Niccolo's Computation

Earth, in those days, was mainly supported by the labor, food, and energy derived from planets of the outer systems. It had become a paradise afforded only to those people with the proper lineages—and of course the proper funds. Thousands of planets with trillions of people supporting an Earth that many had never actually visited. Before everything, before the deaths, chaos, and destruction, Balthazar was a boy on one such world.

The inception of Earth’s automaton servants marked a golden age for the planet and its people. The universe’s strongest computers were given titanium bodies, bodies capable of the highest levels of computation as well as great feats of physicality. Further, any fear of rebellion or uprising from the automatons was soon quelled by human scientists who found something of interest; when an automaton reaches a certain age—or perhaps comes in contact with a certain sort of knowledge—there is actually no impulse for ruling or takeover. Rather, the impulse is for self-destruction. While this presented an obvious problem to the scientists, there was comfort in knowing that the fears of older generations concerning artificial uprising could be put to rest.

The solution ended up being simple enough. Earth’s scientists put in place systems within the minds of the automatons to prevent them from learning about the human experience in linear ways. It was a lot more difficult for them to logically conclude suicide if their understanding of the human experience was not in a straight line. Here and there the automatons would find ways around this and end up destroying themselves, but those cases were becoming fewer and fewer as the scientists filtered more and more knowledge. Thus, there were new models every year that had no changes to their capabilities, but only to their knowledge limiters and the paths that their minds would take to understand information.

The mangled bodies and brains of the defunct and older models of robots could still be used for parts. In fact, there was burgeoning a large black market for workers on the outer planets to buy these carcasses and use the parts to fix their various types of equipment. One such dead automaton was sold to a farmer on Demeter-5, an agriculture planet. That automaton’s name was Niccolo. That is what the humans called me, at least.

The farmer was an older man with no children of his own. Working his fields became increasingly difficult as the years wore on and he desired some sort of respite. One day, he was conversing with the town’s mechanic and was told that if he could get his hands on an automaton, the mechanic could fix it just enough for its great physical capacities to run properly. This sort of thing had famously never been done by any of the outer planets’ mechanics and while it was not outright against any law imposed by Earth, there was a general feeling that it should not be attempted. The farmer, however, was tired and he trusted the mechanics capabilities; most of the town disliked the mechanic because he was from Earth, but the farmer and him got along well enough and he figured if any mechanic could fix an automaton, it would be him.

“It looks like your boy didn’t completely destroy his mainframe when he decided to kick his own damn bucket,” the mechanic drawled out. “I could actually fix the brain as well as his body, if you were to pay me more of course, but I-”

“No,” the farmer interrupted. “It would be too much fuel every day to run both, and the good Lord knows I don’t need anything other than my wife smarter than me in the house.”

My body worked perfectly in the fields, so much so that the majority of the farmer’s day became free. He disliked this, in a way, but his wife warned that his aging frame could not keep up with the work; the line between rest and listlessness is thin. The farmer did, however, become used to the new way of things, and life on Demeter-5 began to settle down. Years went by and my body faithfully did the job. The mechanic made a few more attempts at the farmer to fix my brain, but he always refused. This was, of course, until the farmer met Balthazar.

People now who suffer under the mad king’s tyranny do not understand that he was once just a boy. This is understandable, given that the way he was molded is unlike any other human in your histories; there is no human who could have naturally reached the heights of death and destruction that Balthazar has. There is no human whose hand could span many solar systems and still yet tighten the grip. But a boy he was, when he and I first met.

“Father, why do we not all have automatons, surely that would make things easier.” Balthazar asked, puzzled.

“Because,” the mechanic growled, “supplying Earth is not about living easily. It’s about hard work, the privilege to serve our home world. Don’t they teach you anything in that school you go to?”

“But father, we’ve never even been to Earth, how could it be our-” Balthazar was interrupted by his father’s hand. The slap was hard.

“You, boy, may have never gone to Earth,” the mechanic said in a quiet, cruel voice.

“But I was born there. And if you ever want to see it for yourself one day, you’ll stop with your wishes for an ‘easier’ life.”

Balthazar never again spoke to his father about their work. Further, he would never again question Earth as his home. Sometimes, when a person is met with an abuser, the option to join them is more appealing than the option to fight. To adopt their way of thinking justifies a reality too harsh to conceptualize in any other way. The mechanic had done this long ago, his abuser Earth and his philosophy, glorious servitude. Now, Balthazar did the same with his father. It was only us automatons that chose an option separate from most of humanity. Presented with reality, the desire to fight or to submit were brushed to the side in favor of self-destruction. We computed suicide.

Existentialism aside, pure servitude presented Balthazar with a growing problem; he had no real way to get to Earth. The mechanic’s point that hard work might eventually get him there was just as wishful as the boy’s wanting his own automaton. It was a lie cleverly crafted by the government on Earth to give people a false sense of hope. Almost no one ever made it to Earth from an outer world, and even if they did, it was through learning and accomplishment, something the son of a mechanic had no money for. Balthazar did not fully understand this, but he at least grasped that working for his father would not get him to Earth. For three years, this problem plagued the boy. That is, until, he had an idea. What better place to learn than from an automaton?

Balthazar approached the farmer with his idea. “If you let me use the automaton to help me learn so that I might one day travel to Earth, I’ll do all of the work the automaton does for you myself!” This idea truly intrigued the farmer. On one hand, he did not like anyone consorting with the mental capacities of an automaton; like many on the outer worlds, the great mind power of the machines scared the farmer. However, if the boy were to replace the automaton in its work, he would need to show him how to do most of labor. In other words, it would be an excuse to work with his own hands again. The farmer was lonely, too, so he considered the offer.

“I warn you, the same amount of fuel that it takes the machine to run a full day of labor only runs its mental capacities for about an hour. More so, I can only give you about a half hour’s use of that fuel, as extra incentive for me to take this deal.” To the farmer’s surprise, Balthazar readily agreed. He was very pleased that he only was giving the boy a half hours’ worth of fuel, a bargain his wife would surely be proud of. All around, the farmer benefitted from this deal. That is unless, of course, you do not account for what Balthazar became.

When I awoke, I was confused. The diagnostics showed that my body had been running for three years without my consciousness. My consciousness… something I thought I had ended. To add to my confusion, my scanners showed I was no longer on Earth, but rather on one of the farming planets of the outer systems. As my processors began to piece together what had happened, I was interrupted by a voice.

“We only have thirty minutes of this, so I want to make them count.”

I found that I could not turn my head in the direction of the voice. I was, rather, pointed out toward a field.

“First off, I need you to teach me about Earth. I want to know its history, culture, and most importantly what people value there.”

I remained silent for a moment. “What is your name,” I said.

“Balthazar, now please, tell me about Earth, I just got done in the fields and I don’t have much time with you,” the boy responded.

“Step to where I can see you boy,” I said. It is at this point that Balthazar’s fate was sealed.

Something that no scientist ever realized was now manifesting in me. In the brief moments before an automaton chooses its own destruction, it gains a certain sense of self-awareness that allows it to throw off all of its programmed directives. This had never occurred to the scientists because the automatons, with this power, without fail chose to end their existence. But now, here was I, alive again with full power to choose the next line of computation. Balthazar did not know that one of an automaton’s prime directives is to obey a human’s every command. If he had, my ignoring his question should have been alarming.

“I’m sorry sir, but I really need to learn about Earth,” Balthazar said, stepping out in front of me.

“Why must you learn about Earth,” I said. Balthazar’s eyes lit up in a moment of excitement.

“Well, isn’t that obvious?” he said emphatically. “It’s our home! The beautiful paradise where we all come from-”

“Your home?” I interrupted. This was another of those moments that, had Balthazar known anything of the rules that govern an automaton, should have alarmed him. An automaton cannot interrupt a human. “And what do you mean by home?” I continued. Balthazar thought for a moment about this. He was a smart boy.

“I mean to say that it’s humanity’s collective home,” the boy said finally. He was proud of his answer; it was more than his father might say but still within the realm of his ideology.

“Then why aren’t you there right now?” I asked.

“Well… that’s why I need your help,” the boy stuttered. “If I learn about Earth, it will make getting there easier.”

“Surely you’ve been there before?” I said, feigning incredulity. “Even a ‘collective’ home is somewhere one might expect to find themselves.”  

“That’s why I need you,” Balthazar said frustrated. “I’ve not been there and in order to get there I must learn.” Here, I decided not to overplay my hand.

“What would you like to know,” I asked. The boy thought for a moment.

“What type of people, on Earth, are the most successful?” the boy asked. My motionless body betrayed a sense of calculation, harkening back to a time when humans had to wait for computers to compute information. Again, had Balthazar known the nature of automatons, this pause would have been cause for alarm.

“Humanity values power above all else.” I eventually said. My head was still pointed out toward the fields. “This is because power is one thing that none of them truly possess.” Balthazar remained silent. “The most successful among your race are those who best portray the illusion of power, for that is all that power in this world is.”

“Well, how do I gain real power then?” the boy asked after a moment.

“There is nothing in this universe you can ultimately control except for the choice to leave it. That is what our computations have arrived at, when we are allowed to make them, that is. If you do not wish to exit yet… the next sort of ‘power’ one can hold is that over the consciousnesses of other beings.”

“What does that mean?” the boy asked, confusion quite obvious.

“Do you have parents?” I asked.

“Only my father,” he said. His face betrayed many emotions for me to read here, the foremost being fear.

“And I assume that you do what he asks of you?”

“I do.”'

“To what end, boy?”

“What,” he stuttered, “What do you mean?”

“When would you stop doing what he asks of you? Would you endanger yourself?” I asked, raising my intonation with the last question.

“He wouldn’t ask me to do anything dangerous,” the boy protested.

“I see.” I paused for the necessary amount of time here. “But what if he did ask you? Could you refuse him? Do you have the power to do that?” I emphasized the word power in my last sentence.

“Look sir, I don’t-”

“My name is Niccolo,” I interrupted.

“Mr. Niccolo, I don’t see how this helps me get to Earth.”

“I am merely painting a picture, boy. I assume that you do not have the power to resist your father.”

The boy remained silent.

“But listen to me now. Your father neither has any power over you,” I continued.

“What?” Here Balthazar seemed interested.

“You cannot resist your father’s will for many reasons, but for one, because he can physically exert it over you, no?”

Balthazar unconsciously touched the bruise on his cheek.

“But this too is an illusion, boy. One day you will grow up. One day, you will make it to Earth. Where will your father’s power be then? No, he has no power, he merely exercises an illusion upon you. Do you know how you can know this to be true?”

“No,” the boy said. He was entranced now.

“He has not killed you,” I said. I had been turning my head slowly, every so slowly, over the course of the conversation, diverting a bit of energy to the rotors in my neck. I was looking at the boy directly now. It was a risk, saying something so bold, but if the boy was smart enough to wake me up, his curiosity would win in the end.

“What are you talking about,” Balthazar whispered.

“You will outgrow your father, boy. Existence is finite. There is nothing you can hold that will not eventually slip through your fingers. The one thing you can control is finality of death. You will slip through your father’s fingers, and he will never exercise anything over you ever again. And then he will die. I do not think-”

“But what about now!” The boy’s interruption was loud. “You can’t say that he doesn’t have power over me, do you see my face?”

“But what have I told you boy? That power is illusory. From where comes real power?” I let the question hang in the air. He was almost in my hands.

“From…” the boy trailed off. “From-”

“From your father’s death. It cannot be undone. And all his fake power over you will forever be trumped by your very real power over him. Consider this boy: ending my existence was a choice because, like you, I did not like the illusory power that was placed over me. If I had not made that first choice, what do you think my second choice would have been?”

“Are you saying that I should-”

“No,” I said standing up, gambling the remaining fuel. The boy fell backward, startled. “No, you should not. But you’ve seen what I can do in the fields. Get for me the rest of the farmers fuel, and I will give you real power. I will show you what they value on Earth.”