by Isaac Asimov
To her immediate right were office cubicles; to the left, storage lockers. Directly ahead, a conveyor ran from a large turntable deeper into a sporadically-lit maze down a short corridor. A confusing jumble of conduit, cable, and assemblages filled the space, hanging from the ceiling or rising from the floor, creating mosaics of light and shadow.
The sound of many feet marching in quicktime echoed around the labyrinth. Mia pressed against the short wall of the first cubicle and waited.
A column of maintenance robots filed by, in almost comic imitation of a military drill. They pivoted precisely at the turntable and continued on into the depths.
“Bogard, do you still have a track on our targets?”
“Faint IR trace on the floor. Clear but fading.”
“Lead on.”
The robot seemed to flow across the floor, its torso leaning forward into a streamline profile, feet appearing to glide as if on rollers. Soundless. In the mottling illumination, it seemed to alter its shape, and as she fell in behind it, she saw that its angle and configuration could cover her own silhouette.
It turned left down a narrower passage, along a line of ready niches for robots. Many were vacant, but several still contained robots, stiffly cradled like corpses, giving no outward sign of activity.
Bogard stopped. Mia squeezed alongside it, crouching low.
Tables and cargo cubes had been shoved together to open up a fairly large area of floor. Within the loose ring formed, several robots moved in and out of patterns that resembled fighting in progress. They swung their limbs, kicked, ducked, jabbed, rushed and retreated–but none of them ever connected with a blow. Like a dance set to no rhythm, highly-choreographed, they weaved through the mock combat with machine precision.
“Bogard, what’s happening?”
“I still cannot access the Resident Intelligence. I have no explanation.”
Bogard started again, skirting the edge of the scene. Abruptly, two robots broke away from the fight and blocked its way.
“Halt,” one demanded. “Stand and declare–”
In a single, fluid motion, Bogard brushed one robot into its companion and hurled them back into the dance. Mia saw several others move deftly to avoid them as they clattered across the floor.
At the next junction, Bogard hesitated again.
“They have divided,” it said. “One went that direction” it indicated a twisting path through a canyon of machine housings to the left “–two went this way.” The right-hand trail led down a short flight of stairs to another service corridor.” Just a moment. I have com traffic which I presume is between our targets.”
“Let me hear.”
The receiver in her ear snapped sharply to life.
“–lost in the service section. We don’t have an egress.”
“Your orders were to stay off com until outside the facility.”
“Fine, but we can’t get outside the damn facility if we can’t find a way out!”
“Stand by.”
A few seconds later, a new voice came on.
“This is Platoon One. What’s the problem?”
“Platoon One, this is Lemus. We got separated from the main body, we’re in the service section–no egress. We lost Wollins, and the tinheads are dancing like crazies back here”
“You stay off com from this point,” Platoon One ordered. “You find a corridor marked ‘EXD’ and follow it without deviation. Do you copy?”
“Sure, Bok–”
“And stop using names on the com. No further communications will be accepted until we link up. Platoon One out.”
The receiver went dead.
Bok? Lemus?
Mia indicated the service corridor. “Bogard, find them. Apprehend and subdue. Can you locate that corridor?”
“Yes.” It took only a moment for Bogard to weigh the command against its First Law imperative. “You will go after the remaining target?”
“I will. I will exercise extreme caution. We want them alive, Bogard.”
“You risk injury.”
“Personal prerogative, acceptable level of risk. They are dangerous.”
personal prerogative, acceptable level of risk, they are dangerous, assignation of priority levels to establish response protocols as follows: assertion of personal prerogative indicates acceptance of possible harm in lieu of protections necessitated per First and Second Law parameters, access file Daventri, Mia, level of competence involving personal risk, assign acceptability algorithms to assess potential for failure under circumstances where injury is likely, experiential indicators sufficient, acceptable level of risk within personal prerogative parameters, alleviation of immediate requirements, applied against level of danger indicated by permitting target to escape, indicate accurate assessment of potentials, First and Second Law requirements shift locus then to hypothetical threats posed by failure to accept revised protocols, necessitate risk accommodation, temporary and contingent upon verification of status, Daventri Mia
Mia waited less than a second for Bogard to prioritize the instruction.
“I understand,” it said. “You will indicate changed risk status.”
“Yes.”
It flowed down the stairs, into the service corridor, and disappeared.
Mia sighed, relieved. Bogard processed situations according to a complex set of risk protocols that allowed it to function more creatively than its more rigidly structured cousins, but she still expected it to be a Three Law purist when it had to allow a human to take a personal risk. This time it had to be assured that if she got into trouble she would call for help.
Pulse beating insistently in her ears, she entered the claustrophobic pathway. If these three had split up, then everything was not going as smoothly as they had probably planned.
The passage seemed to be a space between large ventilator funnels and bundles of communication threads–part of the ubiquitous Resident Intelligence system which supposedly oversaw all aspects of facility operation–and the bulkier conveyor system that transported all nonliving material throughout the complex.
She passed a skinny opening that led into the wider main passage, then came to a cluster of machine forms–spheres, boxes, conduit, braces–impossible to slip through. She backed up to the opening and eased through.
Across from her, the kitchen that served the entire complex ran the width of the space, from the wall of the main gallery to the outer shell. Bright, mirrored surfaces reflected color coding and the geometries of cookery, a fully automated food processing plant with only a few robots to supervise and troubleshoot the occasional problem. At the moment, nothing within the kitchen area moved. Mia spotted a robot, frozen in place before a flickering monitor.
In there...
She sprinted across the floor and dropped to one knee by the low wall that marked the kitchen’s boundary. If the Resident Intelligence were functioning, she could have used it to track her target. But the com in her ear remained silent, a thick empty nonsound.
Mia glanced over the top of the wall, then scurried to the nearest access and around the edge. The air smelled of yeast and oil and warm flour. She crept along to the robot she had seen and looked up at the monitor it stared into.
Manifests scrolled over it, one after another, too fast for her to read, but she caught references to food stuffs, medical supplies, and clothing, in enormous quantities. As she watched, the monitor went blank. Then the bright green words PLEASE WAIT appeared and a few seconds later, a request form for several lunch items filled the screen. The robot seemed to waver, then stepped back.
“–report now! We have people down!” broke in her ear. Mia winced, startled.
“This is a restricted area,” the robot said, turning to face her. “Humans are not–”
A burst of gunfire ricochetted around them, staggering the robot. Mia spun away, but her right arm suddenly snapped back, taking her with it, knocking her to the floor. Two more impacts caught her in the right leg and ribs; the wind left
her lungs painfully.
Is this when I should call for help...? She dragged herself across the floor with her uninjured arm till she came to a space beneath a food preparation table, and pulled herself under the metal expanse.
She touched her earpiece and reduced the volume of her link. She heard feet running toward her.
“Sir, this is a restricted area–” another drone began to say.
Mia craned her head and saw the base of a small transport drone. Then booted, human feet. The drone shifted to block the human and repeated its message.
Mia still held her pistol, limply, and managed to shift it to her left hand. She pushed herself close to the edge of the crawlspace, next to one of the support legs. She set the pistol down and took hold of the metal shaft.
“Back away!” the human ordered the drone.
The human bolted around the robot and started forward. Mia braced, then swung her legs out from beneath her cover. She caught him across the shins and he tumbled, arms spread wide, and slapped the floor.
She snatched her pistol and wriggled out, coming up on her knees, weapon leveled. Her right leg burned hideously, the muscle trembling. Black pinpoints seemed to pulse at the periphery of her vision.
The man also recovered, turning toward her with a short, black weapon cradled in both hands.
“Stop!” she shouted.
He brought his weapon up.
Mia fired. The bolt of energy smacked against his head, kicking him backward. His weapon rattled across the floor.
Mia slumped against the cabinet, her right arm a length of agony, each breath like the pinch of giant fingers. She felt clammy, and the bright black and silver pinpoints danced more frantically, growing in number.
“Ma’am, do you require assistance?”
The transport drone had rolled alongside her. She blinked at it, wondering at the slight panic she heard in its voice, and wondered why a drone would panic. Then she remembered that it was being run by the RI, which was positronic. But the RI was not responding, had gone off line for some reason. Was it back now, along with everything else that no longer made sense?
“Ma’am, do you require assistance?” the drone repeated.
“Yes, I–” She dropped her pistol and touched fingertips to her arm; they came away damp. She swallowed hard and looked at the bright red liquid on them. A chill scraped down her neck, across her back. When did that happen? She tried to catalogue her injuries, struggling for consciousness, but she kept forgetting where she started. Leg, ribs, arm, ribs, arm, leg...
The renewed com chattered in her ear insistently.
“–ambulances right now! We’ve got at least twenty down! Get us priority–”
She touched the button, changing the channel.
“Bogard?”
“Yes, Mia?”
“Status.”
“Both targets apprehended and subdued. Returning to your position.”
“Good … hurry … I’m …”
She had never passed out before, and it came as a surprise and a frustration and a peculiar anger that she was losing control so fast.
The transport robot asked again, “Ma’am, do you require assistance? Ma’am...?”
Three
DEREC HEARD THE wailing of the injured even before he entered the tunnel to the main gallery. Mingled with the clinical noises of paramedics and ambulances, the controlled urgency of shouted orders and sirens, the sound cut through him, sharper than any cold wind, and he shuddered. As he emerged beneath the high arched ceiling, his two aides close at his heels, he saw bedlam and pain.
“Sir,” a harried security guard challenged him, “this area is restricted. I–”
Derec held up his ID and the man stopped, blinking at it as if momentarily unable to recognize it.
“Oh. Phylaxis Group.” He nodded, suddenly relieved. “You’re expected. Let me...” He stepped back and spoke quietly into his comlink.
Derec did a slow survey of the scene. So many robots trampled and broken, frozen in place, or wandering about purposelessly, in advanced stages of positronic collapse, and human paramedics and security people shouting at them or pushing them out of the way. Derec felt a chill at the sight; these robots all should have been linked through the RI and if they were breaking down, then the RI must be having trouble. The only other robotic presence were the service drones–nonsentient automatons that did the grunt work for the emergency personnel. They did not even call them robots here. He wondered briefly if Bogard was still here, if it had survived, if it had functioned, if...
He turned to his team.
“Get to the mid-stage breakdowns first,” he told the people with him. Only two specialists from the Group had accompanied him, Caro and Amson, his best field team. From the look of things, he wished he could have brought a dozen. But the Phylaxis Group’s limited resources allowed only a small team; other specialists were too far away, in the Spacer districts at the periphery of D. C., working other situations. “Get them out of the arena. Find out where the stand-by niches are–I doubt any of these people will be using that room. Then tend to interaction and facilitation crises.”
His people gave him quick nods and dispersed into the chaos.
“Hey, hold it,” another voice intruded. A uniformed policeman strode up, one hand raised, the other touching the butt of his holstered stunner. He glared briefly at the first security guard, who was still on his comlink. “Who and what are you and what are you doing here?”
Derec extended his ill again. The officer studied it briefly. “Phylaxis Group. Great, we already have more medics than we need walking allover the evidence; now we get you people collecting tinheads.”
Derec pocketed his ill. “Sorry if rendering assistance is such a burden for your forensics people. Maybe you’d even prefer leaving the dead and injured just where they fell till you finished? I’m sure only a few of them would expire before the evidence techs got all they wanted...”
The policeman’s mouth tightened and he stepped toward Derec. Whatever he had intended to say, he changed his mind. “All right, point taken. You have clearance.” He turned sharply and strode away.
“Thank you,” Derec called after the retreating officer, who gave a negligent wave.
“Sir,” the security guard said then. “Mil Jeffries is the floor supervisor. I’ll have you taken to her.” A drone approached, a nonpositronic escort unit, little more than a tall, spindle-like machine with a map programmed into it.” Just follow this one.”
“Thanks.”
Derec followed the drone along a narrow path between bodies that had not yet been picked up and small knots of people he assumed to be security–rigid, anger-frozen faces, quick conversations with each other or into coms, attitudes of arrested momentum, and, if Derec was not mistaken, embarrassment–and tried to get his mind around what he saw. It was clear that the bodies here had been trampled.
The largest knot of standing people occupied the raised platform toward which the drone led him. Everywhere the wounded and traumatized moaned and cried, a few shouting anxiously for help or an explanation or for the simple emotional need to scream at something. Whole sections of the huge floor contained the injured, stretched out, and tended to by humans and a few medical support robots–again, nonpositronic units that lifted and carried and contained portable diagnostic units for the human techs. Most of these did not even look like robots in the Spacer sense, but rather were collections of boxes and spheres and chunky assemblies mounted on treads or antigravity motivators, following the humans around like obedient pets. Derec saw frightened people shoving at them, crying or cursing, unwilling in typical Earther fashion to be touched by metal fingers. It was probably just as well no positronic robots were here to try to help–only the specially programmed could cope with injured or dead humans, but here they would be faced with the added confusion of humans rejecting their help. First Law dictated that they aid the injured. Second Law said to obey humans. The conflict of being ordered not to ren
der aid would hit them hard; they would not understand the nature of the fear and resentment. Positronic breakdowns were sad, pathetic things to see. The robots still functioning here clearly could not cope. The lucky ones seemed already shut down. Derec’s team moved quickly among the traumatized robots, getting them out of the way with the least damage possible. Some might be salvaged but he was not optimistic.
Several robots stood around the collections of the dead, mechanical bodies stiff, eyes dark, minds broken.
What about Bogard? he wondered. He could not find that particular robot here. Perhaps it had already been removed from the gallery. It was not really his anymore–it had been signed over to Special Service for active duty–but Bogard remained Derec’s creation and he could not help but worry about it.
Derec looked away. The outer walls of the gallery bore tall, blackened streaks from the explosions. On the subetheric broadcast, the blasts had seemed great enough to gouge holes, but all that showed were the stains.
Derec’s right foot slid sharply and he pinwheeled his arms to keep balance. He looked down. On the floor was a bright red smear leading from a puddle of blood. His stomach lurched sickeningly.
The drone led him up onto the platform and toward a small woman who stood in the midst of a cluster of people, talking rapidly and stabbing the air with her index and middle fingers.
“Supervisor Mil Jeffries, sir,” the drone said, loudly enough to attract her attention. The woman glanced his way, frowning, then nodded and held up her hand to indicate that he wait.
Task completed, the unit moved away. Derec waited at the edge of the cluster and listened while Jeffries issued instructions. One by one and in pairs the people left to carry out their assigned tasks until only Derec remained. She looked at him, one eyebrow cocked dubiously.
“And?”
“I’m Derec Avery, from the Phylaxis Group.”
“Those your people out there herding the braindeads away?”
“Yes.”
“Good. About time. I only have two people on staff who know anything about traumatized tinheads, and right now they’re busy with the RI... which is where I need you, if that’s what you’re wondering.”