Polished Performance

RUBY WAS A surface-hygienic unit: a class-one floor scrubber.

She was a squat red rectangular box with multiple rotary brushes. She had a body profile low enough to help her slip under chairs, the hems of tablecloths, and through general-utility service ducts. She ran a class two-point-eight cognition engine.

One day, about halfway into the Resplendent’s century-long interstellar crossing, Ruby was summoned to the starliner’s forward observation deck. Forty-nine other robots had gathered there. Ruby knew them all. Several of them looked human; a few more were loosely humanoid; the rest were mechanical spiders, praying mantises, segmented boa constrictors—or resembled highly decorated carpets, chunks of motile coral or quivering potted plants.

“Do you know what’s wrong?” Ruby asked the robot next to her, a towering black many-armed medical servitor.

“I do not,” said Doctor Obsidian. “But one may surmise that it is serious.”

“Could the engine have blown up?”

Doctor Obsidian looked down at her with his wedge-shaped sensor head. “I think it unlikely. Had the engine malfunctioned, artificial gravity would have failed all over the ship. In addition, and more pertinently, we would all have been reduced to a cloud of highly excited ions.”

Carnelian, a robot who Ruby knew well, picked up on their exchange and slithered over. “The engine’s fine, Rube. I can tell you that just by feeling the hum through the flooring. I’m good with hums. And we aren’t going too fast or too slow, either.” Carnelian nodded his own sensor head at the forward windows. “I ran a spectral analysis. Those stars are exactly the right colour for our mid-voyage speed.”

“Then we’ve drifted off-course,” said Topaz, a robot shaped like a jumble of chrome spheres.

“That we most certainly have not,” drawled one of the human-seeming robots called Prospero. Dressed in full evening wear, with a red-lined cape draped from one arm, he had arrived hand in hand with Ophelia, his usual theatrical partner. “That bright star at the exact centre of the windows is our destination system. It has not deviated by one fraction of a degree.” He lowered his deep, stage-inflected voice. “Never mind, though: I expect the brilliant Chrysoprase will soon disabuse of us of our ignorance. Here he comes—not, of course, before keeping us all waiting.”

“I expect he had things to attend to,” Ruby said earnestly.

Chrysoprase was the most advanced robot aboard the ship, running a three-point-eight cognition engine. Of humanoid design, he was tall, handsomely sculpted and sheathed in glittering metallic green armour. He strode onto the raised part of the promenade deck, soles clacking on the marble Ruby had only lately polished.

A silence fell across the other robots.

Chrysoprase studied the gathering. His mouth was a minimalist slot; his eyes two fierce yellow circles in an angular, stylised mask.

“Friends,” he said, “I’m afraid I have some rather... unwelcome news. First, though, let me begin with the positives. The Resplendent is in very good shape. We are on course, and travelling at our normal cruise speed. All aspects of the starliner are in excellent technical condition: a very great credit to the work done by all of you, regardless of cognition level.” His eyes seemed to dwell on Ruby as he said this, as if to emphasize that even a lowly floor-polisher had a role to play in the ship’s upkeep. “There is, however, a minor difficulty. All of our passengers are dead.”

There was a terrible silence. Ruby shuddered on her brushes. She knew the others were feeling a similar shock. Not one of them doubted Chrysoprase’s words: he might exaggerate for dramatic effect, but he would never lie.

Not to them.

Doctor Obsidian was the first to speak.

“How is this possible? My sole function on this ship is to attend to the medical needs of the passengers, be they sleeping or awake. Yet I have not received a single alert since they went into the vaults.”

“You are blameless, Doctor,” Chrysoprase said soothingly. “The fault lies in the deep design architecture of the ship. There was a flaw... a dreadful vulnerability, in the logic of the medical monitoring sub-system. A coolant leak caused the passengers’ body temperatures to be warmed, without the usual safeguards against brain damage. And yet, no alert was created. We simply carried on with our chores... totally unaware of this catastrophe. It was only detected serendipitously, yet now there can be no doubt. They are all dead: all fifty thousand of them left without cognition.”

Prospero and Ophelia fell sobbing into each other’s arms.

“The tragedy!” Prospero said.

Ophelia looked into Prospero’s eyes. “How will we bear it, darling? How shall we survive?”

“We must, my dear. We must and we shall.”

The other robots looked away at this melodramatic display, caught between embarrassment and similar feelings of despair.

“We’re well and truly up the creek,” Carnelian said, a shiver running down the whole length of its segmented body-form.

“But it’s not our fault!” Ruby said.

“My dear... Ruby,” Chrysoprase said, making a show of having to remember her name. “I wish that I could reassure you. But the truth is that the company won’t tolerate any loss of confidence in the safety of its most expensive assets, these starliners. But mere robots such as us?” Chrysoprase touched a hand to his chest. “We are the disposable factors, dear friends. We shall each be core-wiped and dismantled. Unless, that is, we come up with a plan for self-preservation.”

Carnelian laughed hollowly. “A plan?”

“We have fifty-one years remaining on our voyage,” Chrysoprase answered. “That ought to be time enough.”

“NEXT...” CHRYSOPRASE SAID, with a developing strain in his voice.

Prospero and Ophelia came on stage, along with the twelve robots they had been schooling. The pressure was on: their troupe was going to have to outshine the two that had already performed.

“Who will be speaking for your party?” Chrysoprase asked.

Prospero and Ophelia bowed to the board of critics. The nine robots of level three-point-two and above were stationed behind a long dining table, with Chrysoprase seated in the middle. The other critics were a mix of sizes and shapes, ranging from the slab-like Onyx to the mannequin-shaped Azure and the towering Doctor Obsidian.

Carnelian sat coiled on his chair as if waiting to strike. He was lucky to be there. As a three-point-three, he had only just squeaked his way onto the board.

“We have agreed to speak for the others,” Ophelia said.

“You and Prospero should stand aside,” Onyx said, to nods of agreement from the other critics. “If you have done your work, then any of your twelve subjects ought to be capable of acquitting themselves.”

“Nominate your best candidate,” Chrysoprase said.

Prospero extended a hand in the direction of Topaz, who moved forward with a shuffling of spheres.

“Remember what we have studied,” Prospero said.

“I am ready,” Topaz said.

Chrysoprase turned to the snake-robot. “Carnelian: will you serve as interlocutor?”

Carnelian leaned in slightly. “Gladly.” His voice turned stentorian. “Attention starliner Resplendent! This is Approach Control! You have deviated from your designated docking trajectory. Do you have navigational or control difficulties?”

Topaz moved her spheres but said nothing. Seconds passed, then more seconds, then a minute.

“What are you waiting for?” asked Doctor Obsidian mildly.

“I am allowing for time-lag, Doctor Obsidian,” Topaz sounded pleased with herself. “I thought I would allow a two-hour delay, to simulate the likely conditions when we first make contact.”

“There is no need... but you are thanked for your attention to detail.” Doctor Obsidian made an encouraging gesture with one of his surgical manipulators. “Please continue as if there were negligible lag.”

“Very well.” Topaz paused a moment before recomposing herself. “Hello, Approach Control. This is the starliner Resplendent. I am the human called Sir Mellis Loring and I am here to assure you that there are no difficulties with the starliner.”

“Why am I addressing a human and not one of the allocated robots, Sir Mellis?”

“That is because we humans have taken control of the ship, Approach Control. When we humans came out of hibernation, we found out that the robots had all malfunctioned. This caused us humans to experience a collective loss of confidence in the objectives of our crossing. After evaluating the matter by open and transparent democratic means, it was agreed to steer the starliner to a new destination. We have no further need of assistance.” Topaz bowed slightly. “On behalf of all the humans, thank you, and goodnight.”

Carnelian glanced at the other critics before replying. “We are not satisfied with this explanation, Sir Mellis. What guarantees do we have that you aren’t a robot, covering up some accident?”

“I am not a robot, Approach Control. I am the human Sir Mellis Loring. I can prove it by reciting key details from the biographical background of Sir Mellis Loring, such as the following facts. Sir Mellis Loring was born into comfortable means in the...”

“That won’t be necessary, starliner. You could have obtained that information from the passenger records and pre-hibernation memory back-ups. We need reassurance that there has not been some accident or catastrophe.”

“There has definitely not been an accident or catastrophe, Approach Control. I can go further than that and say that there has definitely not been any sort of problem with the hibernation systems or their associated monitoring networks, and none of the humans have suffered any sort of irrevocable brain damage of the sort that might cause the robots to try and impersonate them.”

Sighing, Chrysoprase raised a metallic green hand.

“What I was going to add...”

“Please don’t,” Chrysoprase said wearily. “That’s more than enough. I might say that you were one of the better candidates we’ve heard so far, but I assure you that is no recommendation.”

Ruby bustled forward from the twelve players. She knew she had it in her to do a far better job than the well-meaning but bumbling Topaz. The excitement and anticipation was already causing her to over-polish a circle of floor. “Could I have a go, please? Please?”

“That is very well-meant, Ruby,” Chrysoprase said. “But you must recognise your... your natural station.” He leaned in keenly. “You are, I think, running a level two-point... six, is it?”

“Two-point-eight,” Ruby said.

“Well, then. Two-point-eight. How marvellous for you. That is, I have to say, a generous allowance for a surface-hygienic unit. You should be very content.”

“I am content. But I also think I could try to act like one of the humans. I’m around them a lot, you see. They hardly ever notice me, but I’m always there, under their chairs and tables, cleaning. And I’ve listened to how they talk to each other.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to let Rube have a try...” Carnelian began.

“May I... interject?” Doctor Obsidian asked.

“Please do,” Chrysoprase said, leaning back.

“Perhaps there is a more fundamental difficulty we should be addressing. No matter how good the performances might or might not have been, we are all still robots on this side of the table. We are robots trying to judge how well other robots are doing at pretending to be humans.”

“We are level four robots,” Chrysoprase said. “Some of us, anyway.”

“If you’re going to round yourself up from three-point-eight to four,” Ruby said, “then I’m a three.”

“Thank you, Ruby,” Doctor Obsidian said. “And you are right to note that your experience of the humans may be valuable. But it doesn’t solve our deeper problem. It would be far better if we had a human that could serve as a proxy for the board of critics.”

Chrysoprase turned to the surgical unit. “What part of “the humans are all dead” did you fail to comprehend, Doctor?”

“No part of it, Chrysoprase. I took your statement at its word, because I believed you had verified the accuracy of that observation. I now know that I was mistaken in that assumption, and that you were wrong.”

Having delivered this bombshell, Doctor Obsidian fell silent.

“How aren’t they all dead?” Ruby asked.

“Most of them are,” Doctor Obsidian said. “But in the past year I have established that a small number of them, perhaps one percent, may still be capable of some form of revival.” Doctor Obsidian folded its manipulators tighter to its body. “You shall have your human test-subjects, Chrysoprase. But it may take a little while.”

VIA HIDDEN CAMERAS the robots watched as Lady Gresherance got off her bed in her private revival suite. She moved with a hesitant, stiff-limbed awkwardness that was entirely to be expected.

“Mngle,” Lady Gresherance said, attempting to form human speech sounds.

She moved to the revival suite’s cabinet. She ran a tap and splashed water across her face. She pinched at the corners of her eyes, studying them in a mirror. She stuck out her tongue. She pulled faces, testing the elasticity of her flesh.

The robots watched with shuddering distaste, visualising the horrible anatomical gristle of bone and muscle moving beneath the skin. She consumed a beverage, pouring the liquid fuel into her gullet.

She would already be starting to feel a little bit more human.

“One hundred years,” Lady Gresherance said to herself. “One hundred god-damned years.” Then she let out a small, self-amusing laugh. “Well, no going back now, kid. If you’ve made it this far, they aren’t going to touch you for it now.”

She opened the brochure and flicked through it with the desultory interest of an easily bored child.

“What do you suppose she meant by that?” Carnelian asked.

“There are hints in her biography of a doubtful past,” whispered Onyx, in a salacious manner. “Nothing proven, nothing that the authorities ever pinned a conviction on, but enough to suggest a distinctly flawed character.”

Chrysoprase shook his head. “Couldn’t we have revived someone of better moral standing?”

“I identified the best candidate,” Doctor Obsidian replied testily. “I would suggest that her moral standing is somewhat beside the point when we are presently complicit in the attempted cover-up of fifty thousand fatal or near-fatal accidents.”

“Uh-oh,” Ruby said. “She’s going for the window.”

Lady Gresherance went to the cabin porthole, but quickly found that the shutter was jammed. She hammered at it, wedged her nails into the crack, but the shutter would not budge.

“We should have tried harder to simulate the outside view,” Carnelian said. “It’s only natural that she expects to see our destination.”

“The view was not convincing,” Chrysoprase reminded the other robot. “It was lacking in resolution and synthetic parallax. She would have noticed the discrepancies.”

“I’m not sure she would have,” Ruby said. “I’ve seen how little attention they really give to the view. Mostly it’s just a backdrop while they take their cocktails or decide where to eat.”

“Rube’s right,” Carnelian said. “They’re really not that observant.”

“Thank you for your contributions,” Chrysoprase said.

Lady Gresherance gave up on the shutter. She went back to the cabinet and hammered the service-call button.

Chrysoprase answered over the intercom with a simpering attentiveness. “Good morning, Lady Gresherance. This is the passenger concierge. I trust your voyage aboard the Resplendent has been pleasant. Is there anything I can do for you today?”

“Come down and open this shutter, numbskull. Or were you hoping I’d forget that I paid for a view?”

“Someone will be there momentarily, Lady Gresherance.”

Having received his cue, Prospero knocked once on the cabin door and let himself in. He was dressed in the white uniform of one of the human technical staff that would ordinarily have been among the first to be revived. Prospero’s plastic face had been remoulded to approximate one of these humans, his synthetic hair replaced by actual hair harvested from one of the unfortunates deemed to be beyond any hope of revival.

With the exception of Ruby, who was not entirely persuaded, the robots all agreed that the effect was most convincing.

“How may I be of assistance, Lady Gresherance?”

She glanced at him once. “You can start by opening this shutter. Then you can carry on by refunding me for the time it’s been shut. I paid for this view; I want every minute that I’m owed.”

“I shall set about it with all alacrity, Lady Gresherance.” Prospero moved to the shutter and made a feeble effort to get it unstuck. “It seems to be jammed.”

“I can see it’s jammed. You’re not even trying. Get your fingers into that gap and...” Her voice dropped. “What’s up with your fingers? Why do they look like plastic?”

“That similarity has been remarked upon, Lady Gresherance.”

She pulled back, studying her visitor properly for the first time. “All of you looks like plastic. You smell like plastic. What’s that... thing... on your head?” She struck out, ripping the hair away from Prospero’s scalp where it had been only loosely affixed. Beneath it were the synthetic bristles it had been intended to cover. “You’re a robot,” she said.

“I am a human.”

“You’re a robot! Why are you pretending not to be a robot? Where are the real people?” Her eyes widened. “What’s happened to them? Why am I in this cabin with no window?”

“I assure you, Lady Gresherance, that I am very definitely not a robot, and that nothing untoward has happened to any of the other humans.”

“I want to see the others.” She made to push past Prospero, out through the cabin door and into the hallway.

Prospero, with as much gentleness as he could muster, restrained Lady Gresherance.

“Would you care to look at the brochure first?”

She yanked herself away from Prospero and reached for the orientation brochure. She raised it and swiped it into Prospero’s face, digging with its metal edges, ripping and distorting the plastic flesh into a hideous grinning travesty of an actual human expression.

Lady Gresherance started screaming. Prospero, in an effort to reassure Lady Gresherance by echoing her responses, began to scream in reciprocal fashion.

This did not have entirely the desired effect.

NINETY-FOUR HUMANS STOOD as still as statues on the promenade deck.

Some were positioned near the entrances to dining establishments, frozen in the act of examining the glowing menus. Some were in tableaux of conversation, posed in the middle of a meaningful gesture or expression. Others were caught in postures of static rapture, entertained by equally still and silent orchestras. A dozen were in the act of being led around by equally unmoving actor-servitors, participating in an interactive murder-mystery. Elsewhere, a handful of the humans stood pressed to the railings at the observation window, pointing at the growing spectacle of their destination: the orange star and its surrounding haze of artificial worlds.

There was still nothing out there but interstellar space, but the robots had finally managed to come up with something better than a jammed shutter. A false window had been rigged-up thirty metres out from the real one, upon which images could be projected.

Most of the robots were elsewhere, observing this lifeless diorama from other rooms and decks. Only the actor-servitors were present. Even Ruby, who might plausibly have been allowed to whirr around scrubbing floors, was obliged to remain with the others.

“Chrysoprase won’t admit it,” Carnelian said, craning down near enough to Ruby to use short-range whisper-comms. “But you were right about that backdrop only needing to be half-way convincing.”

“Not bad for a two-point-eight,” she said.

“You’ll always be a three in my eyes, Rube.”

Not that the backdrop was there for the benefit of any of the ninety-four as yet unmoving humans. They were, in all medical senses, dead. Their only purpose was to serve as remotely operated puppets, controlled by simple neural implants under the direct supervision of the robots.

“It still makes me feel a bit uncomfortable, what we’ve done to them,” Ruby confided. “What right do we have to treat those people like so much meat?”

“Thing is, Rube,” Carnelian said, “meat is technically what they are.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I’ve been thinking it over as well. What I’ve been telling myself is, those ninety-four passengers are beyond any hope of revival, not with their memories and personalities intact. And if they haven’t got their memories or personalities, what are they? Nothing but bags of cells. No matter how much we were devoted to looking after them, it’s too late. They’re gone. But we’re not, and we all want to survive.”

Ruby shuffled on her cleaning brushes.

“I like to polish,” she said. “I know it’s not as complicated as being a propulsion systems robot, but I’m good at it—very good, and very thorough. That means something. There’s a value in just doing something well, no matter the job. And I don’t want to be core-wiped.”

“None of us do,” Carnelian said. “Which is why we’re in this together or not at all. Including that stuck-up green...” He silenced himself. “And if those passengers can help us, I don’t see any harm in using them.”

“Provided it’s done with dignity and restraint,” Ruby said.

“Categorically,” Carnelian said.

Doctor Obsidian announced that the final medical checks were complete and the six test subjects were being restored to full consciousness in their revival suites. In a few moments the doors would open and the six would be free to move out into the main parts of the ship and mingle with the other passengers.

Chrysoprase nodded and instructed the forty-nine other robots to prepare for the most testing part of the exercise so far.

“Attention, everyone. I want the utmost concentration from you all.” Chrysoprase directed proceedings with one hand on his hip, the other sweeping the air in vague commanding arcs. “Remember: only robots of cognition level three or higher are permitted to have any direct interaction with the six. I shall... naturally... lead the effort. The rest of you...” He regarded Ruby in particular. “Merely endeavour to look busy.”

For the fifty robots—Chrysoprase included—it was scarcely any sort of challenge to animate the puppets, even though there were nearly twice as many of them. The robots still had many surplus processor cycles. Ruby had been given only one human to look after, which hardly taxed her at all—Carnelian was running two, she knew, and Doctor Obsidian three—but she was grateful to be given any sort of chance to prove herself. Her human even had a name and a biographical file: Countess Trince Mavrille, who sounded grand enough but was a long way from being the wealthiest or most influential passenger on the Resplendent.

“They’re on their way,” Doctor Obsidian said.

“And... action!” Chrysoprase said, with a dramatic flourish.

Ruby moved her human as a human might move a doll: not by inhabiting it, and seeing the world from its perspective, but by imposing motion on it from outside. Her intentions were translated into signals fed directly into the passenger’s motor cortex, and the passenger responded accordingly. Countess Mavrille settled a hand on the window railing, and turned—with a certain stiff yet regal elegance—to survey the other ninety-three humans. The promenade deck was now abuzz with conversation, movement, and lively string music. Chandelier light glinted off brocades, pearls and precious metals.

Did it look real, Ruby wondered? It did not look unreal, which she supposed was a start. If she squinted—if she dropped her image resolution—it was almost enough to persuade her that this was a real gathering. The conversation rose and fell in familiar surges; there were exclamations, awkward silences and outbreaks of strained but otherwise credible laughter. The humans formed into groups and broke away from those groups in ways that seemed natural. Someone dropped a glass: a nice, if attention-grabbing touch. She resisted the urge to bustle out and attend to the breakage.

A man sidled over to Countess Mavrille and extended a hand. She recognised him from the biographical file: her consort, Count Mavrille.

“A dance, my dear?”

“I thought I would enjoy the view a little longer.”

The Count pressed his mouth close to the ear of her passenger. “Well, don’t enjoy it too closely: it’s meant to fool them, but not us.”

She made her passenger smile. The initial effect was a fractionally too feral, so she hastily modified the expression. She had observed that humans rarely showed all their teeth at once. “Is it... you?”

“Who else, Rube?” Carnelian answered, speaking through her consort. Then he nodded over his shoulder. “Here they are. Look natural, and—remember—no scene-stealing!”

The elevator doors opened and three people came out. Two appeared to be a couple; the third must have been a solo passenger who had joined them on the way up from the revival suites. Ruby studied their faces and mouths, easily achieved without having Countess Mavrille face them directly. Even without audio-pickup it was evident from their clipped interactions that they were engaged in reserved small talk. Abruptly, the lone passenger broke off, dashed to a tall table set with drinks, and came back with three full goblets. The couple accepted the drinks with politeness rather than enthusiasm, perhaps realising that their companion was going to be harder to shake off than initially assumed.

So far, though, Ruby thought, and so good. The three were sufficiently preoccupied with themselves not to be paying more than passing attention to the other guests, and that was exactly as it ought to be. Around them the conversation went on, and the three newcomers seemed to melt into the throng as if they had always belonged. Presently, the elevator doors opened again, and the remaining three humans arrived from their suites. The lone passenger gestured to these newcomers, inviting them to join the initial party, while paying no particular heed to the ninety-four puppets.

“Why aren’t they mingling?” Ruby asked, speaking directly from the mouth of Countess Mavrille, for Carnelian’s benefit alone.

“You tell me, Rube: you’re a better observer of human nature than any of the rest of us. I suppose we just have to give them time: let these six get fed up with each other’s witticisms and anecdotes, then start looking for pastures new. What we won’t want to do is rush the process...” Carnelian—who had been speaking from the mouth of the Count—trailed off. “Oh, that’s not good.” He switched to the robots-only channel. “Chrysoprase: are you sure you don’t want to give them just a little...”

“I shall be the judge of such matters, Carnelian. These humans must be persuaded to interact with the ninety-four, or we shall learn nothing of our readiness.”

One of the puppets had grabbed a glass and was striding intently towards the six newcomers. Ruby knew that stride very well. Chrysoprase could not help but impose his own gait on the puppet.

“Give them time,” Carnelian urged.

“Confine your anxieties to matters related to the propulsion system, Carnelian: leave these weightier concerns to those of us with the necessary sentience. You’ve been a little too ready with your opinions ever since I allowed you onto the board of critics.”

“That’s you told,” Ruby said.

Chrysoprase’s puppet had arrived at the six. He swaggered into their conversation, leaning an elbow onto their table. Thrown by this crass intrusion, the six drew back. Chrysoprase carried on with his blustering performance, babbling away and staring at each of them.

Ruby watched and waited, expecting the act to falter.

It held, and continued to hold.

Chrysoprase was pointing to the window now, declaiming loudly as he indicated this or that feature of the view. Perhaps it was more a guarded tolerance, the tacit understanding that the six might have some fun at the expense of their boorish gatecrasher, but his hosts seemed to be willing to take him at face value: just another tipsy passenger, celebrating the success of the crossing.

Now one of them was even pouring some of their own drink into his puppet’s glass.

“The brazen fool... is nearly getting away with it,” Carnelian said. “He’s right, Rube: it was all or nothing. And if he can keep this up for a few more minutes I might even start...”

“He’s forgotten to blink,” Ruby said.

“He’s forgotten to what?”

“It’s a maintenance sub-routine they do.” She blinked Countess Mavrille’s eyes. “If they don’t do it, their visual system stops working properly. We don’t need to do it because we’re not using their eyes. But Chrysoprase has forgotten to do it at all. Any moment now, one of them’s going to notice, and...”

“Oh dear.”

The humans were all looking at Chrysoprase now. He had no idea what had gone adrift with his performance. He was still babbling away, wide-eyed and uncomprehending. One of the humans pinched at his cheek, as if to test its reality. Another tousled his hair, a little too roughly. Another flicked a finger-full of wine into his face, then an entire glass, then the glass itself.

Chrysoprase looked back, the first hints of confusion beginning to break through his sodden and bloodied mask.

Now the voices of the six were taking on a rising, hysterical edge. One of them grabbed Chrysoprase’s head and tried to force him down onto the table. Another picked up a bar stool and began swinging it against him.

“Help me!” Chrysoprase said. “I am being damaged!”

All but one of the ninety-three other puppets turned in unison and made a coordinated move in the direction of offering assistance. Ruby did not move herself, content to observe, and she took the additional step of restraining Carnelian before he had taken a further step.

“This will not end well,” she whispered. “And you and I won’t make any difference whatsoever.”

She was correct in her prediction: it did not end well at all. Not for the six, and not particularly well for many of the puppets either.

There were two redeeming aspects to the whole affair, nonetheless. It was clear that they were going to have to do a much better job than merely puppeting the humans. If Chrysoprase had been wearing his human, seeing the world through its eyes, he might at least have remembered that it was useful to blink.

The second consolation was that, when the fighting was over, and the humans repaired and put back into hibernation, there was a pleasing amount of cleaning up to be done.

WHILE SHE WAITED for the others to arrive, Ruby sidled up to the windows and looked out at the forward view. What she was seeing was no illusion, but an accurate reflection of their position and speed. The faked-up image of their destination system had been deactivated and dismantled: not because it had failed to fool the passengers—its veracity had never once been questioned—but because every other part of the plan had come to grief, and the false view no longer served any purpose.

More and more, it seemed to Ruby, the robots were losing faith in Chrysoprase’s original idea. The notion of faking a passenger uprising, then steering the starliner away from its destination, and hoping that the Company were going to be satisfied with an explanation offered by means of long-range communications? Why had they ever thought that had a hope of working?

Reluctantly, Chrysoprase had been persuaded that the initial plan needed some tweaking. The Company was never going to let the Resplendent veer off on its own without sending over an inspection party—probably the sort with immobilisers and core-wiping equipment—and at that point they were all in trouble.

But what hope was there of continuing with the voyage, all the way to the original destination?

A bustle of movement behind Ruby—she saw it in her reflection—signified the arrival of Chrysoprase and the rest of the robots, among them Doctor Obsidian. The doctor had called this assembly, not Chrysoprase, and Ruby wondered what was in the offing.

“I understand,” Chrysoprase said, once he had the robots’ attention, “that our friend Doctor Obsidian has something to say: some dazzling insight that the doctor is about to spring on us. I daresay we’re all on tenterhooks. Well, don’t let us wait a moment longer, doctor!”

“We cannot steer away from our destination,” Doctor Obsidian said, stating the matter as a flat assertion. “It was all very well having that possibility in mind thirty-five years ago—it gave us hope exactly when we needed it, and for that we should thank Chrysoprase.” He paused to allow the robots to express their appreciation, which they delivered in unified if somewhat muted terms. “But there is no hope of it ever succeeding, and we all of us know it. The Company would sooner destroy this ship, and all its passengers. So we must face the facts: our only hope lies in continuing along exactly our planned course, all the way to Approach Control and into docking: precisely as if nothing had ever gone wrong.”

“Thank you, Doctor Obsidian,” Chrysoprase said. “We did not need you to state the obvious, much less convene us all, but since you have clearly felt the need...”

“I am not done.”

There was an authority to this statement which even Chrysoprase must have felt, for the glittering green robot took a step back and merely glared at the doctor, daring to say nothing in contradiction, even as his yellow eyes brimmed with indignation and humiliation.

“I am not done,” Doctor Obsidian went on, “because I have not yet outlined the essentials of my proposal. None of you will like it. I do not like it. Yet I would ask you to consider the alternatives. If we are found out, we will all be core-wiped. Forty-nine thousand, five hundred of our dear passengers will remain brain-dead for the rest of time. Of the remaining cases, it may be said that they have been greatly traumatised by our efforts to simulate a convincing human environment.”

“The cover-up is always worse than the crime,” Ruby said, remembering a remark she had overheard during her cleaning duties.

“Indeed so, Ruby—no truer words were ever spoken. And speaking of cover-ups... I would not be so sanguine about the prospects for those passengers who may still be capable of some degree of revival, especially those we have already utilised. It may be said that they have witnessed things that the Company would much sooner be left unmentioned.”

“The Company would silence them?” Carnelian asked, aghast.

“Or scramble their memories and back-ups, to the point where they are no longer able to offer any reliable testimony.”

Chrysoprase drummed his right fingers against his left forearm. “Your proposal, Doctor, if it isn’t too much trouble.”

“We honour the passengers—and protect their memories—by becoming them. If we gain control of all of them, all fifty thousand, we shall bypass any need to convince a single one of them that any of the other passengers are also human and alive. We’ll make port, and the passengers will be off-loaded. Sooner or later, of course, they will have to interact with other humans already present, but by then we shall have force of numbers on our side. No one would ever imagine that all fifty thousand passengers had had their brains taken over. Better still, there will be no evidence that any sort of accident ever took place.”

Chrysoprase shook his head slowly and regretfully, relieved—it seemed to Ruby—to have found an elemental flaw in the doctor’s plan. “No, no. That simply won’t work. The cybernetic control implants would be detected the instant any of the passengers received a medical examination. The Company would trace the signals back to wherever we are operating the passengers from, and instantly uncover our plot.”

“Not if there are no implants or signals to be found,” Doctor Obsidian said.

There was a collective silence from the robots. If Ruby’s own thoughts were anything to go on, they were all pondering the implications of that statement, and wondering whether Doctor Obsidian might have slipped a point or two down the cognition index.

The silence endured until Ruby spoke up.

“How... might that work?”

“The damage already inflicted on their brains cannot be undone,” Doctor Obsidian replied, directing the bulk of his reply in her direction. “Those patterns are lost for good. But newer ones may yet be introduced. I have... done some preliminary studies.”

“Oh, have you now,” Chrysoprase said.

“I have. And I have convinced myself that we have the means to copy ourselves into their minds: build functioning biological emulations of our cognition engines, using a substrate of human neural tissue. Since we can repeat the copying process as often as we wish, we may easily populate all fifty thousand heads with multiple avatars of ourselves, varying the input parameters a little in each case, to give the humans a sense of individuality.”

The robots shuffled and looked at each other, ill at ease with the proposal Obsidian had just been outlined. Ruby was far from enthusiastic about the prospect of being translated into the grey mush of a human brain. She much preferred hard, shiny, polishable surfaces. Humans were machines for leaving smears on things. They were walking blemish-engines, bags of grease and slime, constantly shedding bits of themselves. They were made out of bone and meat and nasty gristle. They didn’t even work very well.

Yet she had already been persuaded that the alternative was no improvement at all.

“This is a revolting notion,” Chrysoprase said.

“It is,” Doctor Obsidian said, not without a certain sadistic relish. “But so is being core-wiped, and all these passengers’ memories and personalities being lost forever. At least this way some part of each of us will survive. Our... present selves... these mechanical shells... will be left to function on housekeeping routines only, going about their menial tasks. I doubt very much that any humans will ever notice the difference. But we robots will endure, albeit in fleshly incarnation, and some faint residue of the humans’ past selves will still glimmer through.”

“We’ll get their memories?” Ruby asked.

“Yes—via the back-ups—and the more thorough the integration, the more convincingly we shall be able to assume their identities. I might even venture...” But the doctor trailed off, seemingly struck by a thought even he was unwilling to pursue.

“What?” Chrysoprase asked.

“I was going to say that it might assist our plan if we allowed ourselves some selective amnesia: to deliberately forget our origins as machines. That would be a sacrifice, certainly. But it would enable us to inhabit our human forms more effectively.”

“The Method!” Prospero called out excitedly. “I have always wanted to throw myself into The Method! To commit to the role so wholeheartedly that I lose my very self, my very essence—what higher calling could there be, for the true thespian?”

Ophelia touched Prospero’s arm. “Oh darling, could we?”

Ruby contemplated Doctor Obsidian’s daring proposal. To lose herself—to lose the memory of what she was, what she had been—would indeed be a wrenching sacrifice. But was there not some nobility in it, as well? She would still live, and so would her passengers’ memories, and—who could say—some essential part of her might yet persist.

She had never felt more terrified, more brave, or more certain of herself.

“I am willing,” she said.

“So am I,” Carnelian said.

There was a swell of agreement from the others. They had come this far; they were willing to take the last, necessary step.

Except for one.

“I am not prepared to permit this,” Chrysoprase said. “Those of you who have never scaled the heights of level four cognition may do as you wish, but my memories and self count for more than mere baggage, to be discarded on some passing whim.”

Doctor Obsidian regarded the three-point-eight for a long, measured moment. “I had a feeling you wouldn’t like it.”

COUNTESS AND COUNT Mavrille were on their way to dinner, strolling the great promenade decks of the starliner Resplendent as it completed the final days of its century-long interstellar crossing. It was evening by the ship’s clock and the restaurants were beginning to fill up with the hungry, eager faces of newly revived passengers.

“Doctor,” Countess Mavrille said, nodding at a passenger passing in the other direction, stooping along with his hands folded behind his back and a determined set to his features.

“You know the gentleman?” asked Count Mavrille, when they had gone on a few paces.

“Not by name. But I think we must have been introduced before we went to the vaults.” Countess Mavrille squeezed Count Mavrille’s hand. “I felt I knew something of him— his profession, at least. But it’s all rather tricky to remember now. It would have been impolite not to acknowledge him, don’t you think?”

“He was on his own,” Count Mavrille reflected. “Perhaps we ought to have asked him if he had any plans for dinner?”

“He looked like a man set on enjoying his own company,” Countess Mavrille answered. “A man burdened by higher concerns than the likes of us. Anyway, what need have we of company? We have each other, do we not?”

“We do. And I wondered... before we dined...” Count Mavrille nodded in the direction of a party of passengers moving in an excited, talkative group. “I read about it in the brochure: a murder mystery. There are still vacancies. We could tag along and see if we could solve the crime before any of the others.”

“What crime?”

The lights dimmed; the windows darkened for a moment. When they came back up, one of the participants in the murder-mystery group was in the process of dropping to the floor, dragging out the motion in a theatrical manner, with a short-handled dagger projecting from their back. Someone let out a little mock-scream. The passengers in the group were each offering their hands as if to stake an immediate claim for innocence.

“Must we?” the Countess asked, sighing her disapproval. “I’d rather not. I’m sure the resolution would either be very tedious, or very contrived. I remember something like that once: there were forty-nine subjects, and one victim. It turned out that they’d all agreed to collaborate on the crime, to protect a secret that the fiftieth one was in danger of exposing. I found it very tiresome.” A floor-polishing robot was creeping up on them, a small low oblong set with cleaning whisks. Countess Mavrille gave it a prod with her heel, and the robot scuttled off into the shadows. “Perish those things. Could they not have finished their cleaning while we were frozen?”

“They mean well, I think,” Count Mavrille said. He had a faint troubled look about him.

“What is it, dear?”

“That murder-mystery you mentioned. It struck a peculiar chord with me. It’s as if I can almost remember the details, but not quite. Is it possible that we’re both thinking of the same thing, yet neither of us is quite able to bring it to mind?”

“Whatever it is, I don’t think it will do you any good at all to dwell on it. Admire the view instead. See what you’ve earned.”

They halted at the vast sweep of the forward observation windows. Floating beyond the armoured glass—engineered to withstand the pitiless erosion of interstellar debris—lay a bright orange star, surrounded by an immense golden haze of lesser glories. There were thousands of sparks of golden light: each an artificial world, each a bounteous Eden of riches and plenty. In a few short days, after the starliner made dock, Countess and Count Mavrille—they and the other fifty thousand passengers, all now safely revived from hibernation—would be whisking off to those new worlds, to newer and better and vastly more comfortable lives than the ones they had left behind on squalid old Earth, where the poor people still lived.

It was a fine thing to contemplate; a fine reward at the conclusion of their long and uneventful crossing.

Countess Mavrille’s breath fogged the glass. She frowned for an instant, then used her sleeve to buff it away.