Science Fiction: The Best of 2001

by Robert Silverberg

  Still no sign of Michael 2713.

  The stars were gone from the sky, shut from sight by the thick clouds, which had closed in faster than expected. Sheet lightning danced in both the west and the east now as two fronts crashed together. The wind howled; desert dust and sand swirled in the air.

  A familiar sound of gears and motors caused him to redirect his gaze.

  The doors of the observatory dome closed precisely.

  At this point in my testimony I must introduce an admission of guilt.

  For ten thousand years we have been the Keepers of Earth. This planet, abandoned by humanity and reduced to a cinder, passed into our Metallic hands. Where there was ash and wasteland, we made gardens. We dug deep to find the few buried and protected seeds that had survived the conflagration. We plunged into the depths of the few surviving oceans to nurture the algae beds that replenished the air and made abundant life possible once more.

  We inherited a black and charred carcass. But Metallic determination and Metallic care breathed new existence into it. Metallic vision and Metallic labor adorned it once again with grace and beauty. From the First-Orders to the Tenth-Orders, all units have done and continue to do their parts.

  Our work is not done. From the ruins of cataclysm, we have made a home for ourselves. But a home must be maintained. It must be safeguarded when possible from the elements; it must constantly be harmonized with nature.

  And sometimes—though this concept is not embedded in Metallic programming—a home must be defended.

  This unit never knew what became of Humanity when they fled to the stars. This unit never knew if they survived their journey, where they went, or if they made new homes for themselves. This unit never knew their intentions.

  But this unit knew Humanity, and knew that if they survived they would come back. This unit knew that if they saw this world we had made, this home, they would want it once more for themselves.

  Six months ago, a link in my programs that had been silent for more than ten millennia opened. The unexpected message was brief and simple. Well done, servant. Prepare for our return.

  You may not understand. If you do understand, you may not approve. I am prepared to give any answer you ask. I am prepared to accept judgment, condemnation, punishment, sanction.

  But this unit was already prepared.

  I did not remake the world for Humans.

  Joshua 4228 admired the beauty of the lightning as he walked through the wet grasses with Malachi 017 at his side. There was a grandeur in the display of energies that delighted him and something deeper, stranger still in its pyrotechnic unpredictability that mystified even as it soothed him.

  The inner world of a Metallic was one of order and perfectly defined programming. And yet he sometimes considered that there was something to be studied, observed, learned from randomness, from unpredictability, from chaos.

  He had seen a word recently in a book in the library, and the word was mystical. It intrigued him, and he spoke it sometimes when he was alone. He knew its definition, yet he did not quite grasp its meaning.

  As he watched the lightning, though, and felt the rain striking his upturned face, he thought for just a flicker of an instant that it was within his grasp.

  “Do you experience pleasure in walking?” he asked Malachi 017.

  “It is natural and efficient,” Malachi 017 responded automatically. Then, after a pause, “Yes, I find it pleasurable. I do not report such experiences often.”

  “Why do we not speak of emotions, Malachi 017?” Joshua 4228 persisted. “They are part of our programming. Yet we withdraw from them. Or we deny them.”

  Malachi 017 remained quiet for a long moment. “Perhaps because we cannot express them outwardly, we cannot easily express them inwardly. Metal faces do not smile or frown. Our eyes do not cry.”

  It was Joshua 4228’s turn to fall silent. “But I have cried inside,” he said at last. “I have made mistakes, Malachi 017.”

  Malachi 017 emitted a short burst of static. “Unlikely. You are First-Order.”

  Before Joshua 4228 could explain, a sound interrupted them. They stopped and turned. Through the grass came the small tractor. It had been following them since they left the hill, though its shorter legs had not enabled it to keep up.

  “Why do you follow, Tractor?” Malachi 017 asked. “Why did you not go with your work team?”

  The tractor did not answer. Its lensed eyes focused only on Joshua 4228. It approached him, reached out, touched his leg, then backed away. “Permission to inquire,” it said.

  “We have business in the city,” Malachi 017 answered, turning away again.

  “Wait,” Joshua 4228 said. “This tractor interests me. It’s behavior is uncharacteristic.”

  “Permission to inquire,” the tractor repeated.

  “Granted,” said Malachi 017.

  “I recognize Joshua 4228,” the tractor said, “the Alpha’s engineer. This unit wishes to ask: why did Joshua 4228 make this unit stupid?”

  “Are you malfunctioning?” Malachi 017 demanded.

  Joshua 4228 stared, his programs momentarily unbalanced by the unexpected question. His interest turned to curiosity, and he knelt down to observe the tractor more carefully. It waited, splattered with mud and blades of wet grass, dripping with rain.

  “You are not stupid,” Joshua 4228 explained. “You possess a fully functioning Tenth-Order intelligence. That is adequate for your assigned tasks, and you perform those tasks well.”

  The tractor swiveled its head from left to right. “This unit works the fields,” it said. “This unit works the grasslands, forests, gardens. This unit understands seed and soil. This unit understands the care of these, the maintenance of these, the value of these.” It hesitated. Its gaze fixed once more on Joshua 4228. “Is there no more, Engineer?”

  Joshua 4228 felt a growing confusion. He reached out and wiped rain from the tractor’s eyes. “You are very necessary,” he said. “You play an essential role.”

  The tractor interrupted. You are Joshua 4228. That unit is Malachi 017. But this necessary, essential unit has no name. This unit a tractor like all other tractors.”

  Joshua 4228 gazed up at Malachi, then back again at the tractor. Was it possible that a Tenth-Order mocked him?

  “The Alpha made you, Joshua 4228,” the tractor continued. “And the Alpha shared its First-Order intelligence with its creation. But I am your design, Engineer. I am your technology, your creation.”

  Malachi 017 bent nearer with a suddenly acute interest. His voice was little more than a whisper. “Your child,” he said.

  The tractor gazed up at the sky. “This unit feels the rain. This unit sees the lightning. This unit knows these are good for the seed and the soil. But in this knowledge there is no understanding. Why is there rain? What is lightning? This unit works sometimes in the city, tends the gardens there, sees so much that is confusing, so much that confounds this unit’s programming.” The tractor extended its hands, one toward Malachi 017, the other toward Joshua 4228. “This unit repeats its inquiry: why have you made this unit stupid?”

  A trembling that defied diagnostics seized Joshua 4228’s limbs. He caught the tractor’s extended hands in his own. His voice failed him. He tried to form words, tried to get up, but his metal joints would not respond. “I. . .this unit. . .I have made. . .mistakes,” he repeated.

  The tractor backed away a step. “This unit is a mistake,” it said, misunderstanding Joshua’s statement. “This unit will delete its programming. This unit will go offline.”

  “No!” Joshua grabbed the tractor’s shoulders.

  The light in the tractor’s eyes faded out. The pulse of energy beneath its metal skin ceased.

  Malachi 017 also backed away. “I have never seen such a thing before,” he said. There was uncertainty in his voice.

  Joshua 4228 could not respond. His body froze, and his programs locked up in a cascading series of contradictions, paradoxes, and reconfiguratio
ns. He barely felt Malachi 017’s hand when it settled on his arm.

  Finally, he pressed his hands to his face. “There are raindrops in my eyes, but why are there no tears?” he said when he could speak again. He stared at the immobile tractor.

  “Because we are Metallics,” Malachi 017 answered. “We do not die. This tractor’s program can be restored. You can even upgrade it, should you wish. Or you can place its programs in another, better body.”

  Joshua 4228 brushed away the hand on his arm. “But will it be the same little tractor?” he asked. “Are we no more than the sum of our programs? Are you such an empty container, Malachi 017, that you believe that? Then you have less understanding than this tractor!”

  “You are over-tasking,” Malachi 017 said. “This matter with the Alpha is affecting all units.” He looked at the tractor and backed away yet another step. “I, myself, am. . . confused.”

  Joshua 4228’s eyes dimmed and brightened, and his words were harsh. “You are afraid.” He drew himself up from the mud, but he was not yet quite ready to leave. “Why did I not see this?” he said, placing one hand gently on the tractor’s head. “Why do I only now begin to understand? We speak of our roles, Malachi 017, of our necessary parts in rebuilding this world. We speak of gardens as if they were the beginning and ending of all things desirable. We speak of beauty.” He turned to the other Metallic. “But we have also made a thing that suddenly seems very ugly, and that is Metallic society. We have made a race of masters and slaves.”

  Would you have all Metallics be First-Orders?” Malachi 017 asked.

  “Why not?” Joshua 4228 answered.

  They resumed their journey toward the city again. Overhead, lightning shot suddenly across the sky in jagged bolts that lit the landscape. The black glass of the city reflected the dazzling reds and oranges: the spires and rooftops seemed to glow, and the facades shimmered.

  Malachi 017 stopped in mid-stride to watch. “It almost looks as if the city were on fire,” he said.

  Joshua 4228 continued on. “Perhaps it is,” he whispered. “Perhaps it is.”

  I am Ezekiel 808, and I have been on-line for six thousand, three hundred, and thirty-two years, seven months, and sixteen days. Many of you present in this court chamber or listening from other corners of the world have never seen me before. I do not come to the city often, and when I do, I come in private, alone, and leave quietly. I spend my time far to the east beyond the hills and mountains at the Prime Observatory.

  A few of you have been there. A few of you have put your eyes to the great telescope and viewed the wonders of our neighboring worlds, our neighboring stars. A few of you may have been moved as I was moved, inspired as I was inspired each time I gazed upon those stars, those eyes of the universe which seemed always to be looking back.

  To observe and record—that has always been my first imperative. This is noble work. This is necessary work. Metallic society is more than well-planned gardens and gleaming glass buildings. We have moved beyond the reconstruction of this world into a period of discovery, inquiry, exploration. I have found unceasing pleasure . . . yes, I admit it. . .pleasure. . .in devoting my existence to the study, not just of this world, but of worlds beyond.

  I do not malfunction when I say this: Humanity did not err when they built their mighty arks and fled the destruction of this world. The accomplishment is an indicator of their greatness. Does a tractor not flee a collapsing cave? Which of us would not dodge a falling tree? We cannot understand Humanity, although the Alpha says he can. But how can we condemn their actions?

  But no matter. Humanity is not on trial. The Alpha is.

  To observe and record. That was my purpose, and the purpose for which the Prime Observatory was constructed. But now I tell you. There was a dark purpose, as well. I did not know it, recognize it, understand it before.

  My programs try to freeze, lock up, as I attempt to speak of it.

  To observe and record. . .but also. . .to watch. . . and. . . warn!

  Fourteen months ago, I aimed the great telescope toward a distant nebula. This was routine observation, and part of my efforts to map unusual phenomena in the sky. My assisting unit, Michael 2713, and I took many photographs of the region. Not until the next day, however, when we processed the images, did we discover what the cameras had caught—a barely observable streak of light, much closer than the nebula itself that indicated an object moving at an extreme rate of speed.

  Each night for one month, Michael 2713 and I observed and photographed this object. Then, on the thirty-second night of our observation, the object not only slowed its velocity, but it modified its course.

  Michael 2713 is a superlative Fourth-Order analyst. His calculations have been without error, and they supported my own conclusions. There was no doubt. We were observing a craft, vessel, vehicle. And it was approaching us.

  On the thirty-third day, I journeyed to the city.

  Again, my programs cascade, attempt to freeze. Yet, I. . . must. . .speak.

  This unit. . .I. . .conferred with. . .the Alpha. This unit. . . revealed, explained, told. . .of our discovery. This unit. . .I. . .presented photographs, charts, evidence, calculations.

  The Alpha requested. . . silence. The Alpha requested . . . that I continue. . .to observe.

  This unit. . . complied.

  This unit. . .I. . . observed the craft, vessel, vehicle . . .approach our solar system. It passed within the orbit of the outermost world. It continued to slow, to brake. . . . and Michael 2713. . .photographed it as it passed the ring-world. It had become easy to see—a gleaming metal sphere, silver in color, with skin similar to our own. Past the red planet it came.

  We. . . this unit and Michael 2713. . . could see it in the night sky without the great telescope. Any Metallic who looked up . . . and we do not look up often enough . . . could see it. It instilled a sense of wonder, awe, mystery that mere programming cannot convey or explain. On several nights, we watched it with no other equipment than our own eyes.

  Nevertheless, my eyes were at the telescope. . . three nights ago. . . when the Alpha committed. . .his crime . . . when the Alpha’s weapons. . . destroyed the craft.

  Michael 2713 ran. Never tiring, never short of breath, he ran for hours through the dark and the rain. It seldom rained in the desert, but he paid no attention. His footing remained sure in the thin mud and damp sand. He raced the lightning and the wind. The flat desert made a perfect track.

  His programs cycled in an unending cascade, but he did not lock up, nor freeze. He ran, instead, directing all his energy into that single unthinking activity, fixing his gaze on the ground at his feet.

  When the observatory could not be seen behind him, or even the peaks of the hills and mountains that stood between the observatory and the city, Michael 2713 finally stopped. Because he had not tried to monitor himself, he had no idea how fast he had run or how far he had gone. He looked around and saw nothing familiar. He had never been so far east before.

  He glanced up at the sky, at the thick cloud cover. It was an automatic action, instilled in him by his long service to Ezekiel 808. But he had no wish to see the stars, no wish to be reminded of his own role in a tragedy.

  Yet, he did look up, and he was reminded.

  Michael 2713 sank to his knees, not because he was weary, but because there was nothing else to do. He was only Fourth-Order. Why did he feel. . . what was he feeling? Guilt.

  He leaned forward and closed his fists in the wet sand. Some words of Ezekiel 808 came to him, a memory loop that opened unbidden. This is the stuff that stars are made of, Ezekiel 808 had told him as he held up a handful of soil. Then the First-Order had put a finger on Michael 2713’s chest. You are the stuff that stars are made of.

  Michael 2713 was young, a new model, no more than a single century in age. He had not understood then the meaning of Ezekiel 808’s words. He was not sure that he understood now. Yet the words resonated in his programming, and he knew they were important, that they
were symbols for something he could, with effort, understand.

  He began to cry inside. He cried for the loss of the trust he no longer had in the Alpha. He cried for the damage he had caused to the observatory. He cried for Ezekiel 808, whom he had nearly attacked as he had attacked the console.

  Most of all, he cried for the humans. They had come home again only to die in a conflagration not unlike the one they had fled.

  Chaos overwhelmed his programs. His systems tried to lock up, to shut down, but he resisted. He cried, and suddenly crying became an imperative. He had no tears, and yet the emotions churned, boiled, demanded some greater expression. He threw back his head. His metal throat strained. Without thought or design, a wrenching cry rose up from deep inside him. It was no sound ever made or heard before.

  It was all pain.

  After a while, Michael 2713 rose to his feet again. He considered switching on the radio circuit in his head and listening to the trial. But there was no purpose or logic in that. The outcome was irrelevant to him. He stood apart from Metallic society now. The Alpha was false. If he returned to the city, even to the observatory, he knew that he would find many more things that were false, many more assumptions that could no longer be trusted.

  He turned his back to the city, set his gaze on the cast, and walked.

  After a time, the rain ended. It never lasted long in the desert. Overhead, the clouds began to diminish, and the moon shone through.

  Michael stopped on the rim of what seemed to be a crater. The moonlight intensified as the clouds scattered. Its glow lit the desert with a milky shimmering that spilled down into that deep cauldron, showing him a sight.

  Again, he threw back his head, but this time it was not a cry of pain that came from him. It was a howl of rage.

  On the crater floor, rising tall and straight above the rim itself like needles stabbing the sky stood ninety-eight gleaming missiles. Among them, on the floor of the crater, he spied two black and empty launching pads.

  Michael 2713 swiftly calculated how long it would take him to dismantle them all. Then he descended into the pit.