Lost in Transmission

by Wil McCarthy

  “As you wish, Sire,” the ceiling answered.

  There was a slight crackling from the fax machine, and three robots staggered out of it, one of them human sized and the other two perhaps half as tall. And these robots were not household servants. Conrad didn't know what they were, but they moved slowly, with drunken steps and lurches. Their bodies and heads and faces were featureless gold, or something colored like gold, but it was all scratched up, no longer quite so shiny, and they were even dented in places, as if the fax machine had declined to repair their accumulated wear and tear. They were suffering from the robotic equivalent of geriatry.

  Conrad had met an “emancipated” robot like this once before. It was Hugo, a sort of pet that King Bruno had kept in his own palace on Earth. A robot cut off from the larger world, its calculations restricted to the hypercomputers in its own wellmetal skull. Left to fend for itself, to find its own way in the world. To be, in a limited way, a kind of person.

  The larger robot had vague swellings on its chest, a suggestion of femaleness, and in a kind of parody it staggered over and clanked itself down on the arm of Bascal's chair. One of the smaller robots came and sat down at his feet; the other wandered around the room, turning its blank metal face on this and that shiny object, as if entranced by the world around it.

  “Please tell me this is a joke,” Conrad said.

  The king grinned. “Not at all, my boy. My good man, my friend. Meet my practice family, the wellmetal apples of my all-rehearsing eye. This is Matilda, and this here is little Barnaby, and his sibling Rachel. They fill the house up pleasantly, with never an argument or an ill turn of phrase. I invented them a long time ago, back onboard Newhope when I was desperate for company, but I've been bringing them out a lot recently. It scratches a kind of itch, exercises a muscle that gets little use these days. And no, there's nothing sick about it. Nothing sexual, nothing delusional, although I can see the perverse hope of it in your eyes.”

  “Hi,” the large robot grunted, turning its face in Conrad's direction. “Hi. Hi. A pleasure to meet you.” The words were forced, at once comical and tragic. With effort and fax tweaks you could train a wild dog to speak, too!

  Conrad could only hope that the look on his face matched the bad taste in his mouth. “Do they bring your slippers for you, Bas? Do they bring you psychoactive weeds, and a pipe to smoke them in?”

  “Nothing like that,” the king said, clearly annoyed. “It just calms my nerves to have them around. They amuse me, help me think. I don't normally trot them out in front of people, but I thought perhaps you and I were close enough to share this moment. Are we not? If they disturb you, then you have my apology, and my promise to send them away forthwith and posthaste.”

  “That's not necessary,” Conrad told him. He wasn't about to tell a king how to behave in his own home.

  “Ah,” Bascal said, “but your tone and your words speak to opposite purpose. You've been robophobic for as long as I can remember, so perhaps it was thoughtless of me to inflict these on you. Almost like having the Palace Guards back at my back again, eh?”

  “No. It's nothing at all like that.”

  “Well, thank heaven for what mercies it can spare. Still, consider me chastised for this error. Striving for wisdom does not, by itself, make a thoughtful person of me.” To the robots he said, “Off you go, family. Back to the fax, that's right.”

  At first, the robots didn't move. But after a moment's reflection, the female stood up again and began limping in the direction of the fax machine. One of the smaller robots got up as well, and followed behind her. The other one—Rachel, the king had called it—continued its wandering around the room, looking randomly at nothing.

  Ignoring the thing, Bascal said, “They are brighter than they appear. Brighter than dogs—perhaps as bright as children. You've got half a billion years of evolution telling your brain how to organize and respond. They were merely printed from a factory pattern. They don't know how to be people, any more than you know how to be a hypercomputer. But they struggle, and they learn, and bit by bit their behavior improves. I find their example instructive, but if you do not, I suppose that's all right, too. Being open-minded includes allowing for others' disapproval, yes?”

  “I was just surprised,” Conrad said, struggling now to seem friendly rather than intrusive and rude. “I mean . . . as you say, there's nothing sick about it. Your father did the same thing. I'm sure a lot of people have. We've all got our hobbies.”

  “Indeed we do,” Bascal agreed, though he made no move to call the two robots back as they vanished into the fax. The third continued to wander, and be ignored. “It's very kind of you to say so. Although if you're too busy to hoist a beer in this tiny town every now and again, I'll wager you're too busy to have a hobby of your own. I suppose that contributes to your surprise, when you see someone else engaged in pointless activities for nothing more than the idle pleasure they provide.”

  Touché.

  “And how about women?” the king asked, like a dozer driver suddenly changing gears. “Any interesting interests you can tell your dear old friend about? Like any good citizen, I'm voyeuristically concerned about how much of what is being had in my kingdom.”

  “Nothing permanent, I'm afraid,” Conrad said, and the two of them shared a laugh, because it was a running joke between them. Permanence, ha! Conrad went on, “Besides, who's new around here, anyway?”

  “The young ones,” Bascal said with a leer. “But I don't have to tell you that, eh? If rumor is to be believed—and I fervently hope so, for that's its function!—then you are a man who knows his way around the nursery.”

  These two had known each other a long time, but even so Conrad blushed. “Your flattery . . . appalls me, Sire. If I want painful truths, I'll look in a mirror. And how about you? Are there any would-be queens sniffing around? It does get kind of unseemly after a while, having a bachelor king. There will come a day, my friend, when you've slept with every one of your female subjects. And that's half the population who will never listen to you again. If you settle down, you can at least preserve some mystique.”

  “Now, now,” the king said seriously. “I'm more selective than that. I have to be. As you say, my position requires it. And yes, now that you mention it, there is someone special entering upon the stage. Someone quite special, of whom I think you would approve.”

  “Do I know her?”

  “I'm not sure,” Bascal said. “She was a revolutionary, but not in our bunch. She didn't unpack until the third year, and she spends most of her time in Bupsville. Her name is Nala Rishe.”

  Conrad thought about it and said, “It doesn't ring a bell. How is it I've never heard about this?”

  “Well, you seem to have missed a lot of news,” Bascal told him. “Working too hard, yes? But also we've kept it quiet, off the TV and such. There are only six reportants on the planet, and only two who handle palace gossip, so it's not like we have to fool a whole Queendom of paparazzi. Nala has reason to visit the palace anyway, mostly lobbying for the Bupsville agriculturists, so the speculation hasn't been any more or less than you'd see for other visitors.”

  “Ah. Is she nice?”

  “Nicer than I deserve. You should meet her sometime. Have your house call mine and we'll set something up.”

  Slyly: “And she knows about this robot fetish of yours?”

  “Actually, she's got one of her own to add to the collection. I guess you'd call him the daddy robot. Named Herschel, after the astronomer.”

  “Hmm. Well. That does sound nice. I'd like to meet her, yes. Let me get the Gravittoir up and running and this stupid tuberail switch under way. A couple of days, and I'll be a much freer man.”

  Bascal's smile lost some of its warmth. “There are other architects, you know. You don't have to build this entire world yourself. You're entitled to take some time off, and in fact you should. Everyone should. Idle hands do the devil's work—any space pirate knows that!—but we oughtn't gravitate to th
e opposite pole. We can't afford to, or our children will simply rebel once again, and the cycle will never end. We've got to build a better society than that. It can have flaws—even dangerous flaws—but if it doesn't have room for the finer things, my boy, then what's the point?”

  “I know,” Conrad said. “Truly, I've been planning to slow things down. You've met my assistant, Mack Duggins? A troll, about yea high? He's really coming along. He's ready for more responsibility, and I'm nearly ready to give it to him. And then I'll have time, I promise.”

  “Hmm,” Bascal said, unconvinced.

  Conrad sighed, then felt his lips curve upward again. “Listen, Bas. If you want to see more of me, why don't you hire me to redo this house? It was all well and fine as a freshman effort, stretching my wings and all that, but it does look pretty damned silly now.”

  “Hey, I like my house,” Bascal objected.

  “Oh, it's all right, but it lacks . . . grandeur. Or rather, the grandeur it's got is rather childish. Painted on rather than woven through the bones.”

  “It's perfect, Conrad. I've always loved it.”

  “At least let me do the exterior. Just let me reprogram the tiles.”

  “Conrad, I said no. The hardest thing an artist has to learn is letting go of his creations. Poetry taught me that much. You have it for a while, this little piece of love and bloodsweat, but sooner or later you kick it out into the world, and then it belongs to the world. Hands off, you understand?”

  “Yes, Sire,” Conrad answered grumpily. “You're one to talk, though. We haven't seen a poem from you in a long, long time. That's one way to avoid loosing something on the world that could later embarrass you. But it's not a good way.”

  The king studied his fingernails. “We've all got our jobs to do. I get busy as well. And I just haven't found the . . . inspiration. Perhaps my muse was the Queendom of Sol itself. Or perhaps not, but in any case the muse doesn't seem to have followed me here. I haven't felt her at my elbow, urging me onward, begging to see the next line. I don't know why, really. I suppose I've just moved on. In a way, the ‘Song of Physics' kind of closed things out for me. After that, there just hasn't seemed to be much of importance left to say.”

  “Well, that's a shame,” Conrad said, though in truth he felt much the same about the Orbital Tower. Of all the projects in his past, that was the only one he still dreamed about. Part of him seemed to wish that job had never ended, or even—perversely!—that he'd died after completing it. His crowning achievement, his denouement, his swan song. But with an infinite future ahead of him, there was no reason to think that was truly his finest hour. The best was, almost by definition, yet to come.

  He picked up his wine goblet and drank from it, savoring its atomically perfect bouquet and finish. Oh, for a medical-grade fax machine of his own! “I always liked your poetry. I still do. Is it your muse, by the way, that keeps you from naming the planet? Are we stuck with ‘P2' forever?”

  “Ah, that. Hmm. Yes, well, it may be my muse,” Bascal answered. “Or perhaps I'm just waiting for the right confluence of events. I don't want to give this world the wrong name just because you're impatient. As an immorbid, I won't be forced, I won't be rushed. But no, it won't always be Planet Two. That's not a home. It doesn't speak to the soul.”

  “Well, don't wait forever. More than two-thirds of the current population was born here. It is their home. You'll reach a point where the old name just sticks.”

  “Maybe so.”

  The idea seemed to sap some of Bascal's energy. Which of course made Conrad feel guilty for raising a sensitive issue. Some friend he'd turned out to be.

  “Listen,” he said in a lighter tone, “you seem to have a spare copy of yourself, or if not you can print another. And I'm free. Mack has the construction site for the day, so if you'd like to raise a few glasses, or ingest some other recreational substance, I'm at your disposal.”

  “Yes?” Bascal arched an eyebrow. “Truly? Well, that's historic. The first architect, come to visit these humble artless walls for something more than business? We'd better get started, then, boyo. With years to make up for, you'll have to be carried home by Palace Guards. You dislike them, I know, but nothing spells ‘party' like having them cart off the unconscious bodies.”

  And the trouble was, Bascal was serious about that. Conrad would never shake the memory of those Guards: monsters of gleaming impervium, at least as graceful as household servants and yet also deadly, packed with weaponry, full of suspicion, and always keyed up for violent action. He would never love them, even for saving his life.

  One of the most symbolic things Bascal had done as king was to send his Guards away. No more would they loom behind him, following him, logging his every move, and every move by anyone else within harm's reach. But here in the palace, visible or not, they were only a fax away from instantiation. For practical purposes they were waiting behind that print plate as if it were no more than a curtain. Bascal really did use them to toss out drunks, and to escort people back to their residences if they'd worn out their welcome. And Palace Guards were not known for their gentleness.

  “Sounds like a good time,” Conrad said, forcing a smile. And hell, he did need a night off, and the company of an old friend. And for that matter a good drugging—one which didn't involve the seduction of some tender young morsel who hadn't the sense to know better. How long had it been since he'd just gotten stupid, for no reason and with no goal in mind? More sincerely, he said, “In fact, my liege, it sounds like a better time than I've had in years.”

  chapter fifteen

  the king's ransom

  Sixty-six months later almost to the day, Conrad was in the study of his home, inloading mental notes on the latest crop of nonprogrammable materials the southern factories were turning out. Inloading other people's notes could be a real problem—some people got sick, got headaches, sometimes even went crazy and needed to fax a fresh body before they could think clearly again. But the process had never bothered Conrad. He was not a brilliant man, and at times there were real advantages in this.

  The stuff that was personal, tied up with the feelings and memories of the individuals who recorded it, he was able simply to ignore. It didn't jam its way into his head or anything. It didn't confuse him. The rest of it, the factual side, well . . . he mostly forgot that as well, but it left behind general impressions, so that if he ever needed a particular thing, a material or product or specialized idea, he would at least know whether it existed or not, and where he might go to look it up.

  Still, the process was tiring, and after a few hours he gave up, set the neural halo aside, and just sat there at his office table, sipping from a mug of red tea and looking out the window, down over the shops and homes, the apartments and warehouses sloping down to the bay. It was late in the afterpids; the sun was setting behind him, behind the mountains, and its ruddy glare on the smog-colored clouds was arrestingly beautiful. Perhaps his brain was sorting what it had learned, or perhaps it needed some quiet time to recover its faculties, or perhaps Conrad was simply lazy. Whether he sat there for twenty minutes or an hour he never knew, as the sun moved only a hair's width in the sky. The long day on P2 rivaled even that of Venus, and its sunset was a long, drawn-out affair. But at some point along the way the house interrupted him with a visitor chime.

  He looked up. “Hmm? What?”

  “A visitor,” the house said, daring to speak.

  “Oh, well, show her in.”

  It did not occur to him that the visitor might be male, and in this he was neither surprised nor disappointed, because his front door opened, and his study door opened, and a lighted walkway appeared in the wellstone of the floor, with moving colors indicating the proper direction of travel, just in case his visitor was painfully stupid. She appeared in Conrad's doorway: a young woman with blonde hair, brown eyes, and skin the color of almond shells. Her only garment was a skin-tight wellcloth leotard, colored bright green and stretched over her with quite obviously
nothing beneath. Conrad felt a shock of familiarity on seeing her, but he couldn't quite place the face. Or the body.

  “Oh, hello,” he said. “How are you this evening?”

  The woman looked him up and down, saying nothing.

  “I've, ah, misplaced your name.”

  “I haven't given it,” she said, with the vaguely superior air that young people had when they thought they were being smart. Conrad peered at her more closely, studying her features. Something about her made him think of Bascal, and he asked her, “Are you the king's girlfriend? Nala Rishe, the lobbyist?”

  The young woman's laugh was cool and self-assured, more amused than friendly. “No, sorry. Do you want me to be?” She ran her hands down her body in a suggestive but rather exaggerated way, and Conrad realized she was younger than he'd thought at first. Hers was not the body of a twenty or twenty-five-year-old, like most of the people in the kingdom who were current in their fax ups. On closer inspection, he supposed she had never yet seen her twenties. She was still in the bloom of adolescence, burning with hormones and yet lacking the experience to deploy them wisely. He rethought his conversational approach, and said, “I've been reading for hours, young lady, and I'm in no mood for riddles or parlor games. Who are you, exactly?”

  “Princess Wendy de Towaji Lutui Rishe,” she said through a smirk, in tones suggesting he should've known this before she even walked through his door.

  Conrad blinked. He blinked again. “Princess. Bascal's daughter? He never told me about . . . he never said . . . my goodness. How old are you, girl? When were you born?”

  “Yesterday,” she said, as though it were a point of pride.

  Conrad digested that. Yesterday? Little gods, the faxwise birthing of fully formed teenagers had always seemed sensible enough to him—why bother with the awkward preliminaries, just because nature commanded it? His own early childhood had been mostly dull—he could barely remember it now—and anyway lots of other animals were born mature, able to walk and eat and communicate. It was only an accident of biology that the human birth canal was so much narrower than the fully grown human brain.