The Robots of Gotham

by Todd McAulty

  Could the ferocious Standing Mars be blind?

  “Put down the weapon,” it said. Its voice was just a little jittery, distorted, as if its speakers were a touch out of alignment. “Surrender and you won’t be harmed.”

  There was a friendly chime, and a pair of elevator doors opened almost exactly midway between us. Standing Mars’s head twitched to the left, toward the open door.

  For a moment neither of us moved. I couldn’t be sure how much it could see. Or hear or sense. But now it knew I had called for the elevator, and it would find me eventually. All it had to do was move forward to block the elevator doors.

  The robot took a step forward.

  I tossed the empty gun at the enclosures behind me. It hit a glass wall with a thump, but didn’t shatter it.

  The robot twitched. Before the gun even hit the floor it was in motion. It leaped forward, its heavy arms swinging violently. One of them passed within inches of my head. The robot collided with the glass wall, shattering it in an orgy of violence.

  The elevator doors started to close.

  I waited, staying frozen in place while Standing Mars pulverized everything within reach of its fists. I had to time this perfectly. One second. Two. The robot’s huge fists were pistoning the floor in a circle, sending tile, glass, and wood fragments spinning into the air. The floor shuddered.

  I leaped for the elevator, sliding between the closing doors.

  The robot stopped moving. I heard nothing but bits of falling debris out in the hall. The elevator doors closed.

  I found the control panel, punched the button for the lobby. The elevator started moving.

  I was eight floors down when I heard Standing Mars smash its way into the elevator shaft above.

  Holy shit. We were passing the eighth floor. I pounded the button for that floor. Then the seventh, and the ninth, desperate to get the doors open. I was still slamming buttons when the elevator doors began to open on the seventh floor.

  They were less than halfway open when the elevator suddenly lurched upwards three feet, almost throwing me to my knees.

  The elevator doors stopped opening. We were three feet above the seventh floor. A loud alarm was sounding.

  The elevator shuddered. I heard a loud metallic snap, and then something heavy moving into the shaft.

  I dove through the doors. I tripped as I landed, taking a painful tumble on the carpeted floor. I dropped the backpack, and it bounced somewhere to my right. My face hit the floor, knocking the mask askew.

  I tore it off, grateful to be able to breathe again. I looked around. I was sprawled on my ass in an empty office corridor. I could see three dark office suites, one on my left and two on my right. The floor looked deserted. I struggled to my feet, groping for the backpack.

  Stairs. I needed to find the stairs.

  There was a horrific crash from the elevator. Something big and very heavy had landed on the roof, spraying shattered tiles and metal all through the cramped space. A chunk of glass bounced out through the partially open doors, landing on the carpet at my feet.

  A gray metal arm smashed through the roof. As I watched, it groped blindly about the elevator.

  I snatched up the backpack and ran to the right.

  It didn’t take long to find the stairs. Not that I needed the extra motivation, but the sounds coming from the elevator provided plenty. I pulled open the door and raced down the steps.

  Around the third floor, I stopped and pulled the mask back on. I descended the last two floors with a little more decorum. But without the power cores the suit had no real ventilation. I was breathing heavily, and rapidly fogging up the lens inside the mask. The suit felt a little ridiculous—too large at the shoulders, and the mask would not lie flat against my neck.

  This isn’t going to work, I thought, as I took the last step down to the first floor.

  I glanced back up the stairwell. The alternative was to turn around and walk back up the way I’d come . . . and face off against 1,800 pounds of pissed-off robot. And even if I somehow got past it, I’d lost touch with Sergei. I’d never find another way out on my own.

  No, there was only one possible way out of the building at this point. And that was shoulders square, eyes front, and straight ahead.

  I stepped out of the stairwell. I was in the first-floor hallway by the west stairs, close to where I’d first entered the building. Two Venezuelan soldiers spotted me the instant I entered the hall.

  I should have simply walked past them, like a colonel completely in command. Like a man in his element, who expected obedience. Instead I came to a full stop, staring at them fearfully.

  The soldier at the left returned my stare. The one on the right looked the suit up and down, and then saluted me sharply.

  “Coronel,” he said.

  The one on the left quickly followed suit.

  I walked past them, giving them a nod—or doing the best I could in a loose mask, anyway. I strode down the hall, turned right into a small corridor.

  Ahead was the door I had used to enter the building. Seven guards were blocking it, standing at ease and in low conversation. The first spotted me and nudged the one to his left.

  The guards moved out of my way. I strode quickly down the hall and out the door.

  One of the guards asked me something. I ignored him, headed across the street.

  I missed Sergei. I missed his voice in my ear, giving me sage advice. Telling me not to worry, telling me the soldiers behind me didn’t have a gun pointed at my head. I walked out into the darkness, weaving my way among the barricades, half certain I’d hear a rifle shot at any moment.

  I passed two more guards at the outer perimeter, just outside the barricades. The last one didn’t seem to have gotten the memo about the colonel—he shouted at me twice angrily, until someone behind shut him up.

  I kept walking. I wouldn’t feel safe until I was a mile away from the Sturgeon Building—and probably not even then.

  Someone was standing in the shadows straight ahead. It was dark, and there was so much fog on the inside of the mask at this point that it was a miracle I was able to see anything. I didn’t bother deviating course; I just kept marching.

  I don’t care who this is, I thought, as long as his name isn’t Hayduk.

  It was the robot from the rooftop. The one who called herself Jacaranda.

  I pulled the mask off. “Damn, lady. You’re a piece of work,” I said.

  “I should not be here,” she said. “But we didn’t finish our conversation.”

  She wanted to know how I knew about the Network of Winds, I realized.

  “Put the mask back on,” she said. “And stand next to me.”

  I pulled the mask back on. It was already sweaty and damp. To think that I’d been excited the first time I saw the combat suit. Right then, I felt like a scuba diver running a goddamn marathon.

  I stood next to her, looking back at the Sturgeon Building. Was it my imagination or were a lot more lights on now? Half a dozen drones buzzed around the top of the building. I reached into my backpack, making sure the jammer was still there. I felt its reassuring bulk. It was still on—and still working—at least as far as I knew.

  I felt very exposed. We were no more than eighty yards from the front of the building. No challenge at all for a decent sniper, even in the darkness. Or a drone able to track the location of the suit or Hayduk’s data drive.

  I was about to speak, but Jacaranda beat me to it. “You are in no danger,” she said. “But please. Remain motionless and completely silent for the next ninety seconds.”

  I nodded. Fine, I thought. But after ninety seconds, I was gone. I’d come much too far just to get caught cooling my heels now.

  The first twenty seconds were completely quiet. I could see some of the soldiers milling around in the bright lights by the lobby entrance. Only a few were looking our way. What the hell are we doing here?

  Right around the thirty-second mark, Standing Mars smashed its way out o
f the lobby.

  It made a pretty spectacular exit. It must have come down the elevator shaft into the lobby and built up a head of steam heading for the windows. This thing just had no use for doors. It walked right through the windows, and as I watched, two huge plates of glass, dislodged by its exit, came cascading down around it, sending an explosion of shards in all directions. A soldier on its left went down, holding his hands to his face, and one on his right, startled out of his wits, opened fire on Standing Mars with his rifle.

  Standing Mars took two quick steps and killed the soldier. It threw away the bloody body, then moved away from the building.

  It didn’t even stop for the concrete barricades. It smashed through the first and shoved the second out of the way without slowing down.

  It was headed straight for us.

  “Please remain calm,” the petite robot on my right said.

  I looked over at her. She seemed utterly unperturbed by the rapid approach of this robot juggernaut. However, I was about to piss all over a thirty-million-dollar combat suit.

  Are you going to take it? I wanted to ask. But I obeyed instructions and kept my mouth shut.

  Standing Mars thundered closer. It was past the barricades.

  It stopped less than fifty feet away. Its right hand was damaged—mangled and out of alignment. Shouldn’t Hulk your way through concrete barricades, moron, I thought. But it still looked entirely capable of crushing my skull.

  Something had changed about it. A small, portable camera eye was now attached to the side of its broken torpedo head. Looks like it had stopped somewhere for a bit of an upgrade.

  “I can see you,” said Standing Mars.

  How nice for you. I looked to Jacaranda again, a little self-consciously. Any time now.

  Standing Mars took another step forward. As it turned slightly, I could see the jagged hole in the back of its metal skull.

  She’d told me not to move, but when Standing Mars took that step, I faltered and fell back, ready to run.

  There was a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye, and then another robot stepped into my field of vision, between us and Standing Mars.

  It took a second to recognize it. It was the slender humanoid robot I’d seen outside the Sturgeon Building when I first arrived. The one that had taken down and scavenged a drone.

  I shot a questioning look at Jacaranda. “That is Hazel-rah,” she said simply. “He is a friend.”

  Standing Mars kept coming. It thundered forward without deviating in the slightest. Hazel-rah interposed himself squarely between us and our attacker.

  Standing Mars was shorter, but far more massive. When it reached the slender robot, it tried to swat him aside. Our defender ducked with surprising speed. But he didn’t move out of the way. Instead, he bounced up under the swing and shoved Standing Mars in the shoulder, hard.

  Mars stumbled. As it did, Hazel-rah reached out and plucked the camera eye off its head. He crushed the thing in one swift motion, tossing the pieces to the side.

  Mars was blind again.

  It may have been blind, but it was far from helpless. It pivoted with astonishing speed, striking out. The slender robot ducked, but not fast enough; Mars hit his shoulder, throwing him to the pavement. Mars slammed its fists into the street, sending spinning chunks of broken asphalt into the air, but Hazel-rah had already rolled to the left, nimbly regaining his footing.

  There was a gentle touch on my arm. Jacaranda was pulling me to the right, out of the street. She had a finger to the lips of her mask, signaling for silence.

  We moved into the shadows on the right. Jacaranda had chosen our position with care; twenty steps led us to a metal scaffold covering a building on the south side of the street. She pushed a plywood panel aside, and then we were behind the scaffold, in a narrow construction lane. She slid the plywood back into place behind us.

  It was pitch dark. I felt cold metal fingers brush against my glove, and then Jacaranda took my hand and led me confidently through the darkness, up a narrow metal stairway.

  We were on the scaffolding, almost entirely concealed from the street. There was a three-foot break in the plywood wall on the right. We stood in the darkness, nearly invisible, watching the battle.

  Mars was winning. Jacaranda’s champion was fast and fantastically nimble, dancing around his heavier opponent with movements that looked almost graceful, striking at Mars with deft, precise blows. But his blows did almost nothing. Nothing seemed to slow the bigger robot or do more than cosmetic damage. It had torn a stop sign out of the ground and was wielding it ferociously, giving it a much wider reach. In the darkness it seemed like a deformed barbarian, tirelessly swinging an axe in great, crushing arcs as it sought to cleave its opponent in half.

  Mars stumbled unexpectedly. Perhaps it tripped on some unseen chunk of rubble or simply landed a step badly. It disengaged briefly, taking a few steps away. It now seemed slow, hesitant.

  “It’s more damaged than it looks,” I said.

  “No,” said Jacaranda.

  Hazel-rah darted forward, pressing the attack. The moment he did, Mars dodged quickly to the right, then pivoted again, taking two leaping steps and swinging its weapon in a great scything blow.

  It cut through empty air, exactly where Jacaranda and I had been standing barely forty-five seconds ago.

  “You are its target,” said Jacaranda. “Not Hazel-rah.”

  In the street, Mars was going berserk. It was leaping in a circle, swinging the sign, trying to find where I was hiding. It was gouging chunks of pavement out of the street, sending up a shower of sparks whenever it hit metal. The soldiers who had gathered to watch the battle scrambled quickly to get out of range. Standing Mars struck the corner of a barricade and the octagonal stop sign finally tore loose, spinning off into the darkness.

  Hazel-rah, who had been biding his time, leaped forward and struck from behind.

  His attack sent the blind Standing Mars sprawling. Hazel-rah didn’t let up, raining blows down on the back of its long head. Even where we stood, we could hear the crack of shattering metal.

  Mars reached behind itself, grabbed Hazel-rah by his right ankle. As it stood, Mars swung him two-handed like a club, smashing him to the ground.

  Hazel-rah bounced once and then rolled free. He regained his footing, a little wobbly. His right leg was twisted, damaged.

  He was clutching something in his right hand.

  Something was wrong with Mars. Whatever component Hazel-rah had torn out of Standing Mars’s skull, it was useful in a fight. And now that it was gone, Mars was having difficulty maintaining its balance.

  Mars swung the metal pole, missing widely. It paused, seemed to listen, then swung again. It very nearly toppled over, recovering only at the last moment.

  “Nice work, Hazel-rah,” I said, cheering him on.

  “It is a deception,” said Jacaranda. “This model is designed to survive extraordinary damage. Standing Mars is more functional than it appears.”

  “What?”

  Hazel-rah waited until Mars stumbled again, then stepped inside its defenses. His thin hands darted into the hole in the back of Mars’s skull once more.

  The moment he did Mars spun, grabbing Hazel-rah’s head in a crushing grip. It wrenched Hazel-rah off his feet, smashing his head against the pavement.

  Mars lifted him four feet off the ground, smashed him against the pavement again.

  “My God,” I said, turning to Jacaranda. “Can’t you do something?”

  “Wait.”

  “It’s going to destroy him!”

  “Wait.”

  Mars lifted Hazel-rah again, smashing his head into the street a third time. I thought I heard the crack of breaking metal.

  Mars lifted Hazel-rah again, higher this time.

  Hazel-rah’s arm darted out quickly, slipping unerringly into Mars’s fractured head. He twisted violently.

  Mars’s whole body jerked upright. It froze.

  Hazel-rah climb
ed over Mars like a spider. Previously, he had torn things from Mars’s skull with surgical precision, but now he changed tactics. Now he reached into Mars’s head and ripped out metal with abandon, like a squirrel digging a hole.

  Impossibly, Mars recovered after a brief moment. It grabbed Hazel-rah and threw him almost forty feet. He landed poorly, tumbling in a heap.

  The soldiers were moving closer now. Nearly two dozen who had gathered to watch the battle were suddenly moving with a purpose. They took up positions in a rough semicircle around the combatants, raising their weapons.

  But none of them was firing. They seemed to be waiting for a signal.

  Hazel-rah had regained his feet. He was limping, approaching Mars in a jagged spiral, circling it and drawing closer and closer.

  His opponent was clearly in distress. Even the mighty Standing Mars was apparently capable of absorbing only so much punishment. It still struck out savagely, swinging the metal pole, but its attacks now seemed entirely random.

  “We should leave now,” said Jacaranda. “While they are distracted.”

  She was right, of course. But I hesitated, wanting to see how it ended.

  The end wasn’t long in coming. Hazel-rah got closer and closer in his approach, until finally he took two quick steps forward, grabbing the metal pole with both hands. He twisted and pulled, and now the pole was in his hands.

  Mars didn’t seem to have noticed. It continued swinging blindly.

  Hazel-rah climbed on top of it. He drove the pole down, between Mars’s torso and head, and then yanked hard on the pole, using it like a lever.

  Mars’s torpedo head popped off in a shower of sparks. It was attached to the robot’s torso now only by a black cable, and it dangled down his front like a useless third arm.

  Hazel-rah leaped nimbly off his opponent, still holding the metal pole. Mars had been turned around and was now facing the Sturgeon Building. It marched forward, swinging its fists like a mindless automaton. The men in the circle hurriedly got out of its way, and it continued walking and swinging until it reached a concrete barricade. It began pounding the thing mindlessly, tearing itself apart in the process.