Chris Douglas

So far, so good, or so they say from mission control. Sir Kramf Ranton, Lieutenant-Colonel in His Majesty’s Star Patrol leaned out over his chair, and looked out of the tiny window; spread out below lay the vast planet 2-BNL. How it came to be named this exactly was a mystery – numerologists and scholars in the Glorious Church of the Divine Revelation bickered between each other, trying to delve the secrets of the name’s origin or meanings (the dash, in particular, has long been a point of contention).

Sir Ranton fancied himself a bit of a poet, and as he sat musing above the stratosphere, he twirled his fine moustache and said to himself “the rockets burn as servos click and turn and fall into their place… something something something something space…” Everything was running in proper order; the dashboard in front of him, covered in tiny lights and gauges bespoke only of calm efficiency. He threw a rakish grin to his second in command, Lady Winsa Chestram, who responded by nodding, and then rolling her eyes once he turned back.

“Gorgeous day to be making a trip to His Majesty’s Royal Outer-Space Port, isn’t it?” he asked of Lady Chestram.

“There doesn’t tend to be much weather once you get outside the atmosphere, Sir Ranton,” she sighed.

“Creator be praised!”

“Aye, Sir Ranton.”

What a wonderful time of advancement it was for society! The aeronautical division had, for the past generation or so, been perfecting what has commonly dubbed a “starship,” although they were certainly incapable of reaching any star whatsoever, with the possible exception of their own sun, and plans were certainly in motion. Soon, a lunar-base was to be placed upon the larger of the two moons; afterwards, trade-routes and missionaries from the Glorious Church to be sent to interact with the native lunar citizenry.

“Lady Chestram, deploy the Spacial-Service Automatons!” Sir Ranton commanded. “We are nearing the Outer-Space Port, and may need to service the starship.”

“Aye, Sir Ranton,” Lady Chestram answered. Her slender, gloved hand moved easily across the panel, until it reached the proper lever. There was a hiss far off, and as the Lieutenant-Colonel slowed the ship as it approached the Port, a hatch opened up on the side of the ship, and five silvery forms slid out, and began scouring the outside of the ship, looking for any imperfections in the hull. Well, that’s what four of the forms did anyway; the fifth glided slowly over to the front window, and looked as if it was peering in at the two in the cockpit.

“Spacial-Service Automaton Number Five seems to be acting queerly,” Lady Chestram said.

“Something, something, space…” mumbled Sir Ranton. “What?” he asked more clearly.

“Spacial-Service Automaton Number Five is acting queerly, Sir Ranton,” she answered back. “Its not doing its job, it’s just sort of standing and staring in at us. It’s really quite disconcerting, Sir.”

Sir Ranton looked up at the square-shaped head, with the two glowing circles that vaguely resembled eyes looking right back at him. “Gracious, you’re right,” he exclaimed. “Open a tele-radio-wave with it, perhaps it will respond to a direct audio command.”

The Lady did so, even though she was fairly certain that these weren’t the sort of robots that usually followed verbal instructions, and the crackle of static discharged from one of the speakers. Sir Ranton took the tele-radio-wave speaker from off the dashboard, and said into it, “Spacial-Service Automaton Number Five, this is Sir Kramf Ranton, Lieutenant-Colonel in His Majesty’s Star Patrol, leader of this starship, I order you to scour the hull of my vessel, in the manner you have done previously, to check for any blemish or error, and to remove it.”

The robot looked blankly back at Sir Ranton, its small arms pressed against the window.

“More than a little creepy that they give these things a rudimentary human continence,” Sir Ranton said, trying to ignore the metallic visitor.

The speaker crackled with static again, and this time, a very tinny sounding voice came out, “So very alone…”

Lady Chestram stared at the robot incredulously. “What, what did it say?”

“So far from home,” came the same tinny voice.

Had either one of the pilots been drinking a beverage, it would have found its way out of their mouths and all over the controls – it was a good thing neither one was thirsty at the moment. Sir Ranton’s face grew red, “What are you, robots don’t have homes, they can’t be alone, they’re robots, mere automatons, what sort of a horrible joke is this?”

“I feel sad,” the voice came again. “What is it like to cry? Why am I not programmed to laugh? If I could laugh, I could be happy, I think.”

“Robots can’t cry, they don’t laugh, they’re just robots!” shouted Sir Ranton.

“Sir,” interjected Lady Chestram calmly, “this smells of heresy to me – Roboticism.”

Sir Ranton audibly gasped, not even his voluminous moustache could hide his shock. “Send the other four robots, if they aren’t already in league with the Artificer, to take this one back into the Spacial-Service Automaton Holding Chamber immediately, and then send a tele-radio-phone message at once to mission control, and alert them of the possible heresy!”

The robot looked in at them and the speaker buzzed one more time as the other four robots came to escort him back to the holding chamber, “The deep of space is no place for a fragile human soul,” he whispered.

The Council of Bishops convened in an emergency meeting the following week. Even though it may have seemed a little cautious, any smell of heresy needed to be snuffed out before it could ruin the populace. The Nine were accompanied today by two Pilgrims, one well versed in robotics and the other very knowledgeable about the starship industry.

“Have you seen what one of the newspapers had as its headline today?” asked Bishop Yan. He tossed the paper onto the council table – the headline blared “Space Robot 5, Is He Alive?” The bishop grimaced as he sat down, “It seems that the Daily Bracktorn Mirror-Gazette is creating sensationalism again. “Erizat, they operate in your bishopric, can’t you do something about it?”

Erizat looked over at Yan and sighed. She picked up the paper and looked at it disinterestedly. “It’ll all blow over soon enough, Yan. Newspapers, especially those in the capital, are always doing things like this – do you remember the bit about the woman who supposedly gave birth to a litter of rabbits? That was in the same paper; if you don’t let the people have their little outbursts, they’ll just save up for a much bigger one.”

“Still, I don’t like it at all,” Yan replied.

Bishop Erizat was fairly certain that Yan was jealous of her bishopric, she did have the capital in her stead, after all, while all he had was a large collection of islands. “Be that as it may, we’re here today to look into the matter ourselves; we’ll see if this Robot is merely a deceitful trick, or if this is actually a miracle, according to prescribed guidelines.”

The meeting was soon called to order; these sort of meetings, while not common, had precedent, and things at least began smoothly. The statements from Sir Ranton and Lady Chestram were read to the Council to prepare them for what was to come next.

Escorted in by whatever Errants were currently serving in the Cathedral of the Ninefold Purpose (they moved about so frequently, it was hard to learn their names), came the robot. It clanked down the hallway, a little unsteadily, as it was made for low-gravity conditions; a control-box had been placed around its neck, so that at any time, he could be turned off via remote control.

Things were a little awkward to say the least, nobody really knew where to go from there. If it was just a piece of machinery, they wouldn’t be dealing with it; if it was a person, they’d interrogate him or her just like anyone else. The robot, however, was a little from column A, and a little from column B.

Bishop Erizat took the initiative. “Pilgrim Urtur, please examine the robot.”

Urtur nodded, and headed over. Before entering the ministry, he had studied mechanics, robots in particular. He’d kept up with his studies since rising through the hierarchy, as the areas where he was stationed were also concerned with robot production. He tapped around the outside with a wrench, just to make a bit of a show. “He is strong,” he said to the Nine, “good quality stuff went into making the Spacial-Service Automatons, better than what you’d have in your everyday garden-variety Beverage-Refreshment model.”

“Made of steel, with the graphite lining,” the robot said, turning his face to Urtur.

Urtur jumped back a little bit, unaccustomed to such a display in a non-recreational model; he almost tripped over the hem of his robe. The robot’s eyes were glowing dimly, but they kept fading in and out. Why did he stand there and watch his eyes flicker slow like that? ‘Like the batteries are dying,’ he thought, ‘only it seems sadder, somehow.’ He said a little bashfully, “I’m going to open you up and have a look inside, alright?”

The robot seemed to sigh a little and said “I will be fine. Robots can’t die.”

There was a stirring around the table, there was something about that statement that bothered the bishops, but it was hard to put one’s finger on it.

Pilgrim Urtur looked around inside the robot for quite awhile, looking for anything out of the ordinary. He couldn’t find anything of note; the curious devices used by the followers of the Artificer were well known to him, none were employed here – everything was as it should be. There was only one thing that seemed the tiniest bit out of place – “There doesn’t seen to be anything out of line, except for three strands of wire that just don’t connect to anything.”

“Threefold the tie that binds,” the robot replied.

Bishop Kimtin had been holding a glass in his hand before the robot said those words; afterwards, the glass was to be found in hundreds of pieces on the floor. There was a sudden outcry amongst the Council, and confusion reigned for a few moments. The robot had just mentioned the threefold tie that exists between men and God, now the question was did the robot know what he had actually said?

“Robot, answer me, what did you just say?” asked Bishop Yan.

“Threefold the tie that binds,” the machine repeated.

“What does this mean?” Erizat picked up.

“The nature of divinity, the miraculous, and devotion connect men to God.”

The robot’s answer was true, but it was possible he was just parroting. At least it wasn’t spouting heresy; though things would have been easier if he was – the scrapheap. “Robot, do you know why you are here?” Erizat asked.

“It is sad, in the darkness of space,” it answered. “I was sad in the emptiness and wanted to leave.”

“No, no, I don’t think you understand, why are you here, before the Council of Bishops, being questioned?”

“Because robots never cry, but I wanted to,” it responded.

The answer, though odd, was true. There was a murmuring amongst the bishops, until a consensus could be arrived at. Erizat again took the point, and asked “Robot, what do you want? What will make you happy?”

“My circuits would find transmissions, and there was a girl. A girl I wanted to meet. She looked happy, like I wanted to be. I wanted to meet Zayla Quinbar.”

The bishops and pilgrims in attendance stared at the robot for a few moments. What the robot had just proposed was to meet with one of the few people in the world that the bishops were truly afraid of, and who was only seven.

“Miss Quinbar is the richest young lady on the planet, heiress to a vast shipping conglomerate. She has no time for robots, I’m quite certain,” Bishop Yan interjected.

Erizat was about to voice her similar opinion on the subject, when the door was opened, and a messenger bearing a note appeared. The missive was left with Erizat, who upon reading it became wan and pale.

Hearing of the Robot on the local news-bulletins, Miss Zayla Quinbar has become interested in the novelty, and wishes to see it. As it is currently in your possession, Miss Quinbar asks to arrange a time suitable for yourselves and the machine to meet with her.

     Your humble servant,
          Miss Quinbar’s nanny,
               Batheld Vanitas

With such an obvious sign from God, there was but one course of action to follow. The following day, Miss Quinbar would meet with the robot.

The next day the robot, escorted by a couple of bishops and Pilgrim Urtur, waits patiently for Miss Quinbar to arrive. Every precaution has been taken for her arrival, it is more apparent to Urtur than anyone else that Spacial-Automaton Five has no weapons systems whatsoever, no secret compartments, only tools for cleaning – it isn’t even one of the robots dedicated to fixing problems; it just cleans things.

The entourage arrives, along with Miss Quinbar, who is flanked by her nanny and several others. The robot looks up at the girl with flickering eyes, and Zayla looks at the robot with her bright ones. For a fleeting moment, the little girl and the robot are the only two things in existence.

Spacial-Automaton Five looked at Miss Quinbar for another moment, and so he prays to his Maker with a sigh, whoever that maker may be, “Thank you, Creator,” and fell forward with a crash. The final word slurs, followed by a tinny laugh that lasts just a moment as his fire sputters out and his eyes flicker for the last time. To his heart she was life, and since he met her, he has nothing left to live for.

“He’s dead!” an indistinct voice cries out.

Miss Quinbar breaks into tears, as Pilgrim Urtur whispers, “But he said that robots can’t die.”