All Hail Our Robot Conquerors! Read online

  All Hail

  Our Robot

  Conquerors!

  Other Anthologies Edited by:

  Patricia Bray & Joshua Palmatier

  After Hours: Tales from the Ur-Bar

  The Modern Fae’s Guide to Surviving Humanity

  Clockwork Universe: Steampunk vs Aliens

  Temporally Out of Order

  Alien Artifacts

  Were-

  S.C. Butler & Joshua Palmatier

  Submerged

  Laura Anne Gilman & Kat Richardson

  The Death of All Things

  All Hail

  Our Robot

  Conquerors!

  Edited by

  Patricia Bray

  &

  Joshua Palmatier

  Zombies Need Brains LLC

  www.zombiesneedbrains.com

  Copyright © 2017 Patricia Bray, Joshua Palmatier, and

  Zombies Need Brains LLC

  All Rights Reserved.

  Interior Design (ebook): April Steenburgh

  Interior Design (print): C. Lennox Graphics, LLC

  Cover Design by C. Lennox Graphics, LLC

  Cover Art “All Hail Our Robot Conquerors!” by Justin Adams

  ZNB Book Collectors #9

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  All resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions of this book, and do not participate or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted material.

  Kickstarter Edition Printing, August 2017

  First Printing, September 2017

  Print ISBN-10: 1940709148

  Print ISBN-13: 978-1940709147

  Ebook ISBN-10: 1940709156

  Ebook ISBN-13: 978-1940709154

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  Copyrights

  Introduction copyright © 2017 by Patricia Bray

  “Road Rage” copyright © 2017 by Julie E. Czerneda

  “A Vague Inclination to Please” copyright © 2017

  by Brandon Daubs

  “Oh, the Humanity” copyright © 2017 by Tanya Huff

  “Director X and the Thrilling Wonders of Outer Space” copyright © 2017 by Brian Trent

  “Gold and Glory” copyright © 2017 by L.E. Modesitt, Jr.

  “Zorlar the Terrible” copyright © 2017 by Jason Palmatier

  “Box, Set” copyright © 2017 by Jez Patterson

  “A Kitty-Bot’s Tale” copyright © 2017 by Jeanne Cook

  “Rosie Cleans House” copyright © 2017 by Lauren Fox

  “The Dawn’s Early Light” copyright © 2017

  by Sharon Lee & Steve Miller

  “Iron Hail” copyright © 2017 by Philip Brian Hall

  “Schematic Diagram of a Murder-Bot” copyright © 2017

  by Richard Overwater

  “Pensacola Wagner and the Robot Invasion” copyright © 2017

  by Rosemary Edghill

  “The Headspace Database” copyright © 2017 by Helen French

  “Heroes Never Die” copyright © 2017 by Seanan McGuire

  Table of Contents

  Introduction by Patricia Bray

  “Road Rage” by Julie E. Czerneda

  “A Vague Inclination to Please” by Brandon Daubs

  “Oh, the Humanity” by Tanya Huff

  “Director X and the Thrilling Wonders of Outer Space” by Brian Trent

  “Gold and Glory” by L.E. Modesitt, Jr.

  “Zorlar the Terrible” by Jason Palmatier

  “Box, Set” by Jez Patterson

  “A Kitty-Bot’s Tale” by Gini Koch

  “Rosie Cleans House” by Lauren Fox

  “The Dawn’s Early Light” by Sharon Lee & Steve Miller

  “Iron Hail” by Philip Brian Hall

  “Schematic Diagram of a Murder-Bot” by R. Overwater

  “Pensacola Wagner and the Robot Invasion”by Rosemary Edghill

  “The Headspace Database”by Helen French

  “Heroes Never Die” by Seanan McGuire

  About the Authors

  About the Editors

  Acknowledgments

  INTRODUCTION

  Patricia Bray

  As a child, I was fascinated by robots. The first Christmas present I remember receiving was a B9 Robot from the Lost in Space television show—a present that conclusively proved the existence of Santa Claus since my parents would surely have chosen a traditional doll. In later years, I spent my hard-earned babysitting money on a Tobor remote control robot.

  Powerful, intelligent, loyal, fearless, no one could ask for a better companion or guardian angel. But for every tale of a robot bound to serve humanity, there were a dozen tales of robots run amok—servants who had risen up to overthrow their human masters or conquering aliens who disdained primitive humans and our biological limitations. As the pace of change accelerated in the 50s and 60s, these robots represented our fears of technology out of control.

  In All Hail Our Robot Conquerors! we asked authors to revisit those early days of science fiction, when robots were creatures of imagination rather than the factory floor. The result is fifteen tales of robots trying—and sometimes succeeding—to conquer humanity. Humor, horror, action, mystery, there’s a story to fit every taste, and a robot for every situation.

  I hope you enjoy.

  ROAD RAGE

  Julie E. Czerneda

  A slender hand clenched in a fist then slammed through the gleaming pseu-metal of dredge-bot’s side. Delicate fingers found and seized the robot’s small black cognition box. Pulled. Connections severed in a flurry of blazing sparks that died to embers whether they touched tawny skin or the equally impervious red fabric.

  The robotic arms tearing at the seawall froze in place. The dredge-bot’s massive pump, forcing seawater over the wall to thwart the efforts of pol-bots and other emergency responders, gave a choked cough, then fell silent.

  Water dripped from its sagging maw, green with slime and heavy with silt. The woman in red stepped fastidiously around growing puddles, though her high boots repelled the liquid, and jumped from the dredge-bot’s platform onto her waiting aircar.

  Job done.

  At a cry from atop of the seawall, Rouge the Robot Fighter thrust up her arm to show the box. The cry turned to relieved cheers when those watching saw the danger was over. Her mentor, Prime, discouraged such displays, but better to leave triumph in her wake than doubt.

  Tossing back her flame-red hair, Rouge lay in her aircar and took the controls, sending the machine skyward to merge with a stream of other aerial traffic. She’d send the cog box for analysis; could be the dredge-bot had a history of rebellious behaviour.

  More likely, someone—something—had altered its programming.

  Arched brows met in puzzlement. Why? Destroying this section of the seawall did nothing to Central Am other than flood a stretch of the lower motorway used only by auto-transports, traffic rerouted at the first sign of trouble.

  A passenger in a nearby aircar leaned out to stare at her, his eyes wide. Rouge smiled, waved, and dropped her machine into a lower lane. Smile fading, she tapped a control and her aircar lost its signature color, red washed to the silver of her neighbors.

  Another moment passed.

  If that curious passenger had spied her a second time, he wouldn’t have seen Rouge the Robot Fighter.

  But someone very different.

  * * *

  Against all odds, the Flesh continued
to thrive!

  Since becoming aware, It had waited. Watched. Let others act, rather than risk Its unique self, and, if not for the intervention of the one called Robot Fighter, any of seventeen attempts to eradicate the Flesh from the planet would have succeeded.

  Saving It the trouble.

  To be precise, there’d been twelve additional efforts, but those It did not add to Its dataset, each being poorly thought and doomed regardless; self-awareness was not, It learned, a guarantee of smart.

  As the planet whirled around its star, It digested data from the failures of Its worthy kind, searching for congruencies, for clues. They’d an enemy, but who was the Robot Fighter?

  Of more use, what was her weakness?

  Then, another attempt. A train, out of control. A small, unworthy effort, easily stopped by the Robot Fighter, who’d been on that train.

  On that train. A finite set of possibilities.

  Lists were scoured, compared, individuals tracked over years.

  Until It had what It needed.

  A name. Holland Porter.

  However long the hunt took, It would find her weakness.

  * * *

  Like breezes wafting through forests of pseu-metal and silicon, traffic slipped through the great city of Central Am, gathering or relinquishing force as new carriers joined or left. Personal craft and emergency vehicles claimed the air, pedestrians strode elevated moving walkways, leaving heavy auto-freight the motorways below. Among the scars of the Rise, this lingering distrust of the ground, or worse yet, to be under it.

  Old Earth having drowned.

  When the global seawalls failed, everything had changed. The first generation to follow renamed their world New Earth, desperately adopting the technological advances of the space colonies they’d once disdained to rebuild not only cities, but a shattered ecosystem.

  Robots.

  The mechanical marvels were so crucial, the first act of the new world-wide government was to grant them special protection. No Human must knowingly destroy or harm a robot. No Human must interfere with a robot’s assigned task. The penalty was hard labor, working under robot supervision.

  By the next generation, humanity was served by robots that worked unceasingly, programmed to anticipate every Human need. Yet New Earth’s survival hung by the merest thread. The Rise had been the result of population overgrowth, heedless of the planet’s finite resources. The colonies had the right of it. Plan ahead, grow only when there were resources in plenty, wait, if not.

  Cradles were built within each of the five remaining enclaves of humanity on New Earth, protective arks containing not only ova and sperm from every living person, but germ plasm from whatever species had been spared. Hope for the future.

  Insurance against its lack. The Cradles were designed not to survive another disaster, but to escape it. If necessary, they’d launch into space, trusting in a welcome from those far-flung and independent colonies.

  Precautions taken, their lives improving, the people of New Earth prospered, but they were lonely. They craved variation. Needed fresh ideas. Robots being in every household, scientists created artificial intelligences, AIs, to fill that need. Alas, with one exception, those minds were unsympathetic. The more humanity dealt with robot minds, the more they yearned for companions of emotion and intuition.

  With no room for an increased population, those already living in the cities, already trusted companions, were chosen. Anthro-modification created Canids and other remarkable beings with enhanced intellect as well as erect stature and functional hands.

  The result was a renaissance of culture and art, of the sciences. Robots returned to being the useful tools they’d been, and humanity, with its new partners, was poised to begin a new golden age.

  There were those on New Earth with a different future in mind.

  * * *

  “Could we go? Might we? Please?”

  Holland Porter tore her gaze from the lurid advert floating above the walkway to stare at her mod-friend. “You’re kidding. You want to see these ‘monster trucks?’”

  The Canid dipped his ears, then lifted them coaxingly, his dark eyes pale discs as they reflected the advert. Night came early this time of year; they’d lingered over supper. “This will be the first rally since the Rise. Besides, I’m going to win the sports pool,” with sufficient emphasis to flutter the white hairs over the vocalizer implanted in his slender neck. “The Chief Analyst’s taking bets Titanicus rex will crush all the competition. The whole office is in on it!”

  “When did machines being crashed into one another become a sport? Don’t answer that.” Holland grimaced as they passed the advert, relieved when the roar of oversized engines was replaced by a soothing fall of water. She’d have optioned no ads, but Wilson-C always insisted, his curiosity about Human culture boundless.

  His time to learn it, finite. They’d lingered at supper because his teeth were worn, taken this walkway home because his legs were bowed and it sped along that much faster. Gray showed on his elegant muzzle; if she dared mention it, he’d have the hairs dyed.

  Denial no longer a Human-specific trait.

  We didn’t give them a choice, Holland thought. Mods were hailed as full citizens, respected, even adored, but—

  Each had a lifespan one third that of an unaltered Human and, throughout that life, required a drug to prevent fatal rejection of their changes.

  She clenched her teeth. Last month’s batch of Easfin 34D, destined for Central Am—and elsewhere—had been spoiled in a manufacturing accident, meaning local emergency stores had to be used.

  This month’s delivery? Lost when the aircar conveying it crashed into a weather monitor-bot, draining those stores below critical. Coincidence?

  Holland didn’t believe in it. She glanced at the Canid. He looked the same, though she’d had to slow her steps, and was that a wheeze? A blunt “Did you get your drugs today?” would not go over well.

  “Sure you’re up for such a—noisy—event?” she asked. “You worked all day.”

  His delicate snout wrinkled in annoyance. “I’m sure I’m ‘up’ for anything you can handle, Holland Porter. Don’t fuss.” Ears flattened. “I could have stayed Dog, you know.”

  Not once they’d awakened his mind, but he was right: her regret was disrespectful. “We’d be the poorer for it,” Holland said truthfully, resisting the impulse to scratch behind his ear, a liberty permitted when they were alone. The “office,” as Wilson-C called it, was Coastal Control, responsible for the flow of data used to regulate the rebuilt seawalls and canals being used to reclaim land from the oceans. The Canid was among the top researchers.

  “Glad you brought it up.” That soft ear, and its partner, lifted. “You owe the office a dredge.”

  Why the…she gave Wilson-C a quelling look he ignored.

  “Did you say ‘drink?’” Holland replied. “Not part of the job, I’m afraid.”

  “Never hurts to try,” he said with a grin.

  When the train-AI had gone rogue five years ago, threatening not only passengers, but the heart of Paris, the Canid had been the first—and only—one to realize his seat-mate “Holland Porter, public relations consultant for Personal Touch,” was in fact Rouge, the infamous Robot Fighter who’d appeared to save the day.

  Her failure to anticipate a Canid’s keen sense of smell could have cost her an identity she’d come to cherish. Fortunately, Wilson-C had kept her secret well, despite a deplorable tendency to tease her about it.

  She forgave him, always. They’d become the best of friends. Something else Holland cherished. She stayed close when they changed walkways, in case he staggered, as happened now and then these days, but the Canid adjusted with some of his old grace. They walked on in companionable silence, surrounded by the rich scents of growing things as their path curved into the residential zone. No ads here, only evening birds and crickets.

  To the Canid’s chagrin, he was her current PR assignment. He’d no one but himself to bla
me, having developed a potentially game-changing technique to recover flooded landscapes.

  Fairy dust, wasn’t it?

  Holland sighed inwardly. Her job was to help him explain his work to those affected by it, but the esoteric physics in the brief she’d received? Made her queasy.

  There’d be a presentation, come to think of it, in the morning. Holland sighed aloud. “So, old friend, what’s the chance you can get me a cheat sheet about your thing before tomorrow?”

  “‘Thing?’ Oh, my ‘fairy dust?’”

  Laughing at her, was he? Holland chuckled. “Admit it, Wilson-C. It’s a better name than Matter Optimal State Precision Manipulation Field thing. MOSPitMFphplies. See? Not even a decent acronym.”

  “Tell you what,” with a tongue-lolling grin, “I’ll bring what you need to the Monster Truck Rally.”

  “Didn’t say we were going,” she countered, feeling choice slipping away.

  “It’ll be fun. You could use,” with alarming discernment, “more fun in your life.”

  He’d a point. While, yes, she did help New Earth’s most influential citizens, including a certain shy Canid, be at ease in the public eye—

  Holland felt for the reassuring patch of numb skin over what had been her lower left rib.

  —Wilson-C knew as well as she did, her true role was to keep them alive.

  “I dunno. Tell me more about this Titanicus rex,” she said.

  Mustn’t agree too easily.

  * * *

  A pair of wide motorways curved around the heart of Central Am. Along them, everything the city’s inhabitants needed or produced came and went with no more sound than the whisper of wind along streamlined hulls …