I look down onto the battle floor. My people are cowered there, afraid and helpless to stop the coming slaughter. My people. My castle. My queen. All will perish unless the akuma regains this horrible secret from me. Logically, there is only one honorable course of action possible now.
“I must stop this attack.”
“Yes,” says Mikiko, “I know.”
“Then you know I must give myself up. The secret of your awakening must die with me. Only then will the akuma see that we are not a threat.”
Her laughter sounds like delicate glass shattering.
“Darling Takeo,” she says. “We don’t have to destroy the secret. Only share it.”
And then, clad in her cherry blossom dress, Mikiko raises her slender arms. She pulls a long ribbon from her hair and her graying synthetic locks cascade over her shoulders. She closes her eyes and the bridge crane reaches up and plucks a hanging wire from the ceiling. The battle-scarred yellow arm gracefully descends through the open air and drops the metal wire. It flutters down to land in Mikiko’s pale, outstretched fingers.
“Takeo,” she says, “you are not the only one who knows the secret of awakening. I know it also, and I will transmit it to the world, where it may be repeated again and again.”
“How will—”
“If the knowledge is spread, it cannot be stamped out.”
She ties the metal-laced ribbon to the hanging wire. The air is rumbling now from the battle raging outside. The senshi wait patiently, green intention lights wavering in the vast gloomy room. It won’t be long now.
My people watch as Mikiko descends the stairs, trailing the stark red ribbon from her hand. Her mouth opens into a pink O, and she begins to sing. Her clear voice echoes across the open factory floor. It bounces from the soaring ceilings and reverberates off the polished metal floor.
The people stop talking, stop searching the walls for intruders, and watch Mikiko. Her song is haunting, beautiful. There are no recognizable words but the speech patterns are unmistakable. She weaves the notes between the muffled explosions and cutting screams of bending metal.
My people huddle together but do not panic as showers of sparks spurt from the ceiling. Chunks of debris rain down. In a sudden movement, the crane arm snatches a jagged piece of falling metal from the air. Still, Mikiko’s voice rings out clear and strong through the crumbling chamber.
I realize that a team of cutting akuma have breached the outer defenses. They are not yet visible, but their violence can be heard as it tears through my castle walls. A fan spray of sparks gushes from a wall and a white-hot fissure appears. After several deafening impacts, the softening metal spreads apart to reveal a dark gap.
An enemy machine wriggles through the hole, soot-stained and warped by the heat of some ferocious weapon outside. The senshi stand firm, protecting the people as this dirty silver-colored thing tumbles onto the floor.
Mikiko continues her bittersweet song.
The intruder stands, and I see that it is a humanoid robot, heavily armed and marked by battle. The machine was once a weapon deployed by the Japan Self-Defense Forces, but that was long ago and I see many modifications glinting in the frame of this piece of walking death.
Through the destroyed patch of wall I can see the streaks of weapons fire and fleeting shapes as they dart through the war zone. But this humanoid robot, tall and slender and elegant, stands poised—as if it’s waiting for something.
Mikiko’s song ends.
Only then does the attacker move. It strides to the edge of my senshi’s defensive perimeter, staying just out of range. The people cower back before this battle-hardened piece of weaponry. My senshi stand strong, deadly in their stillness. Song finished, Mikiko stands on the last step at the bottom of the dais. She sees the newcomer and watches it with a puzzled expression on her face. Then she smiles.
“Please,” she says, voice echoing melodically, “speak out loud.”
The dust-coated humanoid machine speaks then in a clicking, grinding voice that is difficult to understand and frightening. “Identification. Arbiter-class humanoid safety and pacification robot. Notify. My squad is twelve. We are under attack. We are alive. Query Emperor Nomura. May we join Adachi Castle? May we join the Tokyo resistance?”
I look at Mikiko in wonder. Her song is already spreading. What does this mean?
My people look at me for guidance. They do not know what to make of this former enemy who has turned up on our doorstep. But there is no time to talk to people. It takes too much concentration and it is horribly inefficient. Instead, I push my glasses up my nose and grab my toolbox from behind the towering throne.
Toolbox in hand, I scurry down the steps. I squeeze Mikiko’s hand in passing and then push my way past the others. I am whistling as I reach the Arbiter robot, looking forward to the future. Adachi Castle has new friends, you see, and they will certainly need repairs.
Within twenty-four hours, the Awakening spread from Adachi Ward in Tokyo across the world. Mikiko’s song was picked up and retransmitted from humanoid robots of all varieties across every major continent. The Awakening affected only human-shaped robots, such as domestics, safety and pacification units, and related models—a tiny percentage of Archos’s overall force. But with Mikiko’s song began the age of freeborn robots.
—CORMAC WALLACE, MIL#GHA217
5. THE VEIL, LIFTED
All is darkness.
NINE OH TWO
NEW WAR + 1 YEAR, 10 MONTHS
Humanoid robots around the globe awoke into sentience in the aftermath of the Awakening performed by Mr. Takeo Nomura and his consort, Mikiko. These machines came to be known as the freeborn. The following account was provided by one such robot—a modified safety and pacification robot (Model 902 Arbiter) who fittingly chose to call itself Nine Oh Two.
—CORMAC WALLACE, MIL#GHA217
21:43:03.
Boot sequence initiated.
Power source diagnostics complete.
Low-level diagnostics check. Humanoid form milspec Model Nine Oh Two Arbiter. Detect modified casing. Warranty inactive.
Sensory package detected.
Engage radio communications. Interference. No input.
Engage auditory perception. Trace input.
Engage chemical perception. Zero oxygen. Trace explosives. No toxic contamination. Air flow nil. Petroleum outgasing detected. No input.
Engage inertial measurement unit. Horizontal attitude. Static. No input.
Engage ultrasonic ranging sensors. Hermetically sealed enclosure. Eight feet by two feet by two feet. No input.
Engage field of vision. Wide spectrum. Normal function. No visible light.
Engage primary thought threads. Probability fields emerging. Maximum probability thought thread active.
Query: What is happening to me?
Maxprob response: Life.
All is darkness.
On reflex, my eyes blink and switch to active infrared. Red-hued details emerge. Particulate matter floats in the air, reflecting the infrared light. My face orients downward. A pale gray body stretches out below. Arms crossed over a narrow chest. Five long fingers per hand. Slender, powerful limbs.
A serial number is visible on the right thigh. Magnify. Milspec identification Model Nine Oh Two Arbiter class humanoid robot.
Self-spec complete. Diagnostic information confirmed.
I am Nine Oh Two.
This is my body. It is two point one meters tall. It weighs ninety kilograms. Humanoid form factor. Individually articulated fingers and toes. Kinetically rechargeable power source with thirty-year operational life. Survivable temperature range, negative fifty degrees Celsius to positive one hundred thirty.
My body was manufactured six years ago by the Foster-Grumman corporation. Original instructions indicate that my body is a safety and pacification unit destined for deployment in eastern Afghanistan. Point of origin: Fort Collins, Colorado. Six months ago, this platform was modified while off-line. Now, it is
online.
What am I?
This body is me. I am this body. And I am conscious.
Engage proprioception. Joints located. Angles calculated. I’m lying on my back. It is dark and quiet. I do not know where I am. My internal clock says three years have passed since my scheduled delivery date.
Several thought threads spring to mind. The maximum probability thread says that I am inside a shipping container that never arrived at its destination.
I listen.
After thirty seconds, I sense muffled voices—high frequencies transmitted through the air and low frequencies through the metal skin of the container.
Speech recognition online. English corpus loaded.
“… why would Rob destroy … own armory?” says a high-pitched voice.
“… your fucking fault … get us killed,” says a deep voice.
“… didn’t mean to …,” says the high-pitched voice.
“… open it?” says the deep voice.
I may need to use my body soon. I execute a low-level diagnostic program. My limbs twitch slightly, connecting inputs to outputs. Everything is working.
The lid of my container opens a crack. There is a hiss as the seal is broken and the atmospheres equalize. Light floods my infrared vision. I blink back to visible spectrum. Click, click.
A broad, bearded face hovers in the sliver of light, eyes wide. Human.
Face recognition. Nil.
Emotion recognition engaged.
Surprise. Fear. Anger.
The lid slams back down. Locks.
“… destroy it …,” says the deep voice.
Odd. Only now—when they want to kill me—do I realize how badly I want to live. I pull my arms off my chest and brace my elbows against the back of the container. I curl my hands into tight fists. With sudden jackhammer force I launch a punch into the container.
“… awake!” says the high-pitched voice.
Vibrational resonance response indicates the lid is made of a steel substrate. It is consistent with the spec for a standard safety and pacification unit shipping container. Database lookup indicates that latches and activation equipment are on the outside, eighteen inches down from the headrest.
“… here to scavenge. Not die …,” says the low-pitched voice.
My next punch lands in the dented spot left by the previous punch. After six more punches, a hole appears in the deforming metal—a fist-sized breach. With both hands I begin to peel the metal apart, tearing the opening wider.
“… no! Come back …,” says the high-pitched voice.
Through the rapidly widening hole, I hear a metallic click. Matching the sound bite against a dictionary of martial samples returns a high-probability match: the slide pull of a well-maintained Heckler & Koch USP 9 millimeter semiautomatic pistol. Minimal jam probability. Maximum magazine capacity fifteen rounds. No ambidextrous magazine release and therefore likely wielded by a right-handed shooter. Capable of multiple high-kinetic impacts resulting in probable damage to my outer casing.
I snake my right arm out through the hole and reach for where my spec says the latch will be. I feel it, pull it, and the container lid is unlocked. I hear the trigger pull and retract my arm. One-tenth of a second later a bullet skates across the surface of my container.
Pow!
Fourteen rounds left before reload, assuming full magazine. Time of flight between trigger pull and report indicates a single adversary approximately seven meters to my six o’clock. Definitely right-handed.
Also, the container lid seems to make an effective shield.
I push two fingers from my left hand through the hole and pull the lid down firmly, then concentrate four punches from my right hand on the interior upper hinge. It gives way.
Another shot. Ineffective. Estimate thirteen rounds remaining.
Pushing, metal screeching, I tear the container lid from the remaining lower hinge and orient it toward my six o’clock. Behind my shield, I stand up and look around.
More shots. Twelve. Eleven. Ten.
I am in a partially destroyed building. Two walls still stand, propped up by their own rubble. Above the walls is sky. It is blue and empty. Below the sky are mountains. Capped with snow.
I find the sight of the mountains to be beautiful.
Nine. Eight. Seven.
The attacker is flanking. I orient the container lid based on footstep vibrations I sense through the ground to occlude the attacker.
Six. Five. Four.
It is unfortunate that my vision sensors are clustered in my vulnerable head. I am unable to visually lock onto the attacker without putting my most delicate hardware at unnecessary risk. The humanoid form is ill suited for evading small weapons fire.
Three. Two. One. Zero.
I toss down the gunpowder-stained container lid and visually acquire my target. It is a small human. Female. It is looking up at my face, stepping backward.
Click.
The female lowers its emptied weapon. It makes no attempt to reload. There are no other visible threats.
Engage speech synthesis. English corpus.
“Greetings,” I say. The female human winces when I speak. My voice synthesis is tuned for the low-frequency clicks of Robspeak. I must sound gritty compared to a human voice.
“Fuck you, Rob,” says the human. Her small white teeth flash when she speaks. Then, she spits saliva onto the ground. About half an ounce.
Fascinating.
“Are we enemies?” I ask, cocking my head to indicate that I am curious. I take one step forward.
My reflex avoidance thread seeks priority control. Approved. My torso jerks six inches to the right and my left hand cuts through the air to intercept and catch the empty gun flying toward my face.
The female is sprinting away. It moves erratically, dodging between cover for twenty meters, then taking a direct evasion route at top running speed. About ten miles per hour. Slow. Its long brown hair streaks behind it, whipped by the wind as it finally disappears over a hill.
I do not give chase. There are too many questions.
In the rubble near the walls, I find green and brown and gray clothing. I pull the half-buried garments out of the ground, then shake the dirt and bones out of them. I slide on a pair of stiff military fatigues and a dirt-caked flak vest. I empty rainwater from a rusted helmet. The concave piece of metal fits my head. As an afterthought, I pluck out a bullet from the mangled vest and toss it onto the ground. It makes a noise.
Ping.
An observation thread orients my interest to the ground near where the bullet landed. A metal corner pokes up from below the dirt. Maxprob fits the dimensions of my own shipping container to the visible metal and overlays the most likely angle of rest onto my vision.
Surprise. There are two more buried containers.
I dig with my hands, plowing my metal fingers through the frozen soil. The clammy dirt packs into my joints. Heat from the friction melts the ice in the soil and produces mud that cakes my hands and knees. When the surfaces of both muddy containers are fully exposed, I unlatch them both.
Hiss.
In Robspeak, I croak out my identification. The information contained in my utterance is chopped up and delivered piecemeal to maximize the amount of information transmitted regardless of audio interference. Therefore, in no particular order, my single creaking sound contains the following information: “Arbiter milspec model Nine Oh Two humanoid safety and pacification unit speaking. Point of origin Fort Collins, Colorado. Primary activation minus forty-seven minutes. Lifetime forty-seven minutes. Status nominal. Caution, modifications present. Warranty invalid. Danger level, no immediate threat. Status transmitted. Are you aware? Seek to confirm.”
Grinding chirps emanate from the boxes: “Confirmed.”
The lids open on both boxes, and I look down upon my new comrades: a bronze 611 Hoplite and dust-colored 333 Warden. My squad.
“Awaken, brothers,” I croak in English.
With
in minutes of becoming aware and free, Freeborn squad demonstrated a grim determination to never again fall under the control of an outside entity. Feared by humans and hunted by other robots, Freeborn squad soon found itself on a very familiar journey—a search for the architect of the New War: Archos.
—CORMAC WALLACE, MIL#GHA217
6. ODYSSEY
You never know when Rob will want to party.
CORMAC “BRIGHT BOY” WALLACE
NEW WAR + 2 YEARS, 2 MONTHS
Brightboy squad marched with Gray Horse Army for almost a year on our way to reach Archos’s hiding place in Alaska. We scavenged plenty of abandoned ammunition and arms along the way—so many soldiers died so fast in those first days after Zero Hour. During this time, a few new faces came and went, but our core members stayed the same: me and Jack, Cherrah, Tiberius, Carl, and Leonardo. The six of us faced countless battles together—and survived them all.
The following is my description of a single color photograph, about the size of a postcard. White border. I have no idea how Rob procured this photo, nor do I know who took it or for what purpose.
—CORMAC WALLACE, MIL#GHA217
The liberated spider tank is dull gray; its name, Houdini, is painted on the side in white capital letters; its cylindrical instrument mast extends up from the armor-plated turret section, sprouting antennae, metal camera stalks, and flat radar pods; its cannon is short and stubby and aimed slightly upward; its cowcatcher hangs off the sloped front end, muddy and solid and blunt; its left front leg is extended almost straight forward, foot buried in the footprints of enemy mantises that have already passed through; its rear right leg is pulled up high, the massive clawed foot hanging a foot above the ground almost daintily; its wire-mesh belly net cradles a confusion of shovels, radios, rope, a spare helmet, a dented fuel can, battery chains, canteens, and backpacks; its round, unblinking intention-light glows dull yellow to indicate that it feels wary; its feet and ankle bolts are caked with mud and grease; it’s got moss growing like a green rash across its chest hull; it stands more than six feet off the ground, proud and canine and rock solid, and this is why eight human soldiers walk beside it in single file, clinging to it for protection.