Power in the Hands of One (7 page)

I attempt to spin the robot around and run when a reverberating thud crashes through the rear of my seat. The control arms no longer respond, at least not to send the robot in a backward motion. Straining all I want, I’m frozen in my position.

Disorientation melts when I take note of my cockeyed location. The street is no longer straight ahead. It seems I’ve rammed myself up against one of the office buildings and can retreat no more. And now there’s no time to advance or sidestep my way around the other machine.

The gray giant connects with a ham-fisted grappling of motorized digits. It sounds like the creaking hull of a submarine from the movies as it presses against my armor.

Jaw clenched, squinting through slits, my body braces for imminent shock. I don’t know whether to prepare for a debilitating blow from a fist or a fiery explosion from some hidden weapon. My unease rises and escapes in a moan of regret.

The other robot grasps onto the upper half of mine. It proceeds to wrench me back and forth in violent jerks.

Screens flicker and lights flash, blistering my eyes. Audible warnings signal impending doom, but I’m lost as to how to proceed. The gyroscopic chair does its best to keep up with the nauseous sway. Why won’t the robot fight back like it did in the hangar? Do I have to will it? “Fight back!” I wail.

The robot’s response comes via the onscreen prompt again:
Grant rights to engage Stage Alpha. Y/N?

There’s no thought to my reply, only a simple, firm “yes” as I click the “Y” key and hit enter.

The center monitor pages through diagnostic information and then pulls up a title screen:
Attack/Defense Sentinel 02. Loading Stage Alpha…

New lights and menus flood otherwise darkened portions of the control panels. A high-pitched whine tickles my ears, barely perceptible. The remaining circumference of the cockpit melts into a wraparound video screen like the one in the fore, granting me a fishbowl view of everything around the robot.

With a controlled hiss, two additional control arms descend from overhead. They stop at shoulder level, ready to be grasped. I take hold of them, gingerly at first, and ease them forward. Their range of motion is not limited to front and back like the controls for the legs; rather, they pivot on what feel like ball and socket joints.

Even more rewarding is that they allow me to move the robot’s arms. This discovery has me back in the game, sending wild, flailing blows across the chest of the other machine.

My enemy staggers then regains balance. Only half a step back, he has not allowed me enough space to sidestep his grasp. The gray gauntlets come at me again.

I swing the arms of my robot upward in a clumsy attempt to defend, over-calculating the speed at which they move. This sends them straight up into the air while my attacker crashes into my robot’s shoulders.

The distortion of static crackles through the video screen, temporarily disrupting my view. I yank down on the controls, sending the arms into another clumsy motion. This time I connect with the head of the other machine. Unsure of how to grasp it, I do my best to push it away with the blunt side of the armored appendages.

Without a building to bolster its footing, the other robot loses some ground. It takes a moment to regain its balance, and then tries to convert this into momentum as it reaches out in a blind grasp.

I take the opportunity to slip aside, just missing the searching grip of the armored digits.

The other robot cannot find me and swings around in a violent twisting motion, desperate to make contact.

Slinking away, I plant delicate steps, fearing the other pilot can somehow hear or feel me stomping away. If I can put enough distance between us, the cloaking ability will be more useful. There’s no way he’ll wander the entire community, groping about.

If I can buy some time, I can figure out a weakness…some way to disable him. He’s more adept at piloting than I, which means I will have limited opportunity.

With careful strides, Attack/Defense Sentinel 02 marches under my command, a ghost in the morning sun.

15

The gray machine is four blocks away—far enough that I can easily maintain a safe distance should it move in my direction. Its manic churning ceased not long after I put myself out of reach. Now it stands facing me, immobile.

Is he tracking me somehow—electronically? How long will the cloaking last? Is the feature dependent upon some energy source? Should I attack the other robot? What’s to stop him from using his cloaking feature?

Uncertainty aside, I’m drawn back to reality with the strain of my bladder. I’ve ignored the need to relieve myself for too long and that need is now unbearable.

I maneuver the robot behind the last of the empty office buildings before toggling the hatch open. The burst of daylight and free air is intimidating at first, considering my view is from a hundred feet up. No matter, my wavering fades as climb up onto the robot’s shoulder and unzip my pants.

Leaning over the edge and trying not to fall, the absurdity of urinating off the back of a giant robot wracks my frame with near-uncontrollable laughter. However, the threat of the other robot rounding the corner is sobering, as is the strange heaviness now seeping into my consciousness.

There’s not one symptom which stands out over another; it’s just a disorienting effect roiling with nausea and a mild headache. The ground seems far way—farther than it really is—and my legs no longer seem trustworthy.

Leaning forward, balance swaying, I break out in cold sweat as darkness pulls at the back of my vision. This sudden sickness…the air…I’m drowning in it. The…the coma weapon, it must be…

I’m ready to perform a lifeless swan dive when a solid gust of wind surges in, giving me rearward momentum. Reaching out behind me, I grasp for anything which might break my fall, having lost nearly all point of reference. I land hard on the edge of the robot’s shoulder next to the open hatch.

With some inexplicable strength of will, I drag myself on my forearms over and into the hatch. Falling, my shoulder breaks my plunge, dragging across the rungs the whole way down. It would be numbing if my senses weren’t already so dulled.

I lay in a heap for an indeterminate amount of time before I’m able to grasp my bearings. My temperature returns to normal and aching fog dissipates from my brain. The coma weapon slipped my mind, but it seems I’m safe as long as I’m in the cockpit.

I’m comforted that the buzzing of the controls is the same as I rise and move back to the command chair. With the flip of the stubby toggle, the hatch seals itself and I am once again the master of my own fate—but this comes with the complexity of not being able to remain outside the robot for more than a minute or two.

There’s truly no escape now. This game will have to end with me at the helm of this monster. Thomas Worthington welcomed this scenario with open arms…even went so far as to program himself into his creation. What did he expect would come of this—that others would be as willing? There’s real power here, power to do awful things.

A furious blinking on the map reins me in again. The other machine is nearing. It must be able to track me after all… Do I shut down all power? No, that can’t work. The cloaking will probably cease to function. Maybe there’s a way to disable the other devices, some way to minimize my electronic signature…

Once again I tear into the menus—the ones I’ve been through several times already as well as the new ones presented by Stage Alpha. Nothing stands out as helpful. I’m ignorant when it comes down to it, only surviving on luck up to this point.

Maybe it’s time to man up and take the beating I’m due. Go out in a blaze of glory. The other machine is ready to round the corner and will only have to spin around to be within reach of me—maybe it’s time to go on the offensive…

Slamming the control arms into motion, I rock with the swivel of the chair. My robot smashes deliberate strides into the pavement, clipping the glass and steel of the office structure with a shoulder.

Shards splinter in my peripheral vision, but I ignore them. My focus is on the blank space in front of me, the void soon to be filled by the hulking terror of my enemy. It’s half a breath away…

Coming round, the gray robot shifts into view. Armor laden and pale, it halts its advance.

In turn, I secure footing as best as I can manage then reach for the overhead controls. My robot is ready to throw down a thundering blow when a voice crackles through the cockpit.

“Hello, friend. I’m tired of hide and seek. Let’s talk this over.”

Who said that? I flip back and forth looking for some indication before coming to rest on a small pop-up dialog on the monitor. It says
Comm: ADS01
in green font. The other pilot…

“Seriously,” the voice says. “I don’t want to fight you. Did you ever consider we might be on the same side?”

I almost don’t want to answer. Teetering on the edge of swinging anyway, I concede to drop my robot arms. Do I reply? I’m not on his side.

“Here, I’ll even back down,” he says. At this, the gray robot retreats two steps. “What’s your name? Let’s start with that.”

“My name doesn’t matter,” I say. No need to make things personal.

The other pilot’s voice is calm and accommodating. “OK, fair enough.” A pause. “Your cloaking doesn’t make you untraceable, you know.”

“I figured as much.” I try to be as snide as possible.

“So why not turn it off?”

Feeling hopeless, I shrug to myself and disable the cloaking.

“There, that’s much more polite. Now I don’t feel like I’m talking to myself. So, who do you work for? I imagine you’re a competitor of some sort. Or do you work for Worthington?”

“I don’t work for anyone. But I know who you work for.”

“Yes, I imagine you do, but you don’t know anything about us.”

I nearly spit my words. “I know enough.”

“You
think
you know enough, but that’s the real difference, isn’t it? What you
think
you know isn’t always accurate, nor is it often complete. Rarely, if ever, will your conclusions match reality, because you are working with a deficit of information.”

“Sorry, pal. I don’t have time to play mind games with you.”

“I’m not playing mind games, friend. I’m only explaining our dilemma.”

“Our dilemma?”

“Yes. You and I and these magnificent machines. One of us has to give up. And I can tell you right now we have every intention of finishing what we started.”

16

Reckless thoughts singe frayed synapses. Sweat slicks my palms, causing them to slip off the bulky control arms. I prepare for action for the second time, but the other pilot talks me down again.

“So, friend, where do you hail from? How did you get involved in this? Did you volunteer?”

I glare back at the motionless robot. “How about I ask you a question?”

“OK, shoot.”

“What happened to Worthington? Did you kill him like you killed Ray?”

“Ray? I’m sorry—who is Ray? Oh, you mean the fellow at the hangar. From what I understand, that was self-defense on our part.”

“Self-defense?!”

The pilot cuts in before I can finish. “Now, I don’t want to get wrapped up in all of that untidy business. I wasn’t there and so don’t have the correct frame of reference. As far as Worthington goes, I can honestly tell you I don’t know.”

I raise my voice in complaint. “You expect me to believe that?”

“You can believe in what you want. Like I said, you are working with a deficit of information.”

“Then why don’t you enlighten me,” I say through gritted teeth.

This remark is met with a condescending chuckle. “Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary. You’ve given me no reason to trust you, and you seem very hostile.”

“So what now, we just kill each other?”

More laughter. “No, let’s not have any of that. We just need to come to terms with the fact you’re in over your head. What’s afoot is bigger than you—you must at least understand that.”

By some instinct my hands return to the control arms. “I understand that your organization’s goals are not sound, nor are your methods.”

The pilot’s voice betrays a hint of annoyance. “Again, you make assumptions. What gives you the right to stand in the way of the future? Why do you feel so empowered? Is it some misguided belief system? Tell me.”

I slingshot my reply and advance two steps. “I don’t have to justify anything. This is about accountability—you will be held responsible for your actions just like everybody else.” The self-righteousness in my voice is foreign, but I go with it anyway.

The pilot speaks in an eerie calm. “Listen, friend. I’ve tried to give you a way out—honest and free. But you refuse to comply… You must know this doesn’t leave me with many options.”

“I’m not your friend, you prick.”

“Very well.” The pilot breathes his final words through a sigh before engaging his cloaking.

A hollow “dammit” rings through the empty pit of my gut. I re-engage my cloaking in a hasty response but am more or less frozen in uncertainty. Squinting as if it will help me see, I manhandle the control arms as a deafening blow crashes into the left side of the machine.

I manage to keep my balance, but am racked with another barrage before I can collect any sense of what to do next. Warning lights remind me of the potential damage I am taking. Will my armor hold?

The map still shows my location in relation to the other machine, but that’s the best I can do. There’s no way to know when to duck, move, or block. And for all I know, the pilot may give up on the beating and decide to use whatever other offensive tactics the robot has.

With impressive speed, the icon on the map moves behind me. Before I can turn around, another rattling blow rakes across the back of my armor. This sends me forward with only the built-in reflexes of the robot to catch itself from falling on its face.

The invisible behemoth strikes once more, sending a shock through my bones.

I can’t hold out forever.
Think!
Swiveling on my mechanical feet, I twist around to defend.