One thing creeps me out though: in the middle of a hypersonic plasma, not one single hair on Superbeings’ head is moved by even a micrometer. Boy this guy is tough.
We land and Superbeing floats off my hull. We are greeted by a small number of my fellow cybertanks. There is my old friend the Horizon-Class Frisbee, his interest is mostly with biological organisms. That might not be of any relevance to Superbeing, but Frisbee is my friend and Superbeing was biological once. Frisbee used to be called Whifflebat, he started out as Thor-Class, almost a brother to my own design. Then his chassis got trashed during a battle against the Amok and he decided to get rebooted as a more modern 8,000 ton Horizon. Sometimes when a cybertank reboots into a new chassis it undergoes significant personality changes, but in Frisbees’ case he is about the same as he ever was. We go way back, even to the time when there were still humans around.
The other cybertanks have an interest in physics. I don’t know them personally: the Golem-Class Airhead, the Mountain-Class Not A Number (or NaN for short), and the Raptor-Class Gumby. Collectively they are known as “The Physics Geeks,” or sometimes just “The Geeks” when no other group of monomaniacal single-science-interest cybertanks are in the neighborhood.
The physics geeks subject Superbeing to all manner of experiments, shooting him with various sorts of atomic and subatomic particles, exposing him to intense magnetic and electrical fields. Superbeing tolerates all of this with admirable patience. Nothing affects him. Towards the end the physics geeks perform experiments that make no sense to me. I guess they were running out of things to try, or else they have advanced beyond my understanding (Math is hard. I have a variety of automatic algorithms for solving nearly any problem, but consciously understanding the full implications of an equation is another thing entirely).
The very last experiment was the strangest. Superbeing was standing on front of a device that looked suspiciously like a giant jewel-encrusted spork. Fat cables led out of the spork and snaked over to a variety of metal boxes arranged seemingly at random. The device was activated and for a femtosecond or two the entire world seemed to go negative. Apparently this effect was noticeable across the entire system: something we did sent a ripple out in the vacuum energy, although the nature of it was obscure. Fortunately the effect did not seem to do either us or the fabric of spacetime any damage.
So after about a week of this fooling around any possible experiment that could have been performed had been performed. The physics geeks announced that they were done and they wrote up their reports. I was elected to summarize them to Superbeing.
Well, first of all, we appreciate your letting us study you, it was a rare opportunity for us. The bad news is that, as you are doubtless aware, you remain completely impenetrable to all known physical devices or conditions. The good news, however, is that some of the more esoteric experiments yielded some strange readings. We don’t know what they mean yet, but they have inspired our physics experts to try some new approaches. It is possible that, in a few thousand years or so, we may have something that can help you out. But it won’t be soon.
Superbeing nodded. “I anticipated as much, of course. But assuming that what you say is true, I thank you for your efforts and hope that you did indeed profit from studying me.”
Do you have any future plans?
“I think that I will fly back to my planetoid and pick up my solitaire game where I left off. Perhaps if someday your researches make progress you could look me up and we could chat again. But if you don’t mind, I would like to just wander around for a few days seeing the sights. I promise to try not to destroy anything or get in the way, and then I will be off.”
There is not that much to see on this moon, but I would be happy to show you around. Let me power up an android body, it would be a much better travel guide than my main hull.
I activate an anonymous-looking male humanoid remote, wearing a standard blue suit, and drop out of my lower hatch. Superbeing arches an eyebrow. “Is this some sort of an ambassador?”
No, it’s what we call a “remote.” As you can imagine, our main hulls are so large and ponderous that they are poorly adapted for many tasks, so we split off parts of our intelligence into subminds that animate different sorts of smaller devices. Most don’t look human at all, they are specialized as weapons, or for exploration or construction or transport. You have already met one of my scouts. However, we still like to use the human form from time to time. Our psychology is based on Homo sapiens, and it can be fun to interact and have conversations this way.
Superbeing just nods, and we walk off and I show him what sights there are to see. The moon is a backwater compared to the main worlds of this system, but there are still some points of interest. There is a branch of Double-Wide’s Physical Library. It has a few minor works of art, and Superbeing seems especially amused that material books still exist. There are some interesting industrial installations and some natural features of particular beauty. Mainly we wander around and I explain everything, but he hardly appears to be listening, he’s just enjoying the experience of seeing something other than the dead surface of a planetoid in the middle of nowhere.
While my humanoid remote plays tour guide I open a communications channel to my friend Frisbee.
So, what do you make of Superbeing?
“The physics, I have no idea,” said Frisbee. “While he was once a flesh-and-blood human being, whatever he is made of now appears to be just a collection of exotic forces and particles. However, his psychology is interesting. He has been fooled and betrayed so many times that he has lapsed into an almost solipsistic state. He refuses to believe anything that he sees or any explanation that anyone might give him. A biological human could not maintain this state of mind for long, but he is tireless and made of enduring materials. At this point he is likely beyond any attempts at reason, for anything that anyone were to say to him would only remind him of all the other times that others had said similar things only to trick him. I find him to be admirable.”
You admire him?
“I do,” said Frisbee. “A weaker soul might have just said what-the-heck and not cared who they hurt and done whatever they wanted or whatever felt good at the time. Or he could have gone mad, or catatonic, or decided to turn to evil in defiance of a universe that seemingly prevented him from becoming a force for good. They say that power corrupts, but in this case it has made him cautious. He has learned the hard way the limits of great physical power without the knowledge to be able to properly apply it, and he has selflessly cut himself off from everything to avoid hurting those around him. He has developed a self-discipline and self-denial that borders on the psychotic and yet he maintains a basic decency and sense of humor. If a different person had fallen into that one-of-a kind accidental physics experiment the human race could have easily been destroyed, or at least crippled by his random meddling. I see him as a kind of holy man. We all owe him a great debt. The pity is that we can never tell him that because he would only see it as the first stage of yet another attempt to seduce him into performing an evil action.”
It was around this time that our long-range sensors picked up an alien intruder into the system. It’s shaped like a set of vanes from the inside of an old-fashioned jet engine turbine, a disk about 50 meters across and four meters thick, dull gray and spinning slowly. The spokes are canted at angles, and the hub is encrusted with small glittering points like sapphires.
We track it for a while and transmit the usual standard sequence of diplomatic protocols. In order of presentation, and translated into English from the local clipped diplomatic grammar, they are:
1. Attention alien presence. This system is occupied by the human civilization. State your purpose.
2. You are trespassing in space claimed by the human civilization. Please adjust your course to leave as soon as possible.
3. Your continued lack of either communications or course adjustment will result in your being classified as hostile within 21 hours
4. OK you fucker that’s it. We warned you. Prepare to die.
Now most civilizations only use the first three protocols. The fourth protocol is, technically speaking, redundant, as an attack by fusion-tipped interceptor missiles conveys much the same point and in a way that is language-independent. But we do so like the little flourish that it adds. Diplomacy is normally frightfully dull and uneventful. When we finally do get a chance to blow something up can you blame us for milking it of all the fun that we can?
However, before launching an attack, we first send out a reinforced scout/research squadron. After all, it might be just a derelict piece of machinery drifting at random, not a threat and perhaps of some value for those interested in studying alien technologies. The telemetry feeds show the scouts closing on the alien artifact. It does not react or change course; perhaps it is a derelict after all. One of the scouts closes to within a kilometer. Suddenly the alien begins to rotate more rapidly. It changes direction and collides with our scout, which it shatters into fragments with its rapidly spinning vanes. The alien then does the same to the rest of our squadron, leaving only scattered bits of wreckage drifting off as it resumes its course in towards our core planets.
OK then. Next time we hit the alien rotor thing with fusion bombs and hyperkinetic rods. No effect. Time to bring out the super-heavy artillery: antimatter suspended in magnetic confinement bottles and accelerated up to relativistic speeds, single-shot nuclear-fusion pumped gamma-ray lasers, electromagnetic pulse bombs, clouds of super-corrosive strong-force acids. Everything just bounces off.
We send messages to the in-system ambassadors of the (more-or-less) friendly nearby alien civilizations explaining the situation, suggesting that this might be a problem for all of us and that a sharing of information might be mutually useful, but the ambassadors are silent. The ambassadors are not themselves aliens, just their mechanical proxies. Perhaps the situation is beyond their defined parameters and they are consulting with their core worlds; in that case a reply could take decades.
There is only one other thing in our experience with this sort of power: Superbeing. There is speculation that some of our physics experiments might have transmitted a signal that attracted the attention of a similar super-creature. Certainly the arrival of this thing at just the same time that we are hosting Superbeing seems unlikely to have occurred by chance. But we can argue about this another day, right now we have a system to defend.
Asking Superbeing for help would be pointless, and insulting: he would assume that we were trying to trick him in some way. Thus, at my urging, we play dirty. We attack the alien presence in such a way that, even though our efforts are completely ineffective, they lure the alien into a course that will intersect with the planetoid where Superbeing is currently located and hope that something interesting happens when they meet. (I can really be a bastard when I put my mind to it).
Superbeing is admiring a large crystal sculpture when the alien rotor-thing crashes into our defenses on the small moon. It tears through the atmosphere leaving spiral vapor trails as it rotates, completely impervious to our missiles that shatter against its vanes like raindrops on steel.
Superbeing looks up. “And what is that?” he asks.
We are not sure. It appears to have the same sort of invulnerability that you do. We are having some difficulty.
The alien rotor thing shears into the 3,500 ton Raptor-Class Gumby, shreds it effortlessly and sends chunks of hyper-alloy metal flying. Gumby’s reactors go critical, there is a nuclear fireball, and then it fades away Gumby is gone, but the alien rotor thing is intact and undamaged.
Superbeing looks visibly angry. “I have been lied to by experts. This illusion is pathetic and amateur. It is also unlikely that something like this would show up at exactly the same time as I come to visit. This screams fake to me. If you have any shame, you should feel some.”
If you want to know if a stone is real, go and kick it.
“Easy for you to say,” replies Superbeing. “But to me a stone is no more substantial than a hologram. Tell me to go kick the rock and I could be tricked into kicking anything. I’m leaving.”
No, wait! I hear what you are saying. But consider: if real, this is no mere rock, but something as tough as you. Just fly up and try to touch it. If it’s an illusion or even base matter, you will realize it. Then you should leave. But if it’s really something as strong as you, it should become apparent, and you would have a direct confirmation that it is real.
Superbeing thinks for a bit. “I see no obvious flaw in your logic. Very well. Let us put your proposition to the test.”
Superbeing floats up to the alien rotor-thing. He appears totally unconcerned, as if he is just going through the motions. He casually reaches out to touch the outermost edge of one of the spinning vanes. It tears a gash in his hand and sends him plummeting back to the ground.
Superbeing sits up and stares at his hand. The gashes are leaking a gray vapor, as if his substance is un-knitting and leaking out. “It appears that you are correct after all,” he says. “This is more than an illusion. I have not been physically injured for so long that I have forgotten what it felt like. It hurts, but it is joyous. I am real, it is real, this is real. Let me see what I can do about this.”
Superbeing flies up again and this time impacts into one of the main vanes of the alien rotor-thing. It effortlessly smashes him back down.
This time Superbeings’ injuries are more severe. He has multiple gashes on his chest, all leaking the same gauzy haze, and the alien again appears to be undamaged.
Perhaps after all this time you have finally met something stronger than yourself.
“Perhaps,” said Superbeing. “But perhaps not. For so long I had to train myself to hold back. To use only the tiniest fraction of my real power. Well, now the boots are on!”
I believe that the correct expression is, ’The gloves are off.’
Superbeing appears puzzled. “Why would one take one’s gloves off as a statement of serious intent? No matter – it’s a silly expression either way. Try this: No More Mr. Nice Superbeing!”
That works. Although it is not completely gender-neutral.
Superbeing nods. He straightens up and, for once, he does not move like a crippled 190-year old hominid. His eyes flash and I can see some glimpse of the human male youth that he must once have been so long ago. He’s not scrawny any more, he’s lean and taut and full of vigor and a desire to change the world, as all are at that age.
He flies up to towards the alien rotor thing. After moving about one meter he breaks the sound barrier. After ten meters he is moving so fast that he is surrounded by ionized plasma. Not much further along he is compressing the air in front of him so much that it is starting to undergo fusion reactions; his hyper-alloy clothes dissolve away and he appears as an incandescent naked Asian male. When he hits the alien rotor thing he is traveling at a substantial fraction of the speed of light and all sensors pointed in that direction promptly burn out.
--------------------
In the aftermath the alien rotor thing was left a scrap of its former self, just a few vanes and a fragment of the hub evaporating into nothingness. Frisbee speculates that it was seeking a release from eternal life just like Superbeing was; it’s dangerous to assign human motivations to an alien mind, but it’s plausible. We’ll likely never know (as I get older I find myself saying “we’ll likely never know” a lot).
Superbeing was in a similar state as the alien rotor thing. Everything below his waist had disappeared and the rest of him was dissolving, as the esoteric forces that had given him form for so long finally unraveled and dissipated into the vacuum energy.
If you can hold on for a while, perhaps we can help you.
“No, that’s fine,” said Superbeing. “I am long past due and I fear that this is beyond your current abilities. I finally did good, didn’t I? This cannot have been an illusion or a lie. I re
ally did save everyone from a great evil, didn’t I?”
Yes, you did. We are the heirs of the humans – their children, if you will – and likely you saved us all. I am sorry that we cannot save you in turn.
“Don’t worry. I am at peace. I have sacrificed myself to save others. It’s what I do.” At this point most of him had vanished, but he managed one last utterance before fading away entirely.
“Because, I’m Superbeing.”
2. Space Nazis
“There is no work of fiction that cannot be improved by adding Nazis. If they had never existed, we would have had to invent them.” - Common Media Executive Saying, 22nd Century, Earth.
One of my best friends is the Mountain-Class cybertank known as Uncle Jon. He is capable of performing any task that any cybertank can perform: fighting a battle, composing a rock-opera, scouting deep space, analyzing biological structures, and so on. Like most cybertanks, he has his own special interest, which in his case is ancient military history.
If you get him started he will spend hours discoursing on such topics as the evolution of the puttee in the British Raj, or the chemical composition of the camouflage paint used on the helmets of 20th century European land armies, or whether Space Admiral Li Gong was a better tactician than Chester Nimitz. His writing has been characterized as “peppery, meticulous, yet somehow self-effacing” by his fellow historians (I’m not sure that I agree with that, but the phrase is inspired). Now as intellectual obsessions go this one is pretty harmless, and his scholarship and contributions to our archives are widely acknowledged. Still, there was that one time that his interest did get him into some non-insignificant amount of trouble.
I was fooling around with a baroque weapons system that I had designed – it was based on a nano-engineered mimetic insect swarm, and it wasn’t turning out to be as interesting as I had hoped. Thus I was considering abandoning the entire project when I got a call from Uncle Jon.
Confessions of a Sentient War Engine (An Old Guy/Cybertank Adventure Book 4) Page 3
