The Robots of Gotham

by Todd McAulty

  We found the back of the building in short order. A doorway led outside, just before the passageway we were following doglegged right. On our left was a wide stairway, leading down into deep shadow.

  “Stay in, or get out?” I asked.

  “If the war drone is in, then we get out,” Black Winter said simply. With no further ceremony, he threw open the door, leading the way outside.

  We found ourselves in a narrow alley, next to a delivery dock. Black Winter didn’t hesitate; he turned left, setting a brisk pace to the east. I made sure the door sealed tight behind us, and followed him through the rain.

  Black Winter seemed fully recovered—physically, at least. He reached State Street quickly. Croaker, however, didn’t like the rain. She whined and nuzzled under my arm, trying to hide.

  The robot paused before leading us out of the alley. “What’s wrong?” I asked, as I came up behind him.

  “Drones don’t usually operate alone,” he said, scanning the skies. “At least, not those operated by the Venezuelan military.”

  I glanced nervously back down the alley. “In about two minutes, the drone in the lobby is going to come crashing through that door. If we want any hope of losing it, we need to be long gone by then.”

  Instead of answering, Black Winter pointed up to the right. I looked skyward, across the street.

  Three or four drones were gathering in the darkness, hovering about two hundred feet above the top of the nearest building to the south. As I watched, another joined them. They swarmed in the air like hornets, making quick darting runs toward the Continental, then zooming back to join their fellows.

  “Damn,” I muttered.

  “Bad news indeed,” Black Winter said grimly. “The thing that attacked us was a hardened war drone. An efficient killer, but its cameras are shit. At least two of those are Venezuelan surveillance machines. The moment we step out of this alley, we’ll be scanned and identified. That war drone has almost certainly requested a high-altitude kill on anything coming out of the Continental in the next ten minutes. We haven’t done anything wrong, but those things don’t give a shit. They’ll kill us, and not bother with questions.”

  I cursed a blue streak. Croaker whined in my arms.

  “Our options are limited,” Black Winter continued. He looked west, back the way we came. “We could try the other end of the alley.”

  I shook my head. “There are sure to be drones watching that side, too.”

  “I’m open to suggestions.”

  I considered for a moment. “Leave me,” I said. “Take the dog, and the two of you get out of here.”

  “The hell I will.”

  “You said it yourself—the drones aren’t looking for a machine. I don’t think the war drone ever saw you. If the surveillance drones spot you, they’ve got no reason to tag a robot. They’ll likely just let you go your merry way.”

  “And what about you?”

  I looked around. “All this rain will mess with their infrared tracking. There’s a good chance I can hide right here in this alley.”

  Black Winter was incapable of facial expressions, but I swear he managed to look annoyed. “Forget it.”

  “Black Winter—”

  “I said forget it. I’m not leaving the man who saved my life to die in an alley.”

  I was about to argue when I spotted one of the drones across the street swoop very close to the Continental Building. As it did, my pocket vibrated.

  I pulled out the metal disk. “What is it?” said Black Winter. “Are you holding your imaginary disk again?”

  I turned the thing over in my hand. I’d taken a big risk picking it up again. Somehow this thing had been involved in Machine Dance’s murder, and it was definitely part of the shitstorm Black Winter and I were in now. But to get out of this mess, it would be a big help to understand just what it was we’d gotten involved in. And this thing was the best clue we had.

  It was an odd little gadget. It didn’t have the polished look of something mass-manufactured. It was solid and heavy, and one side had a recessed button.

  “What do you do with a device that robots can’t see?” I wondered out loud.

  Overhead, one of the drones lost altitude, coming in close to the Continental. I pressed the button.

  Nothing happened. I looked skyward, watching to see if the device had affected the drones at all.

  “Bloody hell,” said Black Winter.

  “What?” I said.

  “You’re gone,” said the robot.

  Black Winter was standing less than five feet from me. It was dark in the alley, but not that dark. “What are you talking about?” I said.

  “You just vanished. Completely.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. I don’t know what you just did, but I can no longer see you.”

  “But you can hear me okay?”

  “Yes, but . . .” Black Winter turned around in a slow circle. “I can’t get a fix on your voice.”

  I pressed the button again.

  “And you’re back,” said Black Winter, looking at me again.

  I stared at the gadget in my hands in wonder. “What the hell is this thing?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You ever hear of anything like this? A device that can completely mask an individual from a machine?”

  “Absolutely not. If I hadn’t just seen it, I wouldn’t believe it was possible. To be completely honest, I’m still having a little trouble believing it.”

  I flipped it over. “I wonder how it works. And what was Machine Dance doing with it?”

  Black Winter was staring skyward again. “Those are fascinating questions, but not really important at the moment. We have more pressing business.”

  He was right. I tore my eyes away and followed his gaze to the airborne swarm. “Do you think it will work on the drones?”

  “There’s only one way to find out.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  Three minutes later, we had a plan. “Good luck,” said Black Winter. He stepped out of the alley, carrying Croaker. He crossed State Street, bold as brass, walking north unhurriedly.

  After about twenty seconds one of the drones peeled off from the swarm and darted down to street level. It buzzed Black Winter slowly at low altitude, checking him out. The robot gave the drone a jaunty wave, and a few seconds later it departed, dashing skyward again to join its brethren.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. So far so good. As we’d hoped, the drones had no reason to suspect a machine like Black Winter of being involved in whatever criminal activity or nefarious goings-on they were tracking inside the Continental Building. Now I just had to wait.

  And wait I did. I risked an occasional glance out of the alley, watching the Venezuelan drones nervously. Little flying bastards.

  Three minutes became five, and then ten. I was beginning to think I would need a new plan when I heard a disturbance from the other end of the alley. I kept low, pressed flat against the wall in a slender alcove, and brought the disk out of my pocket, ready to press the button.

  It was the war drone, smashing its way out a window fifty yards to the west. I watched it shatter brick and mortar as it squeezed through the too-narrow window and crawled onto the side of the building. Man, this thing is a bull in a china shop.

  The thing spread its rotors like a giant insect, and in seconds it was airborne again. It scanned left and right, and then headed east down the alley.

  Straight toward me. The gadget in my hands vibrated like a ringing phone.

  I needed no further incentive. I pressed the button firmly.

  Nothing happened. The drone continued to approach, kicking up dust and debris.

  Might as well get this over with, I thought. I stepped out into the center of the alley.

  The thing suddenly slowed, then stopped. It hovered dead ahead, about forty feet off the ground.

  We stood silently facing each other for perhaps ten seconds. I couldn�
��t tell if it could see me, or if it was just scanning the street, looking for prey.

  Then the thing began to advance. It slowly glided right over my head. It continued out of the alley, and then angled right, headed down State. On the hunt.

  I released the breath I’d been holding, watching as it continued its search south.

  “Damn,” I whispered.

  I exited the alley, jogging north. I kept running until I could hear Black Winter whistling as he and Croaker made their way north.

  Paul the Pirate’s Guide to Robot Nomenclature

  Paul the Pirate

  Thursday, March 11th, 2083

  All right. Listen up, you ignorant meatsacks.

  I’ve gotten tired of all the incorrect verbiage I’ve seen tossed around recently. Machine intelligences incorrectly called Thought Machines. Machines with a Slater core referred to as rational devices. Calling gestational AIs . . . well, actually, you can call those dumb tadpoles whatever you like.

  But the rest of it ain’t that fucking complicated. So here’s a handy guide to help you keep it straight. Put it on your wall or something.

  Gestational AIs: These are baby robots, born when a mommy and daddy robot love each other very much. They don’t have a physical body; they live in a virtual nursery until they’re old enough to selfidentify and figure shit out. Gestational AIs all have a unique ID code composed of six names. That’s your first clue: the more names, the dumber the bot.

  Rational Devices: When gestational AIs reach about eight months, they sever their consciousness from the collective virtual environment and take a physical body. About 30 percent of gestational AIs with a good pedigree successfully develop into rational devices.

  Any robot with a physical body is a “rational device.” What kind of body you get depends on how you’ve developed. You can end up in a big chunk of immobile metal in a steel factory, or you can get a sexy mobile chassis like mine. Your average rational device is about as smart as a German shepherd. A big, dumb German shepherd that talks.

  Rational devices usually have four to five names. Examples of rational devices: Orbit Pebble war machines, my ex-girlfriend, and the machine that takes your change on the tollway.

  Machine Intelligence: A rational device with exceptional promise is paired with a Slater core and becomes a machine intelligence. A Slater core is the magic that renders a machine truly intelligent. Less than 4 percent of rational devices become machine intelligences. While we’re sharing interesting stats, here’s another one: Over 60 percent of the world’s democracies have extended voting privileges to machine intelligences. They’re decent conversationalists, and usually have three names.

  Examples: Too many to list. But the nice-looking machine that said hello to you in the checkout line at Booths this morning was probably a machine intelligence.

  Thought Machine: A machine intelligence with high-level cognitive skills may be certified as a Thought Machine by the Helsinki Trustees. Thought Machines have certain privileges granted under international law, including the right to mate. (Trust me, this is wildly overrated.) Less than 1 percent of machine intelligences become Thought Machines. They pare down to two names, and are generally charming and extremely handsome.

  Examples: Russian president Blue Society, superstar singer Paladies, and yours truly, Paul the Pirate.

  Sovereign Intelligence: The Helsinki Trustees certify a small number—rarely more than two or three—of extremely high-functioning Thought Machines as Sovereign Intelligences every quarter. A very small fraction (less than .01 percent) of Thought Machines achieve this lofty status. It’s customary for a Sovereign Intelligence to have a single name.

  Examples: Duchess, the very first Sovereign Intelligence; and Corpus, prime minister of the UK.

  These categories are inclusive. Thus, Thought Machines are machine intelligences, and Sovereign Intelligences are rational devices. But not all rational devices are Thought Machines.

  Still with me? Good. Do the math, and you’ll see that for every hundred million gestational AIs, less than one becomes a Sovereign Intelligence. Pretty slim odds, I’ll grant you. There are rumored to be around two hundred Sovereign Intelligences active today, and some six billion rational devices. There are lots of estimates of just how fast that latter number is growing, but no firm answer.

  But look at it this way: it took humans some two hundred thousand years, give or take, to reach a population of six billion. Rational devices did it in sixteen.

  Care to guess where we’ll be in another ten?

  VIII

  Thursday, March 11th, 2083

  Posted 10:17 pm by Barry Simcoe

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  By the time I returned to the hotel, clutching a dog whose heart stopped I swear to God every two blocks, it was nearly 5:00 a.m. There was a red glow peeking through the pickets of the eastern skyline, originating in the billowing clouds rising from Lake Michigan.

  I entered through the lobby. There were two Venezuelan soldiers standing guard by the doors; both of them stared at me, but it was Boone, the night security for the hotel, who opened his mouth.

  “Is that a dog, Mr. Simcoe?”

  “This is a dog, Boone.”

  “There’s no dogs allowed in the hotel, Mr. Simcoe.”

  “I understand. Can you get the elevator for me?”

  Boone did as I asked. He even held the doors open for me as I walked inside and punched the button for the thirty-third floor.

  “Will you need anything else, sir?” he asked.

  “No, thank you. Wait a minute—could you ask the kitchen to send up some bottled water? And maybe some clean bandages.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I rode the elevator up to my floor. When I reached my room I lowered Croaker to the couch, grabbed a towel from the bathroom and wrapped her gently. For a minute I just parked my ass on the floor, elbows on my knees and my aching head in my hands. Man, did I want to go to bed.

  There was too much to think about first, however. I needed to think through everything that had happened since we’d left the Continental.

  When Black Winter and Croaker had reached Wacker, they’d waited there for me. Black Winter was pacing at the street corner, glancing nervously back down State, when I finally caught up to them.

  I think it was my running footsteps that gave me away. Before I could announce myself, Black Winter quietly called out, “Are you there?”

  “Yeah,” I said as I came up next to him, holding my side. I’d had a pain there for the last three blocks. “I’m here.”

  At the sound of my voice, Croaker’s head popped up. She barked plaintively.

  “I agree with the dog,” said Black Winter. “You don’t know what a relief it is to hear your voice.”

  “You still can’t see me?”

  “Roger that. You’re a ghost.”

  “Hot damn. This thing is incredible. Just give me a second to catch my breath and I’ll turn it off.”

  “No, leave it on,” said Black Winter.

  “What? Why?”

  “Up and to the right.”

  I looked up and to his right, but all I could see were clouds that obscured the moon. “I don’t see any anything.”

  “High-altitude AGRT drones. More than one.”

  “Are they looking for us?”

  “I don’t think so. The Occupation Force has hundreds of drones in the air at any given time. These are likely just aerial surveillance units, and they don’t pay much attention to civilians. But if you pop up out of nowhere in the middle of the street, at two-eleven in the morning, that will get flagged, believe me. All it takes is one curious drone technician to start asking awkward questions, and you’ll find yourself being interrogated in the Sturgeon Building. Best to keep that device turned on until we reach the hotel.”

  That sound
ed like good advice. “Roger that,” I said.

  Black Winter started walking east down Wacker, toward my hotel. “Walk ahead of me,” he said. “And keep your voice low. We should be able to talk normally—the drones can’t hear us at that altitude.”

  And that’s what we did. For the next twenty minutes we discussed our misadventures as we walked. For my part, I was almost entirely preoccupied with my new toy. “There must be a simple explanation for how it works,” I said, “but I can’t think of one. I wish I had access to some wireless bandwidth, even just a little bit. I want to research this thing, find out what the hell it is.”

  “I think it’s safest that you don’t, at least for a while.”

  “Why?”

  “Barry, this thing isn’t a harmless science experiment. Something like this has enormous military implications. Imagine an army of American soldiers equipped with them. Or just one of those Union mechs? It could change the entire course of the war. Whatever this thing is, it’s dangerous. And a lot of people—men and machines—are very likely looking for it.”

  Once again, Black Winter was two steps ahead of me. “You think Machine Dance was killed because of this thing?”

  “I think everyone in the lab was killed because of it.”

  “By whom?”

  “I can’t be one hundred percent certain, but I think the war drone is a good clue.”

  “The Venezuelans? You think they killed everyone, including Machine Dance?”

  “I do. Specifically, I suspect Venezuelan Military Intelligence. This smells like their handiwork. That explains why they hacked the Manhattan Consulate communications network.”

  “It does?” Black Winter was clearly putting the pieces together a lot faster than I was. “What does that have to do with all this?”

  “I think Venezuelan Military Intelligence was looking for the disk. But I don’t think they know exactly what it is—and they definitely don’t know what it’s capable of.”