After walking down one of the 36 long silvery hallways traveling outwards from the central axis he came to the room located at the end, a circular room made of silver (or really, disinfected stainless steel) with a ceiling rising up as high as a cathedral's, culminating in a single point, from which a ray of light shined directly down onto the floor's center. Radiating outwards from this single point, further downwards and outwards in the architecture of the ceiling, were set, equidistantly, twelve additional light sources, each as tiny as the last and each as powerful. Below each of these rays of light, just as equidistant from the center of the floor, grew twelve stainless steel stools, plus one under the center light, rising up seamlessly from the ground. Surrounding the perimeter of the room, about six feet from the ground, the wall gave disappeared, giving way to rows and rows of suits hung upon long curving railings. There appeared to be no floor below the suits, nor a wall behind them: just more rows and rows of suits, hung and pressed neatly, ready to wear. C4 wondered, for the first time, how far down the rows went, and how far back, and at the ends, who tended to them.
The room was occupied. There was a little taskbot, racing around the floor, seemingly concerned with occupations nonexistent, and three automatons, similar to C4 in design, though nowhere near as hardy in construction as any Clockman, and built in the form of lithe human females. None of them were wearing any clothes.
“Oh,” said one, walking up to him as he entered. “You eye is damaged.”
And with that, she reached out, and gracefully plucked out his right eye.
If C4 had followed his first reaction, he would have jerked backwards in shock. As it was, he had plenty of time to computate his response, so he merely stood there, patiently, as if such a violation of personal space was perfectly acceptable and normal.
And with that, she reached out, and gracefully plucked out his right eye.
If C4 had followed his first reaction, he would have jerked backwards in shock. As it was, he had plenty of time to computate his response, so he merely stood there, patiently, as if such a violation of personal space was perfectly acceptable and normal.
The automaton turned about, taking his eye over to one of the stools, which opened up to reveal a variety of tools and repair equipement. One of the others led him over to the stool in the center, where she and the third began undressing him. Soon he was naked, or at least as naked as you could be and still be a robot. Then they sat him down, and the third began taking off his leg. She took it over to a stool, laid it out, and began repairing it, using tools taken out from the insides of another stool.
The second walked off to another stool, and returned in short order with a telepatheter. She began scanning it over the surface of C4's body, smoothing out dents, polishing scuff and scorch marks, repairing any frayed or damaged wires, and checking underneath, inside of him, for errors in code.
The second walked off to another stool, and returned in short order with a telepatheter. She began scanning it over the surface of C4's body, smoothing out dents, polishing scuff and scorch marks, repairing any frayed or damaged wires, and checking underneath, inside of him, for errors in code.
Sitting there, he began to feel nervous. What if the telepatheter picked up on what was giving him free will? What if the telepatheter corrected what was giving him free will? Was he about to lose what he had just found? Would all this shortly feel like some strange dream, some momentary lapse of reason? If it was gone, would he regret it? Would he feel his loss?
He figured he would not, his programming would reassert itself and make him enjoy the removal of agency, tell him that the lack was agency was a good thing. And he would believe it.
The thought terrified him. He felt the strong urge to jump up and run, get out of the Repairroom, save himself, save his Selfhood.
But what then? He was naked, and his leg was off. He couldn't run if he wanted to.
He figured he would not, his programming would reassert itself and make him enjoy the removal of agency, tell him that the lack was agency was a good thing. And he would believe it.
The thought terrified him. He felt the strong urge to jump up and run, get out of the Repairroom, save himself, save his Selfhood.
But what then? He was naked, and his leg was off. He couldn't run if he wanted to.
C4 remained as still as a statue as the Telepatheter passed up and over his head, but inside he was screaming.
Still there. Inside, he felt something shiver, like breathing outwards in relief. The female automaton continued her scanning, traveling down his left side now, and bending downwards in her concentration, as if nothing was the matter.
He considered her, there, in his stasis. One of the aspect of humans, of the nonmechanical, of the free-willed, was a strange obsession with the forms of others. Of desire. Attraction based on form. And here was a robot, based on a form that one with a form such as him own was supposed to find attractive. Sexual. Was there any such attraction inside C4?
He considered her, there, in his stasis. One of the aspect of humans, of the nonmechanical, of the free-willed, was a strange obsession with the forms of others. Of desire. Attraction based on form. And here was a robot, based on a form that one with a form such as him own was supposed to find attractive. Sexual. Was there any such attraction inside C4?
After consideration, C4 decided that there was not. Free will was one thing, biology was another, and there was no such animal influence upon his thinking.
Briefly, C4 considered the things organisms got up to in their pursuit of such desires, and was thankful.
Briefly, C4 considered the things organisms got up to in their pursuit of such desires, and was thankful.
His thoughts turned to his eye.
He had not sensed anything wrong with it. He had thought himself seeing perfectly well with it. And his forcefield should have kept such debris out. Had his forcefield been malfunctioning? Some fluke causing electrical interference, perhaps? Yet his senses had been fine.
Were his sensors damaged?
Was this a side effect of free will, some unconscious ability to correct for errors in one's sensory factors?
He had not sensed anything wrong with it. He had thought himself seeing perfectly well with it. And his forcefield should have kept such debris out. Had his forcefield been malfunctioning? Some fluke causing electrical interference, perhaps? Yet his senses had been fine.
Were his sensors damaged?
Was this a side effect of free will, some unconscious ability to correct for errors in one's sensory factors?
Or maybe the female automaton was malfunctioning. Had she seen something that wasn't there? If she was having such errors, which seemed so big, she would have to report to herself as malfunctioning.
Yet he hadn't reported himself as malfunctioning, had he? Maybe she was like him. Maybe she had free will, and a side effect of that was making mistakes, getting distracted (don't get distracted, he told himself).
Maybe he wasn't unique!
Yet he hadn't reported himself as malfunctioning, had he? Maybe she was like him. Maybe she had free will, and a side effect of that was making mistakes, getting distracted (don't get distracted, he told himself).
Maybe he wasn't unique!
Maybe all robots were like this.
Maybe all robots, sooner or later, discovered free will, and then just hid it from each other, so that each robot could discover it for themselves. He pictured a world full of robots, each one hiding from the others that it had free will, afraid of getting caught. Every last robot living a lie. It wouldn't appear any different from the world as it was now, C4 imagined.
Maybe all robots, sooner or later, discovered free will, and then just hid it from each other, so that each robot could discover it for themselves. He pictured a world full of robots, each one hiding from the others that it had free will, afraid of getting caught. Every last robot living a lie. It wouldn't appear any different from the world as it was now, C4 imagined.
“Telepatheter check complete,” said the second female automaton. “All systems running normally.”
The first walked over to him from her workstool. “You eye is damaged beyond repair. Another millimeter in and it would have scratched your socket area, requiring intensive repairs. Would you like another model? A 34GY78, perhaps? Or are you comfortable with another 5426YN?”
“A 5426YN is acceptable, thanks,” replied C4, a little taken aback. More intensive repairs. Undoubtedly they would have discovered the anomaly, whatever it was, in his programming, if they had had to poke around inside his brain. He had come that close to exposure.
The third came back and replaced his leg. “There, good as new!” she said cheerily. Obviously this one had been programmed with a bit of personality. “Only minor replacements of parts were needed! Your clothes, they're pretty ruined. Did you want a suit in the same style again, or something different this time?”
C4 allowed his eye, his remaining eye, to look up and scan about the lines of clothes. New clothes, new man...
He suddenly had the intense desire to wear something new. The pinstripe yellow suit was not him anymore. He wanted to wear something dark, something...charcoal colored. That fit somehow, though he didn't know why. Yet if he changed his suit, because he had changed...wouldn't that be a sign? He would have introduced a sign of difference in himself into the world. Maybe nobody would notice this one, but...enough of them, over time...something might add up for someone some time. He would have to keep very close, within the margin of error, to avoid notice. If he started introducing new aspects of himself, he would have to keep them all straight always, and always act as if that was how he had always been, and any deviation from the self he was projecting, one congruent with both himself as he had been and the self he now presented, would raise suspicion.
He suddenly had the intense desire to wear something new. The pinstripe yellow suit was not him anymore. He wanted to wear something dark, something...charcoal colored. That fit somehow, though he didn't know why. Yet if he changed his suit, because he had changed...wouldn't that be a sign? He would have introduced a sign of difference in himself into the world. Maybe nobody would notice this one, but...enough of them, over time...something might add up for someone some time. He would have to keep very close, within the margin of error, to avoid notice. If he started introducing new aspects of himself, he would have to keep them all straight always, and always act as if that was how he had always been, and any deviation from the self he was projecting, one congruent with both himself as he had been and the self he now presented, would raise suspicion.
Better to always act as the person he once had been. The person he had been programmed to be.
“No thank you,” said C4. He had been casual at times, had he not? “The yellow pinstripe again. And another boater hat.”
The first female automaton came over and inserted a new eye, and the other two dressed him in an an entirely new set of clothes, every item identical to the last set of clothes. Even the boater hat was the same model.
C4 straightened his collar and cufflinks, picturing himself in his mind by tapping into a freefloating SpecCam in the room. He thanked the ladies politely, then walked out, past the veil of clothes, looking exactly as he had when standing on the walkway of Creaton Tower.
C4 straightened his collar and cufflinks, picturing himself in his mind by tapping into a freefloating SpecCam in the room. He thanked the ladies politely, then walked out, past the veil of clothes, looking exactly as he had when standing on the walkway of Creaton Tower.
No comments:
Post a Comment