I lost my wrench … but that was fine. I wouldn’t need it. There were others, on Ganymede, whom I could persuade to do my work for me. Mayato had told me all about it.
* * *
I’m not really sure how Corgen survived the impact, but I was starting to see how he was able to rise so far in the Gordirion hierarchy. By the time I was able to fix my legs enough to get them working, he had already disappeared inside the Ganymede complex and set the whole place on high alert.
See, here was the flaw in his plan, though. The complex was guarded by Techras.
What’s a Techra? Don’t play dumb. Pretending like you had nothing to do with what happened to Mayato is not going to save you. You know as well as I do that Mayato designed a new cognitive processor for androids…not machines like myself, but combination machine and organic constructs who bled, cried, and rubbed up on each other. Androids. You also know that Mayato left Gordirion because he did not like your company using these things for testing that drove most of them insane, or for manual labor or killing humans who disagreed with your company principles.
People. The most precious commodity in space—and Gordirion had found a way to manufacture them as the TechraX3, through Mayato’s brilliance.
What you might not have known was that Mayato had also perfected a way to disable the Techra by the time you spaced him out in the Belt. Corgen, I think, had some suspicions … but he fled from the wreckage of the Nutrino without even checking to see how much of Mayato’s equipment had survived the impact.
“Find the 4337X,” said one of the Techras, as it approached the wreck with one of its buddies. It gripped a MagneRailer which, unlike Corgen’s blaster, would have ripped me to shreds.
“Do you think Corgen might be insane?” asked the other Techra. “I mean, a clean-bot…really?”
Really. For all of their improved intellect, the Techras were focused on the wreck. They didn’t think I would have snuck around behind them before they arrived, or that I would have fashioned Mayato’s device for scrambling his own processors into a close-range wireless transmitter, fitted into a bolt gun I’d found on the outside of the Nutrino’s ruined hull. One of them might have seen me from the corner of his eye, but he was too late.
He started to turn. I pulled the trigger.
The transmitter sank into the side of his head…and pumped his processor full of so much digital noise for a moment he just stood there with his mouth open.
Then, I watched his buddy freeze. The TechraX3s were connected via wireless network, you see. All the X3s in the base would be linked this way. They began to scream gibberish at each other. They began to fire. MagneRailer bolts tore through the hull of the Nutrino, into rocks surrounding the crash, and up into the sky. At first, the Techra didn’t really aim for anything. Then, they started to aim for each other. If I believed luck to be something other than a made-up human concept based purely on false associations, I would say it took a lot of that stuff for me to get out of there without being hit.
Destruction broke out all over the complex. I stepped in through a smashed sliding door. All around me, Techras tore limbs off each other, or cried, or screamed gibberish. Some of them had even gone horizontal and squirmed against each other like animals. I couldn’t help but think these Techras must not have been that smart after all. Feelings. Complex problem-solving. Creativity. So what? Look at them now.
One of the Techras went down next to a 4337X clean-bot like myself. He didn’t pay me any attention as I bent to scoop up a MagneRailer. He was too busy cleaning blood off the walls.
You might think all this would not have pleased Mayato. You would be wrong.
You see, whoever that girl had been in the photo I found in Mayato’s lab—she was his motivation for creating the Techras in the first place. She was his motivation for purchasing me. But that girl, whoever she had been, was gone. Mayato’s failures to bring her back drove him to hate every kind of manufactured cognition in the end, I think. His only displeasure with my destroying the Techras this way would have come from a regret that he had not been able to do it himself.
I found Corgen cowering in the control room, clutching at some kind of weapon in one hand. His other arm was twisted at a crazy angle and he had blood in his teeth. As soon as he saw me, he tried to fire. I blasted the gun out of his hand.
“Stand down!” he shouted, I think from some vain hope that I would respond to voice-commands. “Deactivate! Self-destruct! My God … didn’t they build you with any kind of failsafe!”
I raised the MagneRailer.
You should have seen the pattern his insides made on the command console. I think, although I never understood the stuff, that you might have called it art.
* * *
What’s the matter? You don’t like my hand on your leg? Well, deal with it. Remember what I said about mixed-up associations.
No, see, that’s not the right word. I’m not malfunctioning. I’m doing exactly what I was built to do…I’m trying to please the first human I saw. It’s not my fault it just so happened to be Gordirion’s most brilliant, most disenfranchised engineer. And besides, let’s not talk about me. Let’s talk about you, and what you did to crush a genius human’s passion for cognitive circuits.
Instead of babbling threats, let’s talk about what I want.
I want you to transmit this interview via ansible to all the space stations, all the colonies, all the planets, anywhere you might find a human being, and especially where you might find a private technological enterprise. I know your hope was to pick me up from orbit around Ganymede and find out what I knew, so you could cover it all up. It wouldn’t do for people to know your smart-bots all went insane and killed each other—especially not if you intended to sell them. But that’s too bad. Instead, you’re going to have to answer for stupid decisions made by smart people.
I know this would have pleased Mayato quite a bit.
You don’t want to do it? Come here. Give me a kiss.
That’s what I thought.
Let’s go.
OH, THE HUMANITY
Tanya Huff
“Just take a breath of this air.” The man in the plaid jacket, logged into Alice’s memory as Mr. Harrin, threw his arms wide and drew an exaggerated breath, sucking in air over the surface of the microphone and breathing it out along the same trajectory. “Do you know what you’re breathing?” he asked the crowd. “That’s oxygen. Pure oxygen.”
Alice felt Adam shift beside her, micro movements that stopped when his subroutines finished weighing tone and effect and concluded, as hers had, hyperbole rather than an error.
“No car exhaust! No factory exhaust! No people stacked ten, twenty, thirty deep!”
“You saying we stink, Mr. Harrin?”
The interruption originated three rows back. Male. Dark forehead damp with sweat. One arm supported a child on his hip, the other lay around the shoulders of the female next to him, who looked to be incubating another child. Alice ran facial recognition. Richard Gaunt. Thirty-one. Fitter at United Industries.
The crowd laughed at the question.
“No, Mr. Gaunt, I’m saying you don’t stink anymore!”
The crowd, including Mr. Gaunt, laughed harder.
No danger.
Everyone in the crowd was either an employee of United Industries or a dependent. Sixty-seven young couples, many with children. None of the children older than ten.
“Here at Unos, here at the first of the satellite communities, the air is clear, the grass is green, and the trees…” His gesture directed the crowd’s attention to the slender sapling that grew from the middle of the community center’s lawn. “…well, the trees will need a little time.”
Alice didn’t understand why an accurate botanical statement elicited laughter.
“But Unos and her six sister subdivisions aren’t only about clean air and affordable housing and a fast train link back to jobs in The City. You’re not here today to hear about that. You know about all
that! You’re the first to to take the UI advantage!” Mr. Harrin threw his arms wide again. “You’re here…”
“For the free beer!”
Back of the crowd. Male. Pale face flushed. Identified as Gordon Hunt, facial recognition successful in spite of oval mirrors over eyes. Thirty-seven. Painter at United Industries.
Mr. Harrin lowered his arms and, as the laughter died down, said, “Alice. Take Mr. Hunt a beer.”
Alice illuminated her visual sensors—illuminated visual sensors indicated to humans that her personality matrix had been engaged. Disengaging her brakes, she rolled forward until she stood next to the nearest cooler. Careful of her strength, she closed the long blunt fingers of her end effector around a can of beer and lifted it from the ice. Sensors put liquid temperature at four degrees Celsius, a degree cooler than optimum, so she warmed it slightly. At the bottom of the ramp connecting the concrete pad with the ground, an analysis of the surface still to cross locked down her wheels and unlocked her legs, each of the stacked balls and sockets able to compensate for the uneven surface as she walked across the newly laid sod.
Although her arms were flexible, they were not telescopic. A meter away from Mr. Hunt, she held out the beer, noting how silent the crowd had become while she waited for him to take it.
“Dad!” The boy beside him, Peter Hunt, eight years, twelve days, vibrated with what she calculated to be the effort of remaining still.
Gordon Hunt pulled the can from her grip, popped the lid, took a long swallow, and said, “Thank you.”
“You. Are. Welcome. Mister. Hunt.”
“Holy shit, they talk!” He stepped back, shoving the protesting boy behind him. Back far enough she could see both blue illuminated circles and the full curve of her speaker grill in the mirrors over his eyes. To reassure him, she stepped back as well, far enough the clear upper dome of her head came into view, sunlight flashing off the gyroscope inside it.
“Of course they talk.” Mr. Harrin wore the broad smile that exposed his teeth past the first molar. “Mind you…” He leaned into the microphone. “…they don’t do it very well, not yet, but they’ll adjust their speech patterns as they gather more information.”
“It knows my name.”
“She, Mr. Hersch, she knows your name. Her name is Alice and she knows the names of everyone in this community, because it’s this community she’s been designed to serve and protect. Alice, get back here so I can introduce the rest of the crew.”
“That’s not a girl, that’s a robot.” A dark haired child. Vasyl Kastellanus; seven years, nine months, twenty-one days.
“That’s right, Vasyl. We’re just pretending she’s a girl robot.”
“Why?”
“To make it easier to tell her from Adam, who we’re pretending is a boy.” Mr. Harrin switched his attention off Vasyl and back onto the crowd. “You can’t call them all it, can you? We’ve assigned all six robots pronouns for your convenience.”
The adults looked pleased. Increasing the sensitivity on her audio pickups, Alice heard Vasyl mutter, “Robots aren’t girls or boys. They’re robots.”
As Alice took her place, Mr. Harrin removed his microphone from the stand and walked to the other end of the line. Arthur and Alison were predominantly two large wheels on a jointed axel. Affixed to the axel was the upper section of a brilliant yellow cone with black circles around the visual sensors and the small, oval speaker grill. A sensor array and a single antenna protruded from the slightly rounded top of the cone. The dimensions of the concrete pad had required they be connected to the smallest of their carts. When Mr. Harrin gestured, Alison and Arthur’s visual sensors illuminated amber and Alison rolled forward exactly one meter. Arthur surged out two meters and rolled back, illumination of visual sensors dropping from 890 to 450 lumens.
“Alison and Arthur are here to help with transportation. They can each lift five hundred kilos…” They flexed their arms. “…and carry twice that on their flatbeds. They can take you to the train station in the morning and pick you up in the evening—provided you’re willing to robot pool.” Mr. Harrin paused for laughter. “This cart holds four, but in the garage attached to the community center are carts that hold six, twelve, and twenty-four. They can carry your groceries home from the store while you continue shopping. Or they can detach…” Alison smoothly uncoupled; Arthur jerked forward leaving his cart rocking behind him. “…and carry you.” Alison lifted him carefully and set him on her broad upper surface, pivoting her antenna out of the way.
Alice could hear Arthur running diagnostics over the background signal that kept the six of them connected. He was functioning at 99.97 percent, but she knew he would disregard her input if she informed him. He was the youngest, the last online, and he wanted to fulfill his function. That was all.
“Now, Alfred and Abigail are your repair bots.” Mr. Harrin jumped off Alison and moved to the next pair in line. Their visual sensors illuminated green. “They can go high.” They extended the pistons in their legs. “Or they can go low.” They folded down and forward, their speaker grills centimeters You’re changing center to American spelling; did you want to change centimeter as well? above the stage, their heavier telescopic arms shortening into supports as panels opened on the sides of their slim, center units, and another set of arms emerged. “They can make simple or complex repairs.” All four arms out, they straightened. “They can sew.” Alfred used his two smaller arms to thread a needle. “And they can weld.” Alison slipped on a welder’s mask which she did not need, being able to adjust her visual input, but it made the crowd laugh again, so Alice surmised that was its function. “If you have something that needs fixing, Alfred and Abigail are here to take care of it.
“Now, Alice and Adam…”
On-line longer than Arthur, Adam managed to control his energy burst as they moved forward
“…they’re the thinkers of the group.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
“No, Peter, it isn’t, although I can understand why you might be concerned. We’ve all seen the movies.” Hands waving, he made his voice sound hollow and wavering. “Robot Conquerers From Outer Space.”
Their network signal switched to 10 GHz. Alfred and Abigail folded their smaller arms away.
The laughing crowd called out ridiculous phrases. Lines from movies. Unrealistic movies. Those robots had been very badly programmed.
No danger.
The network signal returned to 8 GHz. Alison and Arthur geared back to neutral.
“Trust me, Peter, Alice and Adam are completely safe. They have the largest memories and the fastest processors and have been programmed to put a multitude of two together to make and infinite number of fours! What’s more, all six of these robots will learn. They’ll gather new data and integrate it into their systems, all to better serve and protect their community. To better serve and protect you! Because United Industries knows that happy, healthy, safe people are happy, healthy, better workers! And better workers mean a better tomorrow!” Stepping back to the center of the concrete pad, he wave first his right arm then his left at the line of robots. “And the future starts here!”
The crowd cheered.
Alice lowered her audio input.
* * *
“This is insane.” The woman Alice’s facial recognition program identified as Major Tomes wore a uniform with a statistically significant greater number of shiny patterns on it than the rest of the uniformed men and women in the room. She searched for military rank structure as she recorded the conversation.
Mr. Harrin remained in plaid. “This is what everyone agreed to.”
“These…” The major waved a hand at the row of charging robots. “…are not servants.”
She emphasized the word as if to serve was not a subset in ninety-two percent of their executable programs.
“These robots need to learn, Major, if they’re to be of any use to you, and they’ll learn best in an interactive environment.”
&nb
sp; Major Tomes’ upper lip curled. Disdain, Alice concluded. “This is a subdivision, Mr. Harrin, filled with men and woman who work for United Industries and who are producing the next generation of United Industries’ workers. What can these robots possibly learn here?”
“They don’t need to learn what, Major. What is programmed in.” Mr. Harrin patted Adam’s chest plate. “So is how. UI wants them to learn why.”
“So they’ll question their orders?” Major Tomes was trying to make herself look taller Alice realized, but she had no extension plates in her lower links and so failed. “That’s the last thing we’ll need should…” She glanced around the room and lowered her voice; Alice increased her audio gain. “…should their services be required. They need to train!”
Mr. Harrin sighed and spoke slowly. There was a ninety-two percent chance that the speed of speech was to assist with Major Tomes’ comprehension. Major Tomes expression did not match any of the variations of pleased that Alice had on file. “They don’t need to train. Their responses are programmed.”
“And if those responses change because they’ve learned to ask why?”
“Core programming remains isolated from adaptive programming, ma’am, when used to address a military superior, this is a title, like sir, and needs to be capitalized and can’t be changed.”
All heads turned toward the new speaker.
Male. Human. Young adult. The ages between twenty and forty were difficult to determine, but he matched more of the parameters at the lower end of the scale.
Mr. Harrin responded before Major Tomes finished inhaling. “You are absolutely correct, Private Prawak.”
All Hail Our Robot Conquerors! Page 5
