Robots

by Jack Dann

  "When he dies? My bond terminates. He said he'd leave the house to me. I know you could contest that, but I'll need to sell in order to pay for my twenty-year maintenance."

  "No, no. That's fine. You deserve it."

  She came to the door and looked up at me, little Jen Fancy and the woman she would never become.

  "You know, it's you he loves," she said. "I'm just a stand-in."

  "He loves his little girl," I said. "Doesn't do me any good—I'm forty-seven."

  "It could if you let it:" She frowned. "I wonder if that's why Mother did all this. So you'd find out."

  "Or maybe she was just plain sorry." I shook my head. She was a smart woman, my mom. I would've liked to have known her.

  "So, Ms. Fancy, maybe you can visit us again sometime." The bot grinned and shook my hand. "Daddy's usually in a good mood after his nap. He sits out front on his beach chair and waits for the ice cream truck. He always buys us some. Our favorite is Yellow Submarine. It's vanilla with fat butterscotch swirls, dipped in white chocolate. I know it sounds kind of odd, but it's good."

  "Yes," I said absently, thinking about all the things Mom had told me about my father. I was hearing them now for the first time. "That might be nice."

  Robots Don't Cry

  Mike Resnick

  Here's a poignant look at loyalty that persists through The End of The World—and out the other side.

  Mike Resnick is one of the bestselling authors in science fiction and one of the most prolific. His many novels include Santiago, The Dark Lady, Stalking The Unicorn, Birthright: The Book of Man, Paradise, Ivory, Soothsayer, Oracle, Lucifer Jones, Purgatory, Inferno, A Miracle of Rare Design, The Widowmaker, The Soul Eater, and A Hunger in the Soul. His award-winning short fiction has been gathered in the collections Will the Last Person to Leave the Planet Please Turn Off the Sun?, An Alien Land, Kirinyaga, A Safari of the Mind, and Hunting the Snark and Other Short Novels. In the last decade or so, he has become almost as prolific as an anthologist, producing, as editor, Inside the Funhouse: 17 SF Stories About SF, Whatdunits, More Whatdunits, and Shaggy B.E.M. Stories; a long string of anthologies coedited with Martin H. Greenberg—Alternate Presidents, Alternate Kennedys, Alternate Warriors, Aladdin: Master of the Lamp, Dinosaur Fantastic, By Any Other Fame, Alternate Outlaws, and Sherlock Holmes in Orbit, among others—as well as two anthologies coedited with Gardner Dozois. He won the Hugo Award in 1989 for "Kirinyaga." He won another Hugo Award in 1991 for another story in the Kirinyaga series, "The Manumouki," and another Hugo and Nebula in 1995 for his novella "Seven Views of Olduvai Gorge." His most recent books include the novel The Return of Santiago and the anthologies Stars: Songs Inspired by the Songs of Janis Ian (edited with Janis Ian) and New Voices in Science Fiction. He lives with his wife, Carol, in Cincinnati, Ohio.

  They call us graverobbers, but we're not.

  What we do is plunder the past and offer it to the present. We hit old worlds, deserted worlds, worlds that nobody wants any longer, and we pick up anything we think we can sell to the vast collectibles market. You want a seven-hundred-year-old timepiece? A thousand-year-old bed? An actual printed book? Just put in your order, and sooner or later we'll fill it.

  Every now and then we strike it rich. Usually we make a profit. Once in a while we just break even. There's only been one world where we actually lost money; I still remember it—Greenwillow. Except that it wasn't green, and there wasn't a willow on the whole damned planet.

  There was a robot, though. We found him, me and the Baroni, in a barn, half-hidden under a pile of ancient computer parts and self-feeders for mutated cattle.

  We were picking through the stuff, wondering if there was any market for it, tossing most of it aside, when the sun peeked in through the doorway and glinted off a prismatic eye.

  "Hey, take a look at what we've got here," I said. "Give me a hand digging it out."

  The junk had been stored a few feet above where he'd been standing and the rack broke, practically burying him. One of his legs was bent at an impossible angle, and his expressionless face was covered with cobwebs. The Baroni lumbered over—when you've got three legs you don't glide gracefully—and studied the robot.

  "Interesting," he said. He never used whole sentences when he could annoy me with a single word that could mean almost anything.

  "He should pay our expenses, once we fix him up and, get him running," I said.

  "A human configuration," noted the Baroni.

  "Yeah, we still made 'em in our own image until a couple of hundred years ago."

  "Impractical."

  "Spare me your practicalities," I said. "Let's dig him out."

  "Why bother?"

  Trust a Baroni to miss the obvious. "Because he's got a memory cube," I answered. "Who the hell knows what he's seen? Maybe we'll find out what happened here."

  "Greenwillow has been abandoned since long before you were born and I was hatched," replied the Baroni, finally stringing some words together. "Who cares what happened?"

  "I know it makes your head hurt, but try to use your brain," I said, grunting as I pulled at the robot's arm. It came off in my hands. "Maybe whoever he worked for hid some valuables." I dropped the arm onto the floor. "Maybe he knows where. We don't just have to sell junk, you know; there's a market for the good stuff too."

  The Baroni shrugged and began helping me uncover the robot. "I hear a lot of ifs and maybes," he muttered.

  "Fine," I said. "Just sit on what passes for your ass, and I'll do it myself."

  "And let you keep what we find without sharing it?" he demanded, suddenly throwing himself into the task of moving the awkward feeders. After a moment he stopped and studied one. "Big cows," he noted.

  "Maybe ten or twelve feet at the shoulder, judging from the size of the stalls and the height of the feeders," I agreed. `But there weren't enough to fill the barn. Some of those stalls were never used."

  Finally we got the robot uncovered, and I checked the code on the back of his neck.

  "How about that?" I said. "The son of a bitch must be five hundred years old. That makes him an antique by anyone's definition. I wonder what we can get for him?"

  The Baroni peered at the code. "What does AB stand for?"

  "Aldebaran. Alabama. Abrams' Planet. Or maybe just the model number. Who the hell knows? We'll get him running and maybe he can tell us." I tried to set him on his feet. No luck. "Give me a hand."

  "To the ship?" asked the Baroni, using sentence fragments again as he helped me stand the robot upright.

  "No," I said. "We don't need a sterile environment to work on a robot. Let's just get him out in the sunlight, away from all this junk, and then we'll have a couple of mechs check him over."

  We half-carried and half-dragged him to the crumbling concrete pad beyond the barn, then laid him down while I tightened the muscles in my neck, activating the embedded micro-chip, and directed the signal by pointing to the ship, which was about half a mile away.

  "This is me," I said as the chip carried my voice back to the ship's computer. "Wake up Mechs Three and Seven, feed them everything you've got on robots going back a millennium, give them repair kits and anything else they'll need to fix a broken robot of indeterminate age, and then home in on my signal and send them to me."

  "Why those two?" asked the Baroni.

  Sometimes I wondered why I partnered with anyone that dumb. Then I remembered the way he could sniff out anything with a computer chip or cube, no matter how well it was hidden, so I decided to give him a civil answer. He didn't get that many from me; I hoped he appreciated it.

  "Three's got those extendable eyestalks, and it can do microsurgery, so I figure it can deal with any faulty microcircuits. As for Seven, it's strong as an ox. It can position the robot, hold him aloft, move him any way that Three directs it to. They're both going to show up filled to the brim with everything the ship's data bank has on robots, so if he's salvageable, they'll find a way to salvage him."

  I waited
to see if he had any more stupid questions. Sure enough, he had.

  "Why would anyone come here?" he asked, looking across the bleak landscape.

  "I came for what passes for treasure these days," I answered him. "I have no idea why you came."

  "I meant originally," he said, and his face started to glow that shade of pea-soup green that meant I was getting to him. "Nothing can grow, and the ultraviolet rays would eventually kill most animals. So why?"

  "Because not all humans are as smart as me."

  "It's an impoverished world," continued the Baroni. "What valuables could there be?"

  "The usual," I replied. "Family heirlooms. Holographs. Old kitchen implements. Maybe even a few old Republic coins."

  "Republic currency can't be spent."

  "True—but a few years ago I saw a five-credit coin sell for three hundred Maria Teresa dollars. They tell me it's worth twice that today"

  "I didn't know that," admitted the Baroni.

  "I'll bet they could fill a book with all the things you don't know."

  "Why are Men so sardonic and ill-mannered?"

  "Probably because we have to spend so much time with races like the Baroni," I answered.

  Mechs Three and Seven rolled up before he could reply. "Reporting for duty, sir," said Mech Three in his high-pitched mechanical voice.

  "This is a very old robot," I said, indicating what we'd found. "It's been out of commission for a few centuries, maybe even longer. See if you can get it working again."

  "We live to serve," thundered Mech Seven.

  "I can't tell you how comforting I find that." I turned to the Baroni. "Let's grab some lunch."

  "Why do you always speak to them that way?" asked the Baroni as we walked away from the mechs. "They don't understand sarcasm."

  "It's my nature," I said. "Besides, if they don't know it's sarcasm, it must sound like a compliment. Probably pleases the hell out of them."

  "They are machines," he responded. "You can no more please them than offend them."

  "Then what difference does it make?"

  "The more time I spend with Men, the less I understand them," said the Baroni, making the burbling sound that passed for a deep sigh. "I look forward to getting the robot working. Being a logical and unemotional entity, it will make more sense."

  "Spare me your smug superiority," I shot back. "You're not here because Papa Baroni looked at Mama Baroni with logic in his heart."

  The Baroni burbled again. "You are hopeless," he said at last.

  We had one of the mechs bring us our lunch, then sat with our backs propped against opposite sides of a gnarled old tree while we ate. I didn't want to watch his snakelike lunch writhe and wriggle, protesting every inch of the way, as he sucked it down like the long, living piece of spaghetti it was, and he had his usual moral qualms, which I never understood, about watching me bite into a sandwich. We had just about finished when Mech Three approached us.

  "All problems have been fixed," it announced brightly. "That was fast," I said.

  "There was nothing broken." It then launched into a three-minute explanation of whatever it had done to the robot's circuitry.

  "That's enough," I said when it got down to a dissertation on the effect of mu-mesons on negative magnetic fields in regard to prismatic eyes. "I'm wildly impressed. Now let's go take a look at this beauty."

  I got to my feet, as did the Baroni, and we walked back to the concrete pad. The robot's limbs were straight now, and his arm was restored, but he still lay motionless on the crumbling surface.

  "I thought you said you fixed him."

  "I did," replied Mech Three. "But my programming compelled me not to activate it until you were present." "Fine," I said. "Wake him up."

  The little Mech made one final quick adjustment and backed away as the robot hummed gently to life and sat up.

  "Welcome back," I said.

  "Back?" replied the robot. "I have not been away." "You've been asleep for five centuries, maybe six." "Robots cannot sleep." He looked around. "Yet everything has changed. How is this possible?"

  "You were deactivated," said the Baroni. "Probably your power supply ran down."

  "Deactivated," the robot repeated. He swiveled his head from left to right, surveying the scene. "Yes. Things cannot change this much from one instant to the next."

  "Have you got a name?" I asked him.

  "Samson 4133. But Miss Emily calls me Sammy." "Which name do you prefer?"

  "I am a robot. I have no preferences."

  I shrugged. "Whatever you say, Samson."

  "Sammy," he corrected me.

  "I thought you had no preferences."

  "I don't," said the robot. "But she does."

  "Has she got a name?"

  "Miss Emily."

  "Just Miss Emily?" I asked. "No other names to go along with it?"

  "Miss Emily is what I was instructed to call her."

  "I assume she is a child," said the Baroni, with his usual flair for discovering the obvious.

  "She was once," said Sammy. "I will show her to you."

  Then somehow, I never did understand the technology involved, he projected a full-sized holograph of a small girl, perhaps five years old, wearing a frilly purple-andwhite outfit. She had rosy cheeks and bright shining blue eyes, and a smile that men would die for someday if given half the chance.

  It was only after she took a step forward, a very awkward step, that I realized she had a prosthetic left leg. "Too bad," I said. "A pretty little girl like that."

  "Was she born that way, I wonder?" said the Baroni.

  "I love you, Sammy," said the holograph.

  I hadn't expected sound, and it startled me. She had such a happy voice. Maybe she didn't know that most little girls came equipped with two legs. After all, this was an underpopulated colony world; for all I knew, she'd never seen anyone but her parents.

  "It is time for your nap, Miss Emily," said Sammy's voice. "I will carry you to your room." Another surprise. The voice didn't seem to come from the robot, but from somewhere ... well, offstage. He was re-creating the scene exactly as it had happened, but we saw it through his eyes. Since he couldn't see himself, neither could we.

  "I'll walk," said the child. "Mother told me I have to practice walking, so that someday I can play with the other girls."

  "Yes, Miss Emily."

  "But you can catch me if I start to fall, like you always do."

  "Yes, Miss Emily."

  "What would I do without you, Sammy?"

  "You would fall, Miss Emily," he answered. Robots are always so damned literal.

  And as suddenly as it had appeared, the scene vanished.

  "So that was Miss Emily?' I said.

  "Yes," said Sammy.

  "And you were owned by her parents?'

  "Yes."

  "Do you have any understanding of the passage of time, Sammy?"

  "I can calibrate time to within three nanoseconds of..."

  "That's not what I asked," I said. "For example, if I told you that scene we just saw happened more than five hundred years ago, what would you say to that?"

  "I would ask if you were measuring by Earth years, Galactic Standard years, New Calendar Democracy years ... "

  "Never mind," I said.

  Sammy fell silent and motionless. If someone had stumbled upon him at just that moment, they'd have been hard-pressed to prove that he was still operational.

  "What's the matter with him?" asked the Baroni. "His battery can't be drained yet."

  "Of course not. They were designed to work for years without recharging."

  And then I knew. He wasn't a farm robot, so he had no urge to get up and start working the fields. He wasn't a mech, so he had no interest in fixing the feeders in the barn. For a moment I thought he might be a butler or a major domo, but if he was, he'd have been trying to learn my desires to serve me, and he obviously wasn't doing that. That left just one thing.

  He was a nursemaid.

&
nbsp; I shared my conclusion with the Baroni, and he concurred.

  "We're looking at a lot of money here," I said excitedly. "Think of it—a fully functioning antique robot nursemaid! He can watch the kids while his new owners go rummaging for more old artifacts."

  "There's something wrong," said the Baroni, who was never what you could call an optimist.

  "The only thing wrong is we don't have enough bags to haul all the money we're going to sell him for."

  "Look around you," said the Baroni. "This place was abandoned, and it was never prosperous. If he's that valuable, why did they leave him behind?"

  "He's a nursemaid. Probably she outgrew him." "Better find out." He was back to sentence fragments again.

  I shrugged and approached the robot. "Sammy, what did you do at night after Miss Emily went to sleep?"

  He came to life again. "I stood by her bed."

  "All night, every night?"

  "Yes, sir. Unless she woke and requested pain medication, which I would retrieve and bring to her."

  "Did she require pain medication very often?" I asked. "I do not know, sir."

  I frowned. "I thought you just said you brought it to her when she needed it."

  "No, sir," Sammy corrected me. "I said I brought it to her when she requested it."

  "She didn't request it very often?"

  "Only when the pain became unbearable." Sammy paused. "I do not fully understand the word `unbearable,' but I know it had a deleterious effect upon her. My Miss Emily was often in pain."

  "I'm surprised you understand the word `pain,' " I said. "To feel pain is to be non-operational or dysfunctional to some degree."

  "Yes, but it's more than that. Didn't Miss Emily ever try to describe it?"

  "No," answered Sammy. "She never spoke of her pain."

  "Did it bother her less as she grew older and adjusted to her handicap?" I asked.

  "No, sir, it did not." He paused. "There are many kinds of dysfunction."

  "Are you saying she had other problems, too?" I continued.

  Instantly we were looking at another scene from Sammy's past. It was the same girl, now maybe thirteen years old, staring at her face in a mirror. She didn't like what she saw, and neither did I.