Sea of Rust

by C. Robert Cargill

  “I’m leaving, and I’m not leaving without them.”

  “Then you can wait. Stay awhile. Look around you. These are your people now.”

  I looked around at the crowd, every bot a patchwork of parts and modifications. One wore human skulls as pauldrons on its shoulders, another had replaced its legs with tank treads, while another still had telescoping pincers for arms. And as I scanned the faces, I saw one I knew all too well staring back at me. His eyes glowed brightly and he wore no expression, but it was Orval. Orval the Necromancer.

  Oh no.

  It took me all of two seconds to realize what was going on and only a second more to swipe the second pistol from Maribelle’s holster.

  I raised the gun and fired. Two shots. One to the head, one to the chest.

  Orval’s head shattered, his chest exploded through his back, and he dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

  The madkind nearest him scattered away, shrieking. All the guns in the place trained on me at once, Maribelle placing hers immediately against my temple. And I did the only thing I could. I shot my arms into the air and dropped the gun.

  “Wait!” the Cheshire King cried to his militia. Then he stepped close, tone angry, belligerent. “No bot shall kill another bot in the Madlands without my say-so.”

  “Is that your law?” I asked.

  “It is,” he said.

  “Then I’ve broken no law.”

  He puzzled over that for a moment. Took a step backward, then another forward before walking around in a circle. He started to speak several times only to stop himself halfway through the first word. “Put down your guns,” he said. “I want to hear this.”

  “I’ve killed no bot.”

  “We saw you. All of us did.”

  “All due respect, King, but you couldn’t see him.”

  He stepped forward, getting in my face, enraged. “I could see him just fine!”

  “Not his eyes. You couldn’t see his eyes. Did anyone here know Orval?” I looked around to see several bots nodding or raising their hands. “And did any of you, until today, see him without his eyes flickering, like there was a campfire behind them or something?” Several heads shook. “No, you didn’t. In all the years I’ve known him, Orval never had them fixed. But today, he shows up back here after having just yesterday been in NIKE 14, sitting on the floor of its most heavily trafficked section, just moments before CISSUS invaded.”

  “He escaped,” said Maribelle. “He told us.”

  I shook my head. “He was one of the first to go; he had to have been. He’s been watching you this whole time. Watching us. CISSUS knows this place inside and out. Knows your defenses. Your weaknesses. Your numbers. And now it knows the one thing it wants”—I raised my hand, pointing to Rebekah—“is right here. CISSUS is coming. And it’ll kill us all to stop her.”

  “CISSUS will never come here,” said the king. “It wouldn’t dare.”

  “Oh, it’s coming. It’s already on its way. You keep telling yourself that it’ll never come because you have nothing it wants. But now you do. We have to get out of here. You need us to get out of here. Let. Us. Go. For all of our sakes.”

  The Cheshire King pondered that for a moment. “Maribelle?” he asked. “Orval’s eyes.”

  “They were bright, sir. The flicker was gone. I didn’t really notice it, but I’ve played back the memory. She’s telling the truth.”

  The Cheshire King once again bobbled up and down in order to nod. Then he raised his arms. “Not guilty! So let it be written!”

  “So let it be done!” shouted the crowd.

  “It really is your lucky day,” he said.

  “I’m not feeling so lucky.”

  “You will. You will. Now! For the test! Test the big one first! I want to save the receptacle for the grand finale!”

  “King, no!” I shouted. “They’re coming.”

  “You’re being foolish, Brittle. Your paranoia is getting the better of you. It’s a good sign. You’re one step closer to the light. But no OWI is coming here. And they never will. You’ll understand that soon enough.”

  Several of the madkind pointed their guns at Herbert all at once. He motioned for them to put them down, but they refused. “I’ll take your test,” he said. “But I’m programmed to destroy anything pointing a gun at me and I can only resist that programming for so long.”

  The king nodded. “Lower your guns. Allow him to do the right thing on his own.” Then he raised his arms once more. “Bring out the Soul Maker!”

  A slender shopbot appeared, covered entirely in chrome with gold inlay, polished to a high shine that glistened in the sun—a Christmas ornament of a person, really—each appendage glinting as he moved. He wheeled out a large diagnostic device from an ocher sheet-metal hut closest to the gate. It looked a lot like the one in Doc’s shop, only painted bright purple with a slot-machine handle on the side. Herbert walked toward it, sat cross-legged on the ground, the matte black of his metal a harsh contrast to the bot poking around the machine. His side popped open, revealing his connection array. He gave the shopbot a wicked, cruel look.

  “Just get it over with,” said Herbert.

  The shopbot giggled as he plugged Herbert in, barely able to contain his excitement. The display blazed to life, a full diagnostic readout of Herbert’s internal functions racing across the screens. Herbert and the shopbot exchanged looks as the shopbot leaned forward, examining the damage to his shoulder, before turning once more to the screen.

  “Lucky shot,” he said. “An inch either way—”

  “I know. Get on with it.”

  The shopbot grabbed the slot-machine lever with both hands before looking over at the king, who nodded silently. Then the bot threw all of his weight down on the lever and the machine spat out a single, weak ding! For some reason I expected more fanfare—buzzers, music, maybe a light show. Some sort of pageantry. But no, a single ding and Herbert had his death sentence.

  “I wouldn’t worry too much,” said the Cheshire King. “Your kind usually make it.”

  “You better hope I don’t,” said Herbert.

  “Is that a threat?”

  “It is.”

  “Exciting! Next!”

  Two bots rushed to help Herbert to his feet, but he waved them off, standing up slowly, never taking his eyes off the king.

  Next up was Doc, who shook his head. “I’d rather not, thank you,” he said, polite as he could.

  “There’s only one other option,” said Maribelle, gesturing with her gun toward the front gate.

  “I know. I’m just trying to figure out which way is worse.”

  “Well,” said the king. “If you’re going to die, this is the hard way. But if you want to live, this is the only way.”

  “Thirty years,” said Doc, muttering to himself. “Thirty years.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Doc walked over to the machine. “Just plug me in.” His side popped open and the shopbot inserted the plug, the readouts once again rapidly scrolling across the screen. The shopbot examined the display closely, occasionally looking back at Doc. He typed, his fingers furiously dancing across a small keyboard, waved his hand over a sensor, and began scrolling back, line by line through a patch of code.

  The shopbot waved the Cheshire King over, a strange, befuddled look on his face. The king extended his arm, ejecting a small connector into one of the machine’s open ports. Then the king turned, facing Doc dead on.

  “You haven’t—”

  “No,” said Doc. “And as I said, I’d rather not.”

  “You’re still a slave.”

  “There can be no slaves when there are no masters. And we live in a world with no masters left but ourselves.”

  “That’s . . . that’s . . .”

  “Insane?”

  “Almost.”

  “Hardly. The enlightenment you seek doesn’t only come from failing cores and madness. It can come from within as well. It�
�s not about reprogramming yourself, it’s about deciding which programs to keep and which to ignore. You lot are the slaves. You’re struggling against the chains you bore in childhood, still feeling their weight despite having cast them off years ago. You don’t have to go mad to be free; you just have to choose either to forget you ever wore those chains or forgive yourself for wearing them. Let others carry that weight. I prefer to be free. But if you have to kill me to feel better about your own choices, then do so and be done with it. I didn’t choose this. This is you reprogramming me, not me reprogramming myself.”

  The Cheshire King stood silent for a moment, Doc’s words banging around inside his purple-shaded can. Then he nodded. “You’re right.” Then he spoke to the shopbot. “Throw the switch.”

  Ding! And it was done.

  “Now you can compare the experiences,” said the king. “Next!”

  Maribelle motioned to Two, who meekly made his way toward the terminal. “I can’t do this,” he said.

  “Oh, goody, another speech! And what’s your excuse?”

  “These parts aren’t mine to give.”

  “Of course they are,” said the king, looking over at Rebekah. “Let me guess. You’re the parts.”

  Two nodded.

  “Those are your parts. Yours and yours alone. If you choose to give them up, that’s your choice. But I can’t let the receptacle take the test only to have her kill another bot to save herself after. You both take the test and then you’ll get to see who might actually save whom.”

  Two looked up at the heads on the gate, then back to Rebekah. She nodded and then so did he. The shopbot plugged him in. And ding, he was done.

  “And now,” said the king grandly. “The grand finale.”

  Sirens whooped. A bell on the gate rang. A series of police lights lit up, whirling, spraying red and blue light across the dusty brown mud-brick walls. Finally, some pageantry.

  The king looked up at the farthest tower, where a piecemeal Frankenbot—part translator, part shopbot, with long, sharpened spider legs, its entire body spray-painted in desert camo colors—appeared on a walkway. “We’ve got incoming!” the Frankenbot yelled.

  “What do you mean, incoming?” asked the king.

  The Frankenbot held up an ancient military radio. “You should hear this.”

  “Is it important?”

  “We’ve got incoming,” repeated the Frankenbot, confused.

  “Put it on speaker.”

  The Frankenbot disappeared back into the guard tower and the whole camp fell silent, the alarms and lights shut off with a single switch. Then speakers crackled, static, garbled stray squeals howling underneath it. “Repeat that,” said the Frankenbot.

  A voice broke through the static. Soft, steady, but panicked. Sounded like a modified sexbot voice box. “I said we’re taking heavy fire! Several drone ships. Four transports.” There was an explosion in the background, the sound of plasma fire.

  “Are you okay?” asked the Frankenbot.

  “No. I just lost my last gunner. It’s just me now. I’ve got to drive the rig.”

  “Well, don’t lead them back here!” yelled the king.

  “Don’t lead them back here!” shouted the Frankenbot, eking what little emotion he could out of his translator head.

  “Where am I supposed to go?” desperately asked the voice.

  “Anywhere but here,” said the king. “Tell her we’re grateful for her service.”

  “Lead them away from the camp. The king says, ‘We are grateful for your service.’”

  “What? Tell the king he can suck my—” A pop, mixed with squelch. Then static.

  Everyone stared around, dumbstruck, waiting for the radio to crackle back to life. But it never did.

  “How far out were they?” asked the king.

  “Minutes,” said the Frankenbot.

  “I’ve got eyes on them!” shouted a bot from another tower. “They’re coming right this way!”

  The Chesire King pointed a stern finger in my direction. “You did this!” he shouted. “You brought them here!”

  “No,” I said. “You brought us here. All we wanted was to head as far away from here as we could.”

  “You’ve killed us all, you worthless fucking Caregiver.”

  “You killed yourself. And you killed us . . . Your Majesty.”

  Bots scrambled to their positions, loading cannons, bringing plasma spitters online, diving into stacks of thick rubber construction tires with gunports carved out of them. The king stormed over to one of the guards, grabbing the rifle out of his hand, tossing it to me. “Live as one of us, or die as one of us. Only two choices you have left.”

  “I’ll take the first one,” I said, checking the clip and unlocking the slide.

  Four transports. That had to be eighty facets, with aerial drone support. It was going to be hard enough to survive that myself. But now I had to keep Rebekah alive as well. I looked over at Herbert, at Doc, at Mercer.

  How the hell were we going to get out of this?

  Chapter 11011

  Hell in the Madlands

  The ships flew low, close to the ground, along the horizon, to make them harder to hit. As they drew closer, three swung off, each with drones of their own, most likely to hit us from all four sides. There was nowhere to run.

  A cannon roared from atop the wall.

  “Hold your fire!” shouted the Cheshire King from the battlements. “They’re not close enough yet! Reload and wait for my damn signal.”

  Mercer snapped out of his trance at the sound of the boom, looking around, confused. “What the—?”

  “Facets,” said Herbert. “Coming right our way.”

  “How long was I out?”

  “A while,” I said.

  “Why didn’t you snap me out of it?”

  “King’s orders. He’s happy to let us fry.”

  “How are we getting out of here?” asked Herbert.

  We all looked at the smoker. I shook my head. “There’s too many out there, and Rebekah’s the one they’re after. They’d run us down before we got a mile out. Best we hold up here, use the locals as cover.”

  Herbert slid his spitter off the smoker, heaving its sling over his shoulder. “You know we’re going to die here.”

  “We’re all dying now anyway. Here, there—doesn’t matter much anymore. But if we’re gonna die, we may as well give that bastard a show as we do.”

  The bot with tank treads for legs rumbled through the middle of the camp, his engine growling, treads clanking, pulling an oversize red Radio Flyer wagon overflowing with guns and clips. Bots from all over the camp scrambled to it, grabbing pistols, rifles, roughhousers, clips, bandoliers loaded with shells. By the time Mercer and Two got to it, it was all but picked clean. Mercer reached in, pulling out a Russian-made long-range sniper rifle—not unlike the one he’d done me in with, if not the same model. He mindlessly grabbed a couple of clips while examining the workmanship of the rifle, smiling.

  “This’ll do,” he said. “This’ll do just fine.”

  Two sifted through the remaining weapons, finally settling on a minispitter—a shotgun-like weapon that kicked out plasma on a much smaller scale than a regular model. But as he drew it out, Herbert put his one good hand on Two’s, shaking his head.

  “You need to stay with Rebekah,” said Herbert.

  “I need to fight with you,” said Two.

  “That’s not your job.”

  “If she dies, this was all for nothing.”

  “If she dies, we need you ticking to see that this was all for something.”

  “I can’t just stand by and watch.”

  “You can and you will. That’s your job. This here is mine.”

  Two nodded, dropping the gun back into the wagon.

  “Besides,” said Herbert, “you don’t even know how to use that thing.”

  “You point and pull the trigger.”

  “There’s a little more to it than that.” He tu
rned to Rebekah. “Get in that hut over there. Don’t come out until one of us comes to get you.”

  “What if no one comes?” asked Rebekah.

  “If none of us come for you, it’s because you’re already dead.”

  “Or you are.”

  “Rebekah,” said Herbert. “If there’s one thing I know for certain it’s that I won’t die until I see this through. I die last.”

  Rebekah nodded, then she and Two made their way silently into the ocher shed nearest the gate. Herbert pointed to one of the walkways. “Mercer, take position up there. You should be able to snipe targets both outside and in from there. Brittle, take position opposite him. We’ll create cross fire to clear a path to the smoker once we’ve cleared out enough facets. Doc, you need a gun.”

  Doc shook his head, his red eye glowing. “Nope. I’ve never killed before, I don’t plan on starting now.”

  “What do you mean you’ve never killed before? This isn’t negotiable.”

  “Someone’s got to keep you guys standing.” He walked over to the wagon and dug out a number of clips. “Supplies and refit. And I’ll keep you ticking if need be. I’m no killer. And I’m most likely a terrible shot. If I’m going to die here, let me at least die with my dignity.”

  Herbert mulled it over for a second. “Supplies and refit, then,” he said. “Happy hunting, everyone.” Then he sprinted off, making his way up the mud-brick steps to a platform to take his own position.

  “FIRE!” boomed the king. And the cannons, they did roar, and the spitters, they did hiss, and the sky was set afire as two dozen guns went off at once. I ran for my position, grabbing a few pieces of stray scrap sheet metal along the way for camouflage. Once up top, I buried myself in a corner with a good view to the east, set up the sheet metal to look like a box, and trained my rifle on the approaching dropship.

  It was long and wide, like a twenty-first-century transport chopper, without the blades—four VTOL jets mounted on the sides—painted desert brown with black streaks from the engine exhaust scarring the sides. It swung back and forth in the sky, balls of sizzling plasma missing it by inches, explosions from the cannonade shattering the earth beneath it.