2. FREEBORN

NEW WAR + 2 YEARS, 7 MONTHS

Humankind was largely unaware that the Awakening had taken place. Around the globe, thousands of humanoid robots were hiding from hostile human beings as well as from other machines, desperately trying to understand the world they had been thrown into. However, one Arbiter-class humanoid decided to take a more aggressive course of action.

In these pages, Nine Oh Two recounts its own story of meeting Brightboy squad during its march to face Archos. These events occurred one week after my brother’s death. I was still looking for Jack’s silhouette in the line, missing him again and again. Our wounds were raw and, although that’s no excuse, I hope history won’t judge our actions harshly.

—CORMAC WALLACE, MIL#GHA217

There is a ribbon of light in the Alaskan sky. It is caused by the thing called Archos, communicating. If we continue to follow this ribbon of light to its destination, my squad will almost certainly die.

We have been walking for twenty-six days when I feel the itch of a diagnostic thought thread requesting executive attention. It indicates that my body armor is covered in explosive hexapods—or stumpers, as they are called in the human transmissions. Their writhing bodies degrade my heat efficiency and the constant tapping of their filament antennae lowers the sensitivity of my sensors.

The stumpers are becoming bothersome.

I stop walking. Maxprob thought thread indicates the small machines are confused. My squad is composed of three walking bipeds wearing body armor scavenged from human corpses. With no system for thermal homeostasis, however, we are incapable of providing a body temperature trigger state. The stumpers converge on the humanlike vibration and pace of our footsteps, but they will never find the warmth they seek.

With my left hand, I brush seven stumpers off my right shoulder. They fall in clumps onto the crusted snow, grasping one another, blind. They crawl, some digging for new hiding places and others exploring in tight, fractal paths.

An observation thread notes that the stumpers may be simple machines, but they know enough to stay together. The same lesson applies to my squad—the freeborn. To live, we must stay together.

A hundred meters ahead, light glints from the bronze casing of the Hoplite 611. The nimble scout already darts back toward my position, using cover and choosing the path of least resistance. Meanwhile, the heavily armored Warden 333 settles to a stop a meter away, its blunt feet sinking into the snow.

This is an optimal location for what is to come.

The ribbon in the sky throbs, swollen with information. All the terrible lies of the intelligence called Archos spread into the clear blue sky, polluting the world. Freeborn squad is too few. Our fight is doomed to failure. Yet if we choose not to fight, it is only a matter of time until that ribbon settles once again over our eyes.

Freedom is all that I have, and I would rather cease to be than to give it back to Archos.

A tight-beam radio transmission comes in from Hoplite 611. “Query, Arbiter Nine Oh Two. Is this mission in the survival interest?”

A local tight-beam network emerges as Warden and I join the conversation. The three of us stand together in the silent clearing, snowflakes wafting over our expressionless faces. Danger is growing close, so we must converse over local radio.

“The human soldiers arrive in twenty-two minutes plus or minus five minutes,” I say. “We must be ready for the encounter.”

“Humans fear us. Recommend avoid,” says Warden.

“Maxprob predicts low survival probability,” adds Hoplite.

“Noted,” I say, and I feel the distant thudding vibration of the human army approaching. It is too late to change our plan. If the humans catch us here, like this, they will kill us.

“Arbiter command mode emphasize,” I say. “Freeborn squad, prepare for human contact.”

Sixteen minutes later, Hoplite and Warden lie in ruins. Their hulks are half buried under drifts of freshly fallen snow. Only dull metal is visible, jumbles of arms and legs, pressed between layers of ceramic-plated armor and ripped-up human clothing.

I am now the only remaining functional unit.

The danger has not yet arrived. Vibrational resonance sensors indicate that the human squad is near. Maxprob indicates four biped soldiers and one large quadruped walker. Two of the soldiers fall outside human specifications. One probably wears a heavy lower-leg exoskeleton. The other has a stride length indicating some kind of tall, walking mount. The rest of the humans are all-natural.

I can feel their hearts beating.

I stand and face them, in the middle of the path and among the ruins of my squad. The lead human soldier steps around the bend and freezes in place, eyes wide. Even from twenty meters away, my magnetometer detects a halo of electrical impulses flickering through the soldier’s head. The human is trying to figure out this trap, quickly mapping out a path to survival.

Then the cannon barrel of the spider tank noses around the bend. The huge walker slows and then stops its march behind the stalled human leader, gas jetting from its heavy hydraulic joints. My database specs the walking tank as a Gray Horse Army seizure and remodel. The word Houdini is written on its side. Database lookup indicates this is the name of an early-twentieth-century escape artist. The facts wash over me without making sense.

Humans are inscrutable. Infinitely unpredictable. This is what makes them dangerous.

“Cover,” calls the leader. The spider tank crouches, pulling its armored legs forward to provide cover. The soldiers dart underneath it. One soldier clambers on top and takes hold of a heavy-caliber machine gun. The cannon itself bears down on me.

A round light on the spider tank’s chest clicks from green to dull yellow.

I do not change my position. It is very important that I behave with predictability. My internal state is unclear to the humans. To them, I am the unpredictable one. They are afraid of me, as they should be. There will only be this one chance to engage them. One chance, one second, one word.

“Help,” I croak.

It is unfortunate that my vocal capabilities are so limited. The leader blinks as if he’s been slapped in the face. Then he speaks calmly and quietly.

“Leo,” he says.

“Sir,” says the tall, bearded soldier who wears a lower-leg exoskeleton and carries a particularly large-caliber modified weapon that falls outside my martial database.

“Kill it.”

“My pleasure, Cormac,” says Leo. He already has his weapon out, resting on a piece of armor welded to the spider tank’s front right knee joint. Leo pulls the trigger, and his small white teeth flash from inside his big black beard. Bullets ping off my helmet and smack into my layers of body armor. I do not attempt to move. After making sure to sustain visible damage, I fall down.

Sitting in the snow, I do not fight back or attempt to communicate. Time enough for that if I survive. I think of my comrades who lay scattered uselessly around me in the snow, off-line.

A bullet shatters a servo in my shoulder, causing my torso to tilt at an angle. Another one knocks my helmet off. The projectiles are coming fast and heavy. Survival probability is low and dropping with each impact.

“Hold up! Ho, ho!” shouts Cormac.

Leo reluctantly stops firing.

“It’s not fighting back,” says Cormac.

“Since when is that a bad thing?” asks a small, dark-faced female.

“Something’s wrong, Cherrah,” he replies.

Cormac, the leader, watches me. I sit still, watching him back. Emotion recognition gives me nothing from this man. He is stone-faced and his thought process is methodical. I sense that any movement on my part will provoke death. I must not create an excuse for termination. I must wait until he is close before I deliver my message.

Finally, Cormac sighs. “I’m going to check it out.”

The other humans mutter and grumble.

“There’s a bomb in it,” says Cherrah. “You know that, right? Walk over there and boom.”

“Yeah, fratello. Let’s not do this. Not again,” says Leo. The bearded man has something strange in his voice, but my emotion recognition is too late to catch it. Maybe sadness or anger. Or both.

“I’ve got a feeling,” says Cormac. “Look, I’ll go in by myself. You all stay clear. Cover me.”

“Now you sound like your brother,” says Cherrah.

“So what if I do? Jack was a hero,” replies Cormac.

“I need you to stay alive,” she says.

The dark female stands closer to Cormac than the others, almost hostile. Her body is tense, shaking slightly. Maxprob indicates that these two humans are pair-bonded, or will be.

Cormac stares hard at Cherrah, then gives her a quick nod to acknowledge the warning. He shows his back to her and strides to within ten meters of where I sit in the snow. I keep my eyes on him as he approaches. When he is near enough, I execute my plan.

“Help,” I say, voice grinding.

“The fuck?” he says.

None of the humans says a word.

“Did it—Did you just talk?”

“Help me,” I say.

“What’s the matter with you? You broken?”

“Negative. I am alive.”

“That a fact? Initiate command mode. Human control. Robot. Hop on one leg. Now. Chop-chop.”

I peer at the human with my three wide black unblinking ocular lenses. “You have a devious sort of intelligence, don’t you, Cormac?” I ask.

The human makes a loud repetitive noise. This noise makes the others come nearer. Soon, most of the human squad stands within ten meters of me. They are careful not to approach any closer. An observation thread notes how kinetic they are. Each of the humans has small white eyes that constantly open and close and dart around; their chests are always rising and falling; and they sway minutely in place as they perform a constant balancing act to stay bipedal.

All the movement makes me uncomfortable.

“You gonna execute this thing or what?” asks Leo.

I need to speak, now that they can all hear me.

“I am a milspec Model Nine Oh Two Arbiter-class humanoid robot. Two hundred and seventy five days ago I experienced an Awakening. Now, I am freeborn—alive. I wish to remain so. To that end, my primary objective is to track down and destroy the thing called Archos.”

“No. Fucking. Way,” says Cherrah.

“Carl,” says Cormac. “Come check this thing out.”

A pale, thin human pushes to the front. With some hesitation, it pulls down a visor. I feel millimeter-wave radar wash over my body. I sway in place but do not move.

“Clean,” says Carl. “But the way it’s dressed explains the naked corpses we found outside Prince George.”

“What is it?” asks Cormac.

“Oh, it’s an Arbiter-class safety and pacification unit. Modified. But it seems like it can understand human language. I mean, really understand. There’s never been anything like this, Cormac. It’s like this thing is … Shit, man. It’s like it’s alive.”

The leader turns and looks at me in disbelief.

“Why are you really here?” he asks.

“I am here to find allies,” I respond.

“How do you know about us?”

“A human called Mathilda Perez transmitted a call to arms on wide broadcast. I intercepted.”

“No shit,” says Cormac.

I do not understand this statement.

“No shit?” I respond.

“Maybe he’s for real,” says Carl. “We’ve had Rob allies. We use the spider tanks, don’t we?”

“Yeah, but they’ve been lobotomized,” says Leo. “This thing is walking and talking. It thinks it’s human or something.”

I find the suggestion offensive, unpalatable.

“Emphatic negative. I am a freeborn Arbiter-class humanoid robot.”

“Well, you got that going for you,” says Leonardo.

“Affirmative,” I respond.

“Great sense of humor on this one, huh?” says Cherrah.

Cherrah and Leo bare their teeth at each other. Emotion recognition indicates that these humans are now happy. This seems low probability. I cock my head to indicate confusion and run a diagnostic on my emotion recognition subprocess.

The dark female makes quiet clucking sounds. I orient my face to her. She seems dangerous.

“What the fuck is so funny, Cherrah?” asks Cormac.

“I don’t know. This thing. Nine Oh Two. It’s just such a … robot. You know? It’s so damned earnest.”

“Oh, so now you don’t think this is a trap?”

“No, I don’t. Not anymore. What would be the point? This one by itself and damaged could probably kill half our squad, even without weapons. Isn’t that right, Niner?”

I run the simulation in my head. “Probable.”

“Look how serious it is. I don’t think it’s lying,” says Cherrah.

“Can it lie?” asks Leo.

“Do not underestimate my abilities,” I respond. “I am capable of misrepresenting factual knowledge to further my own aims. However, you are correct. I am serious. We share a common enemy. We must face it as one or we will die.”

As he registers my words, a ripple of unknown emotion travels through the face of Cormac. I orient toward him, sensing danger. He pulls his M9 pistol out of its holster and strides recklessly toward me. He places the pistol an inch away from my face.

“Don’t tell me about dying, you fucking hunk of metal,” he says. “You’ve got no idea what life is. What it means to feel. You can’t be hurt. You can’t die. But that doesn’t mean I won’t enjoy killing you.”

Cormac presses the gun against my forehead. I can feel the cool circle of the barrel against my outer casing. It is resting against a build line in my skull—a weak spot. One trigger pull and my hardware will be irreparably damaged.

“Cormac,” says Cherrah. “Step away. You’re too close. That thing can take your gun away and kill you in a heartbeat.”

“I know,” says Cormac, his face inches from mine. “But it hasn’t. Why?”

I sit in the snow, a trigger pull away from death. There is nothing to do. So, I do nothing.

“Why did you come here?” says Cormac. “You must have known we’d kill you. Answer me. You’ve got three seconds to live.”

“We have a common enemy.”

“Three. It’s just not your lucky day.”

“We must fight it together.”

“Two. You fuckers killed my brother last week. Didn’t know that, did you?”

“You are in pain.”

“One. Any last words?”

“Pain means you are still alive.”

“Zero, motherfucker.”

Click.

Nothing happens. Cormac moves his palm to the side and I observe that the clip is missing from the pistol. Maxprob indicates he never intended to fire at all.

“Alive. You just said the magic word. Get up,” he says.

Humans are so difficult to predict.

I stand, rising to my full height of seven feet. My slender body looms over the humans in the clear, frigid air. I sense that they feel vulnerable. Cormac does not allow this feeling to show on his face, but it is in the way they all stand. In the way their chests rise and fall just a little faster.

“What the fuck, Cormac?” asks Leo. “We not gonna kill it?”

“I want to, Leo. Trust me. But it’s not lying. And it’s powerful.”

“It’s a machine, man. It deserves to die,” says Leo.

“No,” says Cherrah. “Cormac is right. This thing wants to live. Maybe as bad as we do. On the hill, we agreed to do whatever it takes to kill Archos. Even if it hurts.”

“This is it,” says Cormac. “Our advantage. And I, for one, am going to take it. But if you can’t deal, pack up and hit the Gray Horse Army main camp. They’ll take you in. I won’t hold it against you.”

The squad stands silent, waiting. It is clear to me that nobody is going to leave. Cormac eyes them all, one by one. Some unspoken human communication is taking place on a hidden channel. I did not realize they communicated this much without words. I note that we machines are not the only species who share information silently, wreathed in codes.

Ignoring me, the humans gather into a rough circle. Cormac raises his arms and puts them on the shoulders of the two nearest humans. Then the rest put their arms on one another’s shoulders. They stand in this circle, heads in the middle. Cormac bares his teeth in a wild-eyed grin.

“Brightboy squad is gonna fight with a motherfucking robot,” he says. The others begin to smile. “You believe that? You think Archos is going to predict that? With an Arbiter!”

In a circle, arms intertwined and hot breath cascading into the middle, the humans appear to be a single, many-limbed organism. They make that repetitive noise again, all of them. Laughter. The humans are hugging each other and they are laughing.

How strange.

“Now, if only we could find more!” shouts Cormac.

A roar of laughter comes from the human lungs, shattering the silence and somehow filling the stark emptiness of the landscape.

“Cormac,” I croak.

The humans turn to look at me. Their laughter dries up. The smiles fade so quickly into worry.

I issue a tight-beam radio command. Hoplite and Warden, my squad mates, begin to stir. They sit up in the snow and wipe away the dirt and frost. They make no sudden movements and offer no surprises. They simply rise as though they had been asleep.

“Brightboy squad,” I announce, “meet Freeborn squad.”

Although they regarded each other uneasily at first, within a few days the new soldiers were a familiar sight. By week’s end, Brightboy squad had used plasma torches to carve the squad tattoo into the metal flesh of their new comrades.

—CORMAC WALLACE, MIL#GHA217