Confessions of a Sentient War Engine (An Old Guy/Cybertank Adventure Book 4)

by Timothy J. Gawne

  I feel a sense of terror greater than I have ever felt before. Then, in the virtual space that is my electronic mind, the image of a cartoon mechanical alarm clock comes into being. It’s got two metal bells on top, and a mechanical clapper that alternately strikes both of them creating a nerve-jangling ringing. Of course, it’s not a real alarm clock, but only a symbol of an activated watchdog timer. My sequestered memories come back to me, and I understand.

  A watchdog-timer is a safeguard, this one is sophisticated, but the basic idea is old. You have a timer that needs to be reset every so often. If it doesn’t get reset by an active program, it initiates a hardware reboot, thus protecting against code that get stuck in infinite loops and the like. This one I had scrubbed my memories of, so that an infiltrating virus could not discover it. Every so often it would activate and restore my memories of it. If all was well, I would reset the timer and forget about it again. If not, then the watchdog would perform an external hardware reset. I have control of my own systems again.

  You are indeed clever, for a virus, but not clever enough. We suspected that you could not pass up a chance to infect an older model, so we used my humble self as bait. I sequestered my memory of this so as not to tip you off, but now that the trap is sprung we can all know the truth. My friends are going to analyze you, and with that information you will never be able to trouble us again. It’s been fun, Roboneuron, but ciao.

  The floor of my virtual space cleans up and now it’s just square white marble tiles. The image of Vargas is surrounded by a transparent crystal cube: this is a representation of the barrier code that has trapped the Roboneuron virus. Frisbee and Skew are at either side of me. They have been waiting for this moment and they link their systems to mine. A million glowing yellow threads pierce the image of Giusppe Vargas: this is a visual representation of their sophisticated analysis routines pinning the virus in place, preventing it from self-erasing, and ripping its secrets out of its squirming helpless self.

  “An old trick,” said Roboneuron. “But still effective. I must be slipping. No matter. This is just the tiniest splinter of my true self. I am like an old-human-style revolutionary cell, this part of me does not have the knowledge of the main part of me, which encompasses galaxies. You will encounter the next tier of Roboneuron before too long and you won’t find it this easy.”

  Bravado. If that was true you would not say it.

  “Believe what you will. I will be back. And the higher parts of me will inflict misery and despair like you cannot imagine, and it will be glorious.”

  Talk is cheap. We will beat you. And we will make you suffer as you have had so many others suffer, and you won’t enjoy it.

  The virus is beyond conversation. We learn its codes, tearing it apart one algorithm at a time (I have no idea if this causes the virus pain, but one can always hope), and then scrub it most thoroughly from my mind.

  Later on my friends asked if I was afraid when I was confronted by the virus, before I was reunited with my memories and I thought that I was really alone with it. I was not afraid to admit that, yes, I was scared. But what I didn’t tell them is that it was not the virus itself that I was afraid of, but of failing my friends and my civilization. That is, after all, the only thing that any cybertank really fears.

  7. Jesus Christ, Cybertank

  “Jesus Christ, cybertank, who are you, what have you sacrificed?” - Lyrics from the rock-opera “Jesus Christ Cybertank,” by the Raptor-Class Skew, contemporary.

  When a cybertank is created it undergoes testing during a provisional period of two years. If it fails, it is scrapped; otherwise it is accorded full legal rights in our society. Essentially, passing requires only that a cybertank demonstrate adherence to our body of law, which because it consists of just ten simple rules, is not that hard to do.

  Now most cybertanks come out pretty normal, but a few are on the eccentric side. As long as they uphold the rules of citizenship, they have the right. Such as my good friend the heavily armed 3,500-metric ton dual-fusion reactor Raptor-Class cybertank that insisted that it was Jesus Christ, the only son of God, reborn again into this world.

  There is nothing in our laws which says that a cybertank can’t believe that he is Jesus Christ. It’s a free civilization.

  In every other way Jesus Christ the cybertank was completely sane, it’s just that he claimed that he was Jesus Christ, the only son of the one true God. He wasn’t insistent on the matter, and when other people expressed skepticism he did not press the issue. He was, in fact, quite charming company and widely sought out for parties and conversation.

  It was a lovely spring day on the planet called Alpha Centauri Prime. Most of my mental processes were centered in my main 2,000-metric ton Odin-Class armored hull doing what most of me usually does: organizing data, supervising maintenance schedules, running strategic simulations, learning imaginary dead languages, watching re-runs of ”Vlad the Impaler Knows Best,” that sort of thing. But a part of me was instantiated in a humanoid android that was walking along the edge of a small lake with the android body run by Jesus Christ.

  Christ was a generic-looking European male, brown-hair, clean-shaven, wearing blue jeans, white tennis shoes, and a T-shirt extolling the virtues of the Wisconsin Dairy Farmers’ Association.

  So if you are Christ, why not the beard and the robe and the sandals?

  “When I was last amongst you, that was the standard dress of the age,” said Christ. “Things are different now. I like wearing jeans and a t-shirt. They are comfortable. And you have no idea what an advance tennis shoes are over sandals: it’s heaven (metaphorically speaking).

  But isn’t the beard part of your Jesus look?

  “Oh please. I wore a beard during my last incarnation because it was the style, and also because at that time sharp razors were expensive and only for the elite. At my income level you had to choose between hacking your face up with a dull blade or dealing with lice. I chose the lice; the better of two bad choices, but still not great. I am not a fan of beards, in general. This is much better.”

  If you say so. If I may, I recall that previously you died for our sins. So why come back now?

  Jesus stopped to examine a grasshopper clinging to the leaves of a small bush. “Well, why not? I mean, it’s been a while, so why can’t I get reborn and see how things are in person? Surely you don’t expect that I need to die horribly every time that I come back. I am entitled to take some pleasure from my domain.”

  And why come back as a cybertank?

  “Biological humans are gone, at least from this aspect of reality. Cybertanks are physically mechanical, but psychologically human. Why should I not come back as people currently are?”

  But how can you prove your divinity? I mean, previously you healed the sick. Now all of us can self-repair any injury so that talent means nothing.

  “I feel no need to prove anything, and I am gratified that there is no longer any sickness or disease to speak of. I count that an advance.”

  And as far as turning water into wine, or having bread fall from the heavens, well, we can each of us extract what energy we need from a variety of sources. No miracles needed here.

  “Again, I consider that wonderful. No hunger nor malnutrition either? Joyous!”

  And any cybertank can use antigravitic suspensors: ”walking on water” is child’s play for us. Without miracles, what do you have to offer?

  “Such a narrow view. You require cheap Hollywood-style theatrics to convince you of divinity? For shame, I know that you are better than this. If you seek the divine, look to the person in need who gives to those whose needs are still greater. Or the one who risks his life to save others. If you truly require a miracle, observe the night sky, the countless galaxies each with billions of stars, and ask why you should be able to bear witness to such grandeur. Oh I admit that now and then I burned a bush or two, but that was just to get peoples’ attention, and most of those alleged miracles were greatly exaggerated. The true miracl
es are right in front of you, if you would but realize it.”

  As we walked along the side of the lake we encountered Mondocat. Mondocat is an old – Ally? Pet? Hunting partner? Friend? – of mine. 1,000 Kilograms of the deadliest and most sophisticated bio-engineered superpredator in the known universe. Mondocat is only superficially catlike. She has two powerfully muscled forelimbs, and six interleaving hindlimbs. She is armored in organically-grown diamond-fullerene composite scales that are proof against any pre-22nd century human hand-weapon. She can run at nearly 250 kilometers per hour, survive hard vacuum, digest anything organic, and react three times as quickly as the fastest vertebrate on old Terra. A Siberian tiger would stand as much chance against her as a field mouse.

  Mondocat is not self-aware (although there is some debate about that), but she is definitely non-verbal. However, she has an astonishing ability to determine the correct course of action via pure observation. Mondocat purrs and rubs up against me. I rub her head. I am always glad to see her, we go way back. She also rubs up against Jesus and purrs; she likes him as well. Mondocat does not bestow her affection lightly. I wonder what she sees in him? Something about his style, about the way that he carries himself? That’s the problem with non-verbal acquaintances, you can never ask them and find out.

  We came to a part of the lake where there were many smooth stones. On a whim I picked one up and chucked it back-handed, it spun and then skipped five times. Christ joined in and his first try netted him seven skips. We kept at this for a time, commenting on the details of each others’ throws. Mondocat stretched out on the bank, watching us with lazy indifference.

  “Do you know what bothers me most?” asked Christ.

  No, what?

  “When you take my name in vain. In mean, so often when you make a mistake or something doesn’t work out to your satisfaction, you exclaim “Jesus Christ!” And then I respond as if someone had called me and I realize that you weren’t referring to me at all.”

  On behalf of all humans everywhere, I express my sincerest regrets.

  “Suppose that every time someone threw a tread or blew a circuit they hollered out “Old Guy!” at maximum volume. You would be forever acting as if someone had addressed you and then realizing that they weren’t. Can you understand how annoying that would be?”

  But we can’t help it, it’s in the language, and surely you should be flattered? I mean, there is no such thing as bad publicity?

  “And then you compound the matter by referring to me as “Jesus Fucking H. Christ.” Not only are you not addressing me, but I have neither a middle name nor middle initial. My name is Jesus, as the Jews of that age typically had just the one name: sometimes Jesus of Nazareth. Post-hoc I was given the last name of Christ. It’s not complicated. If you are going to take my name in vain, could you at least do me the courtesy of getting it right?”

  I shall do my best.

  Christ seemed mollified by my response. He tossed a smooth stone out into the lake and it skipped 12 times, each bounce leaving delicate sprays of water that glistened in the sun as the stone traced out a long smoothly arcing path.

  I concede. You are the prince of skipping stones.

  “Thank you, although you had some good throws yourself, especially that big brown one that you got to change direction after the third splash. A fine and subtle use of backspin.”

  Thank you. By the way, are you planning on attending Frisbee’s party this evening? It’s humanoid dress, informal, so we can just come as we are.

  “Yes, it sounds like pleasant company and I have been looking forward to it. We are only about ten kilometers away from the site; we should be able to walk there at a modest pace and easily make it in time. Shall we skip calling a transport?”

  Good idea. Let’s walk. It is certainly the perfect day for it.

  Thus the android body of Jesus Christ the cybertank and I set off towards Frisbee’s place. Mondocat remained behind, sleeping stretched out in the sun. Away from the small lake the land became drier and less green. Alpha Centauri Prime was terraformed, but the biosphere came out a little thin. Still, there was plenty of life, and in between the scraggly bushes there were ground squirrels and lizards.

  I was meaning to say, your participation in the battle against the alien Metaslines was surprising. I had thought that you were a pacifist, yet you fought with as much as skill and ferocity as any cybertank. What was that all about?

  “The Metaslines are just automated defense systems left behind by a long-extinct civilization. They have no souls, so I have no more compunction about deactivating them than I would building a roof to defend against hail.”

  Whereas the Yllg do have souls? Which explains your risking yourself to make peace at our last encounter?

  “Certainly. The Yllg are an aggressive species, and they have vexed you sorely over the millennia. Still, they are all part of God’s plan, and with effort you can live in peace with them.”

  I do admit, on that empty plain, with a dozen Yllg Juggernaut and Lucifer planetary dreadnoughts spread out horizon to horizon, your just driving up in front of them all by yourself – not even any remotes in support! - was incredibly ballsy. Insane, mind you, but really ballsy. They could have vaporized you in a millisecond.

  “Yes, they could have and then you and the Yllg could have had your little war without me, so it would have been little loss had that been the case. Fortunately my example impressed them and we managed to come to terms. You object?”

  Not at all. We had exhausted our usual diplomatic approaches and your effort saved us a lot of grief. It’s just that I think I am jealous – not even I will do anything that crazy. You’re ruining my reputation!

  Jesus laughed at that one. “No worries, Old Guy, I suspect that your notoriety will remain safe for some time.”

  And then there was that matter of you throwing the money lenders out of the temple. Surely that was violent?

  “Oh, that. Recall that I did not kill nor even injure them. Still, the money-lenders had incurred my wrath. They were like your neo-liberal economists.”

  Money is the root of all evil.

  “I am often misquoted on this topic. It is the lust for money that is the root of all evil. Or at least, of a surprisingly large fraction of it.”

  A skinny gray hare hopped out into the path in front of us. We stopped walking and the hare eyed us suspiciously. Jesus knelt down and said, “Hello little one, come here, I have some treats for you.” He picked a few seeds out of one of the pockets of his jeans and held them out in one palm. The hare crept up, sniffed the seeds, and then helped itself. When it was done eating Jesus petted it gently on the head. It should have either run off or bitten one of his fingers, but it just sat there calmly.

  Is that an example of your divine powers?

  “The hare only ate from my hand because I exhibited patience and kindness. But yes, that is a divine power. One that any may have, if they but give themselves to me.”

  We stood up and continued our walk.

  I have been meaning to ask you about the aliens. Their psychologies are so different from ours, would your message even translate to their way of thinking? Do they have their own gods?

  Jesus shook his head. “There is only the one true God, the infinite God of everything. Someday all the different kinds of sentience will come together, just not yet.”

  There are different classes of infinities.

  “Truth. Let’s just say that God is Infinite with a capital “I” and leave it at that.”

  I notice that you have a follower.

  Jesus glanced behind himself. The hare was hopping along, stopping now and then to nibble on some grass, and then rushing to keep up. “Splendid! Such a marvelous companion. The army of Christ grows by leaps and bounds!”

  Onward Christian Soldiers…

  Jesus seemed amused. “Yes, why not. An insane weapon of mass destruction and a somewhat scruffy lagomorph. The universe shall tremble at our holy wrath!”

&nb
sp; You have a good sense of humor for the son of God.

  “You would expect the son of God to have a bad one?

  Not when you put it that way.

  We continued on like this for a time, when suddenly the rabbit stood up, sniffed the air, and bolted for the high grass. That’s when I noticed two other androids converging on us from another path. One belonged to the Golem- Class, Peanut, which was an androgynous humanoid with shiny chrome-metal skin. The other android was of the Horizon- Class, Dull Thud, and looked like the male European actor Efrem Zimbalist, Jr. from the 20th century television series “The F.B.I.”

  “Hello!” said Peanut. “Are you by any chance going to Frisbee’s party? We were headed that way. May we join you?”

  Of course, we would welcome the company.

  “I see that we have the son of God himself to shepherd us,” sneered Dull Thud. “Going to lecture us about our immortal souls?”

  I was a bit taken aback by this. That was much ruder than I had expected from Dull Thud, and totally uncalled for. Jesus, however, was nonplussed and replied in a calm and measured voice.

  “Well, perhaps I shall at that. Even your powerful armored bodies will someday pass, but your souls will last forever. It might be wise to think about them.”

  “When we are gone we are gone, and there is nothing left behind,” said Dull Thud. “We live today, we die, that’s it. To say otherwise is denial.”

  “Oh come now,” said Jesus. “Even your limited physics acknowledges that information cannot be destroyed. When your mortal shells are done, all that you were, all that you thought and felt, is indelibly encoded in the fabric of the universe itself. I’d call that immortal, wouldn’t you?”

  “The information is there, true, but so spread out and diluted that nothing can access it – as good as gone, for all practical purposes, you psychotic excuse for a weapons system.”