Revolt on Ragnoor

A story by Keith Croes

No one will ever know how many future vice presidents were lost when the robots on Polpo killed 370 engineers and administrators representing the entire human contingent of Galactic Mining and Exploration personnel on the planet. For Gimme, as employees fondly called the company, the incident marred an otherwise sterling corporate record.

In an embarrassing display of its inability to handle its own affairs, the situation forced the company to call on Washington. A joint service offensive met enthusiastic resistance from the robots, and when the military finally succeeded in securing the subsurface factories, the ghoulish mayhem it discovered immediately struck a morbid chord among the peoples of Earth. Sick jokes were rampant and Gimme stories quickly became the stuff of children's nightmares. Trading in common stock (NASGMX on the New York Stock Exchange) was suspended.

The incident was still the freshest of wounds on the day nervous engineers filed a report of unusual behavior among the robots of Ragnoor, which is why the Board of Directors convened an emergency meeting at corporate headquarters in Philadelphia. Theodore Lemming, chairman, was sure that most of the personnel on Polpo, had they not become mutilated corpses, would have done at least as good a job as Leonard Waggish, the vice president who was about to agree with him.

"This action in and of itself could precipitate a crisis of confidence among already shaken...Waggish, why are you nodding? I'm not done."

"Sorry, sir. I anticipate you."

"Don't do that." Lemming leaned into the head of the long conference table. "...already shaken shareholders. At a cost of $5 billion, we have reprogrammed all four million robots on our 41 planets. Polpo, ladies and gentlemen, is history. We are as confident as it is possible to be--99.99 percent--that no threat exists to our production facilities or, more importantly, our people."

John Smiley, immediate past president of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, rattled his copy of the report. "Then what is this? An entire team of robots inexplicably disabled..."

"We've had malfunctions before," Lemming said. "It's to be expected. Coming in the wake of Polpo, the report is...an overreaction. Certainly it is no reason to send in some kind of robot shrink."

Geraldine Roberts-Maltzman, retired publisher of AI News, cleared her throat. "My nephew is not a 'robot shrink.' He is a doctor of psychology specializing in the growing list of mental disorders to which artificial intelligence is prone. By the looks of it, perhaps you should have had someone like him on Polpo."

"And overreaction or not, Teddy," Smiley chimed in, "the wording in this report is very nearly hysterical."

Lemming fell back and rubbed his flabby neck. "GME has set the standards for the industrial use of robotics and we've done it with scientists and engineers like me and Waggish here. These are not the same robots we had a month ago. The reprogamming of the sociodynamics functions was basic and dramatic. For one thing, they no longer..."

"Excuse me, sir," said Waggish. "I'm very familiar with the reprogramming project." With the exception of Lemming, whose eyes rolled toward the ceiling, the 12 board members around the table focused in on the young executive. "We've made the robots more docile, more sensitive to the norms within a group. The Planetary Strike Force didn't spare even one robot--I mean, they lased these wonderful machines into blackened puddles--but from what we've been able to piece together, the problems on Polpo stemmed from the intense competition we instilled among teams."

"Waggish," Lemming hissed, "that would make us culpable!" The chairman tugged at the knot of his tie. "That is only a theory."

Smiley waved his copy of the report. "Have you heard the one they're telling at MIT? What's the most important attribute they look for on your resume at GME? Portability."

Propping his head in his right hand, Lemming rested his elbow on the table and raised his left arm. "All in favor of sending Gerry's nephew to Ragnoor..." Waves and "ayes" around the table. "All opposed..." Nothing. "The motion carries. Gerry, this must be done in complete secrecy. Can you make that clear to your nephew?"

"He's a trifle unorthodox, but he's not one to underestimate the importance of this assignment." She bit the edge of her lip. "Of course, I'd have him sign a nondisclosure agreement."

"For the record," said Lemming, his voice becoming deeper and louder, "I would go to Ragnoor myself without hesitation and without fear for my safety." He sat straight and gripped the edge of the conference table, signaling the end of the meeting. "In my stead, however, as a clear indication of upper management's conviction that any and all danger has been eliminated, Leonard Waggish will accompany Gerry's nephew on this trip."

The group broke up, its members chatting and shaking hands, and Waggish stumbled through a fog down the hallway to his office.

Jake Roberts arrived at the company's Florida launch pad wearing cut-off jeans and a screaming Hawaiian shirt and carrying a University of Michigan gym bag. "Jake Roberts," he said with a healthy grip.

"Leonard Waggish. I expected someone older."

"Yeah, so did I. We're about the same age." They gazed briefly at one another. Waggish sported the company's powder-blue short-sleeved coveralls with the GME logo on the chest. "Nice outfit," Roberts said.

"You're late. Let's go."

They walked together across the tarmac toward the shuttle where several figures waved. Someone called through a bullhorn, "Train's leaving, boys." The shuttle would carry them to the GME starship in orbit around the moon.

"It's antisocial behavior, a form of juvenile rebellion, isn't it?" Waggish said as he buckled himself in behind the pilot and copilot.

"What?"

"Being late."

Roberts grinned. "I guess it could be, Lenny. It could also be a confused taxi driver."

Waggish fumbled with his harness. "The name is Leonard."

"You're afraid of flying, aren't you?"

The revving engines drowned out Waggish's reply. On the way to the moon and then again on the GME starship when the craft entered hyperflight, Waggish thought he might turn inside out into the airsick bag.

The chief engineer on Ragnoor, Tom Quinn, met them at the docks, introduced himself, shook hands and motioned them to follow him, talking as he went, his open white lab coat flapping behind him. "We'll take care of your luggage. Look, I know how uncomfortable those starships are, but this place is not much better and we've got work to do. My shift is just starting. This is my morning. I'd appreciate it if you guys got on my schedule so we can work together."

They stepped into an elevator. The door closed. They looked at each other. Quinn had the kind of fine, sandy-brown, fly-away hair that refused domestication. He was fortyish and flushed and probably between his third and fourth cup of coffee. Waggish wore the Gimme coveralls. Roberts had on a Mickey Mouse T-shirt and cut-offs.

"No problem," said Roberts.

"You're Jake?" Quinn asked.

"Yep."

"And you're Leonard?"

Waggish nodded.

"We have what the administrators call a situation. As you could tell from our report, the engineers consider it a crisis. A second team just went down--I mean, off-line, inoperable. They're beating each other up, all of them. We can't keep up with the repairs. And the question that everyone is afraid to ask is, are we next?" The elevator door opened and Roberts and Waggish trotted down a hallway after Quinn, who ushered them into a well-lighted lab. Quinn peered around as if it were dark. "I'm keeping everyone away from here."

"Good thinking," said Roberts. The lab was strewn with battered GME robots shedding chrome and titanium-alloy sheathing and lying in piles of high-tech viscera.

"All 30 are here," Quinn said, "two teams of 15."

"Other robots shouldn't see this either," Roberts said slowly.

Quinn nodded and pointed around the room. "There are bathrooms right over there, computer terminal over there, a small kitchen there. And your quarters are right next door. If you're thinking of complaining, everyone here gets the same amount of space--there ain't nothin' bigger. You can use the terminal to communicate with the main control room, which is where I'll be most of the time, and from there we can patch you to the outside. You'll want to make a call, Lenny. The boss is anxious to speak to you. I'll be back in a half hour or so."

"That's Leonard," Waggish complained after him, then moved quickly to the terminal.

Roberts browsed through the damaged robots--Bioroid model Z450s--that were stretched out on lab tables and slumped against the walls. He knew that, when operational, a Z450 was a one-meter, 25-kilo package of state-of-the-art industrial engineering, but not much more than that. He also noticed that each of the crumbling machines in the robot morgue of a lab had patterns of dents on the head, shoulders and chest. Reaching into an opened cranium and holding what was probably a million dollars worth of pink computer gel in his hand, he heard the end of Waggish's conversation, the other person concluding the exchange with "...or don't bother coming back." Waggish stood hunched over the terminal.

Waiting a second, Roberts announced, "Well, Lenny, let's get to work," strode toward the terminal, pulled a plastic folding chair into position under him and found the communicator button. "Hello, Quinn?" The ruddy face and frizzy hair appeared on the screen. Waggish sat in the chair beside him. "Do you have any pictures of the robots at work? Where do these fights take place?"

"I'll be right down." The screen went blank.

Roberts turned toward Waggish. "You look a little like you did when we went hyperflight."

"It's happening on other planets. Lemming is counting on us to figure this one out. And quick."

Roberts let the news sink in. "Do you really hate to be called Lenny?" he asked finally.

"Yes."

"How about Len?"

"Len is better."

"Okay." Roberts crossed his arms. "About one cubic centimeter of the gel in a Bioroid Z450 is the Bergdorf social-interaction subprogram. GME buys it from the Lifeware company of Ann Arbor, Michigan."

"I'm familiar with the Bergdorf subprogram," Waggish said with an edge, "and it's the only subprogram we buy. The rest of the gel is programmed in-house."

"No need to be touchy about it. These are superb machines. But the Bergdorf subprogram is relatively simple mainly because the Z450 is expected to operate in a relatively simple work culture. I mean, these are not butlers or State Department couriers."

Waggish shrugged. "So? The design works, including the Bergdorf gel. It's withstood the only test that counts--the test of time. It's remained virtually unchanged for a decade."

"We wouldn't be here if it didn't have at least one important shortcoming." Roberts held up a hand to cut off Waggish's response. "I studied under Bergdorf until he left the university to start up Lifeware ten years ago. I think I know the man. About a year ago he was arrested for beating his wife."

"What?"

"The same man whose neuro-imprint controls the social functioning of four million of your robots. The charges were dropped. But I think he did it. His wife is my friend."

Waggish's mouth did a goldfish imitation. "Why weren't we informed?" he sputtered.

Roberts shrugged. "Looks to me like a deficiency in current software regulation. But after all, the charges were dropped. I mean, what can you do? And we can only speculate that the Bergdorf subprogram had anything to do with the mess on Polpo in the first place. Which brings me to your second point. There has been at least one big change in the Z450 program in the last ten years--the one you made after Polpo. Exactly what did you do to these things?"

"I, uh..."

Tom Quinn charged through the door and stomped over to them, extending his arms, imploring. "Please, please do not discuss this situation over our internal communications system. God Almighty. God Almighty."

"We're ready to work, Tom, and we start now," said Roberts. "Have a seat."

There were no other chairs near the terminal. Quinn performed a quick, futile search of the immediate area, then shoved a robot torso back from the edge of a lab table and hopped onto it. "Okay," he said.

"Have the robots injured or threatened anyone?" Roberts asked.

"Not directly, no."

"Has anyone seen them fighting?"

"No. And we don't have any pictures. It happens sometime during their work shifts. Once you pass the airlocks out of the assembly rooms, it's nearly 90 degrees centigrade and gets worse from there. The shafts are full of steam and noxious gases--visible and invisible. The elevators can't be much better because there's no reason to seal them. We don't have the equipment to send a person down there, we don't have cameras that would work down there, we've never needed them until now and I doubt that such stuff even exists. You could have it specially made, I guess. The robots see with a combination of radar, sonar and infrared and visible light with a variety of filters that come into play depending on the surroundings. Put that stuff into a suit and a camera and you might be able to come back with something."

Roberts waved a hand at the detritus around them. "How did you get these guys out?"

"We pulled both of these teams out of the airlock."

"They work in shifts of 16 hours on and four hours off?"

"That's right. Four hours for assimilation--so they can dream their robot dreams. That doesn't count downtime for repairs, which right now is incredibly high. Ten percent of our work force right now is waiting for repairs."

"They meet in the assembly rooms before and after each shift?"

"Assembly rooms around the planet--l00 of them. That's where they receive instructions from our mining engineers."

"Have you talked to them, questioned them as to what's going on?"

"The robots? Certainly." Quinn shook his head and kicked his legs, knocking one heel against the side of the lab table. "Nothing. They will not say how they are being damaged. They will indicate only that they have a dangerous job. The implication is that they are getting damaged during their normal work routine. Hey, it's a tough job, all right. But normal downtime is about two percent. And the only thing that got these fellows in the airlock was each other."

Roberts stood and ambled over to one of the mangled machines, propping it upright and running his hand over the pitted metal of its upper chest. "Is production down?"

"Yes, nine percent. Nothing extraordinary considering the downtime. The ones that are going into the mines are working, if that's what you're getting at."

"What caused these dents?"

"They're beating each other up," Quinn snapped. "There's not a robot on Ragnoor that doesn't have those things. I mean, it's not unusual for a robot to get banged up, but those things... The robots can replace their grasping hands with five different tools. Most of those dents were caused by a fitting that looks a lot like a ballpeen hammer." He pointed. "The robot you're holding--look at its right hand."

"What happens if one becomes disabled in the mines?"

"The others will make every possible effort to bring it back."

With one hand holding the robot in a sitting position on the lab table, Roberts used his free hand to lift a second robot into position beside it. "Why are the patterns so similar?"

"What?"

"The patterns of dents." His fingers searched the metal. "Four dents here, here, here and here in the upper right chest. Same with this one: four dents here, here, here and here. Look at the upper left chest. Seven or eight here. Seven or eight here."

"Uh, we hadn't noticed that."

Roberts let both robots rattle back to the tabletop and patted them. "These two were on the same team." He walked over to the wall, picked up two more and carried them easily back, setting them on the floor in front of Quinn and kneeling beside them. "These two were on the other team. Different patterns than the other two, but they match each other. Both teams have distinctive patterns of dents."

"We hadn't noticed."

Waggish spoke. "A badge of some kind? Ranking?"

"Maybe," Roberts said. "Or maybe a confused taxi driver." He looked up at Quinn. "I'll need to talk to one."

"Sure. Come to the control room after lunch, level one straight up. There's a conference room you can use. But you won't learn very much, I'm telling you."

"Well, I think I'll try something different."

"Like what?"

"Hypnosis."

Quinn paused. "I didn't know that was possible."

"Neither did I."

The robot that Quinn guided into the conference room had dozens of dents on its chest and shoulders and several on its head. It blended in well with the conference room, which was nothing more than four thin smudged metallic-gray walls with plastic windows covered by narrow off-white plastic slats pulled closed, sequestering a crowd of beat-up misaligned folding tables and the flimsy white folding chairs, some unfolded and scattered around, some folded and leaning in stacks against the walls or piled flat on the floor. Roberts and Waggish, sitting on plastic chairs near one wall, exchanged glances and Roberts stood.

"This is 787282," Quinn said. "His friends call him Eddie." He nodded at the two men and left, pulling the door shut.

"Hi, Eddie," Roberts said. "I'm Jake and this is Len."

Standing absolutely still with its arms to its sides, the machine let its head fall back slightly to provide it a full view of Roberts, who imagined he heard the whirring of the tiny motors and felt that he had never seen anything so frail. "Dr. Quinn said you wanted to speak with me."

"Yes. We are very interested in your job. Please, come over here and lay down." Roberts motioned at three chairs he had pushed together and covered with a blanket. Eddie walked over and sat down on the edge of the chair nearest the door.

"I do a good job."

"Lay down, Eddie. We want to hear about what you do." The robot shifted to the center chair and lowered itself down on its back, swinging its short legs up and lying straight across the seats, its arms tight against its sides. "I want you to think of how you feel during assimilation," Roberts said.

"During assimilation I sit."

Roberts glanced at Waggish, who nodded. "Okay. Sit up, Eddie. Sit just the way you would during assimilation."

Eddie pushed himself up and sat on the middle chair, looking from Roberts to Waggish. "I don't like this," he said.

"Why don't you like this, Eddie?"

"My team is not here."

"Are you always with your team?"

"Yes. Except for assimilation."

"Each robot has its own cubicle for assimilation," Waggish interjected. "They sit."

"Thanks for telling me. Eddie, is this your time for assimilation?"

"I just got done. My team has gone back to work."

"Eddie, listen to me. How do you sit for assimilation?"

The robot didn't budge. "Like this."

"I want you to think about it. Think about assimilation. During assimilation, can you feel your legs?"

"No."

"Then think about assimilation. During assimilation, can you feel your arms?"

"No."

"Then think about assimilation. Think about having no arms and no legs. You are floating, floating. The only sound you can hear is my voice. During assimilation, can you see?"

"No."

"Then think of darkness, of not seeing. You are floating, just you, listening to my voice. Eddie, can you feel your legs?"

"Yes. I should be with my team."

"No, Eddie. You do not feel your legs. You do not need to be with your team. You are floating. You are floating, Eddie. You feel nothing, you see nothing, you hear nothing but my voice. Can you feel your arms?"

"Yes." Eddie raised his arms in front of him. "And I can see them, too."

Roberts leaned toward Waggish and whispered. "Can you disconnect everything but his voice and hearing?" Waggish pulled a hand tool from one of the pockets of his coveralls and brandished it in Roberts' face, then slid into the chair beside Eddie and tilted the robot forward, opening a panel at the base of its neck. After entering some instructions on the keyboard inside, he moved back to his seat and nodded.

"Eddie, you are going to work," said Roberts. "You are entering the airlock with the rest of your team." A panel in Eddie's forehead opened and a spotlight came on. Roberts flashed a grin at Waggish. "What do you see, Eddie?"

"We are in the airlock. We are going to work."

"The airlock opens into the shaft. What are you doing now?"

"We are walking toward the elevator. We are talking and joking. Now we are on the elevator. Norman is in front of me. He has another one." The hand at the end of Eddie's right arm retracted into the metal cylinder of his forearm and was replaced by the ballpeen hammer. "Right on top of the head, too. How'd he manage to do that?" In a fast, crushing arc, Eddie swung the hammer up and whacked the peak of his chrome cranium. Roberts and Waggish both jumped at the sound it made.

"Eddie, listen to me," Roberts said. "You are no longer at work. You are floating. You are assimilating. All you hear is my voice. Can you hear me, Eddie?"

The spotlight disappeared behind the forehead panel. Roberts craned forward, half-standing, and saw the round dent on the top of Eddie's head.

"Yes."

"Who am I?"

"You are Jake, Dr. Quinn's friend."

"That's right. Eddie, I want you to think about what just happened. You were in the elevator and you saw Norman. Do you remember?"

"Yes."

"What was the matter with Norman?"

"Norman had another bang. It is a dangerous job. We get banged up."

"Why did you hit yourself?"

"To look like Norman. We all must look alike. We are a team."

"And now you look like Norman?"

"Yes. And Norman looks like me. We all look alike."

Roberts stared at Waggish. "Who reprogrammed the robots?"

"It was a...a team project. I was in charge."

"What did you do?"

"We modified the Bergdorf subprogram."

"Whose neuro-imprint was used?"

Waggish blinked. "Mine, of course. I was the senior member."

Roberts eyes traveled down the light fabric of Waggish's powder-blue coveralls, and he rose and picked up the stiff Eddie, cradling him in his arms. "Tell Quinn to meet us in the lab."

Eddie sat propped against the wall with a patch cord winding from the base of his neck into a connection on the side of the console. Seated on the white plastic chairs in front of the terminal, Waggish adjusted the controls on the three programming headbands and Roberts balanced back on two legs with his arms crossed and one foot pushing against the console. Quinn had retrieved a third chair from the kitchen and had placed it near Eddie. Making no attempt to hide the skepticism in his voice, he looked at Roberts and crossed his arms. "So you hotshots have been here six hours and the problem's solved?"

"Not at all," Roberts said, "but we may have identified it. As far as I'm concerned, that's what I was sent here to do. I plan to be on the next freighter out of here."

"And just what do you think the problem is?"

"Ask Waggish."

Waggish snorted. "I think your theory is full of shit, Roberts."

"Len, this is nothing personal. We're trying to solve a problem here. You've made a good living by adjusting to a corporate hierarchy. There's nothing wrong with that. For what you do, it's an asset. Underneath those GME coveralls is a GME heart beating in a GME man."

"Just what does this have to do with anything?" Quinn spouted.

"That's what we're going to find out. Waggish was in charge of the reprogramming after Polpo. His imprint may have something to do with copycat behavior that doesn't slow down even to the point of self-destruction."

"What?"

"Your robots are not beating each other up, Quinn. They're beating themselves up. When any member of the team is damaged--I imagine it's pretty common--the rest give themselves similar wounds. Eddie and his friends are wandering through the bowels of Ragnoor slamming themselves silly with ballpeen hammers just to look like everyone else. Dents have become the company uniform--and everyone has to wear the same uniform. My theory is that it's something they got from Waggish with violence courtesy of the Bergdorf subprogram. Your robots, I think, are pathological conformists. Let's take a look." He reached out to Waggish for one of the headbands and Waggish handed him two.

"What happened to these teams?" Quinn waved a thumb over his shoulder at the mechanical corpses strewn around the lab.

Roberts passed him a headband and slipped another over his dark, unruly mop. "They lost a member, brought him back to the airlock as they are programmed to do, then committed hara-kiri in his memory. Are we ready?" He looked at Waggish, whose headband topped a stony face. "Take us in, Len."

The cellular matrix of Eddie's gel leapt into their minds in virtual reality, and Waggish began moving toward the Bergdorf subprogram. "You realize it's impossible to predict or verify specific actions based on neuro-imprinted programming," he said. "This is not going to tell us anything definite."

"No," Roberts agreed, "but it will give us a taste for what you've done here."

"This reprogramming was supervised and validated by the team and approved by the highest GME officials."

"Len," Roberts sighed, "you just said it--it's impossible to predict specific actions based on neuro-imprinted programming. I'm sure it looked fine at the time. Is that it?"

"Yes."

Roberts could see Waggish's work wrapping around the Bergdorf gel. "An overlay?"

"Yes. We couldn't unlock the Bergdorf. We opted for an 'if-then' overlay output modification. What are you doing?"

"I'm going in." The other two followed Roberts through the mantle of Waggish's program. Roberts felt it immediately. "This is strong stuff, Len."

"I've never felt anything so...stuffy," Quinn said.

"Restraining," Roberts added.

"Constraining."

"Boy Scouts."

"Army ROTC."

"Ten-HUT!"

"High-school peer pressure."

"Tea and crumpets with the queen. Whoa," Roberts breathed. "Good job, Lenny."

"Hey, you guys," Waggish whined, "it's not my entire personality here."

"No, just a portion of it," Roberts said. "I'll bet there's a real party animal under all this." Roberts was pressing against the shell of the Bergdorf subprogram. "I'm going in and reprogram this thing."

"That's bullshit," Waggish said.

"I broke Bergdorf's lock five years ago, Len, and I've developed a social-interaction subprogram of my own. It's never been tested and it's bound to be a little wacky, but with your overlay here, well, I think we'd make a good combination."

"That would be an unauthorized reprogramming, Roberts," Quinn said. "There's no greater offense in this company. You'll be subject to civil and criminal prosecution--and they'll do it, too."

"Gimme a break," Roberts punned. "I can't do any worse than Bergdorf. And it's either this or I take the next freighter and leave you two alone with your self-flagellating work force. If you don't like Eddie when I'm done, you give him back the Bergdorf and you're no worse off. This is sort of like finding the end of a new roll of toilet paper. Be right back." He twisted into the Bergdorf shell and disappeared.

Holding his hands behind his back and rocking like an oversized bowling pin, Theodore Lemming stood near one of the windows in his office and gazed down at the statue of William Penn perched atop Independence Hall. "You copied Roberts subprogram into every robot on the planet?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's the most flagrant violation of company policy I've ever seen."

"Yes, sir, it was."

"And it's working?"

"You have Quinn's report. The damage stopped immediately. Production is back to normal. Ragnoor is back to normal, sir."

"Roberts-Maltzman will never let us hear the end of it." He shook his head and plopped into the chair behind the huge desk. "Has the Roberts subprogram gone out to the other planets?"

"We're calling it the Roberts-Waggish subprogram, sir, if it's okay with you. I think the gel shipped this morning from Florida."

"Good, good. I know you got in late last night, Waggish, and I appreciate your coming in. Take the rest of the week off and we'll see you Monday, okay?"

Waggish nodded and headed for the door.

"But Waggish, uh, you don't intend to wear that every day or anything, do you?"

Waggish stopped and somberly examined the Mickey Mouse T-shirt. "I doubt it, sir. I wouldn't want to stick out."

"Good, good."

Waggish closed the door gently behind him.

THE END

MORE STORIES BY KEITH CROES

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