Robot Awareness: The Inner Circle
By B.C. Kowalski
Edited by Tim Langton
© Robotics Anonymous and B.C. Kowalski
Intro
Cold. Dark. Empty. The Inner Circle was always all of these things. Even the many colonies and cities, the space ports and fueling stations, the causeways, the byways, and all of the buildings couldn't erase this feeling in everyone who entered its depths. The Inner Circle was cold, dark and empty.
— A particularly poetic freighter captain
***
Underow twitched nervously behind a tall bottle of the galaxy’s finest champagne, holding a half-empty glass between his thin, white fingers. His work awaited him, piling up as he watched the people around him, some of the richest in the galaxy, leaders of industry, dressed in their finest formal wear, as were their trophy wives and husbands. Some things from Old Earth never changed, he snorted.
It could have been a scene from any formal ball, and such things still existed in plenty abundance. They all looked relatively the same — anachronistic costumes, dark suits and bow ties, frilly, ornamented dresses no one would be caught dead wearing anywhere outside a formal event. Underow turned to look at the front of the ballroom, when the light blue ruffles of someone’s fancy dress absentmindedly brushed across his face. He blustered and wiped his cheek with his free hand, as if the ruffles had covered it in mud. He had no use for such ornamentation.
The old mixed with the new at these occasions. Hover trays replaced servers, floating around the room serving cocktails and hors d’oeuvres with perfect balance, pausing just long enough for each guest to plunk out an item before whizzing off to the next guest. Human servers didn’t really serve — having a uniformed crew that stood by and observed the proceedings was considered something of a status symbol amongst the galaxy's most elite.
Aside from the fabric assault, Underow paid little attention to the pomp and fuss. His main concern was the same as all of the other guests at the ball, though with a slightly different purpose — the auction. It was about to start, and the items were on display at the front of the room — 10 of them, perfectly arranged, encased in a protective glass case that gleamed in the chandelier’s light.
He was the only one in the room who didn’t want one of the robots.
Underow’s superiors assigned him to listen, to eavesdrop, to sway, to influence. The robots must command high bids, must bring in the largest revenues ever seen for a group of automatons. With 10 robots and a large ballroom full of guests — some of the richest this side of the galaxy — getting the bids up shouldn't be a difficult task. A little hint of information dropped at the right time from Underow would ensure that.
At just the right moment, Underow pulled out his comm device. It was turned off.
“Marzie, I do say I don’t think I shall have to pay that much for one of these... automations, here,” a man said behind tiny spectacles and a bushy beard.
“Well you better not,” a slender Rashonian woman said next to him. Her skin was the pure absence of light, so much that her features were almost indistinguishable. Members of the Rashonian race are exceedingly rare, and generally command a high price for their wedding acceptance. They only ended up with the richest of suitors and could only successfully mate with members of their own species, so any would-be husband or wife needs to accept the fact that their alien spouse will at some point be engaging in intercourse with a member of their own species in order to reproduce. Spouses typically don’t mind, because sex with Rashonians is said to be mind-blowing, offspring or no.
“I know, I know, I promised you a lance cruiser, and you will have it!” The man twirled his mustache, bushy near his mouth but curled into a point where his fingers touched it. “But this opportunity doesn’t come along very —"
“That’s right, I said another billion credits!” Underow yelled into the phone as loud as he could without it appearing intentional. He slurred his words a bit as he spoke them, holding the champagne glass loosely. A few drops spilled on the table cloth, slowly spreading into little round coin-sized dots as interest spread across the face of the bushy-bearded man. He put his hand on his Rashonian wife's wrist and patted it, a signal for her to stop talking a moment. Underow noticed the sudden interest.
“Yeah, I heard prices might start at 500 million. I don’t think anyone is going to touch one for less than 3 billion. You hear me? I’m—“ Underow started to look around, checking to see whether anyone was listening. The old man sipped his champagne, touching his Rashonian companion as if she’d just said something delightful.
He turned back to his conversation, as if forgetting himself altogether in his drunken state. “Now you lissen to me, you get me tha money, wire it over, and no mistake aboudit. You ear me?” He pretended to hang up the phone and polished off the rest of his champagne in one gulp, with a loud "ah" for emphasis.
The man guided his Rashonian wife away, and Underow noticed his hand reaching for a comm device. He smiled; or as much as Underow ever smiled, which was not very much at all.
He hated every minute of this, he hated the people, the formality of the occasion, the acting, all of it. But at least this mission of his appeared to be easy. He'd get through this assignment, and hopefully back to his solitude, crunching numbers in dark, gloomy peace.
Then he noticed her.
***
Celia stood still, quiet and upright next to the short, uniformed man. They stood before a dark computer terminal, only the shape of a man visible on the grey screen. Static flickered behind his silhouette.
Celia was calm and composed, but the man standing next to her sweated, his forehead wet with perspiration. His hands fidgeted nervously at his sides. The man had not spoken yet. The screen had flickered on in the dark room, the shape appeared, and the only sound in the entire room was the static hiss of the monitor and the shifting of the nervous man's uniform.
"... Wimprey ..." the screen suddenly hissed, shaking the uniformed man as he nearly yelped in surprised.
"S-s-s-sir!" The man saluted, his hand waving at his opposite shoulder as is customary in Company C culture.
"... I don't need nor care for your salute, Wimprey ..." The screen hissed. "... it's unnecessary and extraneous..." "... you're wasting time ..."
Celia had to hide her smile at Wimprey’s groveling.
The silhouetted man on the screen was a higher-up within the company. Some kind of boss, or middle management. Upper middle management? She didn't know more than that. Yet.
"... what information did you gather ..."
Wimprey swallowed. "Um ... nothing yet, sir, I... we're still maximizing our strategic position in —"
"... no excuses ..." The static surged in anger behind the dark shape on the screen. "...get to the point ..." "... get the information now ..."
"Sir?"
"... now ..." The static flared up one last time and then the screen went blank. Only a dim blue light lit the ship.
With the screen black, Wimprey went back to his unwarranted swagger. "He wants results, fine." Wimprey pulled from his holster a small electrical device that buzzed with energy.
He was too drunk with power and duty to notice Celia's eyebrows raise.
***
MaBrown leaned on the railing behind the main consoles on the bridge of the ship. His eyes darted around, taking in the ship's contours, its computer systems, as if searching for something.
Porter couldn't help but notice MaBrown's inquisitiveness as he oversaw the flight preparations. "Is there something you're looking for?" Porter asked, his arms crossed over his chest.
"Hmm?" MaBrown said, turning to Porter. "Oh no, why?"
<
br /> Porter said nothing. It seemed it was something the reporter did instinctively. Must come with the job, Porter thought. It didn't stop him from continuing to eye MaBrown suspiciously, though.
"So how fast does this ship go?" MaBrown asked.
"Fast enough," Porter said.
"What like, 20, 30 parsecs?"
"Hmph," Porter grunted. "Maybe on low. Isellia, what'd we clock that time outside Elbar?"
Isellia lifted her head from under the console. She had little interest in MaBrown, but anything having to do with spacecraft and speed would always catch her attention. "We went 73.2 on the fastest bit."
Porter nodded with pride, then caught himself as he realized how easily the reporter got him talking. That's what they do, he thought. He'd have to watch himself more.
"That's pretty fast," MaBrown said, still looking about the ship inquisitively. "Bet this ship's seen its share of scrapes, huh?"
"Nothing we can't handle. We scrape back," Isellia snorted. Porter gave her a look.
"So you've had a couple, huh? What kind of business you do here?"
"Isellia, didn't I tell you to show Mr. MaBrown to his quarters?" Porter's arms were still crossed, his forearms tightening a little. They were like darkened ropes coiling against each other. MaBrown noticed the effect.
"He said he wanted to see the bridge," Isellia answered. Porter looked at her impassively. "OK, whatever, I'll take him."
MaBrown smiled a little wider as she walked up to him. "Come on," she said, leading him to the door. "And wipe that stupid grin from your face!"
***
"Rise and shine," Wimprey said, his nasally, officious voice mustering all of his bravado. The small electrical device buzzed blue in his hand at his side while Rex, weary where he hung on his binds, looked up at Wimprey with a tired expression.
"Time for some answers," Wimprey said, grinning.
"He won't give you any," Celia said, with a crooked smile. Rex looked at her face. It was a mask. He couldn't tell what she was feeling, but he knew the expression she wore wasn't hers. Was there a tinge of — what, regret? Apprehension? He couldn't quite read it, but noted it for later.
"This is my little friend," Wimprey said, holding a stun device in his hand. He all but forgot Celia was there, he was so focused on Rex "And my little friend is going to ask you a few questions."
Rex looked at him briefly, then stared straight ahead to steel himself. He knew how to resist, to put his mind in a blank state, so the pain seemed to be happening somewhere else, to someone else. He would have only a vague recollection that it was, indeed, his body that was the victim of the pain. Doesn't mean it didn't still hurt like hell afterward, though.
"I'm telling you, you'll get nothing —" Celia said.
"Oh really!?" Wimprey turned to her, holding the device between them. "Maybe you know more than you're letting on!" His eyes looked drunk with power, and his hand twitched as if he were ready to turn the blue electricity on her. She grinned ever so slightly. Rex lifted an eyebrow. She wanted him to attack her? Things were more complicated than he thought. Best to let things play out a little more, he thought. Not that he had much choice anyway.
Wimprey looked at her a little longer, then shrugged. "Just stay out of my way, got it?" Celia, who had her hands raised in a surrender position (which Rex knew actually put her hands in a close, defensive posture), gave Wimprey a “by all means” expression.
"Now, where were we?" The little man cracked his shoulder to emphasize his words. He had the mannerisms of someone much larger and more imposing — Rex was convinced he actually saw himself that way. Rex smirked a bit internally, then steadied himself for the pain to come, sending all thought away from his body.
"Tell me about the robot." There was only the slightest of pauses before the shock came. Wimprey hardly hesitated at a chance to use his new toy. He would get his fun first, then some answers after he’d worn the man down. Celia watched silently behind him, though Rex thought he noticed a slight grimace each time the shock hit.
Electric blue sparks engulfed Rex as he writhed and twisted against his restraints. His body convulsed with pain. To Rex the pain was closer than he had felt before, despite his best efforts to mentally distance himself — each shock felt like it further crossed the gap between his body and his conscious mind. It was the difference between feeling like something was happening to him and something happening to someone else. Despite his best mental control efforts, that difference grew steadily indistinguishable.
"I said, tell me about the robot!" the little man happily seethed, grinning with the power he held the device at his side. Rex's body collapsed, his full weight on the restraints. The latest assault left him barely able to stand.
There was nothing from Rex, then more electricity. His body writhed in agony, nearly bridging that gap to his physical self, closer to penetrating his core. He didn't know how much longer he could hold out before the shocks hit him with their full force of pain.
Celia remained calm on the outside, but her nose twitched ever so slightly as she watched. Even from his disembodied state, Rex noticed her look down at something for only the slightest of moments.
***
Isellia hit the button to MaBrown's quarters, opening the sliding door with a creaky whoosh. "There you go. Stay there until we’re in flight, 'K?"
Isellia started to walk away as MaBrown stood in the spartan room — some off-white bedding resting on a built-in bunk that jutted out from the wall. A stained stainless steel sink and some very blank walls.
"That was quite a performance you had yesterday," MaBrown said, leaning against the doorway.
Isellia couldn't help but turn around. "You saw my race?"
"Yeah," MaBrown said, but he couldn't hold her gaze. "Highlights mostly. I caught the end of the race after work. Quite a finish at the end."
"Thanks." She looked at MaBrown differently than before — he'd found just the right thing to say to pique her interest. He had a knack for touching on topics people wanted to talk about. People are their own favorite topic, and their passions are their own favorite thing about themselves. Finding Isellia's wasn't hard.
But now MaBrown felt his face grow flush. He had interviewed politicians, men and women with more money than he'd ever see in his lifetime, celebrities known across multiple worlds. He'd always kept his cool relatively well, and if he was nervous at first it usually went away once he started asking questions.
"How long have you raced?"
"Since I was a little girl. Since I could barely reach the wheel." Her posture changed from someone about to walk away, to someone who meant to stick around. He felt a tingle of nervousness a little, suddenly having the attention of an attractive girl, even if she was just that.
"Sounds like a cool sport. Maybe a little scary?"
"No, I don't get scared." Isellia leaned against the bulkhead, her eyes relatively fixated on MaBrown. She seemed to be almost studying him.
He felt blank. It happened, even when he interviewed sources. Usually he just asked a random question he didn't really want an answer to, just to fill time while he thought of another question he really did wanted answered.
But those questions usually led to trouble with the opposite sex. "So it must have been hard to come back after that last race and..." He stopped himself, but it was too late, it was out of his mouth.
"What?"
"Um, sorry, I — hey, so this next race—"
"Yeah, sure, everyone brings that up." She stiffened up. "Yeah it was a tough breakdown, it was one of the worst experiences of my life!" Isellia turned so her side was to MaBrown as she leaned against the bulkhead.
"Look, I didn't — I'm sorry, I didn't mean to —"
"Then next time, don't!" Isellia yelled before walking away.
MaBrown leaned against the bulkhead and sighed. "Great job, MaBrown," he said to himself as she disappeared around the corner. "I'll be in here, thinking up more spaztastic things to say, if you need me.
"
***
Even Joey could feel the tension on the ship as it shook and shuttered up the elevator. MaBrown, who had seemed impossibly optimistic about the whole affair, now watched the viewscreen with a stiff gaze as his home planet became small underneath the ship’s hull. Joey saw a similar expression on everyone's face: the cold, almost vacant stare. Everyone was thinking it; thinking the same thing.
They were headed to the Inner Circle, when every instinct told them they should go in exactly the opposite direction.
It wasn't even the foreboding of evil, the sense of entering a place where everyone wanted to kill you. No, the Inner Circle was perhaps worse: trapped in a machine that keeps going, keeps fulfilling its purpose, blind to any effects it might have. A machine that would crush fingers, bones, people, a machine that didn’t stop and consider, didn’t care what was in its way. The machine that never stops. You worked within the machine, or you got in its way — and then in crushed you.
"Fifteen seconds to docking clamp release," Porter said.
"Engaging thrusters on standby," Isellia said. Their voices were impassive, like the unemotional voice of a machine.
Joey's brow furrowed a minute. "Why do you guys always say what you're going to do?"
Isellia looked at him incredulously. "Um, because?"
"Because why?" Joey asked. He was curious, and had become bold enough recently to ask questions.
"Because because!" Isellia said, breathing heavily.
"Because, because?" MaBrown mouthed, tilting his head to the side while contemplating the statement.
"You just do!" Isellia said.
“Surprises on a ship mean death,” Porter began as the docking clamps released, punctuating his words with a loud thu-thunk. “Everyone needs to know exactly what everyone else is doing. Especially the captain.”
Joey nodded gravely.
“OK, take us out, Isellia. Full thruster in 30, should be in full flight zone in a few minutes."
"Got it," Isellia said, as the ship eased forward.
"I know what Isellia is going to do, and she knows what I'm going to do," Porter said, turning to Joey. “Isellia and I know that almost without saying now — we’re in sync like that.”
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