Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Introduction
Servant of Death
The Unplug War
Cold Dead Fingers
The Hum
Last of the Fourth
Moral Imperative
Partnership
Chasing Humanity
The Difference
Transformation
Killer App
Reiteration
Stalking Old John Bull
Engines of Desire & Despair
The Historian’s Apprentice
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Acknowledgments
Introduction copyright © 2007 by John Helfers “Servant of Death,” copyright © 2007 by Obsidian
Tiger, Inc. and Fred Saberhagen “The Unplug War,” copyright © 2007 by Brendan
DuBois
“Cold Dead Fingers,” copyright © 2007 by Loren L.
Coleman
“The Hum,” copyright © 2007 by Rick Hautala
“Last of the Fourth,” copyright © 2007 by Bill
Fawcett
“Moral Imperative,” copyright © 2007 by Ed Gorman
“Partnership,” copyright © 2007 by William H. Keith
“Chasing Humanity,” copyright © 2007 by Brad
Beaulieu
“The Difference,” copyright © 2007 by L.E. Modesitt, Jr.
“Transformation,” copyright © 2007 by Stephen Leigh
“Killer App,” copyright © 2007 by Richard Dansky
“Reiteration,” copyright © 2007 by Simon Brown
“Stalking Old John Bull,” copyright © 2007 by Jean
Rabe
“Engines of Desire and Despair,” copyright © 2007 by Russell Davis
“The Historian’s Apprentice,” copyright © 2007 by S.
Andrew Swann
Introduction
By John Helfers
Given the theme of this anthology, I think it’s time to reveal what some—or many—in the SF community might think is a guilty pleasure: One of my all-time favorite films is Terminator 2:Judgment Day. Not only because it was and still is a stunning achievement in special effects, but also because of the heart of the story that James Cameron and William Wisher, Jr., came up with (ignoring any of the myriad time-travel paradox issues) to tell an even better story of Sarah Connor versus a killer robot from the future than the first time around. The interface between humanity and machine was examined on several levels, with some aspects answered, but, at least in Cameron’s vision, more questions raised were raised about natural and artificial consciousness and about the role that machines will play in our own future—the fate that we are making for ourselves every day.
The themes explored in T2 have been cropping up more frequently with today’s advances in computer technology. With computers becoming more powerful with each incarnation and robots doing more and more, such as piloting vehicles across remote, inhospitable terrain without any human oversight (such as the recent Grand Challenges sponsored by DARPA and the Pentagon), can true machine intelligence and automated robots be that far off in the future? And when that day arrives, what will machines have to say about their human creators? How will they interact with us? Will there ever come a day when they try to destroy us?
The debate over the pros and cons of artificial intelligence and creating self-guided robots has gone on ever since the first computer and the first functioning robot were invented. No one really knows what might happen, but at some point the questions above (except, hopefully, the last one) will have to be addressed.
While sitting in my office writing this introduction, I took a casual look around at the machines that surrounded me and provided me with so much that I take for granted every single day. From the amazingly complex computer I typed these words on to the relatively simple machines that provided light, heat, printed text on demand, kept drinks cold and preserved food, allowed me to talk to someone across the country instantaneously, to a small machine around my wrist that tamed and quantified an insubstantial concept like time, machines surrounded me. And the computer and the lamp and the refrigerator are all connected to much larger machines that give them power to operate, and those machines are connected in a grid to others all across the country and around the world. Meanwhile, billions of communications zip back and forth through fiber-optic lines and to and from satellites that circle the globe. It was a sobering thought to realize just how much we depend on machines to provide us with what we consider the basic comforts of life now—and it is even more sobering to consider that many of these things weren’t even invented a century ago.
If we look ahead another century—or perhaps even twenty to fifty years—will our machines grow more capable of serving us, or anticipating our needs and fulfilling them? Will we have true robots, à la Isaac Asimov’s vision, with the potential pleasures and perils that come with them?
When I came up with the idea for this anthology, I didn’t want it to be just “men versus robots,” and I made sure that the authors I had invited knew that. While I was very pleased to get some down-and-dirty sci
ence fiction combat stories, I was very surprised at the wide range of fiction, and the extremely wide interpretation that the authors contained herein took on what I considered a relatively simple theme. From military SF to historical fiction to humanist science fiction to what can only be categorized as slipstream in one instance, these sixteen authors all went beyond the simple definition of man versus machine and came up with stories that illustrate a mere sampling of what future conflicts might arise between mankind and technology.
So as you turn the page and explore both what might have been and what might be to come, take a look around your home, and give some thought to the machines that surround you and make your life more comfortable. And keep watching them. Because you never know, in this day and age, when the idea of man versus machine might turn from fiction . . . into fact.
Servant of Death
By Jane Lindskold and Fred Saberhagen
Jane Lindskold is the author of eighteen novels and over fifty short stories. Although most of her fiction is fantasy, she loves science fiction and is delighted when the opportunity arises to write about space ships, computers, and alien worlds. Visit her at www.janelindskold.com.
Fred Saberhagen has been writing science fiction and fantasy for somewhat more than forty years. Besides the Berserker® series he is known for his Swords and Lost Swords series, and his Dracula series. His most recent publication is Ardneh’s Sword, connecting the Swords series and Empire of the East. He lives in Albuquerque New Mexico, with his wife, Joan Spicci.
“This base is under attack! This base is under attack!”
The hollow, booming voice from the loudspeakers jarred Vivian Travers to her feet and started her moving across her private laboratory to where her customized battle armor hung in its rack. Her hands were in contact with the cool metal almost before her conscious mind had fully registered what the voice was saying.
There had of course been practice alerts during the several centuries since this research base, on the large moon of the planet Lake, had become her regular residence—but far too few such drills, in her judgement.
With the skill of long practice Vivian had already opened the front of the armor, stepped inside, and leaned back, pressing against key contact points. Leads automatically inserted themselves at various points, cutting through clothing where necessary. The sensation was uncomfortable, but Vivian ignored it, reaching for her carbine even as the front of the armor closed and latched.
This is not a drill! Berserkers sighted approaching this base. All hands to battle stations. Repeat! This is not a drill.
“And why shouldn’t they be approaching,” Vivian muttered inside her helmet, closing the door of her private lab behind her, locking it out of habit. “When the defenses have been allowed to go to hell? Damned politicians!” But as she did not transmit, there was no reply.
She hurried down the corridor, feeling rather than hearing as hatches and bulkheads sealed behind and beneath her throughout the base. Lake Moon Research Base tunneled deep into the rock of its name-sake moon. Its overall design was a good one. Vivian knew. She had created it herself over a hundred years before.
Vivian’s battle station was in the main weapons bay, where she was assigned to damage control and back-up gunnery. If berserkers were attacking, both would likely be needed—if anyone survived to need anything at all.
The sprawling base housed not quite four hundred people, mostly researchers and their immediate families. The bulk of the moon around them was naturally devoid of any native life, and so were the planets, moons, comets, and asteroids that made up the Pinball System, in which Lake was the fifth planet from the sun. Even the “lakes” for which the fifth planet was named were devoid of life, mere pools of stagnate acid, which were slowly corroding the minerals upon which they rested.
Moving past other suited, hurrying human figures through the cavernous main weapons bay, Vivian began to run a check on one of the gun batteries.
“Yes,” she muttered to herself again. “Why should they not have decided to attack?”
The berserkers were programmed to exterminate life in all its forms, wherever and whenever they could come to grips with it. Created by a race that the Earth-descended version of Galactic humanity had dubbed the Builders, the berserkers had been forged as the ultimate weapon in the Builders’ war against the Red Race. Some flaw in their programing had led to the berserkers annihilating not only the Red Race but the Builders as well. After many thousands of years, if one was inclined to include microscopic creatures in the tally, the berserkers had expunged from the Galaxy uncountable billions of what they called life-units. But their quest for the perfect order of death was far from ended.
Rebuilding, reconstructing, redesigning themselves as the years passed, the berserkers came in a variety of forms, ranging from bipedal robots to immobile data-processing boxes, from machines the size of a small dog to the pair of hulking dreadnoughts that now, according to the latest announcement from the loudspeakers, were bearing down upon Lake Moon.
As she hurried to her battle station, Vivian had tuned her helmet speakers to bring her command chatter. Now she heard General Gosnick, the base commander, saying calmly, “Launch individual fighters. What we think are the appropriate enemy schematics are being beamed to your control panels. This pair look like older models, and they’re pretty badly beaten up. We may be able to disable them before they can close to effective striking range of the base.”
“Understood.” That would be the voice of the relatively junior officer in tactical command of the squadron just now launching.
In mental communication with her own armor, Vivian called up on her visor an image of what the base’s sensors were picking up. The information appeared both as a direct visual image and as a stream of data overlaying the visual. She was studying it when General Gosnick’s voice came over her private channel.
“Vivian, do you concur with my analysis of the situation?”
“I do.” With a thought, she zoomed in for a tighter inspection of the hull of the marginally closer of the two approaching behemoths. “Definitely old damage. Judging from the angle of the scatter pattern, I’m wondering if it may possibly be even older than berserker contact with Earth-descended humans.”
It was an eerie thought, that these two hulks, survivors of some ancient battle, might have been struggling through the Galaxy in normal space for millennia, perhaps trying to free themselves from some entangling nebula of gas or dust.
“However that may be, our fighters should be able to take them out. And maybe after this we can get some serious updating of our defenses.”
“Maybe.” The general did not sound too optimistic. For a long time, political complications had blocked progress in that direction.
Vivian went on: “I’m going to transmit a series of suggested targets . . . with your permission.”
She remembered to add the last, although General Gosnick did not tend to be a stickler for command hierarchy as some of his predecessors had been. The Templars often rotated injured officers to Lake Moon, where they could continue to make useful contributions while recuperating. General Gosnick had lost both legs, and his metabolism was proving resistant to accepting bio-linked prosthetics. His role on Lake Moon rotated on a regular basis between that of administrator and test subject. He was accustomed to taking suggestions, even direct orders, from Vivian Travers, who, by reason of both her specialized skills and seniority, occupied a unique position in the base community.
Damaged as they were, the berserkers proved to be not totally ineffective as opponents, though they never managed to attack the base directly. When the battle was over, the enemy reduced to drifting chunks of relatively harmless hardware, interspersed with glowing incandescent clouds, several of the fighters needed to be towed back to base. Three pilots were going to be very glad that the hospital was not merely on the cutting edge of medical technology—it was where that edge was honed.
On standing down from her battle station
, Vivian went to the hangar bay and put in several hours consulting with the workers and robots repairing the damaged fighters. Since working on the fighters was easier in minimal gee, and since low-gee was easier to adapt to in her suit, she left it on. Cobalt blue, with a surface texture that resembled lacquer, her battle armor stood out among the more utilitarian equipment worn by those around her. Vivian didn’t miss the occasional envious gaze or covetous sigh as she extruded various auxiliary limbs as needed.
Make your own, she thought cheerfully. I did.
Consulting with the crew chief in charge of repairs on the fighters, Vivian took note of a set of peculiar small piercings on the hull of one of the small craft. Four little holes, a couple of centimeters apart, in one short row, and another similar row of four about two meters away. The crew chief speculated that the piercings had been caused by some sort of mine, one that threw shrapnel, but that the shrapnel had not been able to do sufficient damage.
General Gosnick glided over to join them. He was not wearing his prosthetics, which would have been a distraction, but was riding in a state-of-the art chair that doubled as body armor if needed. Its lower profile gave him an advantage when viewing the fighter’s undercarriage.
“Odd that shrapnel would have hit in such neat lines.”
“Maybe,” a new speaker said, coming up to join them, “what made those marks was an automated mine rather than shrapnel. The mine might have tried to anchor, but failed and dropped off. We’d never have noticed one more explosion among all the rest.”
The new arrival went by the name Brother Angel. He belonged to a militant subcult of the Templars. There he had served with such distinction that the envious joked that if he wore all his medals, he could dispense with any other form of armor. Although synthetic skin had been grafted on, Brother Angel still showed the ravages of the complex surgeries that had been done to save his sight and hearing. Pious, devoted, and apparently as focused on the destruction of the berserkers as they were on the destruction of all Life, he had been repeatedly frustrated in his desire to return to active duty by sporadic irregularities that cropped up in the functioning of his new sensory apparatus.
Man Vs Machine Page 1