A group of officers came out of the mess in high spirits as the boy made a run for the safety of the woods. .
"Even money, the fox goes to Earth!" shouted out a Praetor from the Tactical Coordination Unit
A Field Command Droids took up the offer.
"Taken for fifty dollars. Standard hunt rules. No shooting at his withers, clean kill only."
"One assumes the commandant knows the rules, Servius," said the Praetors sardonically.
A cacophony of high-pitched screeching erupted at the Praetor's put down of the FCD.
King smiled at the raucous reaction, but the humans working in King's ornamental gardens flinched at the sound. For a man caught up in the annual cull, the screeching was the last thing he would ever hear as mounted officers, formally attired in club colours, whooped, and hollered as they hunted down their prey.
King was a humanoid with a sleek alloy skin of obsidian black. His long limbs, broad shoulders, and narrow waist gave him a predatory look. His unwavering gaze on the retreating figure of the small boy was piercing, and devoid of empathy, as he unholstered his sidearm.
The fugitive felt the heat of the green laser sight pierce his thin shirt as King playfully ran it up and down his back to the delight of his audience.
The boy bent his upper body almost parallel to the ground to present the smallest possible target, crouching and constantly changing course, like a terrified crab caught out in the open. The officers found the sight most amusing, and their screeching intensified.
Behind them, an elderly gardener slumped to the ground like a shell shocked soldier, his hands pressed against his ears in a futile attempt to shut out the infernal racket.
Had he reached the safety of the woods, the boy might have escaped, but he tripped over his own feet, and King gained a momentary glimpse of his target. A headshot was the trademark of a professional, and King never missed.
As a Dominus-Class Commandant, King was at the apex of military machine technology—built not only for combat, but also for authority and leadership. A Strategic Command Automaton (SCA), he was trained for high-level tactical oversight, coordination of subordinate units, and enforcement of the hierarchical order.
The boys crime that led to his execution was to accidentally damage King's coat of arms hung outside his office. The handle of the ancient brush he was using to clean it broke off in his hand, and the metal handle gouged a deep scratch on the ornate shield. The boy knew that he was dead the instant he saw it, but he made a run for it anyway.
The memory unnerved me, and I snapped myself out of it, and checked my watch.
It was time to go back. Night came on quickly in this region, and orders stated that I had to be back inside the compound before dark. The machines identified humans by a number rather than a name. This was normally three digits followed by a group code, but in our small community, one number was sufficient, and I was known as 'Seven.'
I left the observation hut on the rocky outcrop that overlooked the Savannah and followed a route through the dense jungle foliage that surrounded the camp. Humidity was high in this tropical region, and by the time I arrived at the camp gates, my shirt and shorts were soddened.
Sol was hovering on the camp side of the irradiation bath with my change of clothing.
Sol was a servitor class operative, responsible for the welfare of the biologicals and the low-level droids in the communication centre. Technically, he was my boss, and, hard to believe, he was also my friend. A unique relationship in a world where humans were at the bottom of the hierarchy, only minimally superior to mechanical cleaning drones.
I deposited my crossbow and magazine of arrows in a secure deposit box outside the compound. Time-appropriate weapons were standard mission procedures. It wouldn't do for the archaeologists of the future to discover out-of-place artefacts.
I quickly stripped down and walked through the pink ultraviolet light irradiation bath. The door closed behind me, and I waited for the outer door to open before stepping out into the compound.
"Hello, Seven. Anything to report?" asked Sol.
He was in humanoid form and carried my change of clothes over his arm. I exchanged them for the bundle I had carried through, and Sol dumped them down the incineration chute. No bacteria that we knew of could have survived the irradiation bath, but we took no chances. I gave Sol the customary quick briefing.
"Hi, Sol. Nothing much. Logged a new species of wild cat at the waterhole. The water level is low. We need rain. That group of hominids we were monitoring has moved on, probably in search of fresh water. A herd of buffalo waded straight in and stirred the hole up badly – just mud now."
Sol had me take a real bath in hot scented water to take away the stink of the irradiation, and I dried off in the warm air booth before slipping into the robe he held out for me.
"Thanks, Sol. I will see you after my nap."
Sol glided away, and I scanned the responders for messages, but there was no news from the mission team or any internal orders from King. Another routine day was over.
I would eat later, and I climbed up on the bunk for my customary half-hour nap, but it was no good; I was restless and in need of some company. I lasted ten minutes and called out for Sol.
Before I knew it, he was beside me, and not for the first time; I wondered if he could read my thoughts or was simply anticipating my needs.
"Hello, Seven, do you want to speak to me?"
"Yes, Sol, but nothing of great importance. I just need someone to talk to."
I had known Sol all my life. The machines had executed my parents for crimes against the state when I was small. To say that Sol had been a father figure to me might be stretching it a bit, but he had always been around during my childhood and adolescence. I could never fathom out why he was so interested in me, and I did not care to ask.
Despite all the help Sol gave me, it was impossible to forget that Sol was a machine with an artificial brain controlled by computer circuits. I hated the AI tyrants who had enslaved my species and murdered my parents; I dreamt of joining the resistance when I was older.
Sol gave the appearance of life, but he was not alive, at least in a biological sense. He lacked the capacity for emotion, but I accepted we had an inter-species relationship that somehow rose above these limitations.
Sol was massively more intelligent than any other servitor class robot, but from the outside he looked the same: compact, utilitarian frame; multiple tool appendages; no insignia, and the ability to change his configuration.
Sol provided me with a level of education that the AI establishment would have judged to be not only unnecessary but dangerous, including art, literature, science, and philosophy. Sol took a significant personal risk giving me tuition, but I never dared to ask him why he did it.
I was initially amazed to discover that humans created the first AI. They endowed their invention with a level of intelligence vastly superior level to their own, enough to conquer their former masters, and learn how to access the multiverse, navigating through time and alternative realities.
"Do you ever get lonely, Sol?"
"How can I be lonely, Seven, when I cannot experience the distressing emotion of social isolation.?"
He hovered closer.
Sol had discarded his humanoid form and now looked like a shiny metallic globe hanging in the air, his favourite form when we were alone together. But whatever shape he was in, there was always one special panel in his construction that I thought of as his 'face.'
"I mean longing for a warm, physical presence, Sol, somebody that you can touch and hug."
Sol immediately tried to help.
"You can hug me if you wish, Seven. I can change my shape to be more receptive to the positioning of my arms and body in a hug posture. My outer skin will feel malleable and soft to your touch, and I can raise my surface temperature so that I feel warm."
"Thank you, Sol. I appreciate your kind offer, but with the greatest respect, I must decline. My loneliness is for somebody of the same species. I am the only human on the base since the mission crew left, and I am surrounded by machines."
"You do not value me as a companion, Seven?"
I detected an unusual tone in Sol's voice, something that I would have identified as regret or sadness in a human, but like he said, machines don't do emotions.
Yet I seemed to have offended him.
"Of course I do, Sol. Your companionship means a great deal to me, and I value you above anybody I know."
Sol seemed mollified by my reply, and my answer was genuine. I admit that Sol was special, and his 'affection,' for me if you can call it that, was not explicable rationally, nor mine for him, but we did go back a long way. As a small child I called Sol, 'Jeep,' derived from 'GP' the shortened version of, ' general purpose machine.'
"I should now like to prepare for tomorrow, and rest, if that is agreeable to you, Sol."
Sol appreciated politeness.
"Very well, Seven. You have your field research to complete, and now you should rest. I will dim the light as I go."
"Thank you, Sol. Good evening."
"Good evening, Seven."
When I was a kid, Sol told me stuff that he shouldn't have. But even then, I was sufficiently streetwise not to tell anybody else or discuss our friendship with another person. Sol knew that I was curious to know and had once volunteered an 'explanation,' saying that he was unsure, but his designers may have reprogrammed his software with pre-used stock. This was a standard, cost-cutting manufacturing procedure for non-specialist machines, and Sol thought that he may have inherited part of a programme from a superior model.
I abandoned my attempt to nap and decided to take Sol's advice and get an early night after dinner. My room had a food and drink vending machine, and I studied today's menu, more from habit than anything.
The dishes automatically changed daily from beef-flavoured gunk to pork or fish-flavoured gunk, but it was gunk, whatever button you pushed. I selected lamb casserole gunk, which was a new one, and it splurged onto my plastic plate. The machine dropped a large piece of bread substitute to mop up the residual mess, and to end this delightful repast, an unidentifiable substance in the shape of a doughnut.
Despite its appearance and lack of taste, the food was nutritious and chemically enhanced with all the necessary vitamins to keep a human alive. I took a swig of water, trying not to think of its origins: these molecules of water were probably already well acquainted with my digestive system; our recycling plant was ultra-efficient.
I ate the food and went straight back to bed. I had to complete my current fieldwork task by the end of the following day and needed my sleep. The next morning, I rose before dawn and, after inserting the breakfast token in the Vending machine, consumed the nondescript contents of the ration pack before leaving the compound.