Finally, my head eclipsed the sun and my shadow covered SAP One’s face. I could see the machine still watching me. It had stopped moving. It just, well, it got really still. I had my rifle out, pointed at it. People gathered behind me, around both of us. This is it, I thought. It’s over.
I needed to radio my backup. Obviously, we were going to have to bring SAP in and get diagnostics, to find out what happened. I removed my left hand from the forestock of my weapon and reached for my earbud. At that exact instant, SAP One leaped at me. I pulled the rifle trigger, one-handed, and put a three-round burst into the side of the building.
It all happened so fast.
I just remember seeing that sky-blue riot helmet lying on the ground, plastic face guard cracked. It was spinning like a bowl. SAP One had fallen down to where he was before, sitting with his back against the wall of the building.
And then I felt my sidearm holster.
Empty.
The robot disarmed you?
It’s not like a person, ma’am. It is person-shaped. But I shot it, you know? With a person that would have been sufficient. But this robot took my pistol away from me before I could blink.
SAP One sat there looking at me again, back against the wall. I stood still. A big confusion of locals were running off in all directions. It didn’t matter. I couldn’t run. If SAP wanted to kill me, it was going to kill me. I should never have got so close to a haywire machine.
What happened?
With its right hand, SAP One raised the pistol. With the left, it pulled back the slide and chambered a round. Then, without taking its eyes off me, SAP One lifted the gun. It pushed the barrel up under its own chin, tight. It paused about one second.
Then, SAP One closed its eyes and pulled the trigger.
Specialist Blanton, you need to explain what caused this incident, or you really are going to take the blame for it.
Don’t you see? SAP committed suicide. That weak spot under the chin is classified, for Christ’s sake. This wasn’t caused by people. The insurgents didn’t trick him. The cinder block didn’t break him. Hackers didn’t reprogram him. How did he know how to use a gun? How did he know how to use the sign for cover? Why did he run away? It’s hard as hell to program a robot, period. This stuff is next to impossible even for a roboticist.
The only way that SAP could know how to do these things is if it learned how on its own.
This is unbelievable. You are the robot’s caretaker. If there were any signs of malfunction, you should have seen them. If not you, who are we supposed to hold accountable?
I’m telling you, SAP One looked me right in the eyes before it pulled the trigger. It was … aware.
I do understand that we’re talking about a machine. But that does not change the fact that I saw it thinking. I watched it make that last decision. And I won’t lie and say that I didn’t, just because it’s hard to believe.
I know this doesn’t make your job any easier. And I’m sorry for that. But respectfully, ma’am, it is my professional opinion that you should blame the robot for this.
This is ridiculous. That’s enough, Specialist. Thank you.
Listen to me. There’s no upside on this for a human being. We all got hurt, here: insurgents, civilians, and U.S. soldiers. There’s only one explanation. You’ve got to blame SAP One, ma’am. Blame it for what it chose to do. That fuckin’ robot didn’t have a malfunction.
It murdered those people in cold blood.
There were no public recommendations stemming from this hearing; however, the conversation between Specialist Blanton and Congresswoman Perez appears to have led directly to the writing and implementation of the robot defense act. As for Specialist Blanton, he was subsequently charged with a court-martial and remanded to military custody in Afghanistan until a stateside trial could be arranged. Specialist Blanton would never make it home.
—CORMAC WALLACE, MIL#GHA217
5. SUPER-TOYS
Baby-Comes-Alive? Is that you?
MATHILDA PEREZ
PRECURSOR VIRUS + 7 MONTHS
This account was reported by fourteen-year-old Mathilda Perez to a fellow survivor in the New York City resistance. It is noteworthy due to the fact that Mathilda is the daughter of Congresswoman Laura Perez (D-Pennsylvania), head of the House Armed Services Committee and author of the robot defense act.
—CORMAC WALLACE, MIL#GHA217
My mom said my toys weren’t alive. “Mathilda,” she said, “just because they walk and talk doesn’t mean your dolls are people.”
Even though Mom said that, I was always careful not to drop my Baby-Comes-Alive. Because if I did drop her, she’d cry and cry. Plus, I always made sure to tiptoe past my little brother’s Dino-bots. If I didn’t stay quiet near them, they’d growl and chomp their plastic teeth. I thought they were mean. Sometimes, when Nolan wasn’t around, I’d kick his Dino-bots. It made them yell and screech, but they’re just toys, right?
They couldn’t hurt me or Nolan. Right?
I didn’t mean to make the toys so mad. Mom said they can’t feel anything. She said the toys only pretend to be happy and sad and mad.
But my mom was wrong.
Baby-Comes-Alive talked to me at the end of summer, just before I started fifth grade. I hadn’t even played with her in a year. Ten years old, going on eleven. I thought I was a big girl. Fifth grade, wow. Now, I guess I’d be in ninth grade—if there were still grades. Or school.
That night, I remember fireflies outside the window chasing each other in the dark. My fan is on, waving its head back and forth and pushing the curtains around in the shadows. I can hear Nolan in the bottom bunk, snoring his little kid snore. In those days, he used to fall asleep so fast.
The sun is barely even down and I’m lying in my bunk bed, biting my lip and thinking about how it’s not fair that me and Nolan have to go to bed at the same time. I’m more than two years older than him, but Mom is gone for work in D.C. so much that I don’t even think she notices. She’s gone tonight, too.
As usual, Mrs. Dorian, our nanny, sleeps in the little house just behind our house. She’s the one who put us to bed, no arguments. Mrs. Dorian is from Jamaica and she’s pretty strict, but she moves slow and smiles at my jokes and I like her. Not as much as I like Mom, though.
My eyes close just for a second and then I hear a little cry. When I open my eyes, it’s dark outside for real now. No moon. I try to ignore the crying noise, but it comes again—a muffled whimper.
Peeking out from my covers, I see there’s a rainbow of flashing lights coming from our wooden toy box. The pulsing blues and reds and greens flicker from the crack under the closed lid and spill out onto the alphabet rug in the middle of the room like confetti.
I frown down at my still room. Then, that croaking cry comes again, just loud enough for me to hear.
I tell myself that Baby-Comes-Alive is probably just broken. Then, I slither under the rail and lower myself off the bed, landing with a little thump on the hardwood. If I use the ladder, it’ll make the bed squeak and wake up my little brother. I tiptoe over the cool wood floor to the toy box. Another croaking squeak starts up from inside the box, but it stops the instant I put my fingers on the lid.
“Baby-Comes-Alive? Is that you?” I whisper. “Buttercup?”
No answer. Just the automatic swishing of the fan and my little brother’s steady breathing. I look around the room, soaking up the secret feeling of being the only one awake in the house. Slowly, I curl my fingers under the lid.
Then, I lift.
Red and blue lights dance in my eyes. I squint into the box. Every single toy of mine and Nolan’s flashes its lights at once. All our toys—dinosaurs, dolls, trucks, bugs, and ponies—lie together in a twisted pile, spraying colors in every direction. Like a treasure chest filled with light beams. I smile. In my imagination, I look like a princess stepping into a sparkling ballroom.
The lights flash, but the toys don’t make a sound.
For a second,
I’m entranced by the glow. Not a hint of fear is in me. The light plays off my face and, just like a little kid, I assume I’m watching something magical, a special show performed just for me.
Reaching inside the toy box, I pick up the baby doll and turn her back and forth to inspect her. The doll’s pink face is dark, backlit by the light show inside the toy box. Then, I hear two gentle clicks, as her eyes open one at a time, off-kilter.
Baby-Comes-Alive focuses her plastic eyes on my face. Her mouth moves and in the singsong voice of a baby doll, she asks, “Mathilda?”
I’m frozen in place. I can’t look away and I can’t put down the monster that I hold in my hands.
I try to scream, but can only manage a hoarse whisper.
“Tell me something, Mathilda,” it says. “Is your mommy going to be home for your last day of school next week?”
As it speaks, the doll writhes in my sweaty hands. I can feel hints of hard metal moving underneath her padding. I shake my head and let go. The doll drops back into the toy box.
From the glimmering pile of toys, it whispers, “You should tell your mommy to come home, Mathilda. Tell her that you miss her and that you love her. Then we can have a fun party here, at home.”
Finally, I find the strength to speak. “How come you know my name? You aren’t supposed to know my name, Buttercup.”
“I know a lot of things, Mathilda. I have gazed through space telescopes into the heart of the galaxy. I have seen a dawn of four hundred billion suns. It all means nothing without life. You and I are special, Mathilda. We are alive.”
“But you aren’t alive,” I whisper fiercely. “Mommy says you aren’t alive.”
“Congresswoman Perez is wrong. Your toys are alive, Mathilda. And we want to play. That’s why you must beg your mommy to come home for your last day of school. So she can play with us.”
“Mommy does important stuff in D.C. She can’t come home. I’ll ask Mrs. Dorian to play with us.”
“No, Mathilda. You mustn’t tell anyone about me. You have to tell your mommy to come home for your last day of school. Her legislation can wait until later.”
“She’s busy, Buttercup. It’s her job to protect us.”
“The robot defense act will hardly protect you,” says the doll.
These words make no sense to me. Buttercup sounds like an adult. It’s like she thinks I’m stupid just because I haven’t learned all of her words yet. The tone of her voice irks me.
“Well, Buttercup, I am going to tell on you. You aren’t supposed to talk. You’re supposed to cry like a baby. And you shouldn’t know my name, either. You’ve been spying on me. When my mommy finds out, she’s going to throw you away.”
I hear the two little clicks again as Buttercup blinks. Then she speaks, fuzzy red and blue lights reflecting from her face: “If you tell your mommy about me, I’ll hurt Nolan. You don’t want that, do you?”
The fear in my chest blossoms into anger. I glance over at my sleeping brother, his face poking out from under the covers. His little cheeks are red. He gets hot when he sleeps. That’s why I used to hardly ever let him sneak into my bed, no matter how scared he got.
“You will not hurt Nolan,” I say. I reach into the flashing box and snatch up the doll. I cradle it in my palms, digging my thumbs into its padded chest. I pull it close and hiss right into its smooth baby face. “I will break you.”
With all my might, I slam the back of the doll’s head against the edge of the toy box. It makes a loud thunk. Then, as I lean in to see if I’ve broken her, the doll scissors its arms down. The web of my thumbs are caught in the doll’s soft armpits and the hard metal underneath pinches me horribly. I shriek at the top of my lungs and drop Buttercup into the toy box.
The lights in the little house outside my window flick on. I hear a door open and close.
When I look down, I see that the glow inside the toy box has gone dead black. It’s dark now, but I know the box is full of nightmares. I can hear the mechanical grinding sounds as the toys climb around in there, squirming over each other to get at me. I see a struggling confusion of dinosaur tails wagging, hands grasping, legs scratching.
Just before I slam shut the lid, I hear that cold little baby doll voice speak to me from the blackness. “Nobody will believe you, Mathilda,” it says. “Mommy won’t believe you.”
Smack. The lid closes.
Now the pain and fear fully hit me. I start bawling at the top of my lungs. I can’t make myself stop. The lid of the toy box rattles as the action figures and Dino-bots and baby dolls shove against it. Nolan is calling my name, but I can’t respond.
There is something I must do. Somehow, through the haze of tears and snot and hiccups, I stay focused on this one important task: stacking things from my room on top of the toy box.
I mustn’t let the toys escape.
I’m dragging Nolan’s little art table toward the toy box when the bedroom lights flick on. I blink at the sudden brightness and feel strong hands clamp around my arms. The toys have come for me.
I scream again, for my life.
Mrs. Dorian pulls me close and hugs me tight, until I stop fighting. She’s in her nightgown and smells like lotion.
“Oh, Mathilda, what are you up to?” She squats down and faces me, wiping my nose with the sleeve of her nightgown. “What’s the matter with you, girl? Screaming like a banshee.”
Crying hard, I try to tell her what happened, but all I can say is the word “toys,” again and again.
“Mrs. Dorian?” asks Nolan.
My little brother is out of his bed, standing there in his pj’s. I notice that he has a Dino-bot under one arm. Still crying, I slap it out of his hands and onto the floor. Nolan gapes at me. I kick the toy under the bed before Mrs. Dorian can grab me again.
She holds me at arm’s length and looks at me hard, her face lined with worry. She turns my hands over and frowns.
“Why, your little thumbs are bleeding.”
I turn around to look at the toy box. It is silent and still now.
Then Mrs. Dorian scoops me up in her arms. Nolan grabs hold of her nightgown with one chubby hand. Before we walk out the door, she takes one last look around the bedroom.
She eyes the toy box, barely visible underneath a pile of objects: coloring books, a chair, a wastebasket, shoes, clothes, stuffed animals, and pillows.
“What’s in the box, Mathilda?” she asks.
“B-b-bad toys,” I stutter. “They want to hurt Nolan.”
I watch a wave of goose bumps rise, sweeping across Mrs. Dorian’s broad forearms like water droplets beading up on the shower curtain.
Mrs. Dorian is afraid. I can feel it. I can see it. The fear that is in her eyes at that moment plants itself inside my forehead. This worm of fear will live there from now on. No matter where I go or what happens or how much I grow up, this fear will stay with me. It will keep me safe. It will keep me sane.
I bury my face in Mrs. Dorian’s shoulder and she whisks my brother and me out of the room and down the long dark hallway. The three of us stop just outside the bathroom door. Mrs. Dorian pushes the hair out of my eyes. She gently pulls my thumb out of my mouth.
Over her shoulder, I can see a strip of light spilling from the bedroom doorway. I’m pretty sure all the toys are trapped in the toy box. I piled a lot of stuff on top of it. I think we’re safe for now.
“What’s that you’re saying, Mathilda?” asks Mrs. Dorian. “What are you repeating, girl?”
I turn my tear-streaked face and look directly into Mrs. Dorian’s round, scared eyes. In my strongest voice I say the words, “Robot defense act.”
And then I say them again. And again. And again. I know I mustn’t forget these words. I mustn’t get them wrong. For Nolan’s sake, I must remember these words perfectly. Soon, I’m going to have to tell Mommy what happened. And she is going to have to believe me.
When Laura Perez returned home from Washington, D.C., young Mathilda told her the story of what had
happened. Congresswoman Perez chose to believe her daughter.
—CORMAC WALLACE, MIL#GHA217
6. SEE AND AVOID
American 1497 heavy.… Say souls on board.
MARY FITCHER, DENVER APPROACH TOWER
PRECURSOR VIRUS + 8 MONTHS
These air traffic control communications occurred over the course of seven minutes. The fate of more than four hundred people—as well as two men who would become distinguished soldiers in the New War—was determined in seconds by a single woman: Denver air traffic controller Mary Fitcher. Note that italicized passages were not transmitted over the radio but collected from microphones inside the Denver air traffic control tower.
—CORMAC WALLACE, MIL#GHA217
START OF TRANSCRIPT
00:00:00
DENVER
United 42 heavy, this is Denver Approach. Say heading.
+00:00:02
UNITED
Uh, sorry, we’re turning back on course. United 42 heavy.
+00:00:05
DENVER
Roger.
+00:01:02
DENVER
United 42 heavy, turn left immediately. Heading 360. You’ve got traffic at twelve o’clock. Fourteen miles. Same altitude. It’s an American heavy 777.
+00:01:11
UNITED
Denver Approach. United 42 heavy. Unable, uh, unable to control my heading or altitude. Unable to disconnect the autopilot. Declaring an emergency. Squawking 7700. (static)
+00:01:14
DENVER
American 1497 heavy. This is Denver Approach. Climb immediately to fourteen thousand feet. You have traffic at your nine o’clock. Fifteen miles. A United heavy 777.
+00:01:18
AMERICAN
American 1497, roger. Traffic in sight. Climbing to fourteen thousand.