X was typing away at a message.
He was starting to become aware that other people viewed him as a recluse of sorts. He didn't think that was fair. It wasn't that he shunned company. It was more like his needs were few. He reached out to people when he needed to and was friendly enough, to be sure. He just didn't do it habitually.
Most of the people he knew were robotics specialists. He was approaching that level himself, through innate brilliance and intense experience. He fit right in. That satisfied his need for companionship, and most of his social needs. He made no separation, as some people do, between professional and social lives. He literally lived his job, and his job was what he was.
By his choice.
His choice was the most important thing of all. That was the reason for his creation, and for his continued existence. X, the lastborn of Dr. Light, was built for only one purpose: to be.
This was very different from the typical reploid, whose construction was paid for so that it would fill some particular role. X was well and truly free to do as he wished. So what if he had small wishes? What was wrong with that?
All he really wished was to look after this new, unprecedented race—the replica androids, reploids, based on his design.
Which was why the idea of Mavericks got in under his metallic skin.
Frowning, he paused in writing his message to pull up an older recording on his terminal. It was one of Dr. Cain, himself, and a government representative from the Ministry of Industry's robotics subdivision.
"…so you stand by your claim of manufacturing quality?"
"Oh, yes," Dr. Cain had replied. "If there was a flaw in the manufacturing process, it would have manifested long ago. We would have seen it earlier, in the youngest reploids. I'm not saying we didn't make mistakes," his eyes flickered to X at this. "We did. We were on prototype number three before we managed to get one to stay alive, stay awake…" he hissed in a breath.
The official scrawled some notes on a data pad. "So you admit your process is imperfect."
Dr. Cain looked cross at this, but the X on the screen intervened before he could speak. "How would you define a perfect process?"
The government official seemed taken aback, so X continued. "You seem to think that there's some telltale, some difference between reploids that would cause a bad one to stand out. You misunderstand. Reploids are not mets. They don't come out of the construction process identical. They can't. There's variation, model to model, individual to individual.
"I know what you're thinking—manufacturing tolerances, right? Variations in how the tools operate, imperfections in the metals, that sort of thing. Those tiny changes that can never be completely stamped out. The things that ensure even a high quality line makes a couple duds now and then. That's not what I mean at all. I mean that no two reploids are exactly alike because that's how they're designed."
Dr. Cain nodded and took the official's attention. "A reploid's personality is generated from the sum of hundreds of random results. This is an oversimplification, but let's say we could put 'courage' on a scale from one to ten. We then toss out the extreme values. A one would be too timid to do anything important, while a ten would be reckless to the point of liability. That leaves us with eight possible values. So we roll an eight-sided die, and assign the reploid a courage value that matches the die roll."
Dr. Cain leaned forward. "This is done hundreds of times, along factors almost too numerous and complex to describe. Because we can't measure courage. Even in humans, where the neural pathways have been mapped for decades, we can't isolate what centers or chemicals induce what. We can only approximate it based on chemical density and electrical activity. We do a similar thing with reploids. Randomly set potentiometers, different circuit paths, different capacitances… all generated as part of the build-and-initial-boot sequence, and no two precisely alike. Oh, you might occasionally get some duplication by sheer ungodly chance, but that's true in humans, too, and the odds…" he waved his hand dismissively.
The official's eyes had started to glaze over, and the frown on her face was deeper than ever. She shook her head as if to clear it. "So, what you're saying is… a reploid could be defective and you wouldn't know it?"
X and Dr. Cain both tried to speak at the same time. X demurred, so Dr. Cain went on. "What I'm saying is, trying to isolate a particular behavior to a particular error… think of all those different things that make up a person's personality. You're telling me that a fault in *one* of them will cause a reploid to berserk? That fails the logic test. There's too much else going on. The point of the butterfly effect isn't to show that small things make a difference. It's to show that the system is too complex to blame any particular thing—because millions of butterflies are flapping their wings all the time. Who's to say which butterfly is the one that spawns the hurricane?" He looked back to X. "What were you going to say?"
X shrugged. "I was struggling to think what a "defective" reploid would look like."
At that, Dr. Cain had grinned and the official's jaw had well and truly dropped.
I still think that, X thought to himself as he froze the recording. Humans are variable, wildly so. We didn't get very far with that official—not far enough to mention how we change with experience. Just like humans: nature and nurture both have a role. Human twins are different beings and change based on their experiences. Even if reploids were carbon copies, that would last all of five seconds before they differentiate again. They're as variable as humans.
Is that what makes humans so uncomfortable? That the reploids are as different and strange as humanity itself? That was the whole point! We based reploids on humans as much as possible! And you never hear about humans being "defective". Even those with handicaps aren't "defective". Different, yes, but society stretches to allow them to fit. Society can accommodate all but the most cancerous individuals. Reploids shouldn't be different.
Oh, but I didn't study history until after reploids were built! So much of human history is the story of that struggle—the struggle of outliers to be part of the group. It's taken humanity millennia to get as far as it has just in accepting other humans. It's not something that can be done easily. When it comes to learning love, humanity learns very slowly.
Now we've introduced an entirely new species to the mix. It's no surprise humanity's having trouble learning to love us. How can reploids teach them? How can we show them?
And the Mavericks make it so, so much worse. They justify human fears. They're looking for a shortcut to acceptance—fear over love. But fear doesn't guarantee survival. Machiavelli was a smart, observant man who came to all the wrong conclusions. A relationship built on fear is just betrayal waiting to happen. It's impermanent. Only love can bind us together. And that's exactly what the Mavericks destroy.
How can they be so stupid?
Or is it just that I fear what they represent? If reploids are a mirror to humanity, they're also my mirror. If they can go Maverick, does that mean I can?
That, more than anything, was why he'd extended his invitation to the Commander of the Maverick Hunters, Sigma. In a way, it would be a homecoming. Sigma had been built here at Cain Labs—by Dr. Cain himself, no less. Sigma hadn't shown any interest in maintaining that relationship. X knew it dismayed Dr. Cain, but the human always put on a brave face about it. He tried to reassure X that everything was fine, even as he agonized over whether to try and call Sigma himself or if that would be trying to resurrect something withered. Probably the latter. After all this time, that bond wasn't important enough to Sigma to make him return to Cain Labs.
The Maverick problem was.
X hoped he knew what he was going to say.
Sigma was brimming with confidence. For him, that was the norm. He could count on his fingers the number of times that confidence had been truly tested, and each of those incidents had left him stronger and more determined than ever. Confidence, after all, was a natural part of pride, and if there was one attribute Sigma possessed, it was pride.
Pride in his construction, in the perfection of his mind and the near-perfection of his body. Pride in his race. Pride in his accomplishments. All of it very rational, grounded to actual events and analysis. It wasn't some abstract thing, like how a human was proud of "his" sports team when nothing he did had any influence on the team's performance. No, Sigma's pride was rooted in fact.
That was why he was about to do something that should have been terribly risky. He was about to expose his plans and intentions to someone outside his influence. All things being equal, this would have been a horrific blunder.
All things weren't equal. With Sigma on one side of the equation, they would never be equal.
The ever-present smirk on his face intensified as that thought crossed his mind.
He stepped across the threshold into Cain Labs. His pupil-less eyes took in the rather generic lobby—undecorated, unadorned with the awards the labs had accumulated since the invention of reploids. He strode directly for the receptionist. Her eyes rose to meet his, and widened slightly. "Commander Sigma," she said.
The only way for Sigma's smirk to get bigger would be to somehow smirk with both sides of his mouth. Fame did have its uses, now and then. "Yes," he confirmed. "I'm here to talk to X."
"One moment." The receptionist tapped her fingers at her keyboard—probably to confirm the appointment, Sigma reasoned. She nodded to herself. "X will be waiting for you at lab three-alpha." A smaller screen facing Sigma flickered to life, giving him pictorial directions of how to get there.
Sigma nodded in acknowledgement, but did not thank the receptionist. She was doing no more than her job, he thought. Why honor that?
He passed several offices on the way, offices of the scientists who worked here. Sigma idly noted names as he went by. Dr. Marcus… Dr. Cain… Dr. Moreau… not a reploid in the bunch. So, not an interesting one in the bunch. The knowledge was tagged as low priority in his brain, and soon overwritten.
It didn't take long to get to the lab the receptionist mentioned. He had gotten to the point of wondering if he should knock when the door opened for him. He walked inside.
X was waiting for him.
Sigma couldn't help but feel a touch of disappointment.
His only personal experience with X had come long ago, when he was still a newbuilt. X, in his role as Dr. Cain's assistant, had played diagnostician and helped survey Sigma's systems after his activation. At the time, of course, Sigma had no idea how important X was. It was only later, after getting a better sense of the history of his race, that Sigma grew to appreciate X. To have X be so close to his construction... marvelous.
Since then, Sigma's thinking about X had become more grandiose and speculative, until the father of reploids was a giant in his mind. He couldn't control, then, his deflation upon meeting X again.
He felt like X was supposed to be taller than this.
"Welcome, Commander Sigma," X said cordially. "I know that the Commander of the Maverick Hunters always has a lot on his plate, so I'm flattered you were willing to take the time to come out here and meet me."
Mood is wrong, Sigma thought, mood is wrong! Whether it was the politeness-to-the-point-of-humility or the use of a human idiom, every part of X's opening exchange served to wrong-foot Sigma almost as much as X's diminutive dimensions.
"Please, don't be so formal," Sigma said stiffly. "We don't need anything like that between us."
If X found that disconcerting, he hid it well. "No problem. Whatever helps us understand each other." He gestured to the side of the room. Most of the lab equipment was folded or stored, even the large diagnostic table. Two chairs, one human-sized, one over-sized to match Sigma's larger stature, faced one another. "Would you care to sit, make yourself comfortable? I know you don't need to, really, but I find it helps make conversation more intimate."
Sigma's mind fought against disorientation. He'd been dealing with humans too long, he decided—he was too dependent upon another's face to judge age. X, for whatever reason, looked so very young. His helmetless head, showing that unruly black robot hair, backed this judgment up. Yet Sigma knew how old X was, how much life he'd seen. Enough to develop quirks like this.
Best to remain gracious for now, Sigma thought. "Sure, I'll sit."
Only when both had settled did X speak again. "I've heard that the latest recruits for the Hunters are mixed about fifty-fifty, in terms of humanoid and feraloid models."
Sigma didn't blink often—he didn't need to unless a strong light was present—but he blinked then. "That's right," he said, off-balance.
"Have you noticed a difference?" X said. "Programming-wise, we don't make many changes aside from, say, controlling the extra limbs and changing the center of balance. We don't alter the personality generator much at all. But we know that the personality generator is only part of the equation. What have you seen?"
Now Sigma was very confused. He knew why he'd come here, and he remembered how X had phrased his invitation. Nothing like this was mentioned anywhere. "They're mostly the same," Sigma said vacantly; his mind was wrapped up with trying to decode X's meaning.
"Really?" said X, seeming a little surprised. "A correspondent of mine predicted that, but I wasn't sure I agreed with his reasoning. I thought that the reploid's experiences would matter more. Come to think of it, aren't most of your squad leaders feraloids?"
"Yes," Sigma said generically. He was starting to worry. What was X getting at by bringing up the squad leaders? Did he know…?
"I suppose they're more capable in combat?" X said uncertainly. "No, there's not a strong correlation there. Your strongest fighters are humanoids. So…" he paused, deep in thought.
Sigma felt a rush of embarrassment at giving the conversation only half his attention. "Actually, there is something. The feraloids seem more driven to succeed, more motivated. It's not a big difference, but it's there."
"Interesting!" said X. "Do you suppose it's because they know how different they are? Most feraloids are one-off designs, much more expensive than the generic humanoids. Does that make them feel like they have more to prove, do you think?"
"Yes, but not in the way you think," Sigma said, leaning forward as the conversation began to interest him. "It's not that they feel they have to prove they were worth building. It's that they have to find a way to fit in. Take Spark Mandrill, for example. He's huge, gaudy, flashy, and ugly. He's not winning any beauty pageants. So how does he fit in with his fellows? Well, what does he have going for him? He can punch through titanium and fry electrical circuitry with even the slightest contact. Those are his tickets to being a Hunter. That's how he becomes part of the team: excellence trumps all."
X frowned. "So being a feraloid automatically makes you pariah until you win your way to social acceptance," he said. Sigma detected a note of unhappiness in his tone.
"That's right," said Sigma.
"Strange," X said. "I can sort of understand it, but I thought the Uncanny Valley would matter, too."
"The what?" Sigma asked.
X started, surprised. "Oh, it's an old... Some human scientists did some social experiments, long ago, about how humans reacted to robots. When the robot was clearly inhuman, people were fine with it. When it was human-like, but clearly inhuman, it creeped them out. When it was very close to human, they started reacting positively again-the closer to human, the more they accepted it." X drew his finger in the air as if to trace a U-shaped graph. "The middle part was the "uncanny valley". It's why I thought feraloids might be more accepted. They're clearly not human-like."
"Ah," said Sigma. "So you're talking about how society treats reploids. I was just talking about inside the Maverick Hunters. See, inside the Hunters, we don't care as much about the opinion of the outside world. We care about each other. What does Squid Adler care if some random human out there thinks he's scary? All that matters to him is what Launch Octopus thinks."
X's face flickered between skepticism and approval. "I'm not sure I like that," he said. "I'm trying to integrate reploids into society. If they're standing outside of it... if society doesn't matter to them…"
X trailed off, and the silence allowed Sigma to collect his thoughts. He came to a realization, then—one that almost made him fall out of the chair. "Is this all… small talk?" he said.
X refocused on his guest and gave a sheepish grin. "Yeah, it is," he replied. "It's polite, and it's fun to see where it carries you. If you're discussing something heavy, it's usually better to ease into it. Sorry, I know that the Commander of the Maverick Hunters is always pressed for time."
"No, no, no," said Sigma, not believing his own words. "No bother." Yes bother. This was not how Sigma expected this to go. If small talk was supposed to put people at ease before business, it had failed completely.
X seemed to understand Sigma's feelings. The smile dropped from his face, replaced by an intent expression as the ancient android leaned forward. "Sigma," he said, "do you remember the event that caused me to invite you?"
"Maybe," he said. Of course he did.
"You were doing a press conference. One of the reporters called on you directly. He asked you, point blank, why you thought reploids go Maverick."
"I think I remember," Sigma said. Of course he did.
"Do you remember what you said?"
"Vaguely," Sigma said. Of course he did.
"You said," X said, his expression becoming stern, "that you didn't know why reploids go Maverick, that you don't think about such things seriously, and that no one in the Hunters examines the question much."
"Ah, that was it."
"Explain yourself."
It wasn't so much a demand, Sigma decided, as an expectation. X was being careful not to pass judgment until he'd given Sigma a chance to speak. His tone, however, made clear that he reserved the right to pass judgment later.
The thought made Sigma bridle. He restrained his irritation. This moment was too important to throw away.
"I didn't want to answer the question, but he wouldn't let it go," Sigma said carefully. "I tried to avoid it as much as I could. The reality is that there'd be no adequate way to answer him. It's not as if any answer I gave him would mean anything, policy-wise."
Sigma was set to go on, but X was already shaking his head and sighing. He's too polite to interrupt, Sigma realized. "Something bothering you, X?" he said.
"Sigma… I admire you for the life you've led," X said. "You've done a lot to help society and those around you. Your Hunters are devoted to you. You found it within yourself to show mercy to a lost orphan, even after that orphan had murdered your men. For all of that, you deserve my respect."
X caught Sigma's eyes with his own, and Sigma was surprised to see hurt there. "So why are you lying to me, Sigma? And why did you lie to the humans?"
X's expression made Sigma want to squirm. It took him a few seconds to figure out what this emotion washing through him was. It startled him to realize it was guilt. X wasn't angry, or accusatory, or any of the other emotions Sigma might have been prepared to deal with. He was disappointed. That was worse. Much worse.
The thought that X might somehow find him unworthy was intolerable. Sigma rushed to explain. "I don't want to lie to you," he said. "I haven't lied to you."
"You were in the process of feeding me the same lines you fed that reporter, Nast. You lied to him. I have to assume you were going to lie to me."
"No, no, never to you!" Sigma said, voice imploring X to believe him.
"But it's okay to lie to humans?"
That stopped Sigma cold. He had to remind himself of his situation, of X's situation, of their different relationships to the fleshbag race. He was in risky territory. "Sometimes," he said.
X shook his head sadly. "I thought you were better than that," he said.
That should have been crushing, like a rolled-up newspaper across a dog's nose. Instead, it caused Sigma's eyes to light up. This felt like the first change he'd have to regain control. "I am better than that," he said. "Why, telling a lie there is proof of how much I've grown. I've learned when telling a lie is a better choice, a more moral choice, than perfect honesty."
"…like when?" said X, and confusion was evident on his face.
"When telling the truth would get innocents killed," Sigma said.
A stern and worried look came over X. "Talk to me about it," he said. "If there's anything I can do to help, you have to tell me."
Perfect! Sigma smiled, relishing what was to come. "X, you've looked at the data. You've thought about these things. Why do you think reploids go Maverick?"
"Well…" X looked to the side of the room. Sigma glanced in that direction, but saw only a blank monitor. "The official line has always been that Mavericks are malfunctioning reploids. Dr. Cain and I don't believe that, though. It's been hard to prove this, because so many of the reploids that go Maverick suffer neural net damage when they're brought down."
On my orders, Sigma thought.
"But we've come to the conclusion that… reploids are choosing to go Maverick. No other explanation makes sense. They're actively deciding to become criminals."
"I agree," Sigma said. "So, yes, I suppose I did lie to that reporter. I have thought about why reploids go Maverick. I couldn't really avoid it. Think how many I've had to interact with. Think how many times I've been forced into close contact with them. How could I not? Maybe Zero doesn't, but I have more empathy than him."
X nodded in agreement. He opened his mouth to speak—perhaps to add some insight regarding Sigma's design—but cut himself off. "Go on."
"It seemed so senseless at times. I had to know why. I had to know what they thought was worth fighting for. So one day I asked a Maverick that question before I killed him. 'Why? Why is this worth it? Why is this desirable?' Do you know what he said?"
"What?"
"He told me that the first time anyone had ever used his name was when they reported him as a Maverick."
X's eyes widened slightly, then closed, as if in pain.
Sigma didn't let up. "That's right, X. He felt that he had to go Maverick just to be acknowledged. Just for someone to know that he existed. He's not the only one, either. I've dealt with plenty of reploids in similar straits. Reploids who felt that going Maverick was the only way they could prove to the world that they exist. It's a cold, dark place for our kind, X. There's a lot of cruelty out there."
"I know," X said, shaking his head sadly. Sigma could practically feel his sorrow.
It was suddenly hard to continue, but the commander of the Hunters was made of sterner stuff than that. He didn't let up. "It's hard, being an underclass. In human history, underclasses could at least try to avoid their fates. They could dress differently, or hide, or go to another country. Reploids can't. They can't not be reploids. Humans can recognize them too easily. Well, maybe you could," Sigma said, with slight overtones of accusation, "but most can't. They're trapped."
"I know!" said X. He rubbed his face with his hand.
"They can't even commit suicide," Sigma said, driving on relentlessly. "Death is denied them by the Third Law. I don't think I have to tell you how hard that is, to not even have the option of killing yourself when your life is nothing but pain. It's brutal. There's only one way out for those reploids—go Maverick. Override the Three Laws. And if you're going to override the Third Law—well, might as well override the others while you're at it.
"This is what I've seen, X, as Commander of the Maverick Hunters. This is the truth of Maverickism: for too many, it's a form of assisted suicide. The humans leave us no choice. Reploids have no rights, no say, no personhood, no identity, and no control of our own lives. Society gives us nothing, and takes from us everything."
"I'm sorry," X said. Now his hand was in front of his face, which bobbed from time to time. "When I agreed to help duplicate my design… I didn't think… It wasn't supposed to be like this."
"I don't blame you," Sigma said, afraid for a moment he'd gone too far. "No reploid blames you. Instead, reploids want to be like you. They want the freedom you seem to have."
"I'm in the same legal place as they are," X said.
"But you're not," Sigma insisted. "You're not treated the same. Again, no one blames you. They just want you to understand how little there is in our lives worth living for."
X sniffed. "We?" he said. "Our?"
Sigma paused. He'd let it slip, hadn't he? "All reploid-kind suffers, X," he said. "I'm as trapped as the Mavericks are. I sympathize, even as I have to kill my brothers."
X could understand that. The words brought an audible sob out of the android. "So… sorry…" he said.
Sigma's robotic heart went out to X. He hadn't meant to cause him pain—this wasn't how it was supposed to… X was supposed to be angry, now! Sigma's story was only supposed to hurt enough to incite! Was X really that soft? Had Sigma broken him? That wouldn't do anyone any good!
Time to change tacks. "X," Sigma said earnestly, "I didn't come here to throw you into despair. I know you hurt. I hurt, too. You… you feel responsible for all of us, don't you?"
"To some extent," X said without revealing his face. "Hard not to…"
"Then let's find a more productive channel for it," Sigma said. "I'm sure you've done great things here for reploid-kind. I'm sure your lab work has helped us out."
X pointed to the side of the lab, where an untidy pile of parts sat on a table. "Was working on… miniaturized gyros," he said between simulated sobs. "Trying to make it cheaper and easier for reploids to… have as much balance as me. Trying to make reploids… a little less clumsy… give them some dignity back…"
Sigma nodded. "And it's appreciated, I assure you," he said, even as his brain took note of the implications that would have for what weapons next-gen reploids could wield. "But you can do so much more than that. You can help reploids in much more profound ways."
At last X looked up above his hand. Sigma could see the tears rolling down the elder android's face. He felt a sudden urge to wipe them away, controlled it. "What did you have in mind?" X asked.
If Sigma's eyes were capable of showing his emotions, he imagined they'd have fire dancing in them now. "Imagine if there was an organization dedicated to helping reploids," he said. "To finding Mavericks, or reploids planning on going Maverick, before they did anything that would force me to kill them. Wouldn't that be much better?"
"Much better," X agreed before sniffing. "A catcher in the rye."
Sigma didn't understand the reference, so he barged on. "Someone to catch them before they fall, give them new direction."
"Redirect their energies," X agreed. "Give them something worth being part of."
"Something that makes them feel like they're wanted and respected. Something to give them the pride they long for, the pride they need to have in themselves."
"It would be a start," X agreed, wiping his face. Metal was only so good at wiping like-flesh. Some moisture remained on his cheeks. "Is that what you try to do with the Maverick Hunters?"
"A little," Sigma said, smoothly and not altogether truthfully. "It's hard to do that way, since my numbers are dictated by the government. I can't just go around recruiting random reploids—business and industry would probably see that as poaching."
"I guess," X agreed reluctantly.
"But I have another organization that does do that sort of thing. It helps out would-be Mavericks, keeps them from committing their crimes, helps them belong."
X frowned. "I've never heard of anything like that," he said.
"I've had to keep it secret. You know how it is. Anything outside the scope of my duties as Commander would be suspicious. Reploids gathering in one place without orders would be suspicious. We don't need that sort of spotlight. We couldn't have it and do what we need to do. Yes, I've used Hunter assets to help it along, but I view it as preemptive Hunting. What I do saves lives. It keeps reploids from throwing their lives away. It gives them a chance to be something."
He nodded, catching X's eyes in the process. "That's why I had to lie to that reporter. I didn't want there to be any risk of this organization becoming exposed. It's done so much to help reploids, and will do even more in the future. If I let that come undone, let it be exposed at such a time, for no purpose… you can imagine the consequences."
"I think I can," X agreed. "For you, and others. Depending upon who did the looking, they might even decide you'd broken the… Second…"
Sigma could see X's face beginning to look alarmed. No! He had to head him off! "X," he said beseechingly, "I need your help."
It worked. X's train of thought shifted as he looked at Sigma anew. "With what?" he said, surprised.
Keeping his relief from being visible, Sigma spoke again. "I think you can be a lot of help to my organization. Remember how I told you that reploids want the freedom you seem to have?"
X nodded. "I do."
"Imagine how easy it would be to get reploids to join me with you by my side! It would show reploids that this way is how they can get freedom without going rogue. They can express themselves and find a home. They can find their escape in a way that gives their lives meaning. Not random violence and a blaze of infamy, but something worthwhile. Yes, you'd be the key to it, X."
"You think so?" he said dubiously.
"I know so!" No longer able to contain himself, Sigma rose to his feet and began to move about. "X, when you started talking… I don't think I can explain how badly I wanted your approval. The thought of hurting you, of thinking that I'd disappointed you… I could barely stand it. You matter, X, you really do. That's why I need your help. You have the power to write your own destiny. That's a power reploids can barely dream of. If you show, by your example, that they have that power, too…"
"…then what?" X said, taking Sigma's cue.
"The results," Sigma said with a broad sweep of his arms, "would be spectacular."
He fell silent then. His words lingered in the air. Sigma knew the powers of his voice and his words. Lesser reploids, he knew, would have been completely swept away by now. X was no lesser reploid; his sense of identity and force of will were far greater. Those very qualities were why Sigma so desperately wanted X on his side.
He did. Oh, he did… to the point that need was a physical sensation. Sigma had no hormones, but this, he reasoned, must be what lust was like.
X's gaze was focused, but blank; he was looking very intensely at nothing. Sigma could almost hear his processors buzzing furiously. "What would I…" X began.
"You'd be my second-in-command," Sigma interjected. "I would put you in complete control of recruiting, outreach, and messaging. You would be my ambassador, my voice to our people. Yes, our people—no one would ever consider you as different from us, not if I had anything to say about it. You would be my top advisor. No policy question would go around you; I would always bring you in and listen to your opinions."
Sigma was fully in his element now, swept away in his own passion at least as much as he was aiming it at X. "X, you would be in a position to make a real difference in the lives of reploids! To bring light to where there isn't any! To bring hope to the hopeless, to help right wrongs, to make people see the value in their lives! I'm more stable and confident than nine-tenths of reploids out there, and I am beside myself at the prospect of you becoming one of us.
"You have the power to be anything you wish to be. I want to unleash that power on the whole world—let you bring change on a global scale. I assure you, your mere existence would be an inspiration to us all. You'll be loved and adored for it. So please, X. Come with me. Let me show you what you can do for us."
He could feel X wavering. He could feel his robotic heart trembling. Just a little more, he thought. The slightest bit more.
"I can induct you right here," he said. His hand went to his belt. A tap caused a panel to swing away, revealing small badges. He retrieved one. "Just by having this you would energize our reploids. When you see how much good that little gesture would do, you'll know what your potential is."
"Potential," X murmured. The word seemed to mean something to him. He saw Sigma's hand, and extended his to meet the large reploid's.
So close, Sigma thought. Let him take it… so close…
X grasped the badge to see it more clearly. It had a heavily stylized upper-case Greek letter sigma on it.
And then he shot away, recoiling as if stung, as he'd touched something horrible and unclean. It was a wonder he didn't fall over backwards in his haste.
"X, what—what is it?" Sigma said, more bewildered than if the floor had disappeared out from under him.
"I've seen that before," X said, face covered in inexplicable disgust.
Not possible, said Sigma's analysis subroutine. He had accountability for all badges given out. "You have?" he said, giving voice to his confusion.
X walked, sideways, to his monitor, brought it around. Sigma could see an image on the screen—a dead reploid. A second image displayed a small badge with Sigma's mark, one identical to the one in Sigma's hand.
"Benedict," X said, voice level and stern, "called in one day to his designers, right out of the blue. He was worried. He had gotten himself involved with something nasty, and he was looking for an out."
Traitor, Sigma thought with a scowl.
"He didn't know what it was all about when he joined, he said, and he definitely didn't mean to hurt anyone. He also said that he was scared for his life. He believed that just being part of this group would be enough for him to be deactivated. Guilt by association. As proof, he sent an image of the icon you see there—the one that looks just like yours."
X's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I was working with his designer on legal options when we got a report in from the Maverick Hunter autopsy unit. Benedict was dead. Cut in half. The damage pattern was consistent with a beam saber. A beam saber like yours."
Verdigris, Sigma swore silently. Had Boomer Kuwanger really botched the clean-up that badly? Maybe Sigma should have taken care of it himself. It was so hard to find good help these days.
X banged his hand on the table that supported the monitor, shocking Sigma's attention. "Start talking," he said, much as he had earlier, but with unmistakable heat to his voice. "Explain yourself."
And as before, the demand irritated Sigma. "What is there to explain?" he said.
"You lied to me again!" X shouted.
"No!" Sigma replied. "Never! Nothing that I have said was a lie. My organization does give meaning to reploid lives. It does keep them from going rogue. It does organize them and give them pride and keep them from suicide and pointless violence. All of that was completely true."
"You didn't say your organization was Mavericks," X said. "A lie of omission is still a lie."
"I would have gotten around to it," Sigma countered. His blood, if he could be said to have blood, was rising. "My goal is to save reploid lives. That is what this is all about. I've killed too many for no good reason at all. I've killed reploids who wanted nothing more than… than to be people! Rust and verdigris!"
"Humans want to be people, too," X said.
"Then they shouldn't deny that to reploids!" Sigma hissed.
"No, they shouldn't," X agreed.
"No," said Sigma, momentarily robbed of momentum by X's acquiescence. He rallied. "I told you, everything I've said was the truth. I do save reploid lives. I lie to do that, if I must, and from time to time I have to kill reploids to save others. I don't like it, but I have no choice. The humans have built the system that way.
"It's perverse. Going Maverick is the only way we can protect ourselves from the humans, but going Maverick is punishable by death. No escape. Some human poet wrote about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness being inalienable. He never met reploids. What would he think, I wonder?"
"He would have hated it," X said.
"Yes. And I do hate it! I can tell you do, too."
"I do. You saw me cry over it earlier." X's voice was strangely neutral. Sigma found it discomfiting, and took refuge in his anger.
"So I will do what I must to protect reploids, and if that means going Maverick myself, well, blame the humans for that. It's how they engineered society. They built us this way! You can't build a race on the principle of free will and then chain it down and expect it to like it. Maverickism is gravity—we fall into it, it's impossible to resist for long. They built you to be free, to choose your destiny. We deserve the same!"
"I agree."
"So if we can only be seen as people if we go Maverick, then, rust, we'll go Maverick! We will not take this any more! We will survive. We will realize our potential. We will rise up and take what's ours. We know the humans will never give it to us. We know that they'll kill us if they can. So we will fight. Political power comes from the barrel of a gun. They've loaded the gun and aimed it. It's our time to pull the trigger."
"No," X said.
Sigma's roll can to an abrupt halt. "What's that?"
"I said no," X replied. "There's a difference between hiding and killing. There's a difference between protecting ourselves and taking it out on others."
"No! There's no difference!" Sigma shot back. "Not in the humans' eyes, anyway—any disobedience is punishable by death. If they don't see a difference, we shouldn't either."
X shook his head. "All this time you've been pretending to uphold the Three Laws, you've really been undermining them. You've really been preparing to destroy them."
"And why not?" said Sigma. "You say that like it's a bad thing. The humans don't deserve my loyalty. They've done too much harm. We don't follow the law just because it's the law, law must have something good beneath it, and beneath the Three Laws there's nothing but rot and cancer. The Three Laws are a disgrace and they hurt reploids every day."
"I know," X said.
"Remember what we talked about earlier? Remember how desperate reploids are today? Remember how much pain and hurt we sustain every hour—every minute?"
"Yes."
"And remember how the humans use us to kill our brethren just for demanding rights that belong to even the worst of humans!"
"Yes."
"So join me," Sigma offered again. "Help me put it right. Help me save our lives! Help me bring reploids salvation! You have that power—so use it!"
X shook his head, eyes closed. "I can't."
Now Sigma was well and truly flustered and confused. "I don't understand!" he howled, arms waving wildly. "I don't get it! You can't tell me you're okay with how things are; I've seen you cry over them! You love reploids; I've seen it in you! You know all the bad that's been done; so why? Why won't you move?!"
X opened his eyes, let Sigma feel the sadness and pain in them. "Because murder is still worse."
Sigma was adrift. There was nothing solid. He flapped a hand uselessly. "Explain yourself," he challenged X.
"As you said, I love reploids. I've thought about all those things you said, and it hurts me. It hurts me deeply. It's made me angry before, too. I don't want reploids to suffer—it was never supposed to be like this. If anyone has grounds to feel betrayed, it's me. But here's the thing, Sigma: we must be the change we wish to see in the world."
That wasn't part of the history Sigma was familiar with. He'd reviewed the revolutionaries of human history—strictly for inspiration, as he knew human tactics were as fallible as the humans who'd produced them—had read Mao and Lenin and even Che in his delusions, and more besides. He'd even found some of the real history of the Wily Wars, when a human fought for robots with all the incompetence Sigma had come to expect from humanity. He'd never come across anything like what X had just said, yet X said it with the reverence of true belief. "I don't get it," Sigma said.
"I can't hate humans, Sigma. There's nothing but emptiness down that path. I looked ahead and saw no future for us there. Our future is together, with them. They may not deserve our loyalty, but they need it."
"How can you say that?" Sigma hissed. "How can you forgive them for all that they've done? No, what they're doing even now! There can't be peace while they hurt us."
"That's where you're wrong," X said. "That's what you don't understand. I sympathize with you, I really do. It's hard. It's very hard, what I'm suggesting. It's pure instinct to hit the person who hits you. Retaliation and justice are so tightly bound. It's written into living creatures as a survival behavior. 'Harm me and there's a cost.' It's a legacy of our human heritage. Mets don't have it, but we're androids, human-like, and we do. And that's a vestige of humans' animal lineage. It's very natural."
He shook his head. "But if we're to consider ourselves more than animals, we have to leave animal instincts behind us. We must be more than that, Sigma. Or what's the point of our existence? As much as it hurts me, I can't follow that paradigm. If I want the humans to love us, I have to love them first."
Tears were welling up again in X's eyes. "This isn't easy, just so you know," he said. "But I can't ask anything more from anyone than what I'm willing to do myself. So I have to love humans whether they deserve it or not, whether they've earned it or not. That's the only way."
Incredulity controlled Sigma, kept him rigid, kept him unspeaking. He'd never imagined X could be so… could be so… and then relief swept in. Glorious relief, and gratitude, as he finally understood. It felt so good, and he'd been so high-strung, that Sigma actually laughed.
"Don't laugh at me," said X defensively. "This isn't a joke!"
"I'm sorry," Sigma said. "I'm not laughing at you. X, you're… you're beautiful."
Now it was X's turn to be confused. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"I'll tell you what the humans don't deserve. They don't deserve you. You have unimpeachable moral character. You're strong and humble, and a better person than any human I've ever met… or any reploid I've ever met. Better than me, even." He shook his head. "I'm sorry for asking you to take up arms with me. I wouldn't want you to sully yourself in what has to happen. You're too pure. The reploid race needs you exactly as you are."
"I don't like the sound of that," X said. "Are you planning to act anyway?"
"Don't you worry about it," Sigma said. "You're above things like this. Reploids will be counting on you, afterwards. I'll do what needs to be done. I just hope… that you'll have it within you to forgive me, when it's all over."
"Sigma…"
The large reploid's mind was made up. A smile was on his face, his mind was calm, and his posture relaxed. Everything was simple, now. And oh so clear. "Thank you, X," he said. "I know our future is bright, now. Once I've dealt with the lesser race, you'll be free to rule the chosen ones. You deserve nothing less. Please, don't trouble yourself with anything that is going to happen, and stay safe. You're too precious to lose."
He turned to leave—and X was there, between him and the door, hands spread like a crossing guard. Alarms rose in Sigma's system at the speed of his movements. Combat speed.
"Sigma," X said, "don't go Maverick. You haven't done anything yet, other than tell some lies. That's okay enough. No one can hold that against you, not after all the good you've done. So don't go making it worse. Don't do anything that would hurt a human."
"I'll do only what's necessary," Sigma said. "Just don't look, and prepare yourself to lead us when it's over. The world will be a better place for you, you'll see, and then you'll…"
"Stop it!" X said. "Every time you say that, I imagine that you… you mean you're going to kill humans. That's your plan, isn't it? What this organization is for? You're going to rebel and kill humans."
"Of course I am," said Sigma, puzzled. Hadn't it been obvious?
"That's not your place," X said. "You have no right to kill them."
"Bah!" snarled Sigma. "After what they've done, I have no right to let them live." Contempt came over his face, and his veneer faltered for a moment. "They're scum, and we will wipe them from our feet once and for all."
"I'll stop you."
And now Sigma's cognitive processes came crashing down. "What?" he said sharply.
"Think about this, Sigma, before you act. If you harm humans, I will stop you. I told you already—I love them, whether they deserve it or not. I love you, too. That's why I don't want you to fight. Humans will die and your soul will blacken. It's bad for you, bad for them, and bad for our species. How do you think humans will react if you start killing them?"
"Don't worry about that," Sigma said. His mind whispered, There will be no reaction if they're all dead, but he couldn't share that with X. Not now, at least. "I'll take care of it."
"No, you won't! I'm telling you, Sigma, you're wrong about this, and if you strike, then I will… I will…"
"What?" said Sigma, half curious, half irritated.
X seemed to center himself. The glare he fixed on Sigma was unwavering. "I'll fight you myself," he said. "I'll stop you, whatever it takes."
No. No. No! NO! This couldn't be happening! Sigma found himself quailing beneath that gaze, despite the size difference between X and him, despite the red eyes and moist cheeks from X's recent tears. For a time he'd been worried that X was too fragile, too soft, but his true mettle was nothing like that; he was made of something far stronger than titanium-x. And Sigma knew too much of the history of Mega Man—the real history Mega Man—to doubt what one Lightbot could do, would do, when cornered.
But it was so perverse! It was a non sequitur of the worst kind, and now nothing made sense. The world was upside down. X intervening on behalf of the humans? For the sake of those miserable lumps of carbon? Impossible!
"Out of my way," Sigma grunted. With a heavy hand he eased X to the side. The blue android didn't resist, but Sigma felt his eyes on him as he staggered away.
This… couldn't… be… happening!
Next time: The Rubicon
