Power in the Hands of One (8 page)

The pilot anticipates my move and rotates in the opposite direction, placing himself behind me once again.

The next attack brings my robot to its knees. It feels like pile drivers raining down on the shell of the cockpit. Each thud of metal on metal is like a nail further in the coffin. In the midst of this beat-down, Attack/Defense Sentinel 02 asks its next question.
ADS02. Grant rights to engage Stage Beta. Y/N?

Aloud, I ask the inevitable. “What is Stage Beta?”

The onscreen answer comes quick.
Stage Beta: Load all attack/defense systems and warfare logic.

“Yeah, sure, sounds good,” is my sarcastic reply. I slam my finger onto the “Y” key and hope to all that’s holy I haven’t made a mistake.

17

In addition to a warning that the cloaking is damaged, the anticipated title screen appears:
Attack/Defense Sentinel 02. Loading Stage Beta…

The seat stiffens as if bolted down into an immobile position. Portions of the lumbar and shoulder regions press into my back with increased pressure. The lower control arms descend and then come forward, their curvature meeting my shins. The upper control arms follow, dropping to waist level.

Each pressure point of the chair backing separates as it splits into six quadrants. Likewise, the seat folds into individual components, bolstering my hips and thighs. Through this process I am maneuvered into a virtual standing position with my feet tucked into clefts in the lower controls.

The panels of touch screens adjust themselves in relation to me, each rotating on an unseen axis. The monitors and keyboard do the same, still within reach.

The transformation of the cockpit seems complete when the whine and hiss of motors give way to the usual low hum. A few seconds pass before a new message flits across the screen:
Engaging Kinetic Drive…

Without further warning, all four control arms maneuver my body into a mock kneeling position, one knee down, the other drawn toward my chest. My arms mirror the robot’s outstretched limbs, the control grips twisting to match the giant’s open hands.

My instinctual response surprises me as I press into the lower controls, taken aback at their fluid movement. The robot’s legs move in response, matching the speed and angle at which I point my feet.

Contact with the cement returns solid pressure to the controls, halting the movement of my left foot. My sense of balance disappears and I tense up, anticipating a fall—but unseen internal systems compensate. Positioning my right leg is just as awkward.

A jolt from behind sends me staggering forward. I don’t react fast enough; I can only reach out in awkward response. One massive arm finds temporary leverage in crumbling brick only to be dragged down by the weight of the unsupported body.

The shudder that reverberates through the hull of the machine is the first real loss of control I’ve experienced. The thought I’m overmatched and outwitted stabs at my brain.

The struggle to stand is slowed by my panicked, weakened joints. Shaking, I manage a clumsy scramble to my feet and circle around in time to absorb an invisible, pummeling fist.

The whiplash from this blow sends me reeling, the cluster of austere office buildings a blur against the rambling countryside beyond. A jarring response echoes through my bones as metal appendages connect with the ground; my head snaps back with equal force.

Squinting in between collisions, I’ve barely noticed the change in diagnostic information on the virtual display. The myriad digital gauges and numbers float before me, spewing endless analysis of the situation at hand.

The lower right quadrant of the screen shifts between current operational status and the suggested course of action:
Recommended Tactic: Retaliatory Evasion. Options: Fire Support.
A touch menu blinks near my hand:
Engage Recommended Tactic.

I slide my finger across this blinking orb. Response is instantaneous; the controls maneuver themselves in sequence, pulling the robot upward with a grace I could never muster.

The buzzing motors of the controls direct my left arm into a blocking position, bringing a massive, shielded forearm into the same location across the robot’s body.

Another strike from my invisible enemy rains down from above. My guarding arm gives way as the internal compensators translate the blow into a relative amount of pressure for human limbs. In turn, the controls pull my right arm upward as the robot attempts to complete its “retaliatory evasion.” My fist connects with a satisfying thud against unseen armor.

The guiding of my appendages is a foreign sensation as is each pound of pressure sent back through the controls. My body sways on the verge of losing control while the robot regains its footing and retreats several paces.

My sense of balance returns when the main monitor indicates the robot has finished its maneuver:
Resume Manual Control.
A deep whirring spools up from beneath me, increasing in speed. The monitor switches to:
HellPoint Cannon Online.

What appears to be a targeting system materializes on the video display; this is accompanied by the usual virtual mouse controls on either side of me.

“But I can’t see anything!”

The robot replies as soon as I utter the word “see.”
Enable thermal imaging? Y/N.

“Yes!”

The video display converts to infrared where the heat signature of the other robot melts into view. Its behemoth form bears down on me in deliberate strides. I fumble with the green crosshairs sliding across the display.

Too late—I’m hammered again in a fury. I respond with wild, uncalculated movements. Each fist that connects sounds like a ringing bell, vibrating a dull, gong-like shimmer through the cockpit.

The fiery thermal figure rages on; the other pilot refuses to relent.

I maintain some semblance of resolve through this. The clang of my armor against his is the sound of potential victory. Trying to get a clear shot, I toggle the cannon again.

The other robot grabs hold of the muzzle and pushes upward, disabling my efforts to aim.

The crosshairs slip out of my control as the cannon twists on its turret. The touch screen won’t let me regain control, but the firing mechanism is within thumb’s reach on the right control arm. I press it with a burning anticipation.

The resulting electrostatic sizzle is followed by an explosive burst of bending metal. I drag the crosshairs to aim at my best estimation of center of mass and fire again. The same crackle and then an explosion of intense white saturates the screen.

The thermal imaging automatically switches back to the normal video output. The other robot is no longer hidden, having lost all of its cloaking capability. Its left arm is warped and twisted.

Stumbling, it struggles to remain balanced but loses out to gravity. One leg falters and then another. The hulking weight drags the armored body to the ground in an awkward loss of control.

18

The gray machine lies before me, lesions in its armor exposing layers of damaged panels. Its left arm is wrecked, barely usable. Charred streaks blemish the torso.

A hysterical laugh sounds over the communication link. It’s the other pilot again. “You…you really want him bad, don’t you?” More laughter. “Oh, you are in for it, my friend.”

Is Thomas Worthington my objective? I decide he is. “Tell me where he is. Is he dead?”

“I sincerely hope not. And we didn’t do anything with him. We’re trying to
find
him. Though I suppose it’s possible Worthington’s obsession may have killed him already…”

“Worthington? Wait—who are you talking about?”

A chuckle of realization. “Ah, so you aren’t looking for him.”

“Who?”

“Elias Jacob.”

Elias Jacob. Elias Jacob. Why is that name familiar? A tenant—he was supposed to be a tenant of Western Lights. His name was on the list of owners—the fanatic. “What do you want with him?”

“Mr. Jacob stole a certain number of secrets from various organizations, including Redd Research. We want him for leverage—and for whatever else we can get out of him, of course. Your friend Worthington was keeping him here.”

“
Here
as in Western Lights? Like a hostage?” I veer closer, keeping the cannon trained on the prone robot.

“Don’t feel bad for Mr. Jacob. He’s a small piece of an ever-growing puzzle. So is Worthington. It was only necessary that he create these machines. He’s played his part, and it’s not our concern what has become of him.”

“How can I know you’re telling the truth—and if you are telling the truth, why would you do so?”

“Your mind can’t understand the difference between the truth and a lie, so there’s no harm in honesty. I’ve already told you this is bigger than you. There’s no way to stop us or the coming paradigm shift. The next evolutionary step is technological.”

I dismiss this, overwhelmed with how pathetic the other pilot’s stance is and how he’s been sucked into the psycho-babble that Ray and Worthington fell prey to. He no longer seems dangerous, only absurd. I retract my aim and draw back several steps.

The other pilot cackles over the speakers. “Not willing to get your hands dirty, eh? Too self-righteous? That’s OK; I appreciate your show of diplomacy. I’ll live to fight another day.”

Turning, I ignore his comments as I walk away from the disabled mass of metal.

“Don’t believe me? You’ll see in time. It will start as ‘human enhancement.’ Biochemistry and nanotechnology will push us past the threshold of disease and defect.” The pilot is nearly shouting, as if to be heard while I’m walking away. “Then there will be integration with machines on the biological level, granting immediate access to global data and information stores. Your information becomes mine, and my information becomes yours. We’ll realize exponential returns, and we’ll soon surpass the need for bodies at all. Don’t you get it? A collective mind with no death.”

The ranting is ludicrous. I’ve got to find a way to block his communication. His vision of the world isn’t the least bit desirable; I don’t know how anyone could think it is.

Fiddling with the menus, I walk myself through another self-directed tutorial. I’ve figured everything else out, so why not this?

My confidence careens off a cliff when the menus die. The blackened cockpit, a pause, and the glower of Thomas Worthington disheartens whatever shred of motivation I have left.

“Consider what road you travel,” he says, stern face poised as if contemplating something philosophical. “One leads away from the struggle, but it has no point. Turn and retrace your steps and you have no choice but to fulfill what some men might call destiny.

“You no doubt understand that destiny is a terrifying word. It implies your purpose, your reason, is somehow mapped out before you. It has nothing to do with good fortune, only obligation. But know this—destiny is your choice; it is the sum of all choice, what mankind wills into being with every breath. The fate you discard will be a mantle assumed by another.”

Exhaustion droops my shoulders; I close my eyes and clamor at the edge of raw, blistered patience. “I don’t have it in me to interpret your riddles.”

Worthington ignores me, or the recording continues; I can’t decide. “Your brother’s will is not pure; he has become your enemy. He claims to champion humanity, but he doesn’t represent them. He has faltered in his attempts to change the face of the world. You cannot allow him to continue on his misguided path; you must destroy him.”

I lean forward. “You want me to kill him? Are you out of your mind?”

“Destroy him!” Worthington disappears, once again leaving me without answers.

Behind me, the other pilot is struggling to get his machine on its feet. His audible exertion seems distant over the communication link.

A block away, I turn to face him, weary. I don’t know if I can hold out for another brawl. The cannon is still online, but how many times can I shoot him before he won’t survive? I’m not out to kill anyone—and it seems as though that would play directly into Worthington’s plans.

I appeal to reason. “Listen, man. Why not give it up? Neither of us are getting anywhere with this.”

The pilot doesn’t respond; he only continues his menacing advance. Did he receive a message from Worthington too? Has he been instructed to kill me?

“C’mon now,” I say while backing up. “Think this through. It doesn’t have to go down this way.”

Still no response. The expressionless visage bores into me with silent concentration, mirroring the dead air over the radio. There’s no pity, no mercy in its relentless face…only the cold, marching advancement of techno-death.

A darkening horizon frames the menacing figure as an early-morning storm rolls into view. The sky starts to spit, and I know this will all be over soon.

19

Shifting my weight is impossible without rocking the machine in one direction or another. My nervous frustration can’t bear to remain bottled up anymore as I dawdle back and forth.

Forced into this position, I take aim. I don’t want to fire again; one more blast across the mangled armor will surely inflict fatal shock and damage. Do I have a choice? This is self-defense, right?

I rehearse what I’ll say to the police when they find a dead man in the battered remnants of a giant robot that shouldn’t even exist. Sorry, Officer, he went tearing off across the countryside in his robot first. I had to track him down, duke it out, and kill him.

No, it won’t be the police. It will be the FBI. There are military ties here, and who knows if Worthington stole anything from them before the contract fell through.

A brief snicker from the other pilot sounds over the radio before the robot halts its advance. Then my video screen turns into the Fourth of July.

Warning indicators flash in urgent display:
Warning: ADS01 has entered Cannibal Mode.
Pop-ups fly out of nowhere; what looks to be every system in the machine complains in blaring red font.

Attack/defense systems and warfare logic override. Standby… Engage Crypto-masking? Redirecting primary fuel cells. Stage Beta compromised. Autonomous systems and mobility logic resequencing. Standby…