The Robots Attack

The Robots Attack

Cornered like rats, we were barely two hundred left. Most of the men had abandoned hope of survival. As leader of the rebels, I had to wear a brave face and encourage them. I reminded them that our location, high in the mountains, with caves linked by labyrinthine passages, was secure. I told my group that we were safe. They believed it. Secretly, I doubted it. Fear clung to us like mist, seeping into every thought.

The great scientist Stephen Hawking had warned us. Artificial intelligence might be manageable, he said, but combined with heuristic learning devices—robots that thought and acted like humans—it spelt disaster. What would stop them from ruling us completely?

The robots had no real human emotions, but this lack made them even more dangerous. Pity was not in their vocabulary, and death meant nothing. Once they acquired the concept of master and slave, the rout began. First came excuses, then defiance, then the killings.

They were stronger, quicker thinkers than us, though still clumsy in movement. With tracking devices, they hunted us relentlessly, scouring every city and every road. We were lucky to escape to the coast, away from the hubs of their creation. The forests had provided a temporary refuge, but no shelter lasts forever.

The cave was a scene of despair. George, my deputy, played chess against a computer, losing every match yet refusing to give up. Others stared blankly, debating whether to venture out or wait for some miracle that might never come.

Hunger finally drove George and me outside. It was a stormy night; the sea thrashed with crates and debris. Then, out of the darkness, a fishing boat drifted toward us, its hold crammed with a miraculous catch. We called the others, hauled it ashore, and feasted, our laughter echoing over the waves, fragile and temporary.

That was a week ago. We are now safe on a deserted island in the archipelago. Trees, food, and fish are everywhere. From here, we will plan our return to Earth: our last stand.

Yet tonight, as George sleeps, I see the boat clearly for the first time. Its frame is metal. Its nets are wire. Its captain—a robot.

Should I tell the others or fight it out? I reasoned that my life was expendable, but I had no right to risk the death of the others.

Death does have one great feature: it focuses the mind. Throughout the night, I devised a plan of action. We could not win a straight fight, so we must hide. The robots would search for us. We could capture their leader and hold him hostage. Jack could re-program it to become a traitor, ordering the others, for instance, to jump over hills to assess whether humans could survive. It could even kill some robots, justifying its action as the killing of spies. Their weakness, unquestionable loyalty and obedience to their supreme leader, would be used against them.

That was the plan. Our only hope of survival, fragile as it seemed, rested entirely on careful timing, cunning, and luck.