by Ian Lewis
The ranting is ludicrous. I’ve got to find a way to block his communication. His vision of the world isn’t the least bit desirable; I don’t know how anyone could think it is.
Fiddling with the menus, I walk myself through another self-directed tutorial. I’ve figured everything else out, so why not this?
My confidence careens off a cliff when the menus die. The blackened cockpit, a pause, and the glower of Thomas Worthington disheartens whatever shred of motivation I have left.
“Consider what road you travel,” he says, stern face poised as if contemplating something philosophical. “One leads away from the struggle, but it has no point. Turn and retrace your steps and you have no choice but to fulfill what some men might call destiny.
“You no doubt understand that destiny is a terrifying word. It implies your purpose, your reason, is somehow mapped out before you. It has nothing to do with good fortune, only obligation. But know this—destiny is your choice; it is the sum of all choice, what mankind wills into being with every breath. The fate you discard will be a mantle assumed by another.”
Exhaustion droops my shoulders; I close my eyes and clamor at the edge of raw, blistered patience. “I don’t have it in me to interpret your riddles.”
Worthington ignores me, or the recording continues; I can’t decide. “Your brother’s will is not pure; he has become your enemy. He claims to champion humanity, but he doesn’t represent them. He has faltered in his attempts to change the face of the world. You cannot allow him to continue on his misguided path; you must destroy him.”
I lean forward. “You want me to kill him? Are you out of your mind?”
“Destroy him!” Worthington disappears, once again leaving me without answers.
Behind me, the other pilot is struggling to get his machine on its feet. His audible exertion seems distant over the communication link.
A block away, I turn to face him, weary. I don’t know if I can hold out for another brawl. The cannon is still online, but how many times can I shoot him before he won’t survive? I’m not out to kill anyone—and it seems as though that would play directly into Worthington’s plans.
I appeal to reason. “Listen, man. Why not give it up? Neither of us are getting anywhere with this.”
The pilot doesn’t respond; he only continues his menacing advance. Did he receive a message from Worthington too? Has he been instructed to kill me?
“C’mon now,” I say while backing up. “Think this through. It doesn’t have to go down this way.”
Still no response. The expressionless visage bores into me with silent concentration, mirroring the dead air over the radio. There’s no pity, no mercy in its relentless face…only the cold, marching advancement of techno-death.
A darkening horizon frames the menacing figure as an early-morning storm rolls into view. The sky starts to spit, and I know this will all be over soon.
19
Shifting my weight is impossible without rocking the machine in one direction or another. My nervous frustration can’t bear to remain bottled up anymore as I dawdle back and forth.
Forced into this position, I take aim. I don’t want to fire again; one more blast across the mangled armor will surely inflict fatal shock and damage. Do I have a choice? This is self-defense, right?
I rehearse what I’ll say to the police when they find a dead man in the battered remnants of a giant robot that shouldn’t even exist. Sorry, Officer, he went tearing off across the countryside in his robot first. I had to track him down, duke it out, and kill him.
No, it won’t be the police. It will be the FBI. There are military ties here, and who knows if Worthington stole anything from them before the contract fell through.
A brief snicker from the other pilot sounds over the radio before the robot halts its advance. Then my video screen turns into the Fourth of July.
Warning indicators flash in urgent display: Warning: ADS01 has entered Cannibal Mode. Pop-ups fly out of nowhere; what looks to be every system in the machine complains in blaring red font.
Attack/defense systems and warfare logic override. Standby… Engage Crypto-masking? Redirecting primary fuel cells. Stage Beta compromised. Autonomous systems and mobility logic resequencing. Standby…
The gray robot struggles its way over in awkward, disjointed steps. Two pronged turrets rise from its shoulders and after a ghostly spark from each, two blazing bolts of energy lance out toward me.
An eerie, fizzling sound zips through the cockpit as the energy ripples across the body of my robot. The touch panels revert to their demo mode and my fishbowl view of the outside reduces to a dim, low resolution. The controls no longer respond.
The other robot moves into position directly in front of me. Various panels retract in its chest and abdomen; similar ports open in the arms and legs. Spindly, flexible appendages emerge, each with various tool-like projections on the end.
These probes unfold and reach toward me, placing themselves into a mad frenzy of vibration on various points of the armor. They move with guided precision, as if they already know the dimensions.
The searing twinge of not knowing what these things will do rivets my mind; this pang increases tenfold when the video output goes black and I’m left with only the glowing touch panels and LCD monitors.
The pulsating rhythm of the probes continues, clanging away at the outer hull. The notion of being dissected by a mechanical force, skin flayed off bit by bit, sends my stomach to my throat.
“What am I supposed to do?” I plead aloud. If I ever needed direction from the machine, it’s now.
The machine replies on the main monitor. Execute subroutine Recover.
“What is that?” I pause then ask again. “Subroutine Recover—what is it?”
The monitor loads what looks like a DOS prompt, but instead of C:, the cursor flashes next to SEED:. I rap away on the keyboard, hoping to make some sense of what must be the machine’s operating system.
Wild guesses lead to repeated responses of “invalid command.” Sweat has soaked through the underarms in my T-shirt when I admit I can’t navigate the OS. A high-pitched buzzing outside the cockpit reminds me the pressure is still on and all I can think about are the pulsing, searching arms scouring the armor.
“I can’t do this! I need help!”
At my insistence, the machine seems to take over as a series of commands scroll down the screen. Executing subroutine Recover…Initiating reboot.
Everything goes dark, and the ambient hum dissipates into nothing. The clamor from outside wails on, and I wonder whether the robot will reactivate in time, and whether I’ll have control when it does.
“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” I tap with furious nerves at the upper controls, ready to grasp them and fight with a renewed intensity.
Another grueling five seconds stretches past before the menus flicker once again and the background noises fill my ears. The monitors speed through random startup information: Restoring system defaults. Running memory test. Enabling advanced cache sequencing.
The wraparound video screen is the last thing to load. Lower portions of the screen do not display correctly; they hiss in static. I can see enough of the gray robot despite this limitation and only need a second to place a death grip on the nearest probe.
I yank with an exaggerated force, ripping it away from the other robot in a burst of sparks.
The other pilot attempts to block, but he’s too late to stop me from tearing another two probes off of his robot’s frame. He lets loose with the first sign of frustration I’ve heard from him. “Aaauurrgghh! You’re ruining everything!”
I try to maintain momentum and barrel my armored shoulder into him; this reckless maneuver sends us both flailing. With luck I’m able to catch myself whereas the other robot stumbles to the ground.
Hoping to take advantage of my position, I tear through the touch menus to find the weapons system. In seconds the cannon is back online. Standing over the gray machine, I ta
ke aim.
“Destroy!” The visage of Thomas Worthington appears like some subliminal message spliced into a movie reel.
This is a gut check, and I hesitate. Am I doing his will? Falling into his plan? The other pilot is struggling to bring his robot to its feet and I’ve got a clean shot. Do I take it?
“Destroy!” Thomas appears again, more vehement.
Sweat bleeds into my eyes as I bring the crosshairs around and focus them on center of mass.
Almost on its feet, left arm dangling, the other robot stands ready to attack.
My finger hovers over the firing mechanism. This is it. This is the choice that Worthington says will become my destiny.
Part Three
20
The rain falls in a steady, soaking sheet; the darkened sky overtakes the rising sun. The gray, mechanical monster before me lurches as if it will reach out and strike from its remote position.
My heart beats once before I swivel the cannon down to take aim at one of its legs. I fire off a hurried blast which strips the plating off in a jagged ablation.
A flashing red meter returns to green, signaling the cannon is recharged, ready to fire once more. I fire another volley at the weakened leg.
This results in a mangled mess of twisted metal. Unable to support the weight of the body, the leg crumples and ADS01 crashes to the ground in a helpless loss of stability. I fire one more shot for good measure.
The gray machine shakes at the explosion of plasma and ceases to move. I can still hear the heavy breathing of the other pilot over the radio—this is a small relief in the midst of the gut-melting stress overtaking my sanity.
Am I capable of killing? Maybe I would be if pushed much further. I’ve got to get control of myself, rein myself in from the edge. A clear head and calm breathing…take everything down a notch…
“Your brother’s will is not pure; he has become your enemy.” Worthington appears, repeating himself again. “He claims to champion humanity, but he doesn’t represent them. He has faltered in his attempts to change the face of the world. You cannot allow him to continue on his misguided path; you must destroy him.”
I’m still torn as to whether this is a recording. Worthington’s lack of direct response, the repetition…it all must be scripted. “Sorry, pal. I don’t have to listen to you, remember?” I click the escape key.
The image of Worthington doesn’t disappear this time. “You failed, and failure will not be tolerated. Humanity is pregnant with an unknown anticipation. And there’s you. You will witness the first steps into the next great phase of civilization. The world will linger no longer.”
I jab my finger into the escape key, stabbing away as if it might do some good. “No, you’re not going to win. I won’t let you.”
Worthington rambles on. “Do you fear loss of control? It’s within reach. Do you fear death? It’s near, though not in the way you think. It’s all very simple, what you have to do. The destiny at hand will come to pass whether you assume command or rot inside with your apprehension.”
Wiping the beads from my forehead, I clack away on the keyboard, trying to summon the command prompt from before. There has to be some way of disabling Worthington’s interruptions.
His chilling blue eyes peer deep into the camera. “Little do you know, little do you think! You cannot stop this juggernaut. Man has willed it into existence, but he has no control. You have assumed command; now you are in control. But for how long, it is not certain. The birth you witnessed was the second. There is one after, one whose directives are not the same.”
“I’m going to shut you off,” I say, raising my voice in defiance.
“You can’t possibly have the wherewithal to understand your own situation. The position you are in, the power you can wield. It’s all very heroic in your mind—and manageable. But you have no concept of how misguided you are. Your only hope is the Balance.”
I let loose a guttural wail. “Damn you, Worthington! I won’t give in!”
Worthington’s visage changes as if a frame was cut in the editing process. His eyes bulge and cheeks redden. “Turn and retrace your steps and you have no choice but to fulfill what some men might call destiny. But know this—destiny is your choice; it is the sum of all choice, what mankind wills into being with every breath. The fate you discard will be a mantle assumed by another.”
Worthington disappears. Without delay, his presence is replaced with every flickering light, dialog, menu option, and touch screen within the cockpit. They all glow in a brilliant burning light and are accompanied by a piercing tone echoing from all around.
A surge of blue electric current shoots along the four control arms. It wraps around my extremities and grips me with a tingling sensation at first…pins and needles…but the slow pulsing rhythm gives way to manic throbbing.
My body aches and stings; it’s like every inch of my skin is tearing. The discomfort doesn’t stop skin deep. My brain is a blender on puree, and the screeching tone shreds my eardrums. I can’t let go of the controls, enslaved to the pain.
The last twenty-four hours replay like events from years ago. I have a front row seat to silly things like cruising along on my Suzuki and wasting time in my apartment. I would kill to be lying in bed or glancing out across the balcony.
My longing for the ordinary fades when my robot staggers. The hellish current ceases and silence returns with the darkened screens and panels. Worthington materializes and the controls move of their own accord. “You will now relinquish control.”
“No,” I say with a near whisper. “No!” I yank back on the controls, arms and legs straining as if muscle might disconnect from tendon.
Worthington drags the robot further along the street, carving uneven streaks into the asphalt as I resist.
The cockpit creaks and moans with the stress of two forces demanding the robot’s legs go in opposite directions. My joints and sockets are at their limits; any more tension and I’ll break.
“Relinquish!” Worthington demands.
Another surge of current lashes out and holds me in a wish for death. I just want relief; no more struggle, please. The end—I just asked for the end! Is this the way I’m going to go out? Is this worth the cost of losing Ray? Am I too weak?
I can’t think anymore. It’s too taxing. Coherent thought is slipping away, but I manage to hold on to one sane notion: Resist. Resist with all your being. Even if you get snapped like a twig. Even if your efforts are in vain. Even if there’s no hope in the next five seconds, resist because it’s your act of defiance.
Planting my feet and digging into the lower controls, obstinate, I twist and flex with every fiber in me that hasn’t given way to exhaustion and dehydration. Straining, yanking, pulling, the robot begins to shift in my direction, and in a clumsy loss of balance, falls backward into splintering glass and bending metal.
21
The sensation of being suspended sinks in; the building I’ve collapsed into retains its structural integrity. My metallic body is somehow balanced, hanging in a web of fractured architecture like a prizefighter leaning against the ropes.
Hung in a strange effigy of defeat, maybe I’m dead—somehow unfixable and dead. My giant legs might not be stilted against the unmovable roadway like I think. I never could feel them anyway. Have I lost all connection with my nerves? Do they lie to me?
A mental fog interlaces the consciousness between bomb blasts in my skull. There’s no time to sit and think. No time to wait to slip into whatever black grave is mouthing at my beaten body. Get me out of this death trap!
I flip the toggle for the hatch, wiggling free from the torture device clasping my torso and limbs. I’m sickened by the rising motion that meets my struggle as the cockpit rearranges itself into its default configuration, seat and all.
Aching flesh rages against bolstered leather as I slam back and forth trying to release myself from the mechanical motions I’ve grown so sick of. I want out of this tomb—I want free air.
The hatch unseats itself and hisses open. Broken glass and other material crunch behind it. I turn and climb out of the command chair at the odd angle which the robot leans into the building, slipping twice. I lean over and tumble the few feet to the cluttered office floor, desk and filing cabinets strewn about.
The smack of the floor resounds in my aching head. This sends a signal of tired irritation through every nerve. Agitation aside, I gain my footing and race for the door on the opposite side of the office, now a gaping gouge in the side of the building.
I burst into the darkened hallway without any sense of where I intend to go. A red exit sign burns at either end. I sprint for one of them, closed doors blinking by at regular intervals.
My heavy, clumsy feet plod across commercial grade carpeting, pounding out a maniac rhythm. The pulsing folds of my brain echo each step as I breathe fresh paint and drywall. I feel as though I’ll stumble and roll over myself, tossing like the acid in my stomach.
Reaching the door to the stairwell, I blast through, sweaty fingers slipping off the hand bar. I slam hard into the cold metal railing. Grabbing hold, I whip around the corner and down the first flight of stairs.
The terrified sound of shuffling feet and racing breath rings throughout the stairwell. My conscious mind blurs and I don’t know if I’m dreaming or if I’m awake. The fact I’m cognizant of this makes me think this is a nightmare; the sick, roiling feeling in my gut says this is reality.
Body screaming at its limits, relief is in sight as I focus on the door at the bottom of the stairs. With bursting lungs I crash into the locked door. Ramming a weak shoulder into the unyielding steel brings nothing but pain.
Where to go? Up—up along the endless, winding climb to the top. I’m no longer thinking straight, but the collision of my senses says not to care. I rush upward and retrace my steps, nearly collapsing at every floor. At the fourth, I gag. At the fifth, I vomit across the steps.
