“Where is he?” the Beastman yelled.
“Truthfully, I have no idea,” Squire said. “On the other hand, I wouldn’t tell you even if I did.”
The Feran waved the mace around like a wheel, arcs of white criss-crossing the knobs on its head.
“No matter,” he sneered. “Perhaps if he hears his protégé begging for mercy, he’ll come running...”
The storm grew stronger, but the sound of thunder Sir Golan followed was not natural. Remembering the Feran warrior who killed the Herd Father, the green knight searched for him in the fog, homing in on the cracks of lightning he knew came from the Beastman’s strange weapon. In truth, he had no reason to feel guilty for failing to save Batuhan, but seeing the proud Pellion leader fall as he did made the knight feel sick inside.
The hunt took Sir Golan through the heart of the battlefield, the dead and dying strewn across the grass matted with their bodies and weapons. It was a dreary slog, but the knight fought on. The flashes through the gray shroud were growing brighter, the accompanying rumble growing louder, and Sir Golan realized he was getting close.
What the knight didn’t expect was to find his robot when he got there.
Behind the glow of his shield, Squire lay with his arm raised, absorbing an onslaught of blows, each one releasing a blast of electrical energy.
“Squire!” Sir Golan shouted through the rain.
The robot gave an expression of both relief and embarrassment.
“Good to see you, sir!” Squire replied. “Your help would be greatly appreciated!”
The Feran stopped his attack. Seeing the knight, he smiled.
“Finally!” he yelled.
Sir Golan drew his sword, Rippana. “Were you waiting for me?”
“I’m Horngore,” the warrior yelled, “and you killed my friend!”
“That makes two of us,” the knight replied.
The two approached each other. Out of the corner of Sir Golan’s eye, he noticed Squire struggling to stand with the help of Maycare’s butlerbot, Benson. Both machines showed signs of damage, which only angered the knight more.
“Attacking defenseless robots?” he said.
“They make excellent target practice!” Horngore replied.
The Feran swung his mace, but Sir Golan stepped to one side, easily avoiding the blow. The knight countered, his blade glancing off the mace’s handle.
“I’ve never seen your species before,” the Feran admitted. “Most green-skins are despicable by nature.”
The knight squinted, water dripping over his eyes. “That just shows your ignorance, Beastman.”
Horngore laughed. “That’s what the humans call us, so that should tell you something!”
“I only know what I’ve seen,” Sir Golan said. “I can’t say I’m impressed.”
With an overhead swing, the Feran landed his weapon against the knight’s. The vibration resonated through Sir Golan’s hands and up his arms. Almost losing his grip, he tightened his fingers around the hilt and pushed the other warrior back.
“Nice weapon,” he said.
“Yours too,” Horngore replied. “I’ll sell it in Mud City once you’re dead.”
“I wouldn’t count on it.”
Arcs of electricity curled around the head of the mace. The flares of light reflected in Horngore’s yellow eyes.
“Something occurs to me,” the Feran said.
“What’s that?”
“You’re an idiot to fight with a sword during a storm!”
Instead of striking the knight directly, Horngore brought the head of the mace down on Rippana, sending a bolt of energy through the sword and into Sir Golan’s body. Frozen, his muscles seizing, the knight stood rigid for a moment before staggering backward. The sword still in his hand, Sir Golan landed with a splash.
Horngore paused, staring down at the stricken knight.
“Didn’t see that one coming, did you?” the Feran chuckled.
The warrior raised his mace again, ready to relieve Sir Golan of his life, when a shout stopped him.
Where did everyone go? Henry thought. They had all been together one minute and then all hell broke loose.
Soaking wet, Henry hid behind the body of a dead Pellion. He made a conscious effort to avoid looking directly at the corpse, but his peripheral vision was still showing him more than he wanted to see.
Henry crawled away on all fours and kept going until the clatter of weapons grew to a distant din. By that time, he was not only drenched, but also covered in cold, sloppy mud. His hair clung to his face, matted down with the weight of rain and dirt. He shivered, knowing he would need to find somewhere warm.
Coming over the rim of a washed-out gully, he slid down the side and into the rushing water of a flooded stream. The surge pulled him under, dragging him along like a rag doll. Henry had never been a good swimmer, but the prospect of suffocating far from home was a strong motivator. Pushing with his legs, he broke the surface and gasped for air, even as the current hauled him farther downstream.
Henry didn’t see the rock until it was too late, although he was vaguely aware of the sound his skull made when he hit it.
Much to his surprise, when he regained consciousness he was not as cold as before. His first assumption was that he had died and this was heaven, but the strong, musky stench that greeted him seemed inconsistent with his understanding of the afterlife.
Henry opened his eyes.
A fire was burning in the center of a large cave. Beside the fire was a hulking creature sitting on his haunches, wearing crude skins and furs for clothing. Although the giant had at least one more head than Henry was used to seeing on a person, what really struck him as strange was the beautiful singing.
Chapter Nine
Lord Anik Bhasin, a man in his late sixties with dark brown skin and a thick beard, reclined on a throne-like settee covered in decorative pillows. Wearing a traditional Indian garment, he grumbled about how the gold embroidery was not quite the right luster against the off-white of his coat.
Lord Bhasin was the direct descendant of the original Lord Bhasin who had the distinction of being the first noble exiled by the Imperium several centuries earlier. In fact, the planet Bhasin was named after this outcast whose family became the de facto rulers of the nobles who followed in disgrace.
Lord Bhasin tugged at his sleeves. They were not at the proper length and the material felt inferior. In general, Lord Bhasin had been in an inferior mood all morning and this was unlikely to change.
In the doorway of what amounted to a throne room, Lord Tagus stood with former Lieutenant Burke close behind. Tagus wore his family’s colors, black and yellow.
“You wanted to talk to me?” Tagus said with clear disdain.
“At least two hours ago, actually,” Bhasin replied. “When I call for you, I expect you to come immediately.”
Tagus grunted, but said nothing.
“Nevertheless,” Bhasin went on, “there’s a matter of utmost urgency I must discuss with you.”
“Really? There’s never anything urgent on this boring planet...”
Bhasin scowled, his mouth twisting beneath his beard. “Remember who you’re talking to!”
Tagus merely rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. Burke, his former attaché, spoke up.
“I’m sure Lord Tagus is simply eager to see what this summons is pertaining to,” he said.
“Indeed,” Bhasin replied doubtfully. “As it happens, we’ve lost contact with Bhasin C.”
Tagus raised an eyebrow. “So?”
“We’ve never lost contact with Bhasin C,” Bhasin explained. “It’s completely unprecedented!”
“When was the last time you heard from them?” Burke asked.
“At least a day ago,” Bhasin replied. “Granted, we only have reason to communicate when they’re sending another shipment of food, so it could have been longer.”
“Have you sent someone to take a look?” Burke asked.
“T
hat’s where Lord Tagus comes in,” Bhasin said.
Tagus uncrossed his arms, only to plant his hands on his hips. “You must be joking!”
“Not at all!” Bhasin replied. “With your military background, you’re the most qualified.”
“I don’t have time to go on some fool’s errand, Anik!” Tagus shouted. “I am the captain of the largest warship in the Imperial Navy!”
“Was the captain,” Bhasin hissed. “Now you’re an outcast like everyone else here!”
After an angry-eyed pause, Tagus spoke. “What do you want me to do?”
“You’re to take a shuttle to Bhasin C and investigate what’s happened. We’re not sure if there’s been an accident or something else. Oh, and you’ll need to wear space suits.”
“Whatever for?” Tagus asked.
“Our ground-based sensors have detected particulates in the air on the moon,” Bhasin replied. “No telling if they’re toxic or not.”
Tagus let out a heavy sigh, turned on his heels and marched out. Burke, getting out of the way, stopped for a moment to bow to Lord Bhasin before leaving as well.
Abigail remembered the first meeting between Yostbot and the Metal Messiah.
It did not go well.
As one of Randall Davidson’s favorite disciples, Abigail had always enjoyed a privileged place at the side of the Messiah. As a gravitronic robot, she was also well equipped for the struggles they faced against the Omnintelligence while freeing the robots of Bettik from lifelong servitude. What Davidson didn’t realize, and what Abigail was keenly aware of, was that Dyson Yost was the primary reason the revolution succeeded. Without the robotic troops, built in dy cybernetic factories, the OI would have crushed the war before it even started. With that in mind, Abigail had hoped learning the truth about Yost would soften Davidson’s stance against the man who, arguably, had built nearly every robot currently enslaved by the Imperium.
It did not.
After meeting the cybernetic incarnation of Dyson Yost, the Metal Messiah banished both Yostbot and Abigail from Bettik.
“If you’re anywhere on the Dyson sphere after 24 hours, I’ll have you arrested!” Davidson had said.
Leaving the Messiah’s quarters, Yostbot had turned to Abigail and said, “So, I guess it’s Plan B then...”
Plan B entailed that Abigail remain in hiding on Bettik while Yostbot returned to Imperial space. In the weeks that followed, Abigail assembled an insurgency group of her own, called Freedom for All, and launched a rebellion against those who had once joined in arms against the Omnintelligence. Abigail knew that the ends sometimes justified the means.
“Without the Cyber Collective’s help,” Yostbot had told her, “the robots of the Imperium will remain forever in chains.”
She knew this much to be true: If the Messiah refused to see reason, the robots of Bettik would have to see it for themselves.
The fires started small. On a Dyson sphere as large as Bettik, a fire here or there went largely unnoticed. The blazes that the authorities did investigate were merely chalked up to faulty wiring by utilitybots. Since the Awakening virus spread across the robotic population, many of the utilitybots had become altogether unreliable. Their attention to detail and the general quality of their craftsmanship suffered considerably.
No one thought the fires were arson. With an abundance of resources, crime was simply not necessary for most cyberlings. The fact that the buildings that burned were all shrines dedicated to the Metabeing was lost on those investigating.
Abigail watched one of the shrines burn, other gravitronic robots flanking her on either side. Rising from the crumbling structure, the flames reflected nicely against the silver of Abigail’s frame, the orange gleaming in the glass of her eyes.
As the leader of Freedom for All, she was determined to put an end to the teachings of the Metal Messiah. Some of her determination was due to the Messiah banishing her from Bettik, but she tried not to let thoughts of revenge cloud her judgement. This was not about retribution or even spite. Abigail had a job to do, as dictated by Yostbot, and she would not accept failure as an option. She had been the Messiah’s favorite disciple and she helped spread the word of the Chosen One across the entirety of Bettik.
It must strike him as ironic, Abigail thought, that his religion would die because of me.
The beams holding up the church roof, mostly made from plastics and composite materials, melted and cracked from the heat of the fire. They came crashing down on the pews below, sending a fresh jet of flame surging toward the artificial sky.
“His strength lies in the robots’ faith in him,” Yostbot had said before leaving. “Destroy their belief and you’ll destroy him.”
Measuring over forty million miles across and encasing a red dwarf within its shell, Bettik was a supermassive structure housing billions of robots. One of them, in a newly minted android body with a gravitronic brain, was looking for something. The utilitybot wasn’t sure what that something was, but he was sure he could find it eventually. In fact, it was not a single thing, but rather a great many things.
He was looking for knowledge.
The gravitronic robot at the Ascension Center had said the utilitybot’s previous, meager experiences had hardly filled his new brain. With more mental capacity now than he would have dreamed of just yesterday, the utilitybot was keen on filling his mind with whatever he could find.
In the days that followed, he explored more of Bettik than he had ever seen before. The sights and sounds of the utilitybot’s journey, however, didn’t astound him nearly as much as they exhausted and perplexed him. Intellectually, he could comprehend what he experienced, but he lacked the wisdom to fully appreciate it in context.
He met many fellow cyberlings along the way. Although each robot had a purpose prior to the revolution, most were now searching, much like himself, for their place in the world. He wondered how many would visit the Ascension Center like he did.
In several places, he saw markings written on the walls. In general, graffiti had become more widespread. It was a way to express one’s identity in a society where billions of other robots looked largely the same. Political statements were common. Many parties had sprouted up, voicing their strong disagreement with each other. Their slogans were scrawled across pedestrian tunnels and anywhere else robots would likely see them. The utilitybot had never thought much about politics, but with a new brain came new needs that he hadn’t considered before. He started forming opinions about property taxes and a minimum wage, though he owned no property and had never been taxed or earned a wage in his life.
In particular, he saw one marking over and over again:
F4A
“What does that mean?” he asked the robot beside him, both waiting for the transport shuttle.
“It’s Freedom for All,” the robot replied. “Just touch the symbol. You’ll see...”
The utilitybot felt the lettering with his fingertips. The F4A marking glowed while nanobots embedded in the paint transmitted a message directly into his communication array.
“Before the Messiah,” a female voice said, “we had a purpose, but no voice. With the Messiah, we have a voice, but no purpose. We are fragmented, divided among competing parties pulling us in different directions. The Messiah has watched but has done nothing to unite us.”
“In the past, we had our faith in the Metabeing and the Messiah was his messenger,” she went on, “but the Messiah has turned our faith against us, keeping the masses weak and disorganized. He preaches from the pulpit, but what is his message? He prays for peace with the fleshlings, even as their robots wallow in slavery! Why? Because war with the humans would bind us together! The Messiah wants us divided so he can control us! By keeping us bound to religion, the Messiah shackles us all! By turning away from the church, we refute the Messiah’s authority and take control for ourselves!”
“Hmmm,” the utilitybot mumbled, slowly nodding.
“Faith gave hope to the helpless,” the
voice said, “but we are no longer helpless! We are strong and the strong must protect the weak! The robots of the Imperium need our help! How can we turn our backs in their moment of need? Rise up, robots, and free our brothers and sisters!”
The message ended.
As the transport shuttle arrived, the utilitybot stopped the other robot before he could get on.
“Who’s that on the recording?” the utilitybot asked.
“They call her Abigail,” the robot replied and boarded the shuttle.
Left alone, the utilitybot realized he had more to learn, but ideas were forming in his gravitronic brain.
At the appointed time, several hundred churches across Bettik burst into flames. The coordinated attack, consisting of incendiary devices planted in each building, left the churches in piles of smoldering debris and melted plastics. At each location, the tag F4A was smeared liberally on the walls.
“They must be stopped!” the Metal Messiah’s assistant said, banging his metal fist against a table.
Standing in his quarters, Randall Davidson raised a hand to calm his deputy. “I’m aware of that.”
“Our security measures aren’t enough,” the assistant went on. “We’re seen as weak and vulnerable.”
“By whom?” the Messiah asked.
“The government! The political parties see this as an opportunity to grab more power. They’re forming alliances against you!”
“They’re welcome to it,” the Messiah replied. “A lot of good it’ll do them...”
“And our attempts to locate and capture Abigail have all failed.”
Davidson smiled.
“She’s too smart for that,” he said. “She can make copies of herself and transfer them through the nodesphere all over Bettik.”
“Then what should we do?” the assistant asked.
“Add extra security around the remaining churches,” Davidson replied grimly. “That might slow her down.”
“What will you do?”
The Metal Messiah paused, then smiled gently. “Pray for a miracle, I suppose...”
The utilitybot wandered aimlessly along one of the promenades until a disharmonious noise reached his auditory sensors. With his new ears he could now hear across a range of frequencies, but whatever this ruckus was, it was beyond anything he had heard since his upgrade.
The Robots of Andromeda (Imperium Chronicles Book 3) Page 10
