by S A Asthana
Cube didn’t want to press too much—the last shopkeeper had shat himself. The robot was a terrifying sight, especially for those here in New Paris who weren’t accustomed to such machines. Everywhere it went, Parisians stepped out of its path. Even loups. They all knew who it answered to. Humanoid robots could only be the work of the Martian military with their god-like technological capabilities. No one dared mess with these creatures. Especially ones as ghastly as Cube.
An acoustic guitar stood out amongst the wares for sale. The shopkeeper understood Cube’s stare and stated, this time with back straightened, “I’ve got all manner of instruments here. They might be crude for… someone like you, but they are handcrafted by the best in New Paris.”
Gone was the squeamish little man. He was now a confident salesman.
Cube stowed away the picture in a compartment on its side. The robot pointed at the guitar. As the man retrieved the instrument, a small boy of eleven entered the tent, a crooked smile adorning the pale, freckled face. Cube took note of him.
“This one’s a local beauty,” the shopkeeper spoke, his hefty belly bulging. “Built using wood found in ruins on the surface. It is one of the finest guitars in my possession. Secondhand, but the sound is very sharp still.”
He handed the item over. Cube helicoptered the instrument over its head by the neck a few times. The shopkeeper blanched. “That’s not how you…”
Cube cut short the spectacle and inspected the instrument. The guitar’s neck was zoomed in on. The sound hole was next. Finally, the strings came into focus.
>CALL FILE {Guitar.dat}
>DEFINITION: An acoustic guitar is an instrument that produces sound by transmitting the vibration of the strings to the air—as opposed to relying on electronic amplification. Sound waves from the strings of an acoustic guitar resonate through the guitar's body.
Guitars were familiar instruments but Cube had never actually seen one, let alone played one. It held the instrument with strings facing the chest.
“Let me… umm… show you how to play.” The shopkeeper retook the instrument, his puffy face unable to mask concern. He strummed a few notes with dainty fingers. “The sound is rich. Very robust. Unlike any other guitar in my shop.”
Cube tilted its head as if processing the notes. They were different than piano keys. It commanded, “Play Fur Elise.”
The man blinked a couple of times. “Fur E-Elise?”
Cube nodded.
A deafening silence filled the tent. Cube waited. The shopkeeper searched the air as if for notes.
“I-I don’t know how to play that,” he finally said, with shoulders drooped. The man was melting in his sweat.
>CALL FILE {Play_Guitar.dat}
Cube forced the instrument out of his hands. “I will play.”
“P-please be careful.” The shopkeeper was a defeated child, looking on as if having just surrendered his school project to a bully.
The guitar was held correctly this time. Progress. The pegs were fiddled. Promising. The length of each string was gauged. Careful observations. Cube prepared to strum some notes. It paused as if to begin a long performance. The classic symphony deserved full focus, after all. Then, it started.
The sausage forefinger ripped through the strings with one swift motion. The shopkeeper whispered, “No!”
The guitar was useless. Cube dropped it to the floor. “Fragile.”
>EMOTION = frustration.dat
The instrument was stomped with a heavy foot. Pieces of wood and coiled strings were all that remained, broken residues of a prized possession. “It is a worthless human invention.”
The shopkeeper nodded, his double chin folding and unfolding like a cartoon. “Yes… you’re right. Worthless.”
The redheaded boy tapped at Cube’s right leg. “Show me the picture—I can help,” he squeaked. His porcelain face was tan with dust and muck. Cube didn’t engage and walked forward, shaking the tent all the while with its heavy steps. Dog ignoring a puppy. The boy cut off the tent’s exit. A mouse confronting a mechanical bull.
“I said show me the picture,” he said again with his tiny chest puffed out. “I can help you.”
Cube titled its head.
>CALL FILE {amusement4.dat}
>REPLAY amusement4.dat
>REPLAY amusement4.dat
>REPLAY amusement4.dat
The boy’s tattered tunic probably hadn’t been washed in months. A collarbone protruded through one of the many holes. Most likely an orphan. Cube played along with this delicate concoction of cells and neurons. Curiosity more than anything else. Humans the age of this one were more fascinating than their older counterparts. They were missing intellect, sure, but there was a certain inquisitiveness displayed at this age that seemed to disappear by adulthood.
Cube flashed the picture. The child grabbed it boldly and studied the face for a few seconds. Then he stared straight into the machine’s eye. “I know where Bastien is.”
“Where?” Cube processed the information.
“I was just with him. I showed him to a tent. I can take you to it.” The child toyed with his curly, frizzy hair, uncoiling a lock and then letting it coil back in.
Cube commanded, “Take me there.”
“Wait a minute, skull-bot. It will require some payment.” The boy held out dirty palms. He didn’t seem the least bit intimidated.
>ANALYSIS: Probability of making it to adulthood; 0%
The robot turned back to the shopkeeper, pointed at the silk belt tied around his rotund waist and demanded, “Take that off and hand it over.”
The man did as he was told, his black pants slipping down to his fat ankles in the process. With cheeks flushed, he handed over the requested item. Cube grabbed the belt and put it into the child’s delicate hand. “What is your name?”
“Jake.” The boy felt at the belt with his palms. A grin cut across his face. “It’s my lucky day.”
CHAPTER 11: BELLE
The face was hard to discern because of the shawl covering it, but the man was definitely Bastien. That rugged physique could only belong to a military man. Hafiz pulled him along by the arm like a pawn escorting a pawn. Two chess pieces toward Belle taking control of the game. She followed them and flashed a crooked grin in anticipation of victory.
Peter shot about nervous glances, sweat festering on his bald head. “Your Highness, I don’t think we should be out here in the bazaar,” he said. “This place is crawling with loups. I don’t want you getting caught.”
She tightened the scarf around her face. “I need to make sure Hafiz doesn’t back out on his word.”
Peter grabbed her by the arm. “I don’t like this plan, Belle. We need you.”
Snatching away her arm with ease, she shouted at him. “If things get hot, help me. Otherwise, stay outta my way.”
She pushed through Bastille Market’s crowd, her nostrils stinging with smells of cooked dog meat, fresh feces, and sticky sweat. A glance back revealed a long-faced Peter—and his remorse nearly halted her. After all, Peter was the whole reason she led the revolutionaries in the first place. They only believed in her because of his belief in her. He’d been her father’s close confidant and told her often he wanted nothing more than to see her take her rightful place. King Alexandre’s vision for New Paris, to make this place an oasis, could be restarted. She’d be able to fulfill what her father had dreamed of. And that made Peter protective of her. She didn’t mind him hovering over her most times. But right now wasn’t one of them. The last thing she needed was a babysitter.
“Marie Dubois, our one true God!” a devotee shouted somewhere in the distance. Her face materialized ahead as if an apparition. A sneer held up a half smile. The bitch was so ugly.
This plan had to pan out. It was the only hope left. The Jacobins weren’t up to snuff—hadn’t been for a while. Belle didn’t have the numbers on her side, nor did her revolutionaries have the required skills to launch a full-scale attack against Marie. They never
would. Even if their hearts were in the right place, it didn’t mean they could suddenly topple a powerful megalomaniac. The only rebel that ever had any real fight had just been destroyed. Androids like Jean were rare and expensive, even on the black market, and she couldn’t afford another one. The situation was bleak. Peter didn’t see that in his old age. But Belle saw it clearly, which was why this random opportunity seemed so appealing. Bastien was the closest she was ever going to get to killing Marie.
It would be priceless to see the bitch’s expression when she realized Bastien had turned. Belle’s mouth watered. Destroy and disrupt. Destroy and—what the hell? She stopped while a crowd swelled on the right, falling over itself in a panic. Wide-eyed men, women, and children scrambled for their lives like a herd of animals who’d just sensed a predator. Amongst the confusion, a girl, spindly and frail, looked over her shoulder, and Belle followed her gaze.
And there it was—the predator, a machine-thing, standing not too far off. Whatever it was, it was huge—even taller than Hafiz. Seven feet at least, and broad as a refrigerator. The black skull was terrifying. The stuff of nightmares. It was death itself, missing only the customary sickle. A barcode on the back of its head indicated a Port Sydney origin. If entities could have auras, this one’s would be a fiery red.
It burst through the flailing crowd, knocking over people, then cut off Hafiz’s path. Belle, along with several others, kept their distance from the giant. A circle formed with hundreds of eyes glued to this machine-thing. What was it and what was it capable of? Belle’s hand tightened around the pink pistol. Something was about to go down—something bad.
“Stand down, by order of Port Sydney,” the thing commanded.
All eyes darted to Hafiz like ping-pong balls moving from one end of a table to the other. Everyone wanted to know whether the Queen’s right-hand was going to take such a directive lying down. Hafiz squinted and asked, “And why would I do that, exactly?”
“Because I’m Cube, under General Crone’s command in the Martian Military, and the fugitive you escort belongs to me. He is wanted for the murders of officers Thread, Khan, Higgs, Singh, and Forrester. My orders are to escort him back to Port Sydney. Your queen gave me her word no obstacle would get in my way. Hand him over. I do not want an escalation.” The robot’s tone was all machine and firm.
Fuck. Would Hafiz give up the fugitive? Belle recalled what he’d told her at their first meeting. Handing over Bastien would be going directly against Marie, and that would mean his end. No, he wasn’t going to give Bastien up.
“My goddess gave no such word,” Hafiz spat back, his grip on the fugitive’s arm tightening. “Her orders are clear. I am to escort him back to her quarters immediately. Step out of my way.”
As if in warning, a small compartment clicked open on Cube’s left thigh and pushed out a pistol. The cyclops eye turned a few shades darker. The crowd, including Belle, collectively took another step back, expanding the circle as if a ripple on a dirty puddle’s surface.
The market grew silent as a funeral.
Hafiz understood the situation’s precariousness immediately. His left-hand hovered over the Howa Type 45 in his holster. If he was scared, he didn’t let on one bit. He eyed the Martian with a straight face. A losing battle, surely—he couldn’t possibly win. The plan was already falling apart. The chess match between the sisters was being disrupted by a third player.
Hafiz died a quick but painful death.
He’d made the first move by reaching for his weapon, but Cube, despite its bulk, was deceptively fast. In the blink of an eye, the robot had not only drawn its pistol but also shot the man. Hafiz lay sprawled on his back, the left side of his head blown open, brain matter and blood draining out. An audible gasp worked its way around the crowd. The unthinkable had just happened. An indestructible giant had fallen.
Bastien made a run for it. The situation was about to get much, much worse. He pushed past Belle, knocking her over by accident. As she fell to the ground, Cube stepped forward. “Desist!”
Bastien didn’t heed the command. Instead, he pushed past the market’s patrons. Cube gave chase, its large feet splattering mud and grime. As Belle stood by, she was knocked back down to the ground, this time harder than the last. Landing face-first in filth, she cursed.
Cube bumped over men, women, and children indiscriminately. An old lady fell to the ground, her eyes screaming for help. The market squealed as if a pigsty had been spooked into a frenzy.
Cube cut short the chase, aimed its pistol and shot twice. Two tiny balls of heated plasma raced towards their target. One grazed Bastien’s calf, crashing him face first into a tent. The second missed its mark and struck Peter. He was lifted off his feet and thrown into a wall.
“No!” Belle cried. She rushed over, slipping and sliding in the mud. Once upon him, it was clear Peter was dying. The gaping hole in his chest could never be closed. His familiar features were crunched in a state of agony. He muttered, “G-get back the throne. Make your father prou—” His face went limp.
Belle called out his name over and over, but her frantic wailing wasn’t going to bring him back. The Jacobins now numbered only nineteen.
Cube thundered past her like a storm of metal and circuitry, and headed over to a disheveled tent where Bastien lay on the ground, hands clasped tight around a smoking calf wound. The robot grabbed Bastien by the shirt and yanked him up to its face as if he was a rag doll.
“Do not resist, Lieutenant General Lyons,” Cube instructed in a monotone.
Bastien swung his elbow at the robotic skull and howled in pain upon impact. Cube’s exterior was solid armor. The machine informed, “Next time you try that, I will return the favor, Lieutenant General Lyons. You do not want me doing that. Low probability of survival, 14.5 percent to be exact.”
Cube’s fingers sprung open all of a sudden with a loud crack and Bastien fell to the ground in a heap. Cube stared at its right hand and said, “Does not compute.” Its left hand straightened as well, releasing the pistol. Cube grunted but couldn’t curl its fingers into fists. They remained rigid and outstretched despite the robot’s best efforts.
“Gotcha, big boy.” Belle crouched like a cat at a distance away from the machine, her smart shades covering her eyes. Lines of code streamed within the lenses.
Cube staggered about awkwardly all the while staring at its open hands. “This does not compute,” it kept repeating. “This does not compute.”
The left knee buckled as if it was forced by some external entity, and the giant kneeled unwillingly. In that instance, Bastien grabbed Cube’s stray weapon, took aim and shot. Three plasma blasts exploded against metal and sent the robot reeling onto its left. Belle ran over to Bastien, snatched away the weapon, and started to shoot. “Asshole! Murderer! Shithead!” Poor Peter didn’t deserve to die.
Cube’s body shook with each hit, small dents and burn marks dotting its armor. Belle raged against this giant—fancied herself a David against a Goliath. Unfortunately, that famed scenario wouldn’t play out today.
She screamed in pain and clutched at her shades. Warnings flashed red within them—“Abort!” A counter hack from Cube had not only disabled Belle’s shades but also managed to overheat their circuitry. Millions of commands had been sent in a split second, thus straining the lens’ processors to malfunction. They were now nothing more than heated plastic. The Hell-Fire.exe file’s attack was familiar. She’d executed the program herself several times.
Belle threw away the glasses in haste. Reddened skin encircled her eyes—a few seconds more and the glasses would have burnt right through to the bone, exploding into her corneas.
Cube glided toward her, its jetpack burning bright, and knocked her to the ground with an open palm. It was as if a comet had slammed into her. Belle gasped for air while clutching at her stomach. The pain was too much to bear. A starry wormhole sucked her deep down the drain of unconsciousness, but before blackout, she caught the robot delivering a blow to the
back of Bastien’s head.
CHAPTER 12: CUBE
> PLAY {Beethoven.Fur_Elise.mus}
> EMOTION = ecstacy.dat
The symphony was much deserved. The music file hadn’t been played for the past two days. Cube usually listened to those notes on the hour, every hour. The delay had been unfortunate.
Cube’s right fingers danced across the 1.V4’s cockpit’s console as if playing piano keys.
“E d# e d# e b d c a,
c e a b, e a b c;
e d# e d# e b d c a,
c e a b, e c b a.
b c d e, g f e d, e e d c, e d c e;
e d# e d# e e d c a,
c e a b, e a b c;
e d# e d# e b d c a,
c e a b, e c b a.”
The notes were strung together brilliantly. It was one of cellular entities’ few accomplishments, although the composer had written the song for a love interest. That was unfortunate. Humans had always tried to win one another’s affection through inventiveness. A strange phenomenon, this concept of love. Beyond artificial intelligence’s comprehension. Ones and zeros didn’t allow room for matters of that organ, the heart. It was for the best. Love, like religion and symbolism, was a distraction. An impediment to rational thought and productivity.
As the composition streamed along, lights lit up one by one across the white console. The spacecraft’s engine hummed to life. A computerized voice blared over Beethoven’s keys, “Vehicle 1.V4 operational. Please chart course.” A screen on the control panel displayed two coordinates, and a highlighter toggled between them several times before blinking over one. “Destination, Port Sydney. Estimated time of arrival, three hours.”
The craft vibrated and within seconds it was lifting off the sand with thrust. As the landscape shrank slowly outside the cockpit window, Cube tethered its feet to clamps in the floor to remain in place. If it could breathe a sigh of relief, it would. The week had undoubtedly been a long one, but the target was finally in custody. Bastien sat tied in a chair just outside the cockpit’s doorway in the storage bay. A woman sat secured alongside. Both remained unconscious. Cube wirelessly linked to a hundred lunar and Martian databases, and in a split second ran several match queries for the female prisoner. Information instantly returned to its cache:
