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 u
ndercarriage 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—”