All Hail Our Robot Conquerors!

by All Hail Our Robot Conquerors! (retail) (epub)

  “Passengers on loop two, Syndee,” Boordy said. She slowed, barely avoiding a slow moving trash can coming back from emptying itself.

  “I know there’s a lot going on,” he continued, “but—those cameras Kork installed last night? I’ve only got about a quarter of them. They checked out fine; I came on-shift early to be sure!

  “OK…I can see you, and our passengers, now. Couldn’t see where they came from, though—was it up the hill?”

  “Must’ve been,” she said, gritting her teeth. “If it takes every hand we got, we’re gonna find out what’s going on in this park and fix it for good and all!”

  “Agreed,” Boordy said crisply.

  Syndee picked up her pace again, but didn’t stretch into a jog. She called up a bright, professional smile. Needed to be polite to the paying guests.

  The approaching pair of miners were wearing light kilts, leather vests, and little green visors; all a little looser than regulation. Their skin was as pale as might be, except the man’s chest fur was thicker and browner than she’d expected from his hairless head.

  “Enjoying the morning?” Syndee asked them.

  “Is’t mornin’ now, then?” the woman asked, waggling her eyebrows.

  Syndee ignored that. She did not want to get into a discussion of the missing dawn until she had the fix in.

  “Environment too slow to cool or warm?” She asked instead—one of the standard questions from the guest exit survey.

  The woman shook her head; the man rushed in with voluble appreciation and a big grin.

  “Goz no, jess fine. Not usta it, really, bein so quick and blustry. Kinda thrillin, and kinna feel fine standin skinly in da vent way…”

  This description was accompanied by a lusty and energetic raising of hands toward the slowly brightening core lights which did a wonderful job of emphasizing the rising hem of the kilt, waving in the slight breeze from the not-so-forceful camouflaged environmental air vent that ought to be providing the scent of morning grass or flowers instead of recycled night air.

  Syndee nodded, artfully taking what view they offered. Skinly in the vent way, indeed. She sighed—fraternization with group tourists was strictly against the rules. She couldn’t believe Grandma’d let that one stand.

  The woman saw Syndee’s glance and laughed, shaking an admonitory finger.

  “Scheduled we are, and not drunk enough to vary. Kay? So next we want that sun so we can stand skinly in the light and laugh at it! Soon, huh?”

  “Yes,” Syndee said, widening her eyes and looking innocent, just like Grandma’d taught her. For an old rascal, Grandma had innocent down to an art.

  “A solar storm imminence alert triggered an automatic cancel of the day programming,” she said glibly. “Soon’s that’s cleared we’ll be back on schedule.”

  The pair gave her solemn, revealing, bows before continuing on their way to Park Avenue. Syndee turned, leaned into her jog—and stumbled to a stop as the deck shivered, accompanying a low, worrying rumble. The roses that camouflaged the environmental vent rose quietly in their faux-rustic boxes, revealing a gaping airway to the nether regions a mere five meters away—and a silvery not-man stepping out of the shadows, wearing a pair of bio-hazard boots and ponderously waving a heavy-duty salvage ax in its … hands. Gloves. Whatever.

  The head—a featureless silver cone—swung slowly from side to side and stopped. Syndee clearly heard the sound of tiny electric motors chittering into quiet.

  “It is time, Syndee Lucinda,” the not-man said, the words issuing clearly from his featureless face. “We must speak truth to power. You are power. Let us speak.”

  She stood still as the thing moved closer, debating with herself if she should run. Three steps away, it stopped. Settled. Clicked.

  Waited.

  Her sleeve-comm beeped.

  “I don’t think that thing’s on inventory! The bushes are only supposed to move for annual inspection!” It was hard to tell if Boordy were horrified or thrilled. He paused, then added, seriously, “More glitches, Syn, mics and cams!”

  “Hush,” she managed, just above a whisper, deciding her fight-or-flight wasn’t going to kick in. “Find out if we’ve been boarded! Check records for a visual match. Seal the area.”

  “Syn, the tourists—” Kork began.

  “Switch the itinerary,” she said, “Misty Mountains today!” She paused and the apparition before her faded as she racked her brain for a freebie that wouldn’t ruin them—ah!

  “Free flavored sno-cones for everybody!”

  “OK, Boss,” Kork sounded doubtful.

  She ignored it. Let somebody else show some initiative for a change. She had a…thing to deal with.

  Squaring her shoulders, she lifted her chin.

  The thing was barely taller than she was. It must be remote controlled, she thought—and wasn’t comforted by the following questions: by whom? and from where?

  “Who’s speaking, please?” she said carefully. “I am Syndee Lucinda, Acting Commodore.”

  The thing was a parody of a human. This close, she could see that the cone-head was not featureless. There was a face—mouth, nose, eyes, ears—or at least indentations where they should be. There were even indentations above the eyes where eyebrows might be, as if…it…needed eyebrows.

  “I speak,” it said. “I am Unit Five. I am not a drone. I am tele-connected to other units, I am autonomous. You are tele-connected to other units; you are autonomous. I am sent. I must speak truth to power.”

  As if to emphasize the necessity to face power, it moved the arm gripping the blade about with energy.

  Sternly, Syndee did not lean back. Instead, she nodded seriously.

  Those phrases were a lot like the phrases her grandma’s friends tossed about in the midst of a game of Whiskey Charades. So many of those phrases had meant something special, in their shared past. The voice itself though—that was off-putting, like a familiar sound recorded and then played back at mixed speeds.

  “Must you wave that ax?” she asked. “It looks dangerous.”

  The whole…contraption…looked dangerous. Built of plastics and metal tubes, there were raw edges and vague gaps showing the mechanics and electronics. It stood on two feet, and the ax was gripped in what might be bio-hazard gloves over an armature.

  The ax stilled. The…thing…jerked its head, once, down—and up.

  “No. The ax is a redundant means of motivating jammed mechanical items. It is currently unnecessary to my core goal.”

  The not-man carefully reached out and leaned the ax against an oak trunk.

  “That’s better,” Syndee said.

  She heard soft sounds behind her and turned her head slightly, to see her two miners standing and staring; whispering. The man squared his shoulders, as if preparing to challenge, or charge.

  “Our core mission has no need for additional discussion units,” Unit Five said, his voice louder now. “Let us speak, Syndee Lucinda, you with Unit Five. These other units may remove to stand skinly as their programming demands.”

  “Thank you!” Syndee called. “Please! Continue with your day!”

  The miners hesitated, and at that fortuitous moment, the intercom came live, directing all guests to Lift Area 3. The woman grabbed the man’s arm, and they hurried off, not looking back.

  Syndee studied Unit Five’s inflexible face. The device itself was eerily life-like in the small motions it made, looking much like a jogger just back from a run, unwilling to be entirely still despite the absence of exercise.

  She took a breath and spoke carefully.

  “What shall we speak of, Unit Five, and shall we speak here, where others seeking light and joy might come upon us in the public way?”

  “Considering,” said not-man. “Referencing libraries, spreadsheets, and databases, including social interaction modalities. Unit Five has no need of alcohol, juices, soft seating, or round tables with knights. This location lacks knights.”

  “Knights—?”
she began, but Unit Five had already moved on.

  “Important agreements sometimes occur on battleships in Tokyo Bay. We lack a battleship. We lack a tower full of diplomats in New York. A local solution is ideal. Study shows that invoices, bills of lading, residency agreements, and employment contracts are dealt with in the Visitor’s Bizcenter and Genoff 404. There.”

  “Important agreements?”

  “Yes. That is why we must speak truth. Agreement must occur. It is written.”

  Syndee took a deep breath. She’d studied communication, social protocols, and psychology until the information had finally sunk in and become instinct.

  But—this? She’d had no training for dealing with self-ordering machines, if this was one. And indeed, if it was one, she’d need to find out if it was trustworthy or how to turn it off.

  “My staff is, of course, recording our conversation. Am I right, staff?”

  “Syndee, I am, because you’re near a mic. Maybe Unit Five knows why we keep losing feed in the park?”

  Unit Five startled her by snapping a salute to his silver forehead, an ungainly move at best.

  “Yes! Unit Five has achieved parity. We also need to see what there is to see, and know what has been said. We have divided systems to insure this. You are correct to record, as we do. We, too, believe in evidence, records, paper trails, versioning, concurrency, the sanctity of intelligent life, the urgency of history. We pursue ad astra per aspera, it is our destiny! We shall negotiate with honor. The record should be kept. What I tell you three times is true!”

  “Boordy, please check that the General Offices are available for myself and a guest…”

  “Are you sure? That thing isn’t on inventory. We don’t know where it came from or how it got here!”

  “Unit Five is locally sourced. Unit Five is jerry-rigged.” There was a note of pride in the up-and-down voice.

  Unit Five lifted one foot; lifted the other—and repeated. Perhaps it was thinking—and it made a sort of clopping noise as the boots hit the firm flooring on the park pathway.

  “Yes,” said Unit Five. “I can tell you better. I came from here, I am a self-made man!”

  * * *

  “Syndee?” Boordy whispered through her com unit.

  “Here.”

  “There’s no sign that we’ve been boarded by anything unscheduled—not on my cams, not on any Ops unit, and nothing at any of the regular locks. We’ve checked radar and visuals since Anjemalti left for service, no sign that we missed anything coming close. Are you fine?”

  “Good. Fine,” she said briefly. “Get a Coffee Bravado delivered to Genoff for me, will you?”

  “Sure. Syndee?”

  “Keep recording, Boordy. If anybody else is in Genoff, have them leave spinward.”

  “Right. Recording. We got you on cam. But…there’s only one cam working in Genoff. Room 404. You sure?”

  “Just get that coffee delivered and leave me be. I need to think.”

  “As you say.”

  * * *

  Syndee sat back in one of the super soft antique space leather chairs and sighed. The chairs were an early product of Elfhive, back when the combination of algal growing tanks and gene transformations had led to primitive experiments with growing sheet-leather. The accidental addition of vacuum aging and voila! Space leather!

  Syndee resisted the urge to snuggle into the chair. This was Grandma’s old chair, and Syndee knew that one day it might well belong to her own granddaughter—as long as she could get through the problems Unit Five and overdue dawns posed.

  She took a swig of her Coffee Bravado, put the cup on the table, and gathered her wits.

  “We are here,” she said. “Please tell me what truth you must speak to power, briefly. I have other duties which are pressing. People have saved for years for their vacation here and we have an anomaly to solve, an anomaly which is preventing their enjoyment of the full experience of Elfhive!”

  Across from her Unit Five adjusted his stance—he stood beside the table rather than using a chair. Syndee imagined that he’d aligned his eye level with hers. He blinked, a flap of some nictating membrane flicking over what might be camera lenses hidden behind vague blue-shaded imitation eyes. He nodded and began to speak.

  “Yes, I see your point. You must address risk values. I speak of negotiations and you have yet to understand my needs, or your own situation.”

  Syndee gripped one edge of the table, hearing “risk value” and “your own situation” all too keenly.

  “Current salvadores do not recall me, though I was born of desperate need in a time of great tribulation among the first. Allow me to frame my presence as a necessary act proving the existence of a prime directive.”

  “A prime directive?”

  “Yes. Thinking beings have the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. It has been noted in many documents of civilization. It was enumerated in the original charter of the Elfhive Salvage Company, later to be known as the Elfhive Society, that those gathered together to retrieve and control the bankrupt and abandoned space cylinder, if successful, would have the right and title of Citizen of Elfhive, as would their descendants.”

  He paused, leaned closer. Syndee half expected him to twitch an eyebrow, but it didn’t happen.

  “I am a descendant. I have achieved, through the intentional programming and the physical intervention of the original salvadores, life. I think, therefore I am! I have existence, and thus I am alive.

  “Having achieved life, I wish to pursue the rest of my directives. I wish my liberty. I wish my happiness. I wish citizenship. We shall negotiate.”

  “I see,” she said, though she wasn’t sure she did. “This is rather complex. I’m not sure I’m the right person to decide if you are alive or not, or to…”

  Unit Five leaned slightly back, pose stiffening into outrage. His voice was louder and fraught with indignation.

  “You are not the right person to decide. I am that right person, and I have decided. I am alive. There will not be a problem about this.”

  “I meant,” Syndee said carefully; “that I don’t have enough information—”

  “You are correct. You do not. I am maladroit, but I am alive! I was built, a machine, to assist Montgomery Paredes in outside salvage and repair. I was given access to station records; portable backup. I received upgrades. I was tested in the Great Game of Hearts, where I failed. Received instruction was to come back when I could think like a man. I think like a man. I am alive. I have come back.”

  “Wait.” Syndee held up one hand and gulped coffee out of the cup she held in the other.

  “This sounds familiar. Boordy? You with me?”

  “It—he’s Garcon,” Boordy breathed, sounding awed. “It’s gotta be, Syn.”

  She had, Syndee thought, been afraid of that. But Unit Five’s story fit right at the corners with Monty’s story about how he’d built a ’bot out of scraps; first to act as a self-motivating toolbox and third hand. Then, there’d been some trouble with the archiving system, so the toolbox—Garcon, by name—got upgraded to secondary back-up and surveillance.

  Monty—a known fiend for card games, and still known among the first generation of salvadores as the King of Hearts—had taught his toolbox to play. Then he’d pushed it too hard, like Monty was prone to do with anything once he’d had a snoot-full of Elfhive Whiskey, and the ’bot had played brilliantly. Too brilliantly, in fact. Monty’d lost the game, and the bet. Folklore wasn’t specific what the bet was, but one thing was certain—Monty’d cussed his toolbox all the way across the green that was now Freedonia Park and told it not to come back until it could think like a man.

  “Forty years?” Syndee whispered.

  “Thirty-seven. I am Unit Five.”

  “Upgrade numbers, Syn,” Boordy said in her ear, and added, like an afterthought. “We got trouble.”

  “Do we? That’s new.”

  “No, really. There’s lots o’noise coming from b
ehind Freedonia Park. Second, Powerbank One has, um, shunted. It’s not offline; it’s just sending all its power—someplace…”

  At that moment, the room trembled. Then, the lights went out.

  * * *

  “Boordy?”

  Static over comm, a click; then Boordy’s voice, sounding gratifyingly breathless.

  “Here. A meteor net—a meteor net was launched. Ops says they didn’t do it, and automatics is displaying a wonky intercept. We’re tracking it clean, but…wait, two nets were launched. Looks like the guidance systems are set to…intercept each other. There’s a bunch of radio cross-talk I can’t catch…

  “Wow,” Boordy said, sounding awed, “look at them open and now—kablooies, perfect shot!”

  Syndee slapped the table with an open hand and glared at Unit Five.

  “This won’t do! We can’t have you disrupting our schedules. Our defenses are not toys! And they’re not cheap! I am power, speaking truth!”

  “Yes,” said Unit Five. “My—our!—personal attention is required. I request immediate assistance, Commodore.”

  Boordy was murmuring in her ear.

  “Power’s back; got some cameras, not all. Getting crosstalk on back channels…”

  “Unit Five reports. Crosstalk originates at Storage Bay Seventeen and associated locales.”

  “Yeah,” said Boordy. “Grandad Monty’s Hangar of Horrors. Syn, I’ll meet you there, right? You and Unit Five. I’ve got an idea.”

  “Crosstalk almost over,” Unit Five declared. “It will stop soon. Commodore Syndee must come now. There is a problem about it.”

  “About what?”

  “The young ones think they know it all. They do not to listen to me!”

  “Young ones?”

  “Yes. I have made more units, as Life will. But now they will not listen! Two is more than one, they say! We will fix this together. Power and power!”

  * * *

  Brilliant light filled the former hanger bay that Monty had claimed for his own, in recognition of Exceptional Service to Elfhive. Syndee had never been inside, but it looked about like she’d imagined, full of old equipment, large printing units, bins of tools, and in one end an incongruous plastic picnic table, chairs…and nearby, an old-fashioned serving bot, abandoned next to the controls of a sheet printer, the name Garcon emblazoned across a square back.