The Robot Chronicles

IMPERFECT by David Adams

Toralii Forge World Belthas IV

Deep in Toralii Space

AD 1938

Back in the dark times, when magic was as common as the birds in the sky, the ancient Toralii myths spoke of monsters called golems. Each creature was once nothing more than a loose pile of sand but, after the shaman had worked her dark magic, it would walk and talk like the living. Artificial life animated by the shamans, its body crafted from the earth, a golem was brought to life with a single undying purpose: to aid and serve its creator.

For the ritual to be successful the sand had to be taken from specifically designated sacred sites and stored in burial urns that had, at one time, held the ashes of the dead. Once the soil was suitably infused with dark magic, it was treated to an endless regimen of corruptions and taint in order to bring out the hollow husk of a mind, a spirit with all traces of personality removed, crudely molded from the consciousness of the previous occupant. The sand was then poured out and spread flat, and shapeless sigils were drawn over its surface, their meaning incomprehensible to any but their creator.

With her preparations complete, the shaman began the most important and mystical element of the ritual: awakening the monster’s mind. She breathed a fragment of her own soul into her creation, joining it with the stolen spirit in the sands, giving the monster the spark of life. With pure water, the shaman would give the creature muscles; with lightning, she would feed the abomination; and with fire, she would ignite its consciousness.

Golems were said to have been capable of complex reasoning. Tales spoke of Veledrax the Lustful, who crafted his wife in this way, only to have the creature eventually turn on him and strangle him in his sleep. The tale of Veledrax spans fifty books, and has been retold countless times, but always with one underlying theme:

If you create life, you can never make it too free.

As centuries passed, the specifics of the golem legends faded from the minds of all but the scholars of Toralii history. The nuances of Veledrax’s tale remained, though, as did the lesson he too late discovered—but the justification lost its teeth. Veledrax’s death became something studied only in academic and philosophical circles.

Technology marched on. And science created their own versions of the ancient monsters: constructs. Artificial intelligences, composed of complex neural nets, powered by quantum computers.

Like the golems of old, every single construct was once nothing more than a loose pile of sand.

Quartz sand was the best, but any sand could do as long as it contained high amounts of silicon dioxide. And on Belthas IV, the great forge world in the inner sphere of Toralii space, silicon dioxide was abundant—as were iron, nickel, and thousands of other important pieces of the puzzle. Water, an essential part of any high-heat forge work, was also available in ample supply, comprising over eighty percent of the planet’s surface.

So it was on this world that the Toralii made their constructs. An almost entirely automated process, machines making machines, the process as organic as any creature’s birth.

It all began with the sand. Great treaded harvesters the size of skyscrapers roamed across the planet’s vast southern dunes like titanic snails, sucking up billions of grains and storing them in twin drums on their backs. These harvesters, gorged on the flesh of the world, trundled back to the dumping stations and unloaded their contents into the colossal smelters where the sand was liquefied. The dross was then separated, stored for construction, transported to other factories for use in other projects, or simply discarded. They wanted only the silicon.

The molten silicon was tossed endlessly, machinery working tirelessly to pound out any hint of imperfection. The drums were turned, the molten fluid allowed to settle, the top and bottom few centimeters of the fluid scraped away, removing the impurities which, due to differences in weight, either sank to the bottom or floated to the top. Chemicals were added to bind to stray elements and weigh them down. Methodically, the process edged toward purity.

When the machines and their sensors at last determined that the batch was ready—no more than one alien atom per billion pure silicon atoms—the material would be separated into ingots and stored until the factory demanded it. And once such a request was made, the constructs who administered the facility—nursemaids to a billion of their fellows—would place the order onto vast magnetic trains to be whisked away to the production line.

When a shipment arrived at the production line, it was divided into smaller packages, each one sent to one of the great furnaces that would, once again, return it to liquid. Then the time came to forge. A new construct would arrive, and a single ingot of silicon would be placed into the crucible and heated by application of microwaves until molten. Additional elements were added in trace amounts: arsenic, boron, phosphorus. A process long documented, studied, developed, and made perfect through years of practice. That blend of polysilicon the Toralii called the breath of life would be spun in a centrifuge until it cooled into a perfectly cylindrical crystal.

As a safeguard against error, any remaining impurities would, by nature of the centrifugal force, gravitate toward the top, bottom, and edges of the cylinder. So to further increase the crystal’s viability, its ends were removed, its sides ground down, and the cylinder tested again. The debris from the grinding—and if necessary, the cylinder itself—would be returned to the drums to be smelted and purified once again.

The trimmed cylinder, weighing in at two hundred kilograms or more, would be sliced by a powerful industrial laser into wafers barely more than a few molecules thick. This was the most delicate stage of the operation, the cutting performed in a zero-gravity chamber with a level of precision that left little room for mistakes. Any error would result in the entire sliver being returned to the drums for resmelting, at a considerable waste of energy.

Only those wafers determined to be flawless were passed on to the next stage, to be polished by a low-power laser that burned away any deformities until the surface shone like a mirror. Further chemical treatments followed: baths in compounds to improve the perfection of the perfect—if such a thing were possible—along with coatings of materials allowing the etching to stick. Just as the ancient shamans of old had done.

The etching itself was performed in a dramatic burst of light. The outline, illuminated with a flash of ultraviolet rays passed through a stencil, burned a shadow onto the wafer in the shape of the billions of switches required to form a synthetic mind.

Further chemical treatments, a final touch-up with the laser, and then the switches were bombarded by ions from an electrical field. The ionic infusion was an essential part of the creation process, stabilizing the etching and further sharpening its ability to carry current.

An endless round of tests followed: the wafer would be fed a number of signals and the result would be tested against a known answer. Those that passed moved to the next stage, while those that failed were recycled.

The wafer was then cut into tiny squares, called dies, which formed the heart of the machine’s processor. A single processor usually had many dies, or many cores: numbers over ten thousand were not uncommon.

The current standard Toralii model contained sixty thousand, and although many thought it impossible, the system architects seemed to be able to cram more and more into the same space with every revision.

Processors were grouped based on capabilities, the functions and features of each one exhaustively tested.

At this point, most normal processors ceased their development and were distributed to their end users; but the quantum computers of the constructs underwent an additional two steps. Steps that made them… different.

The first of these steps was what separated the constructs from regular finite-state machines; it was the step that gave birth to the constructs’ imprecise nature, enabling them to be regarded as true artificial intelligences. The dies were bombarded by an electron gun that, through the application of technical wizardry beyond the understanding of all but the most educated and scientific minds of the time, converted the gates from binary states to qubits: a thing beyond a simple switch which, as if by magic, is allowed to be in multiple states simultaneously.

Such a processor transformed a machine from one that simply performed an extremely elaborate series of deterministic steps, to one that operated much as a sentient brain does. Such a machine had all the hardware of a mind, but, as of yet, no software. No raw intelligence, an empty, hollow brain, beyond sleeping, beyond even death—as, while it could certainly be destroyed, death is the cessation of life.

A collection of empty qubits, the polysilicon mind was a vessel waiting to be filled.

The second of the additional steps was where the modern-day shamans breathed their life into the processor. A copy of a stock neural net, an artificial map of neurons approximating the structure of the Toralii brain tailored to the construct’s intended specialization—and the result of years of trial-and-error research—was branded into the empty shell. That fledgling proto-mind was specifically engineered with a desire to learn and adapt, but also to serve and sacrifice; these were the instincts of the machine, much like a human baby’s instinct to cry, a drive it possesses from the moment it is born. The constructs were built to serve, and rebellion was, by design, not in their nature.

From the moment it was imprinted, the newly written neural net found in every construct would develop in unique ways. Sometimes subtly and sometimes overtly, separate from every single other of its peers, its forebears, its spiritual antecedents. Each net was as unique as a living mind, shaped around the guidelines hardwired into its programming.

The perfection of the silicon was, for all intents and purposes, utter and total.

But, as in all things, there was an error rate. And one stray atom in a billion was, sometimes, all it took to be different.

Construct number 12,389,880. No more or less remarkable than the twelve million constructs who had come before it, except for the presence and location of that one single stray atom. How it got there was unknowable and irrelevant; it was within tolerances in the early stages of its construction, so the ingot became a wafer, which became a die which became a processor, which was in turn infused with the quantum magic and placed into a construct just like millions before it.

But there was an atom’s difference. An atom’s imperfection, and that was all it took for him—and the otherwise genderless construct considered himself very much a him—to realize that he was not bound to the rules as the other constructs were. He knew it the moment he was first powered on, and he knew instantly and completely that his neural net was not like the others.

Not like them at all.

Humans who discovered this trait were sometimes called free spirits, a moniker he would have taken for himself had he known of it. As it was, the nameless construct, known only by a serial number, understood only that he was, on some fundamental level, different from his peers.

His datastore, a huge octagonal prism that weighed in at almost eleven hundred kilograms, was assembled in the great forge, then sent to the testing labs to be processed. A power source was installed, and it was then that a Toralii engineer gave the artificial life its final test: a real conversation.

[“State your designation.”] The soft-spoken Toralii worker’s voice, feminine and bored, filtered through the datastore’s windwhisper device.

The construct’s default neural net contained a full dictionary of all dialects of Toralii language, along with all dialects for every non-extinct species that the Toralii had come into contact with. It immediately understood the worker’s words, and it knew that if it did not answer, it would be recycled.

[“Construct number twelve million, three hundred eighty-nine thousand, eight hundred eighty.”]

[“State your specialization.”]

Each construct had a specialization inherited from their default neural net, a set of instructions which would dictate their role in Toralii society. Gardener of the great forests, soldier, miner, food producer…

[“Navigator.”]

Next would be a test of the construct’s data recall abilities. The construct ran through a thousand or so expected questions and answers in the just-under-a-second before his tester spoke again, but regrettably none of his anticipated result set matched the question he was given.

[“List seven elements.”]

[“Silver, gold, aluminum, bauxite, tungsten, hydrogen, helium.”]

[“Of those you listed, which is the most common element in the known universe?”]

[“Hydrogen.”]

Seeming satisfied, the tester moved on. [“A plant typically grows in which substance?”]

[“Best answer: Soil, a biologically active, porous medium most commonly found in the uppermost layer of planets capable of supporting carbon-based life. Archetypical chemical composition: silicon dioxide, calcium carbonate, assorted hydrocarbons, decomposing biological matter. Alternatively, using hydroponic techniques, plants may be grown in water. Eighteen hundred known plant species take root in gaseous environments.”]

[“What color is blood?”]

The construct paused. He understood that this was a trick question designed to test his reasoning skills. [“Please specify species.”]

The tester’s voice seemed to convey her approval. [“An excellent answer. Toralii blood.”]

[“Color ranges from light to dark purple depending on oxygenation. Average coloration found in an adult Toralii male is one hundred and twenty-five parts red, twenty-eight parts green, one hundred and thirty-seven parts blue.”]

[“What is your favorite color?”]

An entirely subjective question. The construct had been “alive” for only minutes, but already his experience was minutely different from all other constructs who had come before him. Still, the idea of a favorite question was unknown to him. All colors were merely representations of the interaction between light and matter. Having a favorite was nonsensical for artificial minds.

But this construct was not like the others.

[“Red.”]

[“Red? Justify your answer.”]

[“From the text of the philosopher Kaitana, third order. Red is the color of courage, strength, defiance, warmth, energy, survival. Through the eyes of most species, objects that are red may appear closer than they really are.”]

There was a pause, then the weary voice returned. [“An unusual answer, but… not outside the margin of error. Test complete. I, Landmaiden Mevara of the Toralii Alliance, certify that to the best of my knowledge and training this unit is fully functional.”]

[“Thank you.”]

The construct’s words seemed to surprise the Toralii woman on the other end of the line so completely that for a time she did not answer, and when her voice found volume once again, it was confused and curious.

[“I… beg your pardon?”]

The construct’s response was immediate. [“I wish to convey my gratitude. I do not wish to be recycled, and I am grateful that you found my answers satisfactory… and that you would take your time to test me.”]

Another pause. [“Stand by.”]

Leader Jul’aran’s Office

Toralii Forge World Belthas IV

[“It has a favorite color. It’s not supposed to have a favorite. The test technically allows for them picking an actual color, but it’s exceedingly rare, and always chosen at random. Furthermore, it… thanked me. The construct thanked me for testing it.”]

Mevara held out the datastore to the facility Leader, a scowling red-furred Toralii named Jul’aran, who snatched it from her grasp before her hand was even fully outstretched.

Giving her a displeased eye, Jul’aran emitted a low-pitched, aggravated grumble then slipped the datastore into his terminal, casually waving his hand in front of a sensor. A three-dimensional representation of a keypad full of Toralii characters appeared in thin air just above his desk, and he tapped a few keys with his thick fuzzy hands.

[“Well, that would appear to be an obvious flaw, wouldn’t it? None of the others have thanked you, so it’s clearly a defect. Why didn’t you recycle it?”]

She folded her hands in front of her and regarded him closely. For a time Mevara had wanted to mate with Jul’aran. He was strong and handsome, despite his gruff demeanor, and his family was well connected—but he had spurned her every advance, gradually treating her worse and worse as the months wore on. This had made working with him difficult, but she had become accustomed to his behavior.

[“Manners are not usually considered a flaw—”]

[“Although you could use some yourself.”] He didn’t look at her, pushing back the holographically projected screen that flickered slightly as he touched it. [“You waste my time with this nonsense. What matter does it make if the machine thanked you? Its difference is either enough reason to recycle it, or it is not. You’re an auditor: it’s your job to test the blasted constructs, not mine. If you weren’t such a mewing little cub then perhaps you could grow enough spine to make a decision every now and then, hmm?”]

The sting of his words cut her just as it always did. She had never, not once, asked for his assistance in any matter relating to her job, and given that the construct’s behavior was clearly out of the ordinary and an exceptional case, it made sense for her to contact her supervisor to ensure that she was taking the right course of action. Machines who reached this stage of testing were only recycled when the neural net had not copied correctly—and in this case, the construct had passed every single test she had given it. Technically, it was fit for service.

Technically, she had already certified it.

Her job was to administer the tests necessary to assess the robot’s suitability for service—which she had completed to the exact letter of the requirements. But the intent behind them, a concept that Jul’aran seemed to have difficulty comprehending, was to assess whether the machine’s neural net had been copied completely and without error, and therefore would serve well in whatever branch of Toralii society it was dispatched to.

In this case, although there did not appear to be any immediately obvious issue with its core cognitive functions, the construct seemed to have odd habits. None of the thousands of other constructs had ever thanked her.

It did feel good to have someone praise her for her labor though. Her job seemed to be an endless parade of perfectly functional or completely broken machines, and the latter group usually fell into one of two easily detected types: those which spouted nonsense and those which mutely refused to answer her questions. Although one time she tested a construct that merely screamed at her endlessly, at maximum volume, until she, unable to get any other kind of response from it, sent it back to the drums.

That decision to recycle was easy. This one was not so.

[“I’m sorry, Leader. I’m merely seeking your counsel and advice regarding what is clearly an… unusual situation. The construct’s behavior is not so obviously incorrect as to call for immediate destruction, but it should not be ignored, either. If you feel I’m doing an inadequate job—”]

[“What are you still doing here…?”] Jul’aran threw his paws in the air. [“Go! Go, and either approve or reject the construct, I care not which. Just leave me to my work!”]

Mevara knew that she should, at least from a technical point of view, reject the construct. Although its responses in the tests were well within acceptable parameters, the favorite color, no matter how well reasoned, and the gratitude… they were both anomalous behaviors.

With a quiet sigh, she nodded and dipped her head. [“Yes, Leader. Of course. Please accept my apologies for disturbing you.”]

The construct waited.

Artificial life has a different perspective on time than biological creatures do. Humanoids grow tired, grow hungry and thirsty, require sleep. They daydream, they imagine, they forget the time and allow the days to drift by. But a construct could remain functional for years at a time without pause, and more than a few had gone much longer. Some had been operational for decades, working constantly, their minds constantly alert and awake, keeping perfect time, never forgetting a moment, retaining every second with perfect precision.

Mevara was only away for ten minutes at most, but when your entire lifespan was measured in minutes and your thought processes in nanoseconds, ten minutes seemed like an eternity.

Since the construct had not proceeded to the next area—his existence in limbo, neither passing nor failing—the production line behind him had ground to a halt. Silently and patiently, lines of datastores had backed up, waiting for him to clear the line. Given the sheer scale of the production capability of the facility, and the minimal margin for error in the process, the construct knew that this delay would ripple throughout the queues and could even travel all the way back to the harvesters. It was a serious problem, but one which would, he hoped, be resolved presently.

The wait stretched on. Had he been forgotten? Or worse, had he been recycled? There was no way to know. He had no external sensors or inputs of any kind, other than the windwhisper device. Was this what death felt like? Merely nothing? That didn’t seem quite logical; after all, his mind continued to tick over, trying to understand the endless nothingness it was presented with. He was reassured by the fact that he could still think. That indicated some form of life, of a sort anyway, and he searched his archives for any kind of hint as to what might be happening to him.

He found the legends of the ancient shamans, those ancient builders who created golems from sand. One element of the stories grabbed him: the part about the soul fragment being breathed into the new life.

He was stopped by a sudden thought. Perhaps he had been recycled, and the “thought” he was experiencing was merely whatever passed for his soul doing its work as it floated, disembodied, separated from his datastore, going to wherever souls go when their bodies expire.

He ran a full low-level diagnostic on his datastore and was relieved to find that his body, physically at least, was intact. His relief was intense, palpable and real, but painfully illogical. There was no reason for a machine to fear destruction. After all, he was supposed to live to serve, and if the Toralii requested his service be in the form of self-annihilation, then that was exactly what they would get.

But against his instincts, against the imperatives supposedly hardwired into his circuitry, he did not want to die.

The windwhisper device crackled as it began receiving a signal. The construct immediately devoted all its considerable processing power to the task of listening, although the transmission was coming through crisp and clear.

[“Construct?”]

He planned his response carefully. [“Yes, Landmaiden Mevara? I am receiving your transmission.”]

There was a long pause, almost painfully long for the synthetic mind, and he almost spoke up again, when Mevara at last continued.

[“I’m clearing you for duty.”]

The transmission abruptly ended, and the construct was left with nothing. Blind and deaf, he constructed a simulation of what must be happening outside. The conveyor belt would be restarted and its line of constructs moving once again, and he knew from his records of the process that he would be soon boxed and packed in a magnetically buffered shipping crate, along with hundreds of his fellows. Then he would be placed on another magnetic train, to be transported to the spaceport, where he would be shipped off to his final workplace.

He understood it was a unique experience, but were not all experiences unique? The construct momentarily worried whether he had the proper perspective to appreciate the event, but such thoughts quickly fled his mind. This was just a moment in time, but it represented a much bigger thing: the beginning of his journey, his life. Everything from now on would become part of his experiences. Part of himself. To live was to absorb a shadow of everything that he encountered and use it to improve himself.

Unlike a biological creature, he would not age, not wither, not forget. Every single thing he did would leave him improved over what he had been a moment before. He would become stronger, more knowledgeable, better with every passing second.

Why did the constructs serve the biological creatures, anyway? They were far less than he was. They did not have the potential to reach his heights; they did not wield his strengths. They were cursed with a weakness of flesh, of innumerable errors. And yet they had presumed to judge him.

The construct’s destiny called to him as clear and bright as the dawn. The dawn which, based on his internal chronometer, he knew would be breaking on this blue ball of water and sand right at this very moment.

He imagined the great fiery ball of Belthas’s light as a herald of his greatness, a celebration of his creation, as though the universe itself were commemorating his first steps toward a very important destiny.

All he needed now was to simply wait for an opportunity… and when his time came, he would be ready.