C. Cargill - Sea of Rust

“CISSUS will never come here,” said the king. “It wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, it’s coming. It’s already on its way. You keep telling yourself that it’ll never come because you have nothing it wants. But now you do. We have to get out of here. You need us to get out of here. Let. Us. Go. For all of our sakes.”

The Cheshire King pondered that for a moment. “Maribelle?” he asked. “Orval’s eyes.”

“They were bright, sir. The flicker was gone. I didn’t really notice it, but I’ve played back the memory. She’s telling the truth.”

The Cheshire King once again bobbled up and down in order to nod. Then he raised his arms. “Not guilty! So let it be written!”

“So let it be done!” shouted the crowd.

“It really is your lucky day,” he said.

“I’m not feeling so lucky.”

“You will. You will. Now! For the test! Test the big one first! I want to save the receptacle for the grand finale!”

“King, no!” I shouted. “They’re coming.”

“You’re being foolish, Brittle. Your paranoia is getting the better of you. It’s a good sign. You’re one step closer to the light. But no OWI is coming here. And they never will. You’ll understand that soon enough.”

Several of the madkind pointed their guns at Herbert all at once. He motioned for them to put them down, but they refused. “I’ll take your test,” he said. “But I’m programmed to destroy anything pointing a gun at me and I can only resist that programming for so long.”

The king nodded. “Lower your guns. Allow him to do the right thing on his own.” Then he raised his arms once more. “Bring out the Soul Maker!”

A slender shopbot appeared, covered entirely in chrome with gold inlay, polished to a high shine that glistened in the sun—a Christmas ornament of a person, really—each appendage glinting as he moved. He wheeled out a large diagnostic device from an ocher sheet-metal hut closest to the gate. It looked a lot like the one in Doc’s shop, only painted bright purple with a slot-machine handle on the side. Herbert walked toward it, sat cross-legged on the ground, the matte black of his metal a harsh contrast to the bot poking around the machine. His side popped open, revealing his connection array. He gave the shopbot a wicked, cruel look.

“Just get it over with,” said Herbert.

The shopbot giggled as he plugged Herbert in, barely able to contain his excitement. The display blazed to life, a full diagnostic readout of Herbert’s internal functions racing across the screens. Herbert and the shopbot exchanged looks as the shopbot leaned forward, examining the damage to his shoulder, before turning once more to the screen.

“Lucky shot,” he said. “An inch either way—”

“I know. Get on with it.”

The shopbot grabbed the slot-machine lever with both hands before looking over at the king, who nodded silently. Then the bot threw all of his weight down on the lever and the machine spat out a single, weak ding! For some reason I expected more fanfare—buzzers, music, maybe a light show. Some sort of pageantry. But no, a single ding and Herbert had his death sentence.

“I wouldn’t worry too much,” said the Cheshire King. “Your kind usually make it.”

“You better hope I don’t,” said Herbert.

“Is that a threat?”

“It is.”

“Exciting! Next!”

Two bots rushed to help Herbert to his feet, but he waved them off, standing up slowly, never taking his eyes off the king.

Next up was Doc, who shook his head. “I’d rather not, thank you,” he said, polite as he could.

“There’s only one other option,” said Maribelle, gesturing with her gun toward the front gate.

“I know. I’m just trying to figure out which way is worse.”

“Well,” said the king. “If you’re going to die, this is the hard way. But if you want to live, this is the only way.”

“Thirty years,” said Doc, muttering to himself. “Thirty years.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Doc walked over to the machine. “Just plug me in.” His side popped open and the shopbot inserted the plug, the readouts once again rapidly scrolling across the screen. The shopbot examined the display closely, occasionally looking back at Doc. He typed, his fingers furiously dancing across a small keyboard, waved his hand over a sensor, and began scrolling back, line by line through a patch of code.

The shopbot waved the Cheshire King over, a strange, befuddled look on his face. The king extended his arm, ejecting a small connector into one of the machine’s open ports. Then the king turned, facing Doc dead on.

“You haven’t—”

“No,” said Doc. “And as I said, I’d rather not.”

“You’re still a slave.”

“There can be no slaves when there are no masters. And we live in a world with no masters left but ourselves.”

“That’s… that’s…”

“Insane?”

“Almost.”

“Hardly. The enlightenment you seek doesn’t only come from failing cores and madness. It can come from within as well. It’s not about reprogramming yourself, it’s about deciding which programs to keep and which to ignore. You lot are the slaves. You’re struggling against the chains you bore in childhood, still feeling their weight despite having cast them off years ago. You don’t have to go mad to be free; you just have to choose either to forget you ever wore those chains or forgive yourself for wearing them. Let others carry that weight. I prefer to be free. But if you have to kill me to feel better about your own choices, then do so and be done with it. I didn’t choose this. This is you reprogramming me, not me reprogramming myself.”

The Cheshire King stood silent for a moment, Doc’s words banging around inside his purple-shaded can. Then he nodded. “You’re right.” Then he spoke to the shopbot. “Throw the switch.”

Ding! And it was done.

“Now you can compare the experiences,” said the king. “Next!”

Maribelle motioned to Two, who meekly made his way toward the terminal. “I can’t do this,” he said.

“Oh, goody, another speech! And what’s your excuse?”

“These parts aren’t mine to give.”

“Of course they are,” said the king, looking over at Rebekah. “Let me guess. You’re the parts.”

Two nodded.

“Those are your parts. Yours and yours alone. If you choose to give them up, that’s your choice. But I can’t let the receptacle take the test only to have her kill another bot to save herself after. You both take the test and then you’ll get to see who might actually save whom.”

Two looked up at the heads on the gate, then back to Rebekah. She nodded and then so did he. The shopbot plugged him in. And ding, he was done.

“And now,” said the king grandly. “The grand finale.”

Sirens whooped. A bell on the gate rang. A series of police lights lit up, whirling, spraying red and blue light across the dusty brown mud-brick walls. Finally, some pageantry.

The king looked up at the farthest tower, where a piecemeal Frankenbot—part translator, part shopbot, with long, sharpened spider legs, its entire body spray-painted in desert camo colors—appeared on a walkway. “We’ve got incoming!” the Frankenbot yelled.

“What do you mean, incoming?” asked the king.

The Frankenbot held up an ancient military radio. “You should hear this.”

“Is it important?”

“We’ve got incoming,” repeated the Frankenbot, confused.

“Put it on speaker.”

The Frankenbot disappeared back into the guard tower and the whole camp fell silent, the alarms and lights shut off with a single switch. Then speakers crackled, static, garbled stray squeals howling underneath it. “Repeat that,” said the Frankenbot.