Twisted Metal

by Tony Ballantyne

  There were three minds in there, nestling in a neat line. One of them was dead, its blue wire dull and brittle. She pulled out the other two, carefully disengaging the coils, and climbed up and out of the train. Orange flames burned bright all around her, sucking the oxygen from the night. She jumped to the ground, into the heart of the fire, and ran as quickly as she could into the darkness. Flames swelled up into the sky, casting shadows into the darkened surroundings. She ran on, out of the fire

  and into the night, looking for the dead and broken bodies of infantryrobots. After some searching she found enough parts to make a body.

  Carefully, she slid the first mind into the body, plugged in the coil . . .

  ‘AIEEEEEEEEE . . .’

  The robot began to scream a shrill high-pitched electronic note. It wrapped its arms around its head and curled up on the ground, unmoving.

  ‘. . . EEEEEEEEE . . .’

  Eleanor quickly unhooked the robot’s coil, silencing it. She looked around, seeing if anyone else had heard the noise. Was someone coming to investigate? She scanned the night. No one was in sight.

  Now she slid the second mind into the same body.

  She waited. The robot on the ground moved its arm. Then the other arm. Slowly it turned its head and looked at her. It reached out and patted the ground, patted itself, patted Eleanor’s hand.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m fine. Who are you?’

  ‘Eleanor. Are you Karel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Eleanor smiled. ‘Excellent. Then come with me. There’s someone I think you should meet.’

  Olam

  The tangled minds of three robots spilled over the floor. ‘This one almost did it,’ said the steel robot, looking at the pool of twitching wire that slowly uncurled around its feet. ‘See? It is possible. Remember that, when it’s your turn.’

  Olam’s gyros lurched as the robot looked directly at him. Was it to be his turn next? And then, to his overwhelming relief, the steel robot turned and walked through the door, leaving the building.

  Olam and the rest remained silent for a moment, unable to quite understand what had happened. Not quite willing to believe their good fortune. Were they to be saved?

  No, because now the thin, pig-iron robots were pulling Parmissa to the centre of the room, they were unpicking the metal of her skull.

  ‘Please!’ she called. ‘Please, not me!’

  ‘Parmissa!’ called Doe Capaldi. ‘Show some dignity. You are an Artemisian!’

  ‘No I’m not! I’m a Wiener. I only joined this army so I didn’t have to die back in Wien!’

  Just like me, thought Olam.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ she called to the thin robots. ‘I’m not really an Artemisian! Let me alone!’

  Mercilessly, they unpicked the last of her skull. Slowly, carefully, they lifted the blue wire of her mind from her body.

  ‘No! I told you! I’m not one of them! I’m . . .’ They unhooked her coil from her body, and her voice died.

  They slipped the detonator cap in between the wire of the skull. Olam felt as if his gyros were filled with sand, the way they now seemed to grind inside him. He knew what was coming next . . . Except he didn’t. Because now a hinged shell was produced, the size of a skull. Parmissa’s mind was hooked up inside it, the shell closed with a snick, the whole then placed carefully on the floor. What were they doing?

  They had finished their work with Parmissa. What now? Horror: they pointed at him. It was Olam’s turn. They were coming towards him . . .

  ‘Olam!’ called Doe Capaldi. ‘Wire bombs! They’re making us into wire bombs!’

  Olam was being dragged to the centre of the room, his body being propped into position next to the empty shell of Parmissa.

  ‘Olam, when the charge detonates, you mustn’t fight it! Don’t try and keep your mind’s shape! You will only harm some other Artemisian!’

  ‘What do I care for Artemis?’ Olam shouted, his voice shrill. ‘Parmissa was right! We only joined because we wanted to live!’

  ‘I didn’t!’ said Doe Capaldi.

  ‘Then you relax and let your mind be blown apart! I certainly won’t!’

  Fragments of Olam’s skull were dropping to the floor in front of him. He willed his electromuscles to start working, to no avail.

  ‘I don’t want to die!’ called Olam. ‘Listen, I’m not an Artemisian. My mind is not just metal!’

  ‘Don’t be such a coward!’ called Doe Capaldi. ‘Why not try and hold on to some dignity? You’ll never make it anyway! None of the others did. It’s all a trick!’

  ‘A trick?’ shrieked Olam. ‘We didn’t even know this was possible until twenty minutes ago! Did you know that the mind had that much strength? Did you know about the Book of Robots?’

  So much metal falling to the floor. How much longer did he have?

  ‘Olam, what does it matter? Your mind is steeped in radiation. You’ll only have a few months left anyway!’

  ‘So? What did you say to me? Better six months of life than death in Wien—’

  And then his vision was cut off. They had unhooked his coil.

  What was happening now? Were they squeezing the detonator into his mind? Would he feel it? Could he tell the difference?

  How long had it been? How long had it taken them to prepare Parmissa? By now they must be placing his mind into a hinged shell. Hadn’t they hooked Parmissa’s mind up to it in some way? Why was that?

  The answer came in the shape of grey light. He could see again, after a fashion. And he could hear the dim sound of Doe Capaldi’s voice.

  It was done, Olam realized with horror.

  He was now a wire bomb.

  Eleanor

  Eleanor kept having to stop to wait for Karel, struggling as he was to come to terms with his new body.

  ‘Come on!’ she called impatiently.

  ‘I keep thinking I’m still in the train,’ he replied, trailing behind her as they picked their way up the hillside. Snow and dust whipped out of the darkness, forming random patterns around them. ‘So many sensations . . . I keep wanting to pull the brakes.’ His hands made compulsive gripping motions as he spoke. ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘To see Kavan. You’ve heard of Kavan, haven’t you?’

  ‘Kavan?’ Karel stopped. ‘He’s the Choarh who invaded Turing City. He’s the one who had my child killed!’

  Karel began to stumble up the hill behind her, unfamiliar feet slipping on stray pebbles, the cold creeping in at his joints and numbing the electromuscle there.

  ‘Why are you taking me to him?’

  ‘Don’t you want to see your child’s killer?’

  Hadn’t he realized yet, she wondered. Hadn’t he recognized her? And then she felt him take hold of her arms, felt him pull her around to face him. She saw his yellow eyes gazing into hers.

  ‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ he said, his voice crackling with static. ‘You were in my apartment . . . ?’

  He lashed out, gripped her neck, tried to force her head upwards, tried to get at her coil. Eleanor almost laughed. He was doing it all wrong: infantry bodies were deliberately engineered to stop this happening, the pieces were joined in different fashions.

  Besides which, she was trained in the use of an infantry body. She had worn one for years, while Karel had worn one for only a few minutes. She broke his grip easily, tripped him and sent him tumbling backwards onto the ground.

  ‘There’s no point fighting me,’ she said, gazing down at the robot on the ground, his hands still clawing the air furiously. ‘Listen, I only followed orders. It was Kavan who sent me to your apartment. He’s the one you should blame.’

  Karel gazed up at her silently from where he lay.

  ‘Karel, listen to me! Kavan is losing it. This battle could well be his last. You don’t know how Artemis works: if Kavan isn’t the right leader, then he’ll be replaced. Kavan knows that, and if he thinks he is wrong for Artemis, he would be happ
y to be replaced.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with me?’

  Eleanor held his gaze. She wanted him to understand.

  ‘I can’t kill Kavan,’ she said.

  Karel said nothing. Eleanor turned on her heel and resumed her climb up the hill. The weather was going crazy: the icy wind drew itself across her body like a saw, frost patterned her chest, and yet, across the bowl of the North Kingdom, the land was dissolving in a warm mist.

  She continued her climb, listening for the sound of Karel’s feet. What would he do? Would he attack her again?

  Through the wind she could hear the clank of metal as Karel began to follow her.

  Kavan

  Kavan’s forces had been pushed back on two flanks. In response he concentrated his remaining troops into one force, intending to push forward like an awl, deep into the heart of the North Kingdom. He would stab right up against the skeletal tower that stood at the centre.

  He stood on a splintered shelf at the edge of the broken maze, looking down over the ever-present railway lines that reached from Artemis City, so far to the south, now preparing to probe deep into this last northern post of resistance.

  He looked over the remnants of his army as they ranged down the nearest slope, barely three hundred infantryrobots and sixty Storm Troopers. No one knew for sure how many Scouts were still out there.

  His troops were forming into the shape of a knife, ready to thrust forward. The mess of the train wreck had been heaved to the side; ahead of it engineers were busy lengthening the track, piercing their way forward.

  ‘We’re almost ready,’ said Wolfgang.

  ‘They can see us massing,’ said Kavan. ‘They’ll need to strike soon if they are to finish us off.’

  He gazed over at the far side of the bowl. ‘Wolfgang, what’s making that mist?’

  The far side of the bowl was filling with a white haze. The magnesium flares reflected eerie white light back from a rising fog bank that was engulfing the land beyond the tower. The wind blew tentacles of mist out across the bowl, which slowly insinuated themselves throughout the Artemisian lines.

  ‘Heat,’ said Wolfgang, suddenly. ‘The snow is evaporating.’

  ‘What are they burning to produce such heat?’ wondered Kavan aloud.

  ‘Something beneath the ground,’ mused Wolfgang. ‘Something that burns for longer than petrol. Coal, maybe? Charcoal?’

  And it struck Kavan then, with such force. They really believe, he thought. They are burning their land, rather than surrender to us.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, as he began to make his way down the hill. Behind him, through the wail of the wind, he heard Ruth’s voice.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To join the troops, of course,’ answered Wolfgang. ‘This is the final attack.’

  Even some of my aides don’t really believe, thought Kavan. Even some Artemisian soldiers still believe they are more important than Nyro’s philosophy.

  In some ways, the people of this kingdom are stronger than we are.

  Eleanor

  Eleanor watched the troops forming into lines. She saw Kavan and his aides making their way to join them.

  ‘Come on, Karel,’ she called. ‘We’re going to join the attack.’

  ‘Why should I? This isn’t my battle. I’m a Turing Citizen!’

  ‘There is no Turing City any more. If you’re not an Artemisian, then what are you?’

  The words struck home more than she had intended. He came to a halt in the middle of the dirty snow, churned up by the feet of so many robots.

  ‘What am I?’ he repeated. ‘What am I?’

  Eleanor took hold of his arm, dragged him onward.

  ‘You’re wearing the body of an Artemisian, soldier, so get marching. If you are still a Turing Citizen, then think on that when you meet Kavan.’

  Down they descended into the bowl.

  ‘Look.’ Karel pointed. Faint red lines traced their way across the stone landscape. ‘The hillside is burning on the far side.’

  ‘Does that matter? Come on!’

  She pushed and pulled and cajoled him forward, eager to rejoin the fight. A group of Scouts, limbering up against the wind, saw them coming. They gazed at them as they approached, their blades now half exposed.

  ‘Get this soldier a rifle,’ called out Eleanor. ‘We’re going to join Kavan.’

  The Scouts recognized her and moved apart. One of them found a rifle and lazily tossed it to her. She caught it, slapped it into Karel’s hands.

  ‘Get behind him,’ said Eleanor, right there at his ear as they walked on. ‘Then shoot him through the back of the head.’

  Kavan

  All was ready. Wet snow blew through the mist that rolled around the hillside; it barrelled around the copper sphere atop the skeletal tower. The red cracks of fire in the slope opposite were widening.

  Kavan was ready. ‘Give the order to advance.’ The call went out. Rifles slapped against metal hands, feet stamped on rock. Silver metal flashed as the Scouts scattered, running forwards and sideways to secure ground. The Storm Troopers stamped their feet as they advanced, rattling stones from the few buildings that were still standing ahead of them. Such was the force of their advance that one or two of the smaller hovels seemed to give up their hold on life, suddenly collapsing in a tumble of stones. Iron feet stamped through the rubble as the stream of metal flowed around the larger buildings.

  ‘Hello, Kavan.’

  Eleanor appeared at his shoulder, paintwork scorched and body scratched. As ever. There was another robot with her. An infantryrobot.

  ‘Who is that?’ he asked.

  ‘Karel.’ She gazed at him intently with her yellow eyes, as if trying to read him, and he wondered what game Eleanor was now playing, right in the middle of an attack. It hardly mattered.

  Metal spheres curved through the air, before landing amongst the advancing troops.

  ‘Keep formation,’ ordered Kavan. The troops did so. The wire bombs exploded in a blue tangle of wire that quickly contracted, snaring the arms and legs of infantry-robots. Grey soldiers collapsed, some of them emitting electronic squeals of pain. A few of them snapped off useless limbs, attached new ones, and rejoined the march.

  ‘Some of the bombs didn’t contract,’ observed Wolfgang, staring at one blue tangle of wire that washed across the snow.

  The wind whipped the sound of the crackling rifles towards them. Over there, on the left flank, enemy robots were attacking. So thin and fragile, they were reduced to throwing rocks that bounced ineffectually from the Artemisian bodies.

  Two Scouts had seen what was happening and they ran towards the enemy, a length of razor wire held taut between them. The wire sliced through the thin bodies of the northern robots, cutting them down.

  Now more of the enemy appeared, running headlong towards them. The infantry shot at them, the impact of the bullets flinging their light bodies backwards in the snow. They wore only tin and pig-iron, their metal shattering and shrieking under each blow delivered against them. Still they came running, more and more of them.

  Children now, tiny bodies dodging closer and closer. Coming in amongst the troops, they rubbed themselves against the Artemisians, they rubbed their hands over arm joints and knee joints. They clasped heads and embraced necks, they clung tightly onto the infantry, even as they were stabbed and shot, even as the twisted metal of their minds was unwound.

  The Artemisians tried to prise those dead children free. But the corpses were unmovable, they clung on, the sand and adhesive that covered their bodies hardened, gluing up the joints of the Artemisians. Kavan watched as soldier after soldier stumbled, fell to his knees, gripped hold of a tiny body and tried to tear it loose, only to find that his hands were stuck to it.

  And all the while the network of red fire that covered the hillside was widening, the glow was spreading.

  Even the children, thought Kavan. Even the children believe.

  ‘Shoot the sticky ones,’
shouted Eleanor, unnecessarily. The troops had realized what was happening. ‘Don’t let them get close.’

  Another wave of resistance was now advancing: thin, pig-iron bodies almost lost in the snow. They carried slingshots, each loaded with a metal sphere. Kavan watched as they swung them around their heads and launched another volley of wire bombs . . .

  Olam

  Olam had regained the sense of seeing by grey light, but there was nothing to see. He was wrapped up in something, so that all he caught sight of was a glimpse of stone, a glimpse of sky. He guessed he was being carried from the hovel.

  He had no gyros, he felt no motion. He could hear, though: hear the whistle of the wind, the stamping of feet, the crack of rifles. And he could hear the voice of the robot that carried him.

  ‘Can you hear me, mind? Can you hear me in there? Wrapped in a sling, all ready for throwing?’

  He hated that voice, hated its tinny vibrato, hated its false jollity. Give him his old body and he would have taken such pleasure in taking hold of the robot’s puny neck, squeezing the brittle pig iron, feeling it shatter in his hands, feeling the slipperiness of the coil in his hand as he crushed it and crippled his tormentor.

  Most of all though, he hated the fear welled up inside the metal of his own mind: the cold, aching fear that made him feel as if his gyros, his non-existent gyros, were lurching and bouncing and breaking loose inside him. He wanted to cry, to run, to curl up, but he could do none of those things.

  ‘Where have you come from? I wonder. What did you see as you marched here to our land? All those memories, there in your wire.’

  All those memories. And yet the only memory that played through Olam’s mind at that moment was of a detonator being pushed into Parmissa’s mind by long steel fingers.

  ‘We’re coming to the battle now. There go the sticky-robots. My daughter is one of them. She’s only five years old, but she’s covered in glue and she goes to fulfil her purpose. I wove her that way. I wove her so that she would not be afraid to die.’

  Her daughter? She had sent her own daughter to her death?