Diverse Energies

by Joe Monti Tobias S. Buckell

  “Akira,” he whispered. “You know I’m dying. You know you can sense it.”

  “No! I won’t let you die,” Akira said. “I won’t let you!” He leaned over and grabbed Kenji under his shoulder, and began walking again.

  They followed the train tracks until they reached Michino-o station in Nagoya. On the platform, already crowded with shell-shocked victims, the boys lay down in a small, dirty corner at the very end of the station, uncovered by a roof.

  As soon as Akira’s head touched the floor, he fell into a deep sleep, exhausted by his ordeal. Kenji lay on his back, looking straight up at the darkening sky, so clear and cloudless. He couldn’t see a lot, his eyes having closed to near slits. Every breath felt like a fire in his chest. All around him he could hear the sound of suffering. Closing his eyes, he pictured his mother, her beautiful face smiling at him until she morphed into a creature with melting skin.

  His chest was burning inside, pain tearing, ripping with every gasping breath. Through the thudding in his ears, he heard the sound of an approaching train. He saw Akira sit up and rub his eyes, wiping away the tears that had fallen as he slept. Without a word, he lifted Kenji to his feet and began to push a path for them toward the edge of the platform. Still, they were caught in the periphery. When the train arrived, they were shoved and jostled farther away from the door until they found themselves behind the last car of the train. Kenji tripped and fell, taking Akira down with him. They were lost in a sea of bodies that was quickly leaving them behind.

  “Come on,” Akira said. “You have to get up!” People were climbing over them, frantic to get on the train. Akira covered Kenji’s body with his, shoving the agitated mass away from them. As the crowd around them died down, Akira hauled Kenji up. He rushed forward, dragging Kenji with him, but came to an abrupt halt. His absolute stillness in the midst of the chaos was frightening.

  “Something’s wrong,” he said, starting to back away from the train — away from the people.

  “Where are we going?” Kenji asked, confused by his friend’s actions. At that moment he heard the train doors open, and all movement stopped. There was an uneasy silence, broken by gasps of horror.

  “What’s going on?” Kenji asked.

  A harsh voice began shouting, but he couldn’t make out what was being said. Then the sound of bullets filled the air — thousands of bullets ripping through flesh. Bodies fell before them even as others turned to run away. Through the pandemonium Kenji could see soldiers standing in every doorway of the train, spraying the crowd with their machine guns. Blood poured, red and thick, splattering in wide arcs. He watched as it pooled on the ground — wondering how he’d ever thought red a beautiful color.

  “What’s wrong with them? The soldiers have gone crazy!” Akira shouted.

  Kenji shook his head. Akira was wrong. It wasn’t the soldiers who were crazy. It was their world.

  He felt himself dragged across the pavement until he was stumbling onto his feet, held tightly around his waist by Akira. They ran behind the train, across the tracks, and over the platform. He could hear the rapid fire of the machine guns and the never-ending screams.

  Kenji saw Akira point somewhere in front of them.

  “There’s a drainage ditch with a tunnel over there. We have to make for it now,” he said.

  Kenji nodded and nearly fainted in agony as his friend pulled him into a crouch and ran for the tunnel. He couldn’t see where they were going. He just put one foot in front of the other.

  He didn’t want to live anymore. Not in this world. All his family was gone. His city was destroyed, and now he knew that his people had suffered the ultimate betrayal by their emperor. But he couldn’t summon up the energy to hate him. He was too tired.

  They walked in semidarkness, and the guns seemed muted. They stepped into something slick and wet. Kenji could smell old, stagnant water and the fouler stench of oil. He stumbled, falling onto his knees, one hand flung out to stop his fall. Akira pulled him up, keeping an arm around his waist. Kenji rubbed his hand on his shirt, trying to wipe off the waxy feel of the oil. They kept moving, their feet wet from the smelly water, as the tunnel got dimmer and dimmer.

  He didn’t know how long they had traveled. At some point his feet stopped working, and he let his friend drag him along. He no longer cared. All he wanted was to rest. To sleep and never wake up again. To leave behind the hell his world had turned into.

  “This is what happened to them,” Kenji said. “A bomb like nothing else in the world. A city killer.”

  Next to him, he realized that Akira was crying. “It’s the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen. Who would invent such a terrible weapon?”

  “They invented it to win the war,” Kenji said.

  “Then why haven’t they won already? Why are we still fighting?” Akira asked.

  “It’s the Emperor,” Kenji said. “The Emperor’s army comes in afterward and cleans up the city so that no one can know the danger of the bomb. That’s why there are no survivors.”

  “But why?” Akira asked. “Why kill us?”

  “So that the war can continue,” Kenji said. He remembered what his father had said so long ago. War was only good for governments and always bad for the people. “If we knew about this bomb, people would revolt and stop fighting for the Emperor.”

  He knew this as certainly as he knew he was dying.

  “Only when we are all dead will the Emperor let us free,” Kenji said. His breath became more and more labored. He could feel Akira’s muscles straining under his weight, his pace unsteady and slowing.

  “Don’t say that. We’re safe now. Don’t worry. Everything will be all right,” Akira said.

  But Kenji didn’t hear him. Instead, he heard the thudding of many footsteps echoing from behind them. The soldiers had found the tunnel. Akira was breathing harshly from having to carry him. Kenji knew he wasn’t aware of the danger yet. And it was getting closer.

  He couldn’t let his friend get caught. Akira was his best friend. The only person in the world Kenji loved as much as his own family. It would be his fault. He was the one slowing him down.

  A sudden shout behind them caused Akira to jump. Using the last of his strength, Kenji pulled away and fell against the wall, nearly sliding down the curved side. With a hard shove, he pushed his friend’s hands away.

  “Akira, do me a favor,” Kenji said, battling for breath. “Leave me. Just leave me here, and run and hide. Don’t let them catch you. Don’t let them kill you. You have to survive. Promise me that.”

  “I won’t leave you!” Akira said.

  “You must,” he breathed. “You’re strong. You can make it. Someone must remember what the Emperor is doing to us. Someone’s gotta stop this war. You have to hide. Go to Urakami. The soldier said that’s where the bomb dropped. No one survived. They won’t think to look for survivors there. You’ll be safe.”

  He could hear the footsteps louder than ever, the harsh calls of the soldiers shouting out commands, the rapid-fire spraying of bullets. They were too close. The pain that had been so overwhelming had suddenly faded, leaving Kenji with only one thought. He pushed Akira as hard as he could.

  “Run, Akira! Run now and don’t look back!”

  Turning from his best friend, Kenji stumbled away. He heard Akira’s sobs and then the splashing of water that receded into silence. All alone in near darkness, Kenji continued to stagger toward the approaching footsteps. His vision blurred, and his breathing was painful and shallow. Propping himself up against the wall, he fumbled in his pocket until his fingers curled around the silver cigarette lighter he’d found earlier that day. He pulled it out with trembling fingers, letting his palm wrap tightly around the oblong cylinder as he flicked open the lid. The soldiers were seconds away from him, but all he could think of was his friend running for his life. Kenji knew Akira had to survive — had to somehow spread the word of the Emperor’s deceit. He placed his thumb on the flint wheel and pushed away from the wall. He
stood in the middle of the tunnel, listening to the approach of the soldiers.

  “There he is!”

  “He’s just a kid!”

  “Take him down, take him down!”

  He didn’t feel the bullets that ripped into his body. All his effort was concentrated on his thumb as it ignited the lighter. He saw the flame light up in his hand as his body fell backward — the sizzle of the oil erupted all around him. The screams of the soldiers brought a smile to his face.

  Akira was safe now.

  Closing his eyes, he could almost smell the fresh, light perfume of cherry blossoms in the air.

  “Mother,” he whispered. “Mother, I’m coming. I’m coming home.”

  Freshee’s Frogurt

  by Daniel H. Wilson

  It looks me right in the eyes, man. And I can tell that it’s . . . thinking. Like it’s alive. And pissed off.

  Jeff Thompson

  Precursor Virus + 3 months

  This interview was given to Oklahoma police officer Lonnie Wayne Blanton by a young fast-food worker named Jeff Thompson during Thompson’s stay at Saint Francis Hospital. It is widely believed to be the first recorded incident of a robot malfunction occurring during the spread of the Precursor Virus that led to Zero Hour only nine months later.

  — Cormac Wallace MIL#GHA217

  Howdy there, Jeff. I’m Officer Blanton. I’ll be taking your statement about what happened at the store. To be honest, the crime scene was a mess. I’m counting on you to explain every detail so we can figure out why this happened. You think you can tell me?

  Sure, officer. I can try.

  The first thing I noticed was a sound. Like a hammer tapping on the glass of the front door. It was dark outside and bright inside so I couldn’t see what was making the noise.

  I’m in Freshee’s Frogurt, elbow-deep in a twenty-quart Sani-Serv frogurt machine trying to pry out the churn bar from the very back and getting orange cremesicle all over my right shoulder.

  Just me and Felipe are there. Closing time is in, like, five minutes. I’m finally done mopping up all the sprinkles that get glued to the floor with ice cream. I’ve got a towel on the counter covered in the metal parts from inside the machine. Once I get them all out, I’m supposed to clean the pieces, cover them in lube, and put them back. Seriously, it’s the grossest job ever.

  Felipe is in the back washing the cookie sheets. He has to let the sinks drain real slow or else they flood the floor drain and I have to go back in there and mop all over again. I’ve told that dude a hundred times not to let the wash sinks drain all at once.

  Anyway.

  The tapping sound is real light. Tap, tap, tap. Then it stops. I watch as the door slowly cracks open and a padded gripper slips around the edge.

  Is it unusual for a domestic robot to come into the store?

  Nope. We’re in Utica Square, man. Domestics come in and buy a ’nilla Frogurt now and then. Usually they’re buyin’ for a rich person in the neighborhood. None of the other customers ever wanna wait in line behind a robot, though, so it takes, like, ten times longer than if the person just got off their ass and came in. But, whatever. A Big Happy type of domestic comes in probably once a week with a paypod inside its chest and its gripper out to hold a waffle cone.

  What happens next?

  Well, the gripper is moving weird. Normally, the domestics, like, do the same sort of pushing motion. They do this stupid I-am-opening-a-door-now shove, no matter what door they’re standing in front of. That’s why people are always pissed off if they get stuck behind a domestic while it’s trying to get inside. It’s way worse even than being stuck behind an old lady.

  But this Big Happy is different. The door cracks open and its gripper kind of sneaks around the edge and pats up and down the handle. I’m the only one who sees it because there’s nobody else in the store and Felipe is in the back. It happens fast, but it looks to me like the robot is trying to feel out where the lock is at.

  Then the door swings open and the chimes ring. The domestic is about five feet tall and covered in a layer of thick, shiny blue plastic. It doesn’t come all the way inside the store, though. Instead, it stands there in the doorway real still and its head scans back and forth, checking out the whole room: the cheap tables and chairs, my counter with the towel on it, the ice cream freezers. Me.

  We looked up the registration plate on this machine and it checked out. Besides the scanning, was there anything else strange about the robot? Out of the ordinary?

  The thing’s got scuffs all over it. Like it got hit by a car or had a fight or something. Maybe it was broken.

  It walks inside, then turns right around and locks the door. I pull my arm out of the Frogurt machine and just stare at the domestic robot with its creepy smiling face as it walks toward me.

  Then it reaches right over the counter with both grippers and grabs me by the shirt. It drags me over the counter, scattering pieces of the taken-apart Frogurt machine all over the floor. My shoulder slams into the cash register and I feel this sick crunching from inside.

  The thing fucking dislocated my shoulder in about one second!

  I scream for help. But frigging Felipe doesn’t hear me. He’s got the dishes soaking in soapy water and is out smoking a jay in the alley behind the store. I try my best to get away, kicking and struggling, but the grippers have closed in on my shirt like two pairs of pliers. And the bot’s got more than my shirt. Once I’m over the counter it pushes me into the ground. I hear my left collarbone snap. After that it gets really hard to breathe.

  I let out another little scream, thinking: You sound like an animal, Jeff dude. But my weird little yell seems to get the thing’s attention. I’m on my back and the domestic is looming over me; it’s sure as hell not letting go of my shirt. The Big Happy leans over, its head blocking the fluorescent light on the ceiling. I blink away tears and look up at its frozen, grinning face.

  It looks me right in the eyes, man. And I can tell that it’s . . . thinking. Like it’s alive. And pissed off.

  Nothing changes on its face or anything but I get a pretty bad feeling right then. I mean, an even worse feeling. And sure enough, I hear the servos in the thing’s arm start to grind. Now it turns and swings me to the left, smashing the side of my head into the door of the pie fridge hard enough to crack the glass. The whole right side of my head feels cold and then warm. Then the side of my face and neck and arm all start to feel really warm, too. Blood’s shooting out of me like a damn fire hydrant.

  Jesus, I’m crying. And that’s when . . . uh. That’s when Felipe shows up.

  Do you give the domestic robot money from the register?

  What? It doesn’t ask for money. It never asks for money. It doesn’t say a word. What went down wasn’t a tele-robbery, man. I don’t even know if it was being remote-controlled, Officer . . .

  Blanton.

  Blanton.

  What do you think it wants?

  It wants to kill me. That’s all. It wants to murder my ass. The thing was on its own and it was out for blood.

  Go on.

  Once it got hold of me, I didn’t think it would let go until I was dead. But my man Felipe wasn’t having any of that shit. He comes running out the back hollering like a motherfucker. Dude was pissed. And Felipe is a big man. Got that Fu Manchu ’stache and all kinds of ink running up and down his arms. Badass shit, too, like dragons and eagles and this one prehistoric fish all the way down his forearm. A “colecanth” or something. It’s like this monster dinosaur fish that they thought was extinct. There are fossils of it and everything. Then one day some fisherman gets the surprise of his life when he pulls up a real live devil fish from hell below. Felipe used to say that the fish was proof you can’t keep a motherfucker down forever. Someday you gotta rise up again, you know?

  What happened next, Jeff?

  Yeah, right. I’m on the ground bleeding and crying and Big Happy’s got me by the shirt. Then Felipe comes running out the back and turns the
corner of the counter roaring like a friggin’ barbarian. His hairnet is off and his long hair is flying. He grabs the domestic by the shoulders, just snatches it up and throws it down. It lets go of me and falls backward through the front door, shards of glass flying everywhere. The bell chimes again. Bing bong. It’s such a dorky sound for this kind of violent shit that it makes me smile through all the blood running down my face.