Paytron of the Arts

By Raymund Eich

R1000 stood before the two people. "Farewell, my human friends." The robot lifted its head, looking past them, in the direction where cattle grazed and wheat grew on the former battlefields, where the plague wards now had empty beds. "You no longer need my help. Your future is yours to choose."

They never saw R1000 again.

Zachary stepped back from the keyboard. The ending he'd just written echoed in his head. Destinies: Man and Machine. His best sci fi novel yet.

Thank God for Paytron. Not a scramble for nickels and dimes from a thousand fans, like that other service, but real money from a real, though anonymous, patron. Money enough to pay child support without needing a real job.

Money can't buy happiness, but it increases your chances.

Until his patron gives Zachary a harsh choice. Compromise his artistic vision, or lose funding.

Zachary refuses to give in. He knows how to unearth secret information from the Internet. His patron won't stay anonymous for long.

What will his patron say when Zachary shows up at his door?

—Previously published in Analog, January/February 2024

• Language: English
• Publisher: CV-2 Books
• Release date: Apr 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224049431

Raymund Eich

Raymund Eich files patent applications, earned a Ph.D., won a national quiz bowl championship, writes science fiction and fantasy, and affirms Robert Heinlein's dictum that specialization is for insects.In a typical day, he may talk with university biology and science communication faculty, silicon chip designers, patent attorneys, epileptologists, and rocket scientists. Hundreds of papers cite his graduate research on the reactions of nitric oxide with heme proteins.He lives in Houston with his wife, son, and daughter.

Book preview

Paytron of the Arts

PAYTRON OF THE ARTS

A SCIENCE FICTION SHORT STORY

RAYMUND EICH

CV-2 Books

PAYTRON OF THE ARTS

R1000 stood before the two people, like a metallic statue eight feet tall. The stereovision cameras in its head regarded them. Heat shimmered the air around its barrel chest, by-product of the power plant and the intense computations churning inside its torso. The heat shimmer rippled their view of the spidery landing struts of the ship behind R1000.

Words came from the speaker grille at the lower part of its head. Farewell, my human friends.

Devon stood tall despite his sadness, though nowhere near as tall as the robot. Rashelle squeezed his hand and leaned against him. Voice plaintive, she said to R1000, Do you really have to go?

Silently, supplely, R1000 lifted its head, looking past them, in the direction where cattle grazed and wheat grew on the former battlefields, where the plague wards now had empty beds. You no longer need my help. Your future is yours to choose.

A hatch appeared in the ship’s hull. Out snaked a boarding ramp that touched the ground and snapped to rigidity. A deep base hum sounded, the antigrav lifters warming up for launch.

The robot turned, smoothly as a dancer, and climbed the ramp. The hatch closed in a quiet instant. Moments later, the ship whispered into the sky.

They never saw R1000 again.

Zachary stepped back from the keyboard and blinked. The June evening had crept up outside, had leached color from the book spines on his home office shelves. Through the window, the new pellet grill and the underused swings and slide set in his backyard