The Robots of Gotham

by Todd McAulty

There were a number of ports on the front where I could plug into the thing, if I had a mobile computer. And if I knew the right access protocols, and if I knew what I was looking for.

  Luckily, there was a convenient shortcut. I pulled out the sole data module jutting out of the port hub. It was tiny, about the size of a pocketknife, and felt nicely cool in my hand.

  “This is the data?” I asked Nasir.

  He nodded.

  “It is encrypted?”

  Nasir nodded again.

  I sighed, glancing around. “I can see why you were so concerned. I consider the security on this floor inadequate.”

  “I would be happy to show you our security precautions in more detail,” he said. “They are above ComSec standards for the prevention of data theft.”

  “Theft? It’s not theft I’m worried about. It’s destruction.”

  That seemed to be the right thing to say. Nasir dropped his eyes. He nodded quickly. “Yes. Yes. The floor is vulnerable to attack.”

  Nasir seemed personally embarrassed by this admission. It’s always the responsible employees who feel bad for organizational inadequacy. He deserved to be congratulated for correctly identifying a serious IT flaw, and instead he got only grief. Typical.

  “An attack like the one going on right now,” I said, raising my voice. “An intruder has penetrated the most secure building in the state and has had free and unrestricted access for—” I glanced at my watch. “Twenty-two minutes. That’s more than adequate time to place explosive devices in critical positions around the entire building.”

  “Perhaps he’s already been apprehended—”

  “And perhaps monkeys are about to fly out of my ass,” I said.

  I held up the data stick in front of his face. “I am taking the data into my personal custody, for transport to the Catalina Mission.”

  “I will need Colonel Hayduk’s personal authorization—”

  “As you wish.” I slipped the data stick into the breast pocket of my jacket. “I expected him here. Where is the colonel?”

  “He has taken charge of the search for the intruder.”

  “So you are unaware of his current whereabouts? Or his safety?”

  Another jackpot. Nasir’s eyes flew just that little bit wider. Damn, this guy felt inadequate about everything.

  I felt terrible for doing this. But I had to if I had any hope of getting out of this building alive. I took a step closer, right into his personal space. “Lieutenant Nasir,” I said, “I urge you, in the highest possible terms, to locate Colonel Hayduk and confirm his personal well-being. Secondly, I suggest you inform him of the steps being taken to secure his data, in the light of the entirely inadequate situation here.”

  “Yes, sir. You will remain here?”

  “Yes, but I expect you’ll be quick while—”

  I stopped. I’d been glancing around the enclosure casually, trying to give the impression of someone who was settling in for a brief stay, when my eyes fell on the hazmat suit hanging in the back.

  Nasir was talking. And talking. But I barely heard a word.

  I stepped toward the suit. It was hanging on a heavy metal rod. It was roughly six feet tall, very nearly a one-piece suit. All that was missing were the boots.

  But it wasn’t a hazmat suit. “Is that what I think it is?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. There was pride in his voice.

  “A suit of American power armor? Is it functional?”

  “Yes, but it has only recently been retasked. Just two days ago, as a matter of fact. They are keyed to individuals, as you probably know. The colonel spared no effort to have the software locks on this one removed. It is ready for testing.”

  I’ve never even seen a photo of American combat armor, not even a blurry one. All I’ve seen are the same shaky combat vids as everyone else. There’s the famous one from just before the end of the war, taken by a civilian at one of the last engagements, in Stone Mountain, Georgia. Just a twenty-five-second clip, shot at long range with a shaky hand. It shows an unidentified American officer, wearing one of these suits, taking down an Argentinean Rodolfo Walsh combat robot, virtually single-handed.

  One six-foot guy with a rifle, versus a 2,500-pound killing machine. He’d made it look almost easy.

  Even today, there are folks who claim that if the American government had had another two months to get the armor into wide production, it would have changed the outcome of the entire war. As it was, the provisions of the Memphis Ceasefire had strictly forbidden either side from making or possessing powered combat armor.

  I was looking at physical evidence of a gross violation of the Memphis Ceasefire. That was more than enough to have my shoe-polishing nemesis Colonel Hayduk arrested.

  It was also my ticket out of here.

  “They magnify your strength, many times,” Nasir said in a confidential tone. “They assist in weapons targeting, communications—and much more that we do not yet fully understand.”

  “Now I know what the colonel meant,” I said, reaching up to touch the suit. It felt rubbery to the touch, like a wet suit. But heavier, more stiff. I expected bulges at the joints, muscle-enhancing power units, but the suit seemed almost completely smooth. It looked tailored, more like something you’d find in a sporting goods store than in an armory.

  “The colonel spoke to you of the suit?” Nasir said, disbelief in his eyes.

  “No, not as such. He simply said he had secure transport for his critical data, here in this compartment.”

  I faced Nasir. The smile on my lips was completely unforced.

  “Lieutenant Nasir, I do not think we need to worry about the colonel’s whereabouts. Based on his last communication to me, I believe he will be here shortly, to take charge of the data personally. I need you to return downstairs and contact the Quanta team, and the rest of the soldiers outside, and inform them that the colonel will be exiting the building, outfitted with the American combat suit.”

  Nasir looked flabbergasted.

  “That is . . .” he said. He trailed off, staring up at the suit.

  “It’s certainly bold,” I said with admiration. “Typical of the colonel.”

  “You are certain he is coming?”

  “Yes, now that I understand what his comments meant.”

  “He will likely want both power cores.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Nasir was hesitating. He looked unconvinced. I needed to get this bit of theater wrapped up.

  “You will want to confirm with the colonel, of course,” I said.

  “Yes.” He seemed relieved to hear me say it.

  “Understandable. Send the message to the soldiers, then return here. We will keep the data secure and wait for the colonel’s arrival.”

  “You will remain here?”

  “Yes.”

  Nasir nodded, taking his key from around his neck again. “I will need to lock you inside.”

  Shit. I hadn’t thought that part through. “As you wish,” I said, keeping my voice even.

  Nasir left without another word. He closed the door behind him, sealing it with the key. I watched him moving briskly toward the elevators.

  The instant he was out of eyesight, I took down the suit. It was a thrill just to hold it. Who hasn’t dreamed of possessing an American combat suit?

  It looked like it might fit me, although it had been designed for someone maybe an inch or two shorter. The fabric seemed stretchable enough. Pinned to the front was a pair of matching gloves. The rest of it was one piece, except for the missing boots. Tucked inside it was a mask that covered the face and head. The eyepieces for the mask were dark green, like tinted sunglasses. I hoped I’d be able to see when I put it on.

  But first things first. I needed those boots.

  I began by searching the floor. I found a large metal suitcase and popped it open.

  Inside was a sidearm, set into a recessed case. It looked like a Werner heavy caliber, but with a shorter stock. There were
two boxes of ammunition. Whatever it was, it sure as hell wasn’t Venezuelan standard issue.

  Seemed like the colonel liked exotic handguns. It was much too heavy to just tuck under my shirt. I lifted the case onto the desk and started rooting under it and then through the cabinets. Come on, where the hell do you hide a pair of boots?

  I found them in the bottom drawer of the second cabinet, the only drawer that wasn’t locked. They were black, knee-height, and heavy. Almost too heavy—the soles felt like three-quarter inches of solid metal.

  I took a deep breath before forcing my feet into the boots. An ill-fitting suit I could fake. But this whole plan went nowhere if these boots were a size six.

  They were not a size six. They weren’t an exact fit either, but they weren’t too bad. I clomped around in them in the small enclosure and decided they felt okay.

  I had to take the boots off to climb into the suit. That was a tight fit—it’s pretty clear the suit was meant to be worn over nothing but skin, but I wasn’t about to leave all my clothes behind for Hayduk and his cronies to harvest for DNA evidence. The jacket had to come off, but once it did I was able to squeeze into the suit.

  I pulled the boots back on and then walked around a bit. It was tight at the shoulders and crotch, but I could live with it. But I certainly didn’t feel enhanced or anything like it.

  The suit was unpowered. In the small of my back I found two empty slots where power cells clearly fit in.

  The power cores. That’s what Nasir had meant when he said the colonel would likely want both power cores. Without them, this wasn’t going to be a graceful exit. The suit wouldn’t power up, and would be about as “enhancing” as a clown suit.

  Nasir would be back in minutes—maybe seconds. I didn’t have time to look for the cores, but I did anyway. I opened every desk drawer I could, looked on top of the comm towers, and even pried the lid off the colonel’s can of shoe polish. Nothing.

  I was debating smashing open the locked drawers on the desk when I heard a sound.

  It came from outside the enclosure. Sort of a clank, like a heavy footstep. I stopped searching and grabbed the mask, which I’d set on top of the nearest cabinet.

  The sound came again . . . and then again. Whatever it was, it was getting closer.

  I debated pulling on the mask, but it was too dark in here to trust being able to see through its dark eyepieces. Instead, I reached for my backpack, stuffing my jacket and scarf back inside, next to my goggles. The data drive was tucked into my breast pocket, under the suit. I was ready to move.

  I saw it then, through the glass wall. Tall and dark and angular, lumbering down the corridor between the enclosures. A robot, a field combat model, easily eight feet tall, maybe 1,800 pounds, about 400 of which were in its massive head, which was long and torpedo-shaped. It had two great hands, and it moved like a huge metal ape. It had just enough grace to bend its arms slightly, to avoid dragging its knuckles on the floor.

  It stopped in front of the colonel’s enclosure, shifting its bulk to face me through the glass.

  I still had the drone jammer in my pocket, and it was still on, as far as I knew. But the robot facing me was clearly aware of me. Like Jacaranda, it obviously had more sophisticated eyes than the drones.

  The robot and I regarded each other. I probably should have covered my face with the scarf, but there didn’t seem to be much point at this juncture.

  “You must be Standing Mars,” I said.

  “You are an unauthorized intruder,” said the robot.

  I didn’t reply. There are a lot of things I don’t waste my time on in this world, and arguing with a robot is one of them. Instead, I groped inside the suit until I had the reassuring weight of the jammer in my hand.

  The robot was silent, regarding me. What had Jacaranda called it, on the roof? A “hostile intelligence.” It didn’t look that intelligent. It sort of looked like a giant stapler with legs.

  “You are not Damian Peters,” said the robot. “That personnel record is a forgery.”

  Shit. A lot smarter than it looked, I guess. “We may have a problem,” I said.

  “Elaborate,” said Sergei.

  “Robot. Eight feet tall. Combat model, designation Standing Mars—”

  There was a screeching noise in my ear, and I tore the GSM unit out, cursing in pain.

  “Your communications have been terminated,” said the robot.

  Man, this thing was a dick. All the more so because it was blocking my exit, and I really needed to be under way.

  “Exit the enclosure,” said the robot.

  I pulled on the mask and swung my backpack over my shoulder. All things considered, now seemed the time to prep for a quick getaway.

  I thought my vision would be poor in the mask, but surprisingly it wasn’t all that bad. The lenses were dark, but not as bad as I feared, and my field of vision was acceptable. I didn’t expect it to be so stifling, however—there was no airflow at all. When the suit was powered, there had to be an air circulation system. Right now, it was like having a plastic bag over my head.

  Unfortunately, I had bigger worries. “You will exit the enclosure,” said the robot.

  “Why don’t you come in and get me?” I said.

  It put one great metal paw up against the door. It only had four fingers, but a handspan of nearly twenty inches. Its fingers were ringed with black bands of electro-sensitive rubber.

  I backed up, just before Standing Mars shattered the glass door of the enclosure.

  I felt shards of glass peppering the front of the suit, heard them striking the desk, the cabinet. If I hadn’t been wearing the suit, I probably would have been sliced open in a dozen places. Thank God for small favors.

  I didn’t have time to worry about flying glass, however. The moment the glass shattered I darted forward, reaching out with my right hand. I touched Standing Mars with the cold metal of the drone jammer.

  Even brief contact with the jammer had knocked out Black Winter instantly. But the device had no effect at all on Standing Mars. The robot snatched at my hand, moving with surprising speed. I retreated hastily, clutching the device.

  Standing Mars clanked farther into the room. It was too cramped to maneuver, so it swept a heavy paw to the right. A cabinet and Colonel Hayduk’s personal data station were violently shoved up against the wall. I heard more glass shattering.

  I quickly stuffed the drone jammer into my backpack. Damn, this thing is a bull in a china shop.

  It was also thoroughly blocking the only exit, and there was no way around it.

  “You have been designated an enemy combatant,” said Standing Mars. “You will be treated accordingly.”

  It took another step forward, reaching out to crush my skull.

  So much for easy solutions, I thought. I seized the colonel’s handgun and squeezed off two rounds into its head.

  The gun fired some kind of exploding rounds, and the results were spectacular—if very, very loud. The back of the robot’s head blew off in an explosion of metal and fire. The thing’s body shuddered violently.

  It froze, its great metal claw not three feet from my head. I wasted no time, and put another two shells into its torso.

  It moved then, almost blindingly fast. It twisted to the right and went right through the glass wall. There was a computational tower in its way in the adjoining compartment, and it destroyed it in an instant, sending it tumbling end over end fifteen feet through the air, trailing sparks and torn power cords, smashing two more walls as it came down.

  There was more swift destruction, more screeching metal. The air was filled with broken glass, noise, and fury. I ducked just as a stray metal canister bounced back into the colonel’s compartment, smashing into the desk and breaking a lamp.

  I lost sight of Standing Mars. I got a quick flash of something moving two compartments over and fired off a round. There was another explosion of violent motion, and three more towers went down. I saw the first lick of flames.
/>   I ran for the elevators.

  The stairs would have been a better choice, but the elevators were closer. I reached them in seconds, hit the down button.

  I glanced back the way I’d come. The corridor was dark but clear, and the nearest glass enclosures were empty of anything but blinking communications arrays and other silent equipment.

  As I waited, a thin wisp of smoke curled along the ceiling, inching its way toward me. I saw the first flicker of reflected flame in dark glass on the left. Somewhere, a fire was under way.

  There was a noise behind me. I whirled around. The corridor marched on beyond the elevators, into another bank of dark glass compartments. There were a dozen blinking towers, power racks, and more shadowy objects.

  On the right, not forty feet away, a great dark form stood between two towers. It was difficult to make out through panes of glass, but the top half of its silhouette seemed jagged, oddly damaged.

  I couldn’t be certain what it was. But who needs certainty in an uncertain world? I raised the gun and fired two rounds at the thing.

  The third shot clicked on an empty chamber. Out of ammo.

  I heard a heavy tread behind me.

  I turned around. Standing Mars came around the corner. Firelight illuminated its left side. The smoke was a little thicker now.

  Goddamn, this was one tough robot. Its torso seemed to have suffered the most damage. The shells had ignited a fire in its exposed chest cavity that hadn’t quite gone out, and I could see flickers of light dancing inside it. Twisted metal dangled from the back of its head. Some kind of metal cabling had gotten tangled around its right arm and shoulder, and trailed along on the ground behind the thing.

  And still it came. It took three confident steps forward, leaving the glass enclosures behind.

  Its right shoulder bumped the wall. It corrected course, moving closer to the center of the hall with its next step. It stopped, its broken head swiveling, scanning ahead.

  Scanning with what? I wondered. Its torso had no visible eyes, and it was a good bet at least some of its sensing equipment was damaged.

  In fact . . .

  It must have heard me fire the shots. But now it was less than thirty feet away and gave no indication it saw me. Its big torpedo head shifted back and forth, back and forth, like a bloodhound.