Barrington Bayley - The Rod of Light

‘That thought is treason to the state of Borgor,’ Igor said with finality.

‘Of course. Well, consider another aspect to the affair, namely our role in it,’ Jasperodus suggested. ‘I am a robot. Yet without my intervention the evils of the Gargan Cult would have remained unknown here in Borgor. Even then, I could never have brought it to the attention of the authorities without your help. And you are a robot too.’

‘Yes, you are right,’ Igor mused. ‘The Marshal was ready to dismiss your story as the ramblings of a foreign machine. I had to reason long and hard with him, to persuade him to take it seriously—though once he referred it to higher quarters there was instant alarm at the prospect of conscious constructs. How strange it is that robots must save mankind from robots!’

‘Neither is it the first time we have been mankind’s saviour,’ Jasperodus told him. And he proceeded to expound his theory of how the asteroid shards came to be embedded in the Earth’s crust. Igor listened spellbound, gazing thoughtfully at the tomes he had spent so much time studying.

‘You paint an almost visionary picture,’ he murmured when Jasperodus had finished. ‘Is that really how it was? I know of the time when mountains fell from the sky, devastating whole regions for the sake of future generations. I admit I have never suspected this version of events.’

He stopped. Jasperodus could see he was inspired by the new mental image the story conjured up: an image of shadowy, dutiful constructs, standing calmly behind the terrible scene they had been obliged to create. ‘It is a paradox. Why does it have to be us? Why cannot man help himself?’

‘It is, as you say, a paradox,’ Jasperodus agreed. ‘By the way, what will become of we two when the rocket barrage is fired at the Gargan Cult Centre?’

‘We shall have to sacrifice ourselves, of course,’ Igor informed him. ‘That is understood.’

Winging on his journey of return, thoughts in conflict clutched at Jasperodus.

What was the truth…?

The present actuality was: I come to destroy you, Gargan. The mage’s warning was correct… Ahriman is about to imprison the light….

But another set of thoughts, another conceivable reality, struggled for recognition. For had not Gargan himself, who according to the mage was to play the part of jailer, also spoken of being imprisoned in matter? Far from being tools of darkness, were not the robots trying to escape Ahriman’s realm to find freedom in the realm of Ahura Mazda?

For all his resolution, Jasperodus knew that he had embraced the role of renegade. It was impossible for him not to feel some sense of fellowship with Gargan, whose existential predicament was so similar to his own, in the days when he had agonised over the question of whether he was conscious. Jasperodus, moreover, had had the issue forced upon him. Gargan, his mental superior by far, and lacking only certain ethical niceties, had come to it unaided… it could be argued that he deserved the light of consciousness much more than did Jasperodus, who was trying to deny the superintelligent construct what he would not be without himself….

The guaranteed loyalty of the robot sitting in the cockpit behind him must be an unreserved blessing, Jasperodus concluded. They flew in a narrow-bodied two-seater of western manufacture, supplied by Igor’s masters so as to cloak their place of departure. The plane carried no markings. It made slow progress, with its droning propeller, especially as Jasperodus thought it prudent to make a diversion so as to seem to approach from the direction of Gordona.

The journey was nearing its end. He circled, looking for features he could recognise. Finally, he selected a fairly level stretch of scrub and put down, to scrutinise the landscape from the ground.

‘This is the place,’ he said to Igor. ‘Don’t be surprised at what I do.’

Propeller whirling, he took to the air once more, flying low. Then he dived straight at the ground. The aircraft ploughed into scrub, pebbles and dust, impossibly submerging. An observer would have seen the plane totally disappear, as they broke through the illusion into the hidden rift that revealed itself below. Jasperodus skimmed the floor of the canyon, making for the sheds and villas of the Gargan Cult Centre. But in order to allay any alarm he put down short of the brief airstrip, taxiing the rest of the way.

The roaring plane was met by two motor-wheel-mounted servitors who turned to race alongside it until it came to a stop on the runway. Jasperodus opened the canopy and stood with one foot on the wing, looking about him. All was quiet. A new shed had been built a short distance from the others. It sparkled in the sun. The robot heap was still there, but it was smaller now.

The black-and-silver-faced robots were staring silently up at him. He spoke to one. ‘Go and tell Gargan that Jasperodus has returned from Gordona.’

The construct nodded, gunned its machine and sped off. Jasperodus lowered himself to the ground. As his eyes came level with Igor’s he uttered a barely audible word.

‘When?’

‘In half an hour,’ Igor replied, in a similarly faint mumble.

Jasperodus helped him down to the concrete. The Borgors had decreed that Igor should be the one to carry the Judas transmitter. It was welded inside his body casing, timed to transmit only in the intervals when the Borgor spy satellite made its passes over the region.

The messenger servitor had dismounted from his machine and was entering the same shed where, nearly a year ago, Jasperodus had seen human prisoners connected to the logic junction. He set off towards it, followed by Igor and accompanied by the other servitor, who kept a precarious balance astride his tandem-wheeled vehicle.

When they reached the shed, the messenger re-emerged from it. ‘Gargan is within. He is waiting for you.’

Jasperodus led the way into the cool interior. Much was changed. The previous equipment had all been removed. Instead, the shed was filled with a maze of honeycombed banks through which moved an assortment of robots, mostly taken from the depleted heap outside by the look of them. Their task involved constant inspection of the honeycombs. Often they removed spindly components and replaced them from trolleys they towed through the aisles.

Near the entrance stood Gargan, with Exlog and Gasha. The cult master turned ponderously to greet Jasperodus, his short arms moving with a clicking sound. His milky eyes gazed impassively from the broad dome of his head.

‘You have been gone a long time, Jasperodus,’ he said in his smooth voice. ‘Who is this you have brought with you?’

‘Allow me to introduce Igor. He is all I could find, I am afraid, of the group I went to seek. He had worked as an assistant to the group.’

Suddenly Gasha took a stride forward. He pointed a finger at Igor.

‘Enemy. This is a Borgor construct.’

‘I found him in Gordona,’ Jasperodus lied. ‘He escaped from Borgor control a long time ago.’

‘Impossible. Borgor robots practically do not have the capacity for free action. No such construct could ever be counted one of us.’

‘You will find that Igor is an exception.’

Gasha turned to address Gargan. ‘We can expect only treachery from this Borgor construct.’

‘Then let him be disabled,’ Gargan commanded.

Exlog stepped past Jasperodus, moving with astonishing swiftness. Coming to Igor’s rear, he deftly opened his inspection plate. Igor began speaking, in the tone of ingratiating humility he was accustomed to employing in Borgor. ‘If there is any way I can be of assistance, sirs, I pledge my fullest cooperation—’

And then he was switched off, to stand like a metal statue.