“And the rest?” asked the XO.
“At least one hundred ninety-one other injuries. Medical is at capacity, and sending those with minor injuries to their quarters until later.” She felt like a Bot, unable to process emotionally the horror she was reporting. But like a Bot, she continued, reporting the breakdown of the injuries: two deaths caused by Bots, two by automated components — one storage bay door, and one cargo loader — and the other by Bots during the surge. For the thirty-two serious injuries: fourteen by Bots, and sixteen from automated components, and another two from the safe zone surge.
The XO spoke low, voice commands to his wearable. The Third Class Technician at the console beside her kept muttering under his breath, stroking something furry hanging on a cord around his neck.
An alert popped up, and Mattos began the hourly watch stations status check. As she checked off the messages against the list of stations, she surreptitiously looked down at a mini-projection for the thousandth time that hour. Where the hell are you, Pat? Are you okay?
Hours before, the first flurry of casualties had caused a panic. Screaming and confusion had dominated until the chief inspector shared the common thread — automated ship’s equipment or Bots. Heavy doors would shut on Aoteans’ limbs, or in one horrible case, crushing a ribcage. Loaders and moveways would stop and start, at the worst possible times, pinching limbs with bone-crushing force. And, most frighteningly of all, and with machine-like speed and strength, Bots were lashing out, with tools or bare appendages, continuing to attack until out of reach. Disturbingly, after the outburst and once out of reach, they would return to their duties, and even obey the orders of their victims.
As soon as Konami had shared his common-thread discovery, Mattoso couldn’t help herself. “Secure power to the vital bus!” she had shouted into the console, with Control and Power on the line.
“What the hell are you doing?” cried the XO at her breach of protocol.
She left the comms channel open. “We have to put everything on manual control. Securing power to the vital bus sets off the auto-manual trip, and every big moving piece of equipment onboard will lose power.”
“Belay that—”
“CHENG, this is the captain. Secure power to the vital bus now.”
Within moments, the lights had dimmed and then relit. In her mind Mattoso had traced the ship’s power distribution diagrams — with the vital bus secured, lighting goes to the auxiliary bus…
The XO had glared at her for a moment before softening. “Well done, Lieu—”
Another interruption, a shipwide announcement: “This is the captain speaking.” The sound quality had been tinny and poor — Mattoso realized that, with the vital bus secured, the main comms circuits had been de-powered, and shipwide announcements were now rerouted through the less power-thirsty auxiliary communications system. “All automated, moving equipment, including doors and hatches, are now in manual mode. Do not restore power to any moving equipment without my express permission. Note that the danger from Bots remains.”
“Lieutenant?”
Hours after vital power had been secured, Mattoso’s exhaustion had morphed into a dull sort of numbness.
“Lieutenant?”
Pat… She suppressed the tears that started to pool in her eyes at the thought. Why won’t you let me know you’re okay? She resisted the urge to check her wearable for the second time in as many minutes, and took little comfort in the fact that her lover’s name hadn’t appeared in the casualty listings; the number of unaccounted for and missing personnel had grown to over three hundred.
“Mattoso!”
She perked up and turned her head. “Sorry, XO.”
“It’s okay. Your relief is here.”
She looked up to see a Communications Lieutenant Junior Grade named Karimov, whose first name her fatigued brain could not call up.
By rote, Mattoso turned over the status of Casualty Control Central, and gave up her seat.
“What about you, XO? Who’s going to relieve you?”
He held up a thermos and smiled. She couldn’t recall ever seeing a smile on the XO’s lips. “Don’t worry, I’ve got my coffee. Specially prepared by Dr. Madani.”
Since the emergency started, nearly everyone onboard was on a “port and starboard” watch rotation — eight hours on watch (at minimum), and eight hours off. After more than twenty-four hours awake, Mattoso’s body cried out to her to cross the Can to her quarters and sleep. But Pat’s out there somewhere. On her way out from Casualty Control Central, she took a detour to a damage control supply closet, changing direction by swinging around a convenient guycable.
Somehow, the feel of the fire axe in her hand gave her a surge of energy. She awkwardly slipped it under her belt, needing both hands to pull herself along the guycables. A red-eyed deputy was returning down the passageway toward her, and they neatly executed a little pirouette-exchange to get around each other on the guycable, before she made a left turn.
The Can’s surface seemed almost empty, and the quiet was disconcerting, punctuated by occasional distant yells or sounds of metal on metal. She checked again the message from Pat’s supervisor — three classes had been on field trips at the time of the loss of rotation. One was supposed to go the Garden, one to the Repro lab, and one to the reclamatorium. Ugh, kids to the reclamatorium? Is that really appropriate? She supposed that most of the facility’s operation was devoted to recycling waste, rather than human remains, but unfortunately that second function was becoming more and more common as of late.
But the Head Teacher didn’t know which class was going to which place — the teachers had decided that morning, apparently without telling their supervisors. So Mattoso had to guess. She figured she’d start with the closest, the Garden.
Everything looked different while in freefall — up and down ceased to mean as much as they used to, and everything was seen from a “horizontal” perspective rather than the normal upright one. She had to consult her projection-map a few more times than she otherwise would for directions. Past Hab number eleven; around the Starfruit Café, and… A familiar Operations Chief guarded the ladderwell hatch down to the lower levels, holding a massive, curved steel bar.
Chief Azbek nodded respectfully. “What can I do for you, LT?”
She recalled riding his shoulders after the pandemonium at the Arena, trying to restore order. How long ago was that… days, or weeks? She couldn’t remember. “You can let me by, Chief.”
“Sorry, LT, but this is the edge of the safe zone right now. This safe zone, at least. No push into lower levels, except for vital systems.”
And the Garden ain’t vital right now.
“I have reason to believe that there are children down there, Chief. Kids from Pat’s — from Teacher Carmona’s class, or maybe another one.”
Chief Azbek paused but then shook his head. “The surge schedule’s constantly changing, and I’m sure they’ll get to the Garden before long. If you think there are kids down there, tell the CI and maybe he can kick it up to the top of the queue.”
She had confidence that Konami would treat it as a priority, but getting a fresh surge team put together could take hours. Pat had been on the ‘missing’ list since shortly after the loss of rotation, after Mattoso had allowed an hour for a response, and she wasn’t going to wait any longer.
“Please, Chief. The kids…”
He closed his eyes and shook his head. “This is stupid, LT, going off on your own.” He moved aside just the same. “Be careful.”
The lower levels were silent, but it was a different silence than the surface. Crystalized, and enclosed. Perhaps it was the lack of “sky,” even when it consisted of a view of the opposite side of the Can, hundreds of meters away. Or perhaps it was the dimness of the auxiliary lighting, from LEDs along the bulkheads.
There were no guycables in the passageways of the lower levels — the freefall rig was only complete in the ‘safe zone’ areas of the Can. Mattoso had to pu
ll herself along by any protrusions or fixtures on the bulkheads, and after a few twists and turns she lost any sense of up and down. Only by checking the orientation of signage and lettering could she distinguish the deck from the overhead.
After a score of identical corridors, she reached one edge of the Garden, which snaked through dozens of meters of linked passageways — a blocky, repeating figure-eight. The aeroponics system had shut down or malfunctioned, though at least some of the characteristic humidity remained. But for the first time that she could recall, she saw some yellowing and even browning in the foliage.
A sickly sweet smell made her stomach rumble at the same time as it made her gag — a cluster of vegetation had been trampled on, with smashed fruits and vegetables littering the passageway. She hadn’t eaten in half a day, and after swallowing down her nausea, she plucked a ripe tomato from an undamaged vine, and downed the sweet juiciness far too quickly to savor it.
A noise. Scratching? She followed it across the Garden, pulling vines and branches to make her way. She stopped cold; there was something — things — little black objects, floating among the vines. She reached forward, terrified that whatever it was would go squish.
She was relieved at the feel — metal and hard poly. Not flesh, not blood, not bone… Some of the pieces were jagged, with broken edges. Bot debris, she concluded, though as far as she knew the Bot hunts hadn’t progressed this far.
There was something deeper among the greenery, something bigger. She carefully reached in, pushing aside vines and leaves to see. With a start, she realized what it was.
Is that a Bot arm? A general purpose grasper, perhaps. Maybe for a GardenBot.
Her heart pumping, she started to back away, and the arm lunged for her throat.
CHAPTER 39
Fighting the DustBots reminded Konami of some old Earth sport. Grasshopper, was it? Cicada? Or bus-ball, maybe? He couldn’t remember.
He lined up the torque wrench as he drifted forwards. Predictably, just as they had in the dozen passageways and spaces they had cleared so far, the DustBot didn’t stir from its cleaning until Konami was within arm’s reach. Then it spun like a turret and whirred toward him with its little fan, and he swung the wrench with all his might.
“Touchdown!” he yelled in triumph as the little Bot caromed off the bulkhead, its carapace caved in. Konami checked the spin he imparted from swinging the wrench by grabbing onto the guycable.
Constable Ginsberg laughed awkwardly, stomping another DustBot into pieces that floated across the passage.
It shouldn’t be funny — none of this should be funny. Too many had already been killed, and so many more seriously hurt. But it felt absurd — most of the Bots aboard Aotea were no bigger than a cat, and barely more dangerous. The innards of a DustBot might cut up a finger if it managed to latch on, but that was about the worst injury they could inflict. Destroying them was more like a game then combat, especially when one was armed and ready.
He nodded to the constable, and they did one last check of the passageway length before reporting into Casualty Control Central.
Ginsberg pointed out that his vidcam was coming loose, so Konami adjusted the strap. Still don’t have enough of these for every deputy… Like most systems not absolutely vital to life support, the Fabrication shops were offline since the latest emergency. Only once they started advancing the surge teams, which so far had been popularly called ‘Bot Hunts’, had Konami convinced the captain and mayor to route some of the trickle power to a single Fabrication shop for supplies. Vidcams were high on the list, as were various tools to serve as weapons. And once Kiro and the Engineers are done with the design, slugthrowers. He was awfully nervous about the idea of firearms onboard, but with the latest danger he didn’t see any other choice.
Konami and Ginsberg stretched a guycable along the length of the passage, and at the other end, stood by the next hatch. Clutching the wrench with tight fingers, the chief inspector nodded, warily watching the hatch as Ginsberg spun it open by the manual handwheel. Please no RoverBot; please no RoverBot… The multi-limbed, multi-purpose RoverBots weren’t particularly strong, but it was impossible to keep track of six flailing limbs at once. In a storage room a few passageways back, it was all Konami could to do keep the whirring appendages away until Ginsberg flanked the Bot and brained it (or CPU’d it?) with his hammer.
Luckily, there was nothing in the next passageway but several hatches along the length. Unluckily, they’d have to check each and every one of those hatches. Konami checked his projection. “Should be storage spaces,” he told Ginsberg.
The first two were empty. The third was not.
Oh shit.
It was a MOMbot. Konami hadn’t even thought of the child-care and class assistant Bots since the Bot attacks — there were probably only a few dozen onboard, compared to hundreds or thousands of service, cleaning, and general-purpose Bots. It looked at them with its cartoonish, permanent-smiling face. In the low light of the Aux LEDs, its simian countenance was positively menacing.
“Careful now,” he said to Ginsberg. “These things can move.” He recalled the tricks they would pull — sleight-of-hand, agility, and acrobatics — to amuse and distract Aotean youngsters.
The constable didn’t react, and Konami glanced at his face. Oh god, he’s crying. He recalled the pleasure Ginsberg oozed when he told stories about his favorite MOMbot — stories that no one seemed to understand but other youths who had spent their childhoods onboard.
“Is this… your MOMbot?”
“No, no, that’s not Zinnia. But still, it’s a MOMbot. We can’t…”
“I’m sorry, Constable. You know what’s been going on. You know how these Bots can move. And you know our duty.” Konami motioned Ginsberg back and turned to the furry Bot. “MOMbot, very slowly come out into the passageway.” He almost asked it its name, but figured that would just make it harder on Ginsberg. He still marveled that the Bots, murderous as they were up close, remained as dutiful as ever as long as they were out of reach. “Yes, that’s it. Now stop. Turn around and face that way. Yes, that way.”
He turned back to Ginsberg and told him to look away.
Konami crept up behind the MOMbot, wondering with what sensors the enigmatic domestic Bots were equipped. Any second now… Wrench raised high, it didn’t react at all. Maybe these old things don’t have anything more than optics. The malfunction had been causing every other bot to attack any human that came within about a meter’s distance.
He tried to ignore the broken sob from the constable as he brought down the wrench. Head half-crushed, the Bot let out a bleat, but still didn’t resist. Not so dangerous… maybe I was worried about nothing. MOMbots weren’t mute, but in Konami’s experience they were rarely vocal, making this one’s cries all the more disconcerting. The whine was low and keening when he swung the wrench once more. Just a Bot, Cy. Just a Bot. The noise didn’t stop until he swung for a third time.
“Touchdown,” he whispered to himself morosely, too low for his young constable to here.
CHAPTER 40
A startled yelp passed her lips and she pulled back just in time, but the grasper still caught something — her jumpsuit collar. As she reacted reflexively, the body of the GardenBot emerged from inside the jumble of greenery, following her movements as it clutched to her collar like a ghastly automaton lover. Mattoso fumbled for the axe, pulling it free of her belt, but there was no room to swing. Almost cheek-to-faceplate with the Bot, she thrust the axe forward into the Bot’s belly, if it had one.
The stalk-like optics of the Bot glinted and spun as she continued to jab its body with the axehead, finally disengaging three of the limbs that were holding it to the foliage to block Mattoso’s attack. If this Bot was like all the others so far, once out of reach it would revert to normal activity and obedience.
More appendages swung forward, jabbing her at random — knee, hip, shoulder, and face — hard enough to bruise, but no worse. Except for the grasper grip,
GardenBots weren’t particularly strong — they were basically modified RoverBots — but keeping track of the limbs was maddening.
In an effort to get free she twisted around in the freefall, setting her feet against the Bot’s body and pushing with all her might, aiming to launch it across the Garden. Somehow it hung onto her boots and they rotated, slowing as a loose branch scraped against the spinning duo.
With more space between them, she swung the fire axe spike-head first, stabbing into the Bot’s chassis with a metallic crunch. The Bot reacted with an electronic scream, but the axe was stuck in the body housing — even setting her feet and pulling couldn’t dislodge it. She cursed aloud.
Two of the limbs stopped jabbing and pulling at her. Must have hit some of the motor housing. But the others redoubled their efforts, climbing appendage-over-appendage to bring the Bot up her legs and body. She kicked and punched, but even the slim appendages of the Bot were made of sturdy alloy, and continued to crawl up her torso. Somehow the axe came free and floated away before she could grasp it.
Mattoso scrabbled around the Bot’s body with her right hand, searching desperately for some vital piece to tear at, while fending off the grasping appendages with her left. Some flimsy housing came free and tumbled away, and she reached inside — no circuitry to rip, but there was something sharp that jabbed her fingers. The attachment module! Probing fingers felt down the blade to the blunt connector and ripped it free — it was the garden shears attachment for the Bot’s graspers.
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