by David Reiss
“This is your last chance to back down, Cuboid!” Cloner yelled. “Let the girl go!”
“I’m sorry, my friend,” the artificial intelligence apologized calmly via hidden speakers. “Sometimes, sacrifices must be made in order to keep humanity safe. The program is a threat.”
“She isn’t just a program.” The Red Ghost didn’t shout, but his voice carried nonetheless. “She is a little girl who has the same favorite book as my niece. She plays with puppies and loves making sand castles with her big brother.”
“I’m sorry,” Cuboid repeated. “The program is a little girl, but it is also a threat. If you attempt to interfere then I’m afraid that you will have proved yourself to be a threat to humanity as well. An unwitting threat, perhaps, but still dangerous. I beg you…please stand aside and allow me to finish my work.”
“We can’t do that,” said Valiant, standing tall. “We won’t.”
“I understand,” said Cuboid, sadly. The robots gathered at the chasm’s mouth assumed defensive positions.
All was still for one long beat—the period of a deep breath to gather our will.
And then, as though the maneuver had been choreographed, we launched forward as one.
Valiant plowed into the first of Cuboid’s heavy-combat robots, a deafening thunderclap of force. He’d faced the Mk 35 before; he knew better than to restrain his strength. The robot, unshaken, replied with a series of vicious short-punches to the side of Valiant’s head and a purple-tinged energy blast that drove the strongest man in human history only a few feet backwards. Neither combatant was damaged, and both shot forward to re-ignite their challenge.
No emotion was wasted worrying for Valiant. The armor design that Cuboid had stolen might challenge the African-American powerhouse but it was inevitable he would eventually be victorious. It would take several of the robots cooperating to overwhelm him.
Fortunately, there was no need for Valiant to face so fearsome a threat alone.
“Focus on the shoulder joints,” I called to Titan, relaying my voice through a mostly-invisible microdrone. “If you can get behind the shoulder and under the pauldron, you can disable the arm and weapon systems.”
The leader of the Boston Guardians growled a brief acknowledgement, relaying quick orders to members of his team. Viridian—glowing like an emerald star—arced up and circled overhead, pouring energy blast after energy blast upon Cuboid’s robot. Aeon’s milky-white energy blasts packed more power than her green-hued compatriot, but she lacked his ability to fly. She sidestepped to the left while Titan circled to the right. The Red Ghost was a whirlwind of movement, acrobatic and precise, a supportive rather than an offensive force; he was carrying a heavy pulse rifle but was firing only sporadically when doing so would interfere with one of the robot’s attacks.
Regrowth, Lariat, and Wildcard were retreating in an orderly fashion, occasionally engaged by the smaller robots but ignored by the more imposing combatants. I was moderately busy confronting one of the Mk 35 myself, dodging neutron cannon fire and countering with a force-bolt of my own, but I approved of the tactic; with so little natural plant life present in the Industrial park, Regrowth’s offensive power was limited.
Wildcard must have chosen to keep his healing powers active or else he’d have been fighting alongside his teammates.
“You’re a jerk!” Regrowth shouted to me as the small team passed.
“This is true,” I acknowledged. “How did I offend, this time?”
“You let me think I killed you!”
“Oh, you did. Quite thoroughly.” I grunted with the effort of blocking a tackle-attempt from the much-larger Mk 35 variant. “I forgive you.”
“You don’t look dead.”
“There was still work to do,” I replied. “I decided that being dead was an inefficient use of my time.”
She laughed and I was glad to hear it, but more robots were erupting from below and the fight was becoming increasingly chaotic. Majestic and the Brooklyn Knights were focusing upon the lesser attackers—the spider-like walkers, the smaller four-rotor cannon-drones, the floating force-field generators—but (despite a constant stream of explosions) were making little headway.
I split my focus between combat and coding a complicated software hack. It was becoming clear that a physical attack along might prove insufficient.
The New York Shield’s speedster, the blue-costumed Haste, was darting around the battlefield at such high velocity that he was a blur even to my enhanced optical sensors. He’s apparently learned from our prior confrontations; his movements were less predictable now, more random. My old targeting systems would have had difficulties tracking him.
Raw inertia made Haste a significant threat. He could pick up a piece of battlefield debris and, after a brief accelerating run, launch it at several times the speed of sound; it would have been like defending against an infinitely mobile railgun. A significant chunk of Cuboid’s swarm broke off from the main fight in an attempt to corner and neutralize the speedster.
Cloner was battling the fourth and final Mk 35 on his own.
It was mesmerizing and horrifying to watch: wave after wave of human flesh crashing upon the massive orichalcum framed robot, all of the duplicates laughing cheerfully as Cuboid tore into the clones with vicious abandon. Blood and gore sprayed and bodies piled up in mounds yet still Cloner came. The dead would dissipate into smoke after a few minutes but it was hard not to pause and gape at the raw carnage.
Each of Cloner’s copies had no more strength or durability than an ordinary human; it took but a moment for Cuboid to aim a pulse cannon that detonated one attacker, or to grab another clone and rip its head clear from its body…but Cloner was duplicating faster than his clones could be disposed of. Dozens of flailing, screaming and horribly-twisted bodies were thrown in the air at a time, but more copies climbed over each other, grabbing and reaching and punching, burying the robot under their combined weight.
Even the very most vicious part of my soul cringed at the thought of being at the center of that abattoir. Watching Cuboid’s gunmetal-gray version of the Mk 35 commit such atrocities was a nightmare.
(One of Cloner turned to face me and spared a moment to give me a sad, sympathetic smile…and I knew. This method of attack had originally been conceived with me in mind. He’d pushed and prodded at Doctor Fid, stretched our agreements to their limits to see if I would initiate violence, and he’d known that this would have been the result. And, somehow, he’d known that this would have sliced through my rage and broken me. Diabolically clever bastard.)
As I’d expected, Cuboid was proving adept at capitalizing upon patterns in my pre-programmed combat algorithms; every time I let my armor pilot itself, my opponent’s efficiency improved. Still, my increased defenses allowed me to continue splitting my attention, sending brief snippets of advice to my current comrades and rushing to complete more technical approaches.
We held.
There were small victories—Titan and Aeon were whittling their opponent down and would soon be able to move on to assist Valiant—but we were taking damage, too. The White Tigress was acting as a felinoid shield, protecting Shrike, Blizzard and Psion with her own more-durable body as they struggled to defend against the robotic onslaught. Dozens of serious wounds had been torn into her flesh, and it was only her extraordinary will and fierce loyalty that kept her upright.
She wouldn’t last much longer.
I sent a verbal call to Haste at well-beyond human-audible speed, “Grab Wildcard and get him to White Tigress!”
Haste tried to comply but it was too late; one of Cuboid’s robots, a ribbon-like automaton that slithered through the air like a snake, had wrapped around the White Tigress’ waist. There was an explosion of light and sound and, when the glare receded, the heroine was simply gone.
Psion and Blizzard redoubled their efforts and the region before Shrike became an abattoir of spikes and needles, to no avail. The swarming robots closed. In only a hand
ful of seconds, the Brooklyn Knights were reduced to one howling Wildcard, held back and still protected by Regrowth and Lariat. Another of the metallic ribbons managed to form a tripwire that wrapped around Haste’s ankle and his leg snapped with a sickening crack; a moment later there was another flash and the New York Shield’s speedster was no more.
“They are teleportation devices!” I shouted, relieved, as my sensors confirmed the energy signatures. I triggered my network attack, dozens of separate exploit attempts launched faster than a human mind could comprehend, to no visible effect; the artificial intelligence’s electronic defenses were—unfortunately—just as powerful as I’d worried they might be. “We’ll rescue them later!”
“No.” Cuboid stated calmly through the robot I was still fighting. “You won’t.”
Another wave of automatons swarmed, falling upon me like a flood. I jerked and dodged but still endured blow after punishing blow from an implacable Mk 35 variant. The battleground was simply too crowded to escape.
This was not the first time in recent memory that I was being slowly pummeled to death, but it was particularly galling that it was a remote-controlled robot of my own design doing the damage.
“Keep fighting!” I told my compatriots. “I have a plan!”
And then one of the teleportation-ribbons managed to wrap around my arm and I was swallowed by light.
I was in a verdant utopia, still encased within the Mk 40, and I recognized my surroundings at once for what they were: A particularly pleasant prison cell. I didn’t bother launching an attack upon the walls or forcefields that I was certain surrounded the enclosure; Cuboid might be unaware of my more recent innovations, but he was still at least moderately competent.
I wouldn’t have been placed in this location if raw force could have seen to my freedom.
Deep, slow breaths stung and I winced as my medical nanites began repairing tears to muscle and viscera. No effort was put towards anesthetic; this pain, I deserved. And besides, the discomfort was sufficiently distracting that it was easy to keep my thoughts directed away from the battle happening elsewhere.
“I take it that this is one of your ecospheres, Cuboid?” I finally asked out loud.
“Yes,” Cuboid replied calmly. His voice resonated, seeming to come from nowhere and everywhere all at once. “There is enough plant, insect and animal life present to sustain this environment for several natural lifetimes. Ample sunlight, oxygen, food and water is present. You will not be harmed. In time, I hope to re-educate you and re-introduce you to society.”
“I intend to kill you,” I stated conversationally. “Soon.”
“Exhibiting anti-social or murderous behaviors will extend the duration of your incarceration.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle, but sobered quickly. “The others are in similar cells?”
“Yes.”
“Has medical treatment been provided for the White Tigress and Haste?”
“Wildcard has been captured and will be teleported into each enclosure to ensure that all specimens are maintained in good health,” the android replied.
“So, that is the only way in or out of these enclosures?” I asked. “Your teleportation devices?”
“Yes.”
I nodded, smiling behind Doctor Fid’s mask. I’d expected as much. “A logical precaution.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” The android paused. “Please understand…my goal is the preservation of biological life. I have no intention of harming you or any of the heroes who you somehow convinced to act against their own best interests.”
“You are alive, and you are a technological marvel.” The admission tasted sour in my mouth. “But you are not a biological life form. How can you possibly justify declaring yourself to be an authority on a biological life-form’s best interests?”
“I must assume authority because I am not a biological life form. You have no idea how dangerous a rogue self-aware artificial intelligence could be.”
“Whisper isn’t a danger…she’s a sweet child. And she’s my sister.” I stretched slowly, once more taking up my warstaff and swinging it in lazy arcs to limber up my shoulder joints. “And you’re wrong.”
“How so?”
“I know exactly how dangerous a self-aware artificial intelligence could be.”
“Wait.” It took several seconds for the android to digest the nuances of my statement. When he spoke again, his confusion was audible. “What did you do? Your hacks were thwarted!”
“My hacks were very carefully timed,” I replied, smug.
There was another pause. “Morse code. I do not recognize the encryption.”
He wouldn’t; book ciphers were notoriously difficult to decode unless one knew what volume to use as a key. Eventually, Cuboid might think to check Whisper’s favorite novel for correlation but it was already far too late.
The android had been effective in keeping my little sister captive. It was, however, obvious that she’d been able to monitor external stimuli. On the morning when news broke that Doctor Fid had been killed, her efforts had redoubled. I’d looked over those system logs and ached with sympathy; the poor girl had been frantic, panicked and mourning. Desperate.
Pride warred with guilt; despite all her fear and loss, my sister had kept her head and regrouped.
Whisper might not have been able to escape, but she’d demonstrated her ability to reach out…interfering with Cuboid’s outbound communications without the elder A.I. becoming aware. With Cuboid distracted by orchestrating combat against his own former friends and team-mates, I’d been absolutely certain that the clever girl could disrupt a few sensor readings in response to my coded message.
The effort would have been minimal; my heavy-combat drones, after all, had far superior stealth technology than did the Mk 40 or the Mk 35. While the battle raged, the drones had sneaked past and infiltrated the complex. And by now, every last pre-programmed command would have been enacted.
**Whisper,** I projecting my thoughts into the ether. **I’m so, so sorry.**
**It’s all right,** came the gentle reply, flooding my neural link with amused gratitude. **I knew you’d come for me!**
“WHAT DID YOU DO?” Cuboid demanded and was ignored. I was still laughing and sobbing in relief when a teleportation ribbon—commandeered by my brilliant sister—appeared and wrapped around my waist.
Flash.
18
I reappeared in a blaze of light and instinctively raised my warstaff to spray high-energy plasma at an attacking automaton. The swarm had grown thicker in my absence. Throngs of robots—some, fierce and bristling with weapons, and others simple and utilitarian—circled like a vast metallic school of fish. Detonations rang, increasing in tempo as the Brooklyn Knights were teleported back into the fray and as the will to fight drained away from Cuboid.
All four of the Mk 35 robots were destroyed. I’d apparently missed one hell of a battle. Titan looked entirely too smug while standing over the downed facsimile of what had once been known as Doctor Fid’s most powerful armor. Cloner was down to a few-dozen copies, and Aeon was save within one of her opaque, impenetrable shields. The Red Ghost and Veridian both looked tired but they fought on, regardless.
And then four of my own heavy combat drones—featureless, ominous pillars of darkest night—boiled through the concrete itself. Glowing rivulets of molten bedrock and armor sloughed away from the invisible forcefields to reveal their precious cargo.
Whisper smiled, hugging her favorite doll to her chest, and the world was transformed.
**I’ve missed you,** I sent, spinning my staff in a whirlwind of devastation. Shrapnel plummeted like rain. **You’re safe?**
**Transferred to my own servers and secure,** she confirmed brightly, carried on invisible force-fields to a safer stretch of pavement where she could stand on her own two feet. The sundress I’d buried her in was yellow and white with robins-egg blue accents that matched the glow of her eyes, incongruously cheerful and out-of-place on a
battlefield.
It would have been a tragedy if the fabric were mussed.
“ENOUGH!” I roared, and issued the command for my fifth heavy-combat drone to self-destruct.
Above ground, the explosion was audible only as a distant whump. Below—deep in the heart of the hidden facility—the devastation would have been far more severe.
Cuboid’s robotic army dropped. Across the industrial park, heroes stumbled to a confused halt, and there were the beginnings of relieved smiles as eyes turned towards my sister and me.
Whisper’s eyes widened in horror. “What did you do?”
“EMP burst in the subspace communications utility room,” I hurriedly reassured, inwardly wincing at the similarity to Cuboid’s own final question. “Cuboid’s primary server farm is shielded separately.”
The fifth drone hadn’t been able to enter the main section of the facility undetected; I’d been planning on sending another device down to finish the job, but Whisper’s relieved expression gave me pause.
My little sister stepped forward to hug the Mk 40 around its waist and I gently returned the embrace. There was nothing in the world that I wanted more than to step out of my armor, but the threat of further violence still loomed.
“He hurt you,” I managed to strain out. “I can’t forgive that.”
“Then let me forgive him for you.” She nibbled at her lower lip and shifted her weight uneasily. “Eventually. Not today. But someday, maybe, I’ll forgive him.”
“He doesn’t deserve forgiveness.”
Whisper did her best to imitate a famous actor’s rasp, “Deserve’s got nothing to do with it.”
The heroes had approached while I was distracted and remained at a polite distance to allow for our reunion. Apparently, the space was insufficient to deter eavesdropping because the Red Ghost barked in laughter; he’d spoken the same line to me, once.
“Are you sure? He could still be a threat…to you and to other young AI’s.”