by Jon Land
Rat-tat-tat…
The automatic spray was undoubtedly from John’s M16, and Abraham’s vision at last sharpened to see his target. Whatever had emerged from the magazine had reflected sun like metal because it was metal. And not a man in a protective suit, either.
It was a robot!
All of a sudden Abraham realized Blaine McCracken hadn’t played into his hands at all; he had played into McCracken’s and now he was facing a madman’s version of backup.
Obie One seemed to be smiling as he aimed the gun attached to his right hand and opened fire.
“Did you see that? Did you see it?” Professor Ainsley beamed as Obie One fired a hail of bullets into the second disciple his sensors had locked onto.
“I’ll buy him a beer when he comes back in,” said McCracken.
“You mean a lube job,” Belamo quipped.
The picture of a second disciple being torn apart by Obie One’s bullets was transmitted by the snakelike Obie Four to the main board in Professor Reston Ainsley’s control truck. They had parked it back near Williamsburg’s eastern border, behind the cover provided by the Capitol Building. Blaine had known that defeating the disciples under normal conditions was not possible. He knew they would be waiting for him when he came for Virginia Maxwell at Gap headquarters and used this to set a trap—with Wareagle and himself as bait the disciples could not possibly resist.
The problem from the start had been how to snare them and where. Utilizing Professor Ainsley’s original Omicron legion for reinforcements had actually occurred to him as far back as his meeting with Takahashi; the logistics followed from there. What was needed, Ainsley had explained the previous day, was a confined space whose layout could be programmed into his robots, who would then be controlled from a short distance away. McCracken had originally feared Ainsley would laugh off his idea and send him packing. But the old man had embraced the plot with excitement and enthusiasm. Perhaps he just wanted to prove to the world that his creations could perform as no one ever believed they could.
The Gap’s location limited their options for the site of the final battle, Williamsburg by far the most advantageous given its proximity to Newport News. Yet there were problems. Yes, the Operational Ballistic Droids would still learn as they moved, but having to negotiate around so many structures could cause significant problems as the battle progressed. Another equally pressing problem was that the Obie series had been constructed purely with counterinsurgency in mind. No thought had been given to how the droids would perform when placed in the field with friendlies. Essentially, how would they distinguish the good guys from the bad? What was there to stop them from shooting anything that moved, including McCracken and Wareagle, if circumstances forced them out into the battle as well?
Ainsley had provided the solution to this in the truck—just minutes before—in the form of twin necklaces for Wareagle and McCracken. A small medallion around their necks would jam sensor mechanisms and thus exclude the two men as targets. The professor, meanwhile, had spent the better part of Sunday night programming the layout of Williamsburg into his Obies. He had managed to get all four operational, and of these the boxlike Obie Three, along with One and Four, were already in the field. The hulking shape of Obie Seven stood outside the truck, between the Capitol’s central pillars, waiting to be dispatched. The red LED lights that flashed across his eyeless head and chest made him look impatient to McCracken.
Right now, though, Blaine’s eyes were glued to the main monitor screen as Obie Four scanned the area.
“Where’s Abraham?”
Reston Ainsley punched some commands into his keyboard. “Obie One is still locked on to him. I’ll put him in pursuit mode.” And his fingers flew over the keys once more.
“Can you tell him to be cunning?”
“It’s built into his programming.”
“That’s good, because it’s built into Abraham’s, too.”
Even if Abraham had realized earlier he was facing a gray silver robot, there was nothing he could have done. The impossibility of its existence reached him an instant before the gun that was an extension of its right forearm began firing into John. John was blown backward, his Kevlar vest shredded by the robot’s powerful bullets, his head almost torn from his shoulders. Judas lay across from him, his corpse a mirror image.
Two of the disciples had been killed! By a robot, goddammit, a robot!
And he would end up the third unless he fled now, before the thing’s firing sensors locked on to him. Yes, a few well-placed grenades could splatter his steel guts as easily as flesh and blood ones. But the fact was, a single miscalculation in aim would cost Abraham his life—because the robot couldn’t miss.
Abraham bolted from the tree, back in the direction of Duke of Gloucester Street, his small, hand-held communicator raised to his lips.
“This is Abraham,” he said, and then did his best to explain to the remaining nine disciples what they were up against.
In the control truck behind the Capitol Building, Reston Ainsley punched another series of buttons. “I’m sending Obie Four to scout out the next group.”
“Make it fast. The disciples know what they’re up against now,” advised Blaine.
“They know only of Obie One.”
“Won’t be hard to figure out he didn’t come alone any more than we did.”
Ainsley looked almost pleased. “Then I suppose I should get to it.”
The disciples now moved in five pairs. On Abraham’s orders Thaddeus, the second of those badly injured, had joined him in the hunt for the killer robot at the Prentis Store at the intersection of Duke of Gloucester and Colonial streets. Abraham, the store giving him cover, held fast to the motion detector, but no sign of the robot appeared. The tight cluster of buildings was working in the robot’s favor here, offering a layer of confusing cover for the detector. Abraham had realized what had to be done even before Thaddeus came up alongside him.
“How is it?” Abraham asked him.
“It hurts,” Thaddeus replied, grimacing slightly. “But I can move.” Abraham nodded in apparent satisfaction and raised his communicator to his lips. “Continue your sweeps,” he ordered. “Check all buildings and shops. Find their headquarters. Keep me informed.”
Abraham clicked off his communicator and looked back at Thaddeus. “Take the rear. Stay ten yards behind me.”
Thaddeus nodded, then asked, “Where are we going?”
“Where else? After the robot….”
“What now?” Blaine asked Reston Ainsley.
He had barely completed the question when a series of red lights began flashing on the main console. The professor slid himself over to it.
“Obie Four has locked on to another pair of the monsters. Let’s have a look, shall we?”
Ainsley punched a button on his console and the view from the snakelike reconnaissance droid filled the screen. Obie Four had the ability to plow under and then come back up through solid asphalt if necessary. Ainsley explained that its entire length was essentially a drill that spun at blinding speed, enabling it to burrow inside virtually any substance. Only the very base of its head had to rise back to the surface to provide them with a picture, much like a submarine’s periscope.
The screen sharpened to reveal a pair of the disciples veering off Palace Street toward the Brush-Everard House. Directly behind them now was the wide, grassy expanse of the Palace Green Obie Four had burrowed up through. The disciples made their way warily down the walk, then kicked open the door without testing the knob.
“No respect for property,” Blaine quipped.
“Neither does Obie Three, I’m afraid—and fortunately he’s in the area,” said Ainsley.
With that he keyed in Obie Three’s access code and swept his fingers across the control keyboard. A slight adjustment of Obie Four’s camera allowed the occupants of the truck to see the boxlike figure of Obie Three emerge from the cover of the shell of a reconstructed colonial theater three buildings
to the right of the Brush-Everard House. Ainsley brought Obie Three up the house’s front walk, in essence following in the footsteps of the two disciples who had entered. Then another series of commands from Ainsley had the droid’s top sliding open to allow its multiple extremities to ease upward and out. One of them held a powerful explosive that looked like two Frisbees squeezed against each other. It placed the charge upon the front steps and then affixed a detonator to it with a second and more adroit extremity. What might have been a steel finger flipped a switch.
On Professor Ainsley’s control board, a light on the lower panel switched from green to red.
“It’s armed,” he said, and returned his attention to Obie Four’s monitor screen.
Professor Ainsley kept his eyes on the monitor while his fingers flew across the keyboard to issue Obie Three instructions, which moved it to a safe distance. His finger then eased to a button beneath the light that had been flashing red for ten seconds now.
“We wait until we see them emerge,” he explained. “That way we’re sure.” Ainsley looked back at McCracken. “You want to do the honors?”
“The pleasure’s all yours, Professor.”
“Yes,” Ainsley acknowledged. “It certainly is.”
At that point the two disciples appeared on Obie Four’s screen, approaching the door they had kicked open. Reston Ainsley waited one last second and then pressed the button.
For some reason, Blaine had been expecting a smaller, more contained explosion. What followed was a blinding, horrific blast as the better part of the Brush-Everard House’s front half fragmented into wood shards and splinters that blew out from the fireball. He never saw the disciples; they simply vanished into the oblivion of the blast, consumed by it. The screen cleared to reveal flames picking at the ruined shell of a building, charred portions still falling from the sky.
“That makes four down, Professor,” Blaine said.
“Still eight to go, chief,” Belamo reminded him.
Nonetheless, McCracken was about to give Ainsley a celebratory slap on the shoulder when a new explosion sounded from another area of the park. He barely had time to wonder what it was when Obie One’s control board flickered once and then went dead.
Abraham respected the prowess of the foe he was facing here. The robot’s programming made it a virtually indestructible and independently acting machine. In a confined area, the layout of which was certain to have been programmed into its microchip circuitry, it would inevitably track him down before he could possibly track it. His only hope lay in using that knowledge to his advantage.
That was why he had summoned Thaddeus, why he had the wounded disciple watch his rear. As bait, a sacrifice. He knew the robot would close from the rear, and, in the instant its sensors and firing mechanism were locked on to Thaddeus, Abraham would take his shots. If he missed, the robot would have him, too, but he didn’t plan on missing. As an added precaution, he was careful to keep himself as much in line with Thaddeus as possible, hoping this would confuse the robot into believing the motion it detected was that of a single man, not two.
Abraham knew his M16 by itself was useless against the robot’s steel composition. But the grenade launcher built into its bottom was something else again. He hadn’t had time to get in the shots he needed when the thing had killed John and Judas. Now he would.
This, of course, was just the preliminaries. McCracken and the Indian might be content to let the robot fight their battles for them, but once that robot was neutralized they would have no choice other than to show themselves.
He was passing behind the William Waters House when the blast reached his ears; he turned in time to see a cloud of debris hurtling into the sky from the Palace Street area. No screams followed, but he knew all the same he’d lost another pair of his number. Could there be more robots than the one he was after? Yes, there had to be. He felt an unfamiliar chill of anxiety, perhaps a flutter of fear. McCracken was even better than he had expected.
“Abraham!”
Thaddeus’s scream reached him a breath ahead of the nonstop clacking of the robot’s built-in gun. He turned to see Thaddeus’s body being pulverized by bullets, literally torn apart before he was even able to fire a shot. Abraham leveled his grenade launcher toward the robot and fired. The charge whoooooshed out dead on line with the thing. Impact tore away the entire right side of the robot’s midsection and part of its head. The thing staggered, listing, but incredibly turned on Abraham to fire just as he sighted in with another grenade.
This time the explosive impact blew off the rest of the thing’s midsection to below the torso. Its leg extremities continued waddling about briefly before keeling over.
Abraham charged on in the direction of the plume of black smoke still rising over Palace Street. More of the machines were about; if he were going to draw McCracken and Wareagle from their hiding place, he would have to take out the machines first. The rest of the disciples meant nothing to him now. Whether they survived or not was meaningless, as were their parts in the remainder of the plan. McCracken mattered, and beyond him the Indian.
Abraham was heading toward a ruined building across the Palace Green when a strange impression carved into the ground caught his eye. It was perfectly cylindrical and deep, like a gopher hole made in dirt. Abraham suddenly had a very clear idea about what it was he was looking for.
As well as how to find it.
“They killed Obie One,” was all the transfixed Ainsley could say. “They killed him.”
Ainsley wheeled himself to the console controlling the monstrous Obie Seven and flipped on the control switch. Outside, near the Capitol’s pillars, a red light locked on in the center of the huge robot’s head. The arms that housed the specially modified Vulcan 7.62-mm miniguns snapped up to forty-five degree angles from locked positions at his side.
Blaine grabbed Ainsley’s hands before he could press any more switches.
“Not now, Professor!”
“What are you saying?”
“That they’re not concentrated enough for Seven to do us any good yet. He’ll get a few of them, and then they’ll get him.” Blaine paused. “Just like Obie One.”
Ainsley stiffened. “We can’t have that.”
“No, we can’t. Stick with the plan. Bunch them up, force them together, and then sic Obie Seven on them.” McCracken, Belamo, Patty Hunsecker, even Johnny let their eyes wander in the direction of the professor’s—out the rear of the truck, toward the menacing shape of Obie Seven.
“You’ll tell me when,” Ainsley said to Blaine.
“I’ll tell you, all right.”
Reluctantly the professor wheeled himself back to the main control console, where a flashing yellow light alerted him that Obie Four had locked on to the position of another pair of disciples.
“We’ve got scores to settle now,” he said to the two machines still active in the park.
Having completed their assigned sweep, Thomas and James moved down Duke of Gloucester Street with twin automatic rifles leveled before them. They saw none of the other disciples and knew, as the rest of the survivors did, that their number had been cut by at least a third. They were on the defensive now, searching for machines as well as men, the hunted as much as the hunters.
Against his better judgment, Thomas raised the communicator to his lips.
“Abraham,” he called. “Abraham…”
No response came. Could the best of their number have been killed in one of the two blasts that had come just minutes before? No. Much more likely, he was merely keeping radio silence. The reasons didn’t matter. Thomas and James would keep it as well.
The sweeps of the disciple team were concentric in nature, designed to bring them together near the end of Duke of Gloucester Street. If McCracken and the Indian had not been found by then, there would be precious few places left they could be, and these few could be better covered in larger groups. Thomas and James walked toward the rendezvous point uncertain and uneasy, the scen
t of smoldering wood still thick in the air.
Obie Four surfaced twenty yards behind the pair of disciples as they proceeded along Duke of Gloucester Street between Colonial and Botetourt. Reston Ainsley checked Obie Three’s position and nodded happily. “Got you, you bastards,” he said out loud.
“Where’s Obie Three, Professor?” McCracken asked.
Ainsley had the snakelike head of Obie Four pan to the right and asked for a close-up. An old-fashioned picket fence sharpened into view between a pair of buildings just across Botetourt Street.
“Coming up on this spot,” Ainsley announced. And, as if on cue, the boxy shape of the demolitions droid rolled onto the scene.
The professor pulled the picture back to capture the approaching disciples once more.
“Perfect,” Ainsley muttered. “We’ll get them here.”
Ainsley repeated the series of instructions he had issued in front of Brush-Everard House, telling Obie Three to plant another of his charges. A sudden beeping filled the cramped confines of the truck’s rear.
“Oh, no!”
“What is it, Professor?” McCracken asked from behind his shoulder.
“His top doors are jammed. Must have been damaged by debris from the last blast.”
“Check out the screen, Doc,” Sal Belamo urged.
Obie Four’s picture now showed the pair of disciples to be twenty yards from Obie Three’s position.
“Pull Obie Three out of there, Professor,” said McCracken.
“No, I can’t….”
“We’ll get another shot.”
The old man’s hair flew wildly about his face as he swung around in his wheelchair. “You don’t understand. I really can’t. One of its wheels is jammed on something. The advisors were worried about this sort of thing. It was one of the reasons the project was—”