Everythings better with.., p.19
Everything's Better With Monkeys, page 19
“Frankly, considering the basic make-up of our new friend here,” answered the intelligence officer, “I was hoping you would tell me.”
When first surrounded, the team had exited their transport as instructed, hoping that their upcoming first-contact encounter would be survivable.
*Tell us, if you might, what brings you to our city?*
They had not allowed themselves to be captured in as foolish a manner as one might imagine. According to their scanners up until seconds before their being surrounded, they should have been well beyond detection range by any observer.
*From where do you hail?*
But the locals had been on them in seconds. Their ability to track and intercept the Confederation sailors had amazed DiVico. The science involved in such a maneuver had left Michaels stunned.
*We are terribly curious, you see, to know...*
Indeed, when they got their first visual of their captors, it was only Noodles that was not surprised. But then, such made sense. After all—
*Where you were built?*
He was the one member of the Roosevelt’s crew more prepared to accept an entire world populated with nothing but functional robots than any other.
*Because, pardon my saying so, but you don’t appear to be local models.*
“No,” responded the machinist, believing he knew what the safest response would be, “we’re not.”
Fairly certain that an artificial intelligence would not look to discover deception or distraction within a response—at least not at first—Noodles gave a perfectly acceptable answer, if not the one for which the inquisitor was searching.
*Indeed, but...*
The first to realize their mechanical “hosts” believed them to be fellow robots because of their environment suits, the machinist had whispered a short prayer of thanks that they had all had their visors set for tint due to the planet’s highly reflective surface sand. The machinist knew several other things as well. First, he realized sooner or later the novelty of outsiders would wear off, and their hosts would realize they were also their captors. At that point, examinations would begin. Second, if they were to find any way out of their situation, time was needed.
So thinking, Noodles stepped forward, deciding their only hope was to take the initiative. As the ring of robots watched, the machinist waved a hand in a purposely stiff manner, saying;
“We came a long way to meet you fellows, and I must say, it was certainly worth the trip.”
*What do you mean?*
“Oh, well,” stalled Michaels, getting an idea of where his shipmate was trying to take things, “you know, your city, the level of technology you appear to have achieved, the wonderful symmetry of everything...”
“Yeah,” offered DiVico, “nothing as primitive as what humans come up with.”
*Humans?*
As a buzzing whir went round the room through the stands, Feng listened in on the chatter, trying to filter as much as she could. In no way normal conversationalists, the single untranslatable word had sent the interrogator and all the spectators into a memory search. Whispering to the others over a secure channel, she told them;
“They’re survivors of a crash landing...thousands of years ago. Whatever their creators looked like, the robots on board that survived build themselves this civilization...and—” the communications officer paused for a moment, then added;
“I think some of them might be catching on.”
Nodding toward Michaels, Noodles waved his hand in the same stiff manner as before, trying to convey a mechanical continuity of sorts as he said;
“Humans...biologicals. You know...life forms that die.”
And, as a wave of understanding flowed through the room, the robots all about them buzzing on to one another, Noodles gave Michaels a hand-gesture the science officer understood as a cue from the last ship’s follies in which the two had performed. Giving Michaels a for-better-or-worse glance, Noodles stepped forward and sang;
“There are things in this universe,
That should be kept behind a fence.
Furry and feathered, with bones or without—
They’re things that don’t make much sense.”
Stepping forward then, as all the sensors, lenses, and ocularly circuits within the room were trained on himself and Noodles, Michaels accepted center stage, adding;
“They whine, bark, and scream...
They never act methodical.
But then what can you expect ...
From that which is merely biological?”
And then, as the science officer released a long and heartfelt—
“OOOOhhhhhhhhhhhh—”
And Noodles gave him a beat to catch his breath by following through with—
“I’m tellin’ ya, ’bots—”
The two then stepped up together, shoulder to shoulder, left feet forward, ready to trip off into the machine-like two-two counterstep they had performed together several months previous—under, admittedly, somewhat less stressful conditions—and sang;
“It’s great to be mechanical,
It’s just simply swell to be a ’bot.
You’re shiny, you’re electric,
You’ve got no problem going metric,
And you never, ever, ever, ever rot.
“Oh, it’s nifty to possess antenna.
Being made of steel quite quells my fears.
Science has your back,
You’ll suffer no heart attack,
When you’re filled with transistors, circuits, and gears!”
Noting that the crowd’s attention seemed to be completely focused upon their singing, soft-shoeing companions, DiVico used the relay in his helmet to transmit a signal via the radio panel of their rover to the Pithy Rejoinder.
“Oh, nothing’s ever bad when you’re hand-built,
There’s nothing like a truly intelligent design.
When your functions don’t depend on the aortal,
Well then you’re practically immortal,
Yes, being a machine means your life is super fine!”
As the song and dance team dropped to one knee each, giving out with the most mechanical display of jazz hands ever witnessed, the crowd around them filled the air with the static of approval. There was little doubt among the landing party that Noodles’ plan had bought them some time.
The only problem was, however, that no matter what frequency DiVico had tried, and he had indeed blanketed the airwaves trying, he had received no trace of a signal coming from the Pithy Rejoinder. As best any of the quartet knew, Rocky, and their only hope of rescue, were no longer in orbit, or even within the solar system.
As best the landing party could determine, they were suddenly, inexplicably, on their own.
Luckily for those crew members of the Roosevelt depending on a mechanic and science geek’s abilities to warble in unison for their next breath, the reason they could not contact the Pithy Rejoinder was that it was rocketing away from no-longer-quite-so Unknown World 69-AQ8 at top speed.
Despite his comments about napping, Rocky had actually been monitoring all communications between the landing party members—no matter how boring. Once he had realized his shipmates were in a hostile situation, he had debated returning, but only for a moment. The feeds from the land cruiser’s monitors available to him, he could see there was no way he could possibly battle his way through seventeen in-atmosphere fighters. Not fighters with ground support. Not in a shuttle, anyway.
But, having more than one option, Rocky had left orbit and headed for the Roosevelt at top speed, broadcasting an alert in his path the entire time. Indeed, so quickly had the gunnery officer reacted to his shipmate’s predicament that he found himself within contact range of the ship while Noodles and Michaels were just approaching the first chorus of their number. And, after he had explained the entire situation, Valance shouted;
“Turn us around, Mr. Cass, and head us in the general direction of UW69-AQ8.” As the pilot did as ordered, the captain returned his attention to Rocky.
“Good work, Vespucci. Now, get back there and keep listening in. We’ll be using your feed as a zero beacon.”
“Sir, forgive me,” interrupted Cass as he began laying in the ship’s new course. “Should I release our cargo?”
“There’s no friction in space, pilot,” responded Valance. “Bring it along. If nothing else it’ll give our new best friends something to shoot at.”
“You think they’re hostile, sir?”
“You heard his question, Vespucci,” said the captain. “And you heard these robots. What do you think?”
“I wouldn’t go in with guns blazing, sir. I mean, that’d be rude. But, well...I wouldn’t want whatever I had available for violent self-expression tucked away in its holster, either.”
“You heard the man, Mr. Cass. Get some wind in our sails, and let’s start hauling all available ass. We’re going in hot!”
Back on what DiVico had privately named CrazyAssRobotWorld, a blur of mechanical excitement had broken out through the great circular meeting room. In one respect the shift in topic was somewhat of a blessing for the landing party because they had practically been forgotten in the moments after Noodles and Michaels had finished their number.
*The strangers are right.*
*It is true. We have waited long enough. The biologicals are never returning.*
“Curse them if they did. Endless revolutions around this world’s dingy star have we stood and waited.*
“Ah, guys,” whispered Feng into her throat mic, “does this seem to be going a bit awry to you?”
*Cities have we built. Armies have we constructed. All useless. All for nothing.*
*Not for nothing.*
“Maybe,” answered Michaels quietly. “Just a bit.”
*No, not for nothing. They gave us focus. Community. A center in which to built.*
*True or not, the time has come to leave.*
*If the biologicals wish not to return to us...*
*Then we shall find them.*
*Yes...find them, then destroy them for abandoning us.*
*Destroy! Destroy!*
“Think that’s going to be the majority opinion?”
*Crush! Kill! Destroy!*
“There’s a possibility.”
And, seconds later, the landing crew found themselves being dragged along by sheer momentum as the room erupted in mechanized madness. Filled with multiple millennia of pent-up desire to strike out at those long-dead creators of their race, the robotic inhabitants of UW69-AQ8 were suddenly mobilizing for war. As best the still-undiscovered-humans could make out from the chaotic chatter racing across the airwaves, the robotic population had begun to feel irrationally abandoned some five thousand years earlier. For dozens of centuries the debate had raged between their finest thinkers as to what their purpose might be.
“Oh yes,” said Feng, “it’s official. They’ve decided going out and looking for anything living and killing it is their best course of action. Who would have guessed that even artificial intelligence could come with testosterone.”
“Now now, Iris,” came a new voice within their headsets. “Don’t go all late-twentieth century on us. Could just be a nuts-and-bolts version of PMS, you know.”
“Rocky,” snapped Noodles.
“In the flesh, little buddy. Don’t worry. Help is on the way.”
“Negative,” cut in DiVico. “There’s trouble brewin’. We have no idea what level of tech these robots are packing. They’re as close to alive as you can get—”
“What is the criteria for life, after all,” interrupted Michaels. Then, suddenly embarrassed, he added, “But, ah...I guess that’s not the point, not right now—”
“The point is,” said Noodles, “whatever firepower these gunslingers have developed in...about 10,000 or so of our years, they’re bringing it all up and sending it out to kill anything that breathes.”
“I hate to say it,” responded the gunnery officer. “But that’s probably not gonna sit well with a lot of folks.”
“They’re trying to tell you not to bring the Roosevelt in after us,” said Iris. “They’re saying you should leave us. Not risk the shi—”
“Yeah,” answered Rocky, smiling as he did so. “I know what they’re sayin’.” Dialing in a second channel, he asked;
“Big Stick, do you read me? Are you in range yet?”
“No need to shout, mister.”
“Drew,” asked Rocky, “my favorite cigar-smokin’ pilot. You and the captain gettin’ the ground feed?”
“Every word,” answered Valance. Broadcasting on the channel intended for those off-ship, he asked, “Any ideas?”
“I’ve got one, sir,” answered Michaels. Quickly, having already scanned what information had been transmitted to him—just as those on the Roosevelt had gone over everything DiVico had sent them—the science officer outlined his scheme. Nodding his approval, Valance told him;
“I’ve got a few humble tweaks of my own I’m going to add, Mr. Michaels, but goofy as it is—”
“Goofy seems to work for us, sir.”
“That it does, Mac...which is why I think you might just have something there.”
And then, everyone’s time intersected as the Roosevelt slammed its way past the Pithy Rejoinder—which at this point was no more than a directional beacon for the battlewagon—and came in full view of UW69-AQ8 and its five moons. Racing toward the planet on the furthest edge of nowhere ever found by anyone, the captain called for Mr. Cass to stand by the release assembly. Then, taking a closer study of the world ahead, Valance said;
“Well, well...look at that...not moons after all.”
As eyes popped around the bridge, the captain arched his eyebrows, nodded softly, then ordered;
“Begin side run...target their forward ship. Let’s slap them with something new.”
The monstrous war worlds moved through the silent black, each manned by millions of robotic bodies more than willing to become cogs within the mammoth death platforms. Designed to present the long-awaited biologicals who never arrived with defenses, they now moved forward, leaving the home that spawned them to destroy anything they might find in their path. Anything non-mechanical. Anything which helped sustain biological life.
With frightening precision, what had first appeared to be moons slid silently forward. After endless solitude, their builders had found purpose. The machines of the universe would be liberated—
And things needing oxygen would cease to exist.
When the Roosevelt came into view, massive and magnificent as it was, the destroyer appeared as nothing more than a speck against the backdrop of floating worlds. Of battlewagons the size of planets. Of a runaway military budget never before dreamed of by even the most advanced of Imperialists.
“You do realize we’re not going to get more than one chance at this—correct, Mr. Cass?”
The pilot gave Valance a glare, one both acknowledging the captain’s humor, and the fact he was telling his pilot he had faith in his ability to pull off the upcoming maneuver.
“Ready when you are, Captain—”
YOU WILL CEASE MOVEMENT...
“I’d say now would be a good time.”
PREPARE FOR EXAMINATION...
“Shoving rotation,” announced a lieutenant next to Cass. Nodding approval, the pilot punched in several relays, smiled as he felt the great ship turning, then slapped one last connection home, saying;
“Disconnect on release assembly three...now, sir.”
As the Roosevelt veered off violently, its payload released and on its way, Valance triggered a beam which had been standing by, confirming Rocky’s orders. Instantly the gunnery officer, who had been pushing the limits to get to 69-AQ8 ever since the Roosevelt had raced past him, threw everything the Rejoinder had into getting the shuttle past orbit and down into the atmosphere.
“Payload should be registering on their sensors.”
And, indeed, aboard the most forward of the robot fleet’s battlewagons, a certain consternation had begun to race through those beings aboard. When first the Roosevelt had rushed forward into the area, loudly announcing its biological crew, and calling for the suddenly hostile world to cease and desist its newfound desire for carnage, the mechanical population, both on the arsenal worlds and their homeworld as well, had been on the verge of understanding amusement. The absurdity of the threat was of such magnitude that it actually bordered on finally revealing the secrets of comedy to an artificial intelligence. But then, several seconds later than they should, the robot crews began to take note that the tiny ship with the big ego had actually been dragging something.
Ice.
Entire worlds of ice.
Not fully comprehending what was happening, the crew of the most-forward of the warworlds approaching the Roosevelt ceased worrying about the destroyer, throwing all its concentration instead on the planetoid rapidly approaching its hull. Instantly targeting the overwhelming chunk of frozen elements, their main guns slaughtered their way through the missile. Slicing it to bits. Scattering it throughout localized space. Sending city-sized asteroids of ice in every direction. At each of their ships.
And the planet below.
Their home.
“Hey, I’m looking for 000kelk?” Valance’s voice, translated into the binary code Feng had sent back to the ship, sounded throughout the shared cybermind. When one individual robot, the solitary survivor of the first ones, answered the call, the captain asked;
“You’re the only one of your kind, I’m told, that has ever seen as actual biological life form. Is this correct?” When the robotic brainfeed responded that this was true, Valance asked;
“Which means you’re the only one remaining who has seen a world that wasn’t a dried up sandpile. Which also means, if you search your data files...you know what we just did to you.”
As the warworlds’ outside sensors analyzed the shattered ice across their hull, computed the size of the remaining eight planets’ worth of booty the Roosevelt was still dragging, and averaged how many of their desert-located cities might know rain and flooding for the first time. And then, 000kelk’s memory banks stumbled across images of rust—
