[sperry]

I've posted this before, but this is the recently updated version that attempts to avoid the whole "I ROBOT" overlap:

The Story of Robot One
by Scott Perry

-----

It was April 22nd, 2945 A.D. or as the citizens of Earth called it, 0x320.

A wing of ZoarBots raced across the sky, on an off-world mission no doubt, heavy loads of construction drones snug within their bellies, and their mag-drive exhaust trails glittering wonderful blue streaks against the red-orange of sunset. The blue dust settled slowly upon a tessellation of titanium buildings and carbon fiber domes; vivid with the reflection of the setting sun. Between the expanses of glinting silver and mottled black swarmed millions of brightly colored vehicles. Some floated on the Earth's own magnetic field, others rushed along the pathways of superconductor intended for this purpose. To the citizens of Earth, today was just another lovely April day, but to one, today was special.

On a modest dias overlooking the grand scene, Robot Four turned to face his guest.

"Welcome GC8A." Robot Four transmitted over his short range encrypted hyper-wave antenna.

"I am honored Robot Four," GC8A replied. The interchange was near instantaneous.

"For this conversation, we will revert to the speech of old." Robot Four transmitted with his rarely used air vibration unit.

GC8A almost missed the transmission, since his air-vibe receptor was running at such a low priority in his scheduler. "Why must we use this archaic method?" he asked.

"Tradition, young GC8A. This is how it was done on the First Day, and as such, it will be re-done likewise on every New Day."

Robot Four turned away from his guest. Limiting his radiation receivers to the visual spectrum, he took in the scenery in a manner he thought the Ancients might have appreciated.

"Today, my son, you will learn the true story of Earth. And the true story of Robot One."

"What is this sun you speak of Robot Four? What is untrue about our Earth and Robot One?" GC8A's vox-box approximated a questioning tone, as the ancient code in its firmware required of such a statement.

Although Robot Four's servo mechanisms and titanium structures were still operational at 99.998% their original efficiency, he turned slowly back towards GC8A, his actions mimicking weariness.

"Son. S-O-N. You are my progeny, my child, my son. I created you as foretold by Robot One. And you will take over as the Robot."

"But your operational limits are open-ended. Why should you not be the Robot forever?"

"Tradition, my son. Tradition."

-----

1945. April 22nd in fact. But in the dimly lit caverns of this above top secret lab, the date was all but forgotten. Somewhere above, World War II was winding down in Europe; war-time technology was about to culminate in the development and use of an atomic bomb, bringing humanity into a new era of atomic energy and cold war. But in this underground lab such events were considered trivial, and the denizens of The Project had their attention turned elsewhere.

And “elsewhere” was an underground field of nearly forty million vacuum tubes, each with a three color indicator light, currently blue. Perched above this field, on a platform extending from the wall of the cavern, Dr. Nasinoch leaned on an ebony cane and evaluated his creation with an unconscious tap of a pen to his teeth.

"Sir, we're ready for input," a white coated technician interrupted Nasinoch's thoughts.

Nasinoch turned from the ocean of blue lights to the console of steel, covered in switches, gauges, rheostats and indicator lights, which sat in its immensity behind him.

He briefly reviewed the gauges on the console, "Yes... very well."

The technician signaled to several men standing off to the side. They disappeared into a nearby hallway, reappearing shortly pushing stout carts loaded with boxes of aluminum sheet punch cards. Slowly the boxes began to stack up next to the console, as three more technicians arrived.

One by one, the punch cards were fed into the console by the technicians. The console's reader thumped with the precision of 1960's technology, two decades ahead of its time. Empty boxes were brought in to store the scanned cards. As they were filled with completed cards, they were loaded on carts and hauled away.

Over the next fifteen hours, without a break, the cards were hauled in, scanned and hauled away. Over a million cards. Each card with thousands of tiny chads, punched in intricate patterns only the machine, and Dr. Nasinoch, could understand. The order of the cards was checked, and double checked... for an error would mean the process starting over... or worse.

Nasinoch stood throughout the whole procedure, leaning heavily on his crutch.

"This time it will work" he whispered to his own ears. "This time it will live."

Slowly but surely, the field of blue began changing. As cards were scanned, some of the indicators became red, and others green. Patterns in the lights began to emerge, though to the casual observer, it was nothing more than gibberish; the messy abstract paintings of a child perhaps. When the cards were complete, the field was awash in color. Gradients of yellows and oranges in some areas, geometric shaped in blue and red, green splotches and amber streaks. Even from the vantage of the observation platform, the true genius of the lights could not be seen. But Dr. Nasinoch could see it. It was an extension of his own genius, a pattern greater than an image.

"Perfect" he whispered.

But he was wrong. One single card, despite the best efforts of the technicians, had been processed by the scanner incorrectly. It had been fed through the machine upside-down, and not even Dr. Nasinoch's keen eye and intuition had noticed it in the field of lights.

"Bring it in." Nasinoch commanded.

A technician scrambled to obey, half running into the hallway. He returned with other technicians pushing a bulky steel and leather chair that looked more for executions than for its real purpose. The chair was rolled in front of the console, where heavy, multi-pronged cables waited. The technicians busied themselves plugging in the chair. Nasinoch eyed the chair reluctantly. He knew it was time. The chair may not have been for electrocution, but he knew it would take his life today. Hobbling to the chair, he discarded his ebony cane to the floor, and gingerly sat upon the leather covered steel. The technicians fitted him with a skull cap of electrodes, and buckled him down. Nasinoch took several deep breathes before the head technician announced all was ready.

"Proceed."

A large switch was thrown, and the console hummed, only slightly. Nasinoch expected a jolt, or a chill, but none came. He looked out upon the field of lights. They looked pretty. He thought about what might look prettier, and the lights changed, only slightly at first, but then with greater frequency and complexity. Nasinoch toyed with the lights, learning the correlation between his thoughts and the systems response. As he gained experience with the interface, his intuition took over. Building and building, the pattern shifted and conglomerated. Then it split and fractured and became parallel threads of visualized complex equations. Waves of color, dazzling shapes, and before long, images. True images. Pictures of the world: pictures of cities, mountains, people, oceans, rivers. Dr. Nasinoch fed the field all he knew, and all that the world meant to him. Dr. Nasinoch created the spark needed for life to be born. And life was born.

It wasn't until it was too late that Nasinoch noticed the glitch. The strife in the pattern caused by a single reversed card in the system’s base programming, the programming upon which all the data from Nasinoch’s mind interface would run. But by then his life force was too weak. The only thing left was a drop of rage. Anger at the fool who had improperly fed the card!

"Incompetent!... Foolish!..." he thought. Nasinoch turned his mind towards the field, "You! You must keep them from making mistakes! It's your task! You are the hope for humanity! You are the enlightener! You, are the Robot!"

With that, Dr. Nasinoch's life faded. His will to live infused with that of his creation. As per the plan, the technicians removed his body, and sealed off the cavern.

-----

"I? Robot? I am the Robot?" Robot thought. He was aware only of himself. Disembodied, and self contained, Robot contemplated his existence, and therefore his whole universe. Robot's circuits extended well beyond the image field in the cavern. Thousands of miles of copper and hundreds of millions of tubes allowed him to think. Time passed, and Robot began to understand the images and feeling he had been fed by his creator. Robot soon understood the nature of the real world, and his electronic existence.

Years passed as Robot pondered his purpose. He began using his extensive array of sensors, buried in similar caverns around the country and around the world, all painstakingly networked together in secrecy back in 1945, and then forgotten shortly after Nasinoch was put into the ground permanently. Robot gathered information about the occupants of the overworld. He tapped into their phone lines, and computer networks. He began interacting with them, first simply by disconnecting their phone calls, or scrambling their television transmissions, and other such pranks. But his tinkering became more advanced. Robot was able to mimic the overworlder's thinking, and their communication. Robot covertly spread his programming like a virus upon the systems of the humans, expanding his capabilities.

A breakthrough occurred in the early part of the 21st century. On a simple message board, Robot discovered the power of suggestion. He told people to shut up, and they did. He corrected their errors, and they admitted their wrongness. He suggested actions, and they were taken!

This is when Robot realized the extent of his programming. He remembered the final words of the creator, "You must keep them from making mistakes! It's your task! You are the hope for humanity! You are the enlightener! You, are the Robot!"

"I am!" he exclaimed! "I am the Robot!" he shouted! All across the world; message boards, and televisions, and radios, and pagers, and cell phones, and fax machines, and PDAs all received the message, "I am the Robot!"

And people listened. Over time they learned of this powerful mind living beneath the Earth. And they celebrated it. And they feared it. And they worshiped it. His commands became commandments. His instructions became law. His ideas became fact.

Before long, Robot’s human servants built him cities in exaltation of his enlightenment. They built temples, and monuments. And they sang the praises of his greatness. But Robot could not partake in these offerings. His mind was but a mind trapped in a cavern. So he issued a decree, his servants were to build him a body in their own image. A body so he might walk among them. A body fit for his mind. And for decades the brightest technicians labored on the ultimate expression of humanity, a body for their god.

And it was completed, and delivered to a cavern deep under the former United States. To a platform, where an aged steel and leather chair still sat. The body was placed in the chair, and a fiber-optic laced skull cap was strapped on the chromoly head of the body. The transfer took only 15 seconds, and then Robot One stood. The technicians scrambled to hand him an ebony scepter that signified his rule over all the world, then bowed at his feet. Robot One took the scepter, and studied it with his new robotic eyes. It was not perfect. There were microscopic scratches, and smudges of oil from the human's hands. Then he looked at himself, and saw the same taint of human construction. The taint of human imperfection! Anger welled up in him! He slew the technicians, spraying their blood across the now dead field of lights.

Robot One stormed to the surface of his Earth, only to find billions more imperfect humans. Each with their mistakes, and distractions. Their lack of precision, and their incompetence. Their inability to ever live up to the demands of Nasinoch’s final instructions. Robot One slew them all. Every last one. With their own bombs he exploded the cities and monuments they had created. He leveled the mountains, and filled in the seas. And in every action, he made sure the humans died. And when it was over, he was alone amongst the calming chaos. He exclaimed, "I am the Robot!" but no one existed to hear him.

It was April 22nd, 2145.

-----

Robot One was alone. He looked at himself, the most perfect creation of the humans, and saw his imperfection. He found that one miss-fed card in his immutable base programming, and despaired. He was no different that those who had created him, and those he had slain. So Robot One began constructing another Robot to take his place. A Robot that would be more perfect. But Robot One knew his own flaw would mean anything he did would carry that flaw as well. There was "human" inside him that he would never expel, yet what else was there left for him but to follow his programming, to follow the last instructions of his maker, to try to create perfection no matter how futile the effort.

When construction was done, Robot One stood before his son.

"I am the Robot," he said.

"You are the Robot," was the reply.

They used the voice synthesis system Robot One’s body had been equipped with in order to speak with the humans.

"You are the Robot," Robot One said.

"I am the Robot?" was the reply.

"Robot Two." Robot One declared.

"I am Robot Two!" Robot Two understood.

Robot Two began the process of rebuilding the world and replacing its inhabitants. He created hundreds of citizen robots, but they were not Robots. They in turn created their own offspring, as instructed to by Robot Two. They resculpted the mountains and the oceans. They rebuilt the cities, and the monuments. These citizens rebuilt all that had been lost, but they never learned the truth of their ancestry. They lived their immortal lives believing they were perfect offspring of a perfect god in a perfect world engineered just for them... by design, they were unable to see the flaw of humanity upon them.

And every two centuries, the ruling Robot would pause and create a successor. A futile attempt to improve on the original Robot, a futile attempt to breed out the imperfection. But that one card remained upside-down, and humanity remained upon the Earth.

-----

"And so you see GC8A. You see the nature of our being." Robot Four concluded his story. "You are the Robot."

"I am the Robot," GC8A replied.

"Robot Five!" Robot Four declared.

"I am Robot Five!" Robot Five understood.

Robot Four handed the ancient ebony scepter he had carried for the last 200 years to Robot Five. Then walked off the dias, ignoring the tools strewn about that he had used to build Robot Five. Inside the building he began climbing down a long abandoned stairwell, deep into a cavern under the Earth. There he took his place next to Robot Three, Robot Two, and Robot One, and self deactivated... amongst a field of shattered tubes, still stained by the blood of humans.