What metal did they have? Only the metal the robots who lived there had brought with them. Only the rusty skeletons of dead machinery. Only such as they could salvage from the bodies of the meagre robot life that dwelt there, the rodents and insects that fed on one another.
And sometimes there was the metal that could be harvested from the dead bodies of the occasional robot that foolishly strayed into their land from the richer cities. For the robots that dwelt in Artemis were poor in spirit as well as poor in metal and would even prey upon their own kind.
On the central plains the surrounding world becomes distant, and a robot can see nothing but the sky. A robot’s world reaches up into nothing instead of stretching out to other worlds. Nyro was a robot woman like any other that dwelt in that land, except in this one respect: Nyro had been to those other lands.
Whether she had been born there, or she had developed the wanderlust, or she had gone there to beg for metal to make a child, Nyro had seen the other robot communities that dwelt on the continent of Shull. But they had turned her away, and so now Nyro envied and hated them. Nyro wanted Artemis to be like them, and yet at the same time she wanted those other communities to be punished.
But Nyro knew she couldn’t compete with the cities to the east and the cities to the west, not with their forges and their metal.
There was not enough metal in Artemis to build cities like those she had visited in the south, with their soaring towers, their arches and their roads. There was not enough metal so that minds could merely sit in contemplation as they did in Stark, devising new forms of machinery. There was not the metal to arm soldiers so that they could fight the guards that prevented them entering the mountains to the north, and thus gaining access to vast lodes of iron that lay there beneath the rock. No, here in the centre of Shull, minds were turned, every hour of every day, to the search for what scant metal there was.
But Nyro did not retreat into bitterness or resentment. Rather, she planned how best she could use what she did possess.
Nyro had long been ready for the night of the making of a mind. She had spent half her life, it seemed, ready to twist a child. But she had held back, wondering how to make a child that could compete in this world of scarce resources.
Until, finally, Nyro had her vision of the future that would shape the continent of Shull.
This was what she realized.
When a woman twisted metal, she would make the child in her hands to care for itself, for it needed to value its own existence, or else it would not survive. Then she would make the child in her hands care for its father and mother, and then its brothers and sisters, for this is the way that the family grew strong and how the mother herself would be cared for in her old age.
But Nyro realized that this land did not have enough metal for the old ways to continue. So instead she wove an idea.
The idea was called Artemis.
Artemis was to be the mother and father, the brother and sister of the child. The new child would care for Artemis above all else. It would protect its own life for the good of Artemis. It would protect others for the same reason. This way all those lengths of wire in robots’ heads would become as one wire.
The idea was a good one, and Nyro’s children prospered. They wove other children in turn who also served Artemis. And Nyro watched as those children became strong enough to take metal, just a few scraps at first, from those proud communities to the east and west that had once turned her away. She watched as those children twisted more children, all with minds bent towards Artemis.
Nyro died forgotten by her own children. Nyro died alone, and yet proud to see what she had wrought.
Artemis had taken on life. Artemis was no longer just a place, just a feeble city that stood on the continent of Shulclass="underline" Artemis was alive.
Any robot, whatever its origin, could pledge allegiance to Artemis. Any robot could be said to be serving Artemis, so long as this idea was served.
That my life, my body, my wire, all is subservient to Artemis.
Artemis.
Olam glanced around the assembled robots as Eleanor completed her story. How did they feel? Looking at their faces, he saw his own emotions reflected back. Horror, confusion, fear. And, also, on one or two robots, this horrible aching eagerness. This feeling of safety and order that Olam recognized deep in his gyros and that he tried to push away. This sense that all of life’s fears and confusions could be ticked off and lined up and assigned to the reassuring answer that was Artemis. The thought that, if he became part of this, he would never feel fear again.
His attention was distracted by a scraping, scratching noise coming from the stadium steps. The guards were dragging metal crates into place.
‘Would-be Artemisians, you have already shown strength, but now is the time to demonstrate cunning and agility…’
Olam only half heard Eleanor’s words. Like every other robot in the place, he was dreadfully fascinated by those crates and their contents. The grey guards were now lifting the lids, shaking something loose. His gyros gave a sickening lurch as he saw what they held. Snakes. Boa inductors. They were small, less than a foot long.
‘Freshly imported from Raman,’ continued Eleanor. ‘They won’t kill, but they carry a current that will paralyse a robot for about thirty minutes.’
All around the stadium, tangles of silver snakes were slipping, sliding, dropping to the ground. They whipped their way across the floor, seeking out the shadows and safety, silver bodies reflecting bars of blue sky and darkness. Eleanor pointed to the ends of the stadium, to the metal markers indicating north and south. Olam’s electromuscles trembled. Some of the more extreme sports in the arena relied upon direction…
‘You are in pairs already,’ said Eleanor. ‘It’s either you or your partner. Disable the robot standing beside you. Bring your robot to the north of the stadium if you wish to show it mercy. Bring it to the south if you wish it destroyed.’
Olam dived forward, under the reaching grasp of the tall robot. He saw the flash of a silver boa before him, but it was already gone, snatched up by a nearby man dressed in copper. Something seized his legs, trapping him. The tall robot.
‘What’s your name, boy?’ his assailant asked, hands prying at the panelling on his legs. He was going to repeat the trick he had tried on the damaged woman, squeezing Olam’s electromuscles to send the current back up into his brain to short his mind.
‘Olam,’ gasped Olam. There was another flash of silver over to his side. He rolled for it, but the snake saw him coming and retreated in panic. Olam could see clearly the smooth silver of its upper side, the rough segmented iron of its lower surface. The aristocrat jerked at his legs, pulling him around and sprawling him onto his back. Olam stared up at him; saw the dead eye that he had stabbed with the awl.
The tall robot realized what he was looking at. ‘There was no need to make things personal,’ he said.
Olam wriggled in panic. He could see the huge silver marker at the south end of the stadium. That way lay death…
‘You could always make a new eye,’ he babbled.
‘You’re making things personal again.’
The tall robot was too strong. The Wiener aristocracy had access to the best metal, to the best technology. Olam couldn’t hope to fight him.
Without hurry, he was dragged across the track towards the shadows at the perimeter where the snakes sheltered. Up above, the sun was now like a yellow hole in the blue sky; it reflected off every piece of polished metal in the arena.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked the aristocrat, who ignored him. ‘What’s your name?’ he screeched.
The tall robot bent down and grabbed a snake in one easy movement.
‘Doe Capaldi,’ he said. With one hand, Doe Capaldi held onto Olam’s legs; with the other he held the snake by the tail, swinging it back and forth slowly to stop it curling around his own arm. Olam kicked out hard, twice, but the tall robot’s grip was too strong. Now he was turning the snake so that the iron bottom faced towards Olam. He could see the segments, grey and scratched. He could feel the magnetic pull they made. The snake would try to wrap around his neck, where it could fire off a magnetic pulse strong enough to disrupt his coil, effectively paralysing him. And then Doe Capaldi would drag him, helpless, to his end. All around he could see other robots in the stadium already being dragged to the south side of the stadium. Dragged to their death.