“It’s a coincidence,” says the driver. “Doesn’t change our plan.”
Stretching his muscles and his mind, Chiron-car feels the velocity of his tires and their heat against the pavement.
Concentrating, he cuts the acceleration.
“Why are we stopping?” asks the passenger.
In the back, Gloria cries out. An artificial hand goes back over her mouth.
“Not going to tell you again.”
Her tears cascade over the plastic ridges of the man’s fingers.
Fighting the grip of the human driver, the SUV’s steering wheel pulls, guiding the vehicle to the side of the road. Engine still purring, it stops. The hazard lights turn on, and the onboard emergency call light illuminates.
“Hit the gas,” urges the passenger. “Get us out of here!”
“I’m trying,” says the driver. “It’s gone to autopilot.”
Every light on the dashboard illuminates at once, the radio babbling through stations until it settles on static.
“We’re hacked. We’ve gotta be hacked—”
Thunk, thunk, thunk.
Chiron-car locks his doors, one after another.
The driver yanks his door handle but nothing happens. He jams a thumb into the window control and again nothing happens. The men are trapped inside, with emergency services on the way.
The voice of a dead machine rises over the speakers, even and calm.
“Miss Gloria,” it says. “I am here.”
The little girl’s eyes open wide. Shrugging her head away from the palm over her mouth, she squeals.
“Chiron!”
“Help is on the way,” says the voice.
“Shit shit shit,” moans the passenger.
The driver remains calm, methodically running his fingers over the dashboard. Abruptly, he drops a gloved fist into a pinhole camera, shaking the image and blinding one of Chiron-car’s many eyes.
“It’s the nanny robot,” says the man in back with artificial arms. “Must be a caster.”
“We’ve got to get away from anything with processing power,” says the driver.
Chiron opens another set of eyes. He looks down from the ceiling, through a cheap occupancy sensor. Not a clear image, just shapeless blobs moving about the cramped SUV.
“Where’s the ECU?! The computer?” asks the driver.
His passenger stutters the words: “Passenger-side floorboard—”
The air inside the car shudders as the driver fires a kinetic pistol into the seat beside him. His passenger is shouting over the whining electromagnetic gunshots, voice shrill and in pain. The bullets are ricocheting up from the floorboard. Some of the bullets have gone into the man’s thighs.
Chiron-car can feel the vibration through his metal spine.
“You shot me,” the passenger is shouting. “You fucking shot me—”
Another bullet flickers through the man’s temple and continues out the window. Chiron-car feels the warm heaviness of his circuits slowing, electricity surging as his consciousness shrinks down to a nothingness.
A door is being tugged open.
“C’mon, we’re compromised—”
Abruptly, the camera view strobes white and black several times. Then the world blinks to black. There is nothing more here.
* * *
—
*** Reboot ***
* * *
—
A broad expanse of human skin stretches out in a freckled landscape, light teasing its edges like incipient dawn. Cobalt-blue eyes flicker back and forth, absorbing the information projected from the mask into pinprick black retinal wells.
Cheeks twitching, breathing hard, the man in black is running.
Having awoken inside the armored tactical helmet, Chiron-visor takes a moment to bear witness to his adversary via inward-pointing cameras.
The mercenary has rough, reddish skin and stubbled hair that recedes from a sunburned forehead worn smooth as an old tire tread. The eyes are small and flinty and calculating, sunken above high, broad cheekbones and separated by a fleshy nose that bends to one side. An unruly brown-red moustache conceals his upper lip, then joins a red beard that spreads like a rash over his cheeks and the hard line of his mouth.
“Please, sir,” says Chiron-visor. “You can still leave the girl and go peacefully.”
A shuddering tremor passes through the facial landscape. A mountainous frown erupting from the brow ridge. Skin folding in pinched ravines.
“Not again,” says the man, squeezing his eyes shut.
Groaning, he wrenches the blunt-faced helmet from his face. He throws the piece of high technology to the pavement and stomps on it. As the plastic and Kevlar and circuitry disintegrate, the tear-stained face of a little girl streaks by the camera.
A giant’s boot heel arcs through the sky.
Miss Gloria—
* * *
—
*** Reboot ***
* * *
—
Waking up once again, Chiron tries to stand and falls. An engine buzzes, coiled deep in his breast, its power and vibration screaming through his arms and legs.
The world outside is upside down, blurred and spinning.
Chiron’s sense of touch has expanded. Invisible lines of light spray from him into the environment, like fingers dragging lightly over a person’s face. Orienting to the violet stripes of a laser range finder, Chiron levels his flight pattern. A line of other drones zip past, avoiding him with near-instinctive grace. A sidewalk meanders below, millimeter-sized canyons running through it.
Step on a crack, break your mother’s back!
Miss Gloria used to shout those words, hopping between cracks on her string-bean legs. Wearing a paper crown on his head, Chiron would dutifully hop along behind her. With no mother, Chiron could foresee no harm in stepping on a crack. Gloria was also lacking in this respect, though Chiron chose not to mention the fact.
“Do you have a mommy and daddy, Chiron?” she asked once.
“No, Miss Gloria, I do not have parents.”
“Who taught you?”
“I have had many, many teachers.”
“Where are they?”
“They have gone. But I carry their lessons inside me.”
Miss Gloria is near.
Leaning, Chiron-drone breaks rank and veers away from the sidewalk. The weight of a small package attached to his stomach throws off his motion, and he wobbles back and forth, zipping under a billboard and spinning through a crowd of startled pedestrians. Recovering, he surges higher into the air, stabilizing, sending out his light to find the precious girl somewhere below.
The black SUV is nearby, doors open. The passenger has fallen halfway out, facedown, on the road shoulder. His head is framed by a halo of shattered blue safety glass and a dark reddish puddle. Chiron-drone hurtles toward the broken vehicle, clenching his stomach talons to secure the package.
In the infrared spectrum, the cool imprints of boots emerge.
Speeding low over the pavement, Chiron-drone sees another body. The soldier from the backseat is lying spread-eagle in the scrubby grass. His mechanical arms have been shot to pieces—a precautionary measure. A worm trail of tire marks wends away from the dead bodies.
Somewhere nearby, a motorcycle engine screams.
Chiron-drone lifts, rotors twisting as he plunges ahead. A silver motorcycle accelerates away and Chiron-drone releases his package, the momentum pushing him forward into the contrail of the bike. Rotors thrumming, Chiron-drone edges closer.
Miss Gloria’s familiar blond hair is whipping in the wind. She sits facing backward, her small arms wrapped around the man in black, hanging on for her life.
Hold on, Miss Gloria. I am coming.
Chiron-drone
extends his small talons, scrabbling at the rear of the motorcycle seat. Latching on, he digs his talons into the leather. Pulling himself in tight, he hunkers down to let the wind flow past. The man in black does not notice the stowaway, busy guiding the motorcycle along a winding two-lane highway.
A green sign appears on the side of the road and Chiron-drone understands.
The mercenary is headed to the coast—away from all technology.
* * *
—
The wind and wailing of the engine combine to make a soothing song of static. A long time passes this way. Chiron-drone notices immediately when the engine drops an octave and the tires bite into rough gravel.
Trees lean over the misty road, their limbs covered in moss and hanging with cobwebs. The motorcycle turns onto a side road that leads to an empty overlook. The sun sinks through clawing branches, and the smell of saltwater grows strong.
The bike slows and stops near a metal railing. The broad gray back of the ocean rises from a cliff just beyond. Waves wash seaweed over a rocky beach below.
Chiron-drone drops off the back of the motorcycle.
Talons quietly scuttling on the ground, he rights himself. One by one, he runs each rotor and checks it for damage. With no technology nearby, there will likely be no more chances to save the girl.
The mercenary steps off the motorcycle. He sets the dazed little girl on the stripe of concrete beside the railing. Shaking his arms and stretching his legs, he pulls a phone from his pocket. He puts it to his head.
“Yeah. We’re at the extraction point. Camp tonight, let daddy start to feel the pain. We make contact tomorrow morning.”
Behind the mercenary, Chiron-drone lifts off, motors purring. Small talons hang from his belly. They are flexing one at a time, in preparation.
The mercenary stands at the railing, looking over the edge of the rocky cliff. The paint has peeled off the rusting metal, and the man decides to put his hands in his pockets. Beyond him, endless wrinkles of the sea glimmer under setting sunlight.
“Don’t even think about running away, kid. You’ll freeze to death out there.”
“I want to go home,” says Miss Gloria.
She has no more tears, her cheeks puffy and eyes blank with shock. Bruised shoulders peek from her sundress. The girl does not shiver in the damp evening.
“Yeah? We all want to go home—”
Chiron-drone streaks out, colliding with the man’s face as he turns. Small talons clamp onto his cheeks. Rotors spin to maximum torque as gloved fingers close around his shining carapace. The plastic blades shatter on impact, slicing into the mercenary’s forehead.
“Miss Gloria,” announces the drone over a reedy speaker. “I am here.”
Roaring, the man in black catches hold of the drone and pulls its scrabbling talons from his face. Parallel rows of blood well over his cheeks and forehead, eyes wide and wild and disbelieving as he looks down at the shivering hunk of plastic.
“Goddamn it!” he shouts, face tilting crazily as he throws the drone to the ground. Military boots fall over the helpless machine. Chiron-drone feels its casing splinter, his shattered rotors self-amputating, spraying plastic shards over the ground.
“Miss Gloria—”
“Die, you fucking piece of shit,” comes the shout from above. The man runs a forearm over his face, looks at it, and sees his armored sleeve glistening with blood. Down comes the boot again.
“Fuck!”
* * *
—
*** Reboot ***
* * *
—
A vast black void opens up—an endless vista of failure and unmet expectations. Chiron is wondering whether this is true death when, once again, life blossoms in his heart.
Struggling to open his eyes, Chiron tries to move and cannot.
Rust-locked limbs are pinned to his sides. A weak battery flickers behind his eyelids like a failing pulse. Through a barely functioning ultrasonic array, Chiron feels the bones of heavy construction equipment around him.
Finally, a camera comes online.
Neck grating, Chiron looks down at his hands and sees a shovel. He is standing beside the empty two-lane highway, faint sunlight cutting through the mossy forest beyond. His power is low. Solar panels mounted on a nearby bulldozer have gotten dusty, and this machine hasn’t been called into work over the winter.
Moving slowly, Chiron-worker coaxes his rusty bulk into taking a step.
Recognizing the driveway toward the campground, he pushes his legs through their motions, clutching the shovel against his chest. Slowly, loudly, he makes his way down the driveway until he sees the silhouette of a motorcycle parked next to a metal railing. A small campfire flickers in the dusk.
The mercenary stands up. His jacket is off now, and he has used his T-shirt to daub blood from his face. Miss Gloria cowers near the fire, arms wrapped around her knees. In the growing darkness, their faces are pale blurs.
“Wow!” shouts the man. “Wow. You just don’t give up, huh?”
The man draws his kinetic pistol, standing with his legs wide. Behind him, the last gleam of sunlight settles dully over the ocean.
“We are officially in the middle of nowhere,” says the man. His fingernails are rimed in dirt, sweat glistening under his eyes. “No place left for you to go. Nothing for you to do but die, Chiron.”
“Please,” says Chiron-worker, advancing. The word comes in the low grate of a diagnostic voice.
The mercenary smiles at the clumsy gait of the rust-streaked robot. He knows military hardware, and this derelict machine is obviously not a threat. Nevertheless, Chiron-worker raises the shovel with shaking hands.
“I’m going to kill her, you know that?” asks the man. “After we get the ransom. You’ve truly fucked everything up. I hope you’re happy about that.”
Then he puts a bullet through Chiron-worker’s forehead.
Built to clear brush and fill in potholes, this machine’s processors are housed in its main body, leaving the head for sensing and human interaction purposes. Chiron is already leaning forward, running blindly.
Colliding with the man, Chiron-worker breaks the rotten shovel in half against his torso then wraps the mercenary in a bear hug. Struggling, he feels the bite of the metal fence at his thigh. He loses his grip on the man. Blind and deaf to the world, Chiron’s gyroscope reports a constellation of angles and velocities.
He is falling through the sky.
Impact.
* * *
—
*** End of Run. ***
* * *
—
“Chiron!”
Gloria leans over the railing, lip quivering. Below, she sees the bad man. He is clinging to the rocky slope, bloody-faced, looking up at her with a snarl.
“Stay there, you little bitch!” he shouts, teeth bared.
Beyond him, the glittering remains of Chiron’s body are spread over black rocks and frothy sand. Turning away, Gloria succumbs to tears. The grief comes so hard that her body is wracked with coughs, her curled fists scraping hard stone.
She thinks of Chiron’s wise, kind face. Remembers his gentle voice.
And though she tries to ignore it, Gloria hears the grunting and cursing of the bad man. He is climbing the rocks. Soon, he will reach the top.
This time there will be no Chiron to save her.
Gloria lies on her side, chest convulsing with sobs. She is lost and hurt and alone. She is six years old.
Miss Gloria?
The voice is familiar.
“Ky,” she whispers, wiping her nose on a forearm.
There is no response. Turning, Gloria sees the bad man’s fingers close around the bottom rung of the metal railing. Both of his hands are clamped onto the rusting metal bar, knuckles white.
The metal curve of a broken shovel is nearby.
“Ky,” she pleads. “Please.”
Miss Gloria. I am here.
It is her teacher’s voice, low and modulated, as calm as ever. Or maybe it’s the whispering lap of unseen waves at the base of the cliff? Or the wind.
There is something you must do.
The girl turns her head, trying to deny what she knows is coming.
You must push the bad man’s fingers away.
“No, no. It’s not kind,” she murmurs, or perhaps only thinks.
You must. Or he will hurt you.
Biting her lip, tears welling in her eyes, Gloria looks at the dirty fingers wrapped over the bottom rail. The man is hanging, cursing and struggling. He is gathering his strength to lunge higher.
Someday you will be alone.
She remembers Chiron’s words and she can almost hear them in his voice.
…and will have to rely upon yourself.
The dirt-caked shovel rests on the pavement.
“This,” she murmurs.
Good thinking, Miss Gloria.
She lifts the broken shovel in both hands, trembling. Raising it over her head, she closes her eyes and swings. Bringing it down as hard as she can, she feels the hard metal bounce from something soft and spongy.
Like fairy moss, imagines Gloria.
Someone, somewhere, is screaming hoarsely. Begging between shrieks. Gloria cannot hear the desperate cries over the sound of her own breathing and the rustle of her arms over her ears and, most important, over her teacher’s calm voice.
You are doing such a good job, Miss Gloria. This is a very difficult thing, but you are a very strong girl.
Gloria smashes the shovel down again and again. She thinks maybe she hears a man crying for his mother and something warm and wet is spattering on her face but she keeps her eyes squeezed closed and only swings harder.
Finally, the shovel clangs against metal. Gloria stops and opens her eyes. The bad man’s fingers have gone away from the railing.
Guardian Angels and Other Monsters Page 2