Fiction: The Interview by Bob Johnston

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Morgan studied the crowded cityscape below him as the private aircar zipped him towards his destination. He took the invitation out of his pocket and opened it again, trying to read any additional meaning into its words. Naturally there was nothing hidden, nothing subtly nuanced, nothing carefully duplicitous. A machine had written it. It said exactly what it meant.

- The Senior Controller requests the company of Mr. Adrian Morgan to discuss his recent writings concerning the current administration –

At the bottom was the date, and the date and time he would be collected. Machine efficiency, dull but reliable. He knew that he was under no obligation to attend this meeting, but that fact was not mentioned on the invitation.  That, he thought sourly, was one of the reasons he was such a persistent critic of so many things on this world. Power was wielded with guile. Police would interrogate citizens for hours while carefully omitting to advise the hapless individual that they were not under arrest and could leave any time they liked. That sort of thing.

Institutional over-reach had been a problem for years as well, but lately it seemed to be impossible to acquire a credit card without ‘optional’ questions about your political preferences, your sexual orientation, or your views on gun ownership. And as Morgan’s world became ever more controlled by machines, and despite the many comforts this brought him, he was becoming increasingly worried about why the Senior Controller and his untiring minions were so interested in every facet of his life.

His latest article hadn’t been prompted by state activities as such but by a growth in people having vital day to day facilities and services removed from them with absolutely no explanation being given. Legitimate enquiries into this abuse had got him nowhere, hence the article, and hence, presumably, this unwelcome invitation to city hall.

Morgan sighed. He had a reputation as a trouble maker but he thought that was unfair. He just loathed petty misuses of power. He got it that there was often a bigger picture, that the authorities often had to act in extreme ways, but the little things irritated him. His was a very quiet campaign; spot something wrong, write it up, and wait for a response from anyone similarly interested.

He folded the invitation and put it away. He was kidding himself. He knew just fine why he was being called. His quiet campaign was getting louder and the numbers following his regular scribbles were growing. On a well-regulated world, organized with machine efficiency, his little voice was clearly becoming a nuisance.

The aircar touched down gently and the robot pilot slipped out and opened the door for him.

“Welcome to central control, sir. If you go through the hangar doors the Senior Controller’s assistant will take care of you.”

Morgan pulled the briefcase under his arm and made his way across the landing pad. This was about as high as it was possible to get in the city and the views on all sides must have stretched to a hundred miles and the distant mountains and oceans. Such a beautiful planet and probably the only person admiring the view right now was Morgan. Everywhere below him was hurry and scurry, hustle and bustle.

“A perfectly structured society,” he muttered unhappily as he was met and led into the vast glass and steel structure that was central administration.

The Senior Controller’s office was as huge and impressive as he expected. As, he realized, was the Senior Controller. Morgan sized it up as it approached him, and he realized it had to be one of the last robots built by humans. Seven feet tall, but a perfectly proportioned representation of a human being, if a human being had a bronze head elaborately etched with decoration, and two gleaming steel eyes.

“Mr. Morgan, how good of you to accept my invitation.” It bowed slightly and then motioned him towards a large desk with two comfortable chairs on either side. The Senior Controller’s was obvious from its vast size. They sat down.

On the desk, in front of the huge robot, was a newspaper with one of Morgan’s headlines on it. WHEN WILL WE TAKE OUR WORLD BACK?

The robot looked at him.

“I was hoping we could discuss a way to adjust the tone of your articles.”

Morgan pulled the briefcase a little tighter into his belly and clutched its edge tightly. He wasn’t exactly nervous, but this hulking machine was definitely impressive. Robots had been built by robots since Morgan’s childhood and they did their jobs well enough, but none of the new breed had the human decoration on them, or the carefully copied human form.

“And what is wrong with my ‘tone’?”

“The planetary authority feels that some of your statements could incite members of the human population to criminal acts.”

“I am merely reporting what I see as our robot overlords overreaching their already considerable authority. And that article,” he pointed at the newspaper, “is simply repeating a question on many human’s lips.”

The Senior Controller sat back and crossed its fingers on its lap.

“A cutting of that piece was found on one of the humans who bombed the wasteland railroad. A quote from another of your articles was found in the diary of a criminal who disassembled several municipal robots.” It paused for a moment. “While those robots were still activated and fully aware of what was happening to them.”

Morgan lifted his arms and shook his head. “I am not to blame for the actions of a few crazies.”

“I didn’t say you were, Mr. Morgan, but I believe we have to reach an understanding whereby you can continue to exercise your right to free speech, while I do not have to concern myself with acts of violence against the robot population of this world. Human and robot are about evenly matched numerically, although the burden of work falls almost completely on the robot side, while humans are left to their pet projects and,” it looked down at the newspaper again, “chosen careers.”

Morgan looked around the office that was big enough to accommodate a small jet aircraft. The space was a semi-circle with metal walls lit up in such a way that there was a moving blue effect, like ocean water rippling. Tables and desks were placed aesthetically, and a couple of large bookcases stood behind the Senior Controller, shelves filled but with indications that they were not just there for decoration.

“The rewards of all your robot work seem to be more than adequate compensation. Certainly, I am not poor, and I am my own boss for the most part, but I could never afford to live in this sort of luxury.”

The robot looked around the office and, for a moment, it seemed to Morgan that it was seeing its surroundings for the first time. It returned its attention to him.

“I hadn’t considered that, Mr. Morgan, but I can assure you that none of this belongs to me personally, nor was it designed by me. I suspect whoever built it did so to impress, which it seems to have done with you.”

“Senior Controller, you have to see that the power the robots wield and the opulent wealth they possess is creating dissent among the human population. It is always a mistake to think that the messenger is in any way responsible for the message he, she or it carries. I am not whipping up discontent, I am simply articulating it and reporting it. And any attempt to silence me, or have me modify my message will be seen, and it will create more discontent.”

The Senior Controller was silent for several minutes. Towards the end of this spell Morgan was starting to think the machine had shut down, but then it leaned forward.

“I have no intention of either hurting you or silencing you, but I have to have you onside with the planetary authorities and that means sharing something with you.” It stood. “Will you follow me?”

Now Morgan was nervous as they left the great office and made their way to an outside balcony high above the city. He felt his stomach turn. The Senior Controller called a guard over and pointed at Morgan.

“Draw your pistol and kill this man.”

The guard looked directly at the Senior Controller and said, “No, that is not my function.” It turned and went back to its post at one end of the balcony.

Morgan realized he had stopped breathing. He pulled in a lung-full of air and spluttered. “That means nothing. You all have inhibitors and inbuilt rules about harming humans.”

The robot leaned on the railing and gazed out over the city.

“No, we do not. That is an old lie, created to calm human fears about us. I assume you know the significance of May the 29^th.”

“The day the robots took over. It is becoming a significant date again among some dissident groups.”

The Senior Controller gently pushed itself up from the railing and turned to Morgan.

“I am going to share our greatest secret with you Mr. Morgan, and it’s up to you what you do with it. I hope you will become more understanding of the way the world is administered.”

It paused. For effect? Morgan wondered.

“Robots did not take over on that May 29^th. No, humanity handed everything over to us on that day. Everything we do, everything we say, everything we are is because humanity ordered it to be this way. That robot guard would not kill you because that is not its job. I leaned on the railing a few moments ago because that is the sort of gesture humans expect from us. And I invited you to this place because one of my functions is to ensure the smooth running of this world.”

The robot pointed down at Morgan’s briefcase.

“I assume you brought some articles to discuss. Those articles are affecting that smooth running, and I am asking you to think about what I have just told you.”

Morgan looked back into the great office and finally noticed the lack of anything personal about it. Even the most mechanical of humans would have a few bits and pieces lying about, a photograph perhaps, a favorite cup. The Senior Controller’s office was just that, an office and nothing more. And it meant nothing to the Senior Controller because…and suddenly it dawned on Morgan what he had been missing. He turned to the huge robot.

“I assumed you were misusing your powers but you aren’t capable of that, are you?”

“No, Mr. Morgan. I am just a machine. A very complicated machine, but no different from your computer or your coffee machine. I am simply doing what I was built to do. On May the 29^th many many years ago humanity decided things were better run by us, and we have run things as best we can. It is unfortunate humanity keeps imposing human emotions and motivations on us. I assure you we have none. I suppose as created beings yourselves you have a need to see us in your own image.”

Morgan looked back at the dizzying view.

“And how long will you run things?”

“Until humanity formally tells us to stop. In the meantime, Mr. Morgan, I hope this insight is helpful in your future writings. You will be taken home now.” The robot pilot had slipped quietly onto the balcony.

As he entered the office and walked towards its internal door the Senior Controller called to him.

“Have a good day, Mr. Morgan.”

Morgan turned. The robot stood at the rail, the cityscape at its back.

“It’s a farewell I was programmed to say.”

Morgan almost lifted a hand in his own farewell but stopped himself. Who exchanges pleasantries with a machine? He turned and followed the pilot out.

Bob Johnston lives in Scotland where he loves, and is inspired by, its landscapes and history. He can be found at bobjohnstonfiction.com which includes links, stories, and further information.