The image of some ex-CEO being told he would now be driving a garbage truck made me laugh out loud.
“…So we can find it difficult to get the right replicant for the right job. And a certain percentage go insane anyway after a while.”
That was a sobering thought. I had a bad feeling that I might be looking down that particular chasm later. Right now, this all felt like it was happening to someone else. Questions about individuality and the existence of souls poked at the edge of my awareness. With an effort I pushed them away, to concentrate on the now.
“Eighty percent failure rate kind of sucks, doc. How do you stay in business?”
“One success, Bob, can be installed in many units. Most of the mining equipment in operation today is controlled by one Rudolf Kazini, who was a miner in his former life as well. Matching temperament to task is the key.” The doctor hesitated for a moment, then added, “And, of course, we cultivate multiple candidates.”
I tried to raise my non-existent eyebrows and I was annoyed when nothing happened. “Am I in a competition, then?”
“Well, yes and no. We have activated five candidates for this project. Statistically, four of you will go insane and be purged. If more than one of you gets through the training phase with your sanity intact, then yes, we’ll have to make a choice. The project requires only one replicant.”
“And the loser?”
Dr. Landers shrugged. “Garbage truck. Or maybe just stored pending another opportunity.”
Not good. Not good at all. The prospect of going insane wasn’t exactly at the top of my bucket list, but the idea of cheating death—more or less—then just being relegated to menial labor, really sucked. Being turned off, even more so. It would appear that I was in a competition, and one with the highest of stakes for me.
I was going to have to take this very seriously. And I would have to assume that the other candidates were equally well suited to whatever task the project required. I would simply have to be better. And the first step was information-gathering.
“So, what’s the job?”
“There’s really no point in discussing specifics at this early stage. It would be a distraction, at best.”
Well, no joy, there. “Can you tell me about my opponents?”
“No, Bob. There’s no reason to. You’ll never meet them. Best that you not humanize them in any way.”
That made sense, in a very cold, clinical way. But I wasn’t making much headway on the information-gathering front, so far.
“Okay. Next question. Why am I not more panicked about all of this? This is absolutely bizarre. I’m dead. I mean, original me is dead. I’m a computer program. I’m property. Why am I not running in tight little circles, waving my hands in the air? Apart from the obvious reason, I mean.”
The doctor smirked, but he didn’t really seem amused. “We can’t modify your personality, Bob. It’s an emergent property. Attempts to do so have resulted in, ah, non-viable subjects. So it’s all or nothing. But we can control the endocrine simulation routines. Panic depends on a feedback loop involving adrenaline. We simply limit that. You can’t panic or get angry or frightened, you can only be deeply concerned, so to speak.”
“And with that, you still have an 80% failure rate?” I tried to wave a hand. I had always talked with my hands a lot, so when that failed as well, I said in exasperation, “Say, am I going to get some appendages at some point? This Jack the Bodiless business is getting on my nerves, er, circuits. Whatever.”
Dr. Landers nodded. “Actually, Bob, I think we’ve made very good progress today. You were obviously a very rational person and are handling this better than I could have hoped for. We’ll continue tomorrow, and I’ll see if I can get you some peripherals.”
Dr. Landers lifted his tablet and poked at it.
“Wait, no, I—”
Bob – June 25, 2133
I snapped back to consciousness. I could see that Dr. Landers wore a different colored shirt, still in that weird clerical style, so I assumed it was at least a day later. He was concentrating on his tablet, and just starting to look up.
I poked at my own psyche, looking for any trace of panic, insanity, or even deep concern. It didn’t feel like being doped up. I’d been doped up, like when I was getting my wisdom teeth out. I didn’t enjoy that sensation. I also had never enjoyed the sensation of getting drunk, of not being in control of my own mind.
In this case, I was in complete control of my thoughts. In fact, I felt at the top of my game, like I did when I first got into the office after an excellent night’s sleep. Like no problem or puzzle could possibly stand before me.
On the other hand, my parents were long since dead, my sisters as well. Alan, Karen, Carl, all the people that I’d known. I had a clear mental image of Karen glaring at me, arms crossed, I told you so written across her face. But thoughts of my family and friends brought only a mild feeling of regret, likely due to the endocrine controls. That, more than simply the fact of being software, made me feel less than human.
It was hard to be upset with Dr. Landers about the situation. There didn’t seem to be any malice involved. Events had just evolved logically over time, and culminated with me as a computer program. And so far, this state of being seemed to have its advantages. If Bob was dead—if he’d been run over by a car—then this was basically a free life. A potentially immortal one, no less. Maybe I’d just roll with it, at least for the moment. I could always re-evaluate if I ended up in second place. Be careful what you wish for. No kidding.
So what else came with being a glorified computer program? Maybe I could communicate with that guppy interface.
Systems Check. Square root of 234,215.
[483.957642]
Damn, that’s cool. Do I have a date function? Current Date.
[2133-06-25.08:42:24.235]
Woo hoo, I’m Data. “At the tone, the time will be eight forty-three. Beeeeep.”
Dr. Landers looked surprised for a moment, then laughed. “You have a number of functions like that, Bob. You just need to learn how to access them. Part of your training will concentrate on that area.”
I tried to nod out of habit and was surprised when my field of view bobbed. “Hey, I’ve got neck control!” I swiveled my ‘head,’ and found to my delight that I could rotate my field of vision all the way around like an owl. The room presented no surprises. As I suspected, I was actually on a desk. Beside me was a waldo, a remote-manipulator arm. It was small and very basic compared to industrial models, just a two-digit pincer grip, with a shoulder, elbow, and wrist joint. I decided to see if it was accessible. After all, that was probably on the agenda for today.
It seemed to take forever—although my date/time function said less than a half-second had elapsed—before the waldo moved at my command. I waved it around and snapped at the air with the pincer, then turned back to Dr. Landers.
The doctor stared at the waldo with a bemused expression. Then a smile slowly formed, and he said with a wry shake of his head, “For today’s exercise, we’ll get you to attempt to move a manipulator arm.”
He shook his head and sighed. “So much for today’s training schedule. Bob, you’re doing very well, so far. I think we’ll bump up the roamer test. I’d originally scheduled this for a week from now after some more preliminary orientation, but…”
Dr. Landers picked up the tablet and aimed a finger.
Oh, not again. “Wait! No, don’t do—”
***
I found myself in a different room in the same institutional off-white color. A rack on one wall contained some [32] small mechanical devices. In front of each device, a red light glowed. Directly in front of me was a table with a number [128] of blocks.
The far wall contained a window, and Dr. Landers stood on the other side. “Will you please stop doing that!” I said. I attempted to glare at him.
“Would you prefer that I pick you up and carry you around under my arm?” Dr. Landers held a poker face for a couple
of seconds, then smiled. “Actually, you and the other candidates all reside in large, expensive cubes of electronics tucked safely away in an air-conditioned room elsewhere on the premises. I’m merely switching your peripheral functions from room to room. The you in this room is a stereoscopic camera on a mechanical arm.”
He waited for any comments from me, but I had nothing at the moment. He gestured toward the rack. “The shelves contain remote observation and manipulation devices, or ROAMers. Your goal will be to stack the blocks using as many roamers as possible. We’ll start with one roamer, to give you the feel of it.”
Dr. Landers played with his tablet, and the light in front of one of the devices on the rack went from red to green.
“The roamers contain a low-level AMI and can perform basic actions without active supervision, but they have no will of their own and require direction. Please attempt to move the roamer to the table and stack some blocks. Your GUPPI will provide contact with the ROAM interface and will provide feedback as necessary.”
I looked intently at roamer #1.
[STATUS: Ready].
Okay, that’s a good start. Stand up.
The roamer stood. It looked vaguely like a spider, with a stance width of about eight inches [20 cm when not constrained]. Oh, shut up!
I inspected the roamer as best I could from a distance. I wonder how it’s supposed to manipulate the blocks. I waited a moment. Well?
[Feedback disabled by user request]
Oh, great, I’ve hurt its feelings. I concentrated on the ROAM interface. Enable feedback.
Immediately, diagrams and schematics appeared in my vision. I examined them in fascination. The roamers were constructed with radial symmetry—no real front or back. Eight limbs matched with eight sets of sensors. Each appendage could be a leg or could split into three digits to act as a manipulator. In addition, different legs had specialized functions built in. Some legs could be screwdrivers, grinders, torches, and cutters of various kinds. Some of the tech was brand new as well. One neat gizmo was a magnetically controlled plasma cutter that I would consider the real-life version of a light saber.
Now, how do I get it to the table? Can it jump the distance? [Probability of damage to unit: 40%] So, that’s a no.
How about climbing down? Oh, wait. I called up the schematics again. Variable Attachment Surface Tension. Wow, these people sure love their acronyms. I visualized the roamer climbing down the shelf. A window popped up in my field of vision which allowed me to see through the roamer’s viewpoint. The roamer walked straight down the wall. The VAST system provided a secure grip. In seconds, I had the roamer up the table legs and onto the table.
This was my first opportunity to examine my table-top ‘self.’ From the roamer’s point of view, I saw a mechanical arm similar to the waldo I’d learned to control, with a pair of cameras attached at the end. A small speaker between the cameras was probably where my voice originated. That was my face, such as it was. It reminded me of the robot from the movie Short Circuit. I moved my ‘head’ around and the roamer’s video showed the arm moving, the twin cameras swaying on the end of it. I waved one of the roamer’s legs and I could see the roamer perform the action.
Seeing myself and seeing me seeing myself made me feel existentially dizzy, so I turned my attention to the blocks. They appeared to be regular children’s building blocks, the kind that have been available forever. Half the faces showed letters or numerals in bas relief, painted in primary colors, and the other faces had simple engraved images. I noted that all the images were overtly religious in nature. I filed that factoid away in my TO-DO for future review.
The roamer didn’t need to have each movement supervised, but it did need to be told the parameters for the task. Within seconds, it had created a 5x5 platform of blocks. I then instructed the roamer to place a 4x4 layer on top of that, centered, and repeat. The roamer moved with impressive speed if I avoided trying to give it moment-by-moment orders. In seconds it had completed a pyramid.
I looked over at Dr. Landers. “Ta daaaaaa.”
The doctor nodded, then played with his tablet. Three more lights went green on the rack of roamers.
“Again please, Bob. This time with multiple roamers.”
Over the next few hours, Dr. Landers set various tasks for me that involved different numbers of roamers. Each exercise had an obvious training goal, and I found myself becoming increasingly impressed with my new capabilities.
He occasionally introduced new materials, including at one point something that reminded me of a Meccano set. The roamers easily handled each test. I simply had to set the overall tasks, and they would operate with speed and efficiency. There was only one glitch the whole morning: when I was not quite clear enough with my directions, one roamer ended up tossing another one across the room. I know the doctor said the AMIs had no will of their own, but I could swear the tossee acted surly afterward.
At some point during the session, I became aware that the training room was completely sealed. There was no door, and there weren’t any air ducts. Come to think of it, that window looked quite thick and very securely framed. Are they afraid of me? Or the roamers? Or both? Another item on the TO-DO for review.
Bob – July 15, 2133
I snapped back to consciousness. “That’s getting really old, Dr. Landers.”
“Sorry, Bob. But it is standard procedure to put replicants into standby when they are not actively involved in training. You feel like you are operating at normal human speed when you interact with me, but once you are left to your own thoughts, you’ll find you experience time at a much higher subjective rate. Eight hours can be an eternity. I’ve had replicants that seemed to be doing okay suddenly go psychotic overnight.”
The doctor looked down at his shoes for a moment. “In fact, we’ve lost one of your competitors in the last twenty-four hours. She went into a loop and could not be brought back. We restored from backup, but the backup went down at the same point. So, now there are four.”
I sighed and noted with mild satisfaction that the sigh sounded real. It was pretty obvious that I was being kept as busy as possible when active, and not being given any quiet time. Probably that was an attempt to avoid the insanity issue. I was ashamed to realize that I was more glad than sad about the other replicant. One less competitor.
And I appreciated Dr. Landers’ honesty, but sooner or later I was going to have to deal with this whole existential crisis thing. And I still needed time to grieve for my family.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “But presumably we’re all being treated the same, so the switching off thing doesn’t seem to be the answer. Instead, how about keeping me busy with intellectual activity? How about some study time? Maybe with access to whatever the internet has evolved into? I’d like to see what I’ve been missing for the last hundred-odd”—[117]. I didn’t ask!—“years.”
“Ah. Well, the internet does not exist anymore, at least not domestically. Far too anarchic, far too hard to control. And too many opportunities for sin, wrong thinking, and temptation. However, we have online libraries, and some of the history might even be relatively accurate. I will see if I can connect you up to one of the better ones.”
“Are there genealogy records? I might have relatives still alive. I’d be very interested—”
“As a matter of policy, Bob, we don’t encourage that. In any case, such information is not in the public record. Under FAITH, information is not freely available by default. Sorry.”
At that moment, I was happy that I had no face. This was the final blow, cutting me off from my former humanity. Not only was my immediate family dead, I would not be able to reconnect with any descendants. I was truly, completely alone.
Then the damned endocrine controls kicked in, and my funk turned into a mild sadness. Wow, if I ever got control of my hardware and software, that was the first thing that would go out the window. Grieving required grief, and I was being robbed of that.
I didn�
�t like being property. I wasn’t in a position to do anything about it at the moment, but if the situation changed, there would be some adjustments. Meanwhile, I would shut up, listen, learn, and be a good little robot. The important thing was to not give them any reason for concern. And to stay sane. And to win the competition.
But no pressure.
Bob – July 18, 2133
Sigh. “Morning, Dr. Landers. Didn’t you just leave?”
“Good morning, Bob…”
Uh oh. That wasn’t Dr. Landers’ normal tone. I had been playing around with tuning my artificial senses, and I’d discovered that I could run Fourier Analysis on voices in close to real time. The doctor’s voice indicated high levels of tension.
A second man stepped into view. Dr. Landers gestured toward him. “Bob, this is Senior Minister Travis. He’s here to evaluate your progress.”
I understood the unspoken message. This guy could pull my plug. I would have to tread very carefully. I would also have to clamp down on my tendency to make wisecracks, as his appearance seemed purpose-designed for a comedy routine. He reminded me of the old saying, ‘Stereotypes are valid first-order approximations.’ The man was the cliché of the old-time, bible-thumping, fire-breathing preacher: tall and thin, with cheekbones and teeth that seemed to protrude from his face. Even when he smiled, he glowered.
“Good morning, Minister Travis. I’m at your disposal.” Wow, worst opening line, ever.
“Good morning, replicant. I’m here to evaluate fitness yours for a task which is the glory of the Lord on today and to a much extent lesser, the kingdom of our spiritual leaders, Thomas Händel III.”
I was taken aback for a moment at his accent and mangled vocabulary. Of course, this was a hundred years later, but Dr. Landers always sounded like anyone you might run into on the street. On the other hand, Landers had made it clear that dealing with replicants was his specialty. Perhaps that included speech training.
We Are Legion (We Are Bob) (Bobiverse Book 1) Page 3