by J. S. Morin
“I can’t believe your parents didn’t tell you about the horrors of human medical experiments,” Nora109 scolded.
Very good. Scold more.
This exchange would be a microcosmic view of human robot relations if Gerry was capturing the audio feed properly.
“They did,” Alex said patiently. “They also instilled critical thinking skills and a willingness to evaluate situations on their own merits. Gene therapy isn’t monstrous because the patient can’t understand the procedures. Parents make decisions like that for their children all the time. What you ought to be asking is: if the patient were cured and of sound mind, would they take the risk? But that sort of empathic presupposition is simply beyond your programming—or you’re scared to engage in it.”
“Eve Fourteen makes those decisions on a case-by-case basis.”
Aha! At last.
A comet streaked toward impact, and Alex had finally maneuvered Nora109 into the blast zone.
“Really? All those poor, left-behind souls subjected to the whim and mercy of a woman who…” Alex took a deep breath, “Has been responsible for the terminations of at least eight robots, associated with the termination of two more, stole a chassis to activate a robot without Mixing Committee approval, allowed an infiltrator to work in the Human Protection Agency for months without noticing, falsified investigative records of suspected human cloners, covered up said scheme, used dark energy weapons inside Kanto, accessed files for which she was not authorized, and to this day uses the Human Welfare Committee to protect her own private agenda at the expense of general welfare.”
Nora109 stood still as only a robot or a statue could. What must be going on in that processor of hers? Several of Alex’s statements were unprovable or contradicted by official records. But he had sources that few robots could boast of. He had more than genetics connecting him to Charles Truman. Let this robotic nanny pick at the threads and ignore the precarious weight suspended overhead by its scant grip.
“You are mischaracterizing a number of events,” Nora109 said at last. She was complicit in several of Eve’s antics and held privileged information that couldn’t be used without bringing her own credibility into question.
All roads led into traps.
Pick. Argue. Refute.
Mentally, Alex shrugged. Too disciplined to incriminate herself. Not clever enough to come up with a reply that wouldn’t. So be it. Her silence would serve him well enough. A trap with an escape route was no fit trap for the heir of the Truman line.
“So this is the woman humanity should accept to make all our decisions for us, emancipated or deemed mentally unfit,” Alex said. “A woman whose own daughter struggles post-emancipation. You think she should be de facto mother to us all?” He didn’t wait for a pointless answer whether Nora109 voiced it or not. He turned to face Gerry’s video audience. “If we choose her, so be it, but I think it’s high time that all the seats on the Human Welfare Committee came up for election, starting with the chair. I’m calling for an election in six weeks’ time, whether this committee gives its approval or not. The voice of the people—the living, breathing humans you claim to represent—will not remain silent!”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Abby paced. She didn’t like to pace. She didn’t usually pace. But she felt caged in her own flesh, wanting to be in some other life where her mother wasn’t the target of a character assassination and she wasn’t a puppet of the attempt. Walking the length of her living room back and forth at least granted her the illusion of activity even if the exercise was pointless.
That realization—without the willpower to act on it—only made her pacing more frustrating.
“I’m going to kill him,” she muttered. “I’m going to be the first honest-to-goodness murderer of humans since Keith Dakota Smalls.” Since the dark impulse to end Alex’s life had crept in, Abby had looked up the name of the last person convicted of murder prior to the invasion.
Various methods played about in Abby’s head.
She could hack into one of the agrarian supply vehicles and tamper with a delivery of groceries destined for Alex’s plate. Dad might even help her with that. He was good with computers and probably as mad about the way Mom was being portrayed as anyone.
No. Too scattershot. Might just give him food poisoning. Also, might accidentally kill a dinner guest.
Programming an automaton to betray him had a sort of poetic touch. One minute it’s helping rearrange the furniture. The next, it has its fingers around Alex Truman’s throat.
Abby rolled her eyes at the overwrought melodrama. Before discarding the idea entirely, she imagined the automaton croaking in a barely enunciated growl, “The Fourteen family sends their regards.”
Pure drivel. Sad on the stage, worse in person.
Of course, there was always the good old-fashioned duel. Cloth-O-Matic up a glove to slap him with and challenge Alex to a fight. Pistols at dawn might draw attention from robots who’d stop a lethal contest. But perhaps just the two of them alone in a room. Best she knew, neither of them had any formal combat training—Mom had taught Abby some kung fu stuff as a kid but nothing like fighting.
Abby figured that being the angrier party, she’d have an edge.
But all of this was idle musing. Abby wasn’t going to follow through on any of it. In fact, if she cared a whit about what the world thought of Mom, proving that her daughter had turned out to be a thug would justify everything Alex was saying about her.
She couldn’t just do nothing, and pacing didn’t count.
“I need an Abby-friendly solution.”
Names flitted through her mental contacts list as she tried to come up with someone who might tell her what that could be. However, she’d already had the conversation she needed. Dad had told her that she can either accept something or do something about it.
“I can’t accept Alex’s plan to smear Mom. I’ve got to do something.”
Now that she’d said it out loud, it sounded less like a solution and more like a philosophical framework. For a guy named after a philosopher, perhaps that wasn’t too surprising. But Plato hadn’t been Dad’s original name. She couldn’t count the number of times he’d told the story of trying to teach Spartacus that his name was Plato, but the parrot kept repeating everything back verbatim and everything got muddled.
The reminder of Spartacus hit her like a punch to the heart. Why did her best friend have to be a mutant bird with a shortened lifespan? She sniffled and fought back a scowl as she realized how irrational it was getting mad at him for dying. The house was just so quiet without him.
Spartacus had sung along to her songs and even been persuaded on occasion to learn lines of a play to help her rehearse. Script writing hadn’t been the same without him.
Abby blinked. That was it.
She looked up to the ceiling with eyes focused beyond. “Thanks, buddy. I owe you a cracker. Remind me when I get there, OK?”
Spartacus had been around as all her prior plays had come together, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t manage without him. More importantly, it was a reminder of the power Abby possessed. She couldn’t wrap committees around her pinkie finger or pummel her problems with her fists.
But she could tell stories.
Right now, the world didn’t need a story exonerating Charlie7 so much as Mom needed one reminding everyone who had devoted their entire adult life to the service of humankind.
Rushing to her computer terminal in a manic state, Abby frantically tapped out the rough outline of a story she’d heard in bits and pieces her whole life. Dad loved to talk about rescuing Mom when she wasn’t around to object. Most of Mom’s childhood was stored in public records—disturbing as they were to look through. The events between Mom’s escape from Evelyn11 and the perceived death of Charlie7 were fuzzy, but what she couldn’t verify or research, Mom was just going to have to live with Abby making up.
Abby was going to tell the story of a girl numbered Eve14.
> Chapter Thirty-Four
A week after moving in, the dome looked almost cheery. Alien hues bordering on the ultraviolet range bathed in modern lighting. Even as Alex guided a tour through the subterranean city, aerial drones continued to work on the aesthetics. Breathable air pumped in from the surface through a new set of ventilation pipes. Any hint of sea salt was filtered out along with any impurities.
His guests on the tour didn’t notice, but Alex for one was glad to be free of the breather he’d taken to wearing while down in the city. Robots one and all, the tour group didn’t comprise the usual mixed personalities that promulgated throughout the rest of Earth. Today, Alex’s task was to win over the original thirty-three. Twelve of them had come to explore the sea floor city of humanity’s exterminators.
“As you can see, we’ve taken a place that was distinctly alien in design and function, and we’re slowly adapting it to human use,” Alex announced, raising his voice as if feeble human ears were listening.
Treat them as human. No one else does. Relate. Win over.
“Doesn’t look half as spooky as the documentaries,” Dr. Victor said with a slight Russian accent that marked him as one of the lost six. He walked with eyes upturned and a finger tapping against his chin.
“Intentional, I assure you,” Alex replied, walking backward to face his audience. He’d practiced the route to be sure of his footing. A stumble would result in a loss of face. They’d laugh. Handling ridicule was a weakness Alex was keenly aware of yet somehow unable to overcome. “The exploratory team that recorded it used a number of Human Era movie-making tricks to ensure it appeared as menacing and unwelcoming as possible. But, as with any cemetery or winter forest, the light of day strips evil from its face.”
“What do you anticipate for a population once it’s finished?” Dr. Arthur asked.
Alex hid a smirk. The archetype most concerned with privacy had stemmed from this old recluse of a scientist. Arthur Schwarz didn’t want too many neighbors. “Oh, twenty to fifty, perhaps. Most of the structures are better suited to research than habitation. Think of this as an open archaeological dig. Except instead of clay pottery and jewelry, we’re looking for advanced technology. I suspect we’ll carve out a few areas of non-essential alien artwork or some public parks and set up housing.”
“This is all impressive,” Dr. Jocelyn said. “How sure are you that the committees will let you keep it?”
“Me? Keep it?” Alex asked with feigned incredulity. “I just plan to live and work here. I don’t own it. This is a heritage site in my eyes. A dark one, yes, but our kind always knew better than to let the lessons of history fade and repeat. People need to see this place. Whatever scant reparations these cephaloid monsters can make will come from what we discover.”
“Makes you wonder why they kept it locked away so long,” Dr. Toby mused quietly. With perfect robotic hearing, of course, everyone would have heard him.
“A good question to ask Dr. Truman,” Dr. Fred grumbled. “He kept this city secret from everyone for over a thousand years.”
“Can you blame him?” Alex asked. “My father is many things, but none of them is a fool. Look how they’ve treated the dome since it was revealed. If there hadn’t been a human presence on Earth to stand up on my father’s behalf, they might have buried him down here, filled the whole place up with concrete, or just nuked it.”
“It wasn’t humans who took Charlie’s side,” Dr. Dale said. “It was us.”
What a strange creature, this Dr. Dale. There had been another of him, and he’d been the archnemesis of Charlie7. This one remembered none of the conflict personally. He’d seen the end result and been proud to have known Charles Truman. It put truth behind the meaningless old excuse: “you had to be there.”
“You’re all human,” Alex said, pausing the tour and keeping his tone carefully somber.
Sympathy. Seriousness. No hint of joking.
They needed to know where they stood with him. “Humanity is a state of mind. Cut off my limbs one by one and replace them with mechanical parts, and I retain my humanity. By extension, you find ladies and gentlemen are humans with full robotic prostheses.”
“By that logic, all robots are human,” Dr. Elizabeth argued.
“Not at all,” Alex replied. He’d primed Dr. Toby to ask that one, but it appeared the old chap wouldn’t have to play the audience plant this whole time. “They’re artificial intelligences constructed from pieces of humans. Frankenstein did with flesh what Charlie13 and Rachel Eighteen do with minds. An amazing technological achievement but not human. Alive? Yes. Intelligent? Undoubtedly. But not human. It sickens me when mixed robots try to lump you all in with them.”
Dr. Holly crossed her arms. “Do you think we’re fools? I can see where this is going. You want us to support you in your bid to restructure the Human Welfare Committee.”
Alex blinked. “Fool you? I didn’t think to insult your intelligence by spelling it out. Of course I’m seeking your support. What I want is to make clear that any protections I seek for humans include all of you. Sure, there will be exceptions regarding reproductive biology and medical treatment, food sharing, and the like. But as far as government representation, basic human rights, and everything that makes a person free? You’re one of us. You are not a lost minority trapped between two worlds. You have a home, and it’s with the people whose very lives were made possible by the work you started so long ago. I was raised by original robots. I know the struggles.
“I’m with you. Are you with me?”
Earnestness. Bearing soul. Waiting. How long is appropriate for a reaction before prompting them?
“I always have been,” Dr. Toby spoke up.
Dr. Fred grunted. “Never voted back when I was flesh and bone. Never thought it mattered. Population this size, though? Yeah. Count me in.”
“You do make logical points,” Dr. Holly said with a slow nod.
Of the dozen original robots on the tour, Alex secured promised votes from every one of them.
Chapter Thirty-Five
That evening, after the unmixed robots had departed, a group of Alex’s loyal supporters crowded around a human table set in the middle of an alien chamber. What the aliens had used it for was still anyone’s guess, but it had been converted into a clandestine meeting hall since the city’s occupation.
Alex lingered outside the door, hoping his footsteps had been quiet enough that he might catch snippets of their conversation before entering. None of them had any security devices set up. The city’s outer perimeter was secure, but inside there were no motion detectors, no cameras, no audio receptors to spy on the residents.
“What’s the deal?” Xander asked. “He was supposed to be here five minutes ago. Politics should be punctual.”
“Never was in the past, according to everything I’ve read,” Wendy countered.
Xander made a rude noise. “We’re reinventing it, right? Neo-Human Era politics should include a rigorous adherence to schedule.”
There was certainly an appeal in the notion, Alex admitted silently, ear poised just outside the doorway. Too bad that politics was primarily about herding the unwilling toward a common goal when a collection of individuals wouldn’t otherwise agree.
“Nothing good has ever started with the prefix ‘Neo,’” Gerry said with a chuckle.
Break tension. Divert from the core argument.
Imitation was flattery, but he didn’t care for anyone using his own methods to manipulate his followers.
“It’s basically trumpeting that you’re grave-digging some failed idea and trying it again. ‘Oh no, but this time we put Neo on the front of it.’ Nope. Same failed idea.”
Alex scowled.
Infighting. Potential factions. Prophylaxis required.
“Hey everyone,” he announced. Striding inside, he set down a backpack that hit the table with a plastic clatter that hinted, erroneously, at its contents. “Sorry I’m late, but I think you’ll forgive me when yo
u see why.”
“What’s in the bag?” Gerry asked with no hint of his ire from just a moment earlier.
Irene grabbed for the flap and revealed the contents. “Are these what I think they are?”
Wendy pulled out a device the size of a cucumber fitted with two adjustable straps and a glove with some simple built-in controls. “Depends what you think it is.”
“You got them working?” Xander asked.
Quiet. Focused.
Alex liked those traits in a minion.
“Indeed,” Alex confirmed, beaming a saintly smile over his friends. “With these, no one is going to deny you your democratic rights.”
Wendy blinked. “Huh? Does not compute. No one’s threatening anyone.”
“Yet,” Alex said.
He had their attention.
“You think the entrenched ruling class is going to just shrug and walk away? ‘Bound to happen. Enjoy running half the planet.’ Not a chance,” Alex said. “Disenfranchisement is a time-honored tool of the powerful. Votes are weakened by dilution. Anyone who has a say in the current societal arrangement has a vested interest in keeping chairs away from the table. I don’t have enough of these things to pass one out to every human, so I’m entrusting them to you. It’s your job to ensure that humanity has a voice in the fate of Earth.”
“By shooting them?” Leslie asked, holding one of the low-power dark energy emitters like a diseased carcass.
Skepticism. Squeamishness.
Not for the first time, he wondered if she was only in this movement for the company.
Alex shook his head, choosing to ignore the more fundamental crisis Leslie was suffering. “Paradoxically, these wrist rifles will prevent violence. Without them, you’re liable to be carted off and locked up. Oh, the robots would never hurt you. They’ll be the first to tell you that. Humans are precious, like Chinese pottery or a pharaoh’s jewels. Lock ‘em up tight and nothing bad can happen. Just remember the first schools for the Eves.”