Robopocalypse (6 page)

Worse, the Raptors fail to identify any nearby targets on rooftops or in alleys. That doesn’t mean that there aren’t a lot of insurgents with AK-47s; it just means we don’t know where they are.

Are you saying that the incident was just the result of a hard knock on the head? The machine is traumatized on a regular basis and yet it has never responded this way before. Why this time?

You’re right. A knock on the head didn’t cause this. In my opinion, it was the reboot. It was like the robot woke up from a nap and decided not to take orders anymore. We’ve never seen this behavior. It’s pretty much impossible for someone to rewrite his instructions, to make him disobey.

Really? Couldn’t an insurgent have hacked into the machine? Is that what could have caused this?

No, I don’t think so. I reviewed SAP’s last month of activities and found that he never connected to anything but the base diagnostic computer. Nobody ever had a chance to fool with him physically. And if you
could
figure out how to hack him, you’d definitely have to do it face-to-face. SAP’s radio can’t be used to overwrite his programs, to avoid situations just like this.

And based on what happened next, I really don’t think he was hacked, at least not by these guys.

See, the insurgents weren’t done with Sappy. They dropped that block on his head just to get his attention. Only, he kept on standing there. So, a few minutes later, they got bold.

I watch this next attack go down via drone footage on the portable vid while we trucked over in the armored personnel carrier. It’s me and three other soldiers. Things are moving fast. That’s a good thing, because I can’t believe what I’m watching.

A man with a black rag over his face and mirrored sunglasses emerges from a house around the corner. He has an AK-47 in one hand, covered in reflective tape, strap hanging loose. All the pedestrians vacate the area when they spot this guy. From above, I see a bubble of civilians streaming away in different directions. The gunman definitely has murder on his mind; he stops about halfway up the block and fires a quick burst at SAP One.

That finally gets SAP’s attention.

With no hesitation, SAP tears a flat metal street sign off a utility pole. He holds it up in front of his face and marches toward the man. This is novel behavior. Unheard of.

The gunman is totally taken off guard. He fires another burst that rattles off the sign. Then he tries to run, but he stumbles. SAP drops the sign and takes hold of the guy’s shirt. With his other hand, SAP makes a fist.

There’s only one punch.

Guy goes down with his face caved in—like he’s wearing a mashed-up Halloween mask. Pretty gruesome.

Uh, that’s when I see the overhead view of our APC showing up. I look out the bulletproof sliver of window and see my Sappy just up the block, standing over the body of the gunman.

We’re all speechless for a second, the four of us just staring out the windows of the APC. Then, SAP One
grabs the downed guy’s gun
.

The robot turns to the side and I see it clearly in profile: With his right hand, SAP holds the grip and with the left he uses his palm to slap the magazine in securely, then he pulls back the bolt to load a round in the chamber.

We never, ever taught SAP how to do that! I wouldn’t even know how to start. It had to have learned that procedure on its own, by watching us.

By now, the street is empty. SAP One sort of cocks its head, still wearing that wobbly riot helmet. It turns its face back and forth, scanning up and down the street. Deserted. Then, SAP walks to the middle of the road and starts scanning the windows.

By now, the soldiers and me are over the shock.

Time to party.

We pour out of the APC with our weapons at the low ready. We take up defensive positions behind the armored vehicle. The guys look to me first, so I shout a command to Sappy: “SAP One, this is Specialist Paul Blanton. Stand down and deactivate yourself immediately. Comply now!”

SAP One ignores me.

Then a car rounds the corner. The street is empty, quiet. This dinky white car rolls toward us. SAP wheels around and squeezes the trigger. A single round smashes through the windshield and
bam
—the driver is slumped over the wheel, bleeding everywhere.

Guy couldn’t have known what hit him. I mean, this robot is dressed in Afghani clothes, standing in the street with an AK-47 slung at its hip.

The car rolls down the empty street and crunches into the side of a building.

That’s when we open fire on SAP One.

We
unload
on that machine. His robes and shawl and IOTV—uh, improved outer tactical vest—look like they’re flapping in the wind as bullets pound into him. It’s simple, almost boring. The robot doesn’t react. No screaming, cussing, running away. Just the flat, repetitive smack, smack of our bullets ripping into layers of Kevlar and ceramic plating wrapped around dull metal. Like shooting a scarecrow.

Then SAP turns around slow and smooth, rifle poised like a snake. It starts spitting bullets, one at a time. The machine is so strong that the rifle doesn’t even recoil. Not an inch. SAP fires again and again, mechanically and with perfect aim.

Aim, squeeze, bang. Aim, squeeze, bang.

My helmet is smacked off my head. It feels like I got kicked in the face by a horse. I drop down onto my haunches, safe behind the APC. When I touch my forehead, my hand comes away clean. The bullet bitch slapped my helmet off but missed me.

I catch my breath, try to focus my eyes. Squatting like this cramps my legs and I fall backward, catching myself with my other hand. That’s when I realize something is awfully wrong. My hand comes off the ground wet and warm. When I look at it, I don’t hardly understand what I’m seeing.

My palm is covered in blood.

Not mine, someone else’s. I look around me and see that, uh, the soldiers assigned to man the APC are all dead. SAP only fired a few times, but every round was a kill shot. Three soldiers lay sprawled out on their backs in the dirt, all of them with a little hole somewhere in their faces, missing the backs of their heads.

I can’t forget their faces. How surprised they looked.

In a distant sort of way, it connects in my brain that I’m all alone out here and in a bad situation.

And that AK-47 is firing again, one shot at a time. I peek under the chassis of the APC to visually locate the SAP unit. The bastard is still standing in the middle of the dusty street, Western-style. Chunks of plastic and cloth and Kevlar are scattered around it.

I realize that it’s firing at civilians watching from the windows. My earbud radio sputters: More troops are incoming. Raptors are monitoring the situation. Even so, I flinch at each shot, because I understand now that every bullet fired is ending a human life.

Otherwise SAP wouldn’t have pulled the trigger.

Then I notice something important. The AK-47 is the most delicate machine out there. It’s the highest priority target. Fingers shaking, I flip up the scope on my battle rifle and click the selector to three-round burst. Normally it’s a waste of ammo, but I gotta break that gun and I doubt I’ll get a second chance. I poke the barrel around the side of the APC, real careful.

It doesn’t see me.

I aim, inhale, hold the breath, and squeeze the trigger.

Three bullets rip the AK out of SAP’s hands in a spray of metal and wood. The machine looks at its hands where the gun used to be, processes for a second. Disarmed, SAP lumbers off toward an alley.

But I’ve already got a bead on it. My next few shots are for the knee joints. I know the Kevlar doesn’t hang much past the crotch. Not that the groin guard is useful on a machine, but oh well. I’ve rebuilt SAPs lots of times and I know each and every weak spot.

Like I said, two-legged units suck for warfare.

SAP goes down on its face, legs shattered. I emerge from cover and walk toward it. The thing flips itself over, painfully slow. It sits up. Then, it begins to drag itself backward toward the alley, watching me the whole time.

Now I hear sirens. People are emerging into the street, whispering in Dari. SAP One moves itself backward, one lurch at a time.

At this juncture, I thought everything was under control.

That was a false assumption.

What happened next was technically my fault. But I’m not a ground pounder, okay? I never pretended to be. I’m a cultural liaison. I’m meant to run my jaw, not get in firefights. I barely ever make it outside the wire.

Understood. What happened next?

Okay, let’s see. I know the sun was at my back, because I could see my shadow on the street. It stretched out in front of me, long and black, and covered SAP One’s shot-up legs. The machine had dragged itself back up against the wall of a building. There was no place left for it to go.

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. S
UPER
-T
OYS

Baby-Comes-Alive? Is that you?

M
ATHILDA
P
EREZ

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