Artificial Evolution

by Joseph R. Lallo

  Garotte sighed. “So be it.”

  #

  Lex pulled his ship into ever tighter turns, dangling his bait and coaxing the swarm of robots into an angry, roiling swarm. It was a frustrating process due to the massive variance in speed between the many robots. He didn’t know where they had gotten their parts, but these particular replicas seemed to run the gamut from cheetahlike carbon-fiber masterpieces to wobbly meat-and-bone abominations. Getting the string of robots to collapse on itself and collect into a worthwhile target meant keeping the bait within reach of the slow ones long enough for them to turn around while still keeping it away from the fast ones. Twice he’d let the speed demons get a little too close, which had cost his captured bait three of its four legs, but the tough little monster was still wriggling and sparking, broadcasting its dinner bell to the rest of the swarm.

  “Just about… just about… you guys ready to fire?”

  “Ready,” the tactical officer replied.

  “Oka-a-a-y, now!”

  He released the robot from his grip and dropped it into the center of the frenzied pile, then blasted out of the area. Nanoseconds later, the orbital laser sizzled the swarm into a solid mass of slag.

  “That’s it, right? That’s it! Tell me that’s it!”

  #

  “Analyzing… We are not getting any readings outside of the designated bait area. As soon as the operatives are clear, we can launch a spotter round to wipe them out,” the tactical officer said, updating the main display of the ship.

  “We’ll be clear just as soon as Trevor picks us up. There’s only room for one passenger in his ship, so it’ll probably take three trips, but these things haven’t started to move yet, so we should have time,” Michella explained across the connection. “I think we’re—”

  The tactical offer’s eyes opened as a reading crept across his screen. “Arbiter Beta launch sequence initiated!”

  “What!?” Lex and Ronzone both yelped.

  “I’m on the case,” Garotte said over the connection. “I have ejected from the Declaration and situated it in the path of the weapon.”

  “Have you been able to maneuver your ship inside the cannon?” Captain Paltrowe asked, standing up and stepping toward the view screen. She turned to tactical. “Put the visual on main viewer.”

  “Negative. The shields were still raised, and I did not have the firepower to penetrate them.”

  On the main screen, the captain was treated to a grainy, digitally enhanced view of the Arbiter. Garotte’s ship was still cloaked and therefore invisible, but his periodic transmissions had gotten the attention of the fleet of defensive drones. They were beginning to gather into formations and converge on the point in space likely occupied by the Declaration.

  “Clear the path of the weapon. Once the warhead leaves the launch apparatus, it will be shielded. Your ship’s weapons won’t be able to detonate it. Even ramming it won’t be enough. Tactical, can you get us within range to use our own weapons on the warhead before launch?”

  “Thirty seconds to launch. Nothing we’ve got can guarantee warhead detonation at this range.”

  “I’ve got it covered. Deactivating reactor fail-safes, arming all ordnance, dropping shields, dropping cloak.” The Declaration flickered into visibility, and several dozen drones began blinking out their warnings in flash code. “Silo, are you there?”

  #

  “I’m here, sweetheart,” Silo said, taking Michella’s slidepad. Her face was stoic, but her eyes were a cauldron of emotion.

  “I’m not sure what the kill zone of this blast is going to be, but I very much doubt I’m clear of it. It seems I’m headed for an early retirement after all.” His voice was calm, almost soothing.

  “You did say you preferred the casket to the jail cell,” she said with a weak smile, tears running down her cheeks.

  “Pity there won’t be enough left of me to bury then.”

  “Ten seconds to launch,” said the tactical officer.

  “I’m sorry it had to end this way, Jessica,” Garotte said. “When the dust clears, check your messages. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye, hon,” she said, closing her eyes.

  #

  In the capital ship, what happened on the viewer required a trained military mind to fully understand and phenomenal timing to pull off. The Declaration fired a sustained blast toward the cannon, barely rippling its protective shields. The array of defense drones responded by firing three missiles each, all directed at the Declaration. While they were in flight, the Arbiter’s shields dropped in preparation for launch, and an instant later an egg-shaped warhead several times the size of the Declaration hurtled out of the cannon. A split-second later it struck the Declaration, obliterating it in a massive explosion that was fueled by its reactor and all of its remaining weapons detonating at once. The blast was deflected by the warhead’s built-in energy shield, but not without taking a heavy toll. The force field flickered when a sequence of secondary explosions began to pelt it. Each of the drone missiles, still set on heat tracking, were chasing down the warhead now. The massive weapon, despite its acceleration at launch and its built-in thrusters, was no match for the speed and nimbleness of the drone missiles. One by one they pounded at the already weakened shields, until finally one of them broke through and struck the warhead itself.

  The resulting explosion was spectacular, even when viewed from the distant vantage of the capital ship. A flash of white followed by a brilliant expanding sphere of deep violet splashed against the Arbiter and dissipated across the thickening atmosphere below. The blast made short work of the drones and disabled the restored shields of the Arbiter almost instantly, but the force field blunted the effect sufficiently to spare the Arbiter itself from complete destruction. Instead it blackened, then took on a dull glow, shedding ablative shielding and beginning to slowly rotate as one of its thrusters failed.

  Captain Paltrowe and her crew held their collective breath and waited, watching the blast expand toward them. It covered the many thousands of kilometers with astounding speed, but by the time it struck them, the energy was spread too thin to damage even the remaining drones.

  “Status,” Paltrowe ordered.

  “All ship systems operational. Remaining drone accompaniment intact. Messenger drones approaching docking range. The detonated weapon was a medium-yield spotter round in the megaton range. Arbiter Beta is disabled but intact. Zero risk of additional launch. Minimal risk of secondary detonation of remaining arsenal. Relay ship was beyond blast range. It is operational and in early-stage deployment. Communication will be restored shortly.”

  “Very good. Garotte, respond.” There was only silence. The captain lowered her head and allowed the silence to linger for a moment. It was all the mourning she was willing to offer up while there remained a job to be done. “Lex. Get your people clear and make sure the robots don’t leave the blast zone. We will fire on your ready.”

  “Almost there…” Lex said, his voice heavy and solemn.

  “Com, are those messenger drones docked yet? It is long past time we had some fresh orders, and I want the command codes to that relay ship. Tactical, get three of the remaining drones to the vicinity of Arbiter Beta. Sensors on maximum active scan. I want to know the location and trajectory of every piece of debris and every hint of a signal.”

  #

  Silo stood in silence on the top of the downed tank, tears barely visible as they mixed with the sheen of sweat on her face in the muggy air. Her eyes were turned to the sky, where the last of the setting sun left a purple glow across the horizon, highlighted by the faint gleam of the residual blast from the Arbiter Beta. She wasn’t sobbing or sniffling. Perhaps it was discipline, or perhaps it was simply that she’d been prepared for this day. Michella lowered the slidepad and placed a hand on the soldier’s shoulder. Ronzone, rubbing his chin, climbed the rest of the way out of the tank.

  “Shouldn’t we get moving? That EMP won’t keep those things down long, right?
”

  “Give her a minute,” Michella said.

  “A minute? Look, the man died. He was a soldier. That’s their job. We’ve got to get moving before—”

  Silo turned with frightening speed and grabbed a handful of the agent’s muddy and sweat-soaked shirt. The man was a fair amount taller than her, but she nonetheless balled up the cloth in her fist and hoisted his feet off the ground. The action took no apparent effort, and while her face remained at best stern, her eyes once again were a window into her white-hot rage.

  “He is a soldier. And until we find proof he’s dead, we will look for him, because Garotte has made a hobby of cheating death, and there is no reason to imagine this is any different. And even if I was sure he was dead, we would still look for him. I don’t care if it means finding the cloud of atoms that used to be him. We do not leave our fallen in the battlefield. He deserves better than that. He is a man. Which is more than I can say for you. You swing the wealth of your company around like a weapon. You deal in vengeance and malice.” She turned, taking him dangling along with her, and walked to the edge of the tank, where a tremor of motion was just beginning to show itself among the robots. “Can you give me one reason, one, that I wouldn’t be doing the human race a favor by letting these things tear you apart and turn you into something worthwhile?”

  “I’ve got a wife and kids!” he yelped, fighting futilely against her iron grip.

  She looked him in the eye and pulled him a little closer. “Sorry, hon, I’m not buying it.”

  “Okay. Fine, that’s not true. But I have a dog! It’s in a kennel right now! What about him?”

  The metallic leg of a partially intact Gen-Mech a few centimeters below Ronzone’s feet swiped vaguely at him while Silo silently interrogated him with her gaze. “What’s the dog’s name?”

  “Barney! He’s Barney and he’s a mutt and I’m supposed to be back to pick him up in two weeks and—”

  “Fine,” Silo said, pulling him back and dropping him on the tank again. “But that dog just saved your life.” She turned back to the field of robots. There was a job to do now, and that was enough to click her brain back into gear. “Judging from the last few EMPs I threw and the way these things are fidgeting already, they’ll be awake in maybe five minutes.”

  “How soon until you get here, Trevor?” Michella asked.

  “It’s gonna be close,” he replied over the slidepad.

  “I think the tank’s a lost cause. It barely worked before it got scrambled. And we’re unarmed.” Silo reached down and snatched up the waving robot leg. Planting a boot on the damaged body, she wrenched the limb free and gave it a few experimental waves. “Nice sharp end, pretty sturdy. A little floppy but I’ve beat down doors with worse. Here.” She tossed it to Ronzone, then tore off the other leg and gave it to Michella. “You two get moving. Whether or not Garotte survived, I think he’d approve of a little excessive force regarding these buggers. I’m going to give them something to think about, then I’ll catch up.”

  Michella pocketed her slidepad, made sure Squee was comfortably about her shoulders, and slid as gently as she could into the bunched-up mire ahead of the tank. Ronzone followed. His hands were shaking, causing the improvised weapon to rattle. Within steps of the tank, they were shin deep in the marsh. Slogging through this mess wasn’t going to put much distance between themselves and the robots.

  “All of you,” Ronzone huffed as he tried to scramble onward. “You are all hideous, broken people. You act like this is normal.”

  “No, we act like this is something we need to handle. And a good thing too, because someone has to,” Michella said.

  In the distance, the clanking of metal limbs started to grow louder. There was a grinding from deep in the mound of robots that suggested those deeper in the pile hadn’t been hit quite so hard by the pulse. Ronzone glanced nervously back, then froze briefly, a look of terror on his face.

  “Is that slidepad in your pocket on?” he asked.

  “Of course. This all needs to be documented.”

  “Good, because my implant just recovered. Hopefully your slidepad will be a more attractive target than my head.”

  “Your dedication to your own survival is a thing of wonder, Agent.”

  “I suggest you get moving a little faster, you two,” Silo said.

  Despite her shorter stature, she moved through the mire with little difficulty, closing the distance between them. One hand held a chunky rifle—out of ammo but still a worthwhile bludgeoning device—and the other grasped the handheld scanner that had tracked their targets thus far.

  “Easier said than done,” Michella said.

  “I’ve got a little extra motivation for you. Regardless of what the robots do, we’re going to want to be at least a hundred meters east of that tank four minutes from now, because shortly after that it’s going to be a mighty inhospitable place to be. And also, that four-minute estimate might be a little fuzzy, but we’ll get a nice loud whistle about thirty seconds from the fireworks. Also, it’ll explode immediately if one of the robots decides to start slicing into the tank.”

  “What’d you do?” Ronzone asked, glancing nervously at the tank as he started moving a bit faster.

  “Let’s just say one of the only differences between a fuel cell and a bomb is how fast you let the energy out. There’s all sorts of circuitry designed to limit the output rate.” She snagged a bundle of wires that hung from a thigh pocket and pulled out some very important-looking electronics. “It looks kind of like this.”

  Agent Ronzone wisely decided to save the breath he was tempted to waste on yet another statement of their insanity and instead stumbled madly ahead.

  #

  The SOB thundered on as the minutes ticked by. Lex had been able to keep the much abused ship free from direct attack for long enough to allow the shields to fully restore. That meant that despite the almost blinding wake he was pushing along ahead of him, the ship’s surface temperature was barely toasty.

  He keyed the transmitter.

  “How are we doing at ground zero?”

  The video screen of his com system showed the view from Michella’s pocket. “The robots are waking up ahead of schedule. And a few of the flyers are starting to notice us,” Michella said breathlessly.

  “How are you set for weapons?”

  “I’ve got this,” she said, holding her repurposed piece of robo-anatomy into view. “I guess there aren’t enough robots to tear each other apart, or maybe the EMP broke Karter’s gadgets, because the robots that are waking up aren’t clashing with each other.”

  She took a moment to catch her breath, turning to show the still-quite-nearby mound of robotic terror. Half a dozen sputtering thrusters were visible like fireflies above the pile, with more rising every second. A distant brilliant point of light was the SOB itself blazing toward them, but with a lot of ground to cover. A handful of the robots were crawling out of the pile and heading toward Michella, clambering across and into the tank along the way. Michella started to turn back and continue her retreat, but a slowly intensifying tone caught her attention.

  “This is going to be bad. Everybody down!” Silo said.

  The video feed pitched upward as Michella was pulled down, showing the star-speckled sky. Seconds later the feed turned completely white and delivered the distinctive pop of a sound that was far too loud to be properly delivered by such a tiny microphone. Lex looked up and saw a blossom of shifting white plasma towering straight up easily fifty meters. There were three small explosions representing flying robots unlucky enough to be in the path of the blast, and a wave of molten metal spilling backward from the distant edge of the pile representing the crawling mechanisms caught in the kill zone. He looked back to his communicator. The video feed recovered, showing a stationary view of the sky once more.

  “Mitch! Michella!” he called.

  There was a murmured reply, the sound of a person too dazed to form proper words. Lex dialed the ship’s thrusters
up even more and watched as the shields began to tick quickly down. He was facing enough friction and heat to boil away the skin of his ship if it were to reach him, but he didn’t care. He sliced through the atmosphere like a meteor. His ETA dropped from minutes to seconds.

  His ship politely warned him of six different catastrophic failures that were impending, but he didn’t cut his speed until he reached the outer edge of the sea of robots. Sure enough, they no longer seemed interested in slicing each other up. What few of them still worked were rebuilding damaged brethren. The rest headed toward the nearest transmissions: Michella’s slidepad, Ronzone’ head, and now the SOB.

  Lex wasn’t willing to waste even the seconds necessary to skim around the edge of the awakening heap of machinery. He simply guided the SOB directly over it at low altitude. Flyers buzzed him and crawlers leaped, but to his adrenaline-charged reflexes they may as well have been softballs lobbed in his direction. A twitch of a finger was all it took to slip between the thickening hailstorm. The cooling edge of the tank explosion marked a hemispherical divot blasted into the mass of Gen-Mechs, and just beyond the leading edge was the woozy but conscious trio. If not for the improvised detonation, they would have already been buried by the army of robots. Instead they were increasingly surrounded, but not yet overwhelmed.

  The SOB swung wide and twisted in the air, shifting its thrusters forward and downward before boosting them again. Exhaust from the engines carved out a deep trough in the mud as he spilled off speed. Any robots too close to his friends were caught in the thrust and thrown aside, giving him just a bit of breathing room.

  “Offensive mode, best target, activate,” he ordered his ship as he dropped it as near to the surface as possible, lowered the shields, and popped the cockpit.

  He scrambled up onto the chassis of the ship and snagged the seldom-used emergency ladder. He hurled the bundle of chain and lightweight alloy over the side and looked down.

  Silo, Ronzone, and Michella were all on their feet, and each was utterly covered with the pasty white mud. Squee clung to Michella’s shoulders and was so thickly plastered with the mire her black fur was barely visible.