Infinite

by Jeremy Robinson

  “Four hundred fifty.”

  “Shit.” That’s all the internal drones, from the cleaning crew to the engineering repair drones, which are far stronger than I could hope to defeat with a slab of wood. The only advantage I have over those behemoths is speed. One mile per hour is their max, but that number is set by software restrictions, not physical capabilities. If Gal overrode the safety limits…

  My eyes drift toward the door. What seemed like a long term fix is really just a temporary stopgap measure. Eventually, perhaps soon, a one ton hovering robot is going to carve through that door, and the fight will be over before it begins.

  “Think it through,” I say. Any solution I come up with is going to come from my brain, not my brawn, or my warrior’s instinct, which was not improved with my DNA’s upgrade.

  For the CAI to work, the drones need to be networked wirelessly. If I can disrupt the network, her mind will literally fall apart. But that would require reaching the VCC. And that’s the problem.

  There could be an army of drones waiting for me outside the door. And once it opens, it will never close again.

  I stand and pace, which is close enough to spinning in circles to make me dizzy. When I stop, my eyes land on a cabinet I have yet to open. Maybe I’ll be lucky and find a weapon system capable of destroying the drones, but not the ship.

  I open it and am surprised to not find clothes. But that’s because the only clothing on board the Galahad are the gray, gender-neutral coveralls (and virtual skins, but only for me and Tom). Changing clothes only takes place in the showers or the VCC staging area.

  What I do find are more relics.

  The oldest of them is Clue, a board game that had been passed down through generations of my family. I played the murder-mystery game as a child, but I don’t remember the rules. I do remember cheating, though. “A good detective doesn’t follow the rules,” I told my parents upon being caught.

  Atop the vacuum-sealed game box is a stack of plastic-wrapped comic books, also passed down through the generations on my mother’s side. Despite my circumstances, I can’t help but shuffle through the selection, which is just a small sampling of the original collection. As I read through the titles—Project Nemesis, Island 731, Flux, The Divide, and The Last Hunter—I spot the trend. They were all written by my great grandfather many times over. My father told me that the man’s imagination knew no bounds. He’d figure out how to get out of this, I think, and then I say, “Help me out, Gramps,” like his spirit can somehow hear me on the far side of the galaxy and inspire a way to solve my current unsolvable problem.

  And that’s when I see the device leaning against the cabinet’s back wall. It’s a tablet, once considered the go-to device for science fiction stories about the future—my past—but they stopped being used when it was proven they changed brain chemistry, creating a vast societal addiction that reduced productivity and created generations of people capable of ignoring the world’s growing problems.

  Despite the long term negative side-effects, it’s still a computer.

  I sit down with the device, push the power button and am surprised when a logo glows on the screen. A memory flashes to mind, my parents sitting in bed, watching a classic movie on the device. It was never intended to be used as a serious computing device, but maybe I can improvise?

  “Galahad.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  I roll my eyes at the sexless, boring voice. Gal was so much better, for a few hours. “Attempt to connect to the active device in William Chanokh’s quarters.”

  After a brief pause, the tablet displays the message: Network found. And then: Connected.

  “Device connected,” Galahad says. “Several software updates are available for this model. Would you like me to apply them?”

  “Negative,” I say. Updates often threw old computers into an unstable state. That this thing is working at all is a small miracle. Updating the OS would be akin to clearing a mine field by jumping on them. And the battery life is already at 23%. An update could eat up all of that. There’s no way to know how long that 23% will last, even with normal usage. “Can you port the VCC TI to the device?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Do it.”

  The VCC Text Interface is the tech-jock’s last resort, only used when access to a VCC is impossible. It means coding the old-fashioned way, with fingers and text. It lacks the efficiency and artistry achieved by the full body interface, but it can get simple jobs done in a pinch.

  The familiar white-on-black text display flashes to life on the screen, awaiting my commands. My fingers hover, frozen in the air like hawk talons. Where’s the keyboard?

  “Keyboard,” I say with no result. “Show keyboard.”

  I tap the blinking cursor with my finger and am relieved when a digital keyboard is displayed on the screen. The familiar QWERTY layout hasn’t changed much since the invention of the typewriter, but the flat, digital keys are awkward to use and they cover up a large portion of the screen, making my window of text small and hard to navigate.

  It takes me ten minutes to access the coding controlling Galahad’s doors and locking systems. I blink my eyes, which are not used to staring at small text on a glowing screen. That’s when I notice the battery life displayed in the upper right hand corner. The level has dropped to 11% in just a few minutes. It seems that while the charge has lingered over the years, the active system is draining it fast.

  Every line of code I write takes several tries before it’s free of typos. Without the tactile feeling of a genuine keyboard, I find myself typing extra letters and numbers at an alarming rate. Even more so because I’m only half done and the battery life shows 5%. “Slow down,” I tell myself, in direct contrast to how I’m feeling.

  I carefully tap the faux keys, typing like I did when I was five. But the drastic reduction in speed also reduces my number of mistakes, and I finish the remaining code with 2% battery remaining.

  “Galahad.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Upload and apply active device’s TI changes.”

  “One moment,” Galahad says.

  A swirling icon appears on the screen, and for a moment, I think it’s revealing Galahad’s progress. Then I realize the device is automatically shutting down before power is lost. “No,” I say, standing to my feet and shouting, “No!”

  The screen goes black. I rear back to throw the tablet against the wall.

  “Update complete,” Galahad says, verbally subduing me.

  It was a small change, but it should give me some advantage. I now have complete verbal control over the Galahad’s doors and locks. I can move through the ship unhindered, but will be able to prevent Gal from following, at least until she has her tanks tear out all the doors. But it’s an advantage that might help me reach the VCC, and give me time enough to purge Gal from the drones.

  Baseball bat in hand, I stand before my closed and locked door, mentally psyching myself up to give Galahad the command, but failing. What follows will be violent, probably bloody, and painful. It could end in success, or my very gruesome death at the non-hands of my creation.

  But the longer I wait, the worse off I’ll be.

  I take a deep breath and say, “Galahad, open an active channel to my voice.” This will keep me from having to say ‘Galahad’ every time I want to open, close, or lock a door.

  “Active channel initiated.”

  A long breath hisses through my teeth, like a snake warning its enemies away. I can do this. I can fucking do this. “Open door.”

  The door slides open.

  A collection of luminous red eyes spin around to stare at me.

  “Close door!”

  20

  I’m officially a coward. The moment I saw more than one set of red not-eyes turn toward me, I panicked. Really panicked. My heart beats with the frantic energy of mating rabbits, one of the few animals so easy to breed that their meat was still used, even after most of the world—thanks to food shortage
s—was forced to become vegans. While it was a fate worse than death for a few true carnivores, the shift helped sustain humanity for a few more generations. But my knowledge about rabbits and the rate at which they hump, will do little to help me now, so I push the tangential thought from my mind.

  I shake out my tingling arms, taking shallow breaths and letting them out slowly. The breathing technique increases the CO2 in my blood, calming my body and mind despite the small army waiting for me on the other side of the door.

  How many were there?

  I don’t know.

  See them again, I think to myself, annoyed with the fear invading my internal monologue. Count them.

  Ten.

  Maybe fifteen.

  But that’s it. I scour the memory of my peripheral vision. All the drones were huddled around the doorway, with none lingering to either side. Gal might control an army of drones, but she has yet to send them all after me. Which means she either doesn’t think I’ll leave the safety of my quarters, believes the dozen or so drones are enough to kill me, or is waiting for reinforcements already en route, perhaps pacing the slower engineering robots.

  “Galahad.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Locate and report on the location of all internal drones, starting with those outside my quarters.”

  “There are thirteen drones outside the quarters of William Chanokh. A further twenty-five are located outside each Virtual Command Center staging room. Eighty seven are located throughout the ship.”

  Patrolling, I think.

  “The remaining two hundred and seventy-eight are located in Engineering Bay Two.”

  The numbers don’t add up. There are four hundred fifty drones on board the Galahad. I destroyed one, but the numbers Galahad just reported leaves a large number unaccounted for. “Where are the missing twenty-one drones?”

  “They are not missing,” Galahad says. “They have been destroyed.”

  “Destroyed? Are you certain?”

  “Quite.”

  “You can see them,” I say, remembering that Galahad has access to all the security feeds.

  “Affirmative.”

  “What happened to the destroyed drones?”

  “They were disassembled in Engineering Bay Two.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “Several drones have positioned themselves to create a barrier, effectively blocking my security feeds. I do not have enough data to speculate.”

  I shake my head. Gal would have guessed and was smart enough to probably be right. She’s also smart enough to know I’d probably have Galahad take a peek, so she’s concealing what she’s up to.

  Whatever is happening in the engineering bay, it can’t be good. I need to reach the VCC before Gal completes whatever she’s up to. But that’s going to require me to get past my fears and embrace the chaos of war.

  “They can’t kill you,” I tell myself.

  “Agreed. I am not alive.” Galahad says.

  “Wasn’t talking to you,” I say, but then I am. “Galahad, plot a course from my quarters to the VCC, avoiding as many drones as possible.”

  “Done.”

  “Can you give me verbal directions following that course.”

  “Turn left and proceed two hundred feet to the lift. Take it to—”

  “Not yet,” I say. “Update each step when I’m within twenty feet. And inform me about any drones I might encounter along the way. Same distance parameters. Understood?”

  “Yes. Exit the quarters of William Chanokh and proceed left toward the lift. There are currently thirteen drones outside the door. The hallway beyond is empty.”

  Good enough, I think, and I slap the hard bat against my hand. Fending off a single drone, it was more than enough, but thirteen? Maybe in the hands of a skilled fighter, but that’s not me.

  I can’t do this, I think, sitting down once more. I can’t…

  My eyes turn down to the cushion topping the bed, designed to be both comfortable and firm. I don’t have to destroy the thirteen drones outside, just get past them. I might not be able to fight for my life very well, but I can certainly run for my life. I stand, unclip the cushion from the frame and lift it. It’s got some girth, but it isn’t too heavy. Clutching the cushion and the baseball bat, I stand before the closed and locked door again.

  I hoist the cushion up, creating a soft, portable wall.

  Three quick breaths.

  “Open door.”

  I hear the door slide open, and I charge forward. The far side of the cushion takes a sudden, violent beating, but I’m spared from it, feeling only dull thuds against my body. Then there’s a crunch and a sudden stop, as the cushion, and the drones shoved by it, all crash into the hallway’s far wall. The impact knocks the cushion from my hands and propels me to the floor.

  Bat in hand, I scramble to my feet as the cushion topples. My eyes shift to the open lift door and the single drone hovering in my way.

  “Oh, Will,” Gal says, mocking. “I’m so proud of you. You’re becoming such a man.”

  The drone surges forward, aiming for my head. I lean back and swing with a scream. The bat connects hard with the drone’s underside. Blue sparks cough from the repulse disc as a loud buzz fills the air. The damaged repulse disc sends the robot catapulting off the ceiling, and then the floor before slamming it into the first of the drones to slide out from behind the mattress.

  Before more can recover, I run.

  I don’t take a breath until the lift doors close around me, blocking off the twelve drones racing in pursuit. Then I’m hands on knees, breathing hard. I jump back as several loud thumps resound through the closed lift; the drones beat themselves against the doors.

  “VCC,” I say, not remembering the correct floor, but knowing Galahad can figure it out. The lift hums to life. “Proceed directly ahead,” Galahad says. “Two hundred feet. You will encounter two drones en route.”

  Before I can complain about the short notice, the doors slide open. I hesitate for a moment, but the first of the two drones forces me to take action.

  “Such a brave little man,” Gal says from the drone already racing toward the lift. She’s seeing me through the drones’ collective eyes. The moment I stepped into the lift, she knew where to redirect her patrolling horde.

  The drone clips my thigh as I throw myself to the side. Was she aiming for my crotch? I fumble out of the lift and say, “Close doors!” But Gal has learned from her previous mistakes. The drone surges out of the lift, but careens into my swinging bat. The drone shatters with a single strike that caves in the curved hull. It falls to the floor, lifeless.

  “That wasn’t nice,” Gal says, spinning me around toward the second drone. It’s not racing toward me; it’s just hovering at eye level, four feet away. For a moment, I think Gal is going to try engaging me in conversation, giving her army time to arrive.

  “I’m not interested,” I tell her, pulling the bat back, ready to swing with newfound confidence in my ability to whack drones out of the air.

  Instead of replying, or attempting to dodge my impending strike, there is a click and a hiss. A cool mist strikes my face. My eyes.

  And then it burns. A lot.

  My eyes clench shut as I pitch forward, screaming. She sprayed some kind of industrial cleaning agent into my eyes.

  I blink, tears flowing, and I see the hallway through a wet rainbow-streaked haze. I’m not blind, but my vision is definitely impaired, and the pain is intense.

  And then it’s worse.

  The drone slams into the back of my head, knocking me to the floor. I try to push myself up, but it strikes again, this time driving itself into my spine. The pain is massive, but I can still move.

  I roll to the side, still gripping the bat. The drone, diving to strike again, pummels the floor instead. I swing the bat around, clipping the drone hard enough to spin it. I swing again, aiming with blurry vision, putting both my arms into the blow. The robot crunches and drops, but it’s still fun
ctional, trying to pull away.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” I say, and I vent my pain-fueled anger on the device, driving the bat into its hull four more times, two more than required to disable the device.

  “Galahad, how many drones will I encounter on your plotted course?”

  “Seven,” the AI says, and then updates. “Nine…fifteen.”

  Gal is directing backup toward me.

  “Continuously adjust route to avoid all drones.” I need to get off Gal’s radar, and the only way for that to happen is to not be seen by the drones.

  “Yes, sir,” Galahad says.

  The lift’s opening doors spin me around, bat raised to strike. My vision is still fogged, but I can see well enough to know the lift is empty.

  “Return to lift,” Galahad says. “Proceed to Bio-Tech level.”

  Bio-Tech level? That’s a long way in the wrong direction.

  “Contact with two drones in five seconds.”

  Galahad’s update prods me into action. As the doors close, the hum of approaching drones drifts down the curved hallway. The doors close before I see the robots, and I sigh with relief. They won’t know if I followed a branching hallway, if I’m hiding in a room, or if I backtracked. For now, I’m invisible.

  “Not as dumb as I thought, Galahad. Good work.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The doors open again. I raise the bat, despite the lack of warning from Galahad, and step out. A scent unlike anything I’ve experienced before greets me. That’s not true, though. I know this smell. Like the action figure, the scent emerges from my distant past.

  From childhood.

  From Earth.

  21

  I’m in the woods. On vacation with my parents. And with Steven, my older brother by just over a year. It’s a rare treat. There aren’t many places like this left on the planet, and even fewer that people are still allowed to visit. We’re among a throng of other eco-tourists, who seem bound and determined to trample this oasis of the natural world to dust. My brother and I aren’t any better.