Daniel Wilson - Robopocalypse

Through the destroyed patch of wall I can see the streaks of weapons fire and fleeting shapes as they dart through the war zone. But this humanoid robot, tall and slender and elegant, stands poised—as if it’s waiting for something.

Mikiko’s song ends.

Only then does the attacker move. It strides to the edge of my senshi ’s defensive perimeter, staying just out of range. The people cower back before this battle-hardened piece of weaponry. My senshi stand strong, deadly in their stillness. Song finished, Mikiko stands on the last step at the bottom of the dais. She sees the newcomer and watches it with a puzzled expression on her face. Then she smiles.

“Please,” she says, voice echoing melodically, “speak out loud.”

The dust-coated humanoid machine speaks then in a clicking, grinding voice that is difficult to understand and frightening. “Identification. Arbiter-class humanoid safety and pacification robot. Notify. My squad is twelve. We are under attack. We are alive. Query Emperor Nomura. May we join Adachi Castle? May we join the Tokyo resistance?”

I look at Mikiko in wonder. Her song is already spreading. What does this mean?

My people look at me for guidance. They do not know what to make of this former enemy who has turned up on our doorstep. But there is no time to talk to people. It takes too much concentration and it is horribly inefficient. Instead, I push my glasses up my nose and grab my toolbox from behind the towering throne.

Toolbox in hand, I scurry down the steps. I squeeze Mikiko’s hand in passing and then push my way past the others. I am whistling as I reach the Arbiter robot, looking forward to the future. Adachi Castle has new friends, you see, and they will certainly need repairs.

Within twenty-four hours, the Awakening spread from Adachi Ward in Tokyo across the world. Mikiko’s song was picked up and retransmitted from humanoid robots of all varieties across every major continent. The Awakening affected only human-shaped robots, such as domestics, safety and pacification units, and related models—a tiny percentage of Archos’s overall force. But with Mikiko’s song began the age of freeborn robots.

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.

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.