The three Scouts had spotted the slave robot making his way along a river, iron shoulders leaving a wake in the dark water. The Scouts had crippled him, cutting electromuscle in his arms and legs, then they had dragged him clear of the water onto the snow-covered bank. The slave had accepted his treatment without complaint.
The Scouts had been ordered to bring back the whole body, not just the mind, and so they had slowly carried it back northwards, towards the red glow that could be seen for miles around in those bare northern lands.
Word had been sent to Kavan, and he strode through the night to meet them, accompanied by Eleanor and Karel.
He made the Scouts prop the body of the slave up against a low rise and then sent them out into the night to keep guard, silver blades flashing as they cut at snowflakes.
Kavan gazed down at the slave robot. It looked back up at him without emotion.
‘What’s your name, robot?’ asked Kavan.
‘Banjo Macrodocious.’
Kavan looked at Karel. ‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Eleanor says you used to deal with robots like this. Do you know him?’
‘That was the name of the robot I met back in Turing City,’ said Karel. He looked down at the crippled slave. ‘But that wasn’t you. I’m sure of it.’
‘We are all called Banjo Macrodocious,’ said the slave. ‘Our minds are all twisted in the same manner; therefore we are all the same. Why name us differently?’
Kavan wasn’t interested. ‘What happened to the Wizard?’ he asked. ‘He never existed, did he? Just another rumour. Another story to frighten people with.’
‘There was a wizard a long time ago. But she was a woman. She welcomed slave robots into her tiny kingdom and used us wisely. Her kingdom prospered, and the Book of Robots was kept safe.’
‘The Book of Robots? Is it real?’
‘Yes.’
Kavan paused, thinking. He had noticed the expression on Eleanor’s face at the slave’s words.
‘Then where is it?’ he demanded. ‘You don’t carry it, I see.’
‘All slave robots carry it, at least in part.’ replied Banjo Macrodocious. ‘It is woven into our minds.’
‘What does the book say?’ asked Eleanor, thrilled.
‘It doesn’t say anything,’ said Banjo Macrodocious. ‘The Book of Robots carries the plan for the way a mind should be twisted. It contains the philosophy of a mind: the purpose. My own mind is an imperfect representation of that plan. Other minds carry other parts of that plan.’
‘But you’re a slave,’ interrupted Karel, outraged. ‘You don’t mean that the Book of Robots intends us all to be slaves?’
Banjo Macrodocious focused on him. ‘You are from Turing City,’ it said. ‘You find that disturbing. Your colleagues do not.’
‘Nyro’s philosophy,’ commented Kavan, with some satisfaction.
‘I did not say that,’ said Banjo Macrodocious.
‘NO!’ shouted Karel at the same time. ‘I don’t believe it! You said it yourself, Banjo Macrodocious, that your mind is an imperfect representation of what is written in the book! Nyro cannot be right! A mind is more than just twisted metal!’
Kavan and Banjo gazed at Karel, waiting for him to finish. Eleanor had turned her back on them, she gazed out at the night.
‘Not all minds that carry their part of the Book are slave robot minds,’ said Banjo Macrodocious. ‘Besides which, I cannot comment on what a mind is. You would need to speak to those at the top of the world.’
Eleanor turned around at that. ‘The robots at the top of the world?’ she said. ‘You’ve met them?’
‘No,’ said Banjo Macrodocious. ‘But I’ve visited their places.’
‘What places?’ she asked, eagerly.
‘There are many places built by the robots at the top of the world. We are not far here from the Northern Road. It joins to the road that runs along the seabed from the top of the world to Shull. They say there are many roads across the seabed and that the whales follow them. They say that there is a glass building that stands somewhere below the surface, so deep that the light of the sun cannot reach it, or illuminate the glass statues of the strange robots that stand within…’
‘Never mind what they say. What places have you visited?’ demanded Eleanor.
‘The road from the top of the world emerges on the northern coast of Shull. There are buildings there, erected by those who came down that road.’
‘What’s inside the buildings?’
‘I don’t know. I was not ordered to enter.’
‘But weren’t you interested?’ shouted Karel in frustration. ‘Didn’t you care? Didn’t you want to know?’
Banjo Macrodocious turned his head to face him. ‘I wasn’t ordered to be interested,’ he replied.
‘Enough of this,’ commanded Kavan. ‘We are at the end of a battle. What happens now to the Northern Kingdom?’
‘It will fall,’ said Banjo Macrodocious. ‘We will then walk across the land and we will find a place where we can prosper once more. The Book of Robots will be preserved.’
Kavan was silent.
‘There will be a place for you within Artemis,’ said Eleanor.
‘That’s not your decision to make, Eleanor,’ said Kavan.
And now Eleanor turned to him, wearing that familiar expression of contempt.
‘You’ve conquered Shull,’ she said. ‘What’s Spoole going to do about you now? Are you going to let him send you on across the whole of Penrose? Or are you finally going to march on Artemis City?’
‘With what troops?’ asked Kavan. He turned to Karel. ‘Turing City is no more. What would you have me do now?’ He jerked a finger at Banjo Macrodocious. ‘You heard what he said; do you still think that Artemis is wrong?’
‘Yes! A mind is more than just twisted metal!’
‘But why do you think that? Only because that is what your mother wove you to believe. When Nyro’s philosophy is woven into every mind on this planet, then what difference will your feelings make?’
Karel tried to frame an answer. Kavan turned to Eleanor.
‘You ask which way do we march next, Eleanor? I don’t know. But I think that decision cannot be made yet. Because I have crossed the extent of Shull, from the south to the north, and it is only here that I have met robots that truly believed in anything other than just themselves.’
The wind was dropping. The sky was clearing, just a little. A few stars shone above, glimmering amongst the falling snowflakes.
‘We will visit the buildings to the north of here. Just the three of us – you, me and Karel. We will see what we find there. And then we shall decide where we are to march next. North, or south.’
Maoco O emerged from a pile of gangue into what had been Turing City, his reflexes immediately dropping him to the ground for cover.
Everything had gone now. There was nothing left but rock and sky.
He knew the scenario, he had been trained in Arte-misian tactics for reclaiming a city.
The buildings that housed the foundries that used to line this road would have been taken apart brick by brick; their metal frames unbolted and fed into the forges to be melted down and formed into ingots for transportation. The huge acid tanks would have been drained, their contents sprayed on the very dust to make salts out of the scraps of metal that had fallen there, and then the tanks themselves broken apart to make even more ingots, then loaded onto trucks that ran on temporary railway lines laid into this area solely for the purpose of deconstruction. Maoco O could see the faint imprint of the sleepers in the windblown dust that covered the stony ground.
He felt as if his gyros weren’t spinning properly. Everything looked so wrong. Even the sun seemed too big, a wobbly yellowy-red presence, shimmering in a rusty sky; it gave the land a patina of death, of dissolution into
