Rise of the Robot Army

by Robert Venditti

Miles might not see any of them ever again.

  “Admiring my mechanized infantry, I see.”

  The General stood in the doorway. His white hair and thick mustache were neatly trimmed. The breast of his olive-green uniform coat was adorned with more medals and ornaments than a Christmas tree. The creases of his slacks were sharp enough to slice a loaf of bread. He looked as though every aspect of his appearance has been paid the utmost attention.

  “Sir!” the corporal shouted shrilly, saluting so fast Miles thought he might shave off the top of his own head. “Subject Two delivered as ordered, General, sir!”

  The General’s eye twitched almost imperceptibly. Miles reckoned that was as close as he ever came to flinching. “I can see that, Corporal. I’ll notify you when I’m finished here.”

  The corporal spun on his heel and turned to leave, walking smack into one of the robots. He bounced off it like a basketball hitting a brick wall.

  The General clenched his jaw tight enough to pulverize a softer man’s teeth to dust. “You’re dismissed, Corporal.”

  The corporal hung his head and trudged off. He swiped his keycard through the lock again and exited the room, the door closing behind him with a soft, sad sigh.

  The General clasped his hands behind his back and turned his focused attention to Miles. He didn’t seem to be looking at Miles so much as looking through him, as though he already knew everything there was to know.

  “At last,” the General said smugly, “we meet.”

  “Who are you?” Miles tried not to sound as scared as he felt. “What do you want with me and my friend?”

  “I will ask the questions here!” the General boomed. His voiced reverberated around the room. A silent moment passed, and then he tugged at the bottom of his coat, composing himself. “But perhaps you’re correct. In the tradition of Ulysses S. Grant and Robert E. Lee convening at Appomattox Court House, we should grant each other the courtesy of talking as colleagues, not rivals. I am General Mortimer George Breckenridge, Unites States Army. And you are?”

  The General was both terrifying and cordial at the same time. Miles was too confused to speak.

  The General bent at the waist, leaning forward to scrutinize Miles. “Refusal to answer isn’t an option. Final warning. So let’s try it again: I am General Mortimer George Breckenridge, Unites States Army. And you are?”

  Miles wasn’t sure how to respond. “Miles Taylor, Chapman Middle School?”

  The General leaned in closer still. Another millimeter and the bristles of his mustache would tickle Miles’s nose. “Where are you from?”

  “Cedar Lake Apartments. You know where the Biscuit Barrel is on Jimmy Carter Boulevard? It’s just down the street—”

  “Enough!” The General snapped upright, his anger showing through again. Miles had never heard someone shout so loudly with their teeth clamped so tight. It was like mean-guy ventriloquism. “I should have expected you to show no respect for the etiquette of military discourse.”

  Miles wanted to point out that there wasn’t a whole lot of etiquette in kidnapping people and holding them against their will, but he didn’t want to set the General off any more than he already was.

  “You may dispense with your insulting attempts at subterfuge. I’ve been following your exploits far longer than you realize. I know all about Donald Plower and what was hidden beneath his onion farm. I know what happened in that parking garage last fall.” The General thumped his index finger against his chest, setting his medals a-jangle. “I know everything.” He declared it with such certitude, Miles almost believed him.

  “I’m not trying to be disrespectful, Mr. Breckenridge—”

  “General Breckenridge.”

  “General Breckenridge. Sorry.”

  The apology was sincere. If only he could make the General realize this was some kind of mix-up. Miles wasn’t a villain. He was Gilded—the same Gilded who last year had fought alongside General Breckenridge himself against the Unnd. They were all on the same team.

  “I don’t understand what you want, General. We haven’t done anything wrong or illegal, and I swear I don’t know anyone named Donald Plower.”

  The General scoffed. “That’s exactly what you wish me to believe. That you’re an innocent little boy who wouldn’t harm a kitten. But I won’t be deceived by this . . . this . . .”—the General wagged a hand at Miles—“masquerade. I know better. It wasn’t until after the alien invasion that I at last convinced the president that Gilded was the true threat. When he learns all that fearsome power was being wielded by a mere child? My God. Think of the disaster I’ve averted.”

  Miles exhaled heavily. What he was about to do was no small thing, but what choice was there? This was serious. The General needed to be convinced that Miles wasn’t a bad guy. Fast. “If I tell the truth, will you promise not to tell the kid with the glasses I told you? Because I’ve disappointed him enough as it is.”

  “You have my oath as a military man,” the General answered.

  “Okay. I got the cape from an old man in a parking garage. See, he used to be Gilded, but he said he couldn’t do it anymore. So he told me to take the cape and be the new Gilded. And that’s what I’ve been doing. I’m the one who’s been watching over Atlanta and, er”—Miles looked down at his feet—“a few farther-away places lately. It was me who helped stop the Unnd—those lizard-monster things who attacked the city were called the Unnd—from taking over Earth. You and your soldiers were getting beat, but I showed up and saved you. Remember?”

  The General pressed his lips together.

  Miles cleared his throat. “What I mean is, you’re in the army. You want to protect people, just like I do. We can work together. You don’t have to keep me here. Just give me back the cape and tell me what you need. As long as it’s the right thing to do, I’ll do it. You can trust me. I promise. I’m not a threat to anybody. I’m a hero.”

  “YOU’RE NO HERO!” The words blasted from the General’s mouth.

  “You have no right to speak that word,” he continued. “You’re a child. I’m fully aware of your cape and the power it grants you. Even if I hadn’t discovered the truth long ago, I heard you and your friend discussing the matter in your cells.”

  A chill ran down Miles’s spine. Henry was right—they were being spied on, watched like lab rats forced to play part in a cruel experiment.

  The General seemed satisfied with himself. “Does that make you uncomfortable? It’s how threats are dealt with in the real world. Throughout America’s history, generals have stepped forward time and again to guide the nation through its darkest hours. Great men who’ve trained and prepared themselves to face the harshest dangers the world can offer. Would you have me believe that, because of you, all the danger is behind us? The notion is absurd. If not for me, you would have become our greatest danger. The cape is mine now. So are you, until I can be sure you’ll never pose a threat to anyone ever again.”

  Miles almost couldn’t ask the next question, for fear of what the answer might be. “How can I prove to you that we’re on the same side?”

  “You may not be able to,” the General replied coolly. He didn’t seem to care if Miles ever proved it to him or not.

  “My dad.” Miles’s voice cracked. “Can I call him just to tell him where I am?”

  The General shook his head. “He’ll find out when the time is right. As will the parents of your accomplice. Everyone you’ve interacted with will be brought in for questioning. It’s crucial that I learn who knows about the cape. Then I’ll determine the steps necessary to contain this situation you’ve created.”

  “You won’t!” Miles demanded. His dad, Henry, Henry’s parents. They were all innocent. Miles couldn’t bear to think that they were going to be interrogated or imprisoned because of him. And what about Josie? Was she also in the General’s sights?

  The General loomed closer. “I most certainly will. I’ll wring every bit of information from all of you. I won’t guarantee tha
t it will be pleasant. But I guarantee you’ll all tell me what I want to hear.”

  “No . . .” Miles backed away. “You’re . . . you’re insane.”

  “On the contrary. I’m a hero.”

  Miles couldn’t breathe. He had to get away. Now.

  He spun and nearly collided with one of the General’s battle bots. He was paralyzed with fear. If he could just make it through the door, he’d stay on the loose until he found the cape. Once he had it, he’d break Henry out of his cell. Lenore, too. No one deserved to suffer at the hands of a madman like the General. Surely the cape would understand that. But first he had to get past the door.

  Miles ran.

  “Mechanized infantry!” the General bellowed. “Ten-HUT!”

  The door was close. Miles was going to make it. He risked a glance over his shoulder and saw the robots’ eye visors spark to life, glowing with sinister light like grocery checkout scanners of doom. The General stood motionless beside them.

  “Ten-hutting, General Breckenridge,” the battle bots replied in digitized unison.

  Miles reached the door, his heart beating a thousand times a second. Safety was just on the other side. All he had to do was . . .

  . . . locked. Miles has been so afraid of the General and his robo-soldiers, he’d completely forgotten about the keycard the corporal had used to unseal the door. No key, no way out.

  “Detain Subject Two!” the General commanded. “Intact.”

  The machines rumbled to life in a chorus of spinning gears and firing pistons. “Detaining Subject Two, General Breckenridge.”

  Miles pressed his back against the door. The robots closed in. Large as they were, there was nothing lumbering about them. They moved fluidly and as a single unit, like mirror images of each other. It was coordinated precision at a level above the capacity of any human.

  Miles frantically looked around the room. Surely the General had a keycard of his own hanging around his neck, right? He made a beeline for the General, pumping his legs as fast as he could.

  A robot rolled in front of Miles, creating a barricade between him and the General. The tangle of tools on its right forearm shuffled, producing a large, three-fingered clamp.

  Miles didn’t have time to think. He hit the polished floor, sliding feet-first in his best impression of a big-league ballplayer stealing second base. His momentum carried him between the robot’s legs just as its clamp snapped closed, pulling out some of his hairs.

  Miles sprang to his feet and made his last dash for the General. Breckenridge held his pose, like he was engaging Miles in a game of chicken to see who’d flinch first.

  Miles vowed to not let it be him. He spotted a lanyard around the General’s neck and reached for it, his fingertips brushing the starched fabric of his collar.

  Suddenly, there was a stabbing pain in Miles’s left ankle. Before he knew what was happening, he was upside down and dangling, his hands reaching frantically for the lanyard.

  A robot behind him had spun around to grab him with its clamp. Not exactly spun around, but rotated one hundred eighty degrees at the waist, so its top half faced Miles and its bottom half pointed the opposite way.

  The robot hoisted Miles higher until he was staring directly into its visor. The clamp tightened on his ankle. Agony shot through Miles’s leg like a jolt of electricity. His bones felt on the verge of shattering. He waited for the robot to blast him with its arm cannon or pull him to pieces with its assortment of beefed-up pocketknife tools. Oh, God, he thought, envisioning the top of his skull being peeled back. Not the can opener. Anything but the can opener.

  “Stop!” Miles yelped. “I surrender!”

  The robot’s eye beam scanned Miles’s face. “Subject Two detained, General Breckenridge. Intact.”

  The General watched Miles with interest. “You surrender?” the General pouted. “So easily? I expected more resistance.”

  Miles grimaced, his head swooning as his blood rushed into it. “Please. Don’t kill me.”

  “Request granted.” The General nodded at the robot. “Mechanized infantry, release Subject Two.”

  “Releasing Subject Two, General Breckenridge.” The robot opened its clamp, and Miles dropped to the floor. The robot spun its bottom half around to face the same direction as the top, while at the same time folding its clamp back into its assortment of tools. Then the robot stood stock-still, probably content to remain that way for all eternity, or until another kid required upending. Whichever came first.

  The General leaned in, studying Miles with a sour frown. He was tipped forward so far, Miles didn’t understand how he kept his balance. Maybe gravity followed the General’s orders, too.

  “My mechanized infantry is impressive, isn’t it? I designed the units myself. Carefully selected each specification and weapon to create the perfect combat force for defeating large-scale threats. Threats like Gilded, you might say.

  “Now here Gilded is”—the General clucked—“on the ground at my feet. But you aren’t Gilded anymore. You’re an insignificant boy. I very much wish I could’ve tested my special soldiers against the real Gilded, but alas, it wasn’t to be.”

  Tears stung Miles’s eyes. If only he could have one more chance with the cape. He’d be better this time. “If you want to see how your trash cans measure up,” Miles dared, “give me the cape. We’ll find out.”

  The General chuckled. “I think not, boy. A good leader never takes his victory for granted. But I admire your bravado.” The General straightened. “Corporal!” he thundered.

  The door at the end of the room flung open nearly before the General finished the word.

  “Yes, sir, General Breckenridge, sir!” the corporal replied eagerly.

  “Return Subject Two to his cell.”

  “Right away, General, sir!”

  There was nothing Miles could do. He was defeated.

  He limped out of the room with the corporal in tow.

  CHAPTER

  15

  AS BEST MILES COULD FIGURE, three days had passed.

  Three days without breathing outside air or even so much as glancing through a window. Three days without being able to talk to his dad.

  Was Mr. Taylor waiting at the police station for someone to tell him his son had been found? Was he hanging posters with Miles’s yearbook photo on telephone poles and in store windows? Just thinking about how worried his dad must be made Miles feel even more dejected than he already was. Not an easy feat, given his current situation.

  In the time since they’d arrived at General Breckenridge’s Prison for the Completely Innocent, he and Henry had barely been able to talk. Miles had tried a few times, but Henry always shushed him. Miles didn’t like it, but he understood why: They were being watched. They were only ever let out of their cells for meals and showers, always at the same times, and always accompanied by the corporal. As for the General, Miles hadn’t seen him since they’d talked. It was like the General had forgotten about them.

  Lenore had gone silent, too. Miles asked her questions about her family and where she was from and how she’d come to find herself jailed in a supermax military prison—you know, typical get-to-know-your-neighbor stuff—but Lenore never showed any interest in conversation. Maybe she was too afraid or too depressed, since Miles and Henry had turned out to be utterly useless as engineers of her escape. Or maybe, like Henry, she felt that saying nothing was better than being eavesdropped on.

  If the solitary confinement wasn’t unpleasant enough, the prison’s amenities were downright nasty. Going to the bathroom was made possible by a small toilet and privacy screen that emerged as needed from a hidden compartment in the back of his cell. The sheets on his cot were as hard as month-old bread, and the food in the prison’s cafeteria tasted like starched cotton.

  It didn’t take Miles long to figure out the prison’s routine. He and Henry were woken each morning at oh-seven-hundred—which apparently was the army’s long way of saying “seven a.m.”—and escor
ted by the corporal to the cafeteria for breakfast, where their food was already on the table waiting for them. After breakfast came thirty minutes of cleanup time. They were permitted to shower, brush their teeth, and put on fresh jumpsuits identical to the ones they’d just taken off. All of this was conducted under the watchful eye of a pair of battle robots. Showering while armor-plated death dealers scanned them with their eye beams—nothing unsettling about that at all.

  Lenore always went alone to cleanup time, finishing before Miles and Henry had their turn. That was the only time she ever left her cell. She hadn’t joined them in the cafeteria once, but based on the reek wafting in the air whenever he returned from his meals, Miles figured she was given her food while they were gone. He’d tried asking her why she had all the extra security, but she refused to answer.

  After everyone had been through cleanup time, they were allotted one hour of entertainment in their cells. “Entertainment” consisted of a hatch opening in the back wall, behind which was a plastic tub filled with books and toys. A short list of some of the items Miles had been asked to entertain himself with: a softback copy of Curious George, a half-dozen crayons and loose sheets of paper, two Wiffle balls, a wooden truck, and a twenty-four-piece puzzle of a cartoon dog running through a field of sunflowers.

  The corporal tried to mix things up by rotating the toys between Miles, Henry, and Lenore—sending Henry the wooden truck and giving Miles a sailboat instead—but it was all equally lame. Miles had seen better selections at his dentist’s office.

  Exactly sixty minutes after the entertainment period started—not one second more—the corporal’s voice would screech over the loudspeaker for them to return the toys to the plastic tubs and the compartment in the wall would close again.

  That was it. That was their life in captivity.

  • • •

  Miles and Henry were eating lunch on their third day. They sat across from each other at a bolted-down steel table in the cafeteria. Aside from a pair of battle robots standing guard at the cafeteria door—another thick door with a keycard lock—they were alone. Stark white and uninviting, the cafeteria didn’t look all that much different from the lunchroom at Chapman Middle. On the one hand, Miles found the familiarity oddly comforting. On the other hand, he wondered why a school for law-abiding children had been designed to emulate a prison.