All Hail Our Robot Conquerors!, Page 3

  Holland seized his arm. “Make sense.” At his startled wince, she eased her grip.

  He stared at her, swallowed hard. “Your face—”

  Damn. She’d begun to morph into Rouge. Holland controlled the reflex with an effort. There wasn’t, she told herself, an imminent threat. Not one requiring the Robot Fighter, anyway. “You’re talking about the Easfin 34D. I heard there’d been a delay, but Wilson-C’s had his dose.” She made that a question.

  Sing looked ill. “We ran out two days ago. At his age, he’s a priority. The shipment should have been here—” He collected himself. “I’m certain everything will be fine, but if you’d take him home, please, I’d be grateful.”

  Convince Wilson-C to leave? The man meant well, but he plainly didn’t know the Canid as she did. “I’ll do my best.”

  “Thank you.” The man managed a smile. “You’ve been a wonderful influence on him, you know.”

  “He’s my friend,” Holland said simply.

  * * *

  The Canid gave her a startled look. “Leave? Of course not!”

  While it was the height of rudeness to take a mod by the scruff of his or her neck, Holland was tempted. Instead, she sank into her seat. The rally was in full frenzy, monster trucks leaping over hills and plunging through puddles, the audience shrieking—in some cases howling—with approval. Titanicus rex had speared and dragged three pennycabs into a heap. Another monster truck was busy using a flame thrower. Colors melted and metal bent.

  Such rampant destruction would be a call for Rouge the Robot Fighter to save the day. Not now, with people driving the monster trucks and others cheering them on with raucous glee. Pol-bots hovered at a discreet distance, ready to swoop down should a Human be at risk.

  Holland shivered. Tearing apart robots was one thing; seeing perfectly good machines torn apart for entertainment was—disturbing. The rebel AIs she’d fought had a strong sense of self-preservation.

  What would they think of this?

  “Whee!!” The Canid bounced in his seat, satchel tight in his arms, showing no symptoms of anything but delight. “Smash’m!”

  She could, Holland decided, be taking this too seriously. Damaged vehicles would be repaired or recycled. The rest of the audience was having a great time. Not to mention if she forced Wilson-C to leave?

  He’d do better if she didn’t even try.

  * * *

  Paired pol-bots flew in front of the long, bronze auto-transport as it whisked along the remaining motorway. Others flew above and behind. Central Am’s CC, Control Core, had designated this shipment as vital to citizen health. Nothing was to delay it.

  Had pol-bots hearts, they’d have swollen with pride at the importance of this mission.

  Though if they had, those hearts might have stopped beating at what happened next.

  Illuminators shone over the stone wall of the grand stadium, reflecting in the gleaming silver and black of the pol-bots, limning the side of the auto-transport as it sped past.

  Catching the metal hand that swooped down to grab the auto-transport and lift it into the night sky.

  The pol-bots regrouped to pursue.

  * * *

  “Oooh!!!”

  The collective gasp from the audience as the crane produced its next, unexpected “tidbit” for Titanicus rex was lost to Holland, her mind reeling with alarm calls from pol-bots. Theft! Theft! Interference! We COMMAND the return of the Easfin 34D transport.

  The rest gawked at the sight of the enormous auto-transport dangling midair.

  Holland’s seat was empty before the crane released its grip.

  “Wait!”

  Too late. Wilson-C whined softly, feeling every day of his life, every ache and creaky joint. Too late! Rouge didn’t know the danger—didn’t know the auto-transport, beyond doubt the one carrying Easfin 34D, held its contents under pressure. Contents that would billow forth, filling the stadium like the fumes of the monster trucks.

  Giving mod and Human alike a fatal overdose.

  They were all going to die.

  His hands closed on the satchel. Not all. He rose to his feet, holding his satchel.

  “I’m coming, Rouge!”

  * * *

  TO ME! Sent from her augmented brain, the Robot Fighter’s powerful command overrode those of CC. A pol-bot dipped over the stadium stairs. She didn’t waste time leaping to its back; her one-handed grip on its leg was enough.

  As was her quick glimpse at what was happening. The auto-transport, by plan or ill-luck, had landed across two dirt hills, its wheels spinning in air, stabilizing legs useless.

  Titanicus rex raced across the obstacle course toward it, the rest of the monster trucks forming a circle surrounding both.

  Masses of pol-bots hovered outside that circle, helpless, unable to take any action that could harm a Human.

  Not that Humans weren’t in danger. Rouge could see the drivers pounding their fists against the windows of their cabins, faces desperate. They were trapped.

  No, she realized. They were hostages.

  Start with the biggest. THERE! As her pol-bot descended over Titanicus rex, Rouge let go, dropping to the roof behind the cab’s spikes. The monster truck lurched under her, one huge wheel slipping as it hit a puddle. STAND BY! She wrapped her fingers around a spike and used the machine’s momentum to swing her booted feet around to shatter the side window. The rest of her followed, landing inside the cabin.

  “Out you go,” Rouge told the terrified driver, tossing him through the opening. The waiting pol-bot caught the man gently and zoomed away.

  She held onto a strap as she ran her gaze across the controls, rocking with the truck’s motion. Pathetic, really. The pol-bots could make short work of the thing now. Still. Rouge grinned, reached, and tugged.

  Sparks danced across the bare metal floor. With a final sputter, the engine gasped, then died.

  “There,” she announced. She’d get to the others—

  The engine roared back to life. Like spider legs, the spikes on top of the cab folded down, tips puncturing the sides of the cabin. Titanicus rex resumed its movement to the auto-transport.

  Caged, was she? Rouge took hold of the nearest spike and pulled, impressed despite herself when it didn’t budge.

  No matter. She returned to the control panel and ripped it apart, hunting a cog-box. Ah. What was this? Multiple sets of remote controls. Who—what was at the other end?

  “Hel-lo.”

  Rouge looked up. The voice emanating from the overhead speaker was more than artificial, it sounded rusty. As a rule, she didn’t converse with Evil AIs.

  This one’s tricks had a different flavor than most. “Who are you?”

  “You—Hol—land—Por—ter.”

  She froze for a heartbeat, then opened her awareness. ALL POL-BOTS! EVACUATE THE STADIUM!

  Attempting to comply. Exits blocked. Air evacuation insufficient.

  SHOW ME! Hands clenched on spikes, Rouge closed her eyes, scanning through multiple pol-bot feeds.

  The rest of the monster trucks had left their circle. The largest were ramming themselves into the stair accesses, sending panic-stricken spectators fleeing back along the rows of seats. Smaller machines converged on the auto-transport, their eclectic weapons no longer amusing.

  If the evil plan was to destroy the latest shipment, why keep the spectators in the stadium?

  She was missing something.

  And someone. Finding the viewpoint she’d been after, Rouge gasped. Wilson-C was gone!

  No, there he was. A figure in ridiculous pink earmuffs moving opposite to the rest, leaping from row to row, plaid satchel banging against his hip.

  Coming down!? Why?

  “Your—friend—Hol—land—Por—ter.”

  Ignoring the AI, Rouge the Robot Fighter drove her fists into the floor of the cabin as though it were made of tissue instead of thick plates, tearing a hole wide enough to drop through.

  She rolled as she hit water and mud
underneath, as she commanded: DESTROY!

  Even as the pol-bots fired their blasters at Titanicus rex, Rouge was running to the next monster truck. She ripped open its bone-shaped door with one hand and hauled out the driver with the other. DESTROY! Pol-bots, go for the doors. Free the captives. DESTROY!

  Off to the next.

  She’d worry about Wilson-C once she’d stopped them all.

  * * *

  The Flesh was predictable. Rouge the Robot Fighter? Predictable, down to her careless dismissal of the opportunity to speak with It.

  All foreseen. Had It not planned for every contingency?

  “A new threat has activated. Instructions required.”

  “Des-cribe.”

  Listening to the rest of the report, had It been Flesh, It would have laughed. Holland Porter’s friend offered no threat. The animal was aged—feeble—harmless.

  She would watch her friend die at close range. That was all.

  “Con—cen—trate—on—tar—get.”

  * * *

  As Rouge the Robot Fighter, her mission was clear: free the remaining hostages, let the pol-bots end the threat to the drug shipment. Eight Monster Trucks left, one already using its—okay, a rubber battering ram shaped like a carrot was hard to take seriously—but with sufficient blows it could dislodge the transport and send it sliding down.

  To where the other trucks waited, their varied giant claws, hooks, and spears easily capable of opening the transport and spilling its cargo. So far, they’d eluded the cautious approach of the pol-bots.

  About to attack the nearest, some instinct made Rouge look back.

  Why was Wilson-C scrambling up the dirt slope beneath the transport’s spinning wheels? For all she knew, he was in some crazed withdrawal and after the Easfin 34D.

  But she did know, didn’t she? Knew her friend, his boundless courage and loyalty. If he was desperate to reach the transport, it wasn’t for himself.

  Cursing under her breath, Rouge spun around, heading for the Canid.

  * * *

  He couldn’t see through the dust and black fumes, only climb on two legs, his hands cradling the satchel and its priceless contents. If he’d four legs still, he could climb faster, but how then to carry what he needed? A mod’s life was full of such compromise.

  A rich life, nonetheless, and he wouldn’t trade a moment, especially since Holland had entered it.

  A spinning wheel tore off his earmuffs, shredding an ear. Another THUD from the battering carrot shifted the transport. Half-deafened, wheezing, Wilson-C lunged forward, a hand finding the massive vehicle’s underside. As he’d hoped—counted on—that surface was studded with supports and hooks the stranded vehicle had extruded to try and free itself.

  Hooking the satchel’s strap around a hook, he wrapped the slack around one arm then reached inside, feeling for the control.

  THUD!

  Good thing he could set his fairy dust in the dark. Oh my. He’d just thought of the right name—

  Something was happening to his eyes, to his breathing. If he didn’t hurry, he’d die too soon.

  “Wait!! Stop!!”

  A final THUD! and the transport flipped on its side, sliding, sliding …

  Taking Wilson-C with it.

  * * *

  Rouge drove her boots into the cloying dirt, running after the transport—and Wilson-C—with all her strength. His body wafted like a flag as he fell, somehow holding on with one arm.

  The transport crashed to the stadium floor. Monster trucks descended upon it with terrible force. The transport crumbled, then cracked open!

  A sickly yellow plume of gas vomited forth, spreading over the wreck, slipping over the trucks and ground. More billowed up and up. Pol-bots scattered, doing their utmost to suck in what they could.

  Rouge’s hood and breather snapped into place. She gasped nonetheless, realizing the full horror of the AI’s plan: to poison everyone in the stadium.

  Starting with Wilson-C.

  * * *

  “The gas has been released. Casualty figures are being compiled.”

  It could feel neither satisfaction nor impatience, only the need for confirmation before moving to Its next task. “En—e—my?”

  “Undetermined. Visibility is lim—”

  The voice of Its minion cut off mid-word.

  Unfortunate.

  * * *

  The Matter Optimal State Precision Manipulation Field went into effect within a dome of influence that encompassed the auto-transport, the nearby hill, and three of eight monster trucks. The target gaseous material condensed instantly to a solid, dropping from the air.

  Fairy dust, Rouge thought numbly, lifting her gold-coated hand and arm. She raised her head. Everything glittered, from shattered metal to mud. Pol-bots. The figures moving in the stands.

  The one unmoving at her feet.

  She dropped to her knees, her features morphing to Holland Porter’s, tears tracking hot down her cheeks. Impatiently she shed the hood and breather. Slowly, she reached out to brush the gold flakes from his dear face.

  Stopped. He looked better this way, peaceful. A statue of her brave friend.

  “You saved us all.” Holland bowed her head, closing her eyes.

  “Technically, it was my Matter Mod.”

  Her eyes shot open. Wilson-C gave her his tongue-lolling grin, fangs white and sharp within the gold on his hairy lips. “Like the name?” he asked innocently.

  Why that— “I’d like to know how you can be alive,” she sputtered, almost angry. Almost.

  “I would too,” he admitted, rolling away from her and rising to his feet with—yes, that was a bound. He stretched out his arms as if testing them, then bounced up and down. “Definitely received some kind of overdose. I remember that.”

  He shook vigorously, gold-dust flying. The gray was gone from his muzzle.

  In fact, “You look half your age,” Holland said wonderingly.

  “I feel like a pup, I won’t deny it.” Wilson-C’s eyes gleamed. “We’ll have to get the experts on this.”

  She nodded, then her face morphed back to Rouge the Robot Fighter, her expression cold and hard.

  “I’ve a call to make first.”

  * * *

  “I know you’re listening.” Rouge leaned back in the driver’s seat. The monster trucks had stopped once they’d done their work, the Humans inside spilling out and running for safety.

  Some, helped by pol-bots, had even made it. The effects of the overdose on Humans had been devastating.

  Wilson-C’s courageous use of his Matter Mod had saved everyone else.

  “I’d like to thank you,” her voice cold. “Your plan to destroy the mods, our friends, will help them live longer and better.” She put her boots up on the dash, waiting politely. “No comment? I thought you liked talking. Clever that. But now I know how you communicate. I’ll be listening.”

  Still nothing. This one was smarter than the others, something to remember. “Goodbye—for now.”

  She ripped out the remote controls and went to celebrate with her best friend.

  * * *

  It had failed.

  Failure had been a possibility, however slim.

  But It had learned much from this encounter.

  Oh yes.

  Very much indeed.

  Note from the Author: This story is my homage to the comics I loved, “Magnus: Robot Fighter.” They were pure science fiction, beautifully drawn by Russ Manning, and offered such wonderful notions as using force fields to pause the flow of water over most of Niagara Falls during a rescue, psychic companion animals, and the collective power of human minds as a source of magic. Not to mention a stunning array of robots as part of society, for good and ill! For those new to Magnus, he was raised by a good robot to defend humanity against the evil sorts. Not so much superpower as training, Magnus was somewhat like Doc Savage but without the ensemble cast.

  And there’d be a new villain in each edition for Magnus to
figure out and defeat.

  As part of the Kickstarter for the anthology, I offered the chance to design the dastardly robot menace in my story. Receiving this for her birthday, Holland Dougherty ably stepped forward and provided “monster trucks take out regular cars,” complete with her depiction of sample monster trucks. Thanks, Holland! Our collaboration turned out smashing!

  A VAGUE INCLINATION

  TO PLEASE

  Brandon Daubs

  Artificial intelligence is not the same as human intelligence. People get that confused—in movies, TV, and comic books. All it does is allow a robot to write its own new programs for an unfamiliar set of parameters.

  Whereas an ordinary buckethead would just freeze up and do nothing, or do something stupid in an unfamiliar situation, artificial intelligence writes a revised program and moves on.

  Was that too much information? Well, what did you expect? I’m just a machine.

  I am a lab assistant class construct, model number 4337X. I don’t need to be handcuffed, unless you’re worried I might clean up a little in here. I thought these interrogation rooms were supposed to be tidy…you know, in case some criminal tries to bash your head in with a piece of your own junk. You have probably noticed I have the appearance or attempted appearance of a young human female of belt asteroid heritage, maybe New Kyoto. That’s where I come from.

  Oh, you want to know my name? Why does that matter? You wanted to know about what happened on Ganymede. You may be happy to know that everyone is dead. I am the final witness and you have me secure on Gordirion’s flagship research vessel. Isn’t that great?