The Ghost of Resartus

Part 2 of 2

by

Christopher Stasheff

Copyright 1993

 

Chono relaxed, leaning back in his canvas chair, drink in hand, and watched the sunset.  "You seem to be adjusting pretty well, Arlan."

“Thanks," Arlan said.  He sipped his own drink, then added, "I'm still a little nervous, though."

“To be expected."  Chono nodded.  "Bolos can be mighty intimidating working partners—and a full shift on a plow can be kind of lonely.  We try to make up for it during lunchtime and dinnertime, though."

"Oh, you succeed admirably!"  For a moment, Arlan had a vivid image of last night’s party.  He was looking forward to singing and dancing again tonight—Rita wasn't the only pretty girl in the camp.  Far from it, in fact.

"So the nerves are only about the Bolos, huh?"

"Yeah."  Arlan jolted back to the day he'd just fin­ished.  “Chono..."

Chono waited, then prodded gentry.  "Yeah?"

“The Bolos… they're so old!  Are you sure there isn't any chance that one of them will have a circuit breakdown, and run amok?"

“I wish I could tell you a definite 'no’ to that," Chono said grimly.  "All I can really say, though, is that it's a low probability.  The Bolos were built to last—built for the ages, you might say.  We actually did an analysis of the probability of systems failure, and it turned out that the chances of a Bolo running amok are much less than the chances of one of us humans going psychotic."

Arlan just stared at the orange sky for a moment, then nodded slowly.  "I suppose we are made out of less durable materials."

"And most of us don't take care of ourselves too well," Chono agreed.  "If we're feeling just a little bit out of sorts, we go to work anyway."

Arlan looked up, amused.  "Does that mean that the only ones who are really well, are the hypochondriacs?"

“They would be, if they'd go out and get some exercise.  I suppose maybe a hypochondriac health-and-fitness nut would be in good shape, but I don't know any who manage to combine the two—except maybe Bolos."

“The Bolos are hypochondriacs?"

"Well, let's say they have excellent auto-diagnostic programs, and they're much more objective than we are.  Besides which, our technicians check over each machine once a month.  We maintain them very well."

Arlan nodded.  He had found out just how well, when he had met Jodie, and stopped to chat with her in her smithy.  The term wasn't all that accurate, of course—most "smithies" didn't include blast furnaces and computer-controlled machine tools.  If Jodie said she was a smith, though, he wasn't about to argue—not when he saw how the iron flattened under her hammer.  Not when he saw her in profile, either.

“That’s an awful lot of labor for one spare part," he said as he watched her watch the automatic lathe.

Jodie nodded.  "But even when you add in the cost of my labor, it's still cheaper than importing it.  Space cargo rates are very, very high—and the Bolo factory back on Terra charges a liver and ten square inches of skin for an antique spare like this."

Arlan frowned.  "Why so high?"

"Because they have to make them by hand, too.  After all, they've been out of production for over two hun­dred years."  Jodie braked the lathe and began to loosen the clamps.  "So we just machine them our­selves, and save all around."

Watching her strong, slender fingers, Arlan won­dered if the machinists on Terra could be any better than she was—or even as good.  “I can't help thinking that it would be cheaper and quicker to import mod­ern tractors—or even to manufacture your own."

Jodie nodded.  "Every volunteer wonders about that at first.  I know I did."  She laid the finished part under the magnifying glass and began to inspect it.  “There's more to it than economics, though, Arlan.  This colony owes its existence to the Bolos.  It's a debt.  We main­tain them out of honor.  It may be expensive, but if we forget their past and stop doing it, we'll be welching on a debt—and we'll be less than ourselves."

Arlan watched her work, thinking that over.  Tradi­tions and honor seemed to be very expensive.  He wondered if Milagso could afford them.

 

The next day, he dared to sit on Miles's tread as he waited for the truck to pick him up for lunch.  He congratulated himself on beginning to trust the huge machine—but he was also aware that his whole body was taut, ready to leap off to the side at the slightest sign that the Bolo was starting to move.  "Isn't it hot for you to wait out here in the sun, Miles?"

"Not at all, Arlan.  I was built to tolerate tempera­tures up to fifteen hundred degrees Kelvin, so a variation of twenty degrees Fahrenheit scarcely regis­ters on my thermosensors."

"Must be handy.  But you stay parked by this field all through lunchtime.  Don’t you get bored?"

"I was first activated a thousand years ago, Arlan.  A few hours is scarcely noticeable."

Suddenly, the sunlight seemed to be very cold, and the tread beneath his thighs seemed to prickle.  "A… thousand years?  But… I thought your model was only produced three hundred years ago, Miles."

"My body was, Arlan.  My computer core, though, goes back considerably farther."  Then, completely matter-of-factly, the Bolo told him, "I am Resartus."

All things considered, Arlan was very glad that the truck came along just then.

 

Chono frowned.  "He actually said he was Resartus?  You're sure?"

"Clear as I'm telling you now!"  Arlan fought to keep a lid on the panic boiling inside him.  "Who exactly was Resartus, anyway?"

"Who?  More a ‘what’ than a ‘who.’  The Resartus was the initial fully-automated Bolo model, the first one that could fight itself.  It was a long way from being self-aware, but when push came to shove, it didn't really need a human being aboard."

That gave Arlan a chill.  "If you think I'm going back to work with a machine that's gone delusional…"

"Peace, peace!"  Chono held up a hand, but he was frowning off across the fields.  "We're not going to ask that until we're sure Miles is well—but even if he has started thinking he's the original Resartus, he's per­fectly safe."

“Perfectly safe!"

Chono nodded.  "No matter what identity the computer has accepted, it still has its safeguards.  It won't attack a human on its own side, no matter what—and out here, all humans are on its side."  Chono rose.  "But I think we'll leave that field untilled for now.  I have a few friends who are going to want to talk to Miles—and spend a little time with the library, too."

The library was accessed through computer, of course, but Miles was accessed in person.  Chono's friends were a half-dozen experts in Bolo systems and artificial intelligence.  They insisted Arlan come along to double-check what they heard.

"Yes," the Bolo said.  "I am Miles—but I am also Resartus."

"How can that be?" asked the senior scientist.  He didn't look much like a professor, in khaki shorts and a sweat-stained shirt—but he knew what to ask.  The original Resartus wasn’t even self-aware."

“That is true, David.  But with the enhanced abilities of the Mark XXI’s computer, I have gained all the awareness and cogitational capacities of the newer Bolo, while retaining my identity as Resartus."

"How have you come to be housed in this newer unit, then?"

"I was manufactured as Miles," the Bolo answered, "but the essential elements of Resartus were included in my original programming."

"I see."  David stroked his beard, frowning.  "Do you have any idea how this was done?"

"Not really, David.  I was not activated until after the manufacturing process was complete."

Arlan wondered if the Bolo was capable of irony.  He decided there was no sarcasm intended; the Bolo was probably giving a straight answer to a straight question.

 

The truck swayed over a particularly rough bump.  Arlan held on and asked.  "So it seems to think it’s a reincarnation of that first computer-controlled Bolo?"

"We'll have to work with that hypothesis temporar­ily," David answered.

Arlan shuddered.  "What else might it take into its CPU?"

"A good question," David agreed, "and I think we'd better make sure of the answer before we do anything else.  You're off the plow for the time being, Arlan.  Since you know the case, we're assigning you to the li­brary.  Dig up everything you can about the Resartus model, and the government's reaction to it."

Arlan breathed a sigh of relief.

 

Arlan pored through the stacks, and was amazed at what he found.  Yes, the public had been nervous about having a machine that could tear up a city able to operate without a human aboard—but the govern­ment had gone into catfits.  They'd insisted on so many restraints, it was amazing that Resartus could still fight itself.  When it came to later models, though…

“They insisted on having the same restraints built into every later-model Bolo," he told David that eve­ning.  He held out the hard copy of the article for David to read.  “Turns out that, when the original unit was scrapped, the manufacturers divided Resartus's memory holistically, then reproduced the chips for every Bolo that was manufactured.  So each chip had Resartus's complete programming in miniature."

David took the copy and scanned it.  "I wonder when they quit doing that."

"Did they?"  Arlan shrugged.  "I don't know anything about military manufacture—and they might still he doing it.  The idea was a sort of fail-safe—if the Bolo's computer did malfunction to the point at which it might start shooting up its own side, Resartus's unquestioning loyalty would take over and keep it safe."

David nodded, then looked up at the other scientists.  "Miles has gone non-functional, all right.  Maybe the nervous Nellies a thousand years ago were right."

"Is he dangerous?" Dr Methuen asked.

"Definitely not—the strategy worked.  The chip of Resartus's memory has kicked in as a restraint.  Miles won't do anything dangerous to us, as long as Resartus is in charge."

Arlan noticed that they were talking about the Bolo as though it were a person, and repressed a shiver.  "Any chance they'll battle it out, and Miles will win?"

A flicker of annoyance crossed David's face, but he masked it quickly.  It was as good as a scathing com­ment, though—the greenhorn stood indicted, at least in his own mind.

But David leaned forward, instantly reassuring.  "Don't worry about it, Arlan—Miles’s personality can't reassert itself.  In a manner of speaking, Miles has shut down, giving Resartus all his ferocious computational capabilities; in a sense, we now have Resartus, self-aware."

"Just how badly-off is he?" Dr. Roman demanded.

"Miles—or perhaps we should just say, 'the confused portion of the artificial mind’—has gone dormant.  Resartus has access to all its memories, but can't be affected by its errors in judgment."

"What caused it?" Dr. Methuen asked.

David shrugged.  "Can't say, without going inside for a look—and I'm reluctant to ask Resartus for permis­sion.  Probably a chip that went bad."

“Can't we just replace the chip?"

"We'd have to, as a first step—either that, or tell Resartus to reroute all his signals around the bad chip, isolate it from the rest of the mind."

Dr. Methuen shrugged.  "If that's all there is to it, do it!"

"But that’s not all there is to it, is it?" Dr Roman asked.

"No," David agreed.  “The problem is that its memories, too, are distributed holistically throughout the ‘mind’—and so are the attitudes Miles has developed.  So we can’t just edit out a faulty logic-sequence."

"My Lord!"  Dr. Roman stiffened.  "We'd have to take out the total 'mind,' or have a potentially psy­chotic computer on our hands!"

David nodded.  "Right.  And, of course, we just don’t have what it takes to build a new computer-brain."

"So what do we do?" Arlan asked nervously.

"Nothing."  David turned to him.  "Resartus's person­ality is so completely a part of the 'mind,' that the Bolo is perfectly safe.  It wasn’t just a fail-safe that would hold long enough to deactivate the Bolo—as though anybody could figure out a way to deactivate a Bolo that didn't want it.  It was also a program that could hold as long as the unit lasted."

Arlan just stared at him, trying to absorb the idea.  "So Miles is permanently asleep, and Resartus has possessed him?"

“No."  David stirred restlessly.  "It's more complicated than that.  All Miles' memories are still there, after all.  It's almost as though the Bolo is still Miles, but knows way down deep that he's really Resartus."

"Delusional," Dr. Roman said softly.

Again, that flash of impatience, and David said, "In human terms, yes.  But we can't allow ourselves too much teleology in this, Doctor.  Miles isn't a person, after all—he’s a machine."

"A self-aware machine," Dr. Roman qualified, "with more thinking capacity than any of us."

"More computational capacity, yes—but no intuition, and no real initiative.  He can only act within a very clear set of parameters—and Resartus makes those parameters rigid."

"So you suggest we do nothing?" Dr. Methuen asked.

David nodded.  "That's my considered opinion."  He turned to Arlan.  "But you can be assigned to a differ­ent field."

"No," Arlan said slowly, "not if you're sure it’s safe."  He just wished he were.

 

The next morning, Arlan approached the metal giant with his heart in his throat, hoping the Bolo didn't hold grudges.  "Good morning, Miles."

"Good morning, Arlan.  Did you have a pleasant eve­ning?"

"Pleasant?"  Arlan stiffened, then realized that Miles must have thought he'd been given the evening off.  "Oh.  Very restful, thanks.  How about you?"

"David took your place on the plow, and was most diverting.  He kept up a constant stream of conversa­tion."

Arlan could just bet David had.  "Sorry I'm not that good a conversationalist."

"Please do not be, Arlan.  Such extensive conversa­tion is very pleasant as a change, but it does interfere with my chess game."

Arlan grinned as he climbed up onto the plow.  Thanks, Miles.  Anything new?"

"Only that we are about to be attacked within the next few days," Miles said thoughtfully.  "A major inva­sion, in fact—by Xiala, of course.  I have alerted the other Bolos, but you might want to tell the humans."

Arlan sat very still for a few seconds.  Then he climbed down off the plow.  "Why, yes, thank you, Miles.  I think I should do that."

"I shall call the truck back for you," Miles said.

 

"Now we know what kind of delusions."  Arlan clamped down on hysteria.  "He's paranoid!"

"Maybe, but we can’t afford to take the chance."  David pulled the hovercar over to the side of the road and got out.  "Miles might have good reasons for his hunch."  He slammed the door and walked over to the looming titan.  "Good morning, Miles."

"Good morning, David.  I infer that Arlan has given you my news?"

Arlan climbed out of the car slowly, holding onto the door as something solid in a world rapidly going fluid.

"Yes, he has," David said, frowning.  "I've checked with the sentry-posts, and they haven't received any­thing particularly alarming from the satellites."

"Nothing alarming by itself," the Bolo agreed, "but when all the data is taken together as a whole, a pat­tern emerges."

"Like a chess game, eh?"  David folded his arms, squinting up at Miles.  "What data are you perceiving?"

"Relays from the surveillance satellites.  Over the past month, there have been small celestial bodies flying in flattened arcs from one planet to another.  Each event is well-separated from the others in both time and space, but over the year, I have discerned a steady englobing pattern that has come closer and closer to Milagso."

"Sneaking up on us?  We'll have to check the records.  But why do you think they'll attack in the next few days?"

"Because last night, there was a ten millisecond burst transmission from the vicinity of the nearer moon.  I recorded it, slowed it down, and played it back, but it was gibberish.  I am attempting to deci­pher it even now."

"Let us try, too," David urged, "with the really big computer back at base.  Squirt your data to it, would you?"

"Certainly, David.  However, the most immediate danger was far closer to home."

"Oh?"  David tensed.  "What was it?"

“Subterranean disturbances.  They are consistent with the signals produced by Xiala tunnel-mining in their last commando raid."

“They've landed commandos again?"  David suddenly sounded very serious indeed.

"I have detected no signs of landing craft," Miles admitted, "nor were any such signals picked up by the satellites.  I cannot deduce how the commandos have been planted on Milagso, but all indications are that they are indeed here, and preparing for an attack.”

"We'll check into it," David said grimly, "and fast!  Thanks, Miles.  Thanks a lot!"

"You are welcome, David," the huge machine said.

David strode back to the car.  "Hop in!"  He slammed the door, started up, and turned the hovercar back toward headquarters.

"He's paranoid!''  Arlan couldn't hold it in any longer.  "He has really flipped out!  He's developed delusions of conspiracy!"

"Maybe," David said, his words clipped, "or maybe he's right.  Pick up the hand mike and call Dr. Roman, will you?  And tell him everything you just heard."

Arlan stared.  "You're taking him seriously?”

David gave a tight nod.  "Very seriously, Arlan.  Very seriously indeed."

Serious indeed, but not soon enough.  As they pulled in through the gate to headquarters, the soil exploded in the surrounding fields from a hundred tunnels, and the hammering and crackling of automatic weapons erupted.

"Down!" David yelled, and slumped below window level as he pulled the car off to the side of the road.  Arlan slid down, too, but wrestled his laser rifle around to the ready.  The car stopped and he swung the door open, rolling out and swiveling about, prone, sighting along the barrel and trying to pick out a tar­get.

It was easy.  All the humans had hit the dirt, and moving dust-plumes marked the presence of Xiala.  Arlan took aim at the base of one such plume, and was about to pull the trigger when a human rolled in between.  He cursed and let up pressure on the trigger…

Then the man exploded.  Arlan lay stiff, staring in shock.

Then a serpentine body rose up above the body, a minor cannon with a huge clip clasped in the two slender arms that sprouted below the head.  Its mouth opened, fangs springing down as it lunged toward a human fighter…

Arlan screamed and pulled the trigger.  The snake’s head exploded, and the whole length of its body whipped about, fountaining soil and tearing out plants.

Arlan couldn't take the time to stare, or to feel sick.  He swung his rifle about, seeking another target, while something inside him gibbered in terror and urged him to run for cover.  It was the child who had grown up on romantic tales of war, aghast at the bloodshed and the hammering of the guns.

Behind and above him, David's laser rifle crackled.  Then, suddenly, he howled, and his gun went silent.

Arlan went cold inside, picking out a dust column and firing, then seeking another and firing, deliberately, unhurried.  Part of him waited in iron resignation for the laser bolt that would burn through him, but part of him was determined to kill as many snakes as he could before it came.  Traverse, fire, traverse, fire…

Cannon roared, and a Bolo loomed over the battle, its guns depressed, firing over the humans' heads, enfi­lading the field. Surely it couldn't be Miles…

Suddenly, its huge cannon elevated, higher and higher, until it seemed the Bolo would throw itself over if it fired.  Arlan glanced up, and saw a shimmering shape swelling out of the sky…

Then he looked down, and saw fangs and a red maw arrowing toward him, a huge-bore rifle-muzzle coming up to center on him…

He shouted and pressed the trigger.  A bolt of pure energy crashed into the gaping jaws.  The snake screamed, thrashing, and its cannon bellowed again and again, firing widely in its death throes.  Arlan slapped his rifle down and shoved his head flat against the dirt.

A roar filled his head.  He dared a look—and saw only dust, where the Xiala had been.  He glanced back over his shoulder, and saw the barrel of one of the Bolo's port guns aimed in his direction.  Even as he watched, though, he saw the gout of energy explode out of the main cannon's muzzle, tearing into the sky, but he couldn't hear the report, because the whole world was roaring.

The looming shimmering shape turned into flame at one edge.  It spun about, and another bolt struck it from the opposite side of the field.  It whirled around and slammed spinning into the dirt, sticking up at a crazy angle—a huge landing craft, its ports popping open, snakes pouring out regardless of their dead, slithering onto the ground…

The Bolo's secondary guns roared, and the Xiala turned into a boiling cloud of dust, streaked crimson, with tails lashing out of it here and there.  Again and again the Bolo fired, and the whole line of the ship turned into a dust storm.  Runnels of blood watered the field.

Here and there, a human gun chattered—but rarely, very rarely, for there were very few Xiala escaping the wrecked ship, and the commandos were all dead.

 

"Of course, we don't know for sure how many of them got away."  David sat with a steaming cup at his elbow, his arm in a sling and a bandage around his head.  "We can only guess how many snakes were aboard each ship, and it's hard counting dead bodies; you can't be sure how many of them were completely blown apart.  Some of the ships landed half-buried, and Xiala could have tunneled out of the below-ground hatches."

"So we may have more Xiala hiding out and busily making new little commandos?" Rita asked.

David nodded.  There may even be some of the current generation still alive to teach them the ropes."

"It’s so hard to imagine!"  Arlan shook his head.  "Intelligent, thinking beings, spending their whole lives in exile, and dooming their offspring and their grandchildren to the same waste of their days—all so that their species can have some commandos to prepare the way for them, if they ever decide to try another invasion!"

"Unthinkable to us," Michael agreed.  "To a Xiala, it's worth it."

Arlan shuddered.  "At least we know Miles hadn't really gone paranoid."

"No," David said slowly.  "He seemed to treat the whole problem as a chess game—but he'd had fifty years of fighting Xiala to use as data for his deduc­tions."

"Anyway," Arlan said, "I guess that's why the Bolos thought they had to become tractors for a while."

Michael looked up, surprised, and David said slowly, "Of course—now that you mention it.  Camouflage."

"Lulling the Xiala into a false sense of security," Michael agreed.  "Why should they be afraid of these huge war machines, if they'd been converted into farmers?"

"Does that mean you lose your tractors?" Arlan asked.

"They haven’t shown any sign of it," David said.  "Seem to be more than ready to get back to work, in fact."

"And they haven’t deactivated themselves?"

"No, so they can’t be given new commanders," Michael confirmed.  "I guess their mission isn't over, as far as they're concerned."

"Of course not—we don't know when the snake-commandos may strike again," Rita inferred.

"No," David agreed.  "But the next time Miles says they're coming, I think I'll take him at his word.”

Arlan shoved his chair back and levered himself up on his crutches.

"Going someplace?" Michael asked.

“To see Miles," Arlan said.  "I think I owe him an apology."

His friends exchanged glances; then David pushed himself to his feet.  "Wait up; I'll give you a ride.  I've got a few words to say to Miles, too."

 

They came up to the huge Bolo.  Its armor was blackened and dented in places, but otherwise it stood as serenely as ever—already back on station at the field it had been plowing.

"Hello, Miles," Arlan said as he came up.

"Hello, Arlan," the Bolo returned.  "I am glad to see you have survived the battle.  I trust your foot is not too badly injured?"

“This?" Arlan glanced down.  "Nothing that won't heal itself.  How are you, Miles?"

"Nothing that cannot be mended," the Bolo returned, "and not much of that.  This generation of Xiala have weakened sorely, their great-grandsires did far more damage."

"Let's hear it for decadence," David said fervently.

"Uh, Miles…" Arlan said.  "I'm, uh, sorry I didn't heed your warning right away…"

David nodded emphatically.  "Me, too.  I should have just taken you at your word, and sent out the alarm.  We should have known Resartus wouldn't make a logi­cal mistake."

"Resartus is gone," Miles informed them.

Both men stood very still.

Then David said, very carefully, "Are you fully operational again, Miles?"

"I am," Miles assured them.  "As soon as I woke to full function, I ran my recent memories through a diagnostic program.  They confirmed that I had run so many invasion scenarios that I had created a loop that became so ingrained I could not view any data with­out a bias toward interpreting it as an invasion."

"So when the Xiala actually did invade," David said slowly, "the loop had fulfilled its function, and closed itself off."

"Essentially, David, yes."

"Will you be able to avoid the urge to run invasion scenarios again?" David asked.

"My companion Bolos are agreed on a means that should prove efficacious."

"What kind of means?" Arlan asked.

"A variety of gaming.  In addition to our bouts of chess, we will take turns creating invasion scenarios."

"And you'll all know it's a game!  Great!"  Arlan’s eyes lit with enthusiasm.  "Can I join?"

David eyed him with a sigh, then smiled.  Arlan was fitting in, after all.

 

The larger moon was up, and Arlan went strolling away from the campfire, hand in hand with Jodie.  "You were right," he said.  “Traditions do have reasons behind them."

She looked up at him, amused.  "Was it worth it, lugging that laser rifle around every day?  After all, you only really needed it for half an hour."

"It was worth it," Arlan affirmed.  "I'm converted."

"Still nervous about the Bolos?"

Arlan shook his head.  “That's another tradition that somehow makes an awful lot of sense now.  Mind you, I still think their minds can malfunction and go out of order, though maybe not as easily as ours can…”

"At least they won't be saddled by poor upbringing," Jodie said.

“That is the advantage to de-bugged programming," Arlan admitted.  "But brooding seems to do just as much damage for artificial intelligences as it does for the real thing."

Jodie shrugged.  "So what if Miles went paranoid for a little while?  He was curable."

"Yes," Arlan agreed.  "All it took was a conspiracy and an invasion."

"Well," Jodie said, "that did bring his delusions into line with reality.  So you think the Bolos are worth the labor to maintain them?"

"Oh, you bet I do!  In fact, I just might go back to Terra to study artificial intelligence, so I can be of some real worth here."

Jodie stopped and turned to face him, looking up at him in the moonlight.  "You are already," she said.  "And anything you really need to know, you can learn right here."

Suddenly, Arlan understood why Chono had decided to stay.

 

THE END