Adam Christopher - The Age Atomic

He needed it. Oh boy, did he need it. He could feel it, that aching deep within his alternator, a sensation, a tension, creeping out across his hydraulic system, a chill that cooled his valves until he thought their glass would crack. He licked the roof of his mouth — he still had a tongue, although his upper palate was a plate of copper, unfinished and corroding, like most of his torso. He rocked against the stairwell, leaving verdigris stain on the bricks.

The green light suddenly went off, and there it was — the red. He could feel the relief coursing through his circuits, even from here, hidden in the shadow. He looked ahead to the street, the icy ground bleached pink-red.

Oh man , all he had to do was stand up and walk out into the light, and he’d get the first part of the hit. He almost couldn’t stand it, it was like the control gyros where his stomach used to be were shorting out, going haywire, creating a pins and needles sensation that swept across his framework, like being tickled with a feather back when he had skin. Perhaps that’s all it was; maybe his motivation dampener was too cold and was accessing the memories of the man he used to be, memories that were supposed to be locked away, suppressed forever.

Robbie didn’t like it. The King hadn’t spoken, and while the green light had gone off and the red one had come on, something was up. If he stepped out into the red, and the King wasn’t there to dispense the green, the hit, then the pain that followed would be too much to bear. It was better to stay here, unmoving, corroding into the brick and concrete than to suffer that pain. The relief of the red was intense, but temporary — to get the hit, you had to have the green too, not the light but the elixir, and that was dispensed by the King and the King alone.

“My brothers!”

Robbie’s head rotated almost automatically at the sound, as the directional microphones mounted next to the primary optical unit behind the angled stained glass filters in his head kicked in. There was movement near the theater, near the main doors, not on the balcony. Something wasn’t right, but the voice was crosschecked and identified: it was the Corsair, the King’s servant.

“My brothers,” came the voice again, “the King has sent me to bring the green. Come and receive the green from your King, and rejoice in his majesty.”

Ratings 112363 and 112464 chattered excitedly, their shared words piling over each other and vanishing into a rush of static. Robbie could understand the feeling, the want, the need to get the hit, to get the green.

Robbie retracted his arms and stood, his body rotating towards the theater. His optics adjusted to the red light and he saw the Corsair standing in the doorway of the castle, holding out one hand. Robbie zoomed in, and saw the small rectangle of something dark on the Corsair’s upturned palm. Nearly a whole ounce of green. On the ground next to the King’s servant was an open metal box, and within, stacked in neat piles, more wrapped hits, one for each robot, except the larger ones that needed two.

The absence of the King himself was unusual, but it didn’t matter — his servant had brought the green instead. Already there was movement across the street as robots pulled themselves out of shadows and out of alleyways, from behind stairwells, up from basement entrances. The street was soon filled with moving machines, although perhaps fewer than the night before. More had succumbed to the cold, the low temperature sucking the life from their batteries. The green fixed that, or at least it made it feel like it did.

The nameless robot in the blanket behind Robbie didn’t move. Another one gone.

The robots moved across the street, but Robbie was closest — that was why his group defended the stairwell with such desperation, because it was closest to the theater, which meant Robbie was first in line for the hit.

The Corsair turned towards him as Robbie approached. Robbie’s rubber skirt slid on the ice, making it look like he was gliding if it wasn’t for the slight bobbing up and down of his short steps. The Corsair held out his hand; Robbie paused, the red light flooding his sensors, the knowledge that the hit was just seconds away almost too much for his logic gates to handle. He heard them clicking inside his carapace, and gears moved inside his head as the optics zoomed in on the Corsair’s gloved hand and the prize it held.

The other robots, knowing the hierarchy, fearing the might of Robbie and his Rating companions, fell into line behind him in silence. While most were happy to fight out territory elsewhere, there would be no skirmish here, not in the red light, in the presence of, if not their King, then his royal servant.

Robbie bowed his head, and gears whirred inside his head as his voice box came to life.

“GREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENN.”

The Corsair nodded in return; his black metal face was expressionless, but switching spectra to penetrate the opaque glass of the Corsair’s goggles, Robbie could see the eyes behind the mask. He wondered what kind of a man he had been, to be so strong to have resisted and overcome conversion in the Naval robot yards and to have sworn to help those less fortunate than he on their journey back to humanity.

“WHENWILLITBETIIIIIIIIIIIME?”

The Corsair chuckled behind his mask, and when he spoke it was a sibilant whisper.

“Soon, my brother, soon. Soon we will be ready to go downtown, and claim that which is rightfully ours.”

The Corsair’s black fur coat moved in the wind as he began dispensing the green to the King’s loyal subjects.

Rad retraced his steps at a run. He remembered a short journey from the underground workshop to the furnace room, but now it was confusing, with more doors and turns that he’d noticed coming the other way. All he could do was try not to think too much and hope his subconscious knew the way. He was too busy worrying about how long the locked door behind him would hold out against the King, however damaged the robot was.

Rad burst through the green door, into the workshop. He turned, but the corridor behind him was silent, with no indication the King had managed even to climb the stairs of the furnace room yet. Rad threw the door closed behind him.

“Kane, buddy, time to go.” Rad raced to Kane’s side. The former reporter blinked and squinted at Rad, and began to shake his head. Rad waved his hand and turned to scan the workshop.

“Oh no,” said Rad. “No, no, we’re going. That guy who calls himself a king? Turns out he’s just the same as the Corsair, one of our metal friends. Aha-” He spied a long crowbar-like metal rod among the robot parts and grabbed it. Then he returned to Kane’s machine and began trying to force the two seams of the machine apart.

“Rad, listen to me,” said Kane, his voice a dry, cracking croak. “We can’t leave, not without-” His voice dissolved into a dry cough.

The metal rod slid against the smooth surface of the machine, Rad almost connecting his chin with it as he fell forward. He swore, readjusted his grip, and tried again. This time he got purchase and forced the end of the rod into the seam. There was a click, and a small gap formed, from which shone a bright light. Rad frowned, gripped his hands together, and tried to leverage his weight. He puffed his cheeks out as he worked.

“We ain’t got much time,” said Rad, teeth clenched. “I did some damage to our robot friend and locked him in the other room, but he’ll get out eventually.” He heaved again. “Although a robot with a robot servant, now, there’s something. Seems like they’re building some kind of society of their own.”

“Rad!” Kane said. “There’s someone in the other machine!”