Robopocalypse (27 page)

5. T
HE
V
EIL
, L
IFTED

All is darkness
.

N
INE
O
H
T
WO

NEW WAR + 1 YEAR,
10 MONTHS

Humanoid robots around the globe awoke into sentience in the aftermath of the Awakening performed by Mr. Takeo Nomura and his consort, Mikiko. These machines came to be known as the freeborn. The following account was provided by one such robot—a modified safety and pacification robot (Model 902 Arbiter) who fittingly chose to call itself Nine Oh Two
.

—
CORMAC
WALLACE,
MIL#GHA217

21:43:03.

Boot sequence initiated.

Power source diagnostics complete.

Low-level diagnostics check. Humanoid form milspec Model Nine Oh Two Arbiter. Detect modified casing. Warranty inactive.

Sensory package detected.

Engage radio communications. Interference. No input.

Engage auditory perception. Trace input.

Engage chemical perception. Zero oxygen. Trace explosives. No toxic contamination. Air flow nil. Petroleum outgasing detected. No input.

Engage inertial measurement unit. Horizontal attitude. Static. No input.

Engage ultrasonic ranging sensors. Hermetically sealed enclosure. Eight feet by two feet by two feet. No input.

Engage field of vision. Wide spectrum. Normal function. No visible light.

Engage primary thought threads. Probability fields emerging. Maximum probability thought thread active.

Query:
What is happening to me?

Maxprob response:
Life
.

All is darkness.

On reflex, my eyes blink and switch to active infrared. Red-hued details emerge. Particulate matter floats in the air, reflecting the infrared light. My face orients downward. A pale gray body stretches out below. Arms crossed over a narrow chest. Five long fingers per hand. Slender, powerful limbs.

A serial number is visible on the right thigh. Magnify. Milspec identification Model Nine Oh Two Arbiter class humanoid robot.

Self-spec complete. Diagnostic information confirmed.

I
am Nine Oh Two.

This is my body. It is two point one meters tall. It weighs ninety kilograms. Humanoid form factor. Individually articulated fingers and toes. Kinetically rechargeable power source with thirty-year operational life. Survivable temperature range, negative fifty degrees Celsius to positive one hundred thirty.

My body was manufactured six years ago by the Foster-Grumman corporation. Original instructions indicate that my body is a safety and pacification unit destined for deployment in eastern Afghanistan. Point of origin: Fort Collins, Colorado. Six months ago, this platform was modified while off-line. Now, it is online.

What am I?

This body is me. I am this body. And I am conscious.

Engage proprioception. Joints located. Angles calculated. I’m lying on my back. It is dark and quiet. I do not know where I am. My internal clock says three years have passed since my scheduled delivery date.

Several thought threads spring to mind. The maximum probability thread says that I am inside a shipping container that never arrived at its destination.

I listen.

After thirty seconds, I sense muffled voices—high frequencies transmitted through the air and low frequencies through the metal skin of the container.

Speech recognition online. English corpus loaded.

“… why would Rob destroy … 
own
armory?” says a high-pitched voice.

“… your fucking fault … get us killed,” says a deep voice.

“… didn’t mean to …,” says the high-pitched voice.

“… open it?” says the deep voice.

I may need to use my body soon. I execute a low-level diagnostic program. My limbs twitch slightly, connecting inputs to outputs. Everything is working.

The lid of my container opens a crack. There is a hiss as the seal is broken and the atmospheres equalize. Light floods my infrared vision. I blink back to visible spectrum.
Click, click
.

A broad, bearded face hovers in the sliver of light, eyes wide. Human.

Face recognition. Nil.

Emotion recognition engaged.

Surprise. Fear. Anger.

The lid slams back down. Locks.

“… destroy it …,” says the deep voice.

Odd. Only now—when they want to kill me—do I realize how badly I want to live. I pull my arms off my chest and brace my elbows against the back of the container. I curl my hands into tight fists. With sudden jackhammer force I launch a punch into the container.

“… awake!” says the high-pitched voice.

Vibrational resonance response indicates the lid is made of a steel substrate. It is consistent with the spec for a standard safety and pacification unit shipping container. Database lookup indicates that latches and activation equipment are on the outside, eighteen inches down from the headrest.

“… here to scavenge. Not die …,” says the low-pitched voice.

My next punch lands in the dented spot left by the previous punch. After six more punches, a hole appears in the deforming metal—a fist-sized breach. With both hands I begin to peel the metal apart, tearing the opening wider.

“… no! Come back …,” says the high-pitched voice.

Through the rapidly widening hole, I hear a metallic click. Matching the sound bite against a dictionary of martial samples returns a high-probability match: the slide pull of a well-maintained Heckler & Koch USP 9 millimeter semiautomatic pistol. Minimal jam probability. Maximum magazine capacity fifteen rounds. No ambidextrous magazine release and therefore likely wielded by a right-handed shooter. Capable of multiple high-kinetic impacts resulting in probable damage to my outer casing.

I snake my right arm out through the hole and reach for where my spec says the latch will be. I feel it, pull it, and the container lid is unlocked. I hear the trigger pull and retract my arm. One-tenth of a second later a bullet skates across the surface of my container.

Pow!

Fourteen rounds left before reload, assuming full magazine. Time of flight between trigger pull and report indicates a single adversary approximately seven meters to my six o’clock. Definitely right-handed.

Also, the container lid seems to make an effective shield.

I push two fingers from my left hand through the hole and pull the lid down firmly, then concentrate four punches from my right hand on the interior upper hinge. It gives way.

Another shot. Ineffective. Estimate thirteen rounds remaining.

Pushing, metal screeching, I tear the container lid from the remaining lower hinge and orient it toward my six o’clock. Behind my shield, I stand up and look around.

More shots. Twelve. Eleven. Ten.

I am in a partially destroyed building. Two walls still stand, propped up by their own rubble. Above the walls is sky. It is blue and empty. Below the sky are mountains. Capped with snow.

I find the sight of the mountains to be beautiful.

Nine. Eight. Seven.

The attacker is flanking. I orient the container lid based on footstep vibrations I sense through the ground to occlude the attacker.

Six. Five. Four.

It is unfortunate that my vision sensors are clustered in my vulnerable head. I am unable to visually lock onto the attacker without putting my most delicate hardware at unnecessary risk. The humanoid form is ill suited for evading small weapons fire.

Three. Two. One. Zero.

I toss down the gunpowder-stained container lid and visually acquire my target. It is a small human. Female. It is looking up at my face, stepping backward.

Click
.

The female lowers its emptied weapon. It makes no attempt to reload. There are no other visible threats.

Engage speech synthesis. English corpus.

“Greetings,” I say. The female human winces when I speak. My voice synthesis is tuned for the low-frequency clicks of Robspeak. I must sound gritty compared to a human voice.

“Fuck you, Rob,” says the human. Her small white teeth flash when she speaks. Then, she spits saliva onto the ground. About half an ounce.

Fascinating.

“Are we enemies?” I ask, cocking my head to indicate that I am curious. I take one step forward.

My reflex avoidance thread seeks priority control. Approved. My torso jerks six inches to the right and my left hand cuts through the air to intercept and catch the empty gun flying toward my face.

The female is sprinting away. It moves erratically, dodging between cover for twenty meters, then taking a direct evasion route at top running speed. About ten miles per hour. Slow. Its long brown hair streaks behind it, whipped by the wind as it finally disappears over a hill.

I do not give chase. There are too many questions.

In the rubble near the walls, I find green and brown and gray clothing. I pull the half-buried garments out of the ground, then shake the dirt and bones out of them. I slide on a pair of stiff military fatigues and a dirt-caked flak vest. I empty rainwater from a rusted helmet. The concave piece of metal fits my head. As an afterthought, I pluck out a bullet from the mangled vest and toss it onto the ground. It makes a noise.

Ping
.

An observation thread orients my interest to the ground near where the bullet landed. A metal corner pokes up from below the dirt. Maxprob fits the dimensions of my own shipping container to the visible metal and overlays the most likely angle of rest onto my vision.

Surprise. There are
two
more buried containers.

I dig with my hands, plowing my metal fingers through the frozen soil. The clammy dirt packs into my joints. Heat from the friction melts the ice in the soil and produces mud that cakes my hands and knees. When the surfaces of both muddy containers are fully exposed, I unlatch them both.

Hiss
.

In Robspeak, I croak out my identification. The information contained in my utterance is chopped up and delivered piecemeal to maximize the amount of information transmitted regardless of audio interference. Therefore, in no particular order, my single creaking sound contains the following information: “Arbiter milspec model Nine Oh Two humanoid safety and pacification unit speaking. Point of origin Fort Collins, Colorado. Primary activation minus forty-seven minutes. Lifetime forty-seven minutes. Status nominal. Caution, modifications present. Warranty invalid. Danger level, no immediate threat. Status transmitted. Are you aware? Seek to confirm.”

Grinding chirps emanate from the boxes: “Confirmed.”

The lids open on both boxes, and I look down upon my new comrades: a bronze 611 Hoplite and dust-colored 333 Warden. My squad.

“Awaken, brothers,” I croak in English.

Within minutes of becoming aware and free, Freeborn squad demonstrated a grim determination to never again fall under the control of an outside entity. Feared by humans and hunted by other robots, Freeborn squad soon found itself on a very familiar journey—a search for the architect of the New War: Archos
.

—
CORMAC
WALLACE,
MIL#GHA217

6. O
DYSSEY

You never know when Rob will want to party
.

C
ORMAC
“B
RIGHT
B
OY
” W
ALLACE

NEW WAR + 2 YEARS,
2 MONTHS

Brightboy squad marched with Gray Horse Army for almost a year on our way to reach Archos’s hiding place in Alaska. We scavenged plenty of abandoned ammunition and arms along the way—so many soldiers died so fast in those first days after Zero Hour. During this time, a few new faces came and went, but our core members stayed the same: me and Jack, Cherrah, Tiberius, Carl, and Leonardo. The six of us faced countless battles together—and survived them all
.

The following is my description of a single color photograph, about the size of a postcard. White border. I have no idea how Rob procured this photo, nor do I know who took it or for what purpose
.

—
CORMAC
WALLACE,
MIL#GHA217

The liberated spider tank is dull gray; its name,
Houdini
, is painted on the side in white capital letters; its cylindrical instrument mast extends up from the armor-plated turret section, sprouting antennae, metal camera stalks, and flat radar pods; its cannon is short and stubby and aimed slightly upward; its cowcatcher hangs off the sloped front end, muddy and solid and blunt; its left front leg is extended almost straight forward, foot buried in the footprints of enemy mantises that have already passed through; its rear right leg is pulled up high, the massive clawed foot hanging a foot above the ground almost daintily; its wire-mesh belly net cradles a confusion of shovels, radios, rope, a spare helmet, a dented fuel can, battery chains, canteens, and backpacks; its round, unblinking intention-light glows dull yellow to indicate that it feels wary; its feet and ankle bolts are caked with mud and grease; it’s got moss growing like a green rash across its chest hull; it stands more than six feet off the ground, proud and canine and rock solid, and this is why eight human soldiers walk beside it in single file, clinging to it for protection.

The lead soldier holds his rifle at the low ready. The silhouette of his face is outlined starkly against the gray metal foreleg of the spider tank. He is looking forward intently and seems unaware that he’s standing inches away from several tons of foot-crushing steel. Like all of his fellow soldiers, he wears a sloped turtle helmet, welder’s goggles on his forehead, a scarf around his neck, a dull gray mesh army jacket, a heavy backpack slung low, a waist belt filled with rifle ammunition and sticklike grenades, a canteen dangling on the back of his right thigh, and dirty gray fatigues stuffed into even dirtier black boots.

The leader will be the first to spot what is around the corner. His heightened alertness and response time will save the lives of the majority of his squad. Right now, his intuition is telling him that something terrible is going to happen; this is visible in the tensing of his brow and the tendons that stand out on the back of his hand where he grips his rifle.

All but one of the soldiers are right-handed, holding their rifles with their right hand around the wooden stock and left hand cupped under the forestock. All of the soldiers are walking, staying close to the spider tank. None of the soldiers is talking. All of them squint into the bright sunlight. Only the leader looks ahead. The rest look varying degrees to the right, toward the camera.

Nobody looks back.

Six of the soldiers are men. The other two are women, including the left-handed soldier. Weary, she leans the side of her head against the swinging mesh belly of the walking tank, clutching her rifle to her chest. The barrel casts a dark shadow across her face, leaving only one eye visible. It is closed.

In the fleeting instant between the leader’s warning shout and the hell storm that follows, the spider tank named
Houdini
will follow standard operating procedure and squat to provide cover for its human soldiers. When it does, a metal bolt used to secure the mesh net will slice open the left-handed woman’s cheek, leaving a scar she will bear for the rest of her life.

I will one day tell her that the scar only makes her look prettier, and I will mean it.

The third man from the front is taller than the rest. His helmet is cocked on his head at a funny angle and his Adam’s apple protrudes awkwardly from his neck. He is the engineer for the group, and his helmet is different from the others, sprouting an array of lenses, antennae, and more esoteric sensors. Extra tools hang from his belt: thick pliers, a rugged multimeter, and a portable plasma torch.

Nine minutes from now, the engineer will use this torch to cauterize a grievous wound inflicted on his best friend in the world. He is clumsy and too tall, but it is this man’s responsibility to sneak forward during firefights, then direct the six-ton semiautonomous tank to destroy occluded targets. His best friend will die because it takes the engineer too long to scramble back to
Houdini
from his forward scouting position.

After the war is over, the engineer will run five miles a day as long as he is able for the rest of his life. During this run, he will visualize the face of his friend and he will pump his legs again and again until the pain is nearly unbearable.

Then he will push harder.

In the background is a cinder block house. Its gutter hangs cockeyed from the edge of the roof, overgrown with foliage. Small pockmarks crater the corrugated metal surface of the building. One dust-covered window is visible. A black triangle is broken out of it.

Behind the house is a forest made up of indistinct trees, tossing in a strong wind. The trees seem to be waving maniacally, trying to get the soldiers’ attention. Though the trees are only being pushed by natural forces, it appears as if they are trying to warn the soldiers that death lies around the next corner.

All of the soldiers are walking, staying close to the spider tank. None of the soldiers are talking. All of them squint into the bright sunlight. Only the leader looks ahead. The rest look varying degrees to the right, toward the camera.

Nobody looks back.

Our squad lost two soldiers during the march to Alaska. By the time the ground became frozen and our enemy within striking distance, we were down to six
.

—
CORMAC
WALLACE,
MIL#GHA217