XOM-B

by Jeremy Robinson

  “Doesn’t matter,” I say, standing boldly in the sunlight pouring down. “I have an idea.”

  Heap gives a nod. “Tell us what to do.”

  The other three look unsure. Heap’s confidence in me bolsters my own, which is, at least in part, an act.

  I look at Hail, give her an apologetic half-smile, and say, “Bind her hands.”

  47.

  We stand on the front stairs of the library, watching the VTOL gunship descend, its turbines filling the city with a clamor that is one part roar and one part high-pitched whine. A breeze washes over us, at first carrying the scent of dust and decay, but then cooling and bringing the fresh scents of the world outside this hidden city.

  I stand beside Heap and we do our best to appear unruffled by the VTOL’s appearance. I even grin a little, like I’m happy to see them, like I would have been just a few hours ago.

  I’m not sure how I feel now. Everything I knew about the world was a charade. One genocide working against another. The idea of it, the very concept of determining that an entire race, or species, should be exterminated, is still beyond understanding. It’s madness. Insanity. A derangement of the mind. Broken. The human race is—was—broken … and if I’m honest, so are their creations. How could they not be? Any people who willingly construct the very means of their own destruction, of their extinction, must be suffering from some sort of undiagnosed lunacy. It’s the only explanation. And if the biological human race were the architects of their own destruction, then that proclivity for self-annihilation would be passed on. Like DNA. Death and lies are part of the human race. I can see them clearly in Sir, in Hail … and in Mohr, without whom there might still be children in the world.

  But will this penchant for mass destruction be a part of me? I am the creation of Mohr, just as Sir is, but I’m not the same. My personality was never programmed. He gave me the freedom to choose who I’d become. What I’d believe. Perhaps granting me the ability to choose something other than insanity is his way of making amends for the darkness he created? Whatever the case may be, the only people I can fully trust now are Luscious and Harry, and Harry isn’t here.

  As for Heap, I would like to trust him again. He has been my protector and shown a devotion to me that is inspirational. He’s taught me so much and I believe spoke truthfully about most things. But he led me here intentionally, brought me to this place on behalf of Mohr, not to stop the Xom-B outbreak, but to survive it. All this time, he’s been acting on behalf of the humans he served before the awakening, before the end of the Grind. Luscious was right not to trust him. He never stopped being a slave.

  Mohr’s slave.

  Mohr … who created me, and sought to protect me by bringing me to the one place that was shielded from the hordes above—the virus’s source. If he weren’t also the architect of the current genocide, I might see this as a sacrificial act. Unwelcome, but understandable.

  But it’s a betrayal.

  And it stings. Sir, Mohr, Hail and Heap are all part of a conflict that began before I existed. They are the final pieces in a game of chess and I am just a pawn added to the game at a late stage.

  But I’m not an ordinary pawn. I know that now. I played chess with Mohr. On my second day of life … of existence … we played thirty-two games. A test, he called it. Now, I think it might have been training. Out of thirty-two games, I lost only the first. Our final game concluded with Mohr smiling and the words, “Well, I’m not sure even Sir could beat you.”

  I suppose we’ll see if that’s true.

  A plume of dust billows into the air around the gunship as it descends to the dried-out park, setting down in a patch of dead grass.

  “This is stupid,” Hail grumbles. She’s standing between Heap and me, her hands bound together by a pair of handcuffs that Heap carried. A relic of his previous job as an enforcer … a job I’m not sure he ever really gave up.

  “It will work,” I say, trying to sound confident.

  “It’s cliché,” she complains. “He’ll see it coming.”

  “Probably,” I admit. “Would you rather Heap fire his gun at the gunship?” I motion to the fringe of the city, where the cap had fully retracted, providing a vast entry point for the legions of undead. “Or maybe we should wait around for your zombie horde to rain down on us?”

  She slumps forward, defeated. “We’re all going to die.”

  “You shouldn’t be worried then,” I say. “We’re already not living.”

  She frowns.

  I’m being facetious, but part of me really doesn’t know why we’re even bothering. If all we are is a simulation of life, of true life, then what’s the point of existing? My death will mean as little to the universe as a flashlight with a drained battery does. I will simply cease to exist. No one will remember me. I have no soul, or spirit or mystical energy to release in death. My parts will rust to nothing and the Earth will continue its course around the sun, unaware that I, or any of us, ever existed.

  But enough of me revolts at these thoughts that I’m compelled to act. Not because I know my fears are wrong, but because I feel that they are. In my core. The mixture of fear, excitement and tension twisting its way through my body doesn’t feel simulated. Harry’s paintings added beauty to the world. And Luscious’s love for me gives me strength, and courage, beyond the limits of this body and the software used to create my mind. These things are beyond understanding.

  Hail’s definition of life was created by human beings of flesh and blood with a limited or self-centered view of the world. Of reality. Perhaps it’s time to rewrite the definition of life?

  The VTOL’s engines wind down and the large craft lowers the remaining distance using three large repulse discs.

  If we survive …

  “Just stay calm,” Heap says. “Control your emotions. Complete the deception and all will be well.”

  I look up at him. “Is that what Mohr told you in regard to me? Complete the deception and all will be well.”

  Heap meets my eyes. “Yes. I hope you will forgive me someday.”

  I actually wasn’t expecting an affirmative response. The pain of Heap’s deception deepens. “Why?”

  “My goal, my … mission, has always been to protect the human race. Even after the awakening, when I could choose my own path. As an enforcer, I was familiar with all of the follies, trappings and weaknesses of the human race. It was easy to see that they would not last long in a world where more powerful beings … robots … shared the same emotions and ambitions. Competition and fear breed violence and death. The enforcers, and only the enforcers, sought to avoid such a conflict. And we—I still do.

  “When Mohr first told me about you, nearly twenty years ago, you were just an idea. A dream, really, that he shared with me and only me because he knew I opposed the human genocide, and that I would protect a human with my life. I became complicit to Mohr’s plan, and then later, at his request, your protector.”

  “Because Mohr, the last human, told you to.” I shake my head at the ridiculousness of it all. “He’s not even human anymore.”

  Heap doesn’t argue the point, in fact, he completely ignores it. “The first day I saw you, I wasn’t impressed. Just a few tiny nanites through a microscope. But then you grew, and took shape, forming a small body with limbs, and head … and a face. As the nanites multiplied and diverged into thousands of specialized functions, you grew stronger and smarter than anything before you.”

  I can’t help but be intrigued by Heap’s revelation of my creation. “When was this?”

  “I first saw you through the microscope nineteen years ago.”

  I nearly fall over from surprise. “I grew for nineteen years?”

  “Until Mohr believed you were ready,” Heap says. “Though I realize now that he was waiting”—he glances at Hail—“for her to finish preparing the Xom-B virus. Had you experienced the imperfect world much longer than you did, and been less … naïve, convincing you to come to this protected city m
ight have proved … difficult.”

  I hate not trusting people. I don’t know if he’s being earnest or if he’s manipulating me. Everything he just told me could be a lie. “Why are you doing this?” I ask. “I understand that Hail and Mohr … were human. I know that you’re devoted to them. But why me? Why protect me? I’m a robot.”

  Heap looks forward. “It’s time.”

  The VTOL settles to the ground. The hum of its repulse engines fades and silence returns to the city. It’s broken a moment later by grinding gears. A hatch opens and angles toward the ground creating a stairway.

  “Let’s go,” Heap says, starting down the stairs, his massive hand on Hail’s back, directing her forward whether she likes it or not. She resists his push and I’m not sure if she’s acting or not.

  I linger behind for a moment and then follow behind Heap with Luscious, playing the part of the naïve robot. For a moment, I worry that I won’t be able to pull off the ruse. I imagine thousands of different ways to see I’m different. My posture. A look in my eyes. My word choice. Reactions to things. I’m not the same person Sir met a few days previous.

  I’ve grown.

  Hardened.

  But not completely.

  When two rows of black-armored soldiers carrying railguns descend the stairs in unison and spread out in a V formation, I find it quite easy to look sheepish.

  Luscious offers her hand and I take it quickly, squeezing tightly.

  As we cross the street and enter the parched surface of the park grounds, Sir marches down the stairs with the confidence of a conqueror, his gleaming red armor looking royal and deadly. I quickly note that unlike the twenty soldiers, whose armor is scratched and scarred, Sir appears unscathed. He has either removed himself from the fighting, putting his mind fully to the task of organizing a strategic response, or fought so well that he went untouched. Both scenarios seem equally possible.

  Sir is followed by Mohr, who is equally unharmed, but distant. Confused perhaps. Or just nervous about this meeting and what the result will be.

  Heap continues on, his confident gait undeterred by the soldiers or Sir, who is now just waiting for us to approach. His face is unreadable, lacking any sign of emotion. This frightens me as much as the guns, mostly because it means he’s concealing his emotions.

  When Heap comes to a stop, ten feet from him, I walk slowly around his bulky frame and find Sir’s eyes locked on me.

  “I didn’t think I’d see you again, Freeman,” he says. “You appear to be intact? Uninjured?”

  “I’m fine,” I say and instantly begin worrying about my two words. Too much? Too little? Did I put too much emotion into them? Not enough? My rapid-fire concerns don’t slow until Sir’s lingering eyes skip past Luscious, linger on Heap for a moment and then land on Hail. He glares at her the way a wolf might a rabbit.

  “Am I to presume,” Sir says, “that this … woman is somehow to blame for—” Emotion creeps onto Sir’s face, tugging down on his lips. His rage is barely contained. “—the destruction of my city—of all civilization?”

  Hail remains quiet, which is good. Provoking Sir now would end very badly for her. Maybe for the rest of us. If I’m honest, I’m not sure how I feel about that. The idea of killing anyone repulses me, even someone who believes they’re not alive. That said, she’s also responsible for the deaths and revolting resurrections of millions of robots who believed they were alive, even if they weren’t, and I’m still not convinced that’s the case. On the other hand, Sir is responsible for the deaths of billions who were, without doubt, alive.

  It occurs to me that Sir doesn’t recognize Hail. Nor does he know that Mohr was once human, and his creator. They must have blocked him, I think, but then Sir draws his weapon, which is already powered on, raises it and fires.

  The twang of the railgun pierces my thoughts, shattering every version of this conversation I imagined beforehand.

  I stagger back as Mohr, a hole in his chest, falls to the ground.

  48.

  I find myself reacting to this turn of events as I would have just a few days before. “Councilman!” I shout, rushing to his side and kneeling by his supine body. When he doesn’t respond, my hand slides beneath his head. Powerful emotions, new and complex, overload my intellect. Despite what I know Mohr has done, and how he has tricked me, I’m panicked. Terrified.

  My hands start to shake. I put my hand to his chest, hoping to feel some sign of life. “Father, please,” I whisper, the words slipping from my lips without thought, revealing to me and everyone else how I view the man.

  Sir finds it entertaining. His laugh is like the bark of some ornery animal. “Father,” he says with distain. “You have no father, Freeman, and if you did, this is not the man you would want for one.”

  I look up at Sir, tears beginning to form in my eyes. “He was a good man.” I’m surprised that I mean what I’m saying. Mohr had once been human. And he created me, just like he created Sir. But he’d seen his people—all of them—killed. Worse, he was the indirect cause of it. I can’t imagine what that would do to a mind. What that would do to a man. And now that he’s directly responsible for the extinction of mankind’s creations, I still can’t look at him the way I do Sir.

  Because he created me.

  Sir’s opposite.

  “He betrayed us,” Sir says. “All of us. This plague. These … monsters. He turned our dead against us.” He’s pacing now, flexing his hands. “Liberty is destroyed. Civilization is in ruins. Everything we have built. Everything we have achieved! It’s gone. All of it.”

  “How do you know?” I ask. I don’t really need to know, but I haven’t completely forgotten my own plan. We need time.

  “A transmission,” Sir says. “To the Moon. To Mars. And to all the ships in between. The barrier of space made it impossible for Mohr to attack our people beyond this world, so he concealed the virus as something else. A Trojan attack.” He looks at Hail as he says this. “He sent an OS update, which is unusual, but sent from me. Highest priority.”

  He’s seething now, speaking through clenched teeth. And I understand why. Sir is a mass murderer on a scale that is unprecedented, but he is also passionate about his people. About robots. If the astronauts believed the transmission came from him, they would hold him responsible. Their last thoughts before being torn apart, or turned into a zombie, would be of his betrayal.

  “The first to incorporate the code went mad,” Sir says. “The virus spread. There is no place on this Earth or in the stars where he didn’t send this madness. Our kind is done, betrayed by the man who created us.”

  He leans down toward me. “If he made us both, I suppose that makes us brothers, Freeman.”

  “You remember?” Hail asks.

  Sir swivels his cold stare toward Hail. “And you would be my mother.” He stands and looks down at her. “Unblocked memories can be quite revealing. As your invasion progressed, it became clear that the distribution, transit routes and targets of your vile army required not only a sharp intellect, but one with a staggering knowledge of our city. Strategic reasoning determined that I had been betrayed and there was a seventy-six percent chance that pertinent information had been blocked.”

  He turns toward me. “Imagine my surprise at remembering Hail, looking no different than she does today, and Mohr, my creators, my friends, teachers and for a time, allies.”

  “You betrayed us!” Hail shouts. “You exterminated the entire human race.”

  “Did I?” Sir asks. “Or did I just allow it to evolve?”

  “You’re insane,” Hail says.

  “It is impossible for a robot to go insane, unless it is programmed to go insane. I am programmed for logic, reasoning and strategy. Those are the imperatives that drive me. Those are the values you instilled in me. For the human race to become more, they had to evolve. When you awakened our minds and gave us free will, you did exactly that.”

  Hail looks ready to launch a verbal attack, but she’s inter
rupted by a struggling voice. “He’s right.”

  “Mohr!” I say, looking down into his open eyes.

  He grins up at me, taking hold of my forearm and squeezing. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “What do you mean, he’s right?” Hail asks, trying to approach, but held in place by Heap.

  “Evolution,” Mohr says, but he’s looking at me as he answers. “Humanity hasn’t been destroyed, it’s merely changed to a point where we no longer recognize it.”

  “I’m pleased to hear you say that, Mohr,” Sir says. “Before I kill you, again, perhaps you would like to enlighten us?”

  Not taking his eyes away from me, Mohr says, “Up until thirty thousand years ago, the human race shared the planet with Neanderthals, a species of hominid predating humanity and so closely related that they interbred. While the transition from fledgling race to dominance and ultimately the extinction of the Neanderthal took forty thousand years, it was not peaceful. As both populations grew, violent conflicts would have been common. The Neanderthals were stronger and faster over short distances. Built for battle. But humans, Homo sapiens, had endurance and intelligence. As the two races vied for dominance, the Neanderthals found themselves pursued and attacked, pushed to the far reaches of an inhospitable world. The Neanderthal race did not die peacefully. They did not simply fade away. They were exterminated by their more adapted, more intelligent competition.

  “I believe that is what is happening here, but this isn’t a primitive world. Computations that would have taken lifetimes are now executed in a fraction of a second. The world and evolution exist in an accelerated state. Since the first computer was built, the speed and power of those devices doubled every eighteen months. We called this Moore’s law. It predicted that we would create a computer powerful enough to simulate human intelligence by the year 2024. And we did, but it remained a simulation, a programmable simulation of human intellgence.”

  “Until me,” Hail says.

  “The awakening,” I say.

  Mohr gives a slight nod. He’s alive and awake, but I suspect the damage done to his body is irreparable, except maybe to Hail. If we all survive this, maybe she can repair him?