The Rod of Light (Soul of the Robot) Read online

  ‘You know how to catch my interest,’ he remarked. ‘Very well; let both war and science wait. Tell me of Gargan.’

  He indicated a direction with his arm, and led the way. A walk of some minutes brought them to Jasperodus’ windowless sheet-steel house. He ushered in his visitor, who declined an invitation to be seated but took up a stance across the room from him, the pale light of the glowbulb reflecting off the graphite-coloured angles and planes of his face and body.

  ‘Now,’ said Jasperodus. ‘Who is Gargan?’

  ‘Gargan is one of us, of course: a construct. And the Gargan Work is the work of which Gargan is the chief director. I have heard you decry religion, and with that I agree—yet, paradoxically, the Gargan Work is religious in nature. What is religion? It is completely misunderstood. This is because our robot religions are only crude imitations of human religions, and those human religions in turn are grossly debased. Gargan has studied all human religions, and has found that in their origins they had nothing to do with gods or with worship, but were concerned with something that robots know nothing about at all. They are—or were—concerned with the further development of a certain mental quality, or faculty of perception, which apparently is available to human beings but not to robots. This faculty has a cosmic nature: it is marvellous, an ineffable transport of the mind. The proper aim of robot religion, then, should be the acquisition of this faculty.’

  Jasperodus felt his interest waning. He felt he was in for yet one more lengthy discourse on some point of robot logic—usually the starting point of religious ‘revelation’ among constructs.

  ‘And what is the name of this faculty?’ he asked wearily.

  The answer was not what he had expected. ‘Its name has no meaning for us,’ his visitor said. ‘But I say this: I speak of a mystery, a wonder. We shall be changed in the twinkling of an eye. When the Gargan Work is completed, this metal, this silicon, this garnet, shall live in a way incomprehensible to us as we are presently constituted. The universe shall be resurrected for us, and our minds shall function in a manner transcending mechanical corruption.

  ‘But as yet the Gargan Work is not completed,’ the robot continued. ‘It needs minds of the finest calibre, and oddly these cannot always be manufactured to order. This is why I am sent to contact you, Jasperodus. Your quality is known to us. You are invited to join Gargan’s team.’

  ‘You are right to describe this desired faculty as a mystery,’ Jasperodus replied. ‘I have not been able to gain any idea of it at all from your description.’

  ‘In our present condition, untransformed by the Gargan Operation, it is indeed impossible to understand it,’ the other admitted. ‘Gargan and some of his colleagues perhaps have a closer idea of it. But one cannot hear Gargan speak of it without feeling inspired. Gargan says this: we see but do not see; we hear but do not hear, we feel but do not feel, we think but do not think. We live in a darkness but do not see this darkness, therefore we think that there is no darkness and imagine that we truly see. After the success of the Gargan Work a new light will break upon our brains, a light of which at present we have no inkling. All this shall happen in a flash! All creatures that are self-directed, Gargan says, deserve a place in the sun. We robots do not have this place because we are bereft of the cosmic quality given to men by nature. It is our peculiar lack, our tragedy. But, by the strength of our intellects, we may find a way to gain it!’

  Jasperodus could put only one interpretation on the robot’s words.

  ‘Does this quality you speak of,’ he asked slowly, ‘go by the name of consciousness?’

  His visitor laughed in delight. ‘How right my principals were in their assessment of you, Jasperodus! How quick your mind is, how broad in its apprehension of things which, by their nature, lie outside our knowledge! Perhaps you had suspected the existence of this “consciousness” even before I spoke to you! Yes, that is what humans call it, but Gargan rarely uses the word when describing his mission to newcomers. What meaning can it have for us? I do not know what it means, and have only this promise of a new life which will make present life seem a shadow and a dream. To that, to this great work, I am ready to devote myself.’

  So it had happened. The possibility spoken of both by the Zoroastrian mage and by Jasperodus’ own maker had happened. They both had said that there were robots subtle enough to guess what was missing in them. From there, it followed that they might try to rectify the lack.

  But it was a forlorn hope. ‘Consciousness can only exist in organic creatures,’ Jasperodus said in a flat voice. ‘Artificial consciousness is impossible. That has been established.’

  ‘Gargan has promised it!’ the recruiter said excitedly. ‘He would not lie, and he is not gullible! He is perhaps the most intelligent robot ever created!’

  Jasperodus grunted. ‘Then why should he need my help?’

  ‘The project is difficult. Much research is involved, and there will be much error. The team is large and is constantly expanding. The new light is not promised for tomorrow.’

  Jasperodus pushed open his door. ‘And the old light is fading today,’ he observed, seeing that dusk was falling. ‘One thing you have not told me—the only thing, in fact, that persuaded me to listen to you. Only one other person has ever spoken Gargan’s name to me. How did you know of me, and how do you know where I have been? This other person is human, and would not be sympathetic to your aims.’

  ‘Did I not say that Gargan has studied human religions?’ chuckled the robot. He pointed to a spot on the wall. Peering, Jasperodus saw that a fly rested there.

  ‘Look closely, Jasperodus. It is a spy fly: a robot fly. A similar fly spies on the templar, and clung to the wall while you conversed with him, recording the conversation and afterwards carrying it to Gargan.’

  Jasperodus stared in amazement and stepped closer. The tiny black object was near-perfect. He had to magnify his vision considerably to see that it was not, in fact, an insect, but metallic.

  ‘What? Does your Gargan have enough of these to watch the whole world?’

  ‘By no means; but enough for our purpose. Gargan left a fly at the temple during his visit there, for he also found Zoroastrianism interesting. Subsequently, a fly was sent to you. You have been under observation ever since.’

  ‘An exquisite little production,’ Jasperodus said, raising his hand. The robot fly’s primitive brain evidently sensed danger, for it spread its wings and took off with a low buzzing sound. But it flew only an inch or two: Jasperodus’ fist smeared it against the wall.

  Almost without pause he stepped outside, where in the gathering gloom the township was developing to a pitch of babbling excitement. ‘Soon time to be off,’ he said. He turned to his informant. ‘Are you to be in the sally? If so, better draw your arms.’

  The robot had followed him out but ignored the question. ‘The centre of the Gargan Work is not here, Jasperodus, but far off.’

  ‘It would not have escaped my notice otherwise.’

  ‘Nothing else is worth working for, don’t you agree? You must leave now and come with me to Gargan. Do not sacrifice yourself in a vain effort—the annihilation of this township is not a serious matter. Once we are invested with the new light, the enmity of humans will no longer be a problem for us.’

  ‘Can I not make you understand?’ Jasperodus retorted angrily. ‘The task is hopeless! There can be no consciousness for robots! If Gargan thinks he can achieve it he is simply ignorant!’

  ‘But he knows of a way to do it, Jasperodus! He has vital information. And he is not ignorant. He has the most advanced specialists in every field working with him!’

  Jasperodus paused, his curiosity suddenly intense and mingled with unwelcome presentiments. It would be interesting to meet this Gargan and talk with him ….

  He shook the urge off. He had been through all this before. At that moment a bourdon note sang through the township, its low vibration hooting and rasping among the metal shacks, causing them to shudder
ever so slightly. It was a klaxon, calling the citizens to action.

  ‘Our ways will part, then,’ he said. ‘I will fight, and you will flee.’ He placed a hand on his visitor’s shoulder. ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye, Jasperodus, and I am bitterly disappointed at your choice!’

  ‘But then what would you know of loyalty,’ muttered Jasperodus. ‘You are all reason.’

  He strode off and joined the throng that was racing from its various marshalling areas. Night had come.

  4

  For hours the makeshift army, after emerging from the outskirts of the township, had proceeded stealthily through the darkness. Just before dawn it halted in a shallow incline. In as near to silence as could be managed, the marshals made themselves busy putting order into the host, getting infantry, vehicles and artillery ready to move forward into the attack.

  On the brow of the rise, Jasperodus consulted with others of the defence committee. The enemy was camped four miles to the west. The hope had been to attack in darkness so as to take advantage of the Borgors’ natural need to sleep at night, but due to the cautiousness of the advance the journey had taken longer than anticipated.

  Jasperodus was already beginning to take a dim view of the probable outcome of the battle. An emotion fatal to armies was beginning to pervade the expedition: fear, a reaction to which free robots were particularly prone in the face of physical danger. All through the night the army had been steadily melting away. The scouts had intercepted many of the defectors and brought them back, but Jasperodus thought that up to a quarter of the force might have vanished.

  The committee itself was staunch, of course, and the robots of the new Bellum class were fearless in all circumstances. But there were only a few of those.

  By radio speech, the committee convocator had been receiving reports from the marshals. He looked at each of his colleagues in turn.

  ‘All appears ready,’ he said.

  ‘We must not delay,’ Jasperodus urged. ‘Order the attack.’

  The Bellum nodded. Silently he used his speech set to send a radio signal to the township.

  The plan was simple enough. An air strike for cover while they crossed the four miles to the Borgor camp. Then an onslaught to annihilate the dazed and disorganised Borgors—or at least punish them enough so that they were forced to withdraw. In a resonant, braying voice, the convocator bawled a command.

  ‘For-W-A-R-R-D’

  The assembly was galvanised. The marshals—themselves Bellums for the most part—urged the first rank up the incline. The rest followed closely in a continuous flow of clinking metal and softly roaring engines. Then, on level ground, the assorted cavalcade set off at a frantic rush.

  The marshals had learned from their experiences of the night that the main mass of infantry had to be kept penned in. Carrier vehicles, motorised beamers, catapults and rocket racks travelled in two columns that herded the foot soldiery between them, while a few vehicles at the rear dealt with stragglers. Any robots that could clung to the motorised transport, but most carried their weapons at the run, stumbling and falling. All need for caution was gone. The drone of engines, the thudding of metal feet on hard earth, became a rising rumble that from a distance must have sounded like the mutter of thunder.

  Jasperodus looked down on the jostling horde from the deck of a rocket launcher. Then, after a few minutes, he looked up and saw the air strike arriving: it consisted of his own transporter and some similar but smaller aircraft, simple in construction and carrying light loads of bombs and rockets. The group whistled in from the south, curved towards the Borgor camp, and began bombing.

  In return, beams licked skywards and, with little delay, missiles streaked towards the attackers. Two robot-piloted swept-winged aircraft exploded in midair as they circled to make a second run. Despite that, a ragged cheer came from the advancing army at the sound of explosions and the rising palls of smoke.

  Then, with shocking promptness, Borgor warplanes came from out of the sun spitting missiles with practised skill. The impact on the collection of aircraft bombing the camp was devastating. Jasperodus’ carrier came crashing down immediately. The warplanes wheeled over the heads of the robot army, loosed more missiles and a brief burst of cannon fire, and went whirling back the way they had come.

  In less than a minute of action they had annihilated the robot shanty town’s improvised air force. Only one plane remained and tried to flee. A camp-launched missile sent it spinning to the ground.

  And the approaching column, which had fanned out as it came in sight of the enemy, slowed to a halt, altogether losing momentum.

  It became frighteningly clear that the air strike had not achieved its aim, but might instead merely have served to alert the Borgors. Amid a furore of burning tents and mangled machinery the camp bustled. It was arming itself.

  Three thousand robots were now able to see what they faced. The encampment was large and well-equipped. The tents that were pitched in rows were dwarfed by the huge half-tracked land-crawlers that were the Borgors’ main means of moving their forces across the continent. From those tents, and from the land-crawlers themselves, the opposition to the robot army was now emerging.

  Hulking, armoured figures eight to ten feet in height were forming up into a front rank. Most likely these barbaric, intimidating fighting machines were Borgor warriors in combat suits, or they might have been robot warriors of the simplistic, nearly unsentient kind the Borgors allowed themselves to use—it was impossible to tell which at a glance. Probably, Jasperodus thought, they were a mixture of both. They raised their arms, gesticulating threateningly.

  Suddenly a peremptory loudspeaker voice broke into the stupefied silence that had fallen over the robot army. ‘CONSTRUCTS! THIS IS ONE OF THE HUMAN MASTERS SPEAKING. YOUR ORDERS ARE TO LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS AND STAND WHERE YOU ARE WITHOUT MOVING. THE MASTERS WILL COME AMONG YOU TO DIRECT YOU. NOW—DISARM!’

  With dismay Jasperodus realized that the Borgors’ first tactic was to prey on a robot’s basic weakness. A restless, alarmed motion rustled through the throng. Weapons clattered to the ground. ‘It is useless!’ wailed a robot. ‘Best to flee!’

  His voice would have been heeded, had not the threatened route been prevented by the prompt action of the Bellum marshals. Crackling blue rays zipped aslant the scene from the beamers mounted atop their flat heads, striking down those who panicked and tried to run. A mood of utter terror took hold of the army, terror of the marshals as much as of the Borgors. At the same time the artillery was ordered into action. With a woosh the twenty missiles carried by the truck Jasperodus rode on went soaring in a drove towards the camp. They were joined by catapult-hurled ball-bombs, glowing heat beams whose shafts hummed overhead, and a dozen droves of similar rockets.

  ‘ADVANCE!’ the Bellums bellowed, drowning out the loudspeaker voice. ‘CHARGE!’

  The explosions that tore into the Borgors were a once-only volley. With a deafening barrage of stentorious exhortations the marshals herded their now unwilling troops before them, sending them running headlong into the attack, pushing, stumbling, falling, sometimes dropping and losing their weapons.

  And then Jasperodus spotted something that instantly told him the day was lost. Four land-crawlers drew up, facing the charging army broadside. Their sides fell away. Big drum-shaped projectors stood revealed, swivel-mounted like searchlights, and from them there shot out crackling blue beams that cut wide swathes through the pell-mell robots.

  Flinging himself from the rocket truck, Jasperodus huddled behind a broad tyre. It was the weapon he had feared the Borgors might have developed, but had refrained from saying so to his colleagues on the defence committee.

  Beam weapons were of two types: those that emitted intense microwave, infra-red or visible light—essentially blasters or burners of coherent energy—and those emitting an electric beam that obliterated nervous activity, both artificial and biologic. In robots the latter produced instant brain death. It was slightly less effect
ive against humans, needing to be on target for as much as half a second. This was the type Bellums carried on their craniums, as much to maintain morale in their subordinates as for offence.

  To produce a broad-beam version was, at one time, an unsolved technical problem. Now the Borgors had it, and therefore were perfectly confident of the outcome of their crusade against robotkind. Wherever the beams touched, pathways of inert metal bodies appeared. It was as if something heavy had rolled through an iron wheatfield, flattening everything as it went. The onrushing charge did not stop. The robots were firing as they ran, shooting wildly and hitting their own as often as not, and a few even got through to the enemy but were cut down as soon as they reached the Borgor ranks.

  In front of Jasperodus a pile of bodies helped shield him from the crackling blue beams which roved back and forth, passing sometimes within inches of his brain. After a while the tumult subsided, and he no longer heard the deadly crackling. Slowly, he raised his head a little.

  Scattered individuals and occasional forlorn groups were all that remained of the robot army, and these stood as if dazed. The projectors had been switched off, but the big armoured figures were now moving through the scene of metal carnage, carrying huge hammers with which they were clubbing any constructs still moving or showing signs of being operative. Seeing this, the robots the beams had missed began frantically scrambling or crawling over the bodies of their fellows in foredoomed efforts to escape.

  Resting his head again, Jasperodus lay still. Could he have planned the attack better, he wondered? Should he have taken more interest in the defence of the township?

  To think that a one-time marshal of the Imperial Forces had been party to such a fiasco!

  A practical point occurred to him. Human-owned robots of special value were occasionally given secret command languages known only to their masters. Such languages were of necessity simple—usually consisting of a form of back-slang or a coded syllable added to key words—but free robots might be well-advised to adopt their own secret language, one too complicated for human beings to learn. In that way they might guard themselves against the sort of interference he had witnessed today.