by Ian Lewis
The officer who was inside leaks out the folded driver’s side door in a mix of blood and pulp.
I sprint down the street, twisting with furious, jerking limbs. Ignoring the burning sweat in my eyes and the stale, dry patch in the back of my throat, I throttle the controls as if they were my own body.
Aiming for the lower half of ADS03, I guide my machine like a linebacker looking for a sack. Closing in, I gasp in anticipation as I picture our giant, brutish robots colliding in my attempt to save the day.
That’s when ADS03, alerted to my approach, reels around to face me with a streaking fist.
28
Leaning forward, I force my robot into an out-of-control dive, not thinking about how the immense weight of the upper body will pull me down that much faster. The outstretched arm of the other machine sails overhead as I deliver my kamikaze attack.
The resulting clang sends a shiver throughout the cockpit as if it’s a tuning fork. I’m nearly ripped out from the supports as the armor absorbs the shock of the collision.
ADS03 bends at the middle as it receives the full brunt of it and falls backward. We both land in a deafening thud into the street and this time my upper body falls out of the supports of the Kinetic Drive.
My left knee twists in pain as momentum carries forward, legs still stuck in the lower controls. A razor strain sears through my side. I try to pull myself back up into the upper supports, but the other robot is already wrestling to get free.
The frantic pressure of ADS03 upsets any chance of balance as the cockpit rocks and trembles. A rigid elbow to an armored chest sends me flailing again, torn free from the lower supports.
ADS03 rolls my robot onto its back and stands over me, towering as a master of my fate. The white monster dominates the fractured video screen as it lifts a dismissive leg and stomps down in full force.
The skeletal foot smashes above the cockpit, pistons driving it into the head of my machine. The monitors and heads-up displays explode in a carnival of lights as if yelping out in pain.
Lying near the hatch, I’m inverted in relation to the controls. I fumble and scrape my way back to the floating supports of the Kinetic Drive as another pile driver of a foot stamps with vehemence into the head.
The cockpit shakes again but I maintain a one-handed grip on a shoulder support. When the wobbling ceases, I swing my way down into the controls as if they were a jungle gym.
Once situated into the supports, I look past the legs and feet of my prone robot to see the police speed away, evacuating the area. One flattened cruiser remains as an explanation for their haste.
ADS03 grips the upper portion of the armor and drags my machine with measured tugs along the unyielding cement. Each scrape of the scuffed back matches a stride of the relentless pilot in the other machine. He’s pulling me back toward the wreckage of ADS01.
I regain control when he drops me in the middle of the street.
The God’s Hand pilot turns to the leftover gray scrap of ADS01, picks it up, and with wobbling joints, heaves it at me.
I almost feel my lungs deplete themselves as the battered torso and mangled legs of ADS01 crash on top of my robot’s chest. Some fluids and what looks like a lubricant splash onto my viewing area.
ADS03 raises a mighty arm as if he’s pointing at us. A slim port opens on the top side of its gauntlet, which reveals a protruding black nozzle. A lick of flame appears; this is followed by a line of streaming fire.
The flames ignite the liquids leaking at various points in the armor of ADS01; they trail their way onto the places the fluids drip and pool onto my machine.
I panic, heaving and twisting in the supports, but I can’t manage the necessary leverage to lift ADS01. Terror sets in as a virtual claustrophobia overtakes my judgment. I’m trapped under a flaming, immovable bulk.
A digital thermostat appears when the cooling system kicks in. Other messages follow, blinking past before they register in my mind. One line of text, calm in the midst of violent flashing screens and menus, draws my scattered attention: Grant rights to engage Stage Gamma. Y/N?
With the hope of relief, I slap haphazard fingers onto the general area of the “Y” key. The expected title screen appears: Attack/Defense Sentinel 02. Loading Stage Gamma…
The ambient glow from the blue and red controls changes to a green haze as once-hidden filaments erupt, ablaze with thin, piercing lines. They form a grid around every inch of the cockpit, reflecting a ghostly map on me.
The glowing lines at eye level begin to shift, streaking up and down across my face. The main monitor commentates: Initiating brain scan.
A dizzy, almost nauseous feeling wells up inside me as the flittering green lines race up and down my face. I almost look away when they cease and one slow, thicker, horizontal ray of light hovers above my eyes. It floats down just below them, and then reverses its track and slides back above them.
Holographic menus appear, speeding through diagnostic information. Strange, it almost seems as though I’m seeing this in my head rather than in front of me. Disorientation and mild confusion follow as I try to hold a single train of thought, but hundreds—thousands—of bits of information infest my brain.
The flames wash over the portion of the video screen not dulled by the mesmerizing grid. I watch them with only half attention, as if they’re part of some weird dream. Conscious thought wanes as it’s harder and harder to maintain focus.
Strange visions of my robot pop into my mind’s eye—detailed, specific visions of subsystems and other components. A pseudo-graphic layout of a file structure begins to form; somehow I know this is part of the operating system.
I find the less I fight it, the more comfortable it becomes in letting in all of this information. Where is it coming from?
The A.I. It’s feeding me…
I breathe deep and let go of the last hold on my thoughts. The fear of having them shredded in the blender that’s now my brain is unfounded. I find that instead, my thoughts align themselves with this new data and circulate in unison with it.
In a few seconds, this sensation radiates from my head into every extremity and I feel as though the machine’s appendages are extensions of my own. Calm, I ease back into the controls and apply the appropriate pressure, always compensating when the prickly sensations floating near my subconscious thoughts dictate.
The burning mass of metal lifts with ease and I maneuver to a standing position with as much grace as I ever have. Using the flaming remains as a shield, I step toward ADS03. Once in range, I drop the destroyed machine between us, reach out, and wrestle with the flamethrower.
The other pilot reacts in sloppy fashion, swinging a miscalculated blow.
I overpower him, twisting the flaming arm toward his head.
The jet of fire rages for another two seconds before the other pilot turns it off. He tries to wrench his machine free, white head now charred.
I maintain my two-handed grip, pulling on the arm with everything I’ve got.
This upsets the balance of ADS03, causing it to stumble forward.
I use the momentum to grab hold of its armor in a bear hug and sling it to the side in a mock body slam. Something like satisfaction fills me as I watch the writhing form of ADS03 attempting to stand.
I kick the center of mass of the other robot, now on its hands and knees. Ripping the bent light post from the crick in my armor, I note the turbine generator starts again, albeit at 50% power.
With the turbine generator running, the cannon is also online, but I’m too close for a shot. Unexpected trajectories and firing solutions tell me this without asking. So I grab hold of an arm while placing one foot on ADS03’s back.
I pull upward, keeping pressure on the back until the arm rips free in a strained tearing of metal and hydraulics. With simple, caveman blows, I proceed to beat ADS03 over the head with its arm.
All the while I’m taking in new information from the A.I. in an invigorating sharing of our wills. I almost feel rejuve
nated by this process, questions answered that I never knew I had.
This prompts me to query the A.I. about Worthington. Where is he? Images of a motionless Worthington are returned. He’s leaning backwards in a chair and it doesn’t look like he’s breathing. Electrodes and other electrical equipment are attached to his head and neck. Security footage, Western Lights Villa A. Time of death: 10:28 AM, May 3rd.
Two weeks ago… So if Worthington is dead, then my tormentor in this machine is nothing but a hoax—his uploaded thoughts, if anything. I reach down to rip the head off of ADS03 while I continue to query the A.I.
In under a minute, I find a Worthington subroutine—a lesser, separate portion of the A.I. I delete this program without delay.
Tossing the head into a nearby building, my confidence rises further. I hook an arm around the floundering ADS03, bring it to its feet, and spin it round into another crumbling structure.
I heft the still flaming rubble of ADS01 and hurl it into the headless white robot.
ADS03 falters and collapses back into the building.
I bring the cannon around and take aim. Firing three repeated shots, a small explosion rocks the foundation of the structure before it all comes down on the fallen robots in a cloud of dust and debris.
A small, retreating figure off to my left catches my eye.
It’s Elias running for the open fields beyond Western Lights.
I start after him, not about to let him get away. It’s my responsibility now, my responsibility to see this through. I’m in control. I’ve got to protect humanity from people like him. I’ve got to protect humanity from itself.
End
