by Ian Lewis
Another five hundred feet and I am overlooking the gouge of stripped earth, void and hollow in the early-morning light. My intent is to hide as much of the machine as possible within the quarry, but I’m not sure now that I’ve seen the sheer edge of it. I can barely walk the robot, let alone get it to climb in and out of a pit.
Frustration sinks in, my inability to cope becoming more apparent. I instinctively set my teeth on edge as sweat begins a trickle down my arms. Maybe I should just go back. I turn the robot around and face the way I came, unsure.
Then, like a power surge, the cockpit dies for a brief moment. Thomas reappears with an identical scowl as before. “Issue the directive.”
“What directive?!” I yell as Thomas signs off and power resumes. My consternation has exceeded a level I thought possible as I grasp the main monitor with both hands. “What is it?! Tell me!”
No response. Just the docile hum and buzzing of the electronic gear surrounding me, and the near silent throbbing of the motors beneath. This is asinine…the stupidest thing I could have done. Why in God’s name did I ever climb into this? Look at what you got yourself into. Just look.
The red blip remains like it’s waiting for me. I lean back in the seat knowing I can’t conjure Thomas on the screen any more than I can obtain answers from him when he’s speaking in riddles. Taking hold of the controls once more, I ask in the calmest voice I know how, “What is the directive?”
My answer comes by way of onscreen text. Directive #1: Grant rights to engage Stage Alpha. Y/N?
I waver, but only for a moment. “What is Stage Alpha?”
The screen answers. Stage Alpha: Load all autonomous systems and mobility logic.
“Who am I talking to?”
ADS02. Grant rights to engage Stage Alpha. Y/N?
I select the “N” key as deliberately as I can, certain I don’t want to engage whatever Stage Alpha is. Horrified and unnerved I am now conversing with the machine, I recoil into the furthest creases of the seat.
Insane thoughts pummel the outside of my head, threatening to break in. I see myself suffocated by this cold metallic air, pounding my brains out across the keyboard while the buzzing electronic chorus sings its even tune. I will lose my mind and the machine won’t care.
Thomas will look on in mock seriousness, chastising me for not issuing some vague command, shaking his head like a disappointed father. “You will not stand in my way,” he’ll say.
I’m ready to give up, to sail off into some endless mental current, when the sight of Ray falling to the ground returns. Over and over I see him collapse under the weight of his own body, unable to hold himself up. His attempt to catch himself is awkward and his face smacks into the cement of the hangar floor. Then he stops moving.
Ray’s face hits for the fifth time in my mind and I’m filled with some renewed sense of self-righteousness. There’s a good chance the Illuma Corp is going to get away with this. For one, there’s no way I can even prove those were Illuma Corp agents in the hangar; I only have Ray’s assurance. My word won’t hold water with the police.
I decide the only justice is the justice I seek on my own. Turning, the machine shifts under my direction, and I begin long, loping strides toward Western Lights and the flashing red blip.
13
The irony of my words isn’t lost on me. “Justice I seek on my own” sounds like something Thomas or Ray would say. Am I now somehow in collusion with them? Guilty by association? The last hour I’ve flitted back and forth between sound judgment and blind heroics. How far can I go without fully committing?
I ignore the fact that I’m pushing the machine faster than before; my arms swing in a manic rhythm which has the robot stamping swift depressions into the countryside. Nothing stands in my way—gentle slopes, clusters of trees…they all fall under and behind.
According to the map, I’ve traveled around ten miles, at which point I have to cross a dusty back road. There’s no traffic at this hour, but I move past its vacant lull as quick as I can. Another five miles to go…
The terrain ahead is gray-brown and listless with a wooded area beyond. The sensation of being exposed and out in the open is motivation to keep moving even though I haven’t worked out a plan for when I reach Western Lights. I imagine I’ll stall for as long as possible; the Illuma Corp may not know their man isn’t piloting this thing.
Or will they? Maybe the agents at the hangar made contact with whoever’s in the other robot. That could be disastrous. The coma weapon might be used on me. What then? If I’m the last chance to stop all hell from breaking loose…
Quit making yourself out to be more important than you are—that will get you killed. There. A sobering thought. I have to stay grounded—realistic. I can’t assume or take anything for granted. I can’t ignore my limitations. I’m a nobody behind the controls of a technological nightmare, teetering on the brink of someone’s crazy idea of the future.
My shoulders ache with a faint burn, the constant rowing taking its toll. I still haven’t determined how to operate the arms of the robot and wonder how I’ll do so with two tired arms of my own. Maybe the A.I. will take over like it did before. Maybe if I continue to will things, they’ll happen—this is what I envision as the Balance.
The sight of the privacy wall surrounding Western Lights refreshes my energy. I guide the robot toward the smooth stone of the perimeter, a thin band in the wash of daylight.
The wall becomes more substantial as I near it; it looks about ten to twelve feet high. The machine will scale it with ease. I approach and lift the right leg with a deft poise I didn’t think possible, then drag a clumsy left into the wall with a smack.
Though I can’t see directly below, I picture stone crumbling as the giant staggers. Somehow I maintain balance, allowing the left leg to catch up. Without being able to hear outside, it’s not clear whether I’ve alerted anyone to my presence. Fortunately, the brick townhomes before me aren’t teeming with life.
I maneuver the angular legs of the machine between the homes and then look toward the mini-metropolis at the center of the community. There’s supposed to be both a power and a water treatment plant as well as a business campus; Western Lights is entirely self-sufficient.
With care, I move along what appears to be a main avenue toward the taller structures beyond. It’s as if I’m walking a ghost town, dead to all but a lonely traveler—except it’s more modern, and I’m not a cowboy.
No, I’m the furthest thing from that. The colossal strides of the machine aren’t accompanied by the jingle of spurs, and the shoulder-mounted gun will fire six and then some. There’s no gold star to shine as a badge of honor, only the smudgy black sheen of the armor.
I halt near what look like office buildings, built with endless tinted glass and standing anywhere from five to ten stories tall. According to the map, I’m nearly on top of the other robot. This realization assaults me like a blow to the head and sends me reeling in panic.
I’ve got to figure out how to work the arms—and the weapons. Can the robot run? Jump? What happens if I tip over? There’s no time to figure out all of this; the other machine could appear at any minute. I grasp the control arms with a sweaty grip and wait for the worst.
Tense seconds turn into frustrated minutes when nothing comes. No shaking ground or billowing silhouette against the horizon. My grip becomes slack as does my focus. Adrenaline bleeds away like a sieve and I’m left with the remaining strain of muscle fiber.
I allow one hand to fall from the control arm and into my lap, then the other. The red blip on the map remains stationary. Could the other robot be underground? The map, detailed as it is, doesn’t indicate there are any subterraneous levels.
There has to be Wi-Fi in this thing. I pull up an Internet browser on the main monitor and am rewarded. I search for anything about Western Lights, but all I find are a few press releases—the main website for the community requires a username and password.
The curious thing is on
e of the peripheral monitors appears to be performing a search of its own—a more secure search. I switch focus to this monitor and find myself entrenched in architectural drawings and other data which isn’t readily available to the public.
Contemporary architecture, three-story floor plans, stainless steel appliances, controlled access entry, concierge…the list goes on. Phase 1, which is complete, contains twelve units as well as the community’s infrastructure and business campus. All units have sold save for two. I skim through the list of owners and am taken aback to see Thomas Worthington’s name on the list. Odd coincidence…
Phase 2 was never finished, leaving four lone manor homes to rest on the southeastern edge of Western Lights, vacant. Two have sold, one to a Ms. J. Peckingham, and the other to a Mr. Elias Jacob. Elias Jacob’s name is highlighted with a blue hyperlink. Intrigued, I click the link and am presented with a host of information about Mr. Jacob.
It seems Elias Jacob is a prominent, vocal member of a group known as the Hand of God. Apparently they have ties to the Puritans. Elias is well respected in some circles, loathed by others…possibly an extremist. He wrote a book several years ago: The Coming Purge.
This is too strange—first Thomas, now a religious fanatic within the gates of the same exclusive community. Especially since this is the other half of the Singularity equation, balanced out by the Illuma Corp. Am I missing something?
I don’t have time to consider my own question when there is movement on the video screen. The pale gray armor of the other robot steps from behind one of the larger buildings, swiveling about as if I’ve interrupted its wandering about the empty streets.
It resembles the machine I pilot, well-balanced and agile. The precision nature of the armor is apparent as the monster takes resolute strides in my direction; I note the same gear-like turbine exposed mid-waist. Staring forward, never flinching, the expressionless visage bears down with exacting coldness.
As it nears, I watch in mounting fear as the turbine begins to turn, slowly at first, and then build into a raging, spinning blur.
14
Nerves snap taut in every region of my body. It’s enough to weigh down my limbs in a stiff, lethargic lack of response. The core of my brain follows suit, except for that ever-swirling part of the conscious mind which looks on at the impending train wreck.
There’s nothing left to bolster my flimsy heroics. I’m no longer moved by the images of Ray’s lifeless form, nor do I care what happens with the Singularity or if people die. There, I admit it. I’m a coward, a choke artist. I’ve tried to mask it but I can’t anymore.
I want to turn and run, but there’s nowhere to hide, not inside this monstrosity. If I could disappear, I would. Wait…I can disappear.
Metamaterials—Ray said the skin of this thing is made of metamaterials, or something like that. I can make the machine invisible, probably with a touch of a button. I just have to figure out how.
The gray robot will close the distance in a matter of seconds. Its mechanical hands will wrap a crushing grip around the frame of my machine; at least that’s what I fear.
Scrambling, my sweaty fingers drag rushed strokes against the touch controls until I find the tactical menu from before. A light blue orb glows next to the words “Cloaking.” It changes to a burning red when I select it. I expect some sound or elaborate flash of light to follow, but there is nothing more than subtext on the monitor indicating that cloaking is enabled.
Did it work? The threatening form before me has stopped, maybe a stride away. Can its pilot not see me? It must have worked. I’m ready to congratulate myself for thinking on my feet when the other robot takes a step forward, arms outstretched.
I yank backward on the control arms, sending my machine into a clumsy gait of retreat. Hopes of a few minutes’ respite are dashed. If I can’t even hide when I’m invisible, then there’s no way out.
The gray machine continues its advance and I continue my withdrawal, never losing sight of my enemy’s cartoonish, yet menacing sleepwalk. How long can I keep this up? Will the pilot chase me across all of Western Lights? It occurs to me that he can’t see me after all and is only trying to feel me out.
I attempt to spin the robot around and run when a reverberating thud crashes through the rear of my seat. The control arms no longer respond, at least not to send the robot in a backward motion. Straining all I want, I’m frozen in my position.
Disorientation melts when I take note of my cockeyed location. The street is no longer straight ahead. It seems I’ve rammed myself up against one of the office buildings and can retreat no more. And now there’s no time to advance or sidestep my way around the other machine.
The gray giant connects with a ham-fisted grappling of motorized digits. It sounds like the creaking hull of a submarine from the movies as it presses against my armor.
Jaw clenched, squinting through slits, my body braces for imminent shock. I don’t know whether to prepare for a debilitating blow from a fist or a fiery explosion from some hidden weapon. My unease rises and escapes in a moan of regret.
The other robot grasps onto the upper half of mine. It proceeds to wrench me back and forth in violent jerks.
Screens flicker and lights flash, blistering my eyes. Audible warnings signal impending doom, but I’m lost as to how to proceed. The gyroscopic chair does its best to keep up with the nauseous sway. Why won’t the robot fight back like it did in the hangar? Do I have to will it? “Fight back!” I wail.
The robot’s response comes via the onscreen prompt again: Grant rights to engage Stage Alpha. Y/N?
There’s no thought to my reply, only a simple, firm “yes” as I click the “Y” key and hit enter.
The center monitor pages through diagnostic information and then pulls up a title screen: Attack/Defense Sentinel 02. Loading Stage Alpha…
New lights and menus flood otherwise darkened portions of the control panels. A high-pitched whine tickles my ears, barely perceptible. The remaining circumference of the cockpit melts into a wraparound video screen like the one in the fore, granting me a fishbowl view of everything around the robot.
With a controlled hiss, two additional control arms descend from overhead. They stop at shoulder level, ready to be grasped. I take hold of them, gingerly at first, and ease them forward. Their range of motion is not limited to front and back like the controls for the legs; rather, they pivot on what feel like ball and socket joints.
Even more rewarding is that they allow me to move the robot’s arms. This discovery has me back in the game, sending wild, flailing blows across the chest of the other machine.
My enemy staggers then regains balance. Only half a step back, he has not allowed me enough space to sidestep his grasp. The gray gauntlets come at me again.
I swing the arms of my robot upward in a clumsy attempt to defend, over-calculating the speed at which they move. This sends them straight up into the air while my attacker crashes into my robot’s shoulders.
The distortion of static crackles through the video screen, temporarily disrupting my view. I yank down on the controls, sending the arms into another clumsy motion. This time I connect with the head of the other machine. Unsure of how to grasp it, I do my best to push it away with the blunt side of the armored appendages.
Without a building to bolster its footing, the other robot loses some ground. It takes a moment to regain its balance, and then tries to convert this into momentum as it reaches out in a blind grasp.
I take the opportunity to slip aside, just missing the searching grip of the armored digits.
The other robot cannot find me and swings around in a violent twisting motion, desperate to make contact.
Slinking away, I plant delicate steps, fearing the other pilot can somehow hear or feel me stomping away. If I can put enough distance between us, the cloaking ability will be more useful. There’s no way he’ll wander the entire community, groping about.
If I can buy some time, I can figure out a weakness…s
ome way to disable him. He’s more adept at piloting than I, which means I will have limited opportunity.
With careful strides, Attack/Defense Sentinel 02 marches under my command, a ghost in the morning sun.
15
The gray machine is four blocks away—far enough that I can easily maintain a safe distance should it move in my direction. Its manic churning ceased not long after I put myself out of reach. Now it stands facing me, immobile.
Is he tracking me somehow—electronically? How long will the cloaking last? Is the feature dependent upon some energy source? Should I attack the other robot? What’s to stop him from using his cloaking feature?
Uncertainty aside, I’m drawn back to reality with the strain of my bladder. I’ve ignored the need to relieve myself for too long and that need is now unbearable.
I maneuver the robot behind the last of the empty office buildings before toggling the hatch open. The burst of daylight and free air is intimidating at first, considering my view is from a hundred feet up. No matter, my wavering fades as climb up onto the robot’s shoulder and unzip my pants.
Leaning over the edge and trying not to fall, the absurdity of urinating off the back of a giant robot wracks my frame with near-uncontrollable laughter. However, the threat of the other robot rounding the corner is sobering, as is the strange heaviness now seeping into my consciousness.
There’s not one symptom which stands out over another; it’s just a disorienting effect roiling with nausea and a mild headache. The ground seems far way—farther than it really is—and my legs no longer seem trustworthy.
Leaning forward, balance swaying, I break out in cold sweat as darkness pulls at the back of my vision. This sudden sickness…the air…I’m drowning in it. The…the coma weapon, it must be…
I’m ready to perform a lifeless swan dive when a solid gust of wind surges in, giving me rearward momentum. Reaching out behind me, I grasp for anything which might break my fall, having lost nearly all point of reference. I land hard on the edge of the robot’s shoulder next to the open hatch.
