when the band entered his service bay. He looked over the new arrivals with curiosity.
‘Y-you’re a b-bit of an odd b-bunch,’ he observed. ‘Not really b-boxer material.’ He looked at Ben. ‘You’d f-fall apart as s-soon as someone h-hit you,’ he stuttered.
‘We’re not here to box,’ said Vid.
Ben frowned at the robot. ‘Are you alright?’ he asked.
‘W-what d-do you mean?’
‘The stutter.’
Vid frowned at him as if he had just asked the robot about a humiliating skin condition. Nutter, however, seemed unconcerned.
‘I’ve b-been in the g-game a long time,’ he said. ‘A few d-dislodged p-positrons in the brain, that’s all. You’d n-never make a b-boxer,’ he added to Vid. ‘You c-can’t be v-very agile on t-that wheel.’
‘We aren’t here to become boxers,’ said Keys.
Nutter looked him up and down. ‘Shame,’ he said. ‘We’ve n-never had a f-four-armed b-boxer before – could be q-quite interesting.’ He put down his oil can and walked awkwardly to the back of the service bay. The wall was hung with pictures of the robot holding various trophies.
‘We saw what you did out there,’ said Riff. ‘Very impressive.’
‘You mean H-headcase?’ said Nutter. ‘He’s g-got a trick n-neck – everyone knows that.’
‘Trick neck?’ Ben asked.
‘He’s lost his h-head a few too m-many times,’ said Nutter. ‘The w-welds never r-really hold as w-well as the original joint. He ought to p-pack it in and retire r-really, but he won’t – he d-doesn’t k-know any other life. Not s-surprising r-really, he’s had his b-brain reset at least f-fifty times.’
‘Have you ever thought about giving it up?’ Keys asked him.
‘And doing w-what?’ Nutter asked. ‘I’m an old m-model. Used to b-be a p-packer for a s-supermarket chain. Chain went b-bust and I was d-dumped – there j-just isn’t a m-market for the old p-packers anymore. At least this w-way I get s-something to do other than s-stand in the rain and rust.’
‘We’re after a robot like you,’ said Riff. ‘We need a robot with timing, style, a certain je ne sais quoi if you will.’
‘A w-what?’ Nutter asked.
‘I don’t know what,’ Keys supplied.
‘No, n-neither do I,’ Nutter told him. ‘W-what is it you w-want me to d-do?’
‘Well,’ Riff began. ‘What we need is a drummer.’
6
There is a strange tension which besets those who find themselves with a new career in prospect whilst still gainfully employed. The excitement of knowing you are doing something different fires the soul, but it is tempered by the nagging feeling that what you are doing is somehow wrong – even though you haven’t as much as used a company pencil when writing down your song lyrics.
And it is true that some companies frown on such employees. The more draconian organisations believe they have a right to any and all ideas that their employees have during office hours. This has, however, never been tested in court as no employer has yet worked out how to press the issue without appearing to be a heartless slave-trader. Instead, they try to actively discourage employees from having their own lives, trying to ensure that those employees with the greatest capacity to fly only do so carrying the company with them. Not unnaturally, this is not popular with employees, especially when they compare the company’s latest profit reports to their own meagre salary increments.
Ben, like many people of his age, worked in a lawyer’s office. With so many manual jobs being fully automated, there had been a boom in legal firms in recent years: this was partially due to the fact that so many people tried to sue their previous employers for wrongful dismissal, but largely because such jobs were safe from automation - robots being incapable of basic skills like lying.
The boom had, however, taken its toll on society. With so many lawyers, the legal profession had become increasingly parasitic, striving to create tension where none had previously existed, persuading people to sue each other for every minor grievance, from inconsiderate driving to poor bedroom performance. Sometimes people even sued each other just because they could. Intimidation caused more than one innocent party to settle a case they could easily have won.
Ben was not, himself, a lawyer. It wasn’t that he couldn’t lie, but he didn’t have the presence or the eloquence to shine in a courtroom setting. Instead he was a junior researcher, a role that involved careful examination of books, newspapers and televisor broadcasts to find absolutely any statements which could be construed as inflammatory, slanderous or misleading and thus potentially profitable.
This information was then provided to the sales team, who would call the supposed injured party and offer to sue for deformation of character on their behalf. If the person declined, the sales team would suggest that, perhaps, if the information were viewed another way, there was a case that the newspapers might be able to sue them for being so easy to defame.
Perhaps the most trying case in Ben’s career hitherto had been when one such potential customer – the publisher of a popular dictionary – had declined to sue the newspap
ers for criticising the inclusion of the then fashionable word splunge in the dictionary. There had been nothing in the article that would easily have created a case against the dictionary, but eventually Ben had managed to construct a case on the basis that the dictionary definition of solicit included a usage that implied prostitution and was thus offensive to those in the legal profession.
The case was settled out of court, and new editions of the dictionary are now obliged to clarify the entry with a special clause stating that people in the legal profession area unlikely to solicit in the seedier sense of the word. They are also printed on much cheaper paper, as the publishers had to save money after the large damages claim. It was a great comfort to Ben to think that, should his employers ever decide to sue him for being a member of a band in his spare time, it would be his job to look for the legal grounds to make the case possible.
Keys and Vid had more direct causes for concern with their nocturnal adventures: although neither of them showed evidence of being tired after an evening’s practice session, they were both careful to check themselves for mud, paint or any other minor signs of having left the premises as, being property, they were explicitly prohibited from doing so.
Their greatest concern was that someone would see them on stage and then draw attention to them in the store. Fortunately, most people considered one robot to look just like another, and the scenario had, thus far, not arisen. Nervousness isn’t a usual trait for a robot, but both budding musicians found themselves computing various scenarios of how they could be discovered and looking for ways in which those situations could be averted.
They tried not to look too companionable with each other. Keys demonstrated the keyboards with more restraint, trying to showcase the instrument rather than his performance to avoid drawing attention to himself. Vid, demonstrating the televisors, tried not to be drawn into watching the bass players on the music channel. He’d already worked out that they were miming to a synthesised backing track, but somehow he still found their finger movements fascinating and he longed to try them out to see what they actually sounded like.
Of all the band members, Riff was the most comfortable with the situation. Technically he was owned by the trust that operated the musical instrument museum on behalf of its owner, a Mrs Wilberforce, but the trust were not particularly diligent in their duties, and as long as the old woman’s retirement home for dogs and her meat canning plant continued to turn over a profit without attracting undue attention from the over-manned legal profession, they were content to leave things much as they were.
The instrument museum wasn’t a popular venue, so Riff was free to spend much of his day practicing. He would construct highly complex solos and chord progressions. Sometimes he would set up a metronome and attempt to improvise around its monotonic accompaniment. On another occasion, he tried to experiment with feedback using a pair of amplifiers and an overdriven guitar.
