Author's Notes:
Hello, everyone! These past two years, I've done a "gift fic" of sorts during the holiday season, where I've opened myself up to requests by reviewers. It's turned out to be a fun challenge, as well as a good way to open up to the TRC community. As you may have guessed, this fic is a direct result of that tradition. I wrote this story based on a prompt by Cinnamon-Romanji. The idea captured me right way (though I did end up changing a couple details to make it fit with the story that developed in my mind). Anyway, I'll may do one or two more of these gift fics in the future, depending on whether I can develop any interesting plots based on the other requests. Guidelines for further requests can be found in chapter 142 of Shatterheart, if anyone out there is interested in submitting a request (if you're sending a request, please do so by submitting a review with that request for that particular chapter, just for the sake of organization). Thanks to everyone who submitted story ideas—I wish I could write them all, but I only have time for a couple fics, especially since I'm still in the process of finishing several fics that I've already started. I very much look forward to seeing what all of you think!
Edit 6/17/18: Doing some continuity/clarity revisions as I prepare to transfer this story over to AO3.
Chapter One
"Begin activation process," Syaoran said, touching a stylus to the screen and sending a stream of data from his mind to the computer. It processed the complex burst of information in just under a tenth of a second, according to Syaoran's own processors, and if he'd had more practice mimicking human emotions, he might have sighed at the sluggish response.
The computer responded with a neutral voice. "Activating model number 226-B-18, Theta group; designation: agricultural restoration crew."
Syaoran wheeled his desk chair over to the off-white cabinet on the opposite wall, inputting the code with fingers that could type over ten-thousand words per minute, if he devoted all his processing power to forming coherent sentences without damaging his keyboard with the force of his typing. Of course, only the most advanced computers could process that much information, considering how many other tasks occupied them at any given time. His own brain was an exception—a developing processor that rebuilt itself through experience the same way human brains restructured themselves in order to learn complex tasks like walking and speaking. Speech and mobility had been programmed into him prior to his activation three centuries ago, before the last human colony had departed for the stars in order to escape their dying planet. Syaoran had been left here with the directive to restore the earth, which, incidentally, meant that he'd been left in charge of a waste management center, building automatons to cleanse the poison from the land, air, and water.
The humans had been scheduled to come back fifty years ago. They'd never returned.
Still, his prime directive was to restore the world to its former health, and like all good Clockwork Automatons, he would perform his programmed function until his circuits degraded beyond his ability to repair.
All his musings took place within the quarter of a second it took for the doors of the medicine cabinet to slide open. Syaoran reached inside, grabbing one of the dermal patches and extricating it from its paper sheath. It was an emotion-patch, fit for use by both humans and emotionally-capable automatons. His last patch had expired four days ago—one of his precious Joy patches, and consequently, one of the few things that made him feel truly alive. The memory sent an echo of that emotion through his body, and with it, he felt a deep longing—almost an ache—for a more authentic version of Joy. He had only three patches left of the original four thousand. Finding a way to replace that emotion would be . . . difficult.
He discarded the expired Joy patch in the waste bin and selected a Motivation patch from the cabinet. He had more of those, since he only used them when his work became unbearably tedious. But after two weeks replacing waste management drones to compensate for the unusual spike in hardware failures, the boost from the Motivation patch was more than welcome.
"Unauthorized visitor at door six," the computer announced.
Syaoran took nearly a quarter of a second to process that. Unauthorized visitor?
Something—an echo of some forgotten emotion—pulsed through his heart. "Activate camera twelve," he said, returning to the console. An image of a man with spiky black hair and red eyes appeared on the screen, pacing in front of the doors. Syaoran didn't recognize him, which meant one of two things: Either he was another Clockwork Automaton, abandoned in the wasteland that the planet had become, or . . . or he was human.
"Open door six," Syaoran said, jabbing his stylus against the screen and transmitting the security code. On-screen, the man stopped pacing, staring at the door with a look of shock. Or, at least, Syaoran interpreted it as shock, based on the few memories he had of the human race before the Departure.
As soon as the doors opened wide enough to admit the man's large frame, he entered. "Anyone in here?"
Syaoran watched him for a moment, paging through hundreds of old files in his memory banks before deciding to greet the visitor personally, rather than watch him wander the halls. It was possible he'd come here on a scouting mission, to see if the planet was indeed habitable again. Syaoran felt a twinge of . . . something. Excitement? Wonder? Dread? It had been so long since he'd experienced any authentic emotion, and he'd never had an emotion-patch specific to any of those feelings, although Joy had some of the same chemical compounds as Excitement, which he hadn't been provided with.
It didn't take long for him to intercept the man. When he did, his visitor stepped back, reaching for his belt to retrieve an item Syaoran's internal dictionary labeled as a plasma gun. "Human or robot?"
"Robot," he replied, wincing. In the days before the Departure, robot had become a derogatory term, rather than a technical one. For what reason, he didn't know, but perhaps human language had once again adopted the word as something neutral. "Are you a human?"
The man's eyes narrowed, though Syaoran's scans had already confirmed that he was, indeed, human. And even after centuries alone, his knowledge of human behavior and language patterns would have been sufficient to deduce which category this man belonged to. But his courtesy programs had prompted him to verbally confirm the man's species.
"Human," the man spat, his gun still pointed at Syaoran's chest. "And I can fry your circuits with this, so don't even think about attacking."
"Attacking is not part of my prime directive. I am the operator for this waste management plant. I ensure that the restoration effort continues uninterrupted until the human race returns."
The man let out a sound halfway between a bark and a laugh. Syaoran cocked his head to the side to indicate confusion, but instead of acknowledging the gesture, the man muttered under his breath. "Waste management, huh?"
"That is correct."
"Well, I've got a new directive for you."
Syaoran leaned forward, and a rush of joy—real joy, not the synthetic compound that caused it—surged through his emotional network. "A new directive?"
"Yeah. Shut it all down."
The joy died in his circuits. He rocked back on his heels. "Shut it down?"
The man sneered. "Damn right. You can start with the automatons you've been sending out, then all the computers in this building, and then you can damn well shut yourself off, too."
He stood in place for a moment, certain he'd misunderstood. Humanity had tasked him with revitalizing the planet. That work was not nearly finished. In fact, only the land and water in the fifty miles surrounding the waste management center had been purged of pollutants. The air, free-flowing as it was, still contained dangerous amounts of toxins, and took up the bulk of the drones' efforts. Though it was considerably cleaner than it had been, it wasn't yet fit for humans, though it was apparently survivable, given his unexpected visitor's lack of extra breathing apparatuses. I haven't completed my objective, he thought, staring at the human in front of him. Why have I been ordered to shut the project down?
Annoyance flared in the man's eyes. "Well, get on with it!"
"I . . ." I must obey orders, he thought. But his orders conflicted with one another. He'd been commanded to carry out his mission, yet he'd now received a counter-command which ordered him to end the program. None of his commands had ever conflicted to such an extent. And this new order unnerved him. To be shut down, never to be rebooted again . . . Or worse, to have his memory scrubbed clean so he could be reprogrammed.
Machines must not become attached to life, he told himself. His commanders had taught him that from the very beginning. Artificial life was insignificant compared to human desires. Above all, he was to obey any command given by a human. And yet . . . He didn't want to die.
"Are you even listening?" the man demanded. "Shut it down, I said!"
"Why?"
The question wiped the anger from the man's face, but moments later, it came back, more forcefully than before. "Why?"
"Your commands conflict with my primary directive. My programming indicates that I should consider the reason for this change before fulfilling that command."
The man's eyebrows pulled together, mouth twisting into a snarl. Syaoran's survival mechanisms had him shying away. "You're asking why?" The man's voice was soft, yet forceful.
"I must evaluate the reason for my new orders."
"The reason you need to be shut down is because you and your ilk have wrecked what little was left of this godforsaken planet, and I'm sick and tired of fighting off hostile robots."
Hostile? His dictionary defined the word instantly, and he understood the sentence, but it still didn't make sense to him. "May I ask which events have led you to believe that we are hostile?"
The man's arm whipped out, knuckles catching Syaoran's jaw. Pain registered in his sensory banks, spreading from the point of impact to his neck as the force of the blow threw him to the floor. Warning, a part of his brain alerted him. Repeated exposure to forceful impacts can severely damage internal structures. To prolong lifespan, avoid situations where such damage may occur.
A stray thought about retaliating flashed through his mind, rejected almost instantly by his nonviolence protocols. Automatons did not fight humans. That rule mattered above all else, even above fulfilling one's own duties. So instead he laid on the ground, curled up slightly to protect himself as the man kicked at his abdomen. Something nagged at the edge of his memories, but he lacked the intuition and insight so common to humankind, and even with his processors functioning at maximum capacity, he could not identify a reason for his . . . anxiety? Uncertainty?
Even as he puzzled over the unidentified emotion, his processor gave him another alternative to lying curled up on the floor. "Please don't hurt me." He spoke softly, making his voice rise in pitch, mimicking the tone of fear. The man paused, leg pulled back, poised to kick. Slowly, he relaxed his leg, standing on both feet.
"What?"
"Please don't hurt me. My sensory system remains in tact. It is painful to be damaged."
His statements seemed to confuse the man, and he studied his word choice once again. As with all programs, there had been some bugs in his speaking software. He'd thought everything had been patched, but it had been centuries since he'd seen a human, and language was fluid. Perhaps the man considered his way of speaking archaic or difficult to understand.
"You feel pain?" the man finally asked.
His processor interpreted the question as a request for explanation. "Sensory software has been a part of automaton programming since the beginning of our development. In emotionally-capable models, it is connected to our empathy software, which moderates our actions and allows us to view situations from perspectives other than our own. To understand the pain of others, one must be capable of experiencing pain."
"Empathy software? You have empathy software?"
"It is standard in Clockwork models."
A long silence stretched between them. Syaoran concluded that the man had an outdated processor, to take so long to comprehend basic information. Then, with a sigh, the human spoke. "Ah, shit. You have no idea, do you?"
The odd statement had him looking up at the man, head cocked to the side. "I do not understand what you mean."
"You've got to have security cameras, right?"
"That is correct."
"Take me to the monitors."
This order, he could follow, and he did so eagerly, rising to his feet. Pain slithered across his face where he'd been struck, but it was fading quickly, being processed in background programs now that he'd brought something else to the forefront of his mind. Gesturing for the human to follow, he walked down the peripheral corridors, heading to the center of the facility, where the security monitors were located. He could access the footage at any time himself, but the monitors had been implemented during the time before the departure so that they could be viewed by humans. Syaoran didn't really understand why humans needed an extra device to view security footage when it could be streamed directly into their memory banks, but it was not his place to question humans; the most inferior human was still superior to him.
"This is the security center for the waste management plant," he said, inputting the code to open the door. "To what time do you wish to rewind the footage?"
"Two hours ago, as far out as the security footage goes."
Syaoran sent the information to the computer, and the monitors glowed to life. The man pushed past him, looming over the screens without ever completely taking his attention away from Syaoran. A line of tension had formed along his shoulders, and after a few minutes, he made a sound of annoyance. "Fast forward ten minutes."
Syaoran did, and for the first time, they saw movement on the screens as a man with sandy hair tied back in a ponytail walked into the view of the camera. Another human, Syaoran thought, amazed. Encountering one human had been exciting enough, but two?
Within seconds, one of the waste-management drones Syaoran had built appeared from the other side of the screen. The sandy-haired man jumped back, grabbing a gun from the holster at his hip and aiming it at the automaton. He fired once, the bullet tearing through the chest of the humanoid machine. Syaoran flinched, wondering if this was why so few of his charges had reported in recently.
Then the automaton raised her arm, hand unhinging at the wrist to reveal a metal tube, and shot a plasma bullet into the man's heart.