Xenotech General Mayhem: A Novel of the Galactic Free Trade Association (Xenotech Support Book 4)

by Dave Schroeder

  “The robots are coming, the robots are coming,” said my little friend.

  Yes, I thought. They certainly were.

  Chapter 44

  “He’s a piece of hardware… a weapon, a big gun that walks.”

  — Dean McCoppin, The Iron Giant

  Six of the two-hundred-and-fifty foot robots the octovacs had taken apart last week were now reassembled and flying toward Centennial Olympic Park from the nearby mothballed Mercedes-Benz Stadium. Five of them landed near the stage with thuds we could feel from half a block away. The sixth hovered above where Poly and I were located by the steam tunnel grate, then lightly and almost soundlessly touched down on a broad concrete walkway twenty feet away. The thuds from the other landings must have been intentional, to get the combatants’ attention.

  “Incoming message from Mike,” said my phone.

  “Put him through.”

  “Cavalry’s here, boss,” said Mike’s familiar voice. “We’ll sort things out.”

  “Excellent,” I said. “You’re just in time. Don’t squash any delegates or Homeplanet troops by accident.”

  “We’ll try to keep that to a minimum,” Mike replied. “CiCi, Ray Ray, Shuvvath and Hither send their regards.”

  “Make sure they’re careful, too,” said Poly.

  A chorus of confirmations from the rest of the Xenotech Support team came over my phone’s speaker. I hadn’t realized we were on a conference call. It was good to be working with everybody again.

  “See you soon,” I said.

  “Better hurry up, or you’ll miss all the action,” said CiCi in an upbeat girls-just-wanna-have-fun voice.

  “We’re on our way,” I said.

  I extended my arm toward the sixth giant robot, sweeping my hand out at the end.

  “Your chariot awaits, dear lady,” I said to Poly.

  She smiled, but looked at me dubiously.

  “How do we get up to the head?” she asked.

  Four octovacs skittered down from the robot’s kneecaps and pairs of them grabbed our shoulders.

  “Oh,” said Poly.

  With Chit flying ahead, we were rapidly hoisted up the robot, dangling from the octovacs’ metallic, tentacle-like arms. Soon we were at the access hatch at the neck. The entryway opened without our intervention and Poly and I were gently placed inside. Chit joined us and found a safe spot to sit on top of a monitor. The octovacs dogged the hatch and went who knows where. I got into the pilot’s harness, while Poly strapped herself in at the weapons’ console.

  The tactile memory of how to operate the robot came rushing back to me. I rotated our robot’s head so we could see how the the other five robots were doing. Three of them were bending over and separating clumps of Macerators and Homeplanet Security troops from G70 delegates.

  When they didn’t need to defend alien dignitaries, the well-trained Homeplanet Security squads made short work of the black-armored bargain basement berserkers. The other two robots were isolating collections of Macerators through deft side kicks, then stepping on them, forcing their armored bodies deep into the soft grass. Roger Joe-Bob Bacon, Bart Urrrson and Niaowla Murriym, assisted by several of Martin’s police colleagues, removed power pack cylinders from the Macerators, leaving them helpless.

  The tide of battle was turning, even before Poly and I could join in. The remaining active Macerator units, sensing their cause was lost, executed a strategic retreat and ran for access grates connected to the steam tunnel system. I was glad we hadn’t tried them—they’d soon be crowded with unhappy and well-armed opponents.

  “Look,” said Poly. “Homeplanet Security troops are on their heels.”

  The troops were also disappearing below ground in pursuit of their opponents. Soon the south end of the park was cleared of any armored figures in either black or green—except for the Macerators squashed into the turf. Blue-clad Atlanta city police and Georgia state capitol police were regrouping and forming up around G70 delegates and their bodyguards, but there were a lot fewer members of law enforcement around now than there had been earlier.

  “Does the Macerators’ retreat make sense to you?” I asked Poly as we tried to puzzle out what had just happened.

  “Well, they were getting creamed and they’d accomplished their mission,” she replied.

  “To disrupt things for the G70?” I asked.

  “Uh huh,” said Poly. “It gives Earth a black eye to be so violent and out of control.”

  I trained the robot’s telescopic gaze on an area near the stage. Dozens of reporters from Galactic news organizations and their camera crews were still filming everything.

  “It may not be that bad,” I said. “Galactics love heated political debate. I’m betting their delegates are riding high, publicity-wise, for being caught up in a spontaneous, over-the-top expression of Terran political exuberance. At least that’s how I’d spin it.”

  “Maybe,” said Poly. “But I didn’t like the way all the Macerators left at the same time. It looked more like a pre-planned maneuver than panic.”

  “What do you think that means?”

  “It means another shoe is about to drop,” said Poly.

  “Hey,” she said, drawing my attention to the monitor showing a close-up of the stage. “What’s that green thing?”

  I saw it, too. It wasn’t the mottled olive green of the Homeplanet Security troops’ armor—it was a more vivid green, with lots of texture.

  “That’s Gus!” I said. “What’s he doing here?”

  “I wonder how his audition went,” said Poly.

  I zoomed my main view-screen in on my favorite Gojon.

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but he doesn’t look so good.”

  My scaly green friend had the same spaced out, disassociated expression that I remembered from the drugged executives at the power station near Hoover Dam in Las Vegas. I considered calling 9-1-1 to get Gus medical help—Atlanta had some outstanding specialists in xenomedicine available—but didn’t have time to ask my phone to do so.

  Gus was growing.

  He went from six feet to sixty in seconds, then twice that, then twice again. Now he was as big as the robots around him. Delegates and police, frightened by the appearance of a monster, began running away from the stage, heading north to the Georgia Aquarium and the World of Coke.

  Gus wasn’t done growing. He didn’t double to five hundred feet, but increased to three hundred in two heartbeats.

  “Rrrrawrrrr!” Gus bellowed.

  Spurred by the roar and the threat of a giant green scaly dinosaur behind them, the delegates and their guardians ran north even faster. My friends and team members in the five other robots didn’t react—they must have been too shocked. Gus rotated his tyrannosaur-like body and flipped three robots off their feet with his tail. With deafening clangs of metal striking concrete he brought one of his massive feet down on the heads of each of the robots, stunning them—or their operators—into immobility.

  Poly and I hadn’t been able to react, either. Everything had happened in the space of a few eye blinks. I hoped my friends operating the three damaged robots were okay. The Gojon wasn’t done yet, however. He rotated his longer-than-a-tyrannosaur’s arms and struck the remaining two robots at the south end of the park mighty blows to their jaws simultaneously. They fell backwards onto the now-empty stage like a pair of redwoods toppling in slow-motion, crushing it beneath them.

  I’d read in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution that the mayor had planned to replace the stage with more modern construction in the next year or two—now she’d have to accelerate her time table. Thank goodness the falling robots missed the Terran and Galactic camera crews and reporters, or the lawsuits would be astronomical.

  Gus was turning now. He spotted us in the sixth robot.

  “Any suggestions?” I asked Poly and Chit.

  “Bug out?” offered my little friend.

  “Strategic retreat?” said Poly.

  “Any other suggestions?” />
  Lives were at stake. Delegates, their guests, law enforcement officers, and members of the press were in danger. The Tōdon delegates had spread their beetle-like wings and were beating their way north. Several smaller species were riding on their backs, putting as much distance as they could between them and the rampaging Gojon. Many of the escaping dignitaries were running up the path toward where Poly and I stood on guard in the sixth robot.

  “There’s Tomáso, Queen Sherrhi and Diágo!” shouted Chit.

  Our Dauushan friends were almost even with our robot’s legs. Gus was chasing them, his giant feet like seventy-league boots. I knew Gojons were masters at changing their size, but I was pretty sure they couldn’t fly. I had my robotic avatar bend down and scoop up the three Dauushans, cradling them in its arms, and triggered the robot’s boot jets. Lèse-majesté be damned.

  I managed to get high enough fast enough so that Gus couldn’t grab me, though it was close.

  “Get me Shepherd,” I said.

  “I’m here, Jack,” said the Pâkk through my phone’s speaker.

  “Where can I drop off my precious cargo where they’ll be safe?”

  “You could put them on the next starship to Dauush leaving Hartsfield Port,” said Shepherd.

  I wasn’t in the mood to be teased—especially by Shepherd, but maybe he wasn’t joking.

  “Or,” Shepherd continued, “you can drop them off with me on the roof of the CNN Center.”

  “On my way,” I said, angling to the south.

  A lone Macerator in the middle of Marietta Street took a shot at us with his slug-thrower as we passed over him. Poly hit him with a special round from one of the weapons at her command. Before it struck him, its shell casing broke, dousing him with chemicals that foamed up and glued him to the asphalt. I loved that weapon—it was almost a molasses chill field for armored opponents.

  I hovered horizontally above the roof of the CNN Center, afraid to land, because I wasn’t sure if the roof was strong enough to hold the weight of a giant robot. Queen Sherrhi, Tomáso, and Diágo stepped down from the robot’s arms to be greeted by Shepherd. I made the robot wave and they all waved back. Then I regained altitude and turned back to deal with Gus. Poly adjusted one of the monitors to show the view behind and above the CNN Center—the huge pink bulk of the royal dirigible, the Matriarch of the Skies, filled the screen. My Dauushan friends should be fine.

  “Nice shooting,” I told Poly as we circled Gus a couple of thousand feet up.

  “Thanks,” she said. “Watch out!”

  Gus had found a large chunk of the stage’s foundation and was launching it in our direction. I was able to dodge the missile, but it reminded me that being able to fly didn’t make us invulnerable. I contorted to nudge the flying concrete into a nearby fountain with a boot jet. It made a splash, but didn’t hurt anyone.

  “I’m glad you saw that,” I said. “I’m not fond of close encounters.”

  “Not one of Spielberg’s best,” said Poly.

  “What?”

  Poly hummed a familiar five-note pattern.

  “Oh,” I said. She meant Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

  “Mike just sent us a text,” said Poly, checking her phone. “Everybody’s okay—a little shook up—but okay.”

  “Thank goodness,” I said.

  I’d been worried, but had been too busy surviving and rescuing to touch base with the team. Surviving and rescuing were still my top priorities. We needed to get Gus back to normal fast, to up our odds of success at both. As usual, Poly was a step ahead of me.

  “Do you remember how we cured the drugged and programmed executives back in Vegas?” asked Poly.

  “Chocolate and caffeine,” I said, “but I don’t think we’re going to be able to feed either to Gus. There aren’t enough Nicósn truffles in the city of Atlanta to make more than a morsel for Gus at his current size. Caffeine may be a different matter—the World of Coke is here in the park.”

  “I was thinking about something else,” said Poly.

  “Cool,” I said.

  “No,” she said. “Cold.”

  Bells began chiming in my head. We’d deprogrammed the executives—including Queen Sherrhi and Tomáso—by putting them in an extremely cold environment. Given that it was Atlanta in May, a sudden cold snap was unlikely, so we needed another option.

  “Could you reprogram those mobile congruencies?” I asked my phone. “The ones for species from planets with non-standard air or gravity?”

  “It shouldn’t be difficult to crack their encryption,” my phone replied. “How fast do you need it?”

  “Ten seconds from now,” I replied.

  “That shouldn’t be a problem,” said my phone. “It’s practically an eternity in nanoseconds. How do you want them recalibrated?”

  “To Niflheim’s atmosphere,” I said, “about five thousand miles out from the planet’s center of mass.”

  “Where the pressure is twenty times Earth normal, got it,” said my phone. “Asgard system. Five planets out from Midgard colony.”

  “Right,” I confirmed.

  “Can you reprogram them remotely, or do you need to be physically near them?” asked Poly.

  “If they’re connected to Galnet—which they are—they can be hacked at a distance,” said my phone.

  “Good to know,” said Poly. “Where are the mobile congruencies now?”

  “Just west of the wreckage of the stage,” my phone replied. “They were abandoned when the Macerators showed up.”

  Gus had been following my robot’s movements as it flitted back and forth across the sky like a big metal Peter Pan. Then he gave up and scanned the ground to the north, looking for new victims in the knot of dignitaries congregated near the catering tables between the aquarium and the World of Coke.

  While Gus’s back was turned, I dove for the area by the stage and scooped up the three mobile congruencies, popping the rings and forks off the forklifts so I could wear the congruency interface rings like, well, rings. My phone worked fast. I could see roiling white and icy blue clouds twisting on the other side of the congruencies’ protective polymer shields. I put one ring on each of my robot’s huge hands and tapped the third into the middle of its metallic forehead.

  “Can you target the polymer covers?” I asked Poly.

  “Already locked in with guided mini-missiles,” she replied. “Just say the word.”

  “Will do,” I said.

  I kicked in the robot’s boot jets and afterburners, zooming toward Gus at a speed approaching Mach 1. I stopped abruptly, just before I reached him, and landed with a very satisfying thud, leaving dents in the concrete walkways.

  “Gus!” I shouted, using all the decibels my robot’s speakers could push. He turned to face me.

  “Word!” I told Poly.

  Small cigar-shaped objects trailing sparks zipped from launchers at the center of my robot’s chest and collided with the mobile congruencies, shattering their polymer covers. Blasts of chilled gasses close to a hundred degrees below zero shot out of cone-shaped nozzles at high pressure. I reached up and directed the streams from the rings on each hand at the sides of Gus’s face, then tilted my head back so the chilly wind from the ring on my forehead struck him between the eyes. My Gojon friend stopped—cold.

  I held the robot’s hands and head in place for nearly a minute, until frost rimed every scale above Gus’s neck.

  “I think that should do it,” I told my phone. “Cut the interfaces.”

  The freezing blasts abruptly stopped. Gus stood frozen in place. I was afraid I’d damaged him permanently when his extra-long tyrannosaur arms quivered, then twitched. I sighed and my connected robot body relaxed its vigilance temporarily. I was examining Gus’s eyes and noting the pair of nictating membranes protecting them when Gus’s arms shot out and began to squeeze my robot body hard enough to break it in half.

  “Easy, Gus!” I said through my speakers. “You’ll break my robot!”

&nb
sp; “Oh Jack, thank you, thank you!” said my scaly friend, hugging my robot again. “I felt like an underwater sleepwalking marionette with someone else pulling my strings—but you saved me!”

  I gave up trying to parse Gus’s metaphor when I heard 3D-printed components in my robot’s torso creak from the strength of his hug.

  “Not so tight,” I protested.

  Gus relaxed his hold.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Sometimes I don’t know my own strength.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “At least you’re back to your old self now.”

  “How did your audition go, Gus?” asked Poly.

  “There’s good news and bad news,” said the Gojon.

  “What’s the good news?” asked Poly.

  “I got the part,” Gus replied.

  “And the bad news?” asked Chit.

  “This was it.”

  Crap. My friend’s audition had been a scam to program him for The General’s nefarious purposes.

  “That sucks,” I said.

  “Sorry about the other robots,” said Gus.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” said Poly. “And don’t worry, their robots are trashed, but they’re all okay.”

  “That’s wonderful,” said Gus. “I’m not the sort of guy who goes around hurting people or destroying property.”

  “We know,” I said. “Your mind was being controlled.”

  “And I hadn’t had anything to eat today,” said Gus. “I’m not myself when I’m hungry.”

  Poly snickered.

  “Incoming call from Rosalind,” said my phone.

  “Put it on speaker,” I said.

  “Jack,” said Rosalind. “Look at EUA headquarters. You’re not going to like this.”

  I rotated the robot’s head until I could see the black and brooding structure just east of the park. When I’d first seen it, the place reminded me of a gigantic version of Darth Vader seated in a massive chair, complete with a head like Vader’s flared helmet. The central part of the seventy-story structure was shifting, standing, rising to its feet. It was another giant robot, twice the size of Gus and ten times more intimidating—and it was heading this way.