Power in the Hands of One

by Ian Lewis

  Elias looks on from the hole punched in the side of the office building, yelling something. He’s shaking his fist as though to proclaim he’ll get even with us both.

  I ignore him for now, turning back to the ragged machine at my feet. I kick; I swing an armored forearm. Nothing deters the battered, gray appendages from hanging on. “Don’t you get it?” I yell. “I’m not giving up!”

  A flailing hand reaches up again; I bat it away. Twisting the grips on the upper control arms, I flex the hands of my robot in an attempt to grab hold of the crippled ADS01.

  The other pilot maneuvers to avoid my reach and jerks my mechanical leg back and forth as if he’s trying to shake me out of a tree. “Come down here with me. We’ll see who gives up.”

  My patience reaches its limit in a sub-second surge of rage boiling in my pores. I’m sick of the expressionless features of ADS01, worn thin by the quips of the other pilot.

  Casting aside caution or any regard for whether I’ll topple, I reach down in a rushed, uncalculated response. I ignore the onscreen warnings that equilibrium is not optimal and push the control arms even further down.

  The muted crunch of metal on metal vibrates through the cockpit like a faraway storm. Once more I twist the control grips with force and this time the searching hands of ADS02 find their target.

  Holding ADS01 in place by a piece of ragged armor, I guide my free arm into its face with repeated blows.

  It absorbs each until losing hold and falling away. Dust from smashed concrete billows out from beneath as it collapses into the ground.

  I don’t halt my retaliation, stomping with unmeasured violence until the head of ADS01 disconnects from the body. When it raises a protesting arm, I take hold and wrench it back and forth, shearing it off at the already weakened joint.

  Tossing the loose arm aside, I maneuver a step back and seethe in near silence, my rapid breathing the only reminder I haven’t become part of the robot. This doesn’t last as a blinking light on the map demands my attention.

  Just outside Western Lights, the indicator labeled “ADS03” serves as a painful slap on the wrist for not paying closer attention. It’s clear the robot has been on the move for at least ten minutes.

  I turn in its direction and feel my throat drop into my gut.

  25

  The enormous white form of ADS03 flattens a portion of the privacy wall as it enters Western Lights. Crumbled stone beneath its feet, the robot paces in a rigid march of finality, as if its own gaze might stop the living in their tracks.

  I move away from the headless, one-armed heap that used to be ADS01 to get a better vantage point. Should I attack? Wait for whoever’s piloting the thing to attack me first? I wipe sweat from my palms in anticipation.

  To my right, Elias Jacob is triumphant, fists clenched in perceived victory as he watches from the gash in the building. He yells something, pointing at me.

  ADS03 nears, and I see it’s a similar design with its layered armor and well-balanced proportions. Aside from its immaculate white hue, the main difference is its head—there are three contoured intakes wrapped around it, one on the top and one on each side. The massive, undamaged machine halts a block away.

  Again, I’m struck with the sense of a standoff in the old West, me at one end of the street and the bad guy at the other.

  I flip through the menus, now secondhand, to locate the one marked as “Hellpoint Cannon.” The usual diagnostics appear and indicate the weapon is online, ready to fire. Waiting for a reason, any reason at all, my finger hovers over the fire button.

  “Identify yourself,” a new voice says over the communication link.

  “I’m nobody.” That’s been my position all along. No one of consequence, just a regular guy pulled into this nightmare.

  “Try again,” the new pilot says.

  “I don’t work for Worthington or the Illuma Corp, if that’s what you want to know.”

  There’s a pause as if he didn’t expect that answer. “Who’s in the other robot?”

  “An agent from the Illuma Corp.”

  The new pilot clips my response with a new question. “And you? Who do you work for?”

  “I’m just a business analyst. This is all an accident.”

  “Then you’ll kindly hand over your machine.” The new pilot doesn’t sound as though he is interested in wasting time.

  That’s foolish. “Not until you tell me who you are and what you’re doing here.”

  “My organization intends to right the ungodly wrongs at play here.”

  Oh, no. God’s Hand.

  The new pilot continues. “And to free Elias Jacob, who has been unlawfully held against his will.”

  “Elias is already free,” I say. “And you’ll do well to right these wrongs by destroying these machines.”

  ADS03 moves in mighty strides across half a block. “You don’t need to worry about the details; just exit the machine and walk away.”

  The first pang of escape shimmers in my nerves. This could be a way out. What would it take to leave and just forget this all happened? A time machine, that’s what. Ray is gone. Dead. He’s never coming back. I’m ashamed I’d even consider bowing out at this point. I owe it to him to see this through, however it ends.

  “I’m going to need a lot more convincing than that,” I say.

  “Don’t think you’re being a hero. It doesn’t make you strong.” There’s malice in the new pilot’s words. “These machines must be controlled by the proper authority—God’s authority. Man can’t be trusted.”

  “Isn’t that what you are?”

  “We are guided by God’s will. We are certain of our actions.”

  “At what cost?” This just slips out. I don’t have a plan.

  “We will seek quorum with anyone, but are prepared to carry out God’s will by any means necessary.”

  “What will you do with these things once you have them?”

  There’s a brief pause, for effect, no doubt. “Wield them in the coming war.”

  I’m up against a wall again. There’s no way to argue with someone who thinks he knows the mind of God. So I go with the only thing I have left—reckless abandon. “You know what? I’ve decided I’m not going to let you have this one.”

  “Wrong answer,” he says.

  The turbine/gear visible within the gaps in ADS03’s armor spools up in a mounting fury.

  I tense up, not sure what to expect. There’s no apparent weapon mounted to its frame.

  The ridged head turns to stare directly at me. Then a puff of steam or smoke emits from the intakes as a low-decibel bark hits me with an unseen force.

  My senses spin in surprise as I fall in mirrored pose with ADS02. I can’t get the controls around in time to catch my fall and wince as the supports for the Kinetic Drive pound into my back and sides.

  The “intakes” are clearly nothing of the sort. They must be some type of energy weapon, clearly not as passive as the coma weapon.

  “Do you understand now?” the new pilot asks.

  Body aching from newly forming bruises, I lay on the sarcasm. “Yep, I’ve seen the light.” I regain enough of my footing to fire a wild blast from the cannon.

  The blast misses the unflinching ADS03. It maneuvers closer, maybe only fifty feet away. The pilot rattles off what he must intend to be his final words to me. “I’m sorry if you end up in Hell.”

  26

  Another burst of invisible energy lambastes the core of my robot, sending a violent shudder throughout the cockpit. Once again I’m on my back, struggling to get ADS02 on its feet.

  Sections of the wraparound video are interrupted with fissures of static, the outer shell damaged by the enormous levels of force generated by the other machine’s attack. Status reports flutter by without my acknowledgment.

  ADS03 nears, closing the distance that’s already too close for my liking. It moves in a precision death march, hoarding the street.

  Shifting the controls, I can’t manage
anything other than an awkward roll onto the robot’s side. Finding the dismembered arm of ADS01, I reach out, grappling with my second set of hands. “What will killing me accomplish?” I ask in an attempt to stall the crazy person in the other robot.

  The other pilot doesn’t reply.

  I manage a grip on the severed arm and waste no time flinging it toward the menacing white form standing near.

  A low retort from the head of ADS03 sends the arm flying in the other direction.

  This proves an ample distraction, allowing me to sit up and fire a well-placed shot across the torso of the white machine.

  ADS03 doubles over after absorbing the explosion, nearly tipping.

  I maneuver to a standing position before turning to take cover around the corner of the office building. Not stopping there, I guide the monstrous biped with all the force of my body, careening from one building to the next in a hurried attempt to get away.

  Glass shatters and debris flies as I drag a shoulder into one building and crash an arm into another. I haven’t perfected my normal gait yet, let alone a panicked retreat. The wake of crumbling office fronts testifies to this.

  The map shows that the God’s Hand pilot hasn’t moved yet; he must still be re-orienting ADS03. I stop to summon the plans for Western Lights. I’ve run out of tall buildings behind which to hide, as the only structures before me are a row of two-story townhomes and a low-slung fitness facility.

  No time, ADS03 is on the move. The furious blinking of the map might as well be a gong in my head the way it sears into my consciousness.

  Fresh sweat drips down the dried saltiness of my forehead. I smear it away with a damp forearm before spinning the robot around. Training the cannon at the empty intersection, I wait for ADS03 to round the corner.

  “Do you fear loss of control? It’s within reach. Do you fear death? It’s near, though not in the way you think.” Worthington returns at the worst time possible.

  “Not now!” I shout. This isn’t happening!

  Worthington continues, ignorant of my plight. “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.”

  “What do you want from me?!” Panic creeps in thinking about how close ADS03 must be outside the blackened video screen.

  Worthington replies. “Bring forth what man deserves—what man has asked for. Centuries of progress now culminates in your hands. Do you not yet know what is required of you?”

  I repeat Worthington’s question in my head. What has ever been required of me? Is this what it’s all about—me fulfilling some purpose? I’m torn between my better judgment that says I’m a bystander in all of this and the thought that Worthington is somehow in control.

  “Your only hope is the Balance,” Worthington says before signing off.

  The screens and menus reawaken before I have time to react. I’m paralyzed by the sight of the ghostly white ADS03, not twenty feet from me.

  The voice of the God’s Hand pilot cuts in. “When I sharpen my flashing sword and my hand grasps it in judgment, I will take vengeance on my adversaries and repay those who hate me.”

  The arms of the other robot spring forward as if to hold me in place.

  I counter with reassuring deftness and catch the arms before they can find their grip. Feet planted a bit behind my center of balance, I guide my robot into a shoving match with limited leverage on the flat cement.

  Behind ADS03 at the end of the street, two police cars race into view and skid to a halt, lights flashing. A black SWAT truck joins them and spits out six armed men in riot gear. They assemble in front of the cars.

  The system time in the video display is 8:58—late enough in the morning that someone finally took notice of two giant, warring robots.

  The God’s Hand pilot seems aware of the police presence. “Now look what you’ve done. You’ve endangered innocent lives.” He maneuvers his robot a step back, creating slack in our tense grappling.

  I don’t compensate in time and teeter forward only to be caught with a clanging uppercut from ADS03. The blow connects with the head of my robot and sends a shudder down the frame. I must look inept, waiting for another hit as I hesitate.

  My indecisiveness is mixed with questions about the other pilot’s intent. What does he mean about endangering innocent lives? Does he think the officers might be killed as a result of our fighting? Or does he mean that he’ll have to kill them in order to steal the robots?

  For the first time I entertain a motive other than the muddled intent to see through Ray’s desire to keep these machines out of the wrong hands. Maybe there’s something noble and honorable at stake here. Grotesque images form in my mind of the boot-like feet of ADS03 stomping the cruisers into the ground. I have the power to stop that from happening. Does that make me responsible for the officers’ well-being?

  Another vibration ripples along the controls as the ADS03 lands another punch, riveting the courage from me. I consider retreat again, if only to get us away from the police. Stepping backward, I leave a wide enough berth that the other pilot has to follow if he wants to reach me.

  ADS03 stops and turns as if to consider the police two blocks away. With purposed steps, it begins a freakish gallop toward them.

  I lean into stride, urging my robot into action. Massive legs pound beneath me as I try to catch the other robot before it reaches the police.

  27

  Each step resonates through the lower controls as I keep my eyes fixed on the retreating ADS03. The jarring concrete echoes the warnings in my head.

  It’s possible the other pilot is testing my resolve—to see if I’ll stand by and watch him do whatever he intends to do. It’s also possible he doesn’t care how I respond and is only concerned with the threat of the authorities.

  He hasn’t mastered the controls yet, which enables me to grab him at the next intersection. I maneuver in an attempt to drag him down, draping the weight of my machine over the back of his.

  We collapse in a grinding chorus of scraping metal. A brief panic washes over as I struggle to get a grasp on the thrashing monster beneath me. A flailing elbow to my metallic face sends me reeling.

  Regaining composure, I catch the driving arm of ADS03 before it connects again. Creaking, whining shrieks come from the strained appendages. I hope my robot is resilient enough to go another round.

  In a strained shoving match, we grapple and push each other to a standing position.

  I feel cocky. “What was that about me going to Hell?”

  Still no reply from the other pilot. Instead, he hooks an arm underneath my grasp, upsetting my balance.

  My machine stumbles under the strain before I catch my fall on one knee. The unyielding metal joint grinds into the pavement as ADS03 transfers its leverage onto the upper body surrounding my cockpit.

  The shell around me groans in complaint at having to endure such torture. The usual lights flash their maddening warnings; I ignore them.

  Will I slip up and land myself into defeat? It seems that if I give an inch, it might mean disaster. Maybe I’m too tired to care.

  This loss of concentration leaves me open to attack. I pay the price and absorb a double-armed strike from ADS03. Stumbling backward, I lean my crushing weight into the corner of a nearby structure. The expected destabilization occurs with bending metal and shattered glass.

  I ready my guard again but not in time; the God’s Hand pilot is one step ahead of me as he lands another volley of pummeling blows to the cockpit.

  My body soaks up the beating without much trouble as most of it is wrapped in padded supports, but there’s nothing to stop my head from whipping back and forth. I feel as though it will snap off as ADS03 smacks me down the street, back toward the center of the business district.

  The police and SWAT team follow at a safe distance.

  I catch glimpses of them between the swinging, bludgeoning arms of the other robot as I continue to back a
way.

  Tiny ports flap open on the back of ADS03’s arms, shoulders, and legs. They erupt like mini-afterburners as the God’s Hand pilot works the robot into a sprint.

  Though short, this propulsion results in a quick burst of speed that sends the giant airborne, skimming over the street. It lands a step away then springs forth from pulverized concrete to tackle me.

  I raise armored forearms to take away the brunt of the force, but it’s not enough to keep from tumbling backward. The energy from the collision rips the upper controls from my hands as I’m slammed into the supports of the Kinetic Drive.

  ADS03 stands and reaches for a nearby light post. The white behemoth wrenches it free from the curb, raises it, and drives it downward into the midsection of my robot.

  New status reports scream that the cannon is offline and the turbine generator is malfunctioning. They flash in a panicked red font.

  ADS03 looks down, expressionless and cold, and leans into the light post, which looks like a small cane in its hands.

  A mechanical groaning rumbles from below the cockpit, announcing the strain the robot endures. I cringe at the thought of what damage might result. Will my mobility be limited? I’ve already lost my primary form of defense. What if I can’t even maneuver to evade?

  Fuel cells at 75% efficiency. Re-routing standby power. Another warning that I only have a moment to consider… The immediate, offensive threat of ADS03 muddles the fear of losing whatever energy stores are onboard.

  The police move closer—about a block away. The SWAT team is lined up as before, firing their weapons at the back of the other robot.

  I imagine the sound of bullets plinking off the armor like so many gnats.

  ADS03 swings his machine around to engage the police, tree-trunk legs shifting under the hulking body.

  “Get out of the way!” I shout, even though I know the officers can’t hear me. My body begs and pleads with the controls as I maneuver my robot to an off-balanced stance.

  There’s no time to reach ADS03 as it closes the distance before the police can scatter. He stomps a mechanical foot onto a cruiser, collapsing it as if it were tin.