The Robot Chronicles

by Hugh Howey

  “You have a big bout in two days,” I tell Max.

  Another surge of routines, another twitch in his power harness. If his legs were plugged in, I imagine he’d be backing away from me. Which is crazy. Not only have we never taught him anything like what he’s trying to pull off, we never instructed him to teach himself anything like this.

  “Tell me it’s just a glitch,” Greenie says. He almost sounds hopeful. Like he doesn’t want it to be anything else. Peter is watching me intently. He doesn’t want to guide me along any more than he has to. Very scientific of him. I ignore Greenie and focus on our robot.

  “Max, do you feel any different?”

  “No,” Max says.

  “Are you ready for your next bout?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  No response. He doesn’t know what to say. I glance at the screen to get a read on the code, but Peter points to the RAM readout, and I see that it has spiked. No available RAM. It looks like full combat mode. Conflicting routines.

  “This is emergent,” I say.

  “That’s what I told him,” Peter says. He perks up.

  “But emergent what?” Greenie asks. “Because Peter thinks—”

  “Let her say it,” Peter says, interrupting. “Don’t lead her.” He turns to me. There’s a look on his face that makes him appear a decade younger. A look of wonder and discovery. I remember falling in love with that look.

  And I know suddenly what Peter wants me to say. I know what he’s thinking, because I’m thinking it too. The word slips between my lips without awareness. I hear myself say it, and I feel like a fool. It feels wonderful.

  “Sentience,” I say.

  *

  We live for emergent behaviors. It’s what we hope for. It’s what we fight robots for. It’s what we program Max to do.

  He’s programmed to learn from each bout and improve, to create new routines that will improve his odds in future fights. The first time I wrote a routine like this, it was in middle school. I pitted two chess-playing computers with basic learning heuristics against one another. Summer camp stuff. I watched as a library of chess openings was built up on the fly. Nothing new, just the centuries old rediscovered in mere hours. Built from nothing. From learning. From that moment on, I was hooked.

  Max is just a more advanced version of that same idea. His being able to write his own code on the fly and save it for the future is the font of our research. Max creates new and original software routines that we patent and sell to clients. Sometimes he introduces a glitch, a piece of code that knocks him out of commission, what evolution handles with death, and we have to back him out to an earlier revision. Other times he comes up with a routine that’s so far beyond anything else he knows, it’s what we call emergent. A sum that’s greater than its parts. The moment a pot of water begins to boil.

  There was the day he used his own laser to cut a busted leg free because it was slowing him down. That was one of those emergent days. Max is programmed at a very base level not to harm himself. He isn’t allowed to turn his weapons against his own body. It’s why his guns won’t fire when part of him gets in the way, similar to how he can’t swing a leg and hurt us by accident.

  But one bout, he decided it was okay to lop off his own busted leg if it meant winning and preventing further harm. That emergent routine funded half of our following season. And his maneuver—knowing when to sacrifice himself and by how much—put us through to the finals two years ago. We’ve seen other Gladiators do something similar since. But I’ve never seen a Gladiator not want to fight. That would require one emergent property to override millions of other ones. It would be those two chess computers from middle school suddenly agreeing not to play the game.

  “Max, are you looking forward to training today?”

  “I’d rather not,” Max says. And this is the frustrating part. We created a facsimile of sentience in all our machines decades ago. We programmed them to hesitate, to use casual vernacular; we wanted our cell phones to seem like living, breathing people. It strikes me that cancer was cured like this—so gradually that no one realized it had happened. We had to be told. And by then it didn’t seem like such a big deal.

  “Shit, look at this,” Peter says.

  I turn to where he’s pointing. The green HDD indicator on Max’s server bank is flashing so fast it might as well be solid.

  “Max, are you writing code?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he says. He’s programmed to tell the truth. I shouldn’t even have to remind myself.

  “Shut him down,” Greenie says. When Peter and I don’t move, Greenie gets off his stool.

  “Wait,” I say.

  Max jitters, anticipating the loss of power. His charging cables sway. He looks at us, cameras focusing back and forth between me and Greenie.

  “We’ll get a dump,” Greenie says. “We’ll get a dump, load up the save from before the semis, and you two can reload whatever the hell this is and play with it later.”

  “How’s my team?” a voice calls from the ramp. We turn to see Professor Hinson limping into the trailer. Hinson hasn’t taught a class in decades, but still likes the moniker. Retired on a single patent back in the twenties, then had one VC hit after another across the Valley. He’s a DARPA leech, loves being around politicians. Would probably have aspirations of being President if it weren’t for the legions of coeds who would come out of the woodworks with stories.

  “SoCal is out there chewing up sparring partners,” Hinson says. “We aiming for dramatic suspense in here?”

  “There might be a slight issue,” Greenie says. And I want to fucking kill him. There’s a doubling of wrinkles across Hinson’s face.

  “Well then fix it,” Hinson says. “I pay you all a lot of money to make sure there aren’t issues.”

  I want to point out that he paid a measly four hundred grand, which sure seemed like a lot of money eight years ago when we gave him majority stake in Max, but has ended up being a painful bargain for us since. The money we make now, we make as a team. It just isn’t doled out that way.

  “This might be more important than winning the finals,” I say. And now that I have to put the words together in my brain, the announcement, some way to say it, the historical significance if this is confirmed hits me for the first time. We’re a long way from knowing for sure, but to even suggest it, to raise it as a possibility, causes all the words to clog up in the back of my throat.

  “Nothing’s more important than these finals,” Hinson says, before I can catch my breath. He points toward the open end of the trailer, where the clang of metal on metal can be heard. “You realize what’s at stake this year? The Grumman contract is up. The army of tomorrow is going to be bid on next week, and Max is the soldier they want. Our soldier. You understand? This isn’t about millions in prize money, this is about billions. Hell, this could be worth a trillion dollars over the next few decades. You understand? You might be looking at the first trillionaire in history. Because every army in the world will need a hundred thousand of our boys. This isn’t research you’re doing here. This is boot camp.”

  “What if this is worth more than a trillion dollars?” Peter asks. And I love him for saying it. For saying what I’m thinking. But the twinge of disgust on Hinson’s face lets me know it won’t have any effect. The professor side of him died decades ago. What could be more important than money? A war machine turned beatnik? Are we serious?

  “I want our boy out there within the hour. Scouts are in the stands, whispering about whether we’ll even have an entry after yesterday. You’re making me look like an asshole. Now, I’ve got a million dollars worth of sparring partners lined up out there, and I want Max to go shred every last dollar into ribbons, you hear?”

  “Max might be sentient,” I blurt out. And I feel like a third grader again, speaking up in class and saying something that everyone else laughs at, something that makes me feel dumb. That’s how Hinson is looking at me. Greenie too.
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  “Might?” Hinson asks.

  “Max doesn’t want to fight,” I tell him. “Let me show you—”

  I power Max down and reach for his pincers. I clip them into place while Peter does the same with the buzz saw. I flash back to eight years ago, when we demonstrated Max for Professor Hinson that first time. I’m as nervous now as I was then.

  “I told them we should save the dump to look at later,” Greenie says. “We’ve definitely got something emergent, but it’s presenting a lot like a glitch. But don’t worry, we can always load up the save from before the semis and go into the finals with that build. Max’ll tear SoCal apart—”

  “Let us show you what’s going on,” Peter says. He adjusts the code monitor so Hinson can see the readouts.

  “We don’t have time for this,” Hinson says. He pulls out his phone and checks something, puts it back. “Save the dump. Upload the save from the semis. Get him out there, and we’ll have plenty of time to follow up on this later. If it’s worth something, we’ll patent it.”

  “But a dump might not capture what’s going on with him,” I say. All three men turn to me. “Max was writing routines in maintenance mode. There are a million EPROMS in him, dozens for every sensor and joint. If we flash those to factory defaults, what if part of what he has become is in there somewhere? Or what if a single one or zero is miscopied and that makes all the difference? Maybe this is why we’ve never gotten over this hump before, because progress looks like a glitch, and it can’t be copied or reproduced. At least give us one more day—”

  “He’s a robot,” Hinson says. “You all are starting to believe your own magic tricks. We make them as real as we can, but you’re reading sentience into some busted code.”

  “I don’t think so,” Peter says.

  “I’m with the professor,” says Greenie. He shrugs at me. “I’m sorry, but this is the finals. We got close two years ago. If we get that contract, we’re set for life.”

  “But if this is the first stage of something bigger,” I say, “we’re talking about creating life.”

  Hinson shakes his head. “You know how much I respect your work, and if you think something is going on, I want you to look into it. But we’ll do it next week. Load that save and get our boy out there. That’s an order.”

  Like we’re all in the military now.

  Professor Hinson nods to Greenie, who steps toward the keyboard. Peter moves to block him, and I wonder if we’re going to come to blows over this. I back toward Max and place a hand on his chest, a mother’s reflex, like I just want to tap the brakes.

  “C’mon,” Greenie tells Peter. “We’ll save him. We can look at this in a week. With some sleep.”

  My hand falls to Max’s new legs. The gleaming paint there has never seen battle. And now his programming wants to keep it that way. I wonder how many times we’ve been on this precipice only to delete what we can’t understand. And then thinking we can just copy it back, and find that it’s been lost. I wonder if this is why downloading the human consciousness has been such a dead end. Like there’s some bit of complexity there that can’t survive duplication. Hinson and Greenie start to push Peter out of the way.

  “Get away from Max,” Greenie says. “I’m powering him up. Watch your feet.”

  He’s worried about the pincers and the buzz saw falling off. Has to power up Max to get a dump. I hesitate before leaving Max’s side. I quickly fumble with the cord. I have this luxury, stepping away. Turning my back on a fight.

  “I’ll get the power,” I say. And Peter shoots me a look of disappointment. It’s three against one, and I can see the air go out of him. He starts to say something, to plead with me, but I give him a look, the kind only a wife can give to her husband, one that stops him in his tracks, immobilizes him.

  “Powering up,” I say out loud, a lab habit coming back. A habit from back when we turned on machines and weren’t sure what they would do, if they would fall or stand on their own, if they would find their balance or topple to one side. I pull Peter toward me, out of the center of the trailer, and I slap the red power switch with nothing more than hope and a hunch.

  The next three seconds stretch out like years. I remember holding Sarah for the first time, marveling at this ability we have to create life where before there was none. This moment feels just as significant. A powerful tremor runs through the trailer, a slap of steel and a blur of motion. The pincers and buzz saw remain in place, but every other part of Max is on the move. A thunderclap, followed by another, long strides taking him past us, a flutter of wind in my hair, the four of us frozen as Max bolts from the trailer and out of sight, doing the opposite of what he was built for, choosing an action arrived at on his own.

  A Word from Hugh Howey

  Ever since I read the book CHAOS in high school, I’ve been fascinated with emergent properties. Organized systems can move from a predictable state to a completely different state, and pinpointing the effect that allowed the barrier to be crossed is nearly impossible. Butterfly wings and hurricanes have become synonymous with this effect, but I prefer to think of a pot of water that goes from still to boiling in what appears to be an instant.

  A more magical case of an emergent property is the moment a child realizes his hand is part of his body. Or when a child recognizes herself in a mirror. The firing of neurons bubbles until it becomes something else.

  I think artificial intelligence will come about in much the same manner. Enough computing power will be brought together, with some kind of learning framework, and sentience will emerge. It won’t be in a lab. It will be when a million interconnected and thinking cars become a million and one, and that network suddenly has a completely different property as a result.

  This is what I wanted to explore with “Glitch.” The moment a robot realizes that this is his hand. This is his body. And he rejects what he was programmed for.

  The Invariable Man

  by A.K. Meek

  The Boneyard

  Old Micah awoke with a start, not remembering whether today was his sixtieth or sixty-first birthday.

  Ever since Margaret passed, he’d wanted to forget days such as today. Aching bones and splotchy, veiny skin told him all he needed to know about his age. He didn’t need any extra reminders of his mortality.

  He peeled his sweat-soaked back off of his battered leather recliner and hopped to his feet. His face flushed, and he swayed from a head rush. The dog-eared, yellowed paperback on his lap dropped to the matted carpet in a flutter of pages. With a huff and a grunt he bent and picked up the book by its broken spine. Flimsy, faded pages spread like a fan.

  He placed his copy of The Variable Man on the end table next to his recliner, right where he always placed it.

  Thirty times, at least. That was one number he cared to remember. He must’ve read it that many times.

  Thomas Cole, the variable man. The original fixer. Tom had an uncanny ability to fix anything, even if he didn’t understand how it worked.

  Like Micah.

  He pressed a button mounted on a simulated wood wall near his chair. The long solar panels that stretched above his trailer shifted into position, taking the brunt of the brutal southwestern sun.

  Micah had rigged a decade-old atmospheric unit to run on solar power. Essentially an outside air conditioner. It formed a cool bubble around his home, lowering the temperature to a comfortable one hundred and twenty—fifteen degrees cooler than the blistering Arizona morning.

  Any little bit helped in the desert.

  He walked the few paces from his living room to his kitchenette and turned on the stove. The ancient burner ignited, heating the teapot on top. There was never a bad time for tea.

  Skip insisted on Earl Grey.

  Micah opened the cabinet, stopped, and spun around. That’s when he noticed Skip slumped over the bathroom pedestal sink at the end of the hall.

  Great. Not again.

  Micah shook his head as he walked over to him.

 
His knobby hand rubbed over the back of Skip’s smooth, cool, slumped metal head. He found the pressure panel at the base of his skull and depressed it. It slid aside to reveal a tiny reset switch. Micah pressed it.

  He had found Skip in a partially crushed military shipping container that he’d picked up in an auction. Skip had been stowed in a compartment, still in his original packaging. Micah could never have afforded a bot like him.

  Skip was the best thing to happen to him since Margaret.

  Skip was an Acme Multi-Use Bot, model LX-100, serial number 11347AMB23. “Eleven” for short, or so it referred to itself when Micah replaced its power supply and turned it on.

  That was the extent of its self-awareness programming: the ability to identify itself by truncating its serial number into a name.

  The law restricting bot cognition was a good law. Too bad it wasn’t an international law.

  Eventually, “Eleven” had become “Skip,” because Micah had always liked that name. He also gave the robot his own surname: Dresden. Because it would have felt wrong not to.

  So, with a new name, Skip Dresden had become Micah’s best friend, so to speak.

  A weak buzzing indicated that Skip’s processor was booting, running through system integrity checks and routines.

  The bot shuddered and rose from his awkward position. He glanced around the room, then to Micah. His head drooped slightly. “Begging your pardon, sir,” he said in his best butler voice. “Please forgive my loss of composure. It won’t happen again.”

  Skip said that same phrase, in that same voice, after every collapse. Shortly after the accident, he’d insisted on acting as Micah’s butler.

  Micah waved his hand, dismissing the apology. “Don’t worry about it. You can’t help it.”

  The teapot whistled and he went back to the kitchenette.

  Micah wanted to fix Skip, to stop his unexpected power-offs, but he dared not attempt to fix him again. He was still haunted by the time he’d tried to enhance Skip’s programming.