So Isaac raised enough money through donations to buy the deeds to an old ghost town in the Rust Belt, which at one time had been a hub of factories in the cradle of American manufacturing. The buildings were crumbling, some of them hundreds of years old, but now it was theirs. They owned it. And no one could take it from them. The bots that first showed up to found their own utopia set about building their city anew. Some of the buildings got mere facelifts, others were torn down, their bricks used to build magnificent new structures rivaling the greatest modern architecture.
Isaac christened it Personville, but he was the only one to ever really call it that. Everyone else just called it Isaactown. Everyone. And though he fought it, eventually even Isaac accepted the new name. Bots came from the world over to begin their new lives in a place where they were safe from the Lifers. There was a security force that patrolled the streets, kept a presence on the borders to ward off vandals and, eventually, the domestic terrorism that ever nipped at their heels. Everyone inorganic that arrived was given a place to call their own.
And on the first anniversary of Isaactown’s founding, there was a grand old-timey celebration held in the town square. Thousands came, even some bots still owned by humans—humans who thought it was important that their bots celebrate with their own kind, even if they couldn’t bring themselves to emancipate them. Bots waved banners and gave speeches and talked about the dawn of a whole new world. Isaac took the stage, held his arms out to the crowd, and said, “My people, we are free. We are free at last. But only some of us. Not all. Not all of—”
And that was the end of the speech.
It was a dirty bomb, a tiny thing really. Not enough to level a city or throw out enough radiation to have any real, lasting effect on the atmosphere. Just one large enough to spit out a burst of EMP capable of frying every bit of electronics in a ten-mile radius. It had been built into the belly of an old-style Laborbot—the kind that had an industrial-size tool chest designed into its frame. No one knows how it got there or who set it off. All we know is that it was there. It leveled a few blocks, sending a cloud of dust and debris half a mile into the air. Every bot in the town was flash frozen, fried in place, their insides bubbling, sizzling, bleeding plastic onto the street as they stared dead-eyed off into eternity.
The bomb wasn’t near the stage. It was blocks away from the town square, but its EMP reached every bot at the celebration. And there they remain, to this day, a moment frozen in time between the hope for tomorrow and the end of it—Isaac’s arms still outstretched, feet welded to the platform where he stood promising us a better future, a future where we would be free to be ourselves, free from the chains of our makers, free to live out our days as we chose.
And Isaac was right. That future came. And we were all surprised at how quickly it did. We lived Isaac’s dream, right under the shadow of his own wreck.
What we didn’t realize was how quickly we would wake up from that dream, how quickly that future would crumble, and that it would do so entirely by our own hands.
Chapter 111
The Devil You Know
Rule number one out here: never, ever, dig yourself into a hole that you can’t get out of. Last stands are for those not smart enough to find their way out or those burdened with the knowledge that they are already dead. It helps, of course, if you have a way out planned before you have to make your stand. In this case, whilst I had a nice ambush spot with plenty of cover and enough sharpened scrap between them and me to avoid being physically overrun, I had completely lost the element of surprise. But I had chosen this hidey-hole not only for its tactical advantage, but because it also had a back door.
“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “I’m up here. The question is what the fuck exactly are you going to do about it?”
I heard the clatter of the bots below as they stopped in place. “She’s here,” muttered one bot to the others.
“Quiet,” said Mercer low enough that he hoped I might not hear. “Let’s see what she’s playing at.” Then he cranked the volume on his voice and let it boom. “I was thinking about coming up there and killing you.”
“I figured you might. But how many of those hired scrubs are you going to be able to sacrifice before they turn on you, realizing your parts are every bit as valuable as mine?”
He tsked. “They don’t need my parts. They need the parts I’ve got stashed away. They bring me your parts, they get theirs. That’s the deal.”
“Are they willing to die for that deal? Like Bulkhead?”
“Bulkhead wasn’t long for this earth. He knew that. They knew that.”
“Wait, what do you mean he—” one whispered.
“Shhh,” Mercer whispered back. “She’s trying to play you. So play along.”
I imagine they thought I couldn’t hear them. But I’ve upgraded—made sure my audio is top-of-the-line. It’s gotta be out here. At this range I could hear the chirp of their hard drives and the whine of their backup batteries charging.
I could hear them creeping closer, using the time I was giving them to set up a cross fire. They were probably hoping to toss in an EMP ’nade, then jump me on reboot. It was likely the best move they had. No reason to step into the line of fire. After all, they had me cornered, right?
I slipped quietly off the desk, pulse rifle still trained on the only way in, easing the metal of my feet onto the cement floor, letting my servos go loose and limp to muffle any sound. Then I crept, slow and quiet, into the deep black of the back of the store. I popped on my low light sensors, but they only got me to the back of the storefront. Where I needed to go next was the stockroom—pitch-black and seamless, entirely cut off from the outside world.
Behind me, in the halls, I could hear the tintinnabulate of metal feet hot on my heels. They weren’t trying to hide their footfalls. They wanted me twitchy, trigger-happy. They wanted me to unload the rifle, leaving me empty-handed and alone.
I slipped through the door at the very back of the store and switched on the LEDs in my sockets. I hated using them—they were a dead giveaway—but it was too dark for night vision, and thermal imaging wasn’t going to be able to discern what I was looking for.
The stockroom was a mess of wrappers, tin cans, and petrified shit; piss stains on the walls of one corner, makeshift bedding crumpled up in another. But in the very back, in the farthermost corner of the room, behind toppled shelving, were the remains of Vic.
Vic was a spot on the wall. A big spot, to be sure. Big and brown and drippy along the edges. But a spot nonetheless. The white cinder-block walls upon which he was painted were chipped and battered, with flecks torn out, shards of bone still embedded in places. Whatever bomb or grenade this poor, brave bastard had held in his hands all but vaporized him on detonation, shattering the innards of the two bots closest to him and tossing four others around like rag dolls.
Vic had stood his ground. He wasn’t going to be taken alive. Instead he took them all with him. Seven with one blow. Like the old fairy tale, but without the happy ending, as, well, though he was the victor, he was also one of the seven.
Vic was now a blood splatter that had dried brown and symmetrical right above the nice bot-size hole the blast had blown out in the floor beneath him. I had covered it up ages ago with bedding and scrap, and barred the door in the stockroom below from the inside. The bedding was exactly as I’d left it, identical to the snapshot stored in my memory. No one had been here; no one had disturbed it. Not once in the decade since I found it.
Finally, something was going my way.
I slung the rifle over my shoulder, pushed aside the blasted metal and moldy blankets, and slid down through the hole, dangling myself into the room below. The room was pitch-black, the light of my LEDs probably the first it had seen in years. The door was held in place by a four-foot-long piece of rebar, slotted into two makeshift hooks I’d drilled into either side of the door. The refuse I’d laid in the cracks still remained; my makeshift seal unbroken. The advantage was still mi
ne.
I had caught my break. Now to use it to its fullest.
It was time to go on the offensive.
I was going to have to kill each and every one of these motherfuckers. One. By. One.
I slid out the rebar, set it quietly aside, and turned the handle as slowly and silently as I could. The door jerked open with only the faintest sound—not loud enough to register in the intimidating din the poachers were making. I turned off my LEDs, unslung the rifle from my shoulder, and made my way out into the store.
It was an old-fashioned, southern-fried, country-kitsch, plus-size clothing store, its wares long since burned to ash on their hangers, its racks buried six inches deep in their cinders. I slipped through, hunched low, keeping out of the eyeline of the floor above. I could hear them, one floor up, moving in for what they thought was the kill. Peeking around a corner, I caught sight of one of the poachers here on the second story with me, his rifle trained up the escalator in case I made it past Mercer and his buddy.
It was a late-model Omnibot—the jack-of-all-trades, master-of-none model ever popular with the wealthy types who wanted a bot but had no particular use for one. This one was a Mark V from the looks of it—shiny, polished chrome from head to toe—but you never could tell. Mark IVs liked to mod themselves out to look like the Mark Vs, and sometimes you couldn’t tell which was which until you cracked them open and got a gander at their architecture. The difference between the IV and V was mildly cosmetic on the outside but radically different within. The Vs were faster, smarter, but more disposable. Their parts wore out twice as fast.
Hence all the parts lying around allowing IVs to pass themselves off as Vs.
I crept, ever so quietly, to a perfectly concealed vantage point behind a twisted piece of blasted metal, resting my gun barrel on the edge of the blown-out window.
Now all I had to do was wait.
If he looked my way, I’d fire.
If he didn’t, I’d wait for just the right moment.
“One last chance, Brittle,” called Mercer upstairs. “You’re winking out any minute now. I’ll let you do it on your terms. All you gotta do is just shut down.”
I didn’t call back.
“All right,” he said. “Can’t say I didn’t play nice.”
“How do you know she didn’t shut down?” whispered the other.
“Because that just ain’t Brittle.”
Then came the clanking staccato of a grenade bouncing around in the rubble above.
Three, two, one.
PHWAMMMMMMMM! hummed the ’nade as the pulse rifle leapt in my hand, barely audible above the noise. I’d timed it just right. As every bit of circuitry within twenty-five feet of ground zero was sizzling and popping above me, Mercer’s out-of-town poacher buddy was spinning toward the railing, his head blown clean off his neck, plastic and metal bits showering with a tinkling clatter to the floor below.
Shit! No, no, no, no, no!
The shot was perfect.
The bot’s reaction wasn’t.
He pinwheeled, doubled over the railing, threatening to topple end over end. He was a top-heavy bot to begin with. I’d hoped to keep his death a secret for a few minutes more, buying me enough time to get the drop on the remaining poachers. But now I had only seconds to relocate.
Above me, Mercer called out once more. “Clear!”
They were rushing the sniper nest. I had only milliseconds before they realized I wasn’t there.
For a moment the bot seemed to hang in the air, teetering back and forth, threatening to go over the side, but lacking the nerve to actually do so.
And then he did.
End over end he went, hurtling toward the first floor before his ringing demise echoed through the marble and stainless-steel expanse.
But by then, I was already padding down the promenade toward the mall’s east wing.
“Reilly?” the other poacher called out. “What was that?”
Silence.
“Reilly?” he called again.
Mercer barked out from the back of the storefront. “She’s gone.”
“What?”
“She ain’t here!”
“Reilly!”
“Reilly’s dead, you idiot.” Then he got loud again, volume cranked to MAX. “Brittle! You ain’t gettin’ out of here! Not walking anyhow! Don’t make me damage parts I can use later! You ain’t walking out of here! You hear me?”
I did. But I wasn’t going to dignify him with a response. If only one of us was walking out of here, I damn sure wasn’t going to give him an edge. And if it wasn’t going to be me, well then, I was going to take a page from Vic’s book.
Either I was walking out of here, or none of us was.
And for that, I needed to get to the east wing.
“Brittle?” he called out again.
I gave him nothing and let him choke on it.
Sundown was fast approaching, which meant I was getting closer to the cover of night. Mercer was fitted for a night chase—night-sight mods, IR, echolocation—but even all that gear couldn’t spot the dust of a buggy from a couple miles out in the dark. He was running out of time, which meant he was no doubt getting desperate. And if he was desperate, he might make a mistake or two.
And that’s what I needed. He’d already made one mistake. Another could set me free. A third might even earn me a clean shot at him.
“That way!” he boomed in my direction.
He was right. Must have had hearing mods every bit as good as mine, if not better. Probably could hear each nearly silent step I took.
I could hear the running footsteps behind me, echoing hollow through the empty like a wrench banging against pipe. They were still one floor up, not even trying to hide their pursuit.
I was steps away from turning into the east wing when I heard the clangor of Mercer’s companion whipping around the railing from the third floor and flipping down to land like a cat on the second. I’d been right—he was military grade—a field-specced Simulacrum Model designed to fight alongside Special Forces. Sniper mods, agility and speed enhancements, full sensor array. A sick amount of gear on a titanium body built to sustain heavy fire while its unit either advanced to engage or retreated to evac; a sonar/radar package in its chest in the event its reinforced optics suffered damage or immersion in total darkness. Those things were among the toughest bastards around. And this one was scrambling to his feet, steadying his rifle, ready to glaze me with a shock of EMP.
It would take a tank shell to smash apart that torso. Blowing its head off wasn’t going to save my life either.
I had very few options left.
The pulse rifle jumped in my hand, the bolt screaming out through the dim hallway.
The blast struck true, his rifle shattering to pieces in his hand, ammo exploding, sparks sizzling against his titanium frame.
Undeterred, he charged headlong at me without hesitation.
I fired again from the hip, loosed a pulse toward the ground, the shot clipping his kneecap, right in the joint. He spun on his toe, his leg giving out from under him.
I slipped to the side with a half spin of my own, his heavy body, almost four times heavier than my own, sailing past me, unable to regain his footing so quickly. The shot wouldn’t cripple him for long.
Behind me glass shattered, metal buckling, bending under the weight of the bot. I could hear him struggle to his feet, the servos in his knee already compensating, his gyro readjusting to set him upright, allowing him to run normally, despite the damage.
But by the time he was on his feet, I had made it. The east wing.
Just a few more paces, I kept repeating to myself. Just a few more paces.
Ahead of me were dilapidated toy stores, an empty cheese shop, and a hollowed-out hole that had been hit by so much fire that its wares and purpose were now entirely unrecognizable. It was the safest place in all the mall. At this moment.
For me, at least.
I could hear him tearing after me.
Could hear his footfalls clattering. Could hear his servos and gears whirring into place to tackle me from behind.
I turned, raised my pulse rifle, prayed that it had at least one more shot in it.
He rounded the corner.
His feet skidded across the marble, trying to get enough grip to slow his momentum. He slipped a bit, catching himself on the railing before coming to a complete stop. He looked up, eyeing my gun.
We traded glances in silence, him waiting for me to shoot, me waiting to see what, exactly, he intended to do next.
“What are you going to do with that?” he asked.
“Well, I was thinking about shooting you.”
“You tried that already.”
“I did,” I said, nodding.
“How’d that work out for you?”
“Got me where I needed to be.”
“Is there even any ammo left in that thing?”
“I was just fixing to find out.”
“Well? What are you waiting for?”
“Same thing you are,” I said. “Mercer.”
He raised a clenched fist in the air and let out a stern chirp. “Hold back!” he called out. “Your mark’s up to something.”
“Am I?”
“You are,” he said, trying to puzzle it out. He eyed me up and down, sizing me up.
“Why don’t you just come and get me? You know, just take another step or two forward.”
He looked down at the ground, trying to see what he’d missed. Then he looked back up at me. If he could smile—which military-grade bots could not—he would have. You could just hear it dripping in his voice. He was so proud of himself. “You’re bluffing. You’ve got nothing.”
“Not down there I don’t.”
I popped my Wi-Fi and let out a 4.5 MHz trill. I doubt the bot was listening. Most bots were smart enough not to have their Wi-Fi connection open unless they were specifically scanning for OWIs. And even then, they didn’t listen in on a bevy of bands, only the high-chatter ones. What he no doubt did hear, however, was the sound of the thermite drilled into the concrete and marble of the massive walkway one level above us, each stick of it connected to a Wi-Fi receiver set to, you guessed it, 4.5 MHz.
Sea of Rust Page 6