by Ian Lewis
With some inexplicable strength of will, I drag myself on my forearms over and into the hatch. Falling, my shoulder breaks my plunge, dragging across the rungs the whole way down. It would be numbing if my senses weren’t already so dulled.
I lay in a heap for an indeterminate amount of time before I’m able to grasp my bearings. My temperature returns to normal and aching fog dissipates from my brain. The coma weapon slipped my mind, but it seems I’m safe as long as I’m in the cockpit.
I’m comforted that the buzzing of the controls is the same as I rise and move back to the command chair. With the flip of the stubby toggle, the hatch seals itself and I am once again the master of my own fate—but this comes with the complexity of not being able to remain outside the robot for more than a minute or two.
There’s truly no escape now. This game will have to end with me at the helm of this monster. Thomas Worthington welcomed this scenario with open arms…even went so far as to program himself into his creation. What did he expect would come of this—that others would be as willing? There’s real power here, power to do awful things.
A furious blinking on the map reins me in again. The other machine is nearing. It must be able to track me after all… Do I shut down all power? No, that can’t work. The cloaking will probably cease to function. Maybe there’s a way to disable the other devices, some way to minimize my electronic signature…
Once again I tear into the menus—the ones I’ve been through several times already as well as the new ones presented by Stage Alpha. Nothing stands out as helpful. I’m ignorant when it comes down to it, only surviving on luck up to this point.
Maybe it’s time to man up and take the beating I’m due. Go out in a blaze of glory. The other machine is ready to round the corner and will only have to spin around to be within reach of me—maybe it’s time to go on the offensive…
Slamming the control arms into motion, I rock with the swivel of the chair. My robot smashes deliberate strides into the pavement, clipping the glass and steel of the office structure with a shoulder.
Shards splinter in my peripheral vision, but I ignore them. My focus is on the blank space in front of me, the void soon to be filled by the hulking terror of my enemy. It’s half a breath away…
Coming round, the gray robot shifts into view. Armor laden and pale, it halts its advance.
In turn, I secure footing as best as I can manage then reach for the overhead controls. My robot is ready to throw down a thundering blow when a voice crackles through the cockpit.
“Hello, friend. I’m tired of hide and seek. Let’s talk this over.”
Who said that? I flip back and forth looking for some indication before coming to rest on a small pop-up dialog on the monitor. It says Comm: ADS01 in green font. The other pilot…
“Seriously,” the voice says. “I don’t want to fight you. Did you ever consider we might be on the same side?”
I almost don’t want to answer. Teetering on the edge of swinging anyway, I concede to drop my robot arms. Do I reply? I’m not on his side.
“Here, I’ll even back down,” he says. At this, the gray robot retreats two steps. “What’s your name? Let’s start with that.”
“My name doesn’t matter,” I say. No need to make things personal.
The other pilot’s voice is calm and accommodating. “OK, fair enough.” A pause. “Your cloaking doesn’t make you untraceable, you know.”
“I figured as much.” I try to be as snide as possible.
“So why not turn it off?”
Feeling hopeless, I shrug to myself and disable the cloaking.
“There, that’s much more polite. Now I don’t feel like I’m talking to myself. So, who do you work for? I imagine you’re a competitor of some sort. Or do you work for Worthington?”
“I don’t work for anyone. But I know who you work for.”
“Yes, I imagine you do, but you don’t know anything about us.”
I nearly spit my words. “I know enough.”
“You think you know enough, but that’s the real difference, isn’t it? What you think you know isn’t always accurate, nor is it often complete. Rarely, if ever, will your conclusions match reality, because you are working with a deficit of information.”
“Sorry, pal. I don’t have time to play mind games with you.”
“I’m not playing mind games, friend. I’m only explaining our dilemma.”
“Our dilemma?”
“Yes. You and I and these magnificent machines. One of us has to give up. And I can tell you right now we have every intention of finishing what we started.”
16
Reckless thoughts singe frayed synapses. Sweat slicks my palms, causing them to slip off the bulky control arms. I prepare for action for the second time, but the other pilot talks me down again.
“So, friend, where do you hail from? How did you get involved in this? Did you volunteer?”
I glare back at the motionless robot. “How about I ask you a question?”
“OK, shoot.”
“What happened to Worthington? Did you kill him like you killed Ray?”
“Ray? I’m sorry—who is Ray? Oh, you mean the fellow at the hangar. From what I understand, that was self-defense on our part.”
“Self-defense?!”
The pilot cuts in before I can finish. “Now, I don’t want to get wrapped up in all of that untidy business. I wasn’t there and so don’t have the correct frame of reference. As far as Worthington goes, I can honestly tell you I don’t know.”
I raise my voice in complaint. “You expect me to believe that?”
“You can believe in what you want. Like I said, you are working with a deficit of information.”
“Then why don’t you enlighten me,” I say through gritted teeth.
This remark is met with a condescending chuckle. “Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary. You’ve given me no reason to trust you, and you seem very hostile.”
“So what now, we just kill each other?”
More laughter. “No, let’s not have any of that. We just need to come to terms with the fact you’re in over your head. What’s afoot is bigger than you—you must at least understand that.”
By some instinct my hands return to the control arms. “I understand that your organization’s goals are not sound, nor are your methods.”
The pilot’s voice betrays a hint of annoyance. “Again, you make assumptions. What gives you the right to stand in the way of the future? Why do you feel so empowered? Is it some misguided belief system? Tell me.”
I slingshot my reply and advance two steps. “I don’t have to justify anything. This is about accountability—you will be held responsible for your actions just like everybody else.” The self-righteousness in my voice is foreign, but I go with it anyway.
The pilot speaks in an eerie calm. “Listen, friend. I’ve tried to give you a way out—honest and free. But you refuse to comply… You must know this doesn’t leave me with many options.”
“I’m not your friend, you prick.”
“Very well.” The pilot breathes his final words through a sigh before engaging his cloaking.
A hollow “dammit” rings through the empty pit of my gut. I re-engage my cloaking in a hasty response but am more or less frozen in uncertainty. Squinting as if it will help me see, I manhandle the control arms as a deafening blow crashes into the left side of the machine.
I manage to keep my balance, but am racked with another barrage before I can collect any sense of what to do next. Warning lights remind me of the potential damage I am taking. Will my armor hold?
The map still shows my location in relation to the other machine, but that’s the best I can do. There’s no way to know when to duck, move, or block. And for all I know, the pilot may give up on the beating and decide to use whatever other offensive tactics the robot has.
With impressive speed, the icon on the map moves behind me. Before I can turn around, another rattling blow rak
es across the back of my armor. This sends me forward with only the built-in reflexes of the robot to catch itself from falling on its face.
The invisible behemoth strikes once more, sending a shock through my bones.
I can’t hold out forever. Think! Swiveling on my mechanical feet, I twist around to defend.
The pilot anticipates my move and rotates in the opposite direction, placing himself behind me once again.
The next attack brings my robot to its knees. It feels like pile drivers raining down on the shell of the cockpit. Each thud of metal on metal is like a nail further in the coffin. In the midst of this beat-down, Attack/Defense Sentinel 02 asks its next question. ADS02. Grant rights to engage Stage Beta. Y/N?
Aloud, I ask the inevitable. “What is Stage Beta?”
The onscreen answer comes quick. Stage Beta: Load all attack/defense systems and warfare logic.
“Yeah, sure, sounds good,” is my sarcastic reply. I slam my finger onto the “Y” key and hope to all that’s holy I haven’t made a mistake.
17
In addition to a warning that the cloaking is damaged, the anticipated title screen appears: Attack/Defense Sentinel 02. Loading Stage Beta…
The seat stiffens as if bolted down into an immobile position. Portions of the lumbar and shoulder regions press into my back with increased pressure. The lower control arms descend and then come forward, their curvature meeting my shins. The upper control arms follow, dropping to waist level.
Each pressure point of the chair backing separates as it splits into six quadrants. Likewise, the seat folds into individual components, bolstering my hips and thighs. Through this process I am maneuvered into a virtual standing position with my feet tucked into clefts in the lower controls.
The panels of touch screens adjust themselves in relation to me, each rotating on an unseen axis. The monitors and keyboard do the same, still within reach.
The transformation of the cockpit seems complete when the whine and hiss of motors give way to the usual low hum. A few seconds pass before a new message flits across the screen: Engaging Kinetic Drive…
Without further warning, all four control arms maneuver my body into a mock kneeling position, one knee down, the other drawn toward my chest. My arms mirror the robot’s outstretched limbs, the control grips twisting to match the giant’s open hands.
My instinctual response surprises me as I press into the lower controls, taken aback at their fluid movement. The robot’s legs move in response, matching the speed and angle at which I point my feet.
Contact with the cement returns solid pressure to the controls, halting the movement of my left foot. My sense of balance disappears and I tense up, anticipating a fall—but unseen internal systems compensate. Positioning my right leg is just as awkward.
A jolt from behind sends me staggering forward. I don’t react fast enough; I can only reach out in awkward response. One massive arm finds temporary leverage in crumbling brick only to be dragged down by the weight of the unsupported body.
The shudder that reverberates through the hull of the machine is the first real loss of control I’ve experienced. The thought I’m overmatched and outwitted stabs at my brain.
The struggle to stand is slowed by my panicked, weakened joints. Shaking, I manage a clumsy scramble to my feet and circle around in time to absorb an invisible, pummeling fist.
The whiplash from this blow sends me reeling, the cluster of austere office buildings a blur against the rambling countryside beyond. A jarring response echoes through my bones as metal appendages connect with the ground; my head snaps back with equal force.
Squinting in between collisions, I’ve barely noticed the change in diagnostic information on the virtual display. The myriad digital gauges and numbers float before me, spewing endless analysis of the situation at hand.
The lower right quadrant of the screen shifts between current operational status and the suggested course of action: Recommended Tactic: Retaliatory Evasion. Options: Fire Support. A touch menu blinks near my hand: Engage Recommended Tactic.
I slide my finger across this blinking orb. Response is instantaneous; the controls maneuver themselves in sequence, pulling the robot upward with a grace I could never muster.
The buzzing motors of the controls direct my left arm into a blocking position, bringing a massive, shielded forearm into the same location across the robot’s body.
Another strike from my invisible enemy rains down from above. My guarding arm gives way as the internal compensators translate the blow into a relative amount of pressure for human limbs. In turn, the controls pull my right arm upward as the robot attempts to complete its “retaliatory evasion.” My fist connects with a satisfying thud against unseen armor.
The guiding of my appendages is a foreign sensation as is each pound of pressure sent back through the controls. My body sways on the verge of losing control while the robot regains its footing and retreats several paces.
My sense of balance returns when the main monitor indicates the robot has finished its maneuver: Resume Manual Control. A deep whirring spools up from beneath me, increasing in speed. The monitor switches to: HellPoint Cannon Online.
What appears to be a targeting system materializes on the video display; this is accompanied by the usual virtual mouse controls on either side of me.
“But I can’t see anything!”
The robot replies as soon as I utter the word “see.” Enable thermal imaging? Y/N.
“Yes!”
The video display converts to infrared where the heat signature of the other robot melts into view. Its behemoth form bears down on me in deliberate strides. I fumble with the green crosshairs sliding across the display.
Too late—I’m hammered again in a fury. I respond with wild, uncalculated movements. Each fist that connects sounds like a ringing bell, vibrating a dull, gong-like shimmer through the cockpit.
The fiery thermal figure rages on; the other pilot refuses to relent.
I maintain some semblance of resolve through this. The clang of my armor against his is the sound of potential victory. Trying to get a clear shot, I toggle the cannon again.
The other robot grabs hold of the muzzle and pushes upward, disabling my efforts to aim.
The crosshairs slip out of my control as the cannon twists on its turret. The touch screen won’t let me regain control, but the firing mechanism is within thumb’s reach on the right control arm. I press it with a burning anticipation.
The resulting electrostatic sizzle is followed by an explosive burst of bending metal. I drag the crosshairs to aim at my best estimation of center of mass and fire again. The same crackle and then an explosion of intense white saturates the screen.
The thermal imaging automatically switches back to the normal video output. The other robot is no longer hidden, having lost all of its cloaking capability. Its left arm is warped and twisted.
Stumbling, it struggles to remain balanced but loses out to gravity. One leg falters and then another. The hulking weight drags the armored body to the ground in an awkward loss of control.
18
The gray machine lies before me, lesions in its armor exposing layers of damaged panels. Its left arm is wrecked, barely usable. Charred streaks blemish the torso.
A hysterical laugh sounds over the communication link. It’s the other pilot again. “You…you really want him bad, don’t you?” More laughter. “Oh, you are in for it, my friend.”
Is Thomas Worthington my objective? I decide he is. “Tell me where he is. Is he dead?”
“I sincerely hope not. And we didn’t do anything with him. We’re trying to find him. Though I suppose it’s possible Worthington’s obsession may have killed him already…”
“Worthington? Wait—who are you talking about?”
A chuckle of realization. “Ah, so you aren’t looking for him.”
“Who?”
“Elias Jacob.”
Elias Jacob. Elias Jacob. Why is that
name familiar? A tenant—he was supposed to be a tenant of Western Lights. His name was on the list of owners—the fanatic. “What do you want with him?”
“Mr. Jacob stole a certain number of secrets from various organizations, including Redd Research. We want him for leverage—and for whatever else we can get out of him, of course. Your friend Worthington was keeping him here.”
“Here as in Western Lights? Like a hostage?” I veer closer, keeping the cannon trained on the prone robot.
“Don’t feel bad for Mr. Jacob. He’s a small piece of an ever-growing puzzle. So is Worthington. It was only necessary that he create these machines. He’s played his part, and it’s not our concern what has become of him.”
“How can I know you’re telling the truth—and if you are telling the truth, why would you do so?”
“Your mind can’t understand the difference between the truth and a lie, so there’s no harm in honesty. I’ve already told you this is bigger than you. There’s no way to stop us or the coming paradigm shift. The next evolutionary step is technological.”
I dismiss this, overwhelmed with how pathetic the other pilot’s stance is and how he’s been sucked into the psycho-babble that Ray and Worthington fell prey to. He no longer seems dangerous, only absurd. I retract my aim and draw back several steps.
The other pilot cackles over the speakers. “Not willing to get your hands dirty, eh? Too self-righteous? That’s OK; I appreciate your show of diplomacy. I’ll live to fight another day.”
Turning, I ignore his comments as I walk away from the disabled mass of metal.
“Don’t believe me? You’ll see in time. It will start as ‘human enhancement.’ Biochemistry and nanotechnology will push us past the threshold of disease and defect.” The pilot is nearly shouting, as if to be heard while I’m walking away. “Then there will be integration with machines on the biological level, granting immediate access to global data and information stores. Your information becomes mine, and my information becomes yours. We’ll realize exponential returns, and we’ll soon surpass the need for bodies at all. Don’t you get it? A collective mind with no death.”
