Rise of the Robot Army

by Robert Venditti

  General Breckenridge assigned a team to ferret out Average Joe’s identity. They started by hacking into the accounts of every power company and telephone provider in the greater Atlanta area, looking for accounts that had gone past due since Average Joe’s death.

  Illegal? Sure. Accessing that information without permission or a warrant signed by a judge violated more laws than the General cared to count. (Seriously, he didn’t care enough to count. He never concerned himself with legality when he deemed national security to be at stake.) But Average Joe’s body had been found with no sign of a wedding ring, so there was a chance that wherever he lived, there was no one left to pay the bills.

  After cross-referencing the past-due accounts against records from the Department of Motor Vehicles, the team discovered a driver’s license photo that matched the old man found in the garage.

  Just like that, Average Joe had a name: Donald Plower, born November 19, 1935. His income tax records indicated he was a retired onion farmer from Vidalia, Georgia, who still owned land there. But if he had retired and moved to the city, why did he still have the farm?

  Why indeed?

  General Breckenridge dispatched a spy drone from Dobbins Air Reserve Base north of Atlanta. It detected an unidentifiable object buried beneath the old Plower farm. That was all the excuse the General needed to enter the United States Army into the onion-growing business.

  With Donald Plower now confirmed as deceased, the General called in a few favors. If there’s one thing a forty-year career in the military will do, it’s introduce you to a lot of people. And if that career leads to you becoming a four-star general, most of those people will be terrified to say “no” when you tell them to do something.

  One such terrified person was the second assistant to the deputy mayor of Vidalia, who made sure that the Plower farm went up for auction right away.

  The General purchased a straw hat and a pair of overalls, strode in on the day of the auction, and bid three times the fair market value before the auctioneer could utter a single hurried word. The rest of the potential bidders stomped off in a huff, the General signed the deed on behalf of Uncle Sam, and the General had what he wanted without ever considering that the unidentifiable object buried beneath the Plower farm might be a rusted-out Model A Ford.

  General Breckenridge was standing in front of that unidentifiable object right now. It was no longer unidentifiable. And it wasn’t a Model A Ford.

  What the General had dug up (not actually dug up himself, of course, but commanded assorted privates and a corporal to dig up for him) on the Plower farm was so earth-shattering, he’d transported it back to Dobbins in a gutted mobile home to prevent the snooping locals from ever getting a glimpse of it. It was an honest-to-goodness, real-deal ship from outer space. The hull was broken from what must’ve been a catastrophic impact with the ground, and most of the interior had decayed and leached into the earth long ago. But it was a spacecraft all the same. A craft designed for long, sustained journeying—of the interstellar variety.

  It was unquestionably the most significant archaeological find in the history of the human race, but General Breckenridge knew he would never receive credit or recognition for unearthing it. No article in Archaeology magazine. No one-hour exposé on the History Channel series Ancient Aliens.

  No matter. The General didn’t care about those things. He didn’t want to be known as an archaeologist or an expert on alien culture. He wanted to be known for triumphing in the face of adversity. For rescuing the world during the most desperate of moments. What the spacecraft signaled to him was that his desperate moment had not, as he had feared, passed him by. He had discovered the key to unraveling the secrets of Gilded, a being whose mere existence was a threat to America and the balance of power around the world.

  “Nothing but a fraud,” General Breckenridge muttered.

  “Did you say something, General?” Dr. Marisol Petri asked. Dr. Petri was one of the world’s foremost experts in theoretical zoology. The General had originally enlisted her to unlock the mysteries of the strange, reptile-like beings who’d attacked Atlanta. Now he’d sent for her to join him in the hangar, so she could have the privilege of hearing the next phase in his plan while standing in the presence of his greatest accomplishment. So far.

  “Gilded,” the General said curtly. “He flitted around town in his shiny costume, pretending he was some sort of a hero. But he was no hero. He was an ex-onion farmer who won the equivalent of the galactic lottery. He never even served in the army,” the General added. “Does that sound like a hero to you?”

  “It seems like all he wants to do is help,” Dr. Petri offered.

  The General harrumphed through his thick mustache. “That’s exactly what he wanted us to believe. All these years, people assumed he was some fantastic being who arrived to deliver us from the ills of the world. If he was so noble and good, why go to such great lengths to conceal his identity?”

  “Perhaps he’s afraid of what people will do if they know who he really is.”

  “A coward’s excuse. If he ever possessed any integrity at all, he would’ve come forward the day the spacecraft crashed on his farm. Told us what he knew. Helped us learn if there are more ships like it out there in the universe. Imagine how much better we would’ve prepared our defenses against alien intervention, if only we knew an interstellar vessel had already crashed within our borders. Instead, he chose a double life. Hid the truth from the good, God-fearing citizens of the United States. There wasn’t an honest bone in his body.”

  Dr. Petri furrowed her brow. “I don’t understand, General. Why are you speaking about Gilded in the past tense? Didn’t he make an appearance just this morning?”

  The General grinned. It was a practiced, informed grin. A grin that came with knowing the classified doings of the most powerful nation on the planet because he was the one who’d set the doings in motion. “That’s the first intelligent question you’ve asked, Doctor.”

  General Breckenridge reached for a handheld radio hanging on the wall and pressed the talk button. “Corporal, has the data been compiled?”

  “Yes, General!” the radio squawked in reply.

  “Bring it to me at once.” The General returned the radio to its place. “Now, Doctor, you’ll see there’s no such thing as luck. Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.”

  “I didn’t realize you read the classics, General. That line about luck is my favorite quote from the Roman philosopher Seneca the Younger. It’s an abridgement, though. The actual quote is—”

  The General waved his hand dismissively. “Eisenhower made the maxim matter.”

  “You didn’t let me finish.”

  The heat of anger gathered under the starched, spotless collar of the General’s shirt. “Are you a five-star general, little lady?”

  Sometimes an older Southern gentleman can refer to a younger woman—even a doctor—as “little lady,” and instead of being condescending, it will come across as charming in a Southern-gentleman sort of way. The General hoped his tone made it clear this wasn’t one of those times.

  “No,” Dr. Petri said flatly.

  “Do you see any five-star generals anywhere in this hangar?”

  “No.” Dr. Petri didn’t bother to glance around before answering. She was trending toward insubordination. The General did not appreciate it one bit.

  “Well, then,” the General continued, glaring. “As the highest-ranking officer present, my opinion is the one that matters. So you can take it as gospel truth when I say that the most important person who ever uttered those words wasn’t Seneca the Younger. It was the stalwart United States Army General Dwight D. Eisenhower, hero of World War Two, who commanded more than one hundred fifty thousand Allied troops in the desperate moment the world has come to refer to as D-day. You don’t have anything against Ike, do you?” The General leveled a steely gaze at Dr. Petri. It was a gaze that said, Choose your next words very carefully. “I like Ike. Ev
erybody likes Ike.”

  “Not at all. I believe my grandparents even voted for him. Twice.”

  “You come from a line of fine Americans.” The General let the remainder of his thought go unspoken. What happened to you?

  The conversation was interrupted by the thudding of boots hurrying across the hangar’s bare, concrete floor. General Breckenridge turned to see his aide, a pudgy corporal with pale skin and red cheeks that always looked as though they’d been slapped. The corporal huffed toward him, a rolled-up map stuffed under one arm.

  “Corporal,” the General stated. The General couldn’t recall the corporal’s name, but that was what ranks were for. “So glad you could finally join us.”

  “Yes, General!” Corporal Slapped-Cheeks said cheerily. “I have the map, General!”

  The General found it annoying that the corporal had failed to pick up on the tone of the General’s voice, a tone that should have made it clear the corporal’s arrival wasn’t something to be glad about at all, but merely a necessary means to an end. Such imperceptiveness would no doubt ensure he remained a corporal for a very long time. “Would you care to show me the map?” the General asked coldly.

  “Yes, General!” Corporal Slapped-Cheeks hurriedly unrolled the map on a table. It showed a grid of the greater Atlanta area. Red dots had been drawn on the paper in numerous places, making the map look as though it had acne.

  The corporal pointed a chubby finger at one of the dots. “These indicate each sighting of the target during the last month, either due to incidents generated by us, or the target’s standard efforts to patrol the city.”

  “The target?” Dr. Petri asked hesitantly. “You’re talking about Gilded.”

  The General waved dismissively again, as though he were shooing a bothersome insect.

  The corporal unrolled a sheet of clear acetate crisscrossed with red lines. He laid it over the map, so that one end of each line matched up to one of the red dots. The other ends of the lines all converged in a single area northeast of the city.

  “Combining the findings of our own surveillance with reliable information from news reports and civilian accounts, we plotted the flight path the target took when arriving at each incident. As you can see, they almost all lead back to this approximate location.” The corporal tapped a large red circle drawn around the area. “Our conclusion is the target is based somewhere in the vicinity of Interstate 85 and Jimmy Carter Boulevard.”

  The General clasped his hands behind his back. “Jimmy Carter,” he said, fuming. “I might’ve known.”

  Dr. Petri stepped forward, examining the map and its tangle of dots and lines. “I’m confused.”

  “Of course you are, little lady.” The General didn’t try to sound like a Southern gentleman this time, either. “You asked earlier why I was referring to Gilded in the past tense. It’s because I was speaking of the Donald Plower version of Gilded. I’ve concluded that on the day the first alien scout arrived, Mr. Plower transferred possession of the technology that allowed him to become Gilded to a new agent. This new agent is who has been appearing over the course of the last year. And now we know,” the General said, pointing at the red circle on the map, “that the agent is headquartered there.”

  “Agent?” Dr. Petri looked perplexed. “You think Gilded is a spy?”

  “You don’t?” The General scoffed again. “A clandestine transfer in a parking garage, with an extraterrestrial attack as cover. If that isn’t top-notch spy craft, I don’t know what is. Not even the Soviets in their heyday could orchestrate something like that. The issue isn’t whether he’s a spy, but who he’s spying for. All this ‘good’ he does, it’s to throw us off his scent. He’s smart. There’s no denying that.”

  The General turned to Corporal Slapped-Cheeks, who’d been standing silently like a well-trained dog waiting for his master to pay attention to him. “There’s an abundance of commercial and residential property in the area, Corporal. The target could be dug in anywhere. We can’t move on him until we have a clear window of opportunity. Any missteps, Gilded will relocate, and we’ll have to restart the tracking process from square one. Put surveillance cameras on the tallest buildings. I want squads of my mechanized infantry on standby, ready to move in at a moment’s notice. Is that clear?”

  “Unambiguously, General.”

  “Then move out.”

  “Yes, sir!” Corporal Slapped-Cheeks saluted, his posture straight like a concrete telephone pole—a concrete telephone pole with a jiggly belly. Then he gathered up his maps and scampered off.

  General Breckenridge turned to Dr. Petri. “You’re dismissed,” he declared, as though Dr. Petri were one of his subordinates. Because in every way, he knew she was.

  “Pardon?”

  “You may return to your lab. The Unites States Army has continued need of your service.”

  Dr. Petri cleared her throat. “If it’s all the same to you, General, it’s time I went back home to San Diego. I cataloged and analyzed all of the alien specimens you recovered. I won’t be of any more use to you. I’d like to return to my own independent research.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t allow that,” the General answered unapologetically. He never apologized for the needs of the country. “There’s still the matter of Subject One to deal with.”

  Dr. Petri shook her head. “Subject One is stable. I told you there hasn’t been any change in her condition since she was brought here.”

  The General’s expression soured. “Perhaps. But you still haven’t determined the cause of her . . . peculiar ability. And while I don’t yet know the identity of the person currently acting as Gilded, I soon will. That much I guarantee. When I do, your expertise may just prove helpful.”

  “But, General—”

  “That will be all, Doctor. My mechanized infantry are waiting outside to escort you back downstairs. And to make sure you stay there.”

  CHAPTER

  6

  SLAP!

  It was early the next morning, and Miles was looking at a folded-over copy of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution that had landed on the dinette table in front of him, interrupting his breakfast of Cheerios in a glass. The headline read, GILDED CLEARS AUTO WRECK.

  Mr. Taylor pointed at the paper, his jaw tight. “Tell me I’m not seeing that.”

  Miles swallowed his mouthful of soggy cereal. “Dad, I—”

  “You deliberately went against your word to me. What I want to know from you is why?”

  This was no way to start a morning. Miles was already let down by Dawn’s absence and the subsequent lack of yesterday’s stellar breakfast spread. Now he was fixing to get lectured by his dad for something Henry had already lectured him about. “Do we have to talk about it, Dad? Henry went over it with me yesterday.”

  “Did he, now? Guess that absolves me of my parental duties, then.” Mr. Taylor’s tone indicated that was absolutely not the case. “But to answer your question, no, we don’t have to talk about it. I’m going to talk. You’re going to listen.”

  Miles lifted his glass to gulp down another mouthful of cereal. “Okay.”

  Mr. Taylor snatched the glass from Miles’s hand, nearly sloshing milk and toasted oats down the front of his shirt. “I said, you’re going to listen.”

  Miles gulped again, and this time it had nothing to do with cereal. He was in trouble. “I’m sorry I used the cape to clear a traffic jam. I won’t do it again.”

  Mr. Taylor frowned as though Miles was a used-car salesman trying to sell him a lemon for the second time. “Nothing doing. You sat in that same chair yesterday and made me the same promise. We even shook on it, for all the good it did. It wasn’t until I saw the paper this morning that I realized you never had any intention of keeping your word.”

  That wasn’t true. Miles really had meant to obey his dad. Hadn’t he?

  “So,” Mr. Taylor continued, “since your promises don’t mean anything, I’ve got no choice but to guarantee you make good. That means for th
e next two weeks, when you aren’t at school, you’re with me.”

  Miles shot out of his chair. “You can’t!”

  “I can and I will. I’ll pick you up out front when school lets out, and you’ll come finish my work shift with me. Plenty of time to do your homework. I’ll let you keep the cape with you for emergencies, and if something important jumps off, I’ll let you take care of it. But otherwise, you won’t be leaving my sight.”

  Miles already had Henry over-managing his use of the cape. Now he’d have to get approval from his dad, too. What next, a babysitter? Miles had proved himself as the city’s champion, so why did he still have to take orders from everyone else?

  “Dad . . . I spent the summer using the cape as much as I wanted, taking care of everything in the city. Then suddenly it’s the first day of school, and that’s supposed to change? I got mixed up a little, that’s all. Can’t you give me a little time to adjust?”

  Mr. Taylor sighed. “If I thought that was it, I’d give you the space. I would. But not even an hour went by between our conversation and you heading out like we’d never even talked. That’s not a mix-up. It’s disobedience. You knew what you were supposed to do. You just decided not to do it. Probably because you thought you’d get away with it. And you would’ve, too, if I hadn’t seen the paper on Dawn’s sofa.”

  Miles’s couldn’t help but take note. His dad had been to Dawn’s apartment, and they’d ventured at least as far as the sofa. The plot thickened.

  “Put yourself in my shoes,” Mr. Taylor persisted. “Do you know of any other parents contemplating a newspaper subscription so they can make sure their kid is doing what he’s supposed to? I sure can’t.”

  Mr. Taylor was dug in like a stubborn tick. Miles was getting the very bad feeling that he wasn’t going to change his mind. He had to come up with something. “I’ve got the phone,” he offered. “I’ll call you before I go anywhere and again as soon as I get back.”