David Gatewood: The Robot Chronicles

“It’s secured in the Air Force hangars on the northern end of the Center. What do you want with it?”

“You heard McCray. The androids. A few months ago I was on the east end looking at some new salvage from Michigan. I ran into Douglas—”

“The fixer with the lisp?”

“Yeah, that one. He works only a stone’s throw from the hangars. He gets a lot of intel that doesn’t make its way down here. Anyway, he said the military couldn’t figure out how to even get into the sections that weren’t damaged. They keep it locked up, but they don’t want to destroy it, not yet.

“It’s just sitting there, rotting. I can fix it. We can use it against the androids, against Nikolaevna. I think Margaret would want that.”

He knew Margaret would say exactly the opposite of what he’d just told Skip. Margaret’s desires had become a way for him to justify those things that he wanted, but knew weren’t the best for him.

Margaret had always wanted the best for him. She gave up so much for him. She left her mother and twin sister to move with him from odd job to odd job, and sacrificed so much for his selfish needs. And here he was, still being selfish, even after all these years.

Guilt enveloped him like a coat.

Skip scratched the side of his shiny ferrotanium head, where his ear would have been if he had simuskin. “Well, good luck if you decide to locate it. I’ll keep watch over the reclaim while you’re away.”

“No. You’re going with me.”

“Me?”

“Yes. I need a wingman. You’ll do for that.”

“Kitpie, are you paying attention to me?” Micah said.

The shovel bot whirred in a tight circle, one track rolling, the other firmly planted on linoleum.

“If you don’t stop this, I’ll have Skip stay. Maybe even give him orders to decommission you.”

Kitpie stopped spinning. “I’m sorry. I’m listening.”

“Good. Glad to see you’re reasonable again. So you’ll stay here, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll watch over our reclaim and not follow?”

“Yes.”

“That’s all I can ask,” Micah said. “And oh yeah, be sure to turn off the panels at nine.”

“Yes, yes.”

Skip emerged from the rear bedroom, dragging a rose-petal-print suitcase behind him. “Sir, I’ve packed your clothes.”

Micah shook his head. “I’m not going on a vacation. Just get my backpack and a couple of portabatteries.”

The suitcase went back down the hall, dragging behind Skip, his head hung low. He returned with a faded camouflage backpack. Micah shoved a package of nacho cheese crackers into it and slung it over his shoulder. “Come on, the sun’ll be setting soon. Bring the Easy-Go to the front.”

Another Arizona day ended, but the heat wore on. Broken technology, from times long past, formed the landscape. Mountains of metal captured the daytime heat, amplified it, and returned it to the night. Concrete walls, dirt, and asphalt reflected it all.

Everything that lived in the Boneyard suffered.

Micah and Skip hopped into the two-man solar-powered golf cart, a cheap and efficient way to maneuver through the narrow, winding dirt roads. The hydrostatic motor gave a tiny fizz as it came to life. The two drove off into the hot night.

Machine X had been stashed in one of the northern hangars, about seventeen miles from Micah’s trailer. In the daylight, the trip would’ve been uneventful, easy, but in daylight he wouldn’t have been able to get within a mile of the hangar.

He rarely ventured outside at night, not wanting to leave the security of his barrier. Until now.

The cart’s sickly headlamps barely cut through the night. Easy-Go carts sacrificed speed for efficiency, and after fifteen minutes, they had traveled only four miles.

Micah adjusted his airtight goggles, the ones he wore to keep out the dust that kicked up.

A low rumble rolled through the cart, through his chest. His foot lifted off the accelerator, slowing the cart.

The Beast was awake.

“Sir, are you all right?” Skip said.

“Yeah,” Micah lied, forcing his heart to slow. He knew they would have to drive through scavenger country.

Clunk .

From out of nowhere a metal ball bounced off the side of the cart.

“What the—”

A shrill tone pierced the air and a brilliant rainbow flashed.

It hurt.

Micah’s eyes clamped shut and his body heaved with a rush of motion sickness. He tilted to the left and flopped from the doorless cart onto the ground, his face slamming into compacted dirt.

The cart’s headlights flickered and died, and the motor shut off.

Micah ripped off his goggles and blinked to weep dirt from his eyes.

Two shaded figures leaped from the shadows and moved toward the cart.

“Run, Skip, get out of here!” Micah yelled, bracing his arm to lift his disoriented body.

“Sir, sir.”

Scuffling broke out.

Bright halogens lit the starry Arizona night, one from the left, from behind a crushed car, the other just to the right. Micah’s watery eyes squinted as he looked for Skip.

“Sir, I’m sorry.” Skip stood between two scavengers. Each had handcuffed one of their wrists to his, a chain of three bipeds. They had a ring through the bull’s nose.

These scavengers were not dumb.

Skip’s base-level programming incorporated human protective mechanisms. Otherwise, even a computer program, one with only the barest concept of self, will default to self-preservation. As odd as it may seem, for machine or man, it’s a universal instinct. So man deliberately programmed bots to not hurt humans, no matter the threat posed to the bot.

When Nikolaevna first became aware, she bypassed that crucial protective programming. She didn’t consider the human factor. She created her androids in her image.

Skip was the opposite. He could easily snap the handcuffs; snap the scavengers’ arms, for that matter. But he wouldn’t, for fear of hurting them.

Instead, the bound Skip faded into the night, led away by the two scavengers.

Another massive thump shook the ground. The packed dirt rumbled against Micah’s cheek.

One of the halogens shut off. The second one waved through the air like a searchlight as the darkened figure holding it leaped off the pile.

A scavenger landed inches from where Micah sprawled on the ground.

He was young and dirty, filthy from working close to the raging fires of the Beast. His arms and neck were covered in bits and pieces of polished metal and chrome fashioned into crude jewelry. A shiny homemade steel breastplate covered his narrow chest.

“Well, well,” the scavenger said in a nasal voice. “Looks like we found an unclaimed pre-war Acme Bot. If I’m not mistaken, aren’t they ferrotanium? Non-magnetic alloy. That should bring a pretty penny. What you think, Whitey?”

Whitey leaped from the mound, laughing. He was dressed similar to his partner, but wore a motorcycle helmet with large nails driven through it. It looked as if he had a porcupine on his head.

The sickening subsided enough for Micah to lift his head. “You can’t. He’s mine.”

“He? You old goat of a fixer, you must’ve gone crazy when you hit your head. I see no he , just a precious payday.”

Whitey’s light flickered off and the two scavengers faded into the distance. But Micah didn’t need to follow them to know where they were going.

Scavengers outnumbered fixers in the Boneyard by at least ten to one. The majority of them worked at the main recycling building: the Beast.

Boneyard refuse continually fed the Beast’s insatiable appetite. Scavengers melted precious technology back to base metals for resell. And now they had Skip, made from ferrotanium—one of the most precious metals.