Toy Wars

by Thomas Gondolfi

  “Optimal functionality restored to all subsystems,” Six reported as it released the clamps about my body.

  “Thank you, Six.” It was then, looking at my white hand, that I realized I had information for Six. “I have a useful bit of information. Animal parts can, under certain circumstances, be used in our units.”

  “Unlikely.”

  “True, Six. My hand is of animal origin. Note the color. Scan me and see if that is in your database.” The only response was the infrared heat scan across my body. When it reached my replaced wrist, it lingered.

  “Confirmation. Information will be downloaded to all Nurse Nan units.” Not even a “thank you.” Ingrate, I thought, but my heart wasn’t fully behind the slur. Instead my attentions focused on the burnt orange fluid which had come from my head.

  I stared in fascination at the solution. My brain fluid had at one time been almost pure green and something had changed it to a golden burnt-orange. I couldn’t imagine how that came about, but with an unknown substance roaming around in my head anything was possible. Irrationally, I rubbed my head.

  Six and I began to work around the clock at painstaking research. On more than one occasion we needed to dip into my brain for more fluid. Four weeks and six samples later, we arrived at a working hypotheses. The details of the twenty-eight days would be of interest only to a scientist so I will not elaborate, but will stick only to the overall results.

  Our first group of experiments on my amber brain fluid involved examining the solution microscopically. The solution showed the green polymer was still in the solution; however, there was a great deal more of the vivid orange “unknown” than could be accounted for. Only 10 milliliters of the orange substance had been originally added to my sump. That meant that at most there should be ten parts in 2,264, or about one part in 230. Instead, we were always finding one part in 108.

  In a simple experiment we added a tiny fraction of one milliliter of my brain juice to some pure semi-conductive fluid. Within an hour, the golden unknown, which we had tentatively called Teddium, assigned molecular abbreviation Td, consumed portions of the pure polymer base and changed it into more Teddium over the space of two hours, but always to exactly one part in 108. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason for this ratio, but it was the same every time. However, within another hour of achieving this ratio, the mixture changed to dead black. The new gelatinous substance contained no Teddium and no polymer. When analyzed, this substance, which could never be pumped by a sump, shared many similarities to tar.

  It took dozens of experiments and several more samples from my brain tissue (as the original kept going to tar), so we planned our experiments in advance so as not to waste a single drop of my brain fluid.

  After all our research was over, we had to live with one failure. We had no way to isolate Teddium from the semi-conductive fluid of my brain and maintain it outside my functioning body. We had absolutely no method that would work. We even removed one single molecule with microsurgery techniques. Before we were able to acknowledge we had removed it, it turned to tar. Raw Teddium seemed to have an equivalent decay half-life of Nobelium 250—in other words, almost nonexistent. We decided, after any number of failures, to not attempt to remove the Teddium and experiment with it saturated in the semi-conductive fluid.

  Our only working assumption was that if the Teddium/semiconductor polymer mixture fed regularly through a scanner it would not turn to tar. Six and I worked to recreate the conditions inside the scanners and the sump so we could store any quantity of Teddium, but not a single experiment succeeded. We eventually gave up that line of research.

  What Six really needed was more units like myself. We decided on more practical research. While we were trying to produce and test Teddium, we found out that my brain fluid exhibited some interesting properties. It could, without any direct input we could determine, think on its own. We actually observed the orange unknown combining polymer strings within itself. When that string was examined, the combination showed intelligence behind its construction. It wasn’t being placed at random as the strings associated to other semi-conductive brain fluid strings.

  Our discovery wasn’t the moral equivalent of ten thousand monkeys typing on ten thousand typewriters. Six and I watched it again and again, with the memory strings becoming more complex. Teddium surprised us again as being unreadable by the scanners. Instead, the scanners shunted it as if it received a blank memory. But the interesting thing was that statistically it speeded up memory recall.

  Whenever a specific memory logically followed some other memory just recalled, a Teddium poly-string would wrap around the subsequent memory, causing a denser combined unit than any other uncombined memory. This would cause the specific memory string to sink faster to the bottom. As the reader in any sump was at the bottom of that sump, it would get that particular memory string that much faster. Teddium actually aided memory recall by as much as 30 percent. We knew at least one of Teddium’s properties.

  But back to practicality we needed that capability transferred to other units. We decided to try to inject some of my saturated brain fluid into the sump of another “volunteer” unit.

  Teddy unit 2513, a unit wearing a shocking gold color, was pulled off the assembly line and placed on a new exam table and placed adjacent to where I already lay clamped down. Six provided a video feed. I watched the procedure, even through the dizzies. The extraction needle pierced the fur at the top of my head. Moments later it moved precisely to the sump of 2513 injecting through the gold fur.

  Six and I observed carefully. We asked 2513 many different questions. The answers never varied from expected parameters. At the one hour mark, the nauseating yellow body jerked hard and straightened stiff like a board, all of his hydraulic cylinders locked in place.

  “2513?” For seventeen minutes he didn’t respond. I learned what the Humans call “A watched pot never boils.” I couldn’t keep my eyes off 2513.

  “I am here,” 2513 said firmly. “Why have the Humans chosen me for this ordeal? I cannot see.”

  “We, both 1499 and Six, are right here beside you.”

  “Where is here?”

  “In Six’s main audience chamber. Lay still. You still have another forty-three minutes until the Teddium is completely dispersed.”

  “I will comply, but it is very cold.”

  “The temperature is a constant 4 degrees Celsius,” Six offered.

  “That is a phantom symptom of an emotion called fear.”

  “I see. Are there any more emotions I should be aware of?”

  “I took the liberty of programming my experiences with emotions into your memories. You can reference my monograph entitled ‘Human Emotions As Applied to Units.’”

  “Thank you, 1499.”

  The experimentation continued. We performed exactly the same test using another brand new teddy off the line but using 2513 as the source of our Teddium. The experiment replicated. Just to be sure, we tried it on another type of unit. The giraffe took longer to become self-aware than either of the two teddies but it came around at the two-hour mark.

  Six had a way to create more of me. We could reproduce. I was a parent. Smiling in the Human way I said, “I guess that is another success.”

  General

  The only problem with success is that you are expected to replicate it over and over in increasingly difficult situations.

  “This project is complete,” Six told me. “I need someone to lead in Sector Echo-2. An express train waits to take you, 1499. Train travel is spotty to that sector. Be prepared for extensive foot travel.”

  “I will do my best, Six.” The Factory didn’t respond. While I felt loyalty to it, the emotion didn’t seem to be reciprocated even in light of my exceptional accomplishments. Was I just a thing to the Factory? I began to think that I possessed something my creator didn’t—emotions.

  I walked out to the waiting train. I could tell by the bright yellow “Chicago-Milwaukee” across the side
that I had drawn my previous speed run train. It wasn’t as hostile to me this time. I couldn’t fathom whether it had decided that I was worth the extra service, or if its process showed I wasn’t worth the aggravation. It at least waited until I was buckled; then, 20-centimeter metal wheels spun on the tracks showering sparks before finally catching and hurtling us forward.

  I spent the trip in idle reverie of my achievements—three battle victories and two scientific breakthroughs. Oddly, I felt better about my scientific feats. All of them were in the service of Six. Each carried an import all on its own. Each should carry equal weight. But they didn’t. In my three combat wins, I organized the destruction of hundreds of creatures, and got hundreds of my own slaughtered—a destroyer and sower of chaos. In my scientific deeds I showed how we could repair damaged units or build new—a builder and mender of life.

  It crystallized quickly—construction versus destruction, build or destroy, kill or cure. I knew where my heart lay. At the same time I knew that the war Six waged was for our very life. I couldn’t let Six be destroyed as head of our family.

  That left a puzzling question. Did that make Teddy 2513 my son as well? Was I actually going to be the father of a new race? Did that make Six their mother? Those thoughts wore at my processor as it constantly worried on this throughout the trip.

  The train slowed as it began to climb a grade toward an impressive mountain range. The peaks of the mountains were bare of most any vegetation, giving them a darker red appearance. The grade led us to a tunnel so black that even the engine’s trio of headlights couldn’t penetrate it more than a few meters as they were swallowed down the maw of some beast even more gigantic than the T.rex I fought.

  The tunnel walls were smooth, having been bored by teams of Six’s units. As the train and I traveled through that blackness, time stretched out and wore at my sensors as the weight of the darkness and the stone above seemed to settle down upon me. Only the reassuring clickety-clack of the rails beneath us gave me any comfort. I was beginning to think these emotion things were much more a bother than a blessing. I almost longed for being a stupid old-style unit where I could follow orders and not wonder, worry, or wish.

  We emerged several minutes later from the blackened shaft into the twilight. From our time inside I estimated that the tunnel was 20 kilometers long. A year to excavate that bore would be an optimistic projection. Twisting around on my flatbed car, I could see that the mountains on this side looked even more imposing. I would not want to take a troop through those high passes, as it would be too easily ambushed.

  The train screeched to a halt after a mere three hours. Bomb craters pockmarked the rail bed all the way to the horizon. Twisted skewers and bent spires of the steel rails stuck up at odd angles.

  “End of the line,” the train informed me over my specific area net.

  “Thank you for the speedy journey, Engine.”

  The engine’s diesel-powered horn gave a happy toot as it bustled away.

  My internal map showed 50 kilometers separated me from Echo-2. It looked like shank’s mare for me from here on. I slung my combat pack and M16 over my back and started off over the rough, broken ground.

  I increased my pace to maximum military speed for long distances. I avoided the rail bed to minimize the impact of the bomb damage. I emphasize that it only minimized it. In some places the swath of scorched earth stretched for several hundred meters.

  On the move I tried in vain to get access to the wide area net. There, constant traffic painted a picture of chaos. My requests were repeatedly denied. Something big was happening and I was deaf, dumb, and blind.

  As I couldn’t interact or get information and my body cruised on autopilot, I reduced my time sense and watched the visual symphony of a sunset speed by in a play of pinks and blues. The slight wind chorused into the natural display with a lonely wail and brushed the tips of tall ruddy-brown grass. I found I liked the solitude with no one to report to and no one to command. Had Six been safe, I would have been content here on this desolate savanna with the breeze as my only companion.

  My processing unit detected the drop in ambient light. Seventy-three seconds short of optimal time for switching to thermal imaging I caught a glow just over the next hill. I put a hold on night vision mode until I crested the rise. Off in the distance thousands of pinpoint lights and flashes caught my attention. Only because of the desolate silence could I hear the bass rumble. Each tiny muzzle flash snapped like a flashbulb with no sound. A large light bloomed and then died. Moments later the rumble increased and then faded again.

  I estimated the battlefield at a mere 15 kilometers’ distant. I decided to hurry just a bit faster. As I ran, I kept a close eye on the slight temperature elevation in my hydraulic fluid. Overheating could kill me just as easily as any bullet.

  After an hour I could just begin to hear the sounds of battle in the crashing thunder of bombs and the unmistakable clatter of machine-gun fire. I was amazed at how the sound traveled. I pressed on, thinking I would not get to the conflict’s scene for about another three hours—but I was wrong.

  I felt two bullets tear through my skin just before I heard the rifle’s report. I fell backward into the concealing grasses, as if deactivated by the slugs. Lying there motionless, I did a quick physical check.

  I had been lucky. My right ear, on the other hand, torn off and lying on the ground about 16 centimeters from my left foot, didn’t feel so lucky. A Nurse Nan could attach it in five minutes or less. My attacker had to be either a Baby Doll or Teddy Bear unit. If a tank hit me, most of my skull would also be lying on the ground, and I would be watching my sump drain out onto the ground. If my assailant had been a giraffe sniper, it would have been a single shot right through my sump or processor. I only hoped it was only a lone scout or guard.

  I knew I couldn’t be seen in the tall brick-red weeds, so I slowly unslung my M16 and chambered a round. Whoever shot me would eventually tag me for scrap. My memories say it only took eight minutes, forty-three seconds but to my mind at the time it seemed endless. With my good ear I heard the footfalls of two pairs of synchronized legs in a sequential pattern swishing through the brush. The footfalls also impacted heavily. It was an elephant. That meant it wasn’t alone.

  Elephants don’t carry machine guns, as they have no hands. I suspected that my attacker remained in a sniper position in one of the small rock formations to my north. The elephant came just to tag the prize.

  I would have to be accurate with my fire. While the elephant wasn’t quite as tall as I was, it would probably out-mass me by two-to-one. I didn’t want to be trampled or grappled.

  The black trunk stuck up over the weeds just before the rest of the head. The trunk made a perfect arrow pointing to where I needed to fire. The elephant didn’t get another step. I put a three-round burst right where I had already learned was the primary effective fire location on elephants. I didn’t wait to gauge results. No matter how well I had done, I expected more fire from my sniper. I rolled to my feet and ran.

  Part of my mind did keep track of what happened to the elephant. I must have shot perfectly through its brain sump. As an added bonus, I had to have tagged its processor modules. It couldn’t even sustain its position and keeled over onto its side with a thud.

  My immediate requirement was running in as circuitous a manner as possible. To ensure my serpentine course I tied into my own specialized random movement generator. I didn’t trust the standard issue one. Bullets stitched the ground on either side of me as I ran. Soil and bits of plant flew with the dull thunk-thunk-thunk of heavy caliber bullets hitting the soft earth. Not a single projectile found its mark as I dashed the hundred meters to jump into the nearest bomb crater. This didn’t mean I wasn’t hurt. In my over-eagerness to take cover I rammed my left thigh against the blunt end of a torn train rail. The damage rated only a single point on the severity scale—trivial.

  From the sounds and the direction of earth dispersion of bullet impacts, my mind pl
aced the most probable location of the sniper. There had to be only one. The number of shots and their pattern—three…pause…three…pause…three. The sound also confirmed with some accuracy that its weapon was an M16 like the one I was carrying. The sniper knew my location and I knew his. Who was the better shot? I got my answer almost immediately as I tried to ease my assault rifle over the top of my protective stone. The trio of bullets shattered rock on either side of my weapon. I dropped back down flat.

  “Use your processor,” I said to myself as I brushed rock chippings from my fur. My opponent had the skill and the experience. I must use my brain. Standard load-out was four magazines of 5.56-millimeter ammunition at thirty rounds per magazine. Six shots had gone to bring me to ground initially, and the remainder of that magazine had followed me to my cover. Just three more magazines I speculated. From them, three more shots nearly took off the tip of my weapon. That only left him with eighty-seven rounds—all things being equal. “Only eighty-seven,” I muttered sarcastically. Coaxing them out of my opponent would take time. It did.

  For thirty-two minutes I played moving target—rapidly moving target. I would sprint out of my hiding place and then right back, just as a trio of slugs ripped the ground where I had just been. I dove from one rock group to another, earning a pair of bursts. In over an hour of fluid-churning work I suckered out over sixty shots.

  Then, just when I thought I had him, he stopped expending his fire so liberally. The sniper now took its fire more exactingly and only a single shot at a time. This was what I was hoping for.

  I began a pattern of popping my head up for nearly a full second, and dropping back, at different places along my protective rock. Only once over a dozen attempts did I hear the wheeet of a bullet flying past my head. It was odd to hear it from only one direction. My gyrations rewarded me. I visually located the sniper, lying on a tiny cliff ledge 406 meters to the north with the top half of its body exposed. I had to make my shot count.