Robopocalypse

by Daniel H. Wilson

  “Okay, you’ll want to back up now. It’s target seeking. I’m going to have to shoot it.”

  Jack raises his gun. Already walking backward, I call to my brother, “Won’t that make it blow up?”

  Jack assumes a firing stance. “Not if I only shoot its legs. Otherwise, yes.”

  “Isn’t that bad?”

  Reared back, the scuttle mine paws the air.

  “It’s targeting, Cormac. Either we disable it, or it disables one of us.” Jack squints down his gunsight. Then he squeezes the trigger and a deafening boom echoes through the tunnel. My ears are ringing when he fires again.

  I wince, but there’s no big explosion.

  Over Jack’s shoulder, I see the scuttle mine lying on its back, three remaining legs clawing at the air. Then Jack steps into my line of sight, makes eye contact with me, and speaks slowly. “Cormac. I need you to get help, buddy. I’ll stay here and keep an eye on this thing. You get out of the tunnel and call the police. Tell them to send a bomb squad.”

  “Yeah, right,” I say. I can’t seem to look away from the damaged sand-camouflaged crab lying on the ground. It looks so hard and military, out of place here in this shopping square.

  I trot back out of the tunnel and directly into Zero Hour—humankind’s new future. For the first second of my new life, I think that what I’m seeing is a joke. How could it not be?

  For some crazy reason, I assume that an artist has filled the shopping pavilion with radio-controlled cars as some kind of art installation. Then I see the red circles around each of the crawling devices. Dozens of scuttle mines are stepping across the pavilion, like slow-motion invaders from another planet.

  The people have all run away.

  Now, a concussive thump detonates a few blocks away. I hear distant screaming. Police cars. The city emergency outdoor warning sirens begin wailing, growing louder and then softer as they rotate.

  A few of the scuttle mines seem startled. They rear back on their hind legs, front legs waving.

  I feel a hand on my elbow. Jack’s chiseled face looks up at me from the dark tunnel.

  “Something’s wrong, Jack,” I say.

  He scans the square with hard blue eyes and makes a decision. Just like that. “The armory. We’ve got to get there and fix this. C’mon,” he says, grabbing my elbow with one hand. In the other hand, I see he still has his gun out.

  “What about the crabs?”

  Jack leads me across the pavilion, delivering information in short, clipped sentences. “Don’t get into their trigger zones, the red circles.”

  We climb up onto a picnic table and away from the scuttle mines, leaping between park benches, the central fountain, and concrete walls. “They sense vibration. Don’t walk with a pattern. Hop instead.”

  When we do set foot on the ground, we lunge quickly from one position to the next. As we proceed, Jack’s words string together into concrete ideas that penetrate my stunned confusion. “If you see target-seeking behavior, get away. They will swarm. They aren’t moving that fast, but there’s a lot of them.”

  Leaping from obstacle to obstacle, we pick our way across the square. About fifteen minutes in, one of the scuttle mines stops against the front door of a clothing store. I hear the tap of its legs on the glass. A woman in a black dress stands in the middle of the store, watching the crab through the door. The red circle shines through the glass, refracted by a few inches. The woman takes a curious step toward it.

  “Lady, no!” I shout.

  Boom! The scuttle mine explodes, shattering the front door and throwing the woman backward into the store. The other crabs stop and wave their forelegs for a few seconds. Then, one by one, they continue to crawl across the pavilion.

  I touch my face and my fingers come away bloody. “Oh shit, Jack. Am I hurt?”

  “It’s from when I hit you before, man. Remember?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  We move on.

  As we reach the edge of the park, the city emergency sirens stop screaming. Now we just hear the wind, the scrabble of metal legs on concrete, and the occasional deadened bang of a distant explosion. It’s getting dark and Boston is only getting colder.

  Jack stops and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Cormac, you’re doing great. Now, I need you to run with me. The armory is less than a mile from here. You okay, Big Mac?”

  I nod, shivering.

  “Outstanding. Running is good. It’ll keep us warm. Follow me close. If you see a scuttle mine or anything else just avoid it. Stay with me. Okay?”

  “Okay, Jack.”

  “Now, we run.”

  Jack scans the alley ahead of us. The scuttle mines are thinning out, but once we’re out of the shopping area, I know there will be room for bigger machines—like cars.

  My big brother gives me a reassuring grin, then sprints away. I follow him. I don’t have much of a choice.

  The armory is a squat building—a big pile of solid red bricks in the shape of a castle. It’s medieval-looking except for the steel bars covering its narrow windows. The entire front entryway has been blown out from under the entrance arch. Lacquered wooden doors lie shattered in the street next to a twisted bronze plaque with the word historic embossed on it. Other than that, the place is quiet.

  As we mount the steps and run under the arch, I look up to see a huge carved eagle staring down at me. The flags on either side of the entrance snap in the wind, tattered and burned by whatever explosion happened here. It occurs to me that we’re headed into danger instead of away from it.

  “Jack, wait,” I pant. “This is crazy. What are we doing here?”

  “We’re trying to save some people’s lives, Cormac. Those mines escaped from here. We’ve got to make sure nothing else gets out.”

  I cock my head at him.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “This is my battalion armory. I come here every other weekend. We’ll be fine.”

  Jack strides into the cavernous lobby. I follow. The scuttle mines were definitely here. Pockmarks are gouged into the polished floors, and piles of rubble are strewn around. Everything in here is coated with a fine layer of dust. And in the dust are lots of boot prints, along with less recognizable tracks.

  Jack’s voice echoes from the vaulted ceilings. “George? You in here? Where are you, buddy?”

  Nobody responds.

  “There’s nobody here, Jack. We should go.”

  “Not without arming ourselves.”

  Jack shoves a sagging wrought-iron gate out of the way. Gun drawn, he marches down a dark hallway. Cold wind blows in through the destroyed entrance and raises goose bumps on my neck. The breeze isn’t strong, but it’s enough to push me down the hall after Jack. We go through a metal door. Down some claustrophobic stairs. Into another long hallway.

  That’s when I first hear the thumping.

  It’s coming from behind metal double doors at the end of the corridor. The pounding comes in random surges, rattling the door on its hinges.

  Boom. Boom. Boom.

  Jack stops and looks at it for a second, then leads me into a windowless storeroom. Without saying anything, Jack walks behind the counter and starts grabbing stuff from shelves. He throws things onto the counter: socks, boots, pants, shirts, canteens, helmets, gloves, kneepads, earplugs, bandages, thermal underwear, space blankets, rucksacks, ammo belts, and other stuff I don’t even recognize.

  “Put on this ACU,” Jack orders, over his shoulder.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Army combat uniform. Put it on. Make sure you’re warm. We might be sleeping outside tonight.”

  “What are we doing here, Jack? We should go back to your place and wait for help. Dude, let the police deal with this shit.”

  Jack doesn’t pause; he works and talks. “Those things on the street are military grade, Cormac. The police aren’t equipped to deal with military hardware. Besides, did you see any cavalry coming to help while we were on the streets?”

  “N
o, but they must be regrouping or something.”

  “Remember flight forty-two? We almost died because of a glitch? I think this is bigger than Boston. This could be worldwide.”

  “Dude, no way. It’s just a matter of time before—”

  “Us. Cormac, this is us. We have to deal with this. We have to deal with what’s banging on that door down the hall.”

  “No we don’t! Why do you have to do this? Why do you always have to do this?”

  “Because I’m the only one who can.”

  “No. It’s because nobody else is dumb enough to go directly toward the danger.”

  “It’s my duty. We’re doing it. No more discussion. Now, suit up before I put you in a headlock.”

  Reluctantly, I strip down and climb into the uniform. The clothes are new and stiff. Jack suits up, too. He does it twice as fast as me. At one point, he snaps a belt around my waist and tightens it for me. I feel like a twelve-year-old in a Halloween costume.

  Then he presses an M16 rifle into my hands.

  “What? Seriously? We’re going to get arrested.”

  “Shut up and listen. This is the magazine. Just jam it in there and make sure it curves away from you. This selector is the fire-mode control. I’m setting it to single-round so you don’t blow your clip all at once. Put it to safety when you’re not using the rifle. There’s a handle on top, but never carry it by the handle. It’s not safe. Here’s the bolt. Pull it back to chamber a round. If you have to fire the weapon, hold it with both hands, like this, and look down the sights. Squeeze the trigger slow.”

  Now, I’m a kid in a soldier’s Halloween costume armed with a fully loaded M16 battle rifle. I hold it up and point it at the wall. Jack slaps my elbow.

  “Keep your elbow down. You’ll catch it on something and it makes you a bigger target. And get your index finger outside the trigger guard unless you’re ready to fire.”

  “This is what you do on weekends?”

  Jack doesn’t respond. He’s kneeling, shoving things into our rucksacks. I notice a couple of big plastic chunks, like sticks of butter.

  “Is that C4?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jack finishes stuffing the bags. He throws one onto my back. Tightens the straps. Then, he shrugs on his own pack. He slaps his shoulders and stretches out his arms.

  My brother looks like a goddamned jungle commando.

  “C’mon, Big Mac,” he replies. “Let’s go find out what’s making that racket.”

  Rifles ready, we slip down the hall toward the booming sound. Jack stands back, rifle leveled at his shoulder. He nods at me and I crouch in front of the door. I put one gloved hand on the doorknob. With a deep breath, I twist the knob and shove the door open with my shoulder. It hits something, and I shove harder. It flies open and I tumble inside the room on my knees.

  Black writhing death stares back at me.

  The room is teeming with scuttle mines. They climb up the walls, out of splintered crates, over one another. My opening the door has shoved a pile of them out of the way, but others are already crawling into the opening. I can’t even see the floor for all the creepy crawlies.

  A wave of forelegs rises across the room, tasting the air.

  “No!” screams Jack. He grabs the back of my jacket and drags me out of the room. He’s quick, but as the door starts to close it gets wedged on a scuttle mine. It’s followed by more. A lot more. They emerge in a torrent into the hallway. Their metal bodies smack the door as we back away.

  Boom. Boom. Boom.

  “What else is in this armory, Jack?”

  “All kinds of shit.”

  “How much of it is robots?”

  “Plenty of it.”

  Jack and I retreat down the hall, watching the crablike explosives as they leisurely flood out of the door.

  “Is there more C4?” I ask.

  “Crates.”

  “We have to blow this whole place up.”

  “Cormac, this building has been here since the seventeen hundreds.”

  “Who gives a shit about history? We have to worry about right now, dude.”

  “You never had any respect for tradition.”

  “Jack. I’m sorry I pawned the bayonet. Okay? It was the wrong thing to do. But blasting these things is the only thing to do. What did we come here for?”

  “To save people.”

  “Let’s save some people, Jack. Let’s blow the armory.”

  “Think, Cormac. People live around here. We’ll kill somebody.”

  “If those mines get loose, who knows how many people they’re gonna kill. We don’t have a choice. We’re going to have to do something bad to do something good. In an emergency, you do what you have to do. Okay?”

  Jack considers for a second, watching the scuttle mines creep toward us down the hallway. Red circles of light glint off the polished floors. “Okay,” he says. “Here’s the plan. We’re going to get to the nearest army base. Make sure you’ve got everything you need, because we’ll be walking all night. It’s cold as shit out there.”

  “What about the armory, Jack?”

  Jack grins at me. He has this crazy look in his blue eyes that I’d almost forgotten about.

  “The armory?” he asks. “What armory? We’re blowing the fucking armory straight to hell, little brother.”

  That night, Jack and I trek through frigid mist, trotting down dark alleys and crouching behind whatever cover we can find. The city is dead quiet now. Survivors are barricaded inside their homes, leaving the desolate streets to be hunted by frostbite and lunatic machines. The growing snowstorm has put out some of the fire we started, but not all of it.

  Boston is burning.

  We hear the occasional thump of a detonation out in the dark. Or the tire squeal of empty cars sliding over the ice, hunting. The rifle Jack gave me is surprisingly heavy and metal and cold. My hands are curled around it like two frozen claws.

  The instant I see them, I hiss at Jack to make him stop. I nod to the alley on our right, not making another sound.

  At the end of the narrow alleyway, through the swirling smoke and snow, three silhouettes walk past, single file. They step under the bluish LED glow of a streetlight, and at first I assume they’re soldiers in tight gray fatigues. But that isn’t right. One of them stops on the corner and scans the street, head cocked funny. The thing must be seven feet tall. The other two are smaller, bronze-colored. They wait behind the leader, perfectly still. It’s three humanoid military robots. They stand metallic and naked and unflinching in the cutting wind. I’ve only ever seen these things on television.

  “Safety and pacification units,” whispers Jack. “One Arbiter and two Hoplites. A squad.”

  “Shh.”

  The leader turns and looks in our direction. I hold my breath, sweat trickling down my temples. Jack’s hand tightens painfully on my shoulder. The robots don’t visibly communicate. After a few seconds the leader just turns away and, as if on cue, the three figures lope off into the night. Only a few footprints in the snow remain as evidence that they were ever there.

  It’s like a dream. I’m not sure whether what I saw was real. But even so, I have a gut feeling that I’ll be seeing those robots again.

  We did see those robots again.

  —CORMAC WALLACE, MIL#GHA217

  PART THREE

  SURVIVAL

  Within thirty years, we will

  have the technological means to

  create superhuman intelligence.

  Shortly after, the human era

  will be ended.… Can events be

  guided so that we may survive?

  VERNOR VINGE, 1993

  1. AKUMA

  All things are born from the mind of God.

  TAKEO NOMURA

  NEW WAR + 1 MONTH

  At Zero Hour, the majority of the world’s population lived in cities. Highly industrialized areas worldwide were struck hardest in the immediate aftermath. In one rare instance, however, an enterprisin
g Japanese survivor turned a weakness into strength.

  A multitude of industrial robots, surveillance cameras, and Rob bugs corroborate the following story, which was told in great detail by Mr. Takeo Nomura to members of the Adachi Self-Defense Force. From the beginning of the New War up until its last moments, Mr. Nomura seems to have been surrounded by friendly robots. All Japanese has been translated into English for this document.

  —CORMAC WALLACE, MIL#GHA217

  I am looking at a security camera image on my monitor. In the corner of the screen a label reads: Tokyo, Adachi Ward.

  The image is from someplace high, looking down on a deserted street. The road below is narrow, paved, and clean. Small, neat houses line it. All the houses have fences, made of bamboo or concrete or wrought iron. There are no front yards to speak of, no curbs on the street, and most important, there is no room for cars to be parked.

  A beige box trundles down the middle of this narrow corridor. It vibrates a bit on the pavement, rolling on flimsy plastic wheels that were built for indoor use only. Streaks of black soot coat the surface of the machine. Attached to the top of the box is a simple arm I built of aluminum tubing, folded down like a wing. On the front face of the robot, just below a cracked camera lens, a button of light glows a healthy green.

  I call this machine Yubin-kun.

  This little box is my most loyal ally. It has faithfully executed many missions for the cause. Thanks to me, Yubin-kun has a clear mind, unlike the evil machines that plague the city—the akuma.

  Yubin-kun reaches an intersection painted with a faded white cross. It purposefully turns ninety degrees to the right. Then it keeps going down the block. As it is about to leave the camera frame, I push my glasses up onto my forehead and squint at the screen. Something is resting on top of this busy machine. I make out the object: a plate.

  And on the plate is a can of corn soup. My soup. I sigh, happy.

  Then I punch a button and the camera image switches.

  Now, I see a full-color, high-resolution picture of the outside of a factory building. In Japanese, a sign across the front reads Lilliputian Industries.