Barrington Bayley - Barrington Bayley SF Gateway Omnibus - The Soul of the Robot, The Knights of the Limits, The Fall of Chronopolis

‘When the time comes, I will speak as I choose.’

With a sigh the lawyer gave up. ‘Oh, well, as you say. Time is pressing. Have you a number, name or identifying mark?’

‘My name is Jasperodus.’

‘And you say there is no owner?’

‘Correct.’

‘Unusual. Can you give me details of your manufacture?’

Jasperodus laughed mockingly. ‘Can you of yours?’

With a mystified air the lawyer left. Jasperodus waited impatiently until at length the robot guards returned and removed the manacles. This time he made no attempt at resistance. He was conducted up staircases, along corridors and into the courtroom, which as near as he could judge was lodged in one of the poorer adjacent buildings.

Jasperodus surveyed the courtroom with interest. At one end a man of mature years sat on a raised dais: the magistrate. In his foreground, to right and left of him, were arrayed in sectioned compartments of panelled wood the functionaries of the court: clerks and recorders, as well as places for lawyers and other representing parties. At the other end were tiered benches, now empty, for a public audience.

Still accompanied by his guards Jasperodus was ushered to the dock, a box-like cubicle with walls reaching to his waist. Meanwhile the dapper lawyer described fairly accurately the circumstances of his arrest.

The magistrate nodded curtly. ‘Anything else?’

The lawyer waved his hands in a vague gesture of embarrassment. ‘The construct has expressed an intention to speak on its own behalf, Your Honour.’ Glancing at Jasperodus, he raised his eyebrows as a signal for him to go ahead.

Jasperodus’ argument was simplicity itself. ‘I am informed that in law no sentient being can be made a slave,’ he declared. ‘I claim to be such a sentient being and therefore not a subject for construct bondage.’

A frown of annoyance crossed the magistrate’s face. ‘Really, Paff,’ he admonished the lawyer, ‘do you have to plague me with pantomimes? What nonsense!’

Paff shrugged a disclaimer.

Doggedly Jasperodus continued: ‘I know I have self-awareness in the same way that you know you have it. I do not speak for other robots. But give me any test that will prove my self-awareness or lack of it, and you will see for yourself.’

‘Test? I know of no test. What nonsense is this?’ Irritable and nonplussed, the magistrate looked for advice towards the functionaries who sat below him.

The technical adviser, a suave young man in a tunic brocaded in crimson, rose to his feet. ‘By your leave, Your Honour, there is no such test. Any faculty possessed by sentient beings can be simulated by an appropriate machine, and therefore the fact of consciousness itself is beyond examination.’

The magistrate nodded in satisfaction and turned to Jasperodus. ‘Quite so. Have you anything germane to say?’

Jasperodus refused to let it go. ‘Then how does the law define what is sentient and what is not?’

‘That is simple,’ replied the magistrate with the air of one explaining something to a child. ‘A sentient being is a human being or a kuron. But not a construct.’

‘Only natural, biologically evolved creatures can have consciousness,’ interpolated the adviser, receiving a frown of reproof from the magistrate for his impudence. ‘Any robotician will tell you that machine consciousness is a technical impossibility ipso facto .’

Jasperodus recalled that kurons had originally been extraterrestrials, who migrated to Earth centuries ago and had since lost contact with their home star. Now they lived in small communities scattered throughout various parts of the world. He seized on the magistrate’s mention of them to pursue the question further.

‘Suppose there was brought before you a being from another star who was neither human nor kuron,’ he suggested. ‘Suppose furthermore that you could not ascertain whether the being was a naturally evolved creature or a construct. How then would you settle the matter of its mental status?’

The magistrate sputtered in annoyance, waving his hands in agitation.

‘I have no time for your casuistry, robot. You are a thing , not a person. That is all there is to it and I pronounce you to be the property of the King’s court.’ With finality he banged his gavel, but was interrupted once more by the presumptuous young man who was keen to make the most of his duties.

‘By your leave, Your Honour, may we also recommend that this robot be given some adjustment by the Court Robotician. Its brain appears somehow or another to have acquired an aberrant self-image.’

Grumpily the magistrate nodded. ‘Enter it on the record.’

Stunned by the failure of his defence, Jasperodus became aware that one of the guard robots was tugging at his arm. Passively he followed them from the dock.

They conveyed him not back to his cell but out of the building and into the windowless interior of a waiting van, which was then firmly locked. His inquiries elicited that his destination was the residence of King Zhorm, ruler of the tiny kingdom of Gordona. The van went bumping through the old town’s streets. He felt too bewildered even to begin to plan escape. All he could do was brood over the disconcerting pronouncements that had just been presented to him.

An aberrant self-image , he thought darkly.

King Zhorm’s palace was in the dead centre of the town. It was as large and as luxurious as the resources of Gordona would permit, which meant that it allowed the King and his court to live in luxury but not in ostentatious luxury. Zhorm, however, was content with what he had. He enjoyed life in his own rough way, kept his kingdom in order, and was neither so ambitious nor so foolish as to tax his people until they bled, as did some petty rulers.

When Jasperodus arrived the evening banquet was in progress. Proceeding through a long corridor draped with tapestries he heard the sound of rough laughter. Then he was ushered into a large, brilliantly illumined hall where fifty or more persons sat feasting at long trestle tables. At their head, in a raised chair much like a throne, lounged King Zhorm.

The King was surprisingly young-looking: not above forty. He had dark oily skin and doe-like eyes. Each ear sported large gold rings, and his hair hung about his shoulders in black greasy ringlets. Catching sight of Jasperodus, he raised his goblet with a look of delight.

‘My new robot! A magnificent specimen, so I am told. Come closer, robot.’

Though disliking the riotous colours and air of revelry, Jasperodus obeyed. The banqueters eyed him appreciatively, passing remarks among one another and sniggering.

‘Try some food, robot!’ cried a voice. A large chunk of meat hit Jasperodus in the face and slid down his chest, leaving a greasy trail. He made no sign of recognition but stood immobile.

King Zhorm smiled, his eyes dreamy and predatory. ‘Welcome into my service, man of metal. Recount me your special abilities. What can you do well?’

‘Anything you can do,’ Jasperodus answered, confident that he spoke the truth.

A fat man who sat near the King let out a roar. ‘Say “Your Majesty”, when you speak to the monarch!’ He took up an iron rod that leaned against the table and began to beat Jasperodus vigorously about the arms and shoulders, to the merriment of all watchers. Jasperodus snatched the staff from his grasp and bent it double. When its two ends almost met it snapped suddenly in two and Jasperodus contemptuously hurled the pieces into a corner.

A sudden silence descended. The fat man pursed his lips. ‘The robot has mettle, I see,’ King Zhorm said quietly. ‘A fighter, too.’

‘Gogra! Let him fight Gogra!’ The cry went up from all three tables. The idea seemed to please Zhorm. He clapped his hands. ‘Yes, bring on Gogra.’