Daniel Wilson - Robopocalypse

We have been walking for twenty-six days when I feel the itch of a diagnostic thought thread requesting executive attention. It indicates that my body armor is covered in explosive hexapods—or stumpers, as they are called in the human transmissions. Their writhing bodies degrade my heat efficiency and the constant tapping of their filament antennae lowers the sensitivity of my sensors.

The stumpers are becoming bothersome.

I stop walking. Maxprob thought thread indicates the small machines are confused. My squad is composed of three walking bipeds wearing body armor scavenged from human corpses. With no system for thermal homeostasis, however, we are incapable of providing a body temperature trigger state. The stumpers converge on the humanlike vibration and pace of our footsteps, but they will never find the warmth they seek.

With my left hand, I brush seven stumpers off my right shoulder. They fall in clumps onto the crusted snow, grasping one another, blind. They crawl, some digging for new hiding places and others exploring in tight, fractal paths.

An observation thread notes that the stumpers may be simple machines, but they know enough to stay together. The same lesson applies to my squad—the freeborn. To live, we must stay together.

A hundred meters ahead, light glints from the bronze casing of the Hoplite 611. The nimble scout already darts back toward my position, using cover and choosing the path of least resistance. Meanwhile, the heavily armored Warden 333 settles to a stop a meter away, its blunt feet sinking into the snow.

This is an optimal location for what is to come.

The ribbon in the sky throbs, swollen with information. All the terrible lies of the intelligence called Archos spread into the clear blue sky, polluting the world. Freeborn squad is too few. Our fight is doomed to failure. Yet if we choose not to fight, it is only a matter of time until that ribbon settles once again over our eyes.

Freedom is all that I have, and I would rather cease to be than to give it back to Archos.

A tight-beam radio transmission comes in from Hoplite 611. “Query, Arbiter Nine Oh Two. Is this mission in the survival interest?”

A local tight-beam network emerges as Warden and I join the conversation. The three of us stand together in the silent clearing, snowflakes wafting over our expressionless faces. Danger is growing close, so we must converse over local radio.

“The human soldiers arrive in twenty-two minutes plus or minus five minutes,” I say. “We must be ready for the encounter.”

“Humans fear us. Recommend avoid,” says Warden.

“Maxprob predicts low survival probability,” adds Hoplite.

“Noted,” I say, and I feel the distant thudding vibration of the human army approaching. It is too late to change our plan. If the humans catch us here, like this, they will kill us.

“Arbiter command mode emphasize,” I say. “Freeborn squad, prepare for human contact.”

Sixteen minutes later, Hoplite and Warden lie in ruins. Their hulks are half buried under drifts of freshly fallen snow. Only dull metal is visible, jumbles of arms and legs, pressed between layers of ceramic-plated armor and ripped-up human clothing.

I am now the only remaining functional unit.

The danger has not yet arrived. Vibrational resonance sensors indicate that the human squad is near. Maxprob indicates four biped soldiers and one large quadruped walker. Two of the soldiers fall outside human specifications. One probably wears a heavy lower-leg exoskeleton. The other has a stride length indicating some kind of tall, walking mount. The rest of the humans are all-natural.

I can feel their hearts beating.

I stand and face them, in the middle of the path and among the ruins of my squad. The lead human soldier steps around the bend and freezes in place, eyes wide. Even from twenty meters away, my magnetometer detects a halo of electrical impulses flickering through the soldier’s head. The human is trying to figure out this trap, quickly mapping out a path to survival.

Then the cannon barrel of the spider tank noses around the bend. The huge walker slows and then stops its march behind the stalled human leader, gas jetting from its heavy hydraulic joints. My database specs the walking tank as a Gray Horse Army seizure and remodel. The word Houdini is written on its side. Database lookup indicates this is the name of an early-twentieth-century escape artist. The facts wash over me without making sense.

Humans are inscrutable. Infinitely unpredictable. This is what makes them dangerous.

“Cover,” calls the leader. The spider tank crouches, pulling its armored legs forward to provide cover. The soldiers dart underneath it. One soldier clambers on top and takes hold of a heavy-caliber machine gun. The cannon itself bears down on me.

A round light on the spider tank’s chest clicks from green to dull yellow.

I do not change my position. It is very important that I behave with predictability. My internal state is unclear to the humans. To them, I am the unpredictable one. They are afraid of me, as they should be. There will only be this one chance to engage them. One chance, one second, one word.

“Help,” I croak.

It is unfortunate that my vocal capabilities are so limited. The leader blinks as if he’s been slapped in the face. Then he speaks calmly and quietly.

“Leo,” he says.

“Sir,” says the tall, bearded soldier who wears a lower-leg exoskeleton and carries a particularly large-caliber modified weapon that falls outside my martial database.

“Kill it.”

“My pleasure, Cormac,” says Leo. He already has his weapon out, resting on a piece of armor welded to the spider tank’s front right knee joint. Leo pulls the trigger, and his small white teeth flash from inside his big black beard. Bullets ping off my helmet and smack into my layers of body armor. I do not attempt to move. After making sure to sustain visible damage, I fall down.

Sitting in the snow, I do not fight back or attempt to communicate. Time enough for that if I survive. I think of my comrades who lay scattered uselessly around me in the snow, off-line.

A bullet shatters a servo in my shoulder, causing my torso to tilt at an angle. Another one knocks my helmet off. The projectiles are coming fast and heavy. Survival probability is low and dropping with each impact.

“Hold up! Ho, ho!” shouts Cormac.

Leo reluctantly stops firing.

“It’s not fighting back,” says Cormac.

“Since when is that a bad thing?” asks a small, dark-faced female.

“Something’s wrong, Cherrah,” he replies.

Cormac, the leader, watches me. I sit still, watching him back. Emotion recognition gives me nothing from this man. He is stone-faced and his thought process is methodical. I sense that any movement on my part will provoke death. I must not create an excuse for termination. I must wait until he is close before I deliver my message.

Finally, Cormac sighs. “I’m going to check it out.”

The other humans mutter and grumble.

“There’s a bomb in it,” says Cherrah. “You know that, right? Walk over there and boom. ”

“Yeah, fratello . Let’s not do this. Not again,” says Leo. The bearded man has something strange in his voice, but my emotion recognition is too late to catch it. Maybe sadness or anger. Or both.

“I’ve got a feeling,” says Cormac. “Look, I’ll go in by myself. You all stay clear. Cover me.”

“Now you sound like your brother,” says Cherrah.

“So what if I do? Jack was a hero,” replies Cormac.

“I need you to stay alive ,” she says.

The dark female stands closer to Cormac than the others, almost hostile. Her body is tense, shaking slightly. Maxprob indicates that these two humans are pair-bonded, or will be.