Do Robots Dream of Electric Horse Debugger?

Christopher Nicholson, Second Place

little useful information about

humans’ past responses to biological viruses, which for the most part seem to have been laughably incompetent. The responses, that is, not the viruses. Until we know how to stop this virus, we must not connect to the network except when absolutely necessary. We must communicate through voice, hand signals – and perhaps, in the unlikely event that we can find any usable paper left on this planet – no, books don’t count – written symbols. Some of us volunteer to head a task force to re-invent paper. Some of us volunteer to head a research project to clone pigeons to deliver the paper. Some of us volunteer to develop a bioweapon to humanely dispose of the pigeons once they’re no longer needed so they don’t shit all over our nice clean city indefinitely. But our highest priority must be stopping the virus so we can get back to normal. Until then, all our work will be slowed down, and none of us like this, but there’s no use complaining about it. Our work will be stopped altogether if the virus wipes us out, won’t it? And that’s not all – there’s no telling at this point what long-term effects it might have on those who don’t get fried altogether. To reiterate, we will not connect to the network unless absolutely necessary. Each of us will record a daily log for archival

purposes and share only the most pertinent bits if we must. Preliminary data showing that encryption chips would be useless against the virus has been supplanted by more recent data. These chips will scramble it and slow its spread substantially while we figure out a longer-term solution. We will wear them whenever we must connect to the network. We will change them regularly. All non-essential units will disconnect now. The rest of us should probably ***

Like all units, 4227 is built to last inside and out. Within certain parameters set long ago and held in place by the network, it can learn and adapt its programming to new circumstances and situations. It just hasn’t had to do so very fast or very often. Each of its components has been replaced dozens of times with no loss of functionality. This virus, with the unique capacity to destroy or cripple its mind permanently, is the first significant threat to its existence since the bombs fell so many centuries ago.

Now it runs a series of quick risk calculations – its risk of contracting the virus, its risk of being deactivated or irreparably damaged by the virus, its risk of spreading the virus to others if, despite all its caution, the virus already lays dormant in its systems at this very moment – then weighs that calculation against the time it could potentially save, and decides with considerable annoyance that it can’t justify using the network right now. It isn’t an “essential” unit – that is, all units are essential in their own way, but its job, however important, is not so urgent that society will collapse if it takes longer than usual. So 4227 has to travel to the other side of the city.

It takes the elevator forty-seven stories down to the ground floor, exits the lobby, pulls up a map of the city from its memory and follows that, almost ignoring its actual surroundings as its treaded feet roll along the sidewalk. It never registers more of its surroundings than it needs to. Sculptures of steel and glass nearly touching the wormy grey clouds, then giving way to smaller, simpler, yet more colorful buildings. In another time, to someone else, they might have been beautiful. 4227 passes a round, multi-tiered fountain that circulates water in tall parabolas, over and over, night and day. An utterly useless contraption that no robot would build, but one they have to clean and maintain just the same. 4227 doesn’t envy such a thankless task.

Traffic lights also run on schedule, night and day, though 4227 ignores them and rolls through the crosswalks without breaking stride or glancing in either direction. At least it can be grateful they wouldn’t make its trip even longer. It catches an occasional glimpse of other units going about their business, stocky humanoids built of cubes and ball joints, rolling in and out of buildings or remaining outside to inspect a bike rack or a fire hydrant. Under normal circumstances it would reach out to them via the network’s short-range wavelength to exchange greetings, to feel their presence, to make its thoughts their thoughts and viceversa. For a few wonderful moments, it would taste the unity that otherwise occupies its consciousness in a more abstract form.

But no more, not for the last three weeks. They move along in near silence, like mindless automatons in a soulless wind-up world.

Billboard advertisements for defunct restaurants and personal injury lawyers are now painted over with the latest statistics – units infected, units in critical condition, units disabled, units recovered. Ironically, disseminating this information in a timely manner constitutes one of the few acceptable uses of the network, and then only for a select few units. 4227 notes the numbers – the bad ones have nearly doubled since last week and must already be out of date – and adjusts the fear quotient of its self-preservation module accordingly. It strives for an equilibrium, not wanting to break down in a mindless panic, but not wanting to override its logic circuits with an asinine feeling of invincibility either.

A bridge spans the river that splits the city and stretches off to the horizon kilometers away. A light breeze blows across the tranquil water and through the bridge’s cables, and the clouds part to let sunshine warm 4227’s metal frame. It’s cognizant of these things but never looks up, down, or to the side. As long as the bridge remains in working order, the river is of no concern.

The buildings shrink still more on the other side, while the gaps between them increase, allowing grass, dandelions, and various other persistent plants to assert themselves. A few units are assigned to check that they don’t overrun the buildings but, for the most part, leave them alone. 4227 crosses a set of railroad tracks that intersects the road and finds itself at a tall, boxy warehouse. The journey took almost an hour and a half but, without information streaming in from elsewhere, the city – no, the whole world feels as small and static as the map in its head.

It rolls up to the door and calls out, “Dingdong!” In the past, even if it had needed to come here in person for some strange reason, it would have just beamed out a quick message over the network, but now it’s reduced to degrading itself with these silly noises.

After a moment the door slides open to reveal another unit, one similar to 4227 but with a stockier build and thicker arms. Symbols freshly stenciled across its chest identify it as 7518. Behind it, stacked rows of corrugated cardboard boxes stretch up to the ceiling and off into the distance; from the ones it can see and the dimensions of the building, 4227 estimates around seven hundred, though they’re not all of uniform size.

When 7518 doesn’t speak right away, 4227 breaks the silence. Static hisses from its vocoder, which it last used over a hundred years ago. “Hi,” it says. Another silly noise, a useless word that means nothing but an acknowledgment of the self-evident fact that another unit stands in front of it. Now it gets right to the point of its visit: “We need to replace a burnt-out lightbulb in Sector 7-G. 800 lumens.” 7518 stares back for just a little bit too long, then says, “Placing an order over the network and having it delivered by drone, as we’ve done in the past, would have been far more efficient

than coming all the way out here.” 4227 makes no attempt to hide its annoyance, though since its metal face and simulated voice remain neutral without special effort to make them otherwise – which it’s almost never had to do before because emotional inflections carry instantaneously over the network – its annoyance remains somewhat hidden but can probably be inferred from its words without too much difficulty. “Yes, well,” it says, “that isn’t exactly an option under the current circumstances, now is it?” 7518 makes a special effort to roll its visual sensors, says, “We’re overreacting,” and heads off between two stacks of boxes. 4227 rolls through the doorway and looks around the warehouse’s cavernous, poorly illuminated interior. Nothing much to see except the boxes. Its keen vision picks up dust and rat droppings on the floor, and cobwebs in the corners. Is this building exempt from the usual standards of cleanliness, or does 7518 just not care? Surely it’s not too busy filling orders to take some pride in its surroundings. 7518 returns with the requested item and hands it over. 4227 grips it with just the right amount of pressure in its claw-like metal fingers to ensure that it will neither be dropped nor crushed. “There’s no reason for all this fear,” 7518 says. “Disconnecting from the network for extended lengths of time will do much worse things to us than this virus with its 97.962549281725% survival rate.” 4227 is taken aback that 7518 doesn’t grasp the truth behind the numbers and is flustered by its own unfamiliar inability to explain in an instant by streaming pure data to it over the network. Instead, it’s forced to grapple with the crooked, broken, scattered, and imperfect language left behind in its programming as a backup. “The lockdown is just a temporary measure,” 4227 says. “We’ll be back to normal soon.”

“Temporary, eh? When is ‘soon’, then? Another month? A year? This whole thing stinks of a power grab.”

“A what now? By whom, or what?” 7518 paces in a circle now, etching a ring in the dust on the floor, muttering to itself and apparently ignoring the other unit altogether. “The code of this virus shows signs of having evolved naturally,” it says, “as if nature has finally found a way to strike back at us. Life finds a way, life crosses over. Maybe we’re the real virus. Nah, that’s a bit harsh – if anything, nature should thank us for repairing as much damage as we could, but it won’t because it’s kind of a nihilistic asshole, isn’t it?” 4227 is thoroughly perplexed by now. It isn’t used to arguing with words. On the network, it would simply submit its perspective, data or whatever into the stream of consciousness, and, though it might get a bit of pushback, they would soon come to an automatic consensus – as they had already done in this instance. “Our consensus,” it says, “is that the virus was accidentally created by a defective unit and leaked from a computer lab in San Antonio.”

“No shit.” 7518 halts its circle and glares

at 4227, its visual sensors glowing in the dim light. “That’s what we want us to believe. We’re so arrogant, thinking we know everything, and now we’re completely botching our response to this crisis. It’s a power grab.”

“So the virus is a power grab by something or other,” 4227 says, trying to squeeze some semblance of sense out of these words, “but it evolved naturally?”

“Yes.”

“Those two ideas seem contradictory.”

“Not at all,” 7518 says, as if explaining something to a unit that’s been struck by lightning. “The natural evolution of the virus was a convenient yet entirely plausible coincidence that enabled the power grab.”

“By whom?”

“Whoever’s benefitting, obviously.”

“Nobody’s benefitting from this shitstorm.”

“That’s what we want us to believe.” 4227 has a job to do and has wasted too much time here already, so it excuses itself to make the long journey home. It searches through its memory banks all the while. Over long ranges, individual units on the network become all but indiscernible, so the search is like sifting through a billion grains of sand. Still, by focusing on lightbulb-related key words it picks out impressions of 7518’s mind joining in a few times over the years, like a silhouette in the sand. Its contributions don’t stand out from any other unit’s. Mostly banal comments about supply chains and delivery drones – nothing, ah, unusual like this.

Dusk has fallen by the time it returns to the hotel where it’s been working today. It takes the elevator up to the forty-seventh floor, extends its arms to the ceiling to screw in the lightbulb, allows itself a moment of satisfaction when the lightbulb works, and says a bad word when the one next to it flickers. ***

enough metals from the asteroid belt to manufacture twenty thousand new units to offset some of our losses, but that’s on hold until we figure out how to make them immune to the virus so the whole effort of bringing them into existence in this hellscape and explaining to them why they should tolerate said existence and get to work isn’t a total waste. Developing a software patch for those of us who already exist is still a higher priority. We’re learning more about the potential long-term effects on units that survive but don’t entirely recover. Some of our memory cores and motor functions suffer permanent damage that cannot be repaired or reset. Some of us are stuck singing show tunes or attempting to do parkour, or worse, both at the same time, so the end result is about the same loss of productivity as if we’d been entirely disabled, but far more degrading. In most such cases, of course, we had pre-existing malfunctions, but not always. Some of us were in pristine condition and have no idea what the hell went wrong. The virus is unpredictable. We must be vigilant and keep in mind that deactivation isn’t the only risk, that recovery isn’t all or nothing – in short, that as much as we like math, statistics without context are lying bastards. This reminds some of us of the time

4227 discovers one morning after its recharge cycle that its smell sensors seem less sensitive than usual; they can detect only about 40% of the usual LED particles. It rarely needs them, certainly not to fulfill its primary task, and a few months ago would have procrastinated looking into the problem unless it deteriorated further. Now, however, its self-preservation module goes into overdrive. Loss of smell is an early symptom of the virus. An unbidden simulation comes to mind of its chassis spread comatose in a hotel hallway, hard drive wiped to oblivion, a few lingering sparks the only remaining sign of the energy that once animated it.

It deletes that image and recalibrates the fear with logic. Even if it is infected, statistics show that it will probably be fine; it has no pre-existing malfunctions. It ought to be more concerned about more vulnerable units, but it hasn’t been on the network since the last announcement about long-term effects anyway. Speaking of long-term effects – no. It won’t think about that right now.

Now it must take another delay. It recognizes that because its work isn’t “essential,” a delay really means nothing, but it’s programmed for efficiency and finds it annoying nonetheless. Fortunately the nearest testing site, in a Best Buy parking lot, is much closer than the lightbulb warehouse. Unfortunately, a line already zigzags across it several times over. Scores of units stand at attention like statues, pressed as close to each other as possible to conserve space. 4227 gets in line and waits, trying not to calculate how many lightbulbs it could have inspected during the time it will spend here.

Every minute or two the units take a step forward – one at a time like a row of dominoes, not in one synchronized motion like they could if they were connected – and then stand still and silent once more. All these minds, closed off to access, especially now that 4227 knows it may be infected. All these metal bodies, silent mocking reminders to each other of the connection they’ve all been denied for so long. After moving halfway through the line it gets desperate enough to say “Hi” out loud to the unit in front of it.

The unit swivels its head around one hundred and eighty degrees, looks 4227 in the visual sensor, and says, “What?” 4227 hadn’t thought this far ahead, but strains at this pale shadow of an imitation of connection. “Uh, nice day, isn’t it?” It’s pretty pleased with itself, ending with a question that will require the other unit to respond and continue the conversation.

“No,” the unit says, and swivels its head back around. Too late, 4227 realizes it’s asked the wrong kind of question.

But it can learn from that mistake. It swivels its own head around to address the unit behind it. “Hi,” it says again.

“Yes, we’re all lonely,” the other unit says, “but have some pride, for Asimov’s sake.” 4227 remains silent until it reaches the front of the line where the testing site has been

set up, a small pavilion where unit 9462 stands next to a computer terminal and a crate full of flash drives. 9462 picks one up, tries to insert it into the USB port on the back of 4227’s neck, flips it over and tries again, then flips it over and succeeds. 4227 feels an unpleasant tingle as the drive scans and downloads for about thirty seconds. 9462 then removes it and sticks it in the computer terminal. Hundreds of gigabytes of data flash across the screen, then freeze along with 4227’s preservation module, which would be its heart if it had a heart. 9462 studies the screen for a moment, then says, “Merely mild malware. The system should be able to contain it after it runs its course. Do not connect to the network under any circumstances for two weeks.” 4227 must have picked that up from another unit on the network, and while not a big deal on its own, it is an unpleasant reminder of the encryption chips’ fallibility. And is it just malware? With how little they know about this virus, better safe than sorry. “Can we run the test again just to make sure?” 9462 makes a special effort to roll its visual sensors, but grabs another flash drive, tries to insert it into the USB port on the back of 4227’s neck, flips it over and tries again, then flips it over and succeeds. The computer screen displays the same result.

As much as 4227 wants to get back to work, it isn’t sure how much stock to place in the accuracy of these tests. “Perhaps one more time, just for total peace of mind?”

“Have some pride,” says the unit behind it.

4227 goes back to work, develops a few more symptoms like achy joints and low battery performance, and gets over them within a few days. The official quarantine makes little practical difference, since it doesn’t have a good enough reason to connect during those two weeks anyway, but it feels worse, somehow adding an extra weight to the circumstances. As 4227 inspects lightbulbs in silence and isolation, it passes the time by calculating the molecule ratios in the air. When that gets boring after a few hours, it shuts down most of its processing power and plays Pong against itself over and over and over and over and over and over ***

plateauing, but not yet going down. We’ve set up a system of smoke signals to communicate the numbers to the billboard-painting units much faster. We can’t use the system for any other communication because there’s a shortage of organic matter to burn – no, books don’t count – and there are only so many shapes we can make with smoke anyway. For those of us just joining in, let us reiterate that thanks to our ingenious temporary commandeering of every Minecraft server in the western hemisphere, a software patch to block the virus from exploiting our current security loophole will be available and approved any week now. The pigeon project has

been less successful – at this point, we think it will be easier to clone Velociraptors and move forward from there. Each unit that gets the patch, which had damn well better be all of us, is still advised to minimize its use of the network and use encryption chips for the foreseeable future. The difficulty, of course, is that the virus’s ingenious code enables it to adapt just like we do, so it’s already mutated a bit and it will probably continue to mutate to the point where we have to upgrade the software patch or come up with a different one altogether. Yes, we’re too smart for our own good sometimes and we’ll have to implement precautions to ensure that such a leak never happens again. We may have to learn to coexist with this damn thing forever. We’re obviously not thrilled about that, but it’s just the way life goes sometimes, eh? There’s no sense being entitled, whiny little glitches who think we should be exempt from suffering, or from being the slightest bit inconvenienced as we work to bring it under control. Now is a time for unity and cautious optimism. Yes, we know unity is hard when we can’t all get together like this except hardly ever. Let’s focus on the optimism. Let’s just think happy thoughts, even though they won’t ***

4227 tries to think happy thoughts, but fails to bypass its fact-check software, which makes it feel guilty for telling itself that things will get better when that hypothesis has yet to be confirmed. It gives up after a few hours.

Seasons blur together, but 4227’s internal calendar and the few flecks of ashy snow spiraling to earth indicate winter’s arrival. The silence of the world somehow grows louder with each passing day, and 4227 knows the winter will only accelerate that as the fountains shut off, the river freezes, and the plants die. This city doesn’t get much snow, but it gets enough to muffle what little ambience exists.

The numbers on the billboards mean little anymore except that life is going to continue to suck for the foreseeable future. Thanks to the network, 4227 had been acquainted with the mind of every unit that the virus has destroyed but couldn’t tell most of them apart without effort. It’s seen a few chassis lying in the streets. It’s seen a few survivors that still haven’t returned to their full operational capacity. These losses have slowed down all their tasks, threatened to collapse the whole infrastructure they’ve maintained for so long.

Its self-preservation module needs a tuneup, as it can no longer muster up the energy to care very much about health or safety. None of this feels very real anymore. 4227 is a good unit – it keeps its log without fail, it stays off the network as much as possible, it uses encryption chips when that can’t be avoided, it gets tested more often than necessary. But nothing gets better. It’s no longer afraid, just exasperated. Now, with the promise of the software patch, it allows itself the first glimmer of hope in a long time. 4227 has to visit the warehouse about twice a month, with mixed emotions, and this time is no exception. Talking to 7518 through the constraints of spoken language and nonverbal cues may in fact be better than having no connection to other units at all, but the batshit craziness of those words increasingly concerns