The Promethean

by Owen Stanley

  Sixth, robots must enjoy the rights of liberty and security, of freedom of thought and belief, and freedom of expression, and these rights must be incorporated in their programming.

  Seventh, as intelligent beings, robots were entitled to full democratic rights, which intrinsically included not only the right to vote, but also the right to stand for public office.

  Eighth, robots must have the right to family life, and therefore the right to sologamous marriage, although marriage to humans and specified animals of either gender would, of course, be legal options at the robot’s discretion.

  And finally, robots must have programmed into them the knowledge of all their rights as set out in the Charter of Robot Rights to be ratified by the European Union.

  The President of the EU Commission was deeply impressed by this masterly analysis and had it distributed to all the governments of the EU by way of a consultation document, which was how it eventually found its way to Harry’s in-tray via the Department of Culture. Vexed as he was by so many pressing problems, this preposterous drivel was the last straw that provoked him to dash off an indignant letter to the Commission President.

  Dear Sir,

  I really don’t care if a robot can do a zillion calculations a second. It’s still just a tool, like my Black and Decker drill, only more complicated. Robots don’t have feelings, which is why we can do exactly what we like with them. We turn them off when we’re not using them to save on the electricity bill, and when they’re obsolete or worn out, we melt them down for scrap. We don’t put them in a retirement home. If we had to pay them, ask them when they wanted to come to work, what they would like to do, when they would like their coffee break, if they liked the wallpaper, where they wanted to go on holiday, and had to give them time off work to go and vote, or if they had the right to form trades unions and go on strike, they would cost so much that entrepreneurs like us would never use them and would employ Third-World immigrants instead at a fraction of the cost.

  Please be advised that in the event I purchase a robot, I intend to squeeze every last cent out of my investment without wasting my time on any phony so-called rights. As far as business economics are concerned, you and your Dr. Prout are clearly living on another planet.

  The Commission President read Harry’s letter with contempt. The coarse and unrefined mentality of the Anglo-Saxons always jarred the philosophical sensibilities of his French intelligence, schooled as it was in the Grand Écoles of his native land. How right Napoleon had been to refer to these people as mere shopkeepers!

  They seemed quite incapable of appreciating the grand principles that should guide civilisation and could do nothing better than grovel in their cashboxes and tills, like pigs in their troughs. Fortunately, the Germans had been even more appreciative of the memorandum than the French and Belgians and he was in possession of another letter, this one from Kulturministerin Monika Hesse from the Ministerium für Bildung, Wissenschaft und Kultur asking permission to begin enforcing robot rights immediately, even before the Directive had been formally approved by the European Parliament.

  Unfortunately for the Commission President, the British tabloid press had also got wind of Dr. Prout’s impending Directive, which was a perfect target for increasingly popular anti-EU propaganda. RIGHTS FOR ROBOTS, SAYS EU was the headline in the Daily Mail, and the Sun, not to be outdone, followed up with SEX FOR ROBOTS SAY BRUSSELS CRACKPOTS.

  It was in this way that the topic came to the notice of the British Prime Minister, Terry Carter, the Leader of the Conservative Democrats. He was actually Sir Terence Willoughby-Carter, 8th Baronet, but for reasons of public relations had remade his image into that of a man, or rather lad, of the People. He was a consummate liar and cheap publicity seeker, cravenly addicted to the latest media opinion polls and the number of his “likes” on Facebook and Twitter, perpetually grinning, and with no sincere beliefs about anything except his own importance. Reflecting on the controversy, he calculated that there might be considerable political mileage for himself and the ConDem Party if they were to take up the cause of Rights for Robots.

  It would make them look very 21st century and ultra-cool, especially to the techies and the IT brigade, as well as to the human rights industry, and would generally wrong-foot the lefty opposition by out-compassioning them in an original and unexpected way. They would also gain liberal kudos by fighting the tabloid press over it into the bargain. He instructed Central Office to prepare the ground for convincing the Party to follow his lead on this.

  Meanwhile, Harry, despite these developments, was entirely unperturbed. Frank’s dazzling performance at St. Samson’s had convinced him that he had basically gotten the design right, and that it was a surefire winner. The Brits and those crazy Europeans could go ahead with Rights for Robots if they wanted, but that kind of legislation would require a Constitutional amendment in the States, and he was sure that his friends in the Republican Party would never let that happen. This would give the good old USA a massive commercial advantage in personal robotics over the countries of the EU. Only a few more weeks for some fine tuning that Vishnu had in mind were required before he could go back to the States and start production of Hockenheimer’s Superhumans. What he needed first of all, however, was some sensational advertising to unveil his genius product to the world, and in light of Frank’s stunning success at St. Samson’s, he thought he had just the thing to do it.

  Dr. Prout, after basking in the unexpected acclaim that had greeted his memorandum on rights for robots, had been fully intending to get back to his research on marriage rights. But before he could do so, his attention was again diverted, this time by a human rights emergency involving access to public toilets. He was already well aware of the legitimate concerns of the transgendered community about access to public toilets, and considered it obvious that one must have the right to use a toilet of the gender to which one believed one belonged, regardless of naive biological appearances.

  But it had now been pointed out to him that human rights experts would have to take account of Furry rights in this respect as well. Furries, he had just been informed, were people who genuinely believed that they were goats, or bears, or giant rabbits, and dressed up like them as a means of expressing their true identities. Now if belief in one’s identity trumped naive biology, if a man could become a woman, or a white person could become black simply by believing that they were—claims that to Dr. Prout were self-evidently true—then in the same way a Furry really could become a goat, or a bear, or a giant rabbit, or a Thompson’s gazelle for that matter, simply by believing it. In which case, they were clearly entitled to claim animal as well as human rights.

  But animals obviously don’t use toilets—they simply do their business in public places as it occurs to them. So the only possible logical conclusion, Prout decided, was that Furries must have the fundamental right to urinate and defecate in any public space that they chose without incurring any legal sanctions. He admitted that it might be a difficult legal problem to decide who was obliged to clean up after them, but decided that resolving this was not the proper responsibility of the philosopher reasoning from first principles.

  The so-called practical might object that the Furries were a tiny and extremely weird minority, and that it would be far more sensible to have them confined in a secure psychiatric unit if they started campaigning for the right to defecate in public. But that was a cynical and callous attitude that aroused some of Prout’s deepest emotions. Individual rights were the most sacred of all causes, and they were not to be stifled by claims of impracticality, or bartered away in sordid political compromises, or sacrificed to antiquated populist prejudices and mob rule. No, indeed not! In fact, he had generally found over the years that the general public’s hostility or ridicule towards an idea was a reliable indication that the idea in question must be morally right.

  In his younger and more naive days, when he had been Special Commissioner on Elephant Island, he had believed that power shoul
d be given to the people. But this illusion had been shattered when the people had shown themselves to be so astonishingly irresponsible that they had actually acclaimed their erstwhile colonial governor and tyrant, the brutal and ignorant Roger Fletcher, as their new president, while turning violently upon him, their enlightened benefactor.

  Now he had come to realise that the true glory, the historic accomplishment, of the European Union, was that it had so guilefully taken power away from the people under their very noses, and from their imbecile national politicians as well, and bestowed it where it truly belonged, on the European Commission and its experts like himself, who alone were qualified to guide the confused and helpless masses.

  It had been delightful to watch, over the years, as one popular vote or referendum after another had taken place against the EU, and every time the splendid Brussels machine had simply overwhelmed and submerged the rebels like a tide of warm treacle, leaving not a ripple behind as it moved inexorably towards its historical destiny of complete European integration. He was confident that the criminal lunacy of Brexit, treason against the Idea of Europe, would meet the same fate, no doubt aided by the same politicians who were charged with implementing it.

  True democracy did not mean the rule of the people, that ignorant and brutish horde of mouth-breathers, always in the grip of one hysterical fad or other, whether it be youth unemployment, or immigration, or terrorism, and demanding some primitive remedy like reimposing national frontiers. On the contrary, true democracy was rule for the benefit of minorities who were always being marginalised and oppressed by populist tyranny but who were too weak to defend themselves and needed their protectors, persons of true ideals and pure intentions like himself.

  He picked up his notepad to begin drafting his urgent memorandum on toilet rights for Furries to the President of the European Commission.

  Chapter XII

  Jason Blunt was a flabby, stupid, greedy, and arrogant exhibitionist with a chip on both shoulders, but possessed a sizable repertoire of cheap wit, and so had all the qualifications required for being a popular chat show host on TV. His half-hour show was optimistically called Laugh a Minute, and featured various celebrity guests who would come and sit on his sofa in front of a large studio audience, which was entertained by the supposedly witty banter between Blunt and his guests.

  Notoriety, the cheaper the better, was the usual passport to an appearance on one of Jason Blunt’s shows, so in the ordinary course of events there was not the remotest chance that Frank could ever have been invited onto the show. But it just so happened that one of Harry’s companies, Secret Provocateur, was the channel’s main advertising sponsor for the show. Secret Provocateur’s main product was SplendaBra, featuring one of Harry’s most ingenious inventions, the barometric bosom, which could maintain its inflation regardless of altitude, and also adjust itself according to the mood of its wearer. (The deluxe model was even capable of producing seductive pulsations.) Harry did not hesitate to twist the arm of the show’s producer, on pain of losing Secret Provocateur as their sponsor, to force him to have Frank Meadows invited on to Laugh a Minute. Harry assured the producer that Frank had a superstar mind and that he would create an absolute sensation that would give the show’s ratings a real boost.

  However, when informed that this complete unknown would be a guest, Blunt was furious. He only felt important when surrounded by celebrities, and furthermore, tended to feel threatened by anyone with an IQ much in excess of a doorknob’s. The last thing he wanted on his show was some dreary nerd king who would spoil all the fun by talking about science instead of gossiping about which actress was having an affair with which rapper and making obvious double entendres. And even worse, there was the very real danger that the superstar mind would make him look stupid in front of everyone.

  So while he was forced to accept Frank as the fourth guest one evening, he told his secretary to look up some really stinking questions.

  “Let’s put this nerd in his place. I want questions you can’t even find the answer to on Wikipedia!”

  “Should we focus on science and history, or pop culture?”

  “Throw the works at him. Just stay away from anything related to Doctor Who. Nerds know, like, everything about that. Oh, and superheroes. No superhero questions.”

  On the evening in question Frank’s fellow guests were a film starlet, Mandy Price, whose main claims to celebrity status were her cleavage and her diamanté handbag. Blunt had invited her on the show to try to find out what she kept in it. There were also a boxer with eighteen knockouts in his career, some of which were of himself, talking about how he had recovered from Delirium Tremens, and a ConDem MP who had been caught out in a prostitution scandal and was presently doing the usual round of chat shows and radio interviews trying to sell the feeble excuse that he had merely been researching the sex-worker industry.

  The banter flew thick and fast, about sex toys and knickers, what one is best advised to do after being found by a policeman without one’s trousers in Hyde Park on a winter’s evening, and how drunk one has to be to believe that one is a Harley-Davidson motorbike driving round the M25.

  Frank was puzzled by his complete inability to find anything resembling wit or humour in all of this, and simply sat there like a lump on the end of the couch, silent and impassive. This complete failure to act as a useful and entertaining guest inflamed Blunt’s original prejudices against him, and his resentment intensified when he saw that Frank simply didn’t find any of his jokes funny either.

  “Mr. Toffee-Nose here doesn’t seem to be enjoying himself, does he?” Blunt abruptly announced during a brief lull in the banter. There was a ripple of sycophantic laughter from the audience, but the three other guests looked a little embarrassed at their fellow guest being picked on so openly.

  “Well, you know, they say every party needs a pooper, that’s why we invited Mr. Meadows.”

  The audience laughed louder, and this time, both Miss Price and the Member of Parliament laughed with them. The boxer looked confused, but that was his usual expression. As for Frank himself, he simply sat there, staring expressionlessly at Blunt.

  “Mr. Meadows is supposed to possess some sort of great brain. So, I propose we ask him some questions to see how smart he really is! What do you say, Mr. Meadows?”

  For the first time, Frank responded, as he smiled faintly at the crowd as it cheered the suggestion. “I should be pleased to answer any questions you might like to ask me, Jason.”

  “Well, good luck to you, then, Mr. Meadows.” Blunt picked up a stack of notecards containing the prepared questions with the air of an executioner lifting his axe.

  “In Roman history, when was the Year of the Six Emperors, and who were they?”

  “That was 238 A.D., and a fine collection of monsters, no-hopers, and perverts they were. First, there was Maximinus Thrax, who came to a sticky end along with his son, then the old dotard Gordian I, followed by his son Gordian II, who didn’t last long, then Pupienus and Balbinus, who came to even stickier ends, and finally Gordian III made six.”

  Blunt blinked. Miss Price clapped, and the audience, impressed and a little over-awed, applauded politely.

  “Well done, that’s correct. You really are a Mister Know-It-All, aren’t you?”

  “I do my best, Jason.”

  “Okay, let’s see how well you do with this, Mr. Meadows. In the Periodic Table, what are the polyatomic nonmetals?”

  “Carbon, phosphorus, sulphur, and selenium.”

  “Fine, and what element comes between lanthanum and praseodymium?”

  “Cerium, of course.”

  The audience clapped, more enthusiastically this time. The MP was nodding, impressed, while the boxer, under the vague impression the audience were applauding him, raised a fist in acknowledgement.

  “God, you make me sick!” Blunt fairly spat. “All right, then, let’s see how you do with world records, Mr. King of the Nerds. Who currently holds the men’s long ju
mp record, what is it, and when was it set?”

  “Mike Powell, United States, 8.95 metres, 1991.”

  “Where was that?”

  “The 1991 World Championships were in Tokyo, of course.”

  “Who holds the 1500 metre record?”

  “Hicham El Guerrouj, Morocco, 3 minutes 26 seconds, in Rome, 1998.”

  “What about the hammer throw?”

  “Yuriy Sedykh, Soviet Union, 86.74 metres at Stuttgart in 1988.”

  The audience cheered, and Blunt’s face began to turn a brilliant shade of purple.

  “Haven’t you got anything better to do than learn all this crap?”

  “I’m a quick reader, and I have a good memory.”

  “You’re a quick reader are you? So how long would it take you to read this?” Blunt reached down and produced a novel, a thick paperback of Sir Walter Scott’s Old Mortality, which he handed to Frank. “Ever seen that before?”

  “Never heard of it. I’m sorry, I don’t read novels.”

  “Not highbrow enough for you, eh?”

  Frank made no reply but quickly flicked through the pages with his thumb. After about forty seconds of this, he tossed the book back to Blunt.

  “All right. Ask me some questions.”

  Blunt gritted his teeth and consulted his notecard. All three of the other guests were now leaning forward on the couch, almost breathless with anticipation.

  “Who was the leader of the assassins of the Archbishop of St. Andrews?”

  “Balfour of Burley.”

  “What was the residence of Lady Margaret Bellenden?”

  “The Tower of Tillietudlem.” Blunt looked at the other guests and rolled his eyes.

  “Upon whose side did Henry Morton fight at the Battle of Bothwell Bridge?”

  “The Covenanters.”

  The audience roared. The boxer sensed the excitement and jumped up and down in his seat. Miss Price mouthed an exaggerated “Oh My God” at the camera. The MP was grinning broadly, delighted to see that their host was the victim of the evening rather than himself, as he’d rather expected.