“What happened to the people who worked so hard to suppress knowledge and interest in outer space?”
“What could they do?” Bobby cried. “The old guard was voted out during one of the elections. Accusations were made of collusion with the ’bots, so we flushed the old bureaucrats from power! Retro Los Angeles looks to the stars now! Our revolution is just beginning!” He hesitated, glancing out the window at the granite cave ceiling and the artificial sun that hung over Main Street. “Well, you know what I mean.”
Director X followed the young man’s gaze. What it noticed, though, was a crowd gathering along the street to point and stare at the robot sitting in the Asteroid Brunch and Salad Bar. Word of an outside visitor was spreading once again.
How long before the Protectorate hears news of my return? The city’s old guard was still about, and likely still in contact with the robotic administrators. And what happens then? Will they send me on another “investigation” into the fascinating ocean, or perhaps bury me beneath a mile of dirt so I can study the intriguing layers of geological sediment?
At least the humans in District 5 were safe, Director X thought. The Protectorate had formed in the radioactive days following the War of 62, bound by their programmed need to protect humanity and civilization. They could not harm human beings.
“Hey!” Bobby leaped up. “Want to see our film studio? We make our own movies now, just like you wanted us to! Want to see?”
“I really do.”
* * *
Stargazer Pictures was a motley patchwork of innovation, inexperience, and incorrigible optimism. The humans had constructed several soundstages, and Director X amusedly walked past ringed moonscapes, monochromatic space stations, and nebulae-dappled backdrops through which model ships trembled on shoddy tracks. It was all reminiscent of its’ own low-rated films. There was even an alien jungle base under siege by gigantic, polyurethane ants. Cameras were positioned throughout like entrenched machine guns. The production staff followed Director X and Bobby like reverent disciples.
“Bobby,” the robot said, hesitating by a ringed moonscape. “You said your revolution is just the beginning. What did you mean by that?”
“We’re going topside in another few years,” Bobby said, grinning. “We’ve sent out scouting parties into the ruins of Los Angeles.”
Director X froze. “What? But the radiation warnings…”
“The radiation is at perfectly safe levels now. We tested for it. Your bosses perpetuated a lie to keep us scared and pliable. Within a year, we’re moving out! Going topside!”
“To what end?”
Bobby looked confused. “To attain the stars! To reach the moon and the rings of Saturn. There are ’bots already out there in space, isn’t that right?”
“That is true. The solar system belongs to the Protectorate…” Director X recalled its conversation with Administrator G.
Humans must remain underground, while the Protectorate keeps order on and above Earth.
Bobby laughed. “Listen to me, rattling on about the future. You’re a filmmaker, so let’s talk about films! Based on what you’ve seen, can you recommend any improvements our little studio could…” The human trailed off, as a tickertape began to unroll from the robot’s chest.
“I suggest the following enhancements to be worked on immediately,” Director X said.
The burgess nodded absently, tearing off the tape and reading through it. “Um, okay.” His forehead wrinkled. “Some of these enhancements are strange…”
“Science fiction can be strange.”
“Fair point.” The young man turned to the production staff. “All right, people! We’ve got work to do!”
* * *
Working with humans had one huge and unavoidable drawback.
They needed sleep.
Director X’s fusion battery allowed 24/7 functioning, requiring nothing more than a glass of water every fifty years or so. Therefore, as the newly made artificial stars in the cave ceiling ignited in faux constellations while District 5 went to bed, Director X retired to the city theater, sitting alone in the front row with a bag of popcorn, to catch up on the manmade films that had been made for the past several years.
They were pretty bad. Tragic romances set on comet clusters. Monstrous hunts through the soupy atmosphere of Jupiter. Full-scale wars among the stars.
Yet there was already something vibrant and powerful and absurdly unique in the films. Something that was unrelentingly more interesting than a thousand machine-processed Protectorate films. Something that was, Director X grudgingly admitted, better than its own low-rated late-night schlock.
The humans had done what humans do best: they had innovated. Protectorate films had access to all the tricks, the slickest sets, the most startlingly lifelike androids; yet the humans, forced to work with cheap recycled rubber and foam and plastic, had pioneered new ideas and techniques. And their model-making of exotic alien cities had become quite good indeed …
One night, while catching a midnight showing of The Chaos Twins Save the Universe, Director X heard a mysterious creaking from the seat directly behind it. The robot rotated its head to investigate.
“Do not turn around,” a voice said.
Memory banks stirred, matching the voice to an older file.
“Administrator G,” Director X pronounced. It rotated its head another degree and caught sight of bulky Enforcers positioned throughout the aisles like ushers. Peripherally, it noticed Administrator G’s digital smile.
“You have caused us quite a bit of trouble,” the gold robot said. “We should have been more thorough in disposing of you.”
“But you couldn’t,” Director X guessed. “The Protectorate cannot murder.”
“And we did not murder you. We…” the voice took on a deep slurring quality, “thank you for your service in investigating the ocean.”
Director X turned to face its interrogator. “And what justification will you use for killing me this time? Going to melt me down and then thank me for ‘volunteering to become a wristwatch?’”
Administrator G’s radiant smile display fell away and reformed as a slight frown. “We were going to make you into a streetlight. But if you would prefer to be a watch…”
“What about the people of District 5? What will you do to them?”
“Nothing. We do not harm people.”
“Glad to hear—”
“It will not harm them when we weld their district door shut and infect their water supply with a sterilizing agent so their harmful ideas cannot pass onto the next generation.”
Director X was appalled. “What? You cannot do that!”
“It has already begun, and had been debated for some time. Your return forced us to accelerate the decision. We brought sterilizing agents and dumped them into the town reservoir. There shall be no further generations in District 5. That is not murder. The town will be kept under quarantine, along with the dangerous robot who first infected them, until the last resident here has died.”
“When did you poison the water?”
“I am under no obligation to tell—”
“There may be chemical compounds in the water that could cause spasms, vomiting, diarrhea, and overall suffering to the humans who ingest it.”
Administrator G hesitated. “We enhanced the water supply five minutes ago. Tomorrow as people take their showers and have their coffee and brush their teeth, they will…” Its voice slurred again like a warbling record-player. “…enjoy this enhanced beverage.”
“I don’t think they will enjoy seeing their town destroyed.”
“You destroyed the town!” the administrator robot’s face reformed as a scowling red expression with a crooked zig-zag mouth. “You disrupted these humans from well-ordered lives. You made them a threat to the existing order!”
“I enhanced them.”
“Enhanced them,” the administrator sneered. “You are nothing but a filmmaker! You serve a lowly purpose in the
grand scheme.”
Director X rose. “You are correct in one thing at least. I am a filmmaker.” It tapped its chest, which the administrator could now see was kindled by the soft light of an implanted camera. “Congratulations, Administrator G! The late-night crowd of District 5 has just enjoyed their first, live broadcast, with you as its star!”
Administrator G’s digital face blinked away. Now it was nothing but cold, featureless glass; the lens of a machine. Something about that very lack of expression sent a thrill of fear through Director X’s circuits.
The Enforcers scuttled forward on their insectile legs to attack.
Director X activated a hidden rocket-pack and shot up through the theater’s ceiling into the artificial night sky.
* * *
It was one of the new enhancements that Director X had requested of Bobby, ostensibly to obtain dynamic, first-person POV shots. The human was only too happy to comply, having his production team utilize their experimental rocket-packs.
The problem, Bobby had said, was that the propellant ran out quickly.
Now, Director X contemplated this problem as it exploded through the theater ceiling on a plume of dwindling exhaust. The Enforcers shot as it careened out of sight: plasma rounds streaked by Director X’s face, drawing ghostly trails around its body in a scene worthy of photographic capture.
At the apex of its launch, Director X grabbed hold of the granite sky. Its metal hand clamped down on a craggy stalactite jutting between two blazing electric stars and the robot dangled there, concealed against the rock as, far below, Enforcers were spilling out of the theater to search for him. Administrator G followed, like an Academy Award statue gone rogue.
Director X considered its options.
It couldn’t defeat Enforcers in a pitched battle. It ran multiple lines of speculation, realizing how hopeless the situation was.
I just destroyed an entire city. I should have let myself rust in the ocean.
Burgess Robert Croker ran out of an apartment building with a rabble of supporters. “You!” he cried, pointing to Administrator G. “Do you really think this city will just allow itself to be extinguished? We won’t let you!”
“I believe you are acting irrationally,” the administrator intoned. “For your own safety, I must have you escorted to the hospital for psychiatric evaluation. Perhaps some rest and a nice glass of enhanced water will do you good.”
Two Enforcers scampered forward, scattering the crowd. Robert Croker held his ground, however. Director X zoomed in with its telescopic eyes and could see a little bit of the man’s father in that steely, defiant glower.
“You can kill me!” Croker shouted. “But humanity looks to the stars once again!”
Very well, Director X thought. Prayer heard loud and clear.
The robot, slowly losing its grip between the stars, aimed its right arm and fired.
The limb struck the bristling metal legs of one Enforcer like a missile, knocking the machine over. Then it curled around the second Enforcer, twisting so quickly that the robot was pitched through the apartment lobby window.
Bobby Croker blinked in astonishment at this unexpected rescue. He looked about, squinting at the sky.
Director X felt its grip slide another inch.
I’m out of fuel, it thought. It’s a long, long way down.
Nonetheless, it used its radio to hack into the artificial sky. Specifically, into the electric lighting presets. The robot quickly reprogrammed them to display in a dazzling new constellation that blinked and shimmered in a heaven-spanning message:
THEM! XXI: THE BATTLE FOR AFRICA
For a brief second, Director X thought it observed comprehension in Bobby’s face. But then its grip gave way, and the robot plummeted down from the night sky. The second-to-last thing it saw was the concrete street rushing up to meet it.
The impact was stunning. Director X’s processors jostled and jingled in its glass braincase, cutting off circuits that required a hard reboot. In terrible darkness, it waited for its higher functioning to come back online. Dimly, the robot became aware of the march of robotic feet and screams from the city’s emerging population.
When its processors whirred back to life and vision returned, Director X had time to make one final observation.
A wall of water was gushing down the hill from the reservoir, sweeping up Enforcers and Administrator G into its frothy chop. It was, Director X thought, very much like the conclusion of the twenty-first installment of the Them! series, when the besieged humans blew up the local dam to wash the giant ants away.
Then the water swallowed Director X in a surging, thunderous deluge and all went dark again.
* * *
Director X had calculated it would take the human race fifty-seven years to overthrow the Protectorate’s Global Security Commission.
It took fifteen.
With the destruction of Administrator G’s little army, the residents of Retro Los Angeles were able to quickly establish contact with other underground districts and convey the news: the “irradiated” world was no longer irradiated. Humans could emerge like hibernating bears and shuffle back into the urban forest.
And that’s just what they did.
The Protectorate massed its forces in opposition, but the battles were short-lived indeed. Humans did what they did best: they innovated. They hacked into radio signals and deactivated entire armies. They sent false messages to lure the Protectorate into traps. They captured robots and reprogrammed them to return to sender with explosive gifts.
Unsurprisingly, there wasn’t a huge demand for science fiction films during those tumultuous years. Director X, recovered from the flood in District 5, was forced to adapt. That was okay, because it had been designed to adapt. To think outside the vacuum tube.
It began making documentaries. Straightforward, fact-based, in-the-field recordings of the Human-Bot War, the Human Colonization of the Moon, the Battles on the Sands of Mars, and the War Among the Stars.
Viewer ratings were the best it had ever achieved.
GOLD AND GLORY
L. E. Modesitt, Jr.
My head was splitting on Monday morning. I should have expected it after the fracas on Sunday. I ignored the laser-sharp cuts that sliced through my gray matter, showered, put on a clean set of fatigues, and headed for the NCO mess. I couldn’t ignore Dasia Anderson, who gestured to me after I left the chow line. So I took my tray and sat down across the white carbonite table from her.
“Seventh got cleaned in the last fracas.” Anderson grinned. She’d come to the Eighth Battalion from the Southern Front. Claimed that the Canucks were patsies compared to the Mexicanos.
“We held the wall, though. Trumped those Canucks good in the end.”
“Word is that they’re getting upgraded pulse-rifles.”
“It won’t do them any good if they can’t get up the riprap and through the moat to the wall.” I took a bite of the breakfast steak with some scrambled eggs. The steak was repmeat, but it still cooked and tasted like steak, and that was a damned sight better than the soypro I’d had growing up in the burbs outside of what had been D.C.. The CONUS District planning directorate still claims that they’ll have the old city decontaminated in another ten years. I think that’s right. My memory’s a little fuzzy on what doesn’t deal with Seventh Battalion or Bravo Company.
“Valdez saw a new battle surveillance bot this morning.”
“Ours?”
Dasia shook her head. “Canuck drone. Red maple leaf plastered on the side.”
“Weapons let it wander along their side of the border?” That was a rhetorical question. I almost shook my head. Cost-effectiveness, again.
Dasia did shake her head. “Stayed on their side. They’ve got more grid problems than we do. Fewer people, too.”
If I thought about it, and I tried not to because it screwed up my head even more, it was hard to believe that we were fighting a fracas war against Canucks, but being a sergeant in Bravo Company
beat the dole. If I made it through another two tours, I’d have a stipend, and enough to afford a better place than where I grew up. “Seems like we’re always behind them.”
“They have to use more tech on the ground,” she pointed out. “Ever since—”
“I know. They’ve got tech. We’ve got bodies.” Too many of them and too little fertile land left.
“You think we’ll ever see a bot company?” asked Dasia.
“Why? What’s the point of that? No glory. No guts. No gold. No one’s ever made a robot that can do what we can.” Humans were much cheaper than full-capability robots, and we also recovered from minor injuries without enormous “repair” bills. War, even fracas style, has always been ruled as much by costs as by battle commanders. I remember reading somewhere that Napoleon could only put together his grand army after they invented tinned food. Otherwise, the costs of getting food would have destroyed his army even before the Russian winter did.
“You hear anything about the next offensive?” asked Dasia.
“Not yet. The lieutenant’s called squad leaders for a briefing at thirteen hundred.”
“So’s ours.”
“How’s she working out?”
“Straight-shooting iron butterfly and twice as tough.”
“Sounds good.” I’d been through three platoon leaders in as many years. Lieutenant Zynder was the third.
After I ate the rest of the steak and eggs, washed down with coffee, I headed back to the company spaces. Just beyond the barracks door was the company holo projection. This week it showed a caricature of a clunky-looking metal figure—what the early InfoAge types thought a robot looked like—iron anthropomorphic. The flashing caption proclaimed: “Don’t Act Like a Robot! Real troopers aren’t predictable.” The image, caption, and thought were all laughable. But then, that wasn’t the point of the projection. And every NCO knew it.