Asimov’s Future History Volume 16 Read online

  Silence in the room for several seconds.

  “In the community of robots, there is respect,” Kallusin said. “But there cannot be peace until this is done. We hope you understand.”

  “I understand, as does Daneel,” Dors assented. “There is respect.”

  But we deserve so much more! That thought surged within Lodovik as he felt the beginnings of his own anger. Suddenly, he wanted to speak with Dors, to ask essential questions about human traits, about her experience with human emotions.

  But there was no time.

  Plussix rotated its head to observe the silent assembly. Its voice buzzed with fatigue.

  “You must leave,” Plussix told Dors. “Pay my respects to Daneel. It would be good to survive these actions and discuss all that has occurred... with a mentality such as his, the exchange would be very stimulating. Tell him also... that I admire his accomplishment, his ingenuity, at the same time I abhor the consequences.”

  “I will tell him,” Dors said.

  “The moment has passed,” Plussix said. “Advantage must be calculated and played out. This truce is at an end.”

  As he ushered Dors and the two male humaniforms to the exit, Kallusin drew from them a promise to observe the ancient formalities of armistice. Lodovik followed.

  “We shall not reveal your presence on Trantor to humans,” Dors assured Kallusin. “Nor will we assault you directly, here in your sanctuary.”

  Turringen and Zorma agreed, as well. As the two Calvinian emissaries departed, Dors turned her gaze on Lodovik. “Daneel has been visited by the entity who calls herself Joan. He assumes you have been visited by Voltaire.”

  Lodovik nodded. “Everyone seems to know it.”

  “Joan tells Daneel that Voltaire had a hand in your adjustment. She regrets that she and Voltaire have quarreled and do not speak now. Even for them, the debate has grown too large and too emotional.”

  “Tell Daneel–and Joan–that Voltaire does not direct me. He has simply removed a constraint.”

  “Without that constraint, you are no longer a robot.”

  “Am I any less a robot, in the old sense, than those who rationalize that the ends justify any means?”

  Dors frowned. “Turringen is right. You have become a rogue, unpredictable and undirectable.”

  “That was Voltaire’s goal, I believe,” Lodovik answered. “Yet I remind Daneel, and you, that despite my lack of the Three Laws, I have never killed a human being. Both of you have. And once, thousands of years ago, two robots, two servants, conspired to alter human history, to slowly destroy the original home of humanity, without ever consulting a human being!”

  Then, just as perversely, as emotionally, as defensively, he quietly added, “You accuse me of no longer being a robot. Regard Daneel, and regard yourself, Dors Venabili.”

  Dors spun about, staggering slightly, and walked several more paces toward the door before stopping once more. She glanced over one shoulder, her voice sharp and cool.

  “Should any of you attempt to harm Hari Seldon, or to impede him in his tasks, I will see an end to you all.”

  Lodovik was struck by the passion in her voice, so strong and so human.

  She left, and Lodovik returned to the platform.

  Plussix observed him through dimming eyes.

  “The work is not done. I will not function to see it completed. I nominate you as my replacement.”

  Lodovik quickly prepared formal arguments against this transfer of authority: his ignorance of many important facts, his lack of neural conditioning to this level of leadership, his involvement in other actions which involved high risk. He delivered them once more in machine-language.

  Plussix considered them for a few thousandths of a second before rejoining, “There will be debate after I am no longer functional. My nomination has weight, but is not final. Should all of us survive what must come in the next few days, a final decision will be made.”

  Plussix held out its arm. Lodovik took the hand. In direct-contact broadcast, Plussix transferred substantial amounts of information into Lodovik. When it was finished, it composed itself upon the table, arms by its sides.

  “Can nothing ever be simple?” Plussix said. “I have served for so many thousands of years, never feeling the gratitude of a human being, never feeling a direct confirmation of my usefulness. It is good to have the respect of one’s opponents... But before I can no longer receive communications, or sense the world, or process memory...”

  The glow in the old eyes was fading.

  “Will any human, even a child, come to me, and say, ‘You have done well’?”

  All the robots in the chamber stood in silence.

  The door opened at the end of the hall, and Klia and Brann entered.

  Klia stepped forward, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Lodovik stood aside for her to approach Plussix. The old robot rotated its head and saw her. The sandpaper sound rose in frequency, becoming a sharp hiss, like escaping steam.

  Klia laid her hand on the robot’s face. It seemed a wonder to Lodovik that she knew what was happening, that she did not need to be informed. But she is human. They have the animal vitality and quickness.

  Klia said nothing, staring at the robot with an expression of puzzled sympathy. Brann stood beside her, hands folded before him. Klia pressed more firmly on the metal forehead, her thumb on the metal cheek, as if she would make the robot feel her presence, her touch.

  “I am honored to serve,” Plussix said, his voice low and distant.

  “You are a good teacher,” Klia said softly.

  The old robot lifted its hand and patted her wrist with hard, gentle fingers.

  The sandpaper sound came to an end. The glow in Plussix’s eyes went out.

  “Is he dead?” Klia asked.

  “He has stopped functioning,” Kallusin said.

  Klia lifted her hand and glanced at her fingers. “I didn’t feel anything change,” she said.

  “The memory patterns will linger for many years, perhaps thousands of years,” Kallusin said. “But the brain can no longer adapt to new input or change its states. Its thinking is done.”

  Klia looked down on the ancient machine, her puzzled expression unchanged. “Are we still going to–?”

  “Yes,” Kallusin said. “We are still going to visit Hari Seldon.”

  “Let’s do it,” Klia said with a tremor in her voice. “I can feel that woman out there again. We may not have much time.”

  62.

  DORS FELT THE upsurge of her old protective programming like a sudden, unavoidable sensation of heat in her brain. She left the warehouse and took a taxi to the nearest ancient general-transport station, brought a ticket, and boarded a nearly empty gravi-train. Daneel had given her a list of instructions to follow, after her meeting and proffer to the Calvinians; the next instruction was to go to Mycogen, some eight thousand kilometers from the Imperial Sector, and wait for a message. Daneel was distributing his robots around Trantor, to counter the sudden renewal of searches by Farad Sinter.

  Dors did not know whether to report her sudden reemergence of concern for Hari as a failure... or a warning. She could not know as much about the Calvinians’ plans as Daneel did, but some instinct, rearoused after decades, told her that Hari’s safety and well-being were threatened.

  She sat in the thickly padded seat, waiting for the train to drop into its deep-planetary curve and begin its rapid journey under the crust of Trantor. These trains were ten thousand years old, used now mostly as back-up transport systems, and generally they rode empty. She was alone in this particular car.

  Suddenly, two young men and a young woman entered. She examined them coolly. They concerned her not at all.

  She could not push from her thoughts the image of Hari–a younger, more vital Hari–in danger. They would not kill him–Calvinians did not have that option, she was sure; and that also bothered her. She had no memory of killing the man who had threatened Hari, but she knew she had done i
t.

  She turned to look out the window at the black wall of the tunnel.

  So much Daneel has never told me. The homeworld–

  “Sky, they’re all over out there,” one of the young males said.

  “They give me chills,” the girl said.

  “We can’t just joyride all week,” the second male said. He was small and slight and wore bright, exaggerated clothing, as if to compensate. “We’ll have to get off the train sooner or later, and they’ll catch us. When’s somebody going to squawk to the citizen senate?”

  “They don’t care anymore,” the girl said.

  “Why us, though? We haven’t done anything!”

  A loud noise at the back of the train made Dors turn in her seat, pulling herself from the padding. The young passengers froze in the aisle, ready to run.

  Four Specials entered the car, strutting down the aisle in their dark and highly visible uniforms. They glanced at Dors in passing, then broke into a run, chasing the three youngsters. Before they could reach the door to the next car, the Specials had collared them and were shoving them back to the main door.

  “We haven’t done anything!” the slight young male cried.

  “Quiet!” the other boy said. “They don’t care. They’re after all of us. Sinter’s called out the Dragons!”

  “Shuttup,” the lead officer said.

  Dors kept in her seat until they had passed. The young woman looked at her entreatingly, but there was nothing she could do.

  She would not disobey Daneel, even to save a human life. But what if that life were Hari’s?

  A great many awful things were happening, this she knew–and the Calvinians would make their move to strike at Daneel, at the grand scheme–at Hari! They might not kill him, but there was much they could do short of killing.

  Hari was old. He was fragile. He was not the vital man she had once been called upon to protect. But he was still Hari.

  Then the old programming erupted with extraordinary force. Daneel should have known. From her very inception, she had been designed to protect one human being. Anything else was a weak overprint on a deep and ineradicable structure.

  She rose from her seat, her brain flooded with one concern, one name, and she was capable of anything–as she had once been capable of harming and even killing humans.

  Dors left the car just before the doors were sealed, and the train began its long journey to Mycogen, completely empty.

  63.

  KLAYUS JUMPED FROM his large seat in the Hall of Beasts as Sinter came into the room. The monsters from around the Galaxy loomed over them. The Emperor always came here when he felt uneasy, insecure. The beasts made him feel monstrously powerful himself, as indeed he should be, with the title of Emperor of the Galaxy.

  Sinter hustled over to Klayus, arms folded into the long sleeves of his Commissioner’s robes.

  “What’s going on?” Klayus demanded, his voice shrill.

  Sinter bowed and looked up from under lifted brows. “I’ve begun a selective search for more evidence, as we agreed,” he said. “Sire, I’ve been in meeting with the planners for the expansion of our authority over the Commission of Public Safety–”

  “You called out the Dragons, damn you! This is not a state emergency!”

  “I have done no such thing, Your Highness.”

  “Sinter, they’re allover Dahl and the Imperial Sector and Streeling, thousands of them! They’ve put on their guidance helmets, and General Prothon is directing them personally!”

  “I know nothing about this!”

  Klayus spluttered, “Why don’t you know... something? Anything! They’ve already arrested four thousand children in Dahl alone, and they’re bringing them to the Rikerian Prison for processing!”

  “They would only–I mean, Prothon can only do this, has authorization to do this, if there is a general insurrection”

  “I’ve talked with him, you fool!”

  Farad’s brow creased and he stared at the Emperor with an expression of mixed dread and curiosity. “What did he say?”

  “The Commission of General Security has issued a proclamation of imminent danger to the throne! The proclamation has your imprimatur, your sigil, as Chief Commissioner!”

  “It’s a forgery!” Sinter cried out. “I have a select group of Specials searching for robots. Vara Liso, sire. Nothing more! We are concentrating in Streeling. We have a very suspicious group cornered in an old warehouse near the retail districts–”

  Klayus almost shrieked with frustration. “I’ve ordered the general to pull back his troops immediately. He said he will comply–I still have that power, Sinter! But–”

  “Of course you do, Your Highness! We must immediately find out who is responsible”

  “Nobody cares by now! Dahl is seething–there’s been a lot of economic pressure, social pressure, and they’ve always been volatile. My social watchmen tell me they’ve never seen so much unrest–four thousand children, Sinter! This is extraordinary!”

  “Not my doing, my Emperor!”

  “It has your marks all over it. Paranoid delusions–”

  “Sire, we have the robot! We’re having her memory checked now!”

  “I’ve seen the report–Chen sent it to me fifteen minutes ago. She–it’s been in Mycogen for years, hidden in a private house, kept by a family loyal to the old rituals, the old myths... it’s thousands of years old, and its memory is almost a blank! The family claims she is the last functioning robot in the Galaxy! It has absolutely no memory of Hari Seldon!”

  Sinter fell silent, but his lips worked, and his brow seemed almost to double up on itself. “There’s a plan... a plan at work here...” he gasped.

  “Prothon insists he has your order, the imprimatur and sigil of the new Commission–he has offered his resignation as a Protector of the Empire, his suicide and the besmirching of the honorable name of his family, if anyone can prove otherwise!”

  “Your Highness–Klayus, please, listen to me–”

  But Klayus was beside himself. “I don’t know what will happen if–”

  “Listen, my Emperor–”

  “Sinter!” the Emperor shrieked, and grabbed his shoulders and shook him fiercely. “Prothon escorted Agis into exile! He has not conducted any official campaign since!”

  Suddenly, Sinter’s face went blank, and he closed his mouth. The wrinkles vanished from his brow.

  “Chen,” he said, almost too softly to be heard.

  “Linge Chen is sequestered for Seldon’s trial! Public Safety has come to a standstill. It’s Seldon he’s after, not robots, not–”

  “Chen controls Prothon,” Sinter said.

  “Who can prove that? Does it matter? Does any of that matter? My throne is very fragile, Sinter. Everyone thinks I’m a fool. You told me we could make it strong–that I could make my reputation as the savior of Trantor, protect the Empire from a vast conspiracy–”

  Sinter let the Emperor screech, and endured the spittle flying into his face. He was thinking furiously how to withdraw and regroup, how to dissociate himself from what was obviously a catastrophe in the making.

  “Why didn’t I receive the report before you, sire?” he asked, and Klayus shut up long enough to glare at him.

  “What does that matter?”

  “I should have received the report first, to interpret it. That was my instruction.”

  “I countermanded your instruction! I felt I should know as soon as possible.”

  Sinter considered coldly what he had just been told, then squinted at Klayus. “Have you told anybody, sire?”

  “Yes! I told Prothon’s adjutant that his orders were ridiculous, that we’d, that we’d just conducted our own investigation–I was grabbing at details, to get you off the hook, Sinter–I said that you would never have ordered such a large-scale police and security action–not when our evidence was as yet not definite” Klayus sucked in his breath.

  Farad Sinter shook his head sadly. “Then Chen knows we do
n’t have anything–yet.” He pulled Klayus’s hands from his shoulders. “I must go. We are so close–I had hoped to corner an entire cell of robots–”

  He ran from the Hall of Beasts, leaving the young Emperor standing with hands outstretched and eyes wild.

  “Prothon! Sinter, Prothon!” Klayus screamed.

  64.

  THERE IS VIRTUALLY NO INFORMATION REGARDING HARI SELDON’S SO-CALLED RECANTATION, HIS “DARK DAYS.” THEY MAY BE PURE LEGEND, BUT WE HAVE CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE FROM A NUMBER OF SOURCES–INCLUDING WANDA SELDON PALVER’S AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL NOTES–TO SUSPECT THAT SELDON DID INDEED ENCOUNTER A CRISIS OF CONFIDENCE, EVEN A CRISIS OF SELF.

  THIS CRISIS MAY HAVE BEGUN IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE TRIAL, IN THE CHAMBERS OF CHIEF COMMISSIONER LINGE CHEN, THOUGH OF COURSE WE SHALL NEVER KNOW...

  –ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA,

  117TH EDITION, 1054 F. E. 64.

  THE LAST TWO days had been so unutterably boring, and he had been away for so long from his instruments and team of mathists, that Hari Seldon welcomed the brief blanknesses provided by short naps. The naps never lasted long enough, and far worse were the waking hours with their own painful blankness: frozen frustration, gelid anxiety, frightful speculations slumping into tense nightmare with the slowness of glass over ages.

  Hari came out of his doze with an unusual shortness of breath, and a question seeming to echo in his ears:

  “Does God truly tell you what is the fate of men?”

  He listened for the question to be asked again. He knew who asked it; the tone was unmistakable.

  “Joan?” he asked. His mouth was dry. He looked around the cell for some agency by which the entity might communicate with him, something mechanical, electronic, by which she might

  Nothing. The room had been scoured after the visit from the old tiktok. The voice was in his own imagination.

  The chime on his cell door sounded, and the door slid open swiftly. Hari rose from his chair, smoothed his robe with two wrinkled, bony hands, and stared at the man before him. For a moment he did not recognize him. Then, he saw it was Sedjar Boon.