We, Robots

by Simon Ings

  In the early years of my patrol I saw no such remnants whatsoever and wondered occasionally whether or not Central’s instructions were quite clear… maybe they did not exist… but recently I have been seeing many more. There was the man I killed yesterday, for instance, and the three I killed the day before that and the miserable huddled clan of twelve I dispatched the day before that, and all in all, in the last fifteen days, after having never seen a man in all my years of duty, I have now had the regrettable but interesting task of killing one hundred and eight of them, fifty-three by hand and the remainder through beaming devices that seared their weak flesh abominably. I can smell them yet.

  I have had cause to wonder whether or not all these men or at least some proportion of them are hallucinative, figments of my unconsciousness, due to my increasing breakdown. I have been granted by Central (as have all of us) free will and much imagination, and certainly these thoughts would occur to any thinking being. There seem to be too many men after a period of there having been too little. Also, indiscriminate murder has disturbed me in a way which my programming had probably not provided; whether these remnants are real or not, I wonder about the “morality” of dispatching so many of them. What, after all, could these men do to Central? I know what they are supposed to have done in the dim and difficult past, but events which occurred before our own creation are merely rumor and I was activated by Central a long time after these alleged events.

  Do we have the right to kill indiscriminately these men who, however brutalized, carry within themselves some aspect of our creators? I asked these questions of Central and the word came back. It was clear.

  “Kill,” Central said, “kill. Real or imagined, brutalized or elevated, benign or diseased, these remnants are your enemy and you must destroy them. Would you go against the intent of programming? Do you believe that you have the capacity to make judgments; you whose own damage and wear are so evident that you have been pleading like a fleshly thing for support and assistance? Until you can no longer activate yourself, you must kill.”

  IV

  It occurs to me that it would be a useful and gallant thing to build a replica of myself that would be able to carry on my own duties. Central’s position is clear, my own ambivalence has been resolved… but my sensors continue to fail dramatically; I am half blind, am unable to coordinate even gross motions, can barely lift my beam to chest height, can hardly sustain the current to go out on patrol. Nevertheless, I accept the reasons why the patrol must continue. If these men represent even the faintest threat to Central who will someday repair me, they must be exterminated.

  Accordingly, I comport myself to the repair quarters which are at the base of the tunneled circuits in which I rest and there, finding an agglomeration of spare parts, go about the difficult business of constructing a functioning android. I am not interested now in creating free will and thought, of course—this is Central’s job anyway; it would be far beyond my meager abilities—but merely something with wheels and motor functions, dim, gross sensors that will pick up forms against the landscape and destroy them. Although I am quite weak and at best would not be constructed for such delicate manipulations, it is surprisingly easy to trace out the circuitry simply by duplicating my own patterns, and in less time than I would have predicted, a gross shell of a robot lays on the floor before me, needing only the final latch of activation.

  At this point and for the first time, I am overcome by a certain feeling of reluctance. It certainly seems audacious for me to have constructed a crude replica of myself, a slash of arrogance and self-indulgence which does not befit a robot of my relatively humble position. Atavistic fears assault me like little clutches of ash in the darkness: the construction of forms, after all, is the business of Central and in appropriating this duty to myself, have I not in a sense blasphemed against that great agency?

  But the reluctance is overcome. I realize that what I am doing is done more for Central than against it; I am increasingly incapable of carrying out my duties and for Central’s sake must do everything within my power to continue. Soon Central will repair me and then I will dispose of this crude replica and assume the role which has been ordained for me, but in the meantime, and in view of the great and increasing difficulties which Central faces, I can do no less than be ingenious and try to assist it in my own way. This quickly banishes my doubt and I activate the robot. It lies on the floor glowing slightly in the untubed wiring, regarding me with an expression which, frankly, is both stupid and hostile. Clumsy, hasty work of course but cosmetics are merely a state of mind.

  “Kill men,” I instruct the replica, handing over my beam to it. “They live in packs and in solitude in the open places, they skulk through the plains, they pose a great menace to our beloved Central which, as we know, is now involved in repairing us all, reconstituting our mission. Destroy them. Anything moving in the outer perimeters is to be destroyed at once by force or by high beam,” and then, quite exhausted from my efforts, to say nothing of the rather frightening effect which the replica has had upon me, I turn away from it. Cued to a single program, it lumbers quickly away, seeking higher places, bent on assuming my duties.

  It is comforting to know that my responsibilities will not be shirked and that by making my own adjustments I have saved Central a certain degree of trouble, but the efforts have really racked me; I try to deactivate but find instead that I am racked by hallucinations for a long period, hallucinations in which the men like beasts fall upon my stupid replica and eviscerate him, the poor beast’s circuitry being too clumsy and hastily assembled to allow him to raise quickly the saving beam. It is highly unpleasant and it is all that I can do not to share my distress with Central. Some ancient cunning, however, prevents me from so doing; I suspect that if Central knew the extent of my ingenious maneuvers—even though they were done for Central’s sake—it would be most displeased.

  V

  My replica works out successfully and through the next several shift periods goes out to the empty spaces and returns with tales of having slain several hundred or thousand men. We have worked out a crude communications system, largely in signals and in coded nods and it is clear that my replica has performed enormous tasks out there, tasks certainly beyond my own limited means. I have created a true killing machine. My impressions of a vast increase in the number of men out there were not hallucinative or indicative of deterioration at all but appear to have resulted from real changes in the conditions out there. These remnants seem to be reproducing themselves; also they are becoming bolder.

  “Kill,” I say to my replica every shift period before sending it out again. “Kill men. Kill the beasts. Kill the aggressors.” It is a simple program and must be constantly reinforced. Also, tubes and wiring, because of the crudeness of my original hasty construction, keep on falling out now and have to be packed in again as the program is reconstituted.

  Still and truly, my replica seems to need little encouragement. “Yes,” it says in its simple and stumbling way, “yes and yes. Kill men. Kill beasts. Kill and kill,” and goes staggering into the empty spaces, returning much later with its stark tales of blood. “Killing. Much killing and men,” it says before collapsing to the ground, its wires and tubing once again ruptured.

  I do what I can to reconstitute. My own powers are ebbing; there are times during which I doubt even the simple continuing capacity to maintain my replica. Nevertheless, some stark courage, a simple sense of obligation keep me going. The men out there in the empty spaces are breeding, multiplying, becoming strong, adding to their number by the hundreds; were it not for my replica, who has the sole responsibility for patrol of this terrain, they might overwhelm this sector, might, for all I know, overwhelm Central itself. My replica and myself, only we are between Central and its destruction; it surely is a terrible and wonderful obligation and I find within myself thus the power to go on, although I do admit that it is progressively difficult, and I wonder if my replica, being created of my own hand, has not fal
len prey to some of my own deterioration and may, through weak and failing sensors, imagine there to be many more men than there actually are.

  Nevertheless, and at all costs, I go on. I maintain the replica. Somehow I keep it going, and toward the end of the first long series of shift periods, I have the feeling that we have, however painfully, at least struck some kind of balance with the terrible threatening forces of the outside.

  “Like kill men. For you,” my replica says once which in my acid heart I find touching.

  VI

  I have not heard from Central for a long time, but then I receive a message through my sensors indicating that my time for repair has arrived, and if I present myself at the beginning of the next shift period I will be fully reconstituted. This news quite thrills me as well it should, although it is strangely abrupt, giving me little time to prepare myself for the journey toward repair, and Central is at a good distance from here, fully three levels with a bit of an overland journey through the dangerous sectors apparently populated by men.

  Nevertheless, I present myself at the requested time, finding no interference overland. My replica has done an extraordinary job in cleaning out nests of the remnants, either that or my sensors by now are so entirely destroyed that I can perceive virtually nothing. In any event, I come into the great Chamber of Humility in which the living network of Central resides and present myself for repair. There is a flicker of light and then Central says, “You are done. You are completely repaired. You may go.”

  “This is impossible,” I say, astonished but managing to keep my tone mild. “I am exactly the same as before. My perceptions falter, I can barely move after the efforts of the journey and I sense leakage.”

  “Nevertheless,” Central says, “you are repaired. Please leave now. There are many hundreds behind you and my time is limited.”

  “I saw no one behind me,” I say, which happens to be quite the truth; as a matter of fact, I have had no contact with other robots for a long period. Sudden insight blazes within me; surely I would have found this peculiar if I had not been overcome by my own problems. “No one is there,” I say to Central, “no one whatsoever, and I feel that you have misled me about the basic conditions here.”

  “Nonsense,” Central says. “That is ridiculous. Leave the Chamber of Humility at once now,” and since there is nothing else to do and since Central has indicated quite clearly that the interview is over, I turn and manage, somehow, to leave. My sensors are almost completely extinguished; I feel a total sense of disconnection; still, out of fear and respect for Central, I obey the bidding. Outside in the corridors, however, my network fails me completely and I collapse with a rather sodden sound to the earth beneath, where I lay there quite incapable of moving.

  It is obvious that I have not been repaired and it is obvious that Central has broken down and it is obvious that my hapless journey for repair has completely destroyed the remains of my system, but nevertheless, as I lie there in black, my sensors utterly destroyed, I am able to probe within myself to find a sense of discovery and light because I have at least the comforting knowledge that my replica exists and will go on, prowling through the fields, carrying out the important tasks of survival.

  VII

  Lying there for quite a long time, I dream that I call upon my replica for assistance. “Kill me,” I say, “kill me, put me out of my misery, I can go on no longer, save me the unpleasantness of time without sensation,” and my replica, wise, compassionate, all stupidity purged (in the dream I can see him; sight has been restored), bends over me and with a single, ringing, merciful clout separates me from my history, sends me spinning out into the fields themselves where the men walk… and among them I walk, too, become in the dream as one of them, only my replica to know the difference when he comes, on the next shift period, to kill. To kill again. To save the machines from the men.

  (1975)

  DIRECTOR X AND THE THRILLING WONDERS OF OUTER SPACE

  Brian Trent

  Brian Trent’s writing career began in journalism, covering everything from longevity research in mice to artificial intelligence in Switzerland. Following dozens of short stories, sold to ANALOG, Fantasy & Science Fiction and others, Trent’s first novel, Ten Thousand Thunders, came out in 2018. Trent currently lives in New England.

  The hovercar zipped along Los Angeles’ abandoned streets like a glassy bullet, the reflected starlight melting along its sleek, tear-drop flanks. Its electric engine purred. The driver banked left through what remained of Laurel Canyon, rocketing over bomb craters and weaving in and out of palm trees that had sprouted from shattered asphalt.

  At Hollywood Hills, the hovercar’s headlights illuminated a cave. The vehicle roared inside, tail-lights filling the narrow tunnel with ruby light as the driver applied reverse-thrust. The headlights painted a matte-black door ahead, hung with a signpost:

  WHITLEY HEIGHTS BOMB SHELTER

  LOS ANGELES DISTRICT 5

  AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

  NO TRESPASSING

  The hovercar door clicked open. The driver unfolded itself from the seat and stepped out like an oversized praying mantis in the reddish gloom.

  Director X (as was his designation from the Global Security Protectorate) was a tall, silver robot who roughly approximated the human form. That is to say, Director X was bipedal, with two accordion arms and long, multijointed legs. It even had two eyes, like little flashlights protruding from the glass dome atop its neck.

  The eyes swiveled around, casting twin beams in the blackness. They halted at the door’s intercom.

  The robot stabbed one of its blocky fingers into the button and said cheerfully, “Hello! I am Director X. By authority of the Global Security Protectorate, I humbly thank you for opening your doors immediately and inviting me inside!”

  The black door lifted so quickly it seemed to have disappeared. Behind it, another door vanished, and then another, revealing a lengthy corridor opening into a gray rotunda.

  Director X plodded forward towards the lobby. The doors behind it snapped shut with a successive thump! thump! thump!

  The robot stood motionless in the soapy decontamination spray that followed. The spray, it knew, was unnecessary; radiation had long ago declined to perfectly safe levels. Nonetheless, Director X waited patiently as the liquid ran over his glass head and silver torso, black accordion arms, and the actuators in his legs. Blowers roared to life, drying him.

  One final door snapped open. Director X trundled through…

  … and into the quaint town Retro Los Angeles.

  The Stygian metropolis was a weak echo of its namesake. Brick buildings and plastic green parks, churches and schools, brass corporate doorways and outdoor cafes. Artificial palm trees lined the sidewalk like cheerful soldiers.

  Director X gazed up at the “sky.” It was the rocky ceiling of a cave, painted azure and with billowy clouds. The sun—a blazing globe like a massive heat-lamp—crawled east to west along a thinly concealed metal track in the granite.

  As the robot was descending white-lacquered steps into the town proper, someone cried, “You there!”

  Director X’s flashlight eyes snapped towards an approaching group of men and one little boy. “Hello,” it said.

  The men halted. Their presumed leader stepped forward, gray moustache bent in a mighty frown.

  “I’m Jonathan Croker, Mayor of District 5.”

  “And I am Director X, filmmaker of the Protectorate. Thank you for receiving me.” The robot hesitated, and then chose a complimentary line of small talk to put these obviously nervous people at ease; the only one who looked happy was the little boy. “I like your shelter’s doors. Very Forbidden Planet.”

  Croker’s expression didn’t soften. “Director X? You make those crappy… um… late-night movies, right? Why are you here? Robots never visit us.”

  “I was hoping to enlist the services of my human peers.”

  “What services?”

  “Well you see, t
here is a problem topside. This problem is—”

  “Giant ants!” the little boy shouted. “The topside world is filled with giant ants, right? You need people to help fight them, and locate their queen!”

  The mayor grinned bleakly. “This is my boy, Bobby. Sorry, he has an overactive imagination.”

  Director X stooped and patted the little human on his head. “Hello, Bobby! There are no giant ants in the world. But I see you are a fan of the Them! series. That makes me glad. I also like the Them! series.”

  The kid looked crestfallen. “No giant ants?”

  “Bobby!” Mayor Croker snapped. “Enough!”

  Director X straightened. “You are familiar with my movies, yes?”

  “Sure, when I can’t sleep. I’ve caught a few of your pictures.”

  “I am looking to make a new series of films and I have chosen District 5 to be my partner in this endeavor.”

  Jonathan Croker frowned until his moustache bent. “Your partner for what?”

  “I wish to enlist your townspeople as actors and writers and to utilize your town as a location. Ah! I can see several choice locales, including that beautiful church and lovely library. What a charming park! Why, even that bank could be used for an exciting robbery sequence!”

  The mayor regarded his associates. “I’m afraid we don’t understand. Robots make all the movies.”

  Director X gave an exaggerated nod. “That is correct. But as you surely know, before the War of 62, human beings made movies. I wish to involve human beings in the moviemaking process once again.”

  Suspicion creased Croker’s forehead. “Why? Is there a problem?”

  “Well yes. The problem is—”

  “Giant locusts!” the little boy cried.