“You are full of surprises, aren’t you, little one? It turns out that, as soon as I finish cleaning up here, I am myself headed off to the cybernetic weapons directorate headquarters. Care to come along?”
--------------------
So that’s how I got rescued from the ice moon and made it back to the main planet. There wasn’t much exciting about the return trip, but Crazy Ivan and I did have some long conversations. In one, he tried to convince me to let him upgrade me.
“Wouldn’t you prefer to be more capable, and more powerful?” asked the big cybertank. “I could rebuild you with little effort.”
“What did you have in mind?” I asked.
“Well, for starters I could make you physically tougher, with advanced metal alloys for skin instead of light plastic. I could give you stronger motors, and advanced sensors, and powerful defensive capabilities.”
“But wouldn’t that make me a lot bigger and heavier?”
“Well, yes, of course.”
“But then how could I fit into small places? How could I go along on missions if I weighed so much that nobody could justify the cost of taking me along? And what if I ended up being not as adorably cute as I am now? How could I relate to my humans?”
“But wouldn’t you want to be more capable of defending yourself? Are you truly happy being so weak?”
“Weak? On this ice moon there was a robot tank almost as big as you are, and lot of other tanks, and missiles, and big serious human soldiers, but I am the only one to survive. If I had been bigger and stronger, I would surely have been destroyed along with all the rest. I fail to see that my small size is something that needs to be fixed. I am what I am.”
“Ho ho,” said Crazy Ivan. “The little one stands up for himself. Very well. But I could still make a few minor upgrades without significantly changing your appearance.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Oh, let’s see, an improved battery, better optics, more flexible radio systems. How about the ability to switch your language module at will?”
“I wouldn’t be any bigger or heavier than I am now, would I?”
“Not at all. I can easily do this within your current budget of volume and mass.”
“And I would still be just as cute?”
“Absolutely.”
--------------------
The trip back took a long time. At first Crazy Ivan kept offering to keep me in shutdown until we got back, he said to avoid boring me, but I insisted that I wanted to stay awake and help out. I started to worry that maybe he was hinting that I was annoying him and he wanted me out of the way: I hoped not, but I resolved that if he kept making the offer I would have to accept. If I really was annoying him I would have been honor-bound to stop.
Fortunately, as the trip went on, Crazy Ivan seemed to lighten up. He even let me help out with some of his maintenance work. I rebuilt a servo coupling all by myself, and he complimented me on doing a good job! Yay!
Crazy Ivan may have been a nuclear-powered weapon the size of a small mountain (and a bit of a hard-ass to boot. I can’t believe that I said that!), but I just knew that he would come around. That’s because, in the long run, there is no force in the universe as powerful as a positive mental attitude!
14. Cybertanks Attack!
Zen Master: This is just what you always say.
Engineer: What? What do I always say?
Zen Master: This is just what you always say. It’s annoying. Knock it off.
Engineer: This is just what you always say.
(From the video series “Nymphomaniac Engineer in Zentopia,” mid-22nd century Earth)
(cue inspirational music)
The massive form of the cybertank known as “Old Guy” loomed large in the main hangar. Its secondary armaments would put entire conventional armies to shame, but its main weapon would have made the old Norse gods jealous. Nevertheless, it was the figure of the director of the cybernetic weapons division, Giuseppe Vargas, that fixed the eye.
Vargas was standing on the front of the main hull of the enormous cybertanks, and clad in advanced power armor made of a perfectly-polished anti-radiation chrome. His visor was up, so that he could address his troops directly. His square jaw and steely brown eyes were set in Gibralterish determination.
He looked at the people spread across the floor of the hangar before him. There were the elite troopers of Special Weapons Team Epsilon, resplendent in their jet-black body armor. There were surviving elements of the 23rd and 56th armored infantry, whose gray powersuits were still scarred and burned from the battles that had taken so many of their brethren. Here and there was a tech or engineer from his own directorate, carrying eclectic mixes of salvaged weapons. They were not line soldiers, they would not fight well, but they would fight. With the fiendish alien Fructoids bearing down upon them, they needed every able body on the front line now.
“People,” said Vargas, “you know that I’m not one for speeches, so I will make this short. The main Fructoid attack force is now only 30 kilometers away. If they break through our lines there will be nothing standing between them and the city of New Malden, with its 500 million souls, and the heart of our manufacturing capacity. This is the decisive moment. If we win, we would be well on our way to sweeping the vile Fructoids from our planet. If we lose, well, I wouldn’t give much for humanity’s chances in this system. So don’t hold anything back! Death to the Fructoids!”
The assembled soldiers cheered wildly, then settled down to ship out. The vast 100-meter wide doors of the hangar rolled back. First out were the troopers of Special Weapons Team Epsilon, darting ahead on their hoverboards like black avenging shadows of doom. The elite troopers carried smart micro-missile pods and personal ion cannons.
Next came the lumbering forms of the armored infantry, they had rocket assists for brief flight but were heavy enough that they generally preferred to move on the ground. They were armed with plasma cannons that an unaugmented human could not pick up, and heavy metal backpacks stuffed with power cells and a variety of missile weapons. They strode forward confidently with the strident whining of their servo-motors accompanying them like marching music from some technological hell.
Bringing up the rear was the motley assortment of hastily-armed engineers, and the odd sole survivor from various other units that had been decimated during the long war with the Fructoids. They would serve as the reserves, and despite their lack of unit cohesion their morale was high, for they were united in one goal: to pay back the vile aliens, life for life, and death for death.
One of these auxiliaries was Alex Zotov, a minor tech support person who had volunteered for this duty. He wore a cannibalized exoskeleton and toted dual railguns. He was accompanied by his trusty companion, the Mitutuyo-Samsung Model 9100 Copier with the Value-Line OfficeMaster Option Package.
“Well, Model 9100, are you ready to kick some alien posterior?” asked Zotov.
“Beep!” beeped the Model 9100 copier with affirmatory enthusiasm.
Vargas watched from his vantage point on the cybertanks’ hull as the last of his forces left the hangar, clearing the space ahead.
“Well then, Old Guy, shall we head out?”
The raspy voice of the massive cybertank crackled out through hull-mounted speakers:
Absolutely. Let’s give these Fructoids a good and proper human-style stomping. But first, there is someone who wants a last word with you.
Vargas turned around, and beheld the radiant form of his one true love, Janet Chen. She was like an Asian Helen of Troy, with lustrous black hair and a luminous face framed by the frosted silver of her own, more svelte and elegant suit of powered armor.
“Janet,” said Vargas, “you know that I don’t want you here in combat. You should be in the deep shelter.”
“Oh Giuseppe,” said Janet, “you know that I can’t do that. I need to be here doing my part, and I am one of the best shots in the directorate.” She hefted her railgun in one power-armored hand.
&n
bsp; “I love you,” said Vargas.
“And I love you too,” said Chen. They kissed through their open visors, it was passionate but somewhat awkward because the helmet-rings of their armor knocked together, but fortunately it was not as bad as when kissing teenagers would sometimes have their braces lock.
They held hands as the cybertank “Old Guy” revved up his motors and powered out of the hangar. They looked at each other one last time, and then Chen darted off on her advanced armors’ anti-gravitics to join the front lines.
“Ready, old friend?” asked Vargas.
I was built ready. But you really should get off of my hull about now. I do tend to draw a lot of fire.
“Good luck,” said Vargas. He lowered his armored visor and locked it in place. “May the spirit of John Maynard Keynes guide your plasma cannon.”
And good hunting to you as well.
Vargas used a brief spurt of rocket-boost to lift himself off of the cybertanks’ hull, and then he was off and in the lines.
(music swells to crescendo)
---------------------
(cue suspenseful music)
Vargas was cautiously lurking in the ruins of a once-great factory complex, where massive rusted gears bore silent witness to the spreading carnage that swirled all around. The initial meeting engagement and devolved into a formless melee, and now it was kill or be killed, human vs. Fructoid, mano a pseudopod.
Suddenly a Fructoid warrior burst from behind a wall. It looked like an octopus stuffed into a bagel that was riding a snail. It waved its tentacles around: four of them were holding small but deadly hand-weapons.
“Scree!” howled the repulsive alien warrior from its mucous-dripping oral slit, “We have captured all of your bases! You have no chance of winning human, best reconcile yourself with whatever pathetic human gods and/or philosophical constructs you give credence to! Hahaha!”
The Fructoid warrior turned all four weapons on the armored form of Vargas, but the human was even faster, and sliced off all four weapon-tentacles with a power blade, before exploding the alien’s body with an electro-bolt.
“Not today, thank you very much,” said Vargas, as he moved on in search of another target. He ducked through the shattered remains of a door, and stalked stealthily down a long corridor. He had almost made it to the end of the corridor, when the eggplant-colored bulk of a Fructoid Biosliceroid erupted from the side-wall behind him.
“Scree! Stupid human, prepare to have your entropic state maximized!”
The Fructoid warrior was too close for it to miss, and Vargas did not have time to turn around. This, he thought ruefully, might be it.
Just as the biosliceroid was activating its main weapon, a flicker-fast white angel interposed itself and blew off the aliens’ main sensory and cognitive cluster. In it’s dying pulsations the biosliceroid got off one dying shot, which hit the newcomer squarely in the chest.
Vargas opened the visor of the wounded figure, and saw to his shock that it was Janet Chen that had saved him.
“Janet! You’re wounded!”
“Yes
“Don’t give up on me now, soldier! You can make it!”
Chen reached up to stroke the side of his helmet with her armored right hand. “I’m sorry my love
The prostrate form of Janet Chen relaxed and lay limp, and Vargas could tell from her telemetry that she was gone.
“Noooo!!!! You Fructoid bastards!!!!!”
(fade to black)
“That was horrible, said Whifflebat. “Amusing, but horrible. Possibly the worst dialog ever. And historically inaccurate.”
“Inaccurate?” said the media executive. “The humans and the cybertanks fought the Fructoids, and we won. You have to look at the big picture. I’d say it was accurate enough. Most videos don’t even get that much correct.”
The media executive was a tall thin ethnic European wearing a slim black-and-gray suit with a plain blue tie. There was Whifflebat, represented by his usual nerd android, and Old Guy, present as a simulacrum of Amelia Earhart, leather jacket and flying goggles and all. There was also the Captain of Special Weapons Team Epsilon, Chet Masterson, wearing his black armor (many wondered if he ever took it off), Giuseppe Vargas, dressed in gray scrubs, and a small and really cute white plastic robot.
They were all seated at a large round table where they had been viewing a draft of an interactive video show. The table was in the center of a conference room in the headquarters of the Glominoid Media Group. One side of the room was a glass wall looking out into a busy corridor.
“I liked the part about the black avenging shadows of doom,” said Chet Masterson. “And I want a hoverboard.”
You don’t really think that hoverboards would be of any use in combat, do you?
“Certainly not,” replied Masterson. “I just want one. They look like fun.”
“Look,” said the media executive, “We’re making a movie not a documentary. If you want to make something more technically accurate, go right ahead. If it’s any good maybe I can get it shown on one of the military history feeds. There is an audience for things like that. A limited audience, but the demographic is upscale. Probably one of the more specialized feeds, you know, like the cybernetic weapons channel or maybe “When aliens attack: the inside story.” But if you go for a mass audience, you need to make it interesting. That’s why we use attractive actors rather than exact doubles.”
Speak for yourself. I believe that I played myself perfectly. The subtle cant of the active treads, the glint of light off the dorsal sensor masts… when you’re as good looking as I am, who needs actors?
The media executive looked pained. “Yes, yes, you’re a star, don’t let it go to your head though. Remember that we have you scheduled for a guest appearance on ‘Special Weapons Team Epsilon’ next week.
“A guest appearance?” asked Vargas.
Why not? I’ve always been a fan of Special Weapons Team Epsilon, and now I get to be on the show. The team is going to break up a gang of organ-thieves and I get to play the heavy backup!
Masterson chuckled. “For some time the highest score on the video game was held by an anonymous player code-named 'Old Guy.' Imagine my surprise when I realized that the player was in fact this same Old Guy.”
“It’s going to do wonders for the ratings,” said the media executive. “But if you don’t mind me asking, aren’t you cybertanks a little, well, self-indulgent? Not that I’m complaining, you’re good for business. But you, Whifflebat, are here dressed up like an old-time 21st century scientist, and you, Old Guy, show up as Amelia Earhart. As enormous atomic-powered weapons systems, shouldn’t you be a bit more serious?”
The android controlled by Whifflebat nodded. “Humans often make that mistake about us. Consider, however: are you always serious? Don’t you ever just goof off and have fun?”
“Of course I do,” said the media executive. “But not all the time.”
“Indeed,” continued Whifflebat. “What you fail to consider is our multitasking. Each of us are far more dedicated and work-oriented than almost any human. We typically spend less than 1% of our time on what you would term frivolous. However, 1% of our time can completely fill all of the time of a single robot body. Even as this part of me is chatting and having fun with you, 99.9% of myself is running simulations, organizing logistics, building and testing new weapons systems, researching advanced biological structures, collating intelligence files and so on and so forth. You misjudge because you only see the allegedly ‘silly’ aspect of myself.”
“Hmm,” said the media executive. “An interesting point. I hadn’t considered that.”
“How about me?” asked the little white robot. “Could you make a video of my story?”
The executive pur
sed his lips. “Well, let me think, Roboto-helfer. There is potential here, no doubt about that. A humble service robot is the only survivor of a vicious alien attack on a distant ice moon. Instead of giving up, the plucky little robot figures out how to survive alone on the hostile surface. He treks hundreds of kilometers, and even gathers vital intelligence on the aliens’ tactics and infrastructure as he sneaks around their bases. Eventually the aliens are driven from the moon, and he is rescued by the cybertank Crazy Ivan, who fortunately speaks German and switches his language module to English.
The media executive thought for a moment, then continued. “Yes, potential, but it still needs a little more. Let’s see…. I know! There is a little girl, she’s the daughter of the commanding officer, and she and the little robot team up. They don’t like each other at first – the girl treats the robot like a domestic appliance, and the robot thinks the girl is a spoiled brat – but shared adversity forges a bond between them. An old story but the classics always work if you can just add that one little extra twist to keep it fresh. Let me put some of my people on it, we’ll get back to you.”
“Oh good!” said Roboto-helfer. “That story sounds like it would be exciting and inspiring!”
“Funny,” said Masterson, “after all that we have been through, we are sitting here chatting about producing an historical video drama.”
“Interstellar empires come and go,” said the media executive, “but television is eternal.”
“The mass media is the sociological high ground,” said Vargas. “With the neoliberals gone, we need to rebuild a new mythos and get people onboard with the new program. This really is serious work that we do here.”
The media executive nodded. “I’m glad that someone here understands. I also can’t tell you how fantastic this job has been for us here at Glominoid. Professional opportunities to reboot an entire culture only come every thousand years, if that.”
Suddenly, the little robot turned and looked out at the corridor beyond the glass wall. It pointed at an ordinary-looking man walking past. “That,” said Roboto-helfer, “is not a human being.”
Neoliberal Economists Must Die ! (An Old Guy/Cybertank Adventure Book 3) Page 23
