Anti-Hero

by Jonathan Wood

  “So concentrate on the ‘or something’ then,” I suggest. You can never please everybody.

  I start moving, try to burn off the stress a little. I peer through a nearby door. Rows and rows of gleaming metal cabinets with a brushed steel finish. The large fungal stains smeared over three of them does rather spoil the effect though.

  “Nothing here,” Felicity says, leaning over my shoulder, slipping her hand into mine.

  The next room we try resembles Mercurio’s lab in New Jersey—long benches and microscopes. I rifle through the drawers in search of sulphuric acid or some other chemical that could help us out. White Out is the most lethal one I find. I fear the errors here may be beyond the bottle’s limits.

  “Never thought I’d have to break out of work.” Gran shakes his head. “Thought I might back when I worked at the Pentagon. But never here.”

  “Pentagon?” Tabitha asks him.

  “Oh, yeah, totally,” he says. “I was all like secret service for a president or two. That was a real downer of a job.”

  Wait. What? Gran? Former secret service? Really?

  “The president?” I manage. “You?”

  “Yeah.” Gran shakes his head. “Did not see, like, totally eye to eye on a bunch of stuff most days. Plus both first ladies totally hit on me, so, you know, that was a bummer.”

  If Gran is suited for one thing less than being a CIA agent, it is being a member of the secret service. He must be terrifyingly good at something to keep swinging this stuff.

  We push through the next door.

  “Shit.” Tabitha says. “Holy variety.”

  It’s another storage room. That’s the simplest way to describe it. Except it’s storing…

  “What are they?” I ask Gran.

  Row upon row of gleaming metal bodies stand before us. They are approximately humanoid, stand nearly six feet tall. Narrow legs and arms bulge at the joints. The torsos are configured like hour glasses. Each one has a blank metal head, which appear to have been polished to the extent that some rather vain CIA agent can have an army of head-height mirrors.

  “Oh, like, slave droids.” Which is apparently a normal thing to say here. Then Gran catches himself. “Though not, like, slave in that way. Just, you know, no downloaded personality. Run off the mothership.” He catches himself again. “That’s, like, the cloud, you know. Steve Jobs’ ghost in the machine flicking through your summer pictures looking for the one where something slipped out. At least, you know, that’s how the tech boys explained the cloud to me. Except they call it the mothership.” He shrugs. “We are Area 51. Be sort of wrong to not have at least one alien joke name.”

  “So someone would control these bodies by… remote control?” I ask, wanting to make sure I actually followed that.

  “Totally.” Gran nods. “’Cept since the wireless network started doing its whole siesta thing, they’ve been pretty much putting their feet up and snoozing. The goddamn life, man.”

  I look at the soulless dead things in front of me. It does not exactly seem like they are enjoying “the life.”

  “What sort of punishment can that body take?” Felicity asks, ever practical. But she’s right, if we could get one of these things going then there’s a chance we could get it close enough to the gun to do some damage.

  “Oh, decent amount,” Gran says. “Originally they were all, like, military specced and ready to run and gun and all that sort of groovy thing. But it turns out that your average soldier is not overly keen on the whole mechanical man thing. Really gives some of them the fear. Very low team functionality when you introduce one. Buzz killers. That’s what we called them. You know, because of the soldiers’ attitude. And the body count. Casualty-orama.” He grimaces. “Anyway that led us to surplus-orama here. We use them for just, like, general hazardous to health stuff.”

  Somewhere in there, I think, was the answer I was hoping for.

  Tabitha is one step ahead of me, though. She uses the extra space to tread all over my dreams.

  “Won’t work,” she says. And even pre-empting my crestfallen question, supplies the why: “No personality to download.”

  The robots stand there. Soulless. Useless. It’s a shame, I think, that the Clyde versions have become evil bastards trying to kill us. We could really use a hand from one of them right now.

  That thought dislodges another somewhere in the back of my head. It niggles at me as we leave the room. I try to grasp it but it eludes me.

  “Do you have the building blueprints in storage anywhere?” Felicity asks. “That way we could chart out the air ducts. It would take a while to clear all the gas countermeasures, but if that’s all there is then we could be out of here in twenty-four hours or thereabouts.”

  Gran looks pained for a moment. Tabitha opens her mouth to say something dismissive.

  Then it comes to me. That niggle. A serendipitous penny dropping into my outstretched hand.

  “Version 2.1,” I say.

  “What?” Felicity asks.

  “What?” Gran echoes.

  But Tabitha says nothing. Which I think means my niggle is right.

  “Version 2.1,” I repeat. “I had Clyde Version 2.2. Felicity had 2.3. Kayla 2.4. Devon had 2.5 but she destroyed it. But you,” I point to Tabitha. “You had Version 2.1. And I thought you destroyed your version, just like Devon did. But back in England, Smythe, the diplomat, he said that you hadn’t.”

  This proclamation has multiple effects. Felicity’s mouth, for example, forms a little round “o” and her eyebrows shoot up. Gran looks like someone has just introduced lemon juice to the exit-only part of his digestive tract.

  And Tabitha… Well, I imagine it is the face an asteroid wears the moment before it impacts on the poor defenseless planet.

  But I go ahead and stare right back.

  Slowly, not once relenting in her gaze, Tabitha reaches below the neckline of her black T-shirt and starts to pull out a very thin silver chain. She pulls it over her head, wrapping it around her fist once, twice. And then, finally pulling it all free, she reveals what she had resting over her heart.

  A small, gray, plastic flash drive.

  Everyone is very still and very quiet. Tabitha breaks her death stare with me and looks down at her open palm. I try to read the emotions flickering there. She locks them down as fast as they wrestle to the surface. And there are just so many.

  Finally she holds it out to me with a simple, “Fuck you.”

  Clyde. The last Clyde. Really and truly the last one now. Because… well, Jesus, there are people who are nothing but purple stains on the floor. There are bodies piled up. There’s all the evidence anyone needs that the Clyde I knew is dead.

  Except…

  One last copy. One last chance. Held out to me in Tabitha’s palm.

  I take it.

  And part of me doesn’t want to do anything with that flash drive. I just want to keep on holding it. Don’t let reality spoil it, corrupt it, overwrite it, or turn it into another psychopath trying to kill me.

  “So,” Gran says, his voice hesitant, “dudette. That’s, like, your ex-boyfriend you were carrying around with you?”

  “The time,” Tabitha snaps. “This is so not it.”

  Felicity has more practical concerns. “Do we have a way to get it into one of those machines without a wireless connection?”

  I look at Tabitha. She wouldn’t have given the flash drive to me if she could not. She wouldn’t have revealed this part of herself if this was about anything less than survival.

  “Hey,” I say, not quite daring to reach out and pat her arm. “Don’t worry. There’s a decent chance he’ll get immediately blown to pieces anyway.”

  TEN MINUTES OF BITTER ELECTRONIC ENGINEERING LATER

  “Done,” Tabitha says. She stands, rubbing a slightly oily hand against the small of her back. “Flash drive. Hardwired now. Part of it.” She reaches out with the screwdriver and twists a screw out. A panel of buttons and switches appears. She puts h
er finger on the big red one, then looks at me. Straight at me.

  “Don’t want to do this.”

  She’ll do it. I know she will. But it will cost her something. And she wants me to know that too.

  I nod at her. And I hope she knows that it will cost me something too.

  She presses the button. It’s stiff and when it gives way to pressure it does so with a satisfying clunk. Tabitha pulls away like she’s been electrocuted.

  For a moment nothing happens. Then—

  “Oh, this is not what I expected at all.”

  The robot’s head cocks to one side. Its shoulders jerk up and down in rapid-fire shrugs.

  “Wait, what operating system is this?” says the voice. It is tinny and flat, emanating from some speaker hidden within the depths of the droid’s head. “God, I knew I should have studied more Linux…” Then the head jerks around and looks straight at us.

  “Arthur?” it says. “Tabby? Felicity?” It looks around then seems to focus on Gran. “Either you’re not Kayla,” it says, “or I’m not the only one having issues keeping my consciousness in one body. So, either I’m pleased to meet you or you look lovely. I think. Probably.” Its head spins a full three hundred and sixty degrees. “Oh, that’s weird,” it finishes.

  Yes. That’s the part that’s weird.

  I try to cast my mind back. To when this version was created. Back to when Clyde and Tabitha were dating. Back before there was any hint of the evil lurking within Clyde. Back before the funeral and the US and Gran.

  God, this is going to be difficult to explain.

  “Gone evil,” Tabitha snaps at the droid. “Version 2.0 has. All other versions too. Trapped us in a US facility. We put you in a bullet-proof body. Need you to get shot and get us out.” She looks away for a moment, then her eyes snap back, relentless. She thumbs at Gran. “Dating him now.”

  OK, so that’s one way to do it.

  The silver droid is perfectly still. In the way that only something mechanical can be. Inhumanly slow. When I stare at its face, all I see is Tabitha’s reflection, distorted in the curve of its polished paneling. No sense for what might be going on beneath the surface.

  “Oh,” it says, after a while.

  It is a desperately sad word. A very human emotion despite the very inhuman shell. And perhaps at least one of the actual flesh and blood people here should show some humanity.

  I step forward. Step up, perhaps. I put my hand on the droid’s shoulder. Clyde’s shoulder. It feels cold beneath my palm. “We can talk later,” I say. “I promise. There will be time. Just not now.”

  It nods slowly.

  “That’s…” it says, and there is something of Clyde’s plummy tones in its electronic ones, “a fair bit to process, though I suppose Tabitha and I were technically never dating. That was another version of me and her. Very different. And if, well… you mentioned the whole turning evil thing, which, well, a relative term, I suppose. At least that’s what I’ve always felt. All sorts of ends and means questions wrapped up in the whole moral relativity thing. But if 2.0 is ostensibly doing the whole nefarious and scheming thing… And I suppose there’s no reason for you to lie. Except I’d like it if you were. But, well… of course I’m evil if you say I am. Well, not me. Him. Who is me. I’ll call him 2.0. That’ll be easier. Well, for me at least. Hopefully for you too. Nomenclature is always such a tricky little devil. Two horns, pointy fork, propensity for naming things. That’s how I picture him anyway. But what I meant to say, I suppose, was that, you know, all things being as they are—evil 2.0, et cetera—totally up for kicking my own arse. And good on you Tabby for finding a better man than me. Or better than this other me. Can’t be surprised you did. Always did question your taste in men. Glad to see it’s improving.” He shakes his head. “Did you say something about me needing to get shot?”

  And suddenly it clicks. Somewhere in my head and somewhere in my chest.

  It feels like Clyde is back.

  Not a robot. Not an image on a screen. But Clyde himself. And yes, he’s in a robot, but there is something about him being physical, and tangible, and right in front of me.

  From Gran’s expression I’m not sure how he feels about that, but both Felicity and I are smiling.

  He looks at me. I see myself looking right back in his reflective visage. “Hey,” I say.

  “Hello, Arthur,” he says, and there’s undeniable warmth in his voice. “Been a while. Well, for me, anyway. I guess this must all be a bit confusing. I’m confused. Not an unusual state for me, of course. Sort of my natural environment. You’d think I’d get used to it. But I don’t. So if you have any clarity to offer on this whole being shot thing, then that wouldn’t be amiss at all. Love it, in fact.”

  “Sure,” I say. I’m not quite sure if the smile belongs on my face or not. I feel quite self-conscious about it. “There’s a door we want to get through. Except there’s an automated gun turret in front of it that targets movement. And the computer system is protected by three other versions of you who have been overwritten by Evil-you. So there are like four evil yous. Which really sucks.”

  “Wow,” Clyde shakes his head. “I am really all about being evil now. I had no idea.” He shakes his metal head. “You load yourself on a flash drive for a few weeks and everyone goes evil. It’s like that time I went hiking in the Lake District and when I came back the Spice Girls had happened. Can’t help but wonder what you could have done to stop it if you’d been a little more present.” He shrugs.

  “We really will talk about it later,” I say. And I want to. It’s like someone has hit the reset button on my friend and I have a chance to do everything over. Make everything right. I want to take that opportunity.

  Except I want to do it sometime after I get my arse out of this hellhole.

  39

  “OK.” Clyde nods toward the corner and the machine gun. “The gun’s targeting is sensitive to movement, you said? Let’s see how slow this body can go.”

  Clyde glides up to the corner leading to the door out. The body moves smoothly, with almost cat-like grace. MI37 really does have access to some very cool toys.

  Gran sidles up to me. “Dude, you really think this will work?”

  “Surprisingly good hearing on this thing,” Clyde calls to us.

  “Of course it will work,” I say. Nice and loud. And with far more confidence than I actually feel.

  “Bullshit meter works OK too,” Clyde calls back.

  Clyde reaches the corner. He hesitates. Then he shakes his head. “Well,” I hear him say, “it was fun being alive for five minutes.”

  Then, inch by inch, he creeps out into the corridor.

  And isn’t shot.

  He raises one foot. It takes about thirty seconds. I almost can’t make out the actual movement. But then his foot is in the air, gliding slowly forward.

  And he isn’t shot.

  Ever so slowly the foot descends.

  BOOM.

  Clyde flies backwards through the air. He lands, a crashing tangle of steel limbs, tumbling over and over, clatter and smashing over the gray floor. Bullets stitch a path after him.

  Clyde lies very still, arms and legs splayed. Silence returns. I can make out a great dent in his chest where the bullet struck him. But the metal isn’t torn. There is no hole. The armor held up, at least to a certain extent. Something vital might have been crushed, but there’s a chance…

  “Clyde,” I hiss. “Clyde, are you…?”

  “Dented?” asks Clyde.

  My breath whistles out of me. I am acutely aware that we have no back-ups of Clyde now.

  “So I’m, like, guessing,” Gran says, “that the whole stealthy thing is not so righteous.”

  “Experiments so far do seem to suggest that sort of hypothesis,” Clyde agrees.

  “Groovy,” Gran says. Which seems a touch inaccurate. Though, I could see how Gran might find Clyde being shot again appealing.

  “How many more hits like that could you
take?” Felicity calls to Clyde. Which doesn’t really set the right tone, I feel.

  “Not wholly sure,” Clyde answers, but being Clyde the answer doesn’t end there. “They don’t seem to have put the specs for this body in the hardwiring. Bit of a desolate wasteland in here actually when it comes to company. Just me, myself, and I. I mean not to disparage external company. Meatfolk such as yourself. Need to think of a better term for you than that, obviously. Maybe ‘people.’ That has sufficed up until now, I suppose. But I just mean, I can’t even pick up a wireless signal, which is a bit on the atypical side.”

  Gran is studying the dent. “I’d guess the chassis would take two or three more hits before it gives, assuming the shooter’s spacing isn’t too tight.”

  “Well that sounds like fun now, doesn’t it?” Clyde still hasn’t stood up from where the machine gun knocked him.

  “Get it over with,” Tabitha growls.

  Clyde lies still a moment longer. Then, “One way to figure this out.” He whips an arm out in a blur. His metal body shrieks sideways toward us, parallel to the door. The machine gun roars, but he skids behind the protection of the corner before the tracking lines up. I hear bullets slamming into the wall.

  Out of immediate danger, Clyde stands. I hear the faint whine of servos operating. “Not bad,” he nods. He looks back at the corner. “Sort of thinking about doing the opposite of the slow thing. The fast thing you’d probably call it. Not to put words in anyone’s mouth, but that does seem the obvious term. Even to a dunderhead such as myself.”

  Ignoring Clyde’s word choice issues, I go ahead and ask him, “You think you can do it?”

  Clyde’s mirrored face is impossible to read. I see doubt, but it’s my own.

  “I know I’m new on this particular scene,” Clyde says, “but I rather had the impression that whether I can or not might be sort of important.”

  “Sort of.” I nod.

  “Our regular ‘sort of’?” he asks. “Fate of the world ‘sort of’ and all that?”

  “And all that.”

  Clyde nods. I see my reflection bob up and down over curves of steel. “Doesn’t really matter if I think I can or not then, does it? Got to go for it and hope for the best. Lie back and think of England and all that. Except, more run like the hounds of bloody hell are on my heels and think of England. Less of a popular saying, I realize, but more apt in this situation perhaps.”