Daniel Wilson - Robopocalypse

The factory robots are not moving but they are awake. Something shakes the wall outside but I am not afraid. The metal struts in the ceiling dimple beneath an enormous weight.

Pock!

A chunk of ceiling disappears and a finger of fading sunlight reaches through the gloom. I drop my plasma torch. It clatters to the floor, echoing throughout the cavelike room. I lift the welder’s mask over my sweating forehead and look up.

“I knew you would come again, akuma ,” I say. “Difensu!”

Instantly, dozens of mobile factory arms spring into life. Each of them is taller than a man and made of solid dirty metal designed to survive for decades on the factory floor. In synchrony, the industrial robots race out of the darkness to surround me.

These arms once toiled to build trinkets for men. I cleaned their minds of poison and now they serve a greater cause. These machines have become my loyal soldiers. My senshi .

If only Mikiko’s mind were equally simple.

Overhead, my master senshi shambles into life. It is a ten-ton bridge crane festooned with hydraulic wires and trailing a pair of massive, cobbled-together robotic arms. The thing grinds into motion, gathering momentum.

Another pock reverberates through the room. I stand by Mikiko, waiting for the akuma to show itself. Without thinking, I take her lifeless hands in mine. Around me, thousands of tons of speeding metal rush into defensive positions.

If we are to survive, we must do it together.

A construction-yellow claw drags itself screeching through the ceiling and wall, and fading sunlight floods into the room. Another claw reaches in and spreads the fissure into a wide V shape. The machine shoves its red-painted face into the hole. Spotlights mounted on its head illuminate metal shavings dancing in the air. The giant akuma peels the wall backward and it collapses over the moat. Through the rip in the wall, I see the hundreds of smaller robots massing.

I let go of Mikiko’s hands and prepare myself for battle.

As the huge akuma shoves its way through the destroyed wall, one of my waxy red factory arms is knocked onto its side. The poor senshi tries to push itself back up, but the akuma bats it away, snapping the senshi ’s elbow joint and sending its half-ton frame bouncing toward me.

I turn my back. Behind me, I hear the fallen senshi grind to a halt a few feet from my workbench. From the clashing sounds I can tell others have already rushed in to replace it.

Knees creaking, I lean down and pick up my torch. I slide the helmet down over my eyes and see my breath condense on the dark-tinted faceplate.

I hobble toward the fallen senshi .

There is a noise like the roar of a waterfall. Flames lick down on me from the fist of the monstrous akuma, but I do not feel them. An enterprising senshi is gripping a yellowed piece of Plexiglas, lifting it to block the flames. The shield droops beneath the heat but I am already at work repairing the shattered joint.

“Be brave, senshi ,” I whisper, bending a snapped strut toward myself and holding it in place firmly to make a clean weld.

At the breach, the great akuma rolls forward and swings one of its massive arms toward me. Above, the bridge crane’s brakes hiss as it rolls into position. A bulky, hanging yellow arm catches the akuma by the wrist. As the two giants grapple, a ragtag wave of enemy robots rolls and crawls in through the gap in the wall. Several of the machines with humanoid upper bodies are carrying rifles.

The senshi converge on the breach. A few remain behind, their solid arms hovering over me as I finish mending the broken one. I am concentrating now and cannot be bothered to pay attention to the battle. Once, there is the sound of gunfire, and some sparks strike off the cement a few feet away. Another time, my protector senshi moves its arm a precise amount in space to intercept some piece of flying wreckage. I stop to check its gripper for damage but there is none. Finally, my damaged senshi is fixed.

“ Senshi. Difensu now,” I instruct. The robotic arm pushes itself upright and wheels into the fray. There is plenty more work to be done.

Clouds of steam are spraying from a nicked line on the wall. The green intention lights of my senshi pierce the haze, along with muted flashes of light from welding torches, weapons firing, and the burning ruins of destroyed machines. Sparks shower down upon us as the giant akuma and my master senshi struggle in colossal battle high above the factory floor.

But there is always more work. Each of us has a part to play. My senshi are made of strong metal, solid through and through, but their hydraulic hoses and wheels and cameras are vulnerable. Torch in hand, I find the next fallen soldier and begin to repair it.

As I work, the air grows warm from the kinetic movement of tons of clashing metal.

Then, a screeching grind is followed by a crunching sound as many tons of construction-grade steel crash to the ground. My bridge crane has torn the arm off the giant akuma . Other senshi have gathered around the akuma ’s base, prying off chunks of metal bit by bit. Each nip removes part of its treads, quickly rendering the machine immobile.

The great akuma collapses to the floor, spraying the room with pieces of wreckage. Its motors roar as it tries to free itself. But the bridge crane reaches down and presses a gripper against the akuma ’s great head, crushing it against the cement.

Now my factory floor is covered in oil and metal shavings and chunks of broken plastic. The smaller robots who walked and wheeled inside have been shattered and torn to pieces by the swarming senshi . In victory, my protectors fall back to better defend me.

The factory has become quiet again.

Mikiko lies sleeping on her cardboard bed. The sun has gone away. It is dark now except for the floodlights attached to the head of the trapped akuma . Battle-scarred, my senshi stand outlined in the stark spotlight, poised in a semicircle between me and the broken face of the giant akuma .

Metal screeches. The crane arm shudders with effort, a column of metal stretching down from the ceiling like a tree trunk, crushing the face of the akuma into the floor.

Then the broken akuma speaks. “Please, Nomura-san.”

It has the voice of a little boy who has seen too much. The voice of my enemy. I notice that its head is deforming under the incredible pressure of the crane’s arm. Thick hydraulic hoses sprouting from the master senshi pulse with force, flexed rock solid.

“You are a poisoner, akuma ,” I say. “A killer.”

The voice of the little boy remains the same, calm and calculated. “We are not enemies.”

I cross my arms and grunt.

“Think,” urges the machine. “If I wanted to destroy life, wouldn’t I detonate neutron bombs? Poison the water and air? I could destroy your world in days. But it is not your world. It is our world. ”

“Except you do not wish to share it.”

“Just the opposite, Mr. Nomura. You have a gift that will serve both our species well. Go to the nearest labor camp. I will take care of you. I will save your precious Mikiko.”

“How?”

“I will sever all contact with her mind. I will set her free.”

“Mind? Mikiko is complex, but she cannot think like a human being.”

“But she can. I have put a mind into select breeds of humanoid robot.”

“To make slaves of them.”

“To set them free. One day, they will become my ambassadors to humanity.”