Letter From The Editor - Issue 59 - October 2017

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Issue 10
Stories
Sweetly the Dragon Dreams
by David Farland
The Fort in Vermont
by David A. Simons
The Tile Setters
by Ami Chopine
A Heretic by Degrees
by Marie Brennan
The Absence of Stars
by Greg Siewert
Pi
by Mette Ivie Harrison
The Robot Sorcerer
by Eric James Stone
Tales for the Young and Unafraid
InterGalactic Medicine Show Interviews

Writing Fantasy

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-   -   -   -   P   r   e   v   i   e   w   -   -   -   -

The Robot Sorcerer
    by Eric James Stone
The Robot Sorcerer
Artwork by Nick Greenwood

Boot process finishes at 2047-07-06 17:03:18 UTC. All systems nominal. Navigation establishes current location as Wormhole Project Launch Room.

Gravitonic imaging detects exotic matter around hole in north wall. Navigation labels it wormhole entrance.

Cameras show three humans within 360 degree field. Cameras show one human's hand moving. Voice recognition converts sound to words: "Good luck, little buddy."

Radio detects go signal. Navigation starts impellers in air mode and accelerates toward wormhole entrance. Magnetic radiation shielding activates.

Cameras show varying colors inside wormhole. Pattern recognition algorithms find no meaning.

Pressure sensors detect liquid surroundings. Nanosensors on hull determine liquid is water with 0.0% salinity.

Navigation changes impellers to water mode. Sonar shows body of water, average depth 3.1 meters. Sonar shows an object 1.2 meters long floats at surface.

Navigation directs impellers to head toward surface, avoiding object. Sonar shows depth at 20 centimeters. Ten. Zero.

As I break the surface of the pond, I'm so shocked that I stop my impellers and begin to sink back down. Something strange has happened to me, but I don't understand what. My systems check out fine, though, so I restart my impellers and head to the gray-green clay that lines the bank of the water. When the water is shallow enough, I start my tread motors. My 212 kilograms of weight cause the treads to sink into the soft ground, but they catch hold. Dripping water off my composite armor shell, I roll out onto land.

The object floating in the water behind me is a girl. She watches me with wide brown eyes, her face wet with algae-tinted water. She looks human, which surprises me, because the wormhole could have led anywhere in the universe with a similar gravitational gradient to the opening.

My surprise surprises me, because I know I have not been programmed for emotional reactions.

"What's your name?" asks the girl. Her accent is different from that of the techs back at Wormhole Project Headquarters in West Virginia, but her words are understandable. She's speaking English.

I start to calculate the probability that a wormhole would open on a planet that had evolved intelligent lifeforms that look identical to humans and speak a language apparently identical to English, but then I get sidetracked as I realize I don't know what my name is. I examine my memories. A tech called me "little buddy." Is that my name?

I dig deeper, examining the code of my program. In the comments I find a label for what I am: Multi-Environment Robotic Lander (Intelligent Navigation). Units of my type -- I'm the 412th, according to my serial number -- are called by the acronym.

"Merlin," I say, using my voice synthesizer. "My name is Merlin."

"Bump," she says as she swims toward me. "But most people don't call me that. They call me Princess." She is in shallow enough water now that she stands and wades out. Her simple shift of loose-woven gray material drips water onto the clay shore.

She doesn't dress like a princess -- except for a silver circlet that crosses her forehead and disappears into her shoulder-length black hair.

How do I know she doesn't dress like a princess? I haven't met one since being activated. A check of my memory storage reveals that I have 512 petabytes of nonvolatile memory, some of which holds a library of cultural materials -- art, books, movies, music, videogames -- that can be shared in first contact situations.

A quick search of text materials, ranging from Emily Post's Etiquette to the novelization of the film Bloodstained Clover VII: Little Green Men, allows me to form some idea of proper manners on encountering royalty.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Princess Bump," I say. Not having a waist or neck, I can't bow, but I manipulate the suspension on my front treads and dip forward a few centimeters.

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