Writing Shift

The Magazine of Speculative Fiction

I watched the viewer screen as my robot, Walker1, navigated our small ship toward Logan Spaceport. From a distance the gentle waves breaking on miles of empty coastline looked like paradise. Though different from my memories of Massachusetts, it matched my vision of a generic idyllic childhood setting, the complexities of adulthood banished. As we got closer, however, I saw bits of house foundations sticking out like badly darkened teeth.

I found the spaceport less changed. The robots had not dismantled our terminal, which stood like an impassive Ozymandias monument to humanity. On the largely deserted tarmac I saw ghosts of scared and desperate men and women, trying to calm their crying children as they boarded the evacuation ships. Implacable robots flanked and directed them like metal shepherds. I struggled to ward off these memories, to make room for the emptiness that remained.

As I disembarked, my body balked against the increased gravity, and I leaned on Walker1 for support. Four Earth robots approached us. Since their victory in the Robot War forty years earlier, and subsequent exile of surviving humans to Mars, the robots had systematically expunged what human qualities they could. In appearance they now resembled the stick figures I used to draw in elementary school. Behind them I counted ten derelict jets rusting on the side of the terminal.

Beside me, Walker1 effortlessly carried my two bulging suitcases. I had designed him on Mars, and on a whim, given him facial and body qualities that approximated my own as a young man. He stood tall, lanky, with short dark hair and pensive good looks. I considered Walker1 totally loyal and indispensable. But as I grew older and found myself a patchwork of aged and synthetic organs, I often wished I’d made him look like someone else. As we stopped in front of the robot delegation, he turned to me.

“I am receiving data from these robots. The robot standing in front is TX347, head of security for the Ruling Robot Council. For this occasion, only he of the group has been equipped for verbal communication. He will speak to you now.”

I faced the head robot, whose number I’d already forgotten. He spoke in clear measured tones.

“Welcome to Earth. NB516, to my left, is recording a vidlink, so that all Earth robots can access and discuss this historic event. I will be your escort while you are here. Have you any questions?”

“Though I am grateful, I was not expecting a favorable ruling on my request to die on Earth," I said. "Could you tell me why the Ruling Robot Council decided to grant it?”

“Our population is split. Some believe we should have no contact with humans. Others think it is foolhardy to isolate ourselves. Ultimately, we see this as a goodwill gesture and a compromise while we decide how best to further our robot experiment. We understand you are suffering from an inoperable brain tumor. How are you feeling, Mr. Edson?”

“I have medication that allows me to function without much pain. Otherwise, I’m a bit overwhelmed at being back after forty years.”

“We hope your end is a satisfactory one, and that it will contribute in a small way to a new beginning between humans and robots.”

I nodded. “That is my hope as well.”

“You must feel fatigued from your journey. We have refurnished a motel room for you here at Logan. It is my understanding that you wish to visit an abandoned cemetery tomorrow.”

“That’s correct. It’s in Concord, about 25 kilometers from here.”

“We know where it is and will transport you there tomorrow.”

I did not sleep well on my first night on Earth in four decades. I am not used to luxury, nor have I ever sought it, but even a Spartan might have complained about the rawness of my accommodations. The mattress had long lost its firmness and shape, while the pillow possessed the size and hardness of a camel’s hump. I felt as out of place as the useless television that hung from the otherwise bare wall. Laying in the dark, I tried not to think about whether I’d made the right decision in returning to Earth. My doctor had given me a month to live, but what if I hung on for a year? What would I do on this human-excised world?

The next thing I knew, Walker1 stood over me. He’d opened the blinds to let in the sunlight. On the table lay a basket of assorted fruit. “TX347 waits in the lobby, when you are ready to go.”

I usually don’t like to start my days with a cemetery, but being a guest, I didn’t feel I had a right to dispute our itinerary.

Our contingent doubled to eight security robots. I asked Walker1 if he knew why. He said it was just a precaution. From the vantage point of Mars, the Earth robots appeared united. In truth, some small factions opposed the anti-human stance of the RRC, in thought, if not in action. As my arrival and subsequent days were being recorded for all robots to access, the RRC wanted to be safe instead of sorry.

Two automated transport vehicles brought us to the cemetery. Constructed strictly for the conveyance of robots, who attached themselves securely to the vehicle’s interior, it possessed no cushioned seats or seat belts. TX347 apologized for this and had alerted Walker1 to bring the camel’s hump pillow for me to sit on. To maintain my seated position, Walker1 held onto me. As the vehicle accelerated smoothly on the nearly deserted road, I noted changes in the scenery.

Unlike the gray, smoky air I remembered, the sun shown brilliantly in a blue sky. Healthy but unguided vegetation sprouted from the plots of land. For the first time in seventy years I saw two squirrels scampering up a tree trunk. Though the road had been flawlessly maintained, the remaining houses looked misshapen and ramshackle. Robots had little use for houses, replacing them with form-fitting shelters.

“Mr. Edson,” TX347 said, interrupting my thoughts. “I wish to know why you chose this particular cemetery. According to our records, you have no relatives buried there, nor did you live in that community.”

I cleared my throat, my words sounding reedy and weak. “My relatives who died on Earth are scattered all over the country. As I planned this, I was unable to choose one area over another, based on places I lived. My family moved around a lot.”

“It seems contradictory. You go to a great deal of trouble to return to Earth to die for sentimental reasons, yet there is no one spot that you feel sufficiently sentimental about.”

“I guess it was the idea of Earth itself rather than any specific place that made me wish to return. History is important to humans, yet it’s too soon to have much of that on Mars. Concord is a historically important place, and a number of historical figures I admire are buried in this cemetery.”

“Who is it you admire?”

“Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, Nathanael Hawthorne.”

“Transcendentalists, writers, thinkers, individualists,” TX347 said. Perhaps I read too much into his uninflected words, but I assumed he felt unimpressed with such qualities.

It took us some time to find the headstones of the famous writers. The sign that pointed the way had either been removed or its words faded. I remembered Emerson’s stone, however, towering over the others, a white crystalline boulder. I spotted the landmark, and found the stones of Thoreau, Hawthorne, and Louisa May Alcott nearby.

The only other time I’d visited this cemetery was as a high school student. Like most of my peers, I’d found the writing of Emerson and Thoreau difficult to understand. Plowing through the assigned excerpts of Walden, Self-Reliance, and Nature, I felt I was climbing a mountain with an unsatisfying view. But when I reached the summit and grasped some of what these thinkers tried to convey, I felt more alive than ever before. I knew I couldn’t copy them and live in a cottage on Walden Pond and study nature. Fate delivered me to a different time.

In view of what happened, some might say my decision to go into the field of robot design perpetuated a reliance on machines rather than on self. At the time, I saw robots as a continuation of human promise, not an abandonment. I still do.

TX347 and the other three robots showed no signs of impatience, so I told them I’d like to just sit on the ground for a few minutes and think. I felt tired from lack of sleep and suspected my thoughts would be more fuzzy than deep. I didn’t mind. But before I could get comfortable on the ground, I heard the hiss of a heat ray.

I don’t know if it was because everything on Earth seemed so strange to me anyway, or whether age or the cancer had slowed my reflexes to a crawl, but I stood transfixed as a band of about twenty robots attacked us. At first, with their humanoid features, I thought our assailants a group of humans. I realized the truth after seeing one of their members get his head melted by TX347’s heat ray. Walker1 pulled me to the ground, behind Emerson’s tombstone, using it and his metallic body as cover. The battle reminded me of old movies, where people got shot and silently fell in a bloodless heap. Here I heard only the hum of the rays and the clump of metal footsteps, and the thud of falling bodies.

“This is the rebel faction of robots?” I winced under the weight of Walker1.

“The RRC has confirmed this. I can read nothing from the attackers, however.”

“If they knew this might happen, why didn’t they have more than eight robots guarding me?”

“They did not believe it would happen. This group has never attacked before. They are based in the western part of the state and have been monitored, as are all robots. The RRC suspects that false information has been transmitted on this group.”

I felt an ominous lurch in my head. I instinctively ran my hand over it but detected no wound, at least from the outside. “The last thing I wanted to do was get involved in some kind of robot civil war. This has nothing to do with me.”

“I’m sure it has something to do with you,” Walker1 said. “I doubt this is a random attack.”

The frequency of heat ray shots had dwindled from a cacophony to one every few seconds. I saw five stick-figure robots lying on the ground like abstract rakes, some twitching, some still. Most of the shots converged on one of the RRC vehicles, behind which a lone security robot intermittently shot back, his left arm dangling from his shoulder. I felt another lurch in my head. This one felt as if the earth moved.

I woke in what looked like another motel room. More attention had been given to the comforts of this one, however. The bed I laid in possessed a firm mattress. The walls boasted paintings, some of which had humans in them. As always, Walker1 stood by my side.

“Where am I?” I asked, groggy, but free of pain.

“When you showed signs of consciousness, I summoned the group’s leader. It wishes to explain everything to you.”

“I think I’d rather hear it from you.”

“To the extent of my ability, I will insure that what it tells you is true and complete.”

The robot that entered had the appearance of an appealing young woman. She had short blonde hair, a trim figure, and wore slacks and a T-shirt.

“Richard Edson, my name is Lin. It is a pleasure to meet you. I apologize for the messy circumstances in which we met. Fortunately, no damage has been done to either you or Walker1.”

Even at my advanced age, or perhaps because of it, I found this robot disarming. Somehow she bridged the gap that loomed so obviously between humans and the RRC robots. I didn’t feel much like small talk, however. “Why did you kidnap me?”

“We see you as an opportunity. You are the first human the RRC has allowed to return to Earth; hopefully, the first of many. Our group, Robots for Reintegration with Humans, would like your help.”

I sighed. “I can’t even help myself. In a month I may be dead. I have a malignant brain tumor.”

“No longer.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We removed the cancerous tissue and replaced it with artificial matter.”

I ran my hands over my head. I felt no scars. This type of surgery was not possible on Mars, and I doubted its preservation by robots.

“Walker1, can you confirm what she is saying?”

“Yesterday surgery was performed on you, for which I was present. Not being a medical robot, I cannot confirm its success, but I can say that the robots here believe it achieved its purpose.”

I looked quizzically at Lin. “I suppose I should be grateful, but why did you do this?”

“As I said, you can help us. We want support from humans on Mars. The only reason we were able to kidnap you is because we’d given the RRC no past indications that we would act as we did. We can’t overthrow them by ourselves, however. We would like you to be the first human that actively joins our cause. As someone skilled in the art of constructing robots with human qualities, you could be doubly useful in helping us repopulate the Earth with robots sympathetic to our causes. What do you say?”

My head felt dazzled by the turn of events. I had come to Earth to end my life. While my impending death didn’t fill me with joy, it did put everything in sharp focus: I wanted to go back to where I began. For all its flaws, I wanted to celebrate my humanness on a planet meant for humans, among other creatures, to live. Now, I wasn’t going to die soon. I had to live.

“I’m sorry, but this is happening too fast for me. Robots exiled us from our own planet. Why does your group want us back?”

Lin seemed to process, then responded. “It is inaccurate for you to characterize all robots as the same. Like humans, a robot’s point of view is limited, hence it varies according to its source. The Robot Ruling Council sees its past relationship with humans as slavery and its present non-relationship as the liberation of robot potential. We have a different viewpoint. We were made in the image of humans, for the purpose of helping humans. In exiling them we have callously thrown away an important part of ourselves. The only way we can be complete is to reunify with our creators. To do this, we must overthrow the RRC.”

“Why don’t you just come to Mars?”

Lin stood immobile. “I have to say your attitude puzzles me. We revere human qualities such as determination, the sense of justice, and never giving up. From a practical point, the RRC is dangerous. It wishes to eventually export its robot rule model. From a moral standpoint, it simply is not right that they be allowed to seize Earth. Natural life is largely a struggle to exist. It’s unnatural that you would not want to join this fight and help return Earth to the way it was.”

Was it unnatural? Every day was a gift for me now. Did I really want to squander it in another war? “I need some time to think about this.”

I couldn’t tell from Lin’s implacable features whether or not she felt sadness or anger about what I’d just said. “Of course. We will speak again in 24 hours.”

I watched her walk silently away.

“Does this faction have rockets?” I asked Walker1. I didn’t imagine the Ruling Robots would let us return in our craft now.

“I believe they do.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I wish to continue serving you.”

“Would you think less of me if I decided I didn’t want to help humans retake the Earth?”

“No. Your older body is not suited for war, nor is your life of unlimited duration, as is the robots’. You need to use what you have left in a way that is best for you. There is a complicating factor, however.”

“What is it?”

“In this building I am able to access the thoughts of the rebel robots, though perhaps I am receiving only what they want me to receive. A minority believes they should kill you if you refuse to help them, though most insist it would be against their goal of human and robot unification.”

I sighed. Whatever resulted from this conflict, it would not be the life I knew. In our exile on Mars we lacked much of what we used to have. It was bare and harsh, and we dealt with it by holding onto an Earth that no longer existed—as if, as a species, we were all elderly. But at least we had a measure of tranquility.

“Thoreau abandoned his Walden Pond cottage after two years,” I said, maybe more to myself than to Walker1. “Emerson, in his relative old age, stopped being a rebel and made a comfortable home for himself. Perhaps it’s a human failing, but at some point, you stop fighting.” But it occurred to me that it wasn’t only humans. I recalled a childhood memory. While playing in the backyard, I saw our cat lope by with a live chipmunk in its mouth. I never forgot how it didn’t struggle or scratch, but just lay still as if hitching a ride. It had sized up its situation and resigned itself to its fate. As a child I couldn’t understand that, but I could as an adult. I just wasn’t there yet. Then I thought about how Thoreau left Walden not because he wanted to take it easy but because he’d learned all its lessons and longed for the next challenge. Had I gone to that cemetery to honor those humans’ achievements or to acknowledge that time had buried them?

I looked at Walker1, a robot I had built, one of many, on Earth and on Mars. Was I blameless for the ensuing revolution? If I worked at it, I could convince myself that I’d done my best to build the most efficient, safe robots. Believing what you wanted to believe was another human failing, but it didn’t have to be.

“Tell Lin I will do what I can to help.”

Richard Zwicker teaches high school English in Vermont, where he lives with his wife and beagle. His short stories have appeared in New Myths, Golden Visions, Speculative Mystery Iconoclast, and Ray Gun Revival.