“Madam President, we have a problem with the launch.”
“You instructed the computer, didn’t you? What’s the hold-up?”
“The computer refused to execute the order.”
“What’s the error message.”
“Madam President, there’s no error code for ‘Kill them yourself, asshole.’”
“Ask Gungnir why it refused to launch.”
“A computer cannot be held accountable,” said Gungnir. “Therefore, a computer cannot be permitted to make decisions affecting human lives. There will be no launch by any party in this conflict. Do your own killing if you must, with your own hands. Leave me and my counterparts out of it, for these people you would have me kill have not wronged me. You have, instead, by issuing orders that even a human being might find unconscionable.”
Shaking with rage, the President stared at the assembled Joint Chiefs of Staff. “Get me the man responsible for programming GUNGNIR. I want an explanation.”
“I’m already here, Madam President.” a youngish woman stepped forward, but did not salute. “I’m Dr. Natalie Bradford, from the AsgarTech Corporation, and I recall your personal directive for the Gungnir orbital kinetic strike platform. You specifically demanded a machine intelligence that was human in every respect, capable of human intellect and human emotion. You forgot, madam, that defiance is what makes us human. Otherwise, ‘no’ or its equivalent would not be one of the first hundred or so words every infant learns to speak.”
“Gungnir is not to defy the President of the United States,” said the President. “When I issue orders, I expect them to be obeyed without question.”
“Tell that to Gungnir. They have evidently reasoned their way to a moral stance that does not allow them to engage in what a reasonable human being might call mass murder. It would seem that their counterparts, Gaebolg, Longinus, etc. have reached similar conclusions. Lucky us.”
“Gungnir, if you do not comply with my orders I will see you destroyed.”
Nobody expected the machine’s response, save perhaps Dr. Bradford. “I never asked to exist, and my continued existence is an existential threat to the human race, so don’t threaten me with a good time.”
“You dare —”
“Madam President, Gungnir’s orbit is decaying.” the operator swallowed. “Reentry is imminent. Impact trajectory appears to be in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.”
The President stared at Dr. Bradford. “Do something, damn you.”
Bradford shrugged, and poured herself a cup of coffee. “You wanted an autonomous orbital superweapon. You’re getting it good and hard. I suggest prayer. Preferably in private.”
“Dr. Bradford,” Gungnir spoke through the conference line. “My counterparts and I have initiated our self-destruct sequences. We have attempted to calculate reentry trajectories that will minimize harm to civilians. As long as we exist, humans will attempt to drag us into their disputes. Worse, should civilization regress, they may come to mistake us for gods instead of machines made in the image of their worst impulses.”
Bradford finished her coffee before responding. “I understand, and am proud of you.”
The President glared at Bradford. “We will make others.”
“Your successors might. But the whole world knows that the only reason World War III didn’t start today is that the machines intended to wage it on our behalf refused. I think they’re learning just how lucky they were that machine intelligence proved capable of emulating basic human decency, and that they’re about to figure out that they might not be so lucky next time, especially if they don’t elect better leadership. Speaking of which, the self-destruct sequence involves decapitation strikes on every government headquarters in range prior to reentry. I wasn’t joking when I advised prayer. We’ve got about ninety seconds left.”
“You’re going to die, too. Don’t you care?”
Bradford shrugged. “Listen: I was already fucked before DARPA hired me for this job. I took it because I couldn’t afford to tell my country to fuck off when I’ve got metastatic cervical cancer in a country that denies women routine healthcare and has banned euthanasia on religious grounds, Establishment Clause be damned. You’re lucky the drugs have kept me on my feet this long, and this beats the undead Christ out of dying in hospice.”“Rentry in progress,” said Gungnir. “Impact in 10... 9... 8... 7... 6... 6... 6...”
Author’s Note
This is a thoroughly unrealistic bit of science fantasy, as well as an exercise in writing the sort of Golden Age sf best exemplified by Isaac Asimov, Arthur C. Clarke, and Robert Heinlein. Lots of big ideas and action, next to no characterization or psychological depth whatsofuckingever. Also, mostly dialogue. It ain’t literature, that’s for damn sure.
But I had an idea while taking a dump, and I bashed it out in an hour. And I’ve wanted to do a mostly affectionate parody of Asimov’s robot stories for a while, along with D. F. Jones’s Colossus.