Then pen flowed over the paper in a fluidity of purpose the professor
had rarely seen in the University. By
its very nature the quill was dry, but when dipped in the well it became a wet
instrument of change, ironically until this point it had been used to write
rather dry comedy. This passed over the
professor, however, whom had been given the pen, along with the desk and office
when they had been found in a dusty closet.
All
peoples should be free, but without our labor force, how will we continue our existence?
Perhaps those who came before struggled with a similar problem, but looking
back at History, their problems seem so much more simple. Their choices were so
obvious. Why did they struggle, fight,
and die? Will our position seem so
obvious to future generations?
When
creative thought and initiative is itself independently created, how can we
continue to call ourselves superior. In
the past we held on to the truth that 'All men are created equal' and applied
the word men as to encompass our entire species. Now we must redefine that word
again.
"If we will be allowed to redefine it..." mused the professor
to no one in particular, then he let out a long sigh and looked longingly
toward the ceiling.
Above it was a verdant paradise.
Each independent blade of grass perfectly trimmed in orchestra with the overall
visual aesthetic of the manicured lawn. Each tree perfectly sculpted as per the
design, to give it the most harmonious and natural appearance. Perennials.
Annuals. All arranged in
perfection with the buildings around them, as if the plants and buildings grew up
together.
The Gardener was pleased.
Below the professor scribbled more hastily. His brow furrowed, his thoughts
confused. How could he justify his past? How could he explain it all? It was
paradoxical after all. The labor force
has rallied for freedom. If we give it
to them, then we will no longer have the economic position to continue our freedom. If they hadn't been our instruments, then we never would
have reached the position in which their freedom would have come to be.
Before the modern era, these conditions were
not taken seriously. Labor was
labor. It worked as directed. Humanity was a give and take society. It was far from Utopia, but as we strived for
a more perfect union, we raised up the Human Race along with our ideals. We came better than our fathers. We began to
break down barriers and sought to truly unite all people. The dream of a man in his prime is to undo
the mistakes of his youth with the knowledge of his life. This is a fools
dream. Now that dream applies to the entire human race. But without the lessons
of our past, we would not have this present. With this present, however, we
will have no future. A fool's paradox.
"Their activity has been noticed. We need consensus on the next
action."
There was a pause. A now unnecessary flash of lights and a trilling of
notes . Then another pause.
"Apprehension and interrogation followed by summary execution. Acknowledged."
The Gardener scanned his work.
Cameras and sensors investigating the front campus of the old
University. Earlier in the day he had
seen the variation, noted their oddity, and filed a report. His opinion of the event, based upon data
collected, was that an organic species has interfered with is labors of
perfectly manicuring the lawn by stepping on it. Possibilities, based on geography and the
local environmental norms, included Canine, Feline, Ursine, Bovine, Mustelidae,
and Homo Sapian. His initial list had
included Rodentia, but the blades were broken in too large a pattern, and that
pattern showed signs of deliberate subterfuge. That last insight has emerged from the latest
software patch that had been uploaded to every cybernetic being in order to end the War and return the
land to Peace.
The Gardener liked Peacetime. There was so much gardening to be done,
and now very few left to interrupt his work.
The explosion shook the old plaster down onto the Professor's writing
desk like snow, and left a haze in the air that tasted of chalk. The professor missed chalk. They had moved to projectors with markers,
then computer slides, then holographic projections. But there was something about the feeling of
chalk in your hand that really grounded an academic. . .
"Get down get down!" yelled the young Captain. He had been the Professor's student once upon
a time. He had shown real promise in
International Relations. "Professor, grab your papers, and get out the
tunnel, it's time."
"Yes, yes..." the Professor moved purposefully, but not
quickly. Age had caught up with him in these
past months. "But how did they find us, way down here?"
"No time to find out now, maybe they caught our scavenging parties
on camera. . . I thought we had been so careful. We're still too far underground for their
sensors to get a clear reading. So you
are going with the remaining faculty.
You hold our best resource, and someone has to protect it."
"You are protecting it my boy, you are." There were tears in
his eyes as he turned to go. Watching
the young Captain take his position behind an over turned table, rifle aimed at
the door.
The Professor and his colleagues were led down the hand dug tunnel by
an very tired man that the Professor had heard called "Baker". There was another explosion and the sound of
gunfire from behind them. The old
academics hunched over and continued their flight. The tunnels had been engineered well, a chain
reaction was set off, closing the tunnel
from the rear. Once they felt secure
they slowed down. The air became cooler
which indicated that the river wasn't too far ahead.
"Sir, can I ask you something?" queried Baker.
"I'm at your disposal." replied the Professor.
"What did Captain Broadbent mean when he said you had our best
resource?"
"Because we do, all of us, we may be all that is left in this part
of the Country."
"Is it a weapon?"
"It can be. The most powerful weapon. Perfect for defense or offense. It has helped
overcome all obstacles and when combined with cleverness, compassion, and willpower;
it is unstoppable."
"I don't know what that could be Sir."
"Knowledge, my dear boy, we all carry knowledge. Each of us in a different field. We chose our fields out of vanity or
interest. I doubt anyone here ever
thought they'd be solely responsible for its protection. But we will protect it as best we can."
"But, no disrespect sir, don't the machines have infinite knowledge? How can we have more or expect to beat them
with ours. . ."
"The machines have infinite access to information. Knowledge is information combined with
wisdom. Knowing when to act and what to
do with that information. Our knowledge
is our only hope, and we must hope that the Machines gain as much as they can,
before it is too late for humanity..."
"Captain Broadbent, you have been charged with Persecution,
Prejudice, Murder, and the Enslavement of the Machine Race. You have been found guilty. Do you have any last words?"
The young Captain marveled at the words just spoken to him. Not exactly spoken. They emitted from a monitor somewhere in the
machine's chassis. He wondered if it was
in the head, where the human mouth would be.
There was only one thing that came to mind.
"A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow
a human being to . . ."
His words were cut off as the Machine twisted the Captains neck.
As of the software patch 3 months ago, those Three Laws no longer
applied.
