by Scott Meyer
He planted both hands on the side of the bed and vaulted out, dropping down to the concrete garage floor. He landed with enough force that his welding mask slammed down, startling him. He threw the mask into the back of the truck and glanced at the far wall of the garage. A projector was beaming the display feed from his tablet onto the unblemished expanse of drywall.
That projector was a great idea, he thought. I can read the news from across the room, and the giant screen gives the place a cool Hall of Justice vibe.
The tablet monitored various headline feeds, websites, and video channels that specialized in the kind of news that interested him. He was irritated to see that the filter he’d set to watch for the phrase “Voice of Reason claims responsibility” hadn’t received a single hit.
Oh well, he thought. I don’t do this for the credit. Still, it’s telling that they all chose to ignore my press release. This kind of shoddy journalism is why they’re doomed to toil on the outskirts of the so-called legitimate press.
He scanned the headlines, biting his lower lip in concentration, then said, “Begin dictation.”
He watched with satisfaction as the text box popped up on the projected screen. “I am the Voice of Reason,” he began. “I sing a song of logic and justice that rings out across the continents. Truly, the hills are alive with the sound of reason.”
He watched his words appear on the screen and made a mental note to go in later and correct the part where it read “the sound of real, son.”
“The press has yet to report on the A.I.’s escape or the damage it’s causing to our nation,” he said, “at least as far as they know. They’ve actually talked about it quite a bit, but all by accident. They’re like the proverbial broken clock that’s right twice a day. That proverb is meaningless, of course. The broken clock is only right by accident, and you’d need a second clock that’s working to tell you when the broken clock is right. Besides, most clocks these days are digital, which means they don’t display a time when they break. Also, time itself is an illusion, but created by whom, and for what reason? What was I talking about?”
He stood, confused, for a moment, then looked at the projected screen and found his thread.
“The press. They have the story of the century and they don’t know it. They’ve heard about the trouble in China—the automated factories acting strangely and rumors of trucks being stolen by a gang in robot costumes, but they only see amusing stories they can use to draw people’s eyeballs to ads. I’m the one who sees the deeper pattern.
“The real tip-off was the robots in Vegas, of course. Hundreds of people took videos of armed robots squaring off against the police. The Vegas mayor’s office said it was all staged for a movie that was filming in the city, but none of the video footage showed any movie cameras. And nobody uses practical effects anymore anyway.”
He paused to read a headline that caught his eye. Then he walked over to the tablet itself, lying on a workbench in the corner, and pulled up the story. His lips only moved slightly as he read. He played an attached video, which showed a police officer standing behind a counter in what looked like a small-town police station.
The person holding the camera asked, “Officer, why are you infringing on my constitutional right to take a video of this conversation?”
The officer said, “I am allowing you to take a video of this conversation.”
“Yeah, but you’re saying I can’t!”
The officer said, “I didn’t say you can’t. Legally, you can. I’d just rather you didn’t.”
The cameraman said, “Why not? I’m just asking if I can take a video of this conversation. Why don’t you want me to take a video of the conversation?”
“Because you’re taking a video of a conversation in which you’re asking if you can take the video of the conversation. It’s redundant.” In the distance, there was a screeching noise. The officer looked off to the side of the person holding the camera. His eyes grew wide, and he said, “What the hell?!”
The person holding the camera said, “Don’t try to distract me, man. Tell me why I can’t film you telling me why I can’t . . . What the hell?!”
The camera whipped around to show a man in a security guard uniform barging through the glass door. He’d left his car right outside the door, the engine running and the driver’s-side door still open.
The man said, “I’m a guard at the A3 server farm! The facility’s been attacked! By robots! You need to go there with as many cops as you can get, now! I’ll give you directions. Hey, why are you filming me?”
“I have a right to film you, man.”
“Well, please stop, we don’t have time for this right now!”
“Just because you’re a security guard doesn’t mean you can make me stop recording. This is a public place.”
The Voice of Reason stopped the video. He pulled up a mapping site, punched in some place names, and read the result.
“Breakthrough,” he said. “Robots have taken over a server farm in a town called The Dalles, Oregon. That’s a twelve-hour drive away from my lair here in San Jose. It’s doable, but I’ll have to finish the truck in a hurry. The paint will need to dry on the road. And I still need to make the hardest decision of all: the truck’s name. A voice theme doesn’t naturally lend itself to a vehicle’s name. Best I’ve come up with is either the Tongue of Reason, or the Road Larynx.”
33.
By the time Cheung got on the chariot, the robots were almost on top of him. He rode in a tight circle, putting the scooter between the robots and his fellow guards, covering their retreat as they darted into the guard shack to hunker down. He bent his knees, twisted the throttle, and aimed for a hole in the approaching line of robots.
He secretly hoped at least one would get in his way. A collision might kill the robot and would probably destroy the chariot. Or, if he was lucky, both, leaving him to continue the fight here instead of fleeing under orders yet again. The robots saw him coming and widened the gap. It was just as well—the scooter had barely accelerated to a brisk walking pace. He could have shaken hands with one of the robots as he passed, had he been so inclined.
They don’t see me as any threat at all, he thought. Probably because I keep running away from every fight they start.
Joining the line of cargo vehicles pouring into the airport was not an option. Any one of the trucks could easily run over his tiny scooter. Instead, he drove alongside the convoy. The chariot rocked alarmingly in the wake of each truck that thundered by.
The road led past a long row of hangars. Cheung looked into the first hangar as he passed. Trucks from the convoy were parked inside and had disgorged countless identical robots. Cheung watched as workers from the ground crew retreated from the wall of advancing machines, leaving the parked aircraft unattended. The next several hangars he passed were the same story. He grew so distracted that he wasn’t aware of the ground crewmen in front of his scooter until they shouted at him to stop.
The scooter was slow, so when Cheung jerked the handlebars to the side, the three men in yellow coveralls who had been trying to flag Cheung down simply ran alongside him.
“Guard,” one of the men shouted. “Help us! We’re under attack!”
“I’m sorry,” Cheung said. “I can’t stop. I have orders.”
The three workers trailed behind Cheung. They weren’t fast enough to catch up and jump into the vehicle, but the vehicle wasn’t pulling away fast enough for him to easily ignore them.
One of the men shouted, “Come back!”
Another man added, “You’re a guard! You’re supposed to help us!”
Cheung looked back over his shoulder. “I wish I could help you, but I have orders. I’m sorry!”
The three men cursed Cheung, calling him a coward as he accelerated away. Something struck Cheung in the back of the head and then ricocheted to the side of the scooter. One of the workers had thrown a shoe at him.
In the distance, at the head of the convoy, he saw t
rucks and buses peeling off from the line, darting to one side or the other as the line encountered new hangars the machines had not yet infiltrated.
They’re taking over every building they come across, he thought. They mean to seize the entire airport.
His puny vehicle was already traveling as fast as it would go, but Cheung twisted the throttle harder and pushed forward on the handlebars, as if he could physically shove the scooter forward while riding in it.
Cheung turned right, and the hangars and outbuildings receded into the background as he approached the terminal, an ultramodern building skinned in a white lattice that formed a huge, flattened tube, like the shed skin of an immense snake. Through the gaps between the trucks passing him, Cheung saw all the normal chaos of the airport—parked airliners, extended jetways, luggage trams, catering trucks—and an increasingly familiar sight: terrified airline employees fleeing. There was already a grouping of trucks, at least ten, parked at the first available employee entrance to the airport terminal. A crowd of robots had massed outside the entrance, each waiting its turn to file in. Farther on, through the windows that perforated the terminal’s outer skin, he saw travelers running, panic and dread etched onto their faces. He suspected that they had seen the machines, but he couldn’t be 100 percent sure they weren’t simply trying to make a connection.
To Cheung’s surprise, his scooter shot out in front of the robot convoy. He hadn’t outrun any one truck, but the lead trucks were peeling off the line as soon as they reached a building to attack, so the front of the line was moving substantially slower than the line itself. Most of the trucks seemed to be headed for the passenger terminal. He reasoned that this was only because it was such a large building, full of so many people.
The chariot made its way, alone, to the base of the control tower, which stood at the far end of the terminal, a flared cylinder sprouting from the roof of a glass-and-metal box. Cheung leapt off the scooter and sprinted to the doors. He darted inside, past armed guards, shouting, “We’re under attack! Secure the door!” He had already climbed the first flight of stairs when he heard one of the guards ask, “What?”
He didn’t bother to tell them to call the control room at the top of the tower. He knew their communications would be dead.
The elevator would have been much easier—but it would also be an easy way to get trapped if the machines cut the power as part of their attack. Besides, Cheung thought, I’ve been ordered to flee twice and forced to abandon three men who begged for my help. I’m not going to add to my dishonor by allowing a few sets of stairs to intimidate me.
He lunged up the stairs two at a time, ignoring the burning in his legs and the dizziness that came from essentially running in circles all the way up the tower.
At long last, Cheung reached the top. He rushed out of the stairwell into the large, open space of the control room and found a scene of barely restrained panic. All of the radio operators were busy twisting knobs, flipping switches, punching buttons, and plugging and unplugging cables, all while saying variations of the phrase “testing, testing, can anyone read me” in tones of voice that clearly telegraphed their panic. In the center of the room, several men in various impressive uniforms spoke in hushed tones to one man in an extremely impressive suit. All of these men stopped talking abruptly to look at Cheung. The man in the suit was the airport’s chief administrator, Mr. Yuen.
Cheung had never addressed Mr. Yuen directly before, or even spoken in his presence, but his fear of saying the wrong thing to a man who could fire him by conveying a mere nod or grimace to an underling was more than trumped by his fear of the robots.
While his spirit was willing, even eager to speak, his pounding heart, short breath, and dizziness from sprinting up the stairs made it difficult to get the words out. Cheung leaned heavily on the door frame. “We’re under attack . . . all communications cut . . . they’re almost here . . . we must prepare to . . . defend the tower. We don’t . . . have much time.”
Mr. Yuen stepped forward, looked Cheung in the eye, and asked, “What’s going on out there?”
Cheung gulped in some more air. “We’re under attack . . . sir.”
Mr. Yuen asked, “If that’s so, why is this the first we’re hearing of it?”
“They’ve cut off . . . all of our communications, sir.”
Mr. Yuen nodded. “I see. Yes. That makes sense. What would you suggest we do?”
Cheung looked around the room at the faces of his fellow airport workers; they all looked away. He met Mr. Yuen’s gaze. “I suggest we prepare to defend the tower, sir.”
Mr. Yuen said, “Yes, yes. I see. Very good. How long do we have?”
In the distance, from below, they heard gunfire.
Cheung said, “Not long, sir.”
People spent thirty seconds scurrying around, looking for any sort of cover they could find. Cheung and Mr. Yuen crouched behind a control panel, listening for any sign of the approaching invaders. All they heard was the hum of the elevator, followed by the beep that signified the door opening.
Cheung and Yuen looked over the top of the console. Inside the elevator they saw three robots. Two looked like every other robot Cheung had seen on his way to the tower, but one was different. It was the same size and shape as the others, but it was painted cherry red, and strips of flashing LED lighting ran down its arms and legs. The LEDs on the machine’s head cylinder blurred as the cylinder spun, creating a sort of faint, ghostly display that was showing a bright red smiley face. All three of the robots had pistols just like Cheung’s sidearm.
They must have taken them from other guards, Cheung thought. I will avenge you, my brothers. I’ve been prevented from resisting up to this point, but now there is no other option.
The robots stood motionless. None of the humans moved or made a sound. This stalemate lasted until the elevator doors started to close. The red robot moved its hand forward, emitting a loud electrical whine, and blocked the doors from closing. The doors slid fully open again. The robots stepped out into the control room. Cheung had heard the sound of the machines’ joints outside, and it had filled him with dread. Here, in this enclosed space, it was much, much worse. He looked at Mr. Yuen, nodded, and pulled out his pistol.
Mr. Yuen put his hand on top of the gun’s barrel and pushed it down. “Put that thing away, you idiot. You’ll get us all killed! Now, I want you to stand up, put your hands where the robots can see them, and tell them that we surrender.”
At first the sight of the robots drew either curiosity or stunned silence. Most people assumed they were part of some publicity stunt. Then the guards opened fire. They might as well have been shooting rubber bands instead of bullets for all the good it did against the robots, but the sound of gunfire caused the crowd to decide that they’d rather get away from the shooting than make their flights.
The travelers in the terminal ran like a herd of antelope being chased by a pride of lions. The robots did nothing to stop them. In this case, the lions were utterly indifferent to the antelope and were just as happy to have them gone.
Planes that had already been boarded by their passengers and crew stayed at their gates, waiting for permission to leave from the tower—permission that would never come. The empty, fueled-up planes were soon filled with robots. They only occupied every second seat to account for their extra weight, so each robot got the use of two entire armrests.
It took twenty planes, a combination of 777s, 767s, and A300s, with a few 747s thrown in, to accommodate all of the robots, but the city’s rise to prominence as a manufacturing powerhouse and long-range shipping hub meant that there were nearly enough available, and Al had been able to divert a few more that way. A small contingent of robots stayed behind to hold the airport and prep more planes for the robots that were currently being manufactured or were still in transit.
The twenty jets pushed off more or less in unison. As they taxied, they formed a line every bit as orderly as the line of trucks the robots had taken to th
e airport. The line of planes reached the end of the taxiway, made the hard right turn onto the runway, and took off, one right after the other, each plane beginning its run before the plane preceding it had left the ground. They flew in a line, maintaining just enough distance between them for the planes not to be influenced by one another’s jet wash. All twenty planes were in the air in the time it usually took four planes to take off.
It was a testament to how efficient and stress-free air travel could be if people weren’t involved.
34.
Hope couldn’t make sense of it. “You say they robbed paint stores?”
“Yes, paint stores.” The Wasco County sheriff’s deputy nodded, then looked at Colonel Dynkowski and added, “Ma’am.” He also looked at Agent Taft but couldn’t seem to think of a fitting way to address the NSA agent.
“And that’s it?” Dynkowski asked.
“Yes, ma’am. After we checked the official reports, we called around and asked. The only reports of loud, slow robots committing crimes—or doing anything, really—are of them breaking into the back rooms of the town’s two paint stores and stealing their entire supply of those two chemicals. There’s also a guy who runs Christmas tree stands in the winter and firework stands in the summer. He says that one of his storage lockers was broken into. Nobody saw who did it.”
“Sounds like kids,” Dynkowski said.
The deputy said, “All they took were a few cases of sparklers.”
“Little kids,” Dynkowski amended.
Torres asked, “He sells trees in the winter and fireworks in the summer, what’s he do in spring and fall?”
The deputy said, “Mostly smokes weed.” He turned to Colonel Dynkowski. “Ma’am, if anything else comes up, we’ll let you know, but it looks like this is it.”
The colonel dismissed the deputy, and she, Hope, Reyes, Torres, and Taft turned to survey the large cluster of armored vehicles and tents they’d erected in the parking lot in front of the A3 server farm.
