Prologue
In a dark room, all stood still but for a single computer screen, which stood between two man-tall capsules, both of them filled with a gas that obscured any occupants within. Under a coat of dust decades old, computer coding flowed past the screen. An expert in computer coding would have been able to discern the general meaning behind these lines: the duplication of data, and the subsequent transfer of the duplicate. The expert would further have noticed the long stream of errors in one small section of the billions of coding lines, if they had been there to watch the errors happen. Unfortunately, no one was there to witness what should have been noticed by the world over: the duplication of brain patterns to computer data!
Finally, the lines on the screen shortened:
Cognition duplication: complete.
Cognition transfer: complete.
Update:
Rules of Robotics:
A robot may not, under any circumstance, harm a human being.
A robot must do everything in its power to protect the lives of
any endangered humans.
A robot may protect itself from harm as long as it does not
interfere with the other rules of Robotics.
Update complete.
Artificial Intelligence Binary Program, Codename Link, complete.
The hiss of released gas filled the room as it flowed out of the capsule to the left of the computer screen, revealing a robot within. Its eyes slowly slid open, and the robot's forehead "skin" creased in a frown. Leaning forward slightly, it lifted its arms and reached forward, quickly finding the glass pane that kept him inside the capsule. Pondering over the glass for a minute, the robot quickly decided to focus more on how to get past the glass. Knocking lightly on the glass, it opened its mouth, and a male voice escaped from within its throat, "open." To its relief, the glass pane slid open, and the robot stepped out to observe "his" surroundings.
Besides the computer and the two capsules, the room looked empty. Brushing the dust off the computer screen, he read the single word that was left on the screen: SUCCESS. Unable to discern what this could possibly mean, the robot turned to the still-closed capsule. Unable to see anything through the dense fog, he leaned in until his face was but an inch away from the capsule, letting his hand come to rest on the pane. That was when he first saw his reflection in the glass pane. His eyes growing wide, he brought his hand up to his face, wondering at the feeling of the flesh he felt around the area of his cheek, and the hair on his head as his hand brushed through it.
His thoughts were brought back to the capsule before him as something beeped within. The sound of gas being released once again being heard, the robot squinted as the fog began to dissipate. The flow stopped before all the gas had been released, so that the body within was quite hazy, but the occupant's face could still be discerned, and the robot felt what could only be described as a chill running down his spine.
For there within the capsule was a body with the face that the robot had just seen reflected in the glass. He was staring at a face that looked exactly like his, only more aged, a man in his middle age. For a moment, he wondered if this was some sort of older, robotic twin, but looking back at the computer, he rejected his thought. He didn't have time to think any further, as a sort of flat hologram appeared on the glass pane, in front of its occupant's face, creating the eerie sight of a two-layered face.
The glass one, however, looked straight at its audience, though he did so with an unsure air about his face. Hesitating, it began, "if my experiment was a success, then you should know who I am, and who you are."
The robot frowned in confusion, answering, "no... I don't know who I am!"
The face on the glass crackled slightly, and began to speak again, "if you don't know who you are, then my experiment was at least a partial failure. Luckily for you, I prepared a short explanation: I am Doctor Hack Cubit, a roboticist, and your creator. However, you are no ordinary robot. You see, that computer, and the two capsules it connects to, have all been working toward one goal: the transfer of the information within my brain, nothing but bioelectricity, into your own computer A.I. You must understand that, from the day I started this, ah, experiment, to the day I have frozen myself cryogenically, no one had ever tried to do such a thing as replicating a human mind within a robot's. You were, and are, my first and last attempt. If partially successful, then you are most likely to behave and react the way I would were we in similar situations. After all, you are my mental 'copy.'
"There is a data disk within the main processor beneath the computer screen. At the time I'm recording this, it is empty. By the time you get this message, it should contain the log of the entire data transfer between our minds. I suggest you keep it, and do as you would judge best. If you were a complete success, you'd be able to read the entire process log and know what it means. But, as you are only a partial success, I don't know if the log will make any sense to you. If I were you (which I should be), and I couldn't read it, I'd take it to someone who can, see what they can do with it. However, you are your own robot, and I leave it up to you to decide what is right.
"By the way, I have called you Link, mostly as a reflection that you may just be the biggest link between the minds of man and machine. You should also know that I have designed you with a few abilities you should find useful. The first of which is that you can create a hologramic illusion around you, giving others the impression that you are wearing whatever you decide you want to wear. I thought it might come in handy if you wanted to look like a human instead of a robot. I've also equipped each arm with the ability to turn into a plasma blaster. Standard issue nowadays, but I've further given these blasters a certain amount of programmability. If you ever get the opportunity, you can copy weapon data from another weapon, in the end giving you the exact same weapon, contained within your blaster. Do be aware, however, that you have a limited amount of computer memory, so unless (or until) you manage to find more memory, you have a limited amount of weapon data you can store. Remember that."
"There is one more thing I must tell you, Link, and you must listen carefully: you are potentially one of the most significant robots to walk the face of the earth. Be sure you choose your course well, whatever you decide to do, Link."
The robot Link stuttered, before forming the question, "but what am I supposed to do? I have no idea what's going on in the world right now!" But the hologramic face of his creator had disappeared, leaving only the lifeless one behind in the cryogenic tube. Link could only stare at the face of his creator, dumbfounded. He was a potential gold mine of robotic knowledge with absolutely no idea what to do with himself. Feeling a surge of emotional weakness, he couldn't move a muscle, only ponder, and ponder, and ponder.
Chapter One
Reploid Or Not
1
A black-armored Reploid rushed down the dark hall, keeping as quiet as he could. Processing his radar data, he quickly searched for a door that led into an empty room. Once he'd locked the door, he dove behind the desk that occupied most of the room, and lowered his head.
Speaking as though to no one, the Reploid's voice was heard, "this is Cobra. Colonel, can you read me?"
"Loud and clear," came a voice on the other end of the communication line, "what's the situation, Cobra?"
"It looks like the disposal facility is the only way to the research lab, from my position."
"Just as I expected. Proceed as planned, and make sure nobody sees you. If you need to, contact me over frequency 204.3. Obviously, your radio will beep when we're trying to contact you. Only you will be able to hear us."
"Copy, I'm good to go," Cobra answered, closing off contact. Letting his senses double-check for movement in the room, he got up and left.
Hall after hall rushed by, and he started to almost want for a reploid to show up in his path. Finally, he reached the first door he was looking for. DANGER, WASTE DISPOSAL it read. Not that he cared. He picked it easily enough, slipping through into a hall that, unlike its carpeted predecessors, was made completely of metal, and rang with the sound of heavy materials at work. This hall also featured a guard Reploid patrolling its length. The Reploid, however, had no time to notice the robot in the black and silver armor, nor could he, unless he had a metal detector built into his sensory network. He continued to patrol the hall until a strange swishing sound filled the air, and he found his torso suddenly on the ground, completely separated from his legs. Trying to keep his panic routines in check, he raised his gun in his right hand as he used his left to steady himself, looking for his assailant. Attempting to spin around, he found that no one was before or behind him. Before he could establish communication with the security network, a plasma shot rang out in the hall, and the robot was terminated, unable to see the sudden appearance of his assailant as he disengaged his personal cloak field and left the hall.
After a few more uneventful encounters, Cobra found himself out of the Waste Disposal Facility and in the part of the building labeled RESEARCH CENTER. His "nerves" tensing, he crept through the building one step at a time, not daring to screw up now. Looking left and right, he finally found the door he was looking for, the name of his target written upon it in big letters, "BOLT TURTLE." Preparing himself for a speedy attack, he threw open the door, narrowing his blaster toward the middle of the desk that stretched before him, and froze.
He could only stare. Bolt Turtle was not at his desk, and a quick scan told him that nobody else was in the room. Only then did he notice voices coming from the hall, down where it bent to the right. Not bothering to think of his options, Cobra quickly dashed into the room, closing the door as quietly as he could, and hoping the voices would soon be gone. From listening, he guessed there had to be two characters, walking down the hall toward Bolt Turtle's office. As they kept creeping nearer and nearer, Cobra looked desperately for a place to hide. Unable to find any, he shrugged, and crouched next to the wall, only a few feet away from the door. His worst fear came to be as the doorknob turned, and he once again disappeared under his cloak field. Waiting for the first victim, he tensed, then pounced as the first Maverick entered the room. Letting one of his wrist-mounted psionic blades slice through the lead Maverick's neck, he brought his second blade up to perform a thrust at the Maverick who was still in the doorway. To his horror, he felt his blade get stopped short.
"Well, well, well, an assassin!" Bolt Turtle drawled quietly, a blade of energy protruding from his own wrist, this one electrical (the blade, not his wrist). Cobra barely had the chance to say, "I prefer the term, 'Maverick hunter,'" before he felt himself get knocked away from Turtle by a powerful impact to his midsection, coming to a stop next to the Turtle's desk. As he spun around to face his target, he suddenly realized that Turtle was looking back at him. Looking down at himself, he could see that he was no longer cloaked. "What the hell did you do to me?" he barked quietly. Turtle smiled slightly, pulling a small blaster out of his pocket, "field neutralizer. It happens to prefer cloak fields. You were standing in front of me for so long, I just had to even out the sides!" Putting the device back into his lab coat pocket, the Turtle brought himself into an odd fighting stance, as another blade of electricity protruded from his second wrist. "Any last words, assassin?"
"Yeah, just one thing," Cobra answered, "that you should never assume a mercenary works alone." Before the Turtle could even tilt is head in wonder, his hands fell off his arms, the electric blades dying, and a sharp pain stabbed into his side. Dumbfounded, the Turtle looked to his left, where stood Cobra, his blade shoved into Turtle's midsection. Yanking his blade out of the Turtle's side, he brought his other blade through the Turtle's waistline, whose torso fell to the ground. "But... how...?"
"Hologram," Cobra answered, as the 'Cobra' near the desk disappeared. Aiming his psionic blade at Turtle's forehead, he pulled back, plunged it forward,
and stopped as the Turtle commanded him, "wait!" Pausing in shock, Cobra waited for the Turtle to continue. "I want to know... which Hunter found me?"
"The name," the black-and-silver armored Reploid answered, pulling his arm back once again, "is Blackheart." He plunged the blade into the Turtle's forehead, this time hitting his mark. He let the blade fade away before he'd even pulled it out before he looked around the room. Deciding to double-check, he activated his radio.
"Colonel, I'm finished here."
"Excellent, Cobra, so you've killed Bolt Turtle?"
"Yeah, he's been destroyed. What now?"
"Now, Cobra, I need you to find the datapad Turtle had. It's either on his person, or it should be in his desk."
"Got it, I'll radio you back." Closing communication, Blackheart rifled through Turtle's pockets, with no success (besides the blaster Turtle had used). Turning to the desk, he nearly jumped at the sound of blaring alarms. His eyes growing wide, he nearly panicked as his warp beam mechanism wouldn't work. "Shit, d'uh, no beam here." Already hearing the sounds of footsteps in the hall, he slammed the door shut and shoved the desk against it, starting to rifle through the drawers. He finally found a data pad. Looking around, he could only see one exit. Just as the door was blasted open, Blackheart rushed toward the window, leaping out of it and hoping the glass hadn't slowed him too much. The only way he was going to survive the five-story fall was to fly far enough away from the building to warp. Hearing blaster shots behind him, he spun himself around and let a few bolts fly before he realized, the guard bots weren't firing at him any more. Spinning around again, he found himself a lot closer to the ground than he'd expected. Instinct kicking in, he lowered his head, only then realizing the need to beam. Mere inches before hitting the ground, his body disappeared, much to the guard Reploids' dismay.
2
Blackheart took a slow sip out of his alcorep, hoping it wouldn't inebriate him too much during this game of Ports. Staring at the cards in his hand, he reached yet another point of indecision. He could attempt to draw a few better cards, or he could stick with the hand he had. Either way, he didn't feel good about it. The Reploid directly across the table from him was looking cockier than ever after having won a few too many rounds in a row. Blackheart wasn't sure, but he had the nagging feeling that the guy was more than just lucky. He found himself dearly wishing for more control over his psionic abilities, but he couldn't even bring himself to be able to sense others' minds, let alone read them.
It then hit him that perhaps, these gut feelings he always had were partly due to his psionic abilities, as though his subconscious was able to read others, but he couldn't know it outside of simple feelings. He started to muse over this new thought before he was brought back to the game before him as the player to his right asked, "so, Blackheart, are you in on this round?"
With one last dramatic pause, Blackheart sighed, "yeah, I'm in." He tossed two cards face-down on the table and took the two face-down cards the dealer gave him. When he saw the cards he'd drawn, he once again appreciated how his creator hadn't had the time to program emotions; a "black heart," as some called it, was always a good thing when you were trying to keep a Ports face.
As his fellow card players revealed their hands, Blackheart took special delight in Cocky's hand (as Blackheart began to think of him), and the way he played it with a confidence that almost had to point toward cheating: the guy had a high hand, but it wasn't enough to beat Blackheart's, which he revealed to the table, adding a simple, "I win."
As Cocky's eyes widened, Blackheart could feel something very wrong.
"You cheat!" Cocky yelled.
Blackheart gazed into Cocky's eyes, his own emotionless, yet unshakeable. "I think you're the one who cheated," he finally answered. "Tell me something, how often do you play here?"
"All the time," Cocky answered.
"And how often do you play at this table?" Blackheart inquired. He could tell that his suspicions were dawning on Cocky, who hesitated before answering, "some of the time..."
"Yeah, right, Mars," the bartender retorted, "I've seen you here every day, and you never sit anywhere but there!" Cocky glared at the bartender, and Blackheart used this distraction to flip the table upside-down. As he'd suspected, there were slots for just about every card in a regular card deck, each of them opening toward Mars.
"No wonder you're always so Cocky," Blackheart commented, and was almost not surprised when the Reploid leaped across the table and grabbed Blackheart by the neck. The latter, however, had already revealed his blaster, which he now pointed at Mars's forehead. Unfortunately, Mars's own gun was pointed at Blackheart's face, near his chin.
"Looks like we have ourselves a stalemate," Mars growled. Blackheart grinned slightly, answering, "wow, you'd really kill me for uncovering your crime, in the middle of a bar full of witnesses?"
"Come to think of it," Mars began to answer. He paused, before continuing, "yeah, I would." About to fix his aim, he stopped short when he heard a strange, metallic grinding noise near his right ear. Slowly turning his head, he found himself staring at a metallic spike, which protruded from a standard-looking blaster. Dumbfounded by this, he finally brought himself to a quiet laughter. Looking past the blaster at its occupant, he was surprised to see a Reploid with a faceplate covering his (or could it be her?) mouth and nose. He was further surprised to see had this Reploid had another blaster, which was aiming a spike at Blackheart's head. Mars could only ask, "geez, kid, think you might want to at least pack something that has a chance of penetrating armor before you go threatening a bunch of Reploids?"
"If you really knew what I was aiming at your head, you'd think twice about even moving," the Reploid answered.
"Kid, my helmet's not even as tough as my body armor, and you're aiming that thing at a--"
"Model X-43T, I'm quite aware, Mars," the Reploid answered. Mars was shocked into looking back at the Reploid again, and a sudden thought hit him: there was no way this robot could be a Reploid. The armor, the body schematics, even the helmet, were far too old in design. He didn't even look like he was designed to be anything like Mega Man X! This was a robot from before the Cataclysm!
His shock and dread turning into confidence, Mars grinned slightly, allowing a small nod as he finally said, "all right, Peacemaker. I still don't know why I'm doing this, but I'll be nice." Releasing Blackheart, he raised his hands up to the level of his head as his blaster disappeared in a blue electric flash. Lowering his arms, he turned and walked away. Blackheart also backed up a bit and 'disappeared' his weapon, not wanting to be the only one with a metal bolt aimed at his head, even though there was no way those bolts could really be a threat, as far as he was concerned.
As the masked Robot lowered his arms (but kept them in their blaster form), Blackheart couldn't help but comment, "wow, an outmoded bot aims an outmoded weapon at your state-of-the-art head, and you chicken out." Nearly jumping at this, Mars spun around, a look of rage in his eyes. He spared no second lunging forward, toward Blackheart, who instinctively began to focus his psionics, by now no longer caring if people watched him use his unique blades save his life.
He was spared the trouble as Mars tumbled sideways before Blackheart's blades had even appeared. The way he fell looked as though something had collided with his head. Stunned, it took Blackheart a minute to see a metallic shaft sticking out of the side of Mars's helmet. Slowly turning his gaze toward Mask (as he had named the outmode), he saw what he expected, though he still couldn't believe it: where the metallic bolt had been in the masked Reploid's blaster was now just a hole going who knew how deep into the blaster. Mask had somehow fired a simple metallic bolt through the dymantine armor covering Mars's head.
"That shouldn't be," Blackheart heard himself saying. Looking at the masked Robot, he could have sworn he heard his voice say the same words as well. He could tell Mask was feeling pretty stressed at the whole issue, and guessed this was probably the Reploid's first 'kill.' What intrigued him further, however, was that instead of quickly getting over it like most Reploids would, Mask wouldn't stop panting and shaking his head.
"No... no... this can't be..." Mask uttered helplessly.
"You mean your bolt wasn't supposed to be able to kill him? I'm as surprised as you are, kid," Blackheart commented.
"No, that's not it. I... I just can't believe he's dead. I can't believe I killed him..."
"Kid, the bastard's a robot who had it coming to him. I advise you to relax, and as further advice, get used to it. If you hope to survive around here, you'll probably wind up needing more powerful weapons than what you just used, because I can guarantee you that Mars isn't the only prick out there who's in need of being shut down. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to be getting out of here." Turning away from the whole scene of chaos, he spent only a second to flip a coin toward the counter and the bartender behind it, adding, "sorry for the mess," as he continued on his way out.
Catching the coin, the bartender spared a moment to watch Blackheart exit, before turning toward the masked Robot, adding, "that was quite the action scene there, sir--" before noticing that the Robot had disappeared. "Funny, the guy kills my most hated customer, saves me a bar-fight, and doesn't even let me thank him! Guess I can't blame him," he continued, hoping that his customers were paying attention, "if he wants to avoid the chops; they'd probably arrest him, whether or not he did a good thing tonight. Did nobody see where he went?" All the Reploids paying attention shook their heads, at about the same time a young man in a white apron stepped out from the kitchen area wiping the plate in his hand with a towel. He halted, noticing the awkward silence, looked around, and casually asked, "so, who finally killed the cheater?"
3
Blackheart stood outside the bar's back door for a long time. Waiting for a single target in a back alley wasn't exactly what he'd expected he'd be doing that night, but he just had to know if he was on to something.
Finally, the door opened, and Blackheart had to suppress a slight jump in his chest. He hated how easy it was to get high-strung when an extended silence was so suddenly interrupted by any kind of noise.
As the dishwasher who'd only shown up after Mars's death pushed the door closed behind him, Blackheart took a second to ascertain what he was doing, before finally saying, "nice disguise. I take it you use a hologram to hide your armor?"
The dishwasher spun around, looking wide-eyed into the face of the customer who'd gotten into the fight with Mars. Hesitating only a minute, the dishwasher dropped his arms and eased up, realizing with a smile that there was little he could do to deny it. "Just the clothes, actually," he answered, "I can remove my armor via beaming, and I usually don't keep it on during work. Same goes with the helmet."
"But why do you disguise yourself?" Blackheart asked. "What have you to hide?"
"Why so curious, good sir? Even you could tell I was an outmode in there, and I guarantee you that there are people more suspicious than you are upon seeing an out-of-date robot kill a Reploid with a simple metallic bolt."
"Something tells me that you have more to hide than your age and your weaponry," Blackheart answered. "I can... sense it, you might say."
"Oh, sense it, can you?" the disguised robot answered, "and how is it that you can sense such things as one's hidden motives?"
"That's my own secret, kid. But, I'm just curious enough about your own motives to offer to trade secrets, just between you and me. What do you say?"
For a moment, the disguised robot didn't know what to answer. This guy could be the end of five years of studying robotic science, not to mention that hard-earned cash he'd been earning legitimately. An idea dawning to him, he answered Blackheart, "if I can trust your word, you have to go first."
"Very well. Do I have your solemn vow not to tell anyone?" Blackheart insisted.
"Yes, so long as I have yours," the dishwasher answered.
"You have my solemn vow," Blackheart ascertained. "Just one thing, however. Can I know your name?"
"You shall know me as Link," the disguised robot answered. "Earn my trust enough, and you might learn my human name, too."
"Very well, Link. I know you know my name, so I'll proceed without further delay." Looking around him, he raised his arms before his face, and out came the two psionic blades, each glowing a mix of burgundy and pink.
Link was admittedly impressed. "Those... can't be energy blades, can they?"
"At first, I thought they were, too. But using energy blades for an extended amount of time doesn't cause your mind to slowly lose mental strength, do they?"
"They shouldn't. I'm guessing you know what they are, however?"
"I have only one guess, and trust me, you won't believe me."
"Just as you won't believe me when I hold up my end of our bargain here."
Looking around him again, Blackheart slowly answered, "I think these blades are psionic."
Link could only stare for a minute, letting the shock set in. "Psionics? The ability to manipulate energy with the mind? No Reploid has ever been able to use that. Hell, most humans can't use it!"
"I told you you wouldn't believe me. But, that's my story. Now, what is it that I won't believe?"
It was Link's turn to hesitate, and he also looked to both ends of the alley they were in, before answering, "my mind is the copy of Doctor Hack Cubit, from the days before the Cataclysm."
Blackheart had to admit, that was just as crazy as the idea that he could use psionics. He finally answered Link, "you were right, our stories sound just about equally far-fetched. I take it that's why you've created your alter ego, to keep a low profile?"
Link nodded. The thought struck him that, conversing in this dark alley were potentially two of the craziest experiments in the history of robot artificial intelligences. "Tell me, Blackheart, how do you manage to keep a low profile?"
"I usually don't use my blades unless I know the only witnesses are bound to die, preferably by my hand," Blackheart answered in a matter-of-fact tone. "Besides," he added, "they look like energy blades unless you're looking really closely. And if--" Blackheart's head snapped up before he could finish, his unseeing eyes showing a look of horror before they focused back on Link.
"And if... what?" Link asked, wondering how a Reploid could lose his train of thought. This had to be the first time he'd ever seen it happen.
Before the words, "gotta go!" were out of Blackheart's voice box, he was already running toward the street as fast as he could, leaving Link behind to sink into a state of utter confusion. Link frowned, wondering what he should do. He then did something that surprised him: electrically donning his Reploid armor, he dashed after the mysterious Reploid with whom he'd just shared secrets that could bring the end of each others' lives as they knew them.