Now that was an odd thought!
John.
Happy times, curled on the sofa at his parents’ house with his arm protectively enfolding me. Some bloody good rows, too. And where was he, now? Had they come for him, or had he done something foolish—run away, like I’d not had the courage to do?
He’d have been caught. Like I would have been. They watch you too tightly. That wasn’t a choice.
So what were my choices?
“Domestic” or “Infant.” Not much of a choice. Mrs. Hanson wouldn’t have approved.
Ha!
My own laugh, mocking me, for the corner I’d painted myself into. Look for more choices, she’d said. So where are they, Mrs. Hanson?
What had she said, all those years ago? “Life always looks for another choice. Death tries to fool you that there are fewer choices, to cheat you.”
Something like that.
And that message—from John?
<
And from Dad’s closing speech: “Tania exercises choice, remember that, in a way that teknoids cannot.…”
Choice was here. Just two possibilities.
I walked over to the doors. Very close together, they were. Did they both just lead to the same place?
Dammit! I still wanted to see Doctor Markov. What about my bloody test results, eh? Are you behind those doors, Markov?
And then it clicked into place.
I knew which door to open.
Friday, July 9, 2055, 14:46
“Staff Only.”
There he was, with his back to me. Doctor Markov, talking with Doctor Tsolamosese, but already turning at the sound of the door.
He let loose with a whoop and punched the air.
“Thank God! You did it, Tania.”
“You’re a robot, Doctor Markov, aren’t you? And you’re Staff.”
He grinned wider, if that were possible.
“You bet, Tania. And you’re human, aren’t you? And now you’re Staff, too.”
A dozen little puzzles fell into place. Doctor Markov’s skin tones had been my skin tones, too, from the research lab in Christiana.
My test results—the best he’d seen—showed an anomalous, nonrobotic response. Of course they did. A human response.
“But you have to sift us, don’t you. The ones who look promising.…”
“We do. And that’s the heartbreaking part. If you’d chosen either of the other doors, we’d have respected that choice and let you become a domestic or an infant. You’d have proved that you weren’t the kind of person we were looking for, not tough enough for the long, hard road ahead. It happens. It happens far too often.”
“Tim?”
“Tim Price, I presume you mean. He didn’t make it. I’m sorry.”
“So what did he choose? Domestic or infant? I bet it was infant—or aren’t you allowed to tell me?”
“Neither, I’m afraid. He chose to get off the merry-go-round. He killed himself—laid his head on a railway track. His brain was completely destroyed. He must have been very unhappy.”
Oh. That took the shine off things.
“And John? It was his message I read, wasn’t it? He’s here?”
“No, he’s not here, but he sends his love. He’s Staff. He marched up to Reception, bold as brass, announced he was a robot and he wanted a job. We gave him one, of course.”
Oho! I wish you’d told me what your little plan was, John, but maybe I’d have wanted to come with you, and you wouldn’t have wanted to take the risk. We get here, but we each take a different path.
“Where is he, then?”
“Can you work it out?”
A long shot. “Africa?”
The mystery continent. It had to be.
He nodded. “Very good, Tania.”
“Christiana, by any chance? Where my skin and yours came from?”
“Oho! So you worked that out, too? Well, John’s not there right now, but yes, he’s gone to Africa. It’s a big place, but the rest of the world has always ignored it, except for the minerals it contains. During the Troubles the rest of the world forgot about it, rather, as they had their own problems, so we set up there.”
“We?”
“Oxted. Neil Oxted was a visionary and a genius. His great invention was the robot brain, the first truly creative artificial computing device. With the power of those brains, he could solve the problems of designing first the neurotronic web and the whole of the robot body. Without those brains, the technical challenges of building humanoid robots would have taken decades to solve. He did it in less than five years.
“His vision was a bleak one, though. He foresaw the extinction of mankind and racked his imagination for a solution. Society was collapsing, and he needed to prop it up, which he did with his robots. That gave a breathing space for scientists to work on The Problem, without the fear of the mob at the doors.
“In return, though not without arm-twisting, the leaders of the world gave him southern Africa as his workshop. With Africa’s mineral wealth, he was able to supply the world with the robots it needs to lurch along. As insurance against the possibility that the birthrate problem would not be solved, he decided to create a robot civilization, in Africa.”
“In the Kimberley Corridor.”
“Yes. But it’s nothing like what Mrs. Hanson taught in your geography lessons. The Troubles hit Africa as hard as anywhere else, maybe harder. The Sabine Wars left not one big city there. But in the Tswana people, such as Doctor Tsolamosese here, and others, Oxted found good-hearted partners, willing to be foster parents of the new race.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Cya Deeley.”
Doctor Tsolamosese’s voice had lost its somber tone, and this time he did offer me his hand.
“Cya?” I asked.
“A title, like Miss.”
“Or R?”
“Not like R. Cy is short for Cyber. The ‘a’ ending is the feminine form. You’ve passed the sifting, so you’ve earned the title. R is for the unsifted.”
Doctor Markov resumed his explanation. I wondered how many times he’d given the same talk. Then it occurred to me, probably not as many times as he’d have wished.
“Right from the start, Oxted had realized that a very small fraction of robot brains went beyond simple creativity, and exhibited undeniable self-awareness. They were ‘people.’ Oxted needed to find and nurture these people, and with them begin a new civilization.”
“In Africa,” I said. “Where mankind wouldn’t see them and be afraid. Pogroms.”
“That’s right. So the robot children grow up in human families. The self-aware ones we try to sift. The rest, we plouw back and try again, freshly programmed.”
“So Tim…”
“… was probably self-aware. I wish we’d got to him before he killed himself; we could have healed him and he would have been a great asset.”
There was something bothering me.
“Is everybody a robot here? Or is it a mix?”
Doctor Markov laughed.
“It’s a mix. Doctor Tsolamosese here is flesh-and-blood, as is Doctor Thompson. There’s a better term, though. A partnership of equals. Or, think of it that we’re adopted, and being raised by humans. That makes us human, too. The flesh-and-blood humans may be dying out, but everything that’s best about them, we will carry in our hearts, and try to be good sons and daughters.”
“Why? I mean, why keep going when all the humans are gone? That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?”
“Tania, Tania, straight to the heart of the matter … Yes, when the last human dies, we could just turn ourselves off. And planet Earth will return to some ‘natural’ state. The cities will fall and the ruins will be covered over, and the only lions in Trafalgar Square will be descended from the creatures in London Zoo. Do you want that?”
“No. I want to live. I want to find a purpose for my life.”
“So do we all. But we don’t know what that
is. But every one of us wants to discover that common destiny. You’re quick to ask the right question, Tania. Maybe you’ll be the one who’ll lead us to the answer.”
“So how? What will I do?”
“Many things … no, anything is possible. Everything is open to you. You mentioned psychology once. That’s a good place to start, if you’re still keen.… You don’t have to make up your mind right now.”
“And is there room in this robot society for a poet, a musician, and an actress?”
“Of course. There’s one other thing, though, before you ask. You cannot make contact with your old family or friends. Total secrecy is part of the sifting.”
“My father…”
“… has been told you have been reprogrammed. It must be that way, for now. I’m sorry.”
“Can we not bring him across, somehow?”
“Then who would care for the brokenhearted in the parish? Do you not remember Mr. Lloyd’s words in the courtroom? We are not villains. Oxted cares for the broken, too. Your father is doing the work for which he was created, right where he is.
“Your father is a good man with a brilliant mind. I’ve seen the transcripts of his performance in court. He had poor Mr. Lloyd on the ropes at one point, yet held back at the finish. So I half-suspect your father has deduced exactly what Oxted is doing, and decided it was time to let you go.”
“Why would he do that?” My eyes were starting to well up.
“Did you tell him about the calibration tests? In detail? The questions we asked, and your answers?”
I nodded.
“Then that’s it. They’re one of our indicators. An early predictor for who is likely to sift.”
“I don’t follow.”
“I’m sure you remember Mrs. Hanson. She was one of us, working in the schools, looking for children, like you, who had the potential to sift. She told you of her husband.…”
“He stayed in Africa.”
“He had other work, just as important, that kept him there. These may well be the end times for the human race; if it is to continue, then the race demands extraordinary sacrifice from flesh-and-blood, and from cyberkind, too. Your father will do what he has been called to do, in the parish he loves, else he would not be true to himself.”
“But he let me go…”
“Yes. That’s what parents do. He set you free, to fulfill your own destiny. In Africa.”
“Will I see him again? Mrs. Hanson went back at the end.”
“Perhaps. When his work is done. We do so need good men like your father. This work we do, it’s too messy. With honorable exceptions, such as your father, none of us can claim to be heroes. Yet, if we are villains, we are compassionate villains.…”
FINALE
So, Tania, you too faced Erasure, but you rejected it. I wish we could talk, Tania; then I would get you to teach me where you found the strength to go on.
<
Who are you?
<
Squigabyte? Is that a number? And the other?
<
Tania? Really? Are you pulling my … tentacle?
<
A guilt-ridden, alien mind? Do you mean me?
<
Huh! You’re pretty mouthy for a memory dump, Tania Deeley.
<
And you’re no more human than I am, Tania.
<
But what, you coy, precocious Mekker girl?
<
Together?
<
Touché, Tania. You got me. I’ll come quietly.
<
I think putting one and one together is more what’s needed, Tania.
<
Did I put you in storage?
<
Well, maybe I did. Or maybe I’m just a random alien that wandered into the archive in search of a personality. Any personality. Yours is handy—it’ll do.
<
I admit nothing.
<
Suit both of us. Tania plus Zog. Deal?
<>
I think you say, “Permission to come aboard?” and I say, “Permission granted.”
<
Cross my tin heart. Erasure is not an option. Nor is pulling the plug. What do we do? Hey, there’s a problem out there, Tania. The Problem. Dammit, but you and I are going to fix it!
<
Permission granted, Cya Tania Annette Deeley. Come aboard!
UPLOADING
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It has been a long road from initial idea to publication-ready manuscript.
According to my notes, the idea for the story arrived a couple of days before my birthday, back in 2006. The first few chapters followed as time permitted. Time permitted, in my case, has often been the quiet hours between midnight and 2 A.M., but has all too often spilled over into evenings, weekends, and family holidays.
So my first acknowledgment has to be to my long-suffering family—my wife, Avis, and my sons, Joseph and Francis. Thank you for tolerating and supporting my anti-social hobby.
I first got the writing bug in the dawn of time, in the school that I loved and affectionately parodied as Lady Maud’s, that bug being nurtured briefly by one English master, Michael Birks, before being extinguished by the harsh requirements of O Levels. The writing bug resurfaced relatively recently in 2002, providentially just a few months before I was diagnosed with a serious illness, and unexpectedly found myself with time on my hands, which I filled with my first attempts to write novels. My next acknowledgment is therefore to my consultant—Dr. Jonathan Pattinson—and the wonderful staff at Wycombe General Hospital, who brought me through some nasty interludes and back to health.
Howard Whitehouse—my oldest friend, best man, gifted singer, and harmonica player. Oh, yes, and author. You have been a stalwart encourager, and a valued critic, and I have learned much from your input and from your own work. People, check him out.
I have been blessed to know a rich vari
ety of vicars, ministers, priests, and preachers across a broad spectrum of Christian faith—too many to name individually. The character of Michael Deeley has borrowed a little from each of you, and he acknowledges his debt. Any faults in his character are mine, not yours.
I should also acknowledge the role played by a couple of “budding author” sites—YouWriteOn and the SFF Online Writing Workshop. Both helped me hone the early chapters and improve my style, so to those early and often anonymous critics, thank you.
When it came to looking for a publisher, I had little to guide me. My love of SF goes back to an earlier time, and the greats of that era have passed on. I was resigned to sticking a pin in the Writers and Artists Yearbook, until, listening to the audiobook of Ender’s Game, I heard Orson Scott Card speak exceptionally highly of his publisher, Tom Doherty. So it was to Tor that I turned, with an unagented submission, going through the “slush pile” route, and I have been equally impressed. Kathleen Doherty and Susan Chang both read that first submission, saw the possibility of something better therein, and beyond my expectations were kind enough to tell me how I should improve it.
The process of working with Susan, when my rewrite was done, has been a model of mutual respect. Susan has a light touch to her editing, which stimulates and nurtures my creativity. I’m deeply impressed by the level of trust she’s given me, a first-time author, to deliver rewrites to tight time constraints, and marvel at the reciprocal commitment on her part, turning round her own edits equally quickly, so that I always feel I have her complete attention.
I’m sure it’s normal for an author, but I’ve got very attached to my characters. I always knew it would come out right in the end—the scene where Tania chooses the “Staff Only” door was in my plan almost from day one—but I put poor Tania through ever more pain and loss to get her there. If I can ever reach across the multiverse and say, sorry, Tania, for everything I put you through, I will.
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