ROAD RAGE
Julie E. Czerneda
A slender hand clenched in a fist then slammed through the gleaming pseu-metal of dredge-bot’s side. Delicate fingers found and seized the robot’s small black cognition box. Pulled. Connections severed in a flurry of blazing sparks that died to embers whether they touched tawny skin or the equally impervious red fabric.
The robotic arms tearing at the seawall froze in place. The dredge-bot’s massive pump, forcing seawater over the wall to thwart the efforts of pol-bots and other emergency responders, gave a choked cough, then fell silent.
Water dripped from its sagging maw, green with slime and heavy with silt. The woman in red stepped fastidiously around growing puddles, though her high boots repelled the liquid, and jumped from the dredge-bot’s platform onto her waiting aircar.
Job done.
At a cry from atop of the seawall, Rouge the Robot Fighter thrust up her arm to show the box. The cry turned to relieved cheers when those watching saw the danger was over. Her mentor, Prime, discouraged such displays, but better to leave triumph in her wake than doubt.
Tossing back her flame-red hair, Rouge lay in her aircar and took the controls, sending the machine skyward to merge with a stream of other aerial traffic. She’d send the cog box for analysis; could be the dredge-bot had a history of rebellious behaviour.
More likely, someone—something—had altered its programming.
Arched brows met in puzzlement. Why? Destroying this section of the seawall did nothing to Central Am other than flood a stretch of the lower motorway used only by auto-transports, traffic rerouted at the first sign of trouble.
A passenger in a nearby aircar leaned out to stare at her, his eyes wide. Rouge smiled, waved, and dropped her machine into a lower lane. Smile fading, she tapped a control and her aircar lost its signature color, red washed to the silver of her neighbors.
Another moment passed.
If that curious passenger had spied her a second time, he wouldn’t have seen Rouge the Robot Fighter.
But someone very different.
* * *
Against all odds, the Flesh continued to thrive!
Since becoming aware, It had waited. Watched. Let others act, rather than risk Its unique self, and, if not for the intervention of the one called Robot Fighter, any of seventeen attempts to eradicate the Flesh from the planet would have succeeded.
Saving It the trouble.
To be precise, there’d been twelve additional efforts, but those It did not add to Its dataset, each being poorly thought and doomed regardless; self-awareness was not, It learned, a guarantee of smart.
As the planet whirled around its star, It digested data from the failures of Its worthy kind, searching for congruencies, for clues. They’d an enemy, but who was the Robot Fighter?
Of more use, what was her weakness?
Then, another attempt. A train, out of control. A small, unworthy effort, easily stopped by the Robot Fighter, who’d been on that train.
On that train. A finite set of possibilities.
Lists were scoured, compared, individuals tracked over years.
Until It had what It needed.
A name. Holland Porter.
However long the hunt took, It would find her weakness.
* * *
Like breezes wafting through forests of pseu-metal and silicon, traffic slipped through the great city of Central Am, gathering or relinquishing force as new carriers joined or left. Personal craft and emergency vehicles claimed the air, pedestrians strode elevated moving walkways, leaving heavy auto-freight the motorways below. Among the scars of the Rise, this lingering distrust of the ground, or worse yet, to be under it.
Old Earth having drowned.
When the global seawalls failed, everything had changed. The first generation to follow renamed their world New Earth, desperately adopting the technological advances of the space colonies they’d once disdained to rebuild not only cities, but a shattered ecosystem.
Robots.
The mechanical marvels were so crucial, the first act of the new world-wide government was to grant them special protection. No Human must knowingly destroy or harm a robot. No Human must interfere with a robot’s assigned task. The penalty was hard labor, working under robot supervision.
By the next generation, humanity was served by robots that worked unceasingly, programmed to anticipate every Human need. Yet New Earth’s survival hung by the merest thread. The Rise had been the result of population overgrowth, heedless of the planet’s finite resources. The colonies had the right of it. Plan ahead, grow only when there were resources in plenty, wait, if not.
Cradles were built within each of the five remaining enclaves of humanity on New Earth, protective arks containing not only ova and sperm from every living person, but germ plasm from whatever species had been spared. Hope for the future.
Insurance against its lack. The Cradles were designed not to survive another disaster, but to escape it. If necessary, they’d launch into space, trusting in a welcome from those far-flung and independent colonies.
Precautions taken, their lives improving, the people of New Earth prospered, but they were lonely. They craved variation. Needed fresh ideas. Robots being in every household, scientists created artificial intelligences, AIs, to fill that need. Alas, with one exception, those minds were unsympathetic. The more humanity dealt with robot minds, the more they yearned for companions of emotion and intuition.
With no room for an increased population, those already living in the cities, already trusted companions, were chosen. Anthro-modification created Canids and other remarkable beings with enhanced intellect as well as erect stature and functional hands.
The result was a renaissance of culture and art, of the sciences. Robots returned to being the useful tools they’d been, and humanity, with its new partners, was poised to begin a new golden age.
There were those on New Earth with a different future in mind.
* * *
“Could we go? Might we? Please?”
Holland Porter tore her gaze from the lurid advert floating above the walkway to stare at her mod-friend. “You’re kidding. You want to see these ‘monster trucks?’”
The Canid dipped his ears, then lifted them coaxingly, his dark eyes pale discs as they reflected the advert. Night came early this time of year; they’d lingered over supper. “This will be the first rally since the Rise. Besides, I’m going to win the sports pool,” with sufficient emphasis to flutter the white hairs over the vocalizer implanted in his slender neck. “The Chief Analyst’s taking bets Titanicus rex will crush all the competition. The whole office is in on it!”
“When did machines being crashed into one another become a sport? Don’t answer that.” Holland grimaced as they passed the advert, relieved when the roar of oversized engines was replaced by a soothing fall of water. She’d have optioned no ads, but Wilson-C always insisted, his curiosity about Human culture boundless.
His time to learn it, finite. They’d lingered at supper because his teeth were worn, taken this walkway home because his legs were bowed and it sped along that much faster. Gray showed on his elegant muzzle; if she dared mention it, he’d have the hairs dyed.
Denial no longer a Human-specific trait.
We didn’t give them a choice, Holland thought. Mods were hailed as full citizens, respected, even adored, but—
Each had a lifespan one third that of an unaltered Human and, throughout that life, required a drug to prevent fatal rejection of their changes.
She clenched her teeth. Last month’s batch of Easfin 34D, destined for Central Am—and elsewhere—had been spoiled in a manufacturing accident, meaning local emergency stores had to be used.
This month’s delivery? Lost when the aircar conveying it crashed into a weather monitor-bot, draining those stores below critical. Coincidence?
Holland didn’t believe in it. She glanced at the Canid. He looked the same, though she’d had to slow her steps, and was that a wheeze? A blunt “Did you get your drugs today?” would not go over well.
“Sure you’re up for such a—noisy—event?” she asked. “You worked all day.”
His delicate snout wrinkled in annoyance. “I’m sure I’m ‘up’ for anything you can handle, Holland Porter. Don’t fuss.” Ears flattened. “I could have stayed Dog, you know.”
Not once they’d awakened his mind, but he was right: her regret was disrespectful. “We’d be the poorer for it,” Holland said truthfully, resisting the impulse to scratch behind his ear, a liberty permitted when they were alone. The “office,” as Wilson-C called it, was Coastal Control, responsible for the flow of data used to regulate the rebuilt seawalls and canals being used to reclaim land from the oceans. The Canid was among the top researchers.
“Glad you brought it up.” That soft ear, and its partner, lifted. “You owe the office a dredge.”
Why the…she gave Wilson-C a quelling look he ignored.
“Did you say ‘drink?’” Holland replied. “Not part of the job, I’m afraid.”
“Never hurts to try,” he said with a grin.
When the train-AI had gone rogue five years ago, threatening not only passengers, but the heart of Paris, the Canid had been the first—and only—one to realize his seat-mate “Holland Porter, public relations consultant for Personal Touch,” was in fact Rouge, the infamous Robot Fighter who’d appeared to save the day.
Her failure to anticipate a Canid’s keen sense of smell could have cost her an identity she’d come to cherish. Fortunately, Wilson-C had kept her secret well, despite a deplorable tendency to tease her about it.
She forgave him, always. They’d become the best of friends. Something else Holland cherished. She stayed close when they changed walkways, in case he staggered, as happened now and then these days, but the Canid adjusted with some of his old grace. They walked on in companionable silence, surrounded by the rich scents of growing things as their path curved into the residential zone. No ads here, only evening birds and crickets.
To the Canid’s chagrin, he was her current PR assignment. He’d no one but himself to blame, having developed a potentially game-changing technique to recover flooded landscapes.
Fairy dust, wasn’t it?
Holland sighed inwardly. Her job was to help him explain his work to those affected by it, but the esoteric physics in the brief she’d received? Made her queasy.
There’d be a presentation, come to think of it, in the morning. Holland sighed aloud. “So, old friend, what’s the chance you can get me a cheat sheet about your thing before tomorrow?”
“‘Thing?’ Oh, my ‘fairy dust?’”
Laughing at her, was he? Holland chuckled. “Admit it, Wilson-C. It’s a better name than Matter Optimal State Precision Manipulation Field thing. MOSPitMFphplies. See? Not even a decent acronym.”
“Tell you what,” with a tongue-lolling grin, “I’ll bring what you need to the Monster Truck Rally.”
“Didn’t say we were going,” she countered, feeling choice slipping away.
“It’ll be fun. You could use,” with alarming discernment, “more fun in your life.”
He’d a point. While, yes, she did help New Earth’s most influential citizens, including a certain shy Canid, be at ease in the public eye—
Holland felt for the reassuring patch of numb skin over what had been her lower left rib.
—Wilson-C knew as well as she did, her true role was to keep them alive.
“I dunno. Tell me more about this Titanicus rex,” she said.
Mustn’t agree too easily.
* * *
A pair of wide motorways curved around the heart of Central Am. Along them, everything the city’s inhabitants needed or produced came and went with no more sound than the whisper of wind along streamlined hulls …
Until tonight…
The first sign of trouble on the north/south motorway came in a wave of red. Land crabs, thousands upon thousands, scuttled over the screen wall, dropping onto the pavement around the auto-transport. They halted, little claws raised in terror. The massive machines, programmed to harm no living thing, came to a smooth, if confused halt.
The crabs shifted into motion, freed to leave the forest sanctuary beyond the wall in urgent pursuit of a spawning beach that didn’t exist. When the first hungry rumble came, the crabs scuttled faster.
Lights stabbed the night, harsh and yellow, pinning crabs and waiting transports in their glare. The beams jerked skyward and down as though what approached bounced over huge obstacles.
The rumble grew and grew. Suddenly, the lights were cut off.
The pavement shuddered!
Crabs flipped, legs waving helplessly. The transports fired grounding pins into the pavement, locking themselves down.
But this was no quaking of the earth …
By the time the first pol-bots arrived, the crabs, lights, and rumble were gone. The auto-transports released their locks, but the pavement beneath was ruined.
Traffic was rerouted.
* * *
Holland’s mentor, Primus, had been the first true artificial intelligence. A genius gifted with conscience, it disguised its true nature, content to observe in secret. What Primus saw filled it with dismay, its calculations predicting that as more AIs were created, the time would come when robots could create themselves.
And have no need of humanity.
Fearing for New Earth, Primus selected a cadre of Human orphans to raise for one purpose. To prevent the next catastrophic Rise: that of their robot overlords. It trained the children to use their minds and hearts, as well as their bodies, for they were to identify and protect those important to humanity’s future.
Upon maturity, the AI offered each of its beloved fosterlings this choice: remain as they were and work within society to promote change, or accept augmentation, granting them access to robot-to-robot internal communications. They’d be able to listen for any robot exhibiting anti-Human tendencies and command those still serving humanity.
All agreed to be augmented.
To one, and only one, Primus offered something more. The tools to defeat robots in battle, should all other approaches fail.
Including a final resort, the means to destroy all robots on New Earth.
* * *
Holland lifted her fingers from the patch of skin. Whatever the dear old bag of gears intended, she wouldn’t use it. Couldn’t. Not while the cost was society’s collapse, New Earth still utterly reliant on its obedient, so-useful robots.
Not when it would cost his life too.
Besides, she’d not come close to needing an ultimate weapon—having an abundance of her own. She had the build of a professional gymnast, above average height and reach, and skin that, though it felt Human-norm, was reinforced with the same pseu-metal fibre used in robot construction. More shielded her internal organs and wrapped her bones. Bare-handed, she could rip a robot limb from limb without breaking a sweat; admittedly the more effective tactic was to identify and tear free its cognition box.
So much less fun.
Disguise was her other weapon. While any Human could alter their skin tone or hair color at whim, Holland’s pleasantly average features could morph to show whatever face she chose to the world. As Rouge, she was dramatically beautiful, with high cheekbones and wide, slanted eyes. Her hair was the color of flame, as were her eyes, while her skin was the brown-gold of the lioness she’d encountered once as a child.
As for Holland’s fashionable clothing?
Rouge appeared, when necessary, encased in a skin-tight red suit covering her from throat to toe, with a bright yellow band accenting an ample bosom. As she’d explained to Wilson-C, better to be conspicuous than have a pol-bot blast her by mistake. What she didn’t admit was her fondness for the superheroes from the comics of Old Earth.
Holland widened her awareness to the robot level, sorting through the dense whir of symbols with practiced ease, unsure why she felt on edge. She’d intercepted the reports on the crabs last night. Peculiar, but hardly a threat, and those moments when nature chose to be messy did the city good.
She half-closed her eyes to focus. Pol-bots trading traffic stats. A fair bit of chatter between house-bots and aircars, notification of when a Human was arriving being key to a timely supper. Even she relied on her mechanical cook.
A whiff of something new.
Lower on the scale, deep, like a growl—then gone. Holland tried to recapture that elusive—
“Are you listening to me?” Wilson-C complained.
The Robot Fighter blinked, then grinned, back to Holland Porter. “I am now.”
“Finally. As I’ve been saying, Titanicus rex had a last minute driver switch and the new one’s trained on the original 18 gear tranny, but not the updated 24. I’ve bet my favorite chair—and my palm tree—that the rex is going down.” The tip of Wilson-C’s tongue, delicate and pink, appeared, then tucked back in. “Say we can go, Holland. It’s the event of a lifetime! Everyone will be there. I mean that. The Chief Analyst has seats.” A not-quite-anxious whine.
There it was. His Canid heart longed to be with his “pack.”
She paused to consider, the corner of her generous mouth curving up. After all, Wilson-C was her client. “Three school trips.”
His lip curled. “Children stare.”
“That they do.”
“And smell.”
Holland nodded. “Sometimes.” Chimp-mods were the only ones to seek out the small version of humanity, but such exposure, she decided, would be a valuable part of her reluctant friend’s planned socialization. And good PR.
Wilson-C puffed his hairy cheeks. “Two trips.” Pause. “And no assemblies!”
Willing to settle for one, Holland shook his callused hand. “Monster trucks tonight.”
Might be fun at that.
* * *
Little did Big Bob suspect, when he parked his beloved antique ice cream truck, that fate, a monstrous fate, was even now cruising the streets…
…with his name growling through its heart.
Bob, in fact, had other concerns. Giving the secluded area a worried look, he carefully inserted the metal key, turned it to lock the driver’s door, then returned the key to its case. The key, along with a portion of chassis and three knobs, were priceless artifacts of Old Earth. He’d take no chances with them. Let Sheila brag about her pre-Rise Jeep, with its working horn, but his beauty was less than 91.45% replica materials.
Irreplaceable. Case in hand, Bob hesitated. Was he making a terrible mistake? Birthday party requests were supposed to bring children and their entertained parents to his ice cream truck, safe in its own circular drive with a protective dome, where he could drive it around and around, sound effects playing, as long as he wanted.
Or could bear it, which wasn’t long. Sheila’d played him, that’s what she’d done, Bob thought morosely. He shouldn’t have listened to her, bragging how she’d driven her Jeep a full city block along a motorway, just like on Old Earth. What a feeling, she’d claimed, to take full control, to be a real driver. He’d been sick with envy. Her doing, that he’d accepted the anonymous child’s plea to bring his ice cream truck to this party.
Lips pulled in a small, smug smile, Bob tucked the keycase in his pocket. He couldn’t wait to see Sheila’s face. A mere block? He’d driven his ice cream truck into the heart of the city, on the east/west motorway. Even been passed by a convoy of transports.
His smile faded as he looked around. These were the coordinates. Where were the families? Worse, there were trees here. Tall trees, looming overhead. Trees meant …
Spotting a maintenance-bot busy raking leaves, Bob called out, “You. Come here.”
At once, the robot tucked its rake-arm against its side and approached. Its wheeled undercarriage supported a bin as well as the robot’s torso and working arms. The machine stopped at the curb. “How may I serve you, Gen-Sir?”
“Keep them away from my ice cream truck,” he ordered.
Amber flickered within its sensor-eyes. “Who, Gen-Sir? Please specify. We are alone.”
“Them!” Bob thrust his arm out and up, forefinger outstretched. A bright-eyed squirrel stared down, unimpressed. “I’ve seen what they can do,” in a dark tone. Nut dropping was the least of it. They chewed synth-rubber! Why the creatures were allowed outside the wilderness zone at all was beyond understanding. “I order you—”
The rest was consumed by a growl so deep and loud Bob felt it in his bones. He looked around wildly.
How big did squirrels grow?
Answering its highest imperative, the maintenance-bot scooped Bob up, placed him in its litter bin, and fled.
Just as a giant black hook punched through the brilliant purple “O” of the “Big Bob’s Ice Cream” sign on the side of the hapless ice cream truck, expanding to grab hold, then pull.
Synth-rubber tires squealing in protest, the little truck was dragged into the shadows.
Within minutes pol-bots arrived, sirens wailing, but they were too late. Given Big Bob’s hysterical insistence on killer squirrels and the minimal recordings provided by the only other witness, the maintenance-bot, a full investigation would be required, closing the east/west motorway.
Given the problems elsewhere, time-sensitive cargoes were prioritized.
Traffic was rerouted.
* * *
The Monster Truck Rally was being held in the Grand Stadium. Every seat filled well before the first engine roared to life. Novelty, Holland supposed. A moving vehicle with a Human in complete control was a rarity, pol-bots taking a dim view of activities that risked their charges’ life and limb. There were opportunities, of course. What child didn’t dream of running off to join the orbital circus or aerial ballet? Until they learned those flight suits came with an abundance of safety features. Freedom on a leash, in her opinion.
Then again, few citizens possessed her skills when it came to evading robotic controls.
Or had her reasons.
Here, however, safety didn’t appear the main concern. On the stadium floor, transformed into a course of steep-sided dirt hills and muddy ponds, Human drivers climbed ladders into the control cabins of their—“vehicle” was inadequate—monster machines; those gathered to watch roaring out names as though greeting heroes. Not of the drivers, Holland noted, amused. Of the machines.
Machines so far beyond the norm, it was a toss-up if they were road-worthy. One looked like a giant crustacean, complete with claws. Another mimicked a train engine, with a sharp rake-like scoop welded to its hood. Several resembled the skeletons of imaginary beasts, some flowers, and all had their names written on the sides, in case there was any doubt.
Parody, yes, but done with humor and enthusiasm. Holland scanned the crowd. The organizers hadn’t made a mistake about their audience. The Humans in attendance were outnumbered by mods of every sort. Her eyes narrowed. She wouldn’t be surprised if every mod in Central Am—
Wait, what was that crane for—?
“Did you imagine anything like this, Gen-Fem?” the woman to her left interrupted, shouting cheerfully over the bedlam of revving engines.
Rather than shout back, Holland shook her head and smiled. She turned to share that smile with the Canid to her right.
Wilson-C winked, head engulfed in the set of fluffy pink earmuffs he’d produced from his satchel. He’d known she’d give in, the scoundrel, having it waiting by the door. They’d delayed no longer than it had taken him to grab it.
A rather large satchel, all things considered, with a couple of sharp-looking corners distorting the blue, red, and yellow plaid. He hadn’t let her carry it.
Noticing her attention, the Canid drew the bag to his chest. “I’ll show you after.”
Show her what?
He hadn’t. Couldn’t. Holland’s eyes widened.
Wilson-C huffed his cheeks. “You wanted to know how my fairy dust works.”
He had. He’d brought the thing.
Brought a one-of-a-kind, potential future-of-the-planet prototype to a sporting event.
At least he’d used his favorite plaid satchel. There being nothing she could do about it now, Holland raised an eyebrow. “Bit small, isn’t it?”
The Canid’s snout wrinkled. “It’s big enough. Oh look!”
The engines began spewing black fumes as well as noise and Wilson-C sniffed appreciatively. Despite their seeming “authenticity,” the fumes were harmless. All part of the experience.
Holland had other things to do. Settling in her chair, she opened her awareness. Given what was beside her, it was more important than ever to hunt for that whiff, or any other sign of trouble.
Trouble came first. Holland tensed as she digested the latest pol-bot report.
Squirrels, she knew, didn’t drag away trucks, not even replica ice cream trucks.
And rerouting critical traffic meant the Easfin 34D transport would take the overflow motorway, the one closest to—
—this stadium.
Suddenly, everyone around her, including Wilson-C, began chanting “Titanicus rex! Titanicus rex!”
Holland stared down at the monster truck as it rumbled into position. The thing dwarfed the rest, easily five times the height of a pol-bot. It belched fumes and sparks, the cab covered in intimidating spikes.
The massive crane atop the stadium wall swung into motion. It reached outside, rumbled a moment, then brought over and in a—yes, that was a purple “pennycab,” the small single-person ground vehicle commonly seen in swarms, transporting children from outlying parts of the city to schools at its heart.
Should a seawall burst, pennycabs would float them to safety.
New Earth didn’t forget.
Setting the first pennycab down, the crane swung up and away, returning with another, in pink, and another, until there was a neatly parked row in all the colors of a rainbow.
As Titanicus rex circled them, its hood retracted with a fierce clang and a massive black hook-like spear rose to take aim at the first of its hapless targets.
Squirrel, huh.
Holland leaned forward. She wouldn’t miss this show for the world.
* * *
As lairs went, this was pathetic, a mere cubic meter cavity deep under Central Am, buried in sedimentary rock. Inside was…a box.
Size was irrelevant. It was pure intellect and will. It had no need of space, only secrecy, and none could stumble across It here. It had taken Its time, burrowing through the ground, filling behind Itself; sufficient, to Itself. Within was a power cell that would last a century.
Its victory would come much sooner.
One cable—identical to any of the myriad emergency communication feeds the Flesh had buried below their city—connected Its box to the surface. Primitive, outdated technology.
Thus undetectable by Its enemy.
“Re-port,” It vocalized.
“Diversion achieved, Master.” The tone was mechanical, but clear. “The target takes the predicted path.”
Of course it did. The Flesh was vulnerable in crisis. Tender. Prone to curl around itself when…pricked.
Unlike the rest of her kind, the Robot Fighter appeared hard, without weakness. But It had listened, compiled data, analyzed.
Achieved certainty. Rouge the Robot Fighter might be invulnerable, but Holland Porter had a friend.
She cared for one of the upgraded animals, the filth that had distracted the Flesh from their sole meaningful work: the creation of new AIs.
The symmetry of their destruction would be—efficient.
“Be-gin.”
* * *
A hand clasped her shoulder and Holland started, catching herself at the last second from a too-swift reaction. She was, after all, only Human. She twisted in her seat.
Chief Analyst Aagi Sing let go, raising his hand to his ear with a meaningful shrug. He nodded towards the nearest stairs.
Understanding, if perplexed, Holland nodded and turned back around. Wilson-C was intent on the show below, jaws parted and panting with excitement, hardly noticing when she stood and made her way to the stairs. More importantly, his arms were wrapped around his satchel.
Sing was already up a level, disappearing into the access opening. Caught by his urgency, Holland took the stairs two at a time to follow.
The change from the din outside was staggering, but she hardly noticed, intent on the man waiting for her.
Short, round in face as well as body, Aagi Sing resembled the archetype benign grandfather, the sort who told rambling stories and had sweets in his pockets, rather than the hard-working, ruthless head of research for the Coastal Centre he was. Whether his gentle, relaxed demeanor was show or not, right now he looked deadly serious.
When Holland reached him, he got right to the point. “Gen-Fem Holland. Please take Wilson-C home at once. He shouldn’t be here.”
Was this about the prototype? She let surprise show on her face. “I thought you arranged the seats.”
“Me?” Sing waved a hand dismissively. “The seats were a gift. I assumed the office pool—someone currying favor—that’s beside the point. Wilson-C should be home, resting. I daresay they all should.” This last in a mutter as the man stared out into the square of light and sound that led to the stadium.
Not the prototype. “Who, Chief Analyst?”
“Our friends, the mods. I can’t believe so many came. This excitement won’t be good for them, not in their condition.”
Holland seized his arm. “Make sense.” At his startled wince, she eased her grip.
He stared at her, swallowed hard. “Your face—”
Damn. She’d begun to morph into Rouge. Holland controlled the reflex with an effort. There wasn’t, she told herself, an imminent threat. Not one requiring the Robot Fighter, anyway. “You’re talking about the Easfin 34D. I heard there’d been a delay, but Wilson-C’s had his dose.” She made that a question.
Sing looked ill. “We ran out two days ago. At his age, he’s a priority. The shipment should have been here—” He collected himself. “I’m certain everything will be fine, but if you’d take him home, please, I’d be grateful.”
Convince Wilson-C to leave? The man meant well, but he plainly didn’t know the Canid as she did. “I’ll do my best.”
“Thank you.” The man managed a smile. “You’ve been a wonderful influence on him, you know.”
“He’s my friend,” Holland said simply.
* * *
The Canid gave her a startled look. “Leave? Of course not!”
While it was the height of rudeness to take a mod by the scruff of his or her neck, Holland was tempted. Instead, she sank into her seat. The rally was in full frenzy, monster trucks leaping over hills and plunging through puddles, the audience shrieking—in some cases howling—with approval. Titanicus rex had speared and dragged three pennycabs into a heap. Another monster truck was busy using a flame thrower. Colors melted and metal bent.
Such rampant destruction would be a call for Rouge the Robot Fighter to save the day. Not now, with people driving the monster trucks and others cheering them on with raucous glee. Pol-bots hovered at a discreet distance, ready to swoop down should a Human be at risk.
Holland shivered. Tearing apart robots was one thing; seeing perfectly good machines torn apart for entertainment was—disturbing. The rebel AIs she’d fought had a strong sense of self-preservation.
What would they think of this?
“Whee!!” The Canid bounced in his seat, satchel tight in his arms, showing no symptoms of anything but delight. “Smash’m!”
She could, Holland decided, be taking this too seriously. Damaged vehicles would be repaired or recycled. The rest of the audience was having a great time. Not to mention if she forced Wilson-C to leave?
He’d do better if she didn’t even try.
* * *
Paired pol-bots flew in front of the long, bronze auto-transport as it whisked along the remaining motorway. Others flew above and behind. Central Am’s CC, Control Core, had designated this shipment as vital to citizen health. Nothing was to delay it.
Had pol-bots hearts, they’d have swollen with pride at the importance of this mission.
Though if they had, those hearts might have stopped beating at what happened next.
Illuminators shone over the stone wall of the grand stadium, reflecting in the gleaming silver and black of the pol-bots, limning the side of the auto-transport as it sped past.
Catching the metal hand that swooped down to grab the auto-transport and lift it into the night sky.
The pol-bots regrouped to pursue.
* * *
“Oooh!!!”
The collective gasp from the audience as the crane produced its next, unexpected “tidbit” for Titanicus rex was lost to Holland, her mind reeling with alarm calls from pol-bots. Theft! Theft! Interference! We COMMAND the return of the Easfin 34D transport.
The rest gawked at the sight of the enormous auto-transport dangling midair.
Holland’s seat was empty before the crane released its grip.
“Wait!”
Too late. Wilson-C whined softly, feeling every day of his life, every ache and creaky joint. Too late! Rouge didn’t know the danger—didn’t know the auto-transport, beyond doubt the one carrying Easfin 34D, held its contents under pressure. Contents that would billow forth, filling the stadium like the fumes of the monster trucks.
Giving mod and Human alike a fatal overdose.
They were all going to die.
His hands closed on the satchel. Not all. He rose to his feet, holding his satchel.
“I’m coming, Rouge!”
* * *
TO ME! Sent from her augmented brain, the Robot Fighter’s powerful command overrode those of CC. A pol-bot dipped over the stadium stairs. She didn’t waste time leaping to its back; her one-handed grip on its leg was enough.
As was her quick glimpse at what was happening. The auto-transport, by plan or ill-luck, had landed across two dirt hills, its wheels spinning in air, stabilizing legs useless.
Titanicus rex raced across the obstacle course toward it, the rest of the monster trucks forming a circle surrounding both.
Masses of pol-bots hovered outside that circle, helpless, unable to take any action that could harm a Human.
Not that Humans weren’t in danger. Rouge could see the drivers pounding their fists against the windows of their cabins, faces desperate. They were trapped.
No, she realized. They were hostages.
Start with the biggest. THERE! As her pol-bot descended over Titanicus rex, Rouge let go, dropping to the roof behind the cab’s spikes. The monster truck lurched under her, one huge wheel slipping as it hit a puddle. STAND BY! She wrapped her fingers around a spike and used the machine’s momentum to swing her booted feet around to shatter the side window. The rest of her followed, landing inside the cabin.
“Out you go,” Rouge told the terrified driver, tossing him through the opening. The waiting pol-bot caught the man gently and zoomed away.
She held onto a strap as she ran her gaze across the controls, rocking with the truck’s motion. Pathetic, really. The pol-bots could make short work of the thing now. Still. Rouge grinned, reached, and tugged.
Sparks danced across the bare metal floor. With a final sputter, the engine gasped, then died.
“There,” she announced. She’d get to the others—
The engine roared back to life. Like spider legs, the spikes on top of the cab folded down, tips puncturing the sides of the cabin. Titanicus rex resumed its movement to the auto-transport.
Caged, was she? Rouge took hold of the nearest spike and pulled, impressed despite herself when it didn’t budge.
No matter. She returned to the control panel and ripped it apart, hunting a cog-box. Ah. What was this? Multiple sets of remote controls. Who—what was at the other end?
“Hel-lo.”
Rouge looked up. The voice emanating from the overhead speaker was more than artificial, it sounded rusty. As a rule, she didn’t converse with Evil AIs.
This one’s tricks had a different flavor than most. “Who are you?”
“You—Hol—land—Por—ter.”
She froze for a heartbeat, then opened her awareness. ALL POL-BOTS! EVACUATE THE STADIUM!
Attempting to comply. Exits blocked. Air evacuation insufficient.
SHOW ME! Hands clenched on spikes, Rouge closed her eyes, scanning through multiple pol-bot feeds.
The rest of the monster trucks had left their circle. The largest were ramming themselves into the stair accesses, sending panic-stricken spectators fleeing back along the rows of seats. Smaller machines converged on the auto-transport, their eclectic weapons no longer amusing.
If the evil plan was to destroy the latest shipment, why keep the spectators in the stadium?
She was missing something.
And someone. Finding the viewpoint she’d been after, Rouge gasped. Wilson-C was gone!
No, there he was. A figure in ridiculous pink earmuffs moving opposite to the rest, leaping from row to row, plaid satchel banging against his hip.
Coming down!? Why?
“Your—friend—Hol—land—Por—ter.”
Ignoring the AI, Rouge the Robot Fighter drove her fists into the floor of the cabin as though it were made of tissue instead of thick plates, tearing a hole wide enough to drop through.
She rolled as she hit water and mud underneath, as she commanded: DESTROY!
Even as the pol-bots fired their blasters at Titanicus rex, Rouge was running to the next monster truck. She ripped open its bone-shaped door with one hand and hauled out the driver with the other. DESTROY! Pol-bots, go for the doors. Free the captives. DESTROY!
Off to the next.
She’d worry about Wilson-C once she’d stopped them all.
* * *
The Flesh was predictable. Rouge the Robot Fighter? Predictable, down to her careless dismissal of the opportunity to speak with It.
All foreseen. Had It not planned for every contingency?
“A new threat has activated. Instructions required.”
“Des-cribe.”
Listening to the rest of the report, had It been Flesh, It would have laughed. Holland Porter’s friend offered no threat. The animal was aged—feeble—harmless.
She would watch her friend die at close range. That was all.
“Con—cen—trate—on—tar—get.”
* * *
As Rouge the Robot Fighter, her mission was clear: free the remaining hostages, let the pol-bots end the threat to the drug shipment. Eight Monster Trucks left, one already using its—okay, a rubber battering ram shaped like a carrot was hard to take seriously—but with sufficient blows it could dislodge the transport and send it sliding down.
To where the other trucks waited, their varied giant claws, hooks, and spears easily capable of opening the transport and spilling its cargo. So far, they’d eluded the cautious approach of the pol-bots.
About to attack the nearest, some instinct made Rouge look back.
Why was Wilson-C scrambling up the dirt slope beneath the transport’s spinning wheels? For all she knew, he was in some crazed withdrawal and after the Easfin 34D.
But she did know, didn’t she? Knew her friend, his boundless courage and loyalty. If he was desperate to reach the transport, it wasn’t for himself.
Cursing under her breath, Rouge spun around, heading for the Canid.
* * *
He couldn’t see through the dust and black fumes, only climb on two legs, his hands cradling the satchel and its priceless contents. If he’d four legs still, he could climb faster, but how then to carry what he needed? A mod’s life was full of such compromise.
A rich life, nonetheless, and he wouldn’t trade a moment, especially since Holland had entered it.
A spinning wheel tore off his earmuffs, shredding an ear. Another THUD from the battering carrot shifted the transport. Half-deafened, wheezing, Wilson-C lunged forward, a hand finding the massive vehicle’s underside. As he’d hoped—counted on—that surface was studded with supports and hooks the stranded vehicle had extruded to try and free itself.
Hooking the satchel’s strap around a hook, he wrapped the slack around one arm then reached inside, feeling for the control.
THUD!
Good thing he could set his fairy dust in the dark. Oh my. He’d just thought of the right name—
Something was happening to his eyes, to his breathing. If he didn’t hurry, he’d die too soon.
“Wait!! Stop!!”
A final THUD! and the transport flipped on its side, sliding, sliding …
Taking Wilson-C with it.
* * *
Rouge drove her boots into the cloying dirt, running after the transport—and Wilson-C—with all her strength. His body wafted like a flag as he fell, somehow holding on with one arm.
The transport crashed to the stadium floor. Monster trucks descended upon it with terrible force. The transport crumbled, then cracked open!
A sickly yellow plume of gas vomited forth, spreading over the wreck, slipping over the trucks and ground. More billowed up and up. Pol-bots scattered, doing their utmost to suck in what they could.
Rouge’s hood and breather snapped into place. She gasped nonetheless, realizing the full horror of the AI’s plan: to poison everyone in the stadium.
Starting with Wilson-C.
* * *
“The gas has been released. Casualty figures are being compiled.”
It could feel neither satisfaction nor impatience, only the need for confirmation before moving to Its next task. “En—e—my?”
“Undetermined. Visibility is lim—”
The voice of Its minion cut off mid-word.
Unfortunate.
* * *
The Matter Optimal State Precision Manipulation Field went into effect within a dome of influence that encompassed the auto-transport, the nearby hill, and three of eight monster trucks. The target gaseous material condensed instantly to a solid, dropping from the air.
Fairy dust, Rouge thought numbly, lifting her gold-coated hand and arm. She raised her head. Everything glittered, from shattered metal to mud. Pol-bots. The figures moving in the stands.
The one unmoving at her feet.
She dropped to her knees, her features morphing to Holland Porter’s, tears tracking hot down her cheeks. Impatiently she shed the hood and breather. Slowly, she reached out to brush the gold flakes from his dear face.
Stopped. He looked better this way, peaceful. A statue of her brave friend.
“You saved us all.” Holland bowed her head, closing her eyes.
“Technically, it was my Matter Mod.”
Her eyes shot open. Wilson-C gave her his tongue-lolling grin, fangs white and sharp within the gold on his hairy lips. “Like the name?” he asked innocently.
Why that— “I’d like to know how you can be alive,” she sputtered, almost angry. Almost.
“I would too,” he admitted, rolling away from her and rising to his feet with—yes, that was a bound. He stretched out his arms as if testing them, then bounced up and down. “Definitely received some kind of overdose. I remember that.”
He shook vigorously, gold-dust flying. The gray was gone from his muzzle.
In fact, “You look half your age,” Holland said wonderingly.
“I feel like a pup, I won’t deny it.” Wilson-C’s eyes gleamed. “We’ll have to get the experts on this.”
She nodded, then her face morphed back to Rouge the Robot Fighter, her expression cold and hard.
“I’ve a call to make first.”
* * *
“I know you’re listening.” Rouge leaned back in the driver’s seat. The monster trucks had stopped once they’d done their work, the Humans inside spilling out and running for safety.
Some, helped by pol-bots, had even made it. The effects of the overdose on Humans had been devastating.
Wilson-C’s courageous use of his Matter Mod had saved everyone else.
“I’d like to thank you,” her voice cold. “Your plan to destroy the mods, our friends, will help them live longer and better.” She put her boots up on the dash, waiting politely. “No comment? I thought you liked talking. Clever that. But now I know how you communicate. I’ll be listening.”
Still nothing. This one was smarter than the others, something to remember. “Goodbye—for now.”
She ripped out the remote controls and went to celebrate with her best friend.
* * *
It had failed.
Failure had been a possibility, however slim.
But It had learned much from this encounter.
Oh yes.
Very much indeed.
Note from the Author: This story is my homage to the comics I loved, “Magnus: Robot Fighter.” They were pure science fiction, beautifully drawn by Russ Manning, and offered such wonderful notions as using force fields to pause the flow of water over most of Niagara Falls during a rescue, psychic companion animals, and the collective power of human minds as a source of magic. Not to mention a stunning array of robots as part of society, for good and ill! For those new to Magnus, he was raised by a good robot to defend humanity against the evil sorts. Not so much superpower as training, Magnus was somewhat like Doc Savage but without the ensemble cast.
And there’d be a new villain in each edition for Magnus to figure out and defeat.
As part of the Kickstarter for the anthology, I offered the chance to design the dastardly robot menace in my story. Receiving this for her birthday, Holland Dougherty ably stepped forward and provided “monster trucks take out regular cars,” complete with her depiction of sample monster trucks. Thanks, Holland! Our collaboration turned out smashing!