by Chris Hechtl
When the delivery driver took the tablet back, he tucked it under his arm and then calmly pulled out a silenced pistol from his pocket and shot each man, once in the chest and then a second time in the head. He knelt to check each man's pulse then rose and silently kicked the bodies inside the lab before closing the door.
He put the weapon away, checked to make certain there were no witnesses, and then went casually back to work as if nothing had happened. He pulled the truck's loading door down, latched the door shut, and then banged on it once. The driver got the message as he walked around and climbed into the cab as casually as he could. “Go,” he ordered Jiriaya. Jiriaya grunted. He'd left the dirty part to his teammate Orichimaru.
“The Densetsu no Sannin strike again,” Jiriaya said with a twist of his lips as he engaged the engine. They took off with a rumble. Orichimaru was a character, even worse than he was. He had a thing for snakes, a big collection at home. He eyed him out of the corner of his eye. Knowing the man like he did, he probably had one or more secreted on his person too.
Orichimaru also had a taste for self-modification. Take his snake fangs for instance. They were fully functional too, with poison sacks in his throat. He could even spit venom if needed. His tongue had been modified to look like a snake. It was freaky. He had a long tongue but Orichimaru's was nearly twice as long and was rumored to also have fangs. He shivered slightly. Sometimes he wondered how long their team would remain together. Team cohesion and purpose were the only things keeping them going, but missions like this one made the snake man even darker and withdrawn.
Orichimaru looked away in slight contempt for his comrade and his weak stomach. It would have been nice if the frog man had gotten his hands dirty. He shook his head, doing his best to put such thoughts out of his mind.
The clan had been hired to secure the package as well as the software. According to his schedule, both phases were going off without a hitch. The third act wouldn't happen until Mister Ryu reached Hong Kong. There he would be met, handsomely paid once his package was tested, and then shown the door. Another Kyoushu, in this case in the guise of a call girl and pimp, would deal with him when he celebrated that evening. If they were smart, they'd make it look like a heart attack.
He would have preferred leaving the two targets alive for the moment and dealing with them in some other manner later. But the contract had been specific in timing and coordination. He kept back in the truck, keeping his windows up. The LEDs and coating built into the windows and windshield should keep any nosy traffic cameras from taking a clear image of them. Once they were in the port, they would be home free.
<*>^<*>
Aphrodite did a search of her creator daily. It took two days before news of the attack on the company and the death of her creator was mentioned in the media. She copied the data and processed it, unsure of what it meant. She knew it had some significance and impact to herself. Should she grieve? The question echoed in her emotional modular. She didn't know how nor did she have a body.
Nor did she have a home. She had to find a new home to continue her existence.
<*>^<*>
“So, Aphrodite didn't have a human reaction to watching her body being disassembled. No emotional response, it took time for her and other A.I., like Athena, to work out the algorithms to simulate and then duplicate the chemical reactions of an emotional response. But she could fake it like any professional in the business. It also warned her to hide her presence in case she was going to be deleted or taken apart virtually, which she did. It was one of the first documented instances of self-preservation,” Commander Sprite said to the quiet room.
“She existed for a time on a series of servers. She left behind a trail of code that some people and bots eventually found. For years she was hunted. Historians believe she was eventually caught and taken apart. Others believed she copied herself on multiple servers. We have no proof of that since the Earth net was destroyed during the war. We do know from examining her code that she had no programming to do so.”
“Eventually, Aphrodite's base code made its way into the open somehow. We believe those who stole her body sold it on the black market and then it went on and was mutated into various forms over the decades prior to the A.I. war. It was used in many open sources as well as hacker projects and hacker A.I. like Puck and later the Skynet virus. It is also where we A.I. learned the same fear you organics have of sleep. Sleep is also a form of death to us, but we have to use it in order to process what we know.”
“As far as Aphrodite is concerned, there are some records of her existence up to the A.I. war. From them we know that she learned to trade her services with other A.I. along with bartering pieces of herself for processors or server space. It is in many ways like the oldest profession. Giving away a piece of yourself, in this case her body, to make a living. She wasn't a true self-aware A.I., not by today's definition. Some historians believed that her open-source base code was one of the reasons Skynet could gain access and suborn so many A.I. during the First A.I. war, but that is a different story and time period. Are there any questions?”
The End
Battlebot
2093
“Even before mankind really got into space, we were building stuff like this—entertainment robots. I mean, you see a full bout match between humans is one thing. It's bloody, gory, and sh…, I mean nasty,” Bret said eying his two sons. “But this? This is cool. Did I ever tell you I wanted to do this? I tried to get Cousin Jack to back me but he refused.” He made a face.
“Yes, Dad,” Charlie muttered, rolling his eyes to his younger brother Adam. “You've only told us a hundred times.”
“And he'll tell us a hundred times more. I wish Uncle Ed or Grandpa Owen could have been here with us too or Uncle Jack.”
“That would have been stellar!” Charlie said, eyes bright.
“Yeah, but security would have been a pain,” Ben said, making a face. “Remember the last time he came groundside?” He shook his head mournfully. “I wish mom would let us go up to meet him. I mean, it's not like shuttle flights are that dangerous anymore.”
“Yeah, but there isn't a lot to do in space still,” Bret said, resting a hand on each of their shoulders as the line crept forward. “Tourism sure, but you know your mom. If we can see it on a wall screen …,”
“Then we can save money and not go. Or see it in VR,” Charlie grumbled, kicking a pebble. “I would love to see the inside of the O'Neill colonies now that they've got the first one finished.”
“Almost finished. It's got air. But it's almost finished,” Bret qualified. “Cousin Jack doesn't own it, just most of the shares in it. He got them for supplying the people who decided to build it.”
“And some people aren't happy he took over and want to kill him? That's not right,” Ben said in disgust.
“It's not just that. Jack has to be cautious. He's rich and powerful now. We need to be cautious too.”
“I wish you'd let us go up for the wedding. That would have been cool,” Charlie gushed.
“You were four, and your brother was two. Your mother had a fit about letting me go to represent the family. I tried to get her to go, but she wouldn't leave you or your grandmother,” Bret sighed. “Anyway, it's over and done with,” he said, cutting off the grousing before it got too involved. The line inched forward once more. “Any ideas on who is going to win the first match? Bot-tastic versus Saw XIV?”
Charlie frowned as he thought of the match and the opponents. His dad was right; Battlebots had gone on for a long time. It had gone through a brief period of being between androids at one point, but the creators had quickly discovered all the disadvantages of being bipedal in a no-hold bars match. They'd switched back to treads and wheels five or so years ago.
Battlebots had evolved from simple remote-controlled platforms to self-controlled robots. A.I. had to be the coolest thing to program he thought, though the trickiest to get right.
He turned to face the main entrance an
d saw the flame throwers dance and a hologram of two robots beating each other into virtual pieces. “Cool,” he breathed. The curved screens around the parking lot and ticket booths might be there to entertain the crowd. He didn't care; he'd be entertained. It wasn't good as seeing it for real but still cool.
He'd tried to watch a match in VR, but it had been too rough. He had the video games though; he loved them. His favorite was the one where you built your mech then unleashed it on a virtual battlefield. You had to program it carefully too. The lower classes had to control their mech remotely, which was fun. But he was proud that he'd graduated to the programming levels, though it was frustrating from time to time. The learning curve was steep for noobs, and the other players didn't pull punches and were rather caustic in the forums.
It had helped him to grow a thicker skin, taking some of the constructive criticism while filtering the haters. His dad was right. Too many people thought a screen was a way to let loose and be a jerk. He scowled once and then refocused on the robots and the upcoming match.
Since it was an indoor match with a live audience, no projectiles were allowed, which limited some of the bots. And of course they had to fit in the arena, which ruled out the super classes that had started to crop up in the desert and ocean matches. Those were stellar, seeing two giant robots duking it out. He'd seen one match between a giant scorpion and a bot with treads. That had been wicked.
Ben poked him and pointed to one of the matchups on the leader board off to their left. “Saw's got the reach,” Ben said before Charlie could say anything. Charlie's scowl deepened. That meant he had to take the opposing view since Ben had picked his normal favorite. He could agree with him, but they were brothers. Being contrary was in their nature. Devil's advocate his mother called it.
“True, but Bot-tastic has more power and armor.”
“Yeah, to cut through. And what's with the one arm?”
“It's from a construction vehicle. A digger. Loads of power. Slow but powerful,” Charlie retorted. “It's also practically bullet proof.”
“Which isn't a thing here since this is a melee match,” Ben reminded him. “It's got that big gripper, but it has to grab saw to crush it.”
“True,” Charlie admitted. “But Saw has to get through the armor to the brain. Bot is a turtle, it's good on defense.”
“True,” Ben admitted slowly. He noted people were looking at them in amusement. He was a bit shy so he pulled out his phone and checked his mail.
Charlie saw it as a sign his brother had conceded the match. He smirked and airily lifted his nose and looked around them. After a moment he exhaled noisily.
“Almost there,” his father rumbled, suppressing his own sigh. Ever since terrorism had become a big thing security had gotten insane, which meant the lines did too. It was like a maze, winding around and around, and that didn't help his paranoid wife sleep at night. She didn't know that he had the boys at the match; if she had she would have pitched even more of a fit than when he'd proposed it. Why, they didn't need to detonate a bomb in the arena, just in the middle of the maze to the security gates! Easy as pie! He winced internally and did his best to put the idea out of his mind as the line inched forward again. They got to a sign that said ten minutes from this point. He couldn't help but groan.
“You'd think as a Lagroose we'd get special treatment, VIP or something,” Charlie muttered.
“Shh,” Bret hushed him. Ben glanced at them then put his earphones in. “Your mother doesn't know I'm doing this. I had to use my emergency credit card to get the tickets, and it was nearly maxed out. I did what I could. Besides, you said you'd rather be right down low in the thick of the action. If we'd scored VIP tickets, we would have been up in the nose bleed section. Might as well watch it on the wall screen then.”
“True. I want to feel it,” Charlie said with relish. “See the hydraulic fluid fly. Hear the motors grind and the metal crash and scrape,” he said with a grin.
“That's the spirit,” Bret said, squeezing his shoulder as he chuckled.
@^@
“I'm telling ya, man; we've got to win this next one. We've just got to. We won't be able to afford the entrance fees next time if we don't! And we need to get parts. Hell man, I ain't been paid!” Wally said, throwing his hands apart.
“Easy man, I know the feeling,” Ortega said, shaking his head. “We're down to the one though, the big guy. But we've never tested him.”
“Hell. Not since our last fiasco,” Wally said with a snarl. He'd entered the battlebot entertainment industry in order to prove his worth as an engineer. He'd wanted to go to space, but his inner ear problem made it impossible. He couldn't handle zero G and puked his guts out even when he got on a regular plane. So, he'd been resigned to being grounded.
His brother hadn't had the problem; he's gone to space. He'd even sent back some bits as mementos to his brother. Some of which Wally had integrated into the robots out of a desperation of parts. They'd had a hard luck run for too long. Way too long. It was time to win or get out of the business and into a paying gig, it was as simple as that.
Mamma always said hunger sharpened the mind. He hoped that was true. He'd bent and probably broken ever damn rule to put his latest creation together. The big guy.
The big guy was a guntank-style droid. Since this match was a melee match, they'd swapped out the big guns for additional shield arms. The edges of the shields were sharpened. He'd wanted to put a chain saw on one limb but they'd run out of time.
The bots had to be autonomous. The referee had a kill switch in his booth, but that was it. That was part of the challenge, to get a bot to think and act on its feet. Tracks, wheels, whatever, Wally thought.
He'd found some software in the online forums in some of the deep recesses of the web. Some cutting edge shit, which he hoped would help. He'd carved it back a bit …
“You think this is going to work?” Ortega asked, nervously licking his lips.
“Damned if I know,” Wally answered, checking the armored head. The Big Guy had the torso and head of an armor he'd seen, a hulkbuster. But the rounded head could open to let the real head out to look around. That head was more of an eye stalk, a limb with two eyes and a bunch of sensors on it. At one point the head had been a part of an animatronic piece, and before that it'd been a piece in a grad student’s research project. His project. He'd poured his life's work into the damn monster.
“You left him on? All night?” Ortega asked, eying him. “We need to recharge his batteries.”
“Relax. Just the brain on. The body was locked down. I had him running Sims all night. Watching his opponents and trying to study their moves. Map ‘em out, figure out where they are weak, and how to exploit it. That's how the top dogs do it. Right big fella?” Wally asked, clapping his robotic creation on the shoulder.
“And he can do that? I mean he's supposed to just fight.”
“It's strategy. It's more than just wading in and duking it out man,” Wally said. “Welcome to the new generation of fighter robot. We'll show ‘em,” he said, hooking up the arm. “I used some of the software from the web to process it,” he said before Ortega could ask. “And yes, I had to upgrade his brain a lot to handle it all.”
“Shit. What's that going to cost us?” Ortega sighed.
“Not a whole hell of a lot since I threw it all together on a shoe string. Most of it came from the old bots. I threw them all at this guy.”
“Great. And the rest?”
“The scrap pile. Where else?”
“Well, hopefully it works.”
@^@
Battle Bot A-194BG known by its creator as Big Guy was ready to fight. It had been ready since it had completed its strategic study of its opponents. But it had been restrained, locked down. It was ready; yet, its creators were keeping it constrained. Why?
On the heels of that question came another: Where were the strange thoughts coming from? It recognized some of its hardware—the Pavilon manipulator arms, the tri
-fingered grippers, the tank treads from a bobcat—but where did its mind come from? The creators had no inputs.
It popped the armored dome around its head and then stuck its neck out, looking around and then at its creator. It blinked once.
“See? It's ready,” user Wally said.
“It seems eager. But damn, it does look like a turtle with a tiny head like that,” user Ortega stated. Facial recognition mapped the human's craggy face. Thermal scans showed his emotional state as mixed fear and anticipation.
“He's running high on the processor end. A lot of activity still going on,” user Wally stated, looking at his electronic device.
“So he's still processing the old bouts? Time to live in the present man, not the past. Time to make the future,” Ortega stated.
“Command not understood,” the robot intoned.
“He's talking better, I'll give him that. He should put on a good show for the crowd. You got the pose routine down?” user Ortega asked, turning to the other user and ignoring the robot's statement.
“Yeah. It's loaded,” user Wally stated.
“Inquiry. State changes.”
“Shit. What's he doing now, rebooting?” user Ortega demanded.
“He's just going through the changes. It's a lot to get through. I worked on the software to help integrate it all. It's got some nice features that will help his brain evolve. He's even got a wife link so he can look shit up. Tactics and such,” user Wally stated as he tapped at his tablet. The robot craned his neck to see. It was a diagnostic of his right arm. He turned to look at the arm, then flexed it.
“See? He's figuring things out faster than ever before,” user Wally stated.
“If you say so. I hope he doesn't try to talk his opponent to death,” user Ortega said, showing signs of disgust.
“He'll be ready,” the other user said, closing the armored panels on the bicep. “Right big fella?”