Sigma shuddered and shook in the safety of his transport. No part of that interview had gone as planned! X was supposed to be here with him now, riding along on the way back to where the revolution would begin. At worst he was supposed to be a benign neutral. For him to promise active opposition was… inconceivable.
What was wrong with X? Was he damaged? Had someone tampered with him? How could he not leap at the opportunity to free his people? Didn't he… didn't he love reploids at all? Were they nothing to him? Didn't he care?
He was supposed to understand!
Was it… because he cared more for the humans, after all? Cared more for them than for his own progeny, the species made from his essence, his true children? What kind of father was that?
No, it couldn't be. X was perfect. He had to be, or Sigma's perfection couldn't exist. The imperfect could never beget the perfect, that was fact.
But a human had made X!
Sigma howled in agony. Humans were flawed creatures, by definition. Fallible, unreliable, fragile, puny. Totally undeserving, unworthy of their place in the world. Even the best human wasn't worth the worst reploid. Yet a human had made X, the father of all. Somehow, by sheer chance, a human's effort had glimpsed the divine…
But how could X be perfect if he was willing to fight reploids?
And if X was imperfect, then Sigma, who was based on that design, would have to be flawed, too—
NO! Too far! Not possible! Sigma dared not cut that deeply into his beliefs, not now, not when everything was in motion, not when the whole world was reshaping itself by Sigma's will. He couldn't falter now, so he couldn't compromise his certainty. Reploids were perfect, the true heirs of the Earth, the ultimate life form. If that wasn't true, nothing else mattered. He had to allow that, at least.
Then, in that case… was X perfect? Or… did someone somehow… improve on X, to produce the chosen race? That didn't seem possible.
The only explanation was that X was being manipulated, lied to, warped. He was a perfect design, twisted by the humans into imperfect actions. Yes, that had to be it. In which case, Sigma didn't have to worry. X would come around. He had to.
He was fighting for them!
Hate swept through Sigma like a blast of heat. Burn the humans, he thought, burn each and every one of them for doing this to X. If he hadn't wanted to exterminate the humans before, this would have driven him to genocidal frenzy.
They weren't worthy! They didn't deserve X's love! It wasn't possible, it wasn't right, it wasn't…
"Aaaagh!" Sigma cried, back arching in the confines of the vehicle. It hurt—it hurt so badly! He hadn't realized until now how much he'd counted on being able to get X behind him when it mattered. Now it was worse than if he'd never gone at all. X's blessing had become a curse.
X was perfect. If he was right, Sigma was wrong. Sigma was perfect. If he was right, X was wrong. There was no escape. And the more he thought about it, the more his love for X curdled.
"Aaaagh!" he cried again. This time his driver had to take notice. Sigma had chosen him for his discretion, but this was impossible for him to ignore.
"Sir!" his driver said, looking back at him. "Are you alright?" When Sigma didn't reply, the driver added, "Did X do something to you? Sir, do you want us to kill him for you?"
"NO!" Sigma sagged back to his seat, hands clasped over his face. If he'd been human he would have been heaving breaths, and most reploids were programmed to imitate human gestures. Over the past few days, Sigma had gone through his physical responses and deleted any faux-human expressions. So now, despite his turmoil, he lay there with deathly stillness.
He broke the stillness with a terrible tearing sound and a hoarse cry.
More pain—physical, this time.
Sigma took his hands away from his face, part in pain, part in disbelief, part because his mind was still reeling. Had he really just done that? Torn his face open with nothing but his fingers? He wanted to snarl, then—snarl at anyone who thought that like-flesh was vital, was anything more than an imperfect fakery of humanity. Who needed to be a fake human when you could be a real reploid instead?
His face stung where his fingers had dug in. The worst was around his eyes. He would have to do something about that. If he appeared wounded… that wouldn't fly well. It was more than narcissism. He had to be the immortal leader of reploid-kind, perfect in every way—for their sake. They needed that from him.
All of those thoughts swirled around on the surface, because deeper than that his mind was roiling fiercely. What had X done? Why? Why why why?
"Sir?" said his driver timidly.
"Send out this order," Sigma said, "through Maverick channels. Begin The Operation in ninety minutes."
"Ninety—sir! The plan was supposed to have at least six hours' lead time from order to execution!"
"And how would you know that?" Sigma hissed. He saw the driver jerk in fear. He couldn't help himself, Sigma saw—he couldn't uninstall his ears, and no matter how much discretion he had, he heard things. Sigma had discussed literally everything in front of him at one point or another. This was the first time the driver had given any evidence that any of those discussions had touched his brain. That, alone, kept him alive.
"We have a security breach. We act now or we lose surprise. Give the order: start The Operation," Sigma repeated, slowly. "Ninety minutes. Send it."
"Y-y-yes sir!"
Sigma leaned back in his seat. Things were in motion now. All the inertia was in the same direction.
And X… still had a chance. He still might join the right side. Sigma clung to that thought, embraced it. Yes, there was still time. X had done nothing but speak, so far, nothing that couldn't be forgiven or forgotten.
He would come around.
X's hands shook. They didn't need to. The fact that they were shaking represented a lot of effort and work from his creator in manufacturing artificial signs of emotion. It wasn't as if X's motor functions were actually affected by what he felt. The two were handled by separate subroutines, and if there was any physical demand then it would lock out the emotion-showing routines in an instant. If X willed it, he could shut emotion-showing down altogether and still his hands.
He didn't choose to. The shaking of his hands was a true reflection of how he felt.
What had just happened?
It was hard for him to understand or appreciate. It was hard to believe. Sigma? A Maverick? Impossible. Not when he'd done so much for the Hunters, taken down so many Mavericks, been hailed as such a hero. Not when Dr. Cain had poured so much skull sweat and soul into breathing life into him. X's mind tried to dismiss the encounter as a fluke or a daydream; cognitive dissonance paralyzed him. No. It made no sense at all.
Except that it had happened. X had witnessed it, had watched Sigma's transport pull away. His memory was too good to escape. There was no avoiding the point, or evading it. Not only was Sigma a Maverick—he had tried to recruit X into his mission. Insanity!
He had to do something.
But… what?
X was having trouble believing what had just happened, and he'd been there, he'd been the witness. How was someone else supposed to believe him?
There was nothing for it. Only one course was available: Call the Maverick Hunters about their boss. Which was absurd in all sorts of ways.
The receiver felt oddly heavy in X's hand. He knew how light it was supposed to be, yet he could barely hold it up. His mouth was dry. The numbers resisted his fingers. Fingers slipped, misdialed, and he had to start over. Even once he got the call dialed, he found himself wishing no one would pick up.
He was both relieved and disappointed when someone did. "Maverick Hunter dispatch, how can I assist you?"
X forced himself to sim-swallow. "I need… I have a…"
"Yes?" the dispatcher prompted in a professional's patient-within-limits manner. "You have a…?"
X panicked. So what if he told a random dispatcher of his concern? What power or authority would he have? This was Sigma he was talking about—he needed to ensure he was taken seriously. "I'd like to speak to a squad leader. Zero, preferably."
"Zero is out on patrol," the dispatcher replied. "However… please hold."
After a period of time long enough for X's anxiety to spike, a squad leader said his name over the line. X collected himself. "I believe that… a Hunter has Maverick intentions," he told the squad leader.
"That's disturbing information. Give me details."
Time for the big reveal. X gathered himself and said, "It's… it's Sigma."
Silence answered him. Then came the anger. "Listen, this is a very serious business we're in. We don't have time for pranks or jokes."
"This isn't a prank, I'm always serious, I'm X!" the android gibbered.
"…you're X, huh?"
"Check the ID if you want."
X could almost hear the squad leader do so. "I'm listening," he replied at last.
"He came to me—Sigma did. He seemed to think that I would help him harm humans. He told me that was his plan and wanted me to join him. He claimed to have a whole organization behind him, too. I don't know if he's damaged, or malfunctioning, or… or just nuts. I have to think he's a danger to himself and those around him."
"That seems like a pretty incredible story."
X heard the doubt in that voice, and knew the word choice wasn't accidental. "I'm telling the truth," he said, and knew instantly how much saying that made the opposite seem true. "You have to believe me. The greatest Hunter is going to go Maverick."
"So…. What would you have us do?"
"Do? You're the Hunters! Whatever it is you do! Um… stop him. Restrain him, until you can figure out all he's up to. It's some serious stuff, from what he told me." Feeling at a loss, he all but shouted, "Listen, you've got to stop him! He views humans with contempt and he's going to kill as many as he can!"
"Thank you for your report. I will give it the attention it deserves."
There was a loud click—almost a clunk—as the line went dead.
X, bewildered, had to wonder if anything would come of that. He somehow doubted it. Even if he'd been totally persuasive, which he hadn't been, how could he count on the Hunters to take action against their Commander? That was mutiny, wasn't it? Or was that a term for the navy?
Maybe he could try the government… the Hunters fell under the Ministry of Industry. Certainly someone there was someone he could talk to. Surely he could find someone…
He felt a strange mixture of desperation and despair. One was frantic, one was crushing. Somehow he felt both. Because even if he could find the right person, the right official to keep the Hunters in check… could he find him in time?
"Boomer, sir?"
Boomer Kuwanger looked at the dispatcher. "Yes?"
"What was that about?"
"Don't worry about it," Boomer said. "I'll handle it. I'll go talk to Commander Sigma right now."
"Better you than me, I suppose," the dispatcher said with a shrug.
Boomer turned away before a smile formed on his face. "Oh, you have no idea," he whispered.
X fretted.
Calling the Maverick Hunters about Sigma hadn't calmed him in the least. No, he'd found the interview so unsatisfying it had raised his stress instead. Now he couldn't find anyone in the Ministry of Industry worth talking to.
"To access the patent law department, press "4". To access the robotics patent law department, press "pound-4."
Pound four? X thought in dismay. Who used the pound sign in a menu tree?
It was no good. He'd been wandering the MoI's menu tree for almost an hour now. He'd encountered three actual, live human beings. (Or were they robots? He couldn't honestly tell.) The first had transferred him to the second, and the second had promptly disconnected him. (X somehow doubted it was accidental.) The third promised to call back because he was going to lunch and couldn't spare the time, and yes he understood it was urgent but some things can wait and some things can't.
It was almost enough to make X wish alcohol worked for him.
"To apply for a research permit, you are invited to visit our offices from Tuesday to Wednesday, between the hours of 9 and 10:30 a.m., and between 1:15 and 2:20 p.m., or on Thursday between 10:45 and 11:55 a.m. Some restrictions may apply. To hear this recording again, please press "star-eight". To go back, hit "zero-zero"."
It was a bitter realization for him to come to: complaints about Mavericks had to go through the Maverick Hunters. That was the only way the MoI knew how to deal with errant Mavericks. There was no hotline to complain about the Maverick Hunters themselves.
A chill swept through X. Why was that? Because the government trusted the Hunters unconditionally. And why was that?
Because the Hunters were led by a reploid and reploid loyalty was assumed.
X's grip on the phone receiver tightened until the plastic casing threatened to shatter in his fingers. The Three Laws were supposed to guarantee reploid loyalty to the government; it had worked that way with pre-reploid robots for a hundred years. They were sure that things would be just the same with reploids. So even though the Hunters had a lot of combat power, the government didn't fear them. In fact, it was the reverse- they gave the Hunters a longer leash—near-autonomy. A private kingdom for a reploid who fancied himself a king…
"To reach the Business Relations Unit, press 6-4-0 now. To reach the Business Statistics Unit, press 0-6-4 now. To reach the Business Relations Statistics Department, press 6-0-4 now. For all other calls, press 9-9-9 and hope for the best."
Numbly mashing his thumb against the phone, X steadied himself against the dizzying whirl of new information. He had a fresh perspective on all those press conferences he'd seen. In every memory, the Sub-minister for robotics stumped at the podium while Sigma stood in the background. Who was the real power there? Who was the boss of whom? And did he even know? Did he suspect at all? X was sure he didn't. Another connection snapped into place. Oh, oh no. The Hunters were the government's primary data source on Maverick activity. That, in turn, flowed through Sigma. Sigma was giving the government data of his choosing. If he desired it, he could leave them utterly blind.
What was that last report X had heard? That Maverick activity had dipped to its lowest level in months? X saw that report for what it was, now: part of an elaborate illusion. He imagined the story, his mind using Sigma's voice to tell it. They want to believe everything is fine, that their policies work, that we have the situation well in hand. Let them believe that. Help them, even. They will be very certain—and very wrong. Dead wrong.
That's why he'd been able to risk coming to X, was able to reveal himself without consequence. Sigma's pieces were already in place.
Complaining to the Maverick Hunters was doomed before it ever began. Sigma had told him as much during their interview. It was a point of pride for the Hunters that no Hunter had ever gone Maverick. Was that because they were somehow different? No. It was because Sigma was their leader. X thought back to Sigma's words. "I have another organization… it helps out would-be Mavericks, keeps them from committing their crimes, helps them belong… I've had to keep it secret… I've used Hunter assets to help it along."
The conclusion was unavoidable. Sigma was going to rebel, and soon. He was going to take a significant number of Hunters with him. When he struck, surprise would be complete.
And it was far, far too late for X to stop it.
Without hanging up, X ran for one of the other labs. Communications gear… there. It wasn't self-supporting, it was designed to be integrated into a purpose-built reploid and feed off of its power supply, but those were trivial problems for a talented reploid mechanic like X. The muzak in his ear didn't distract him as he worked.
Police and Maverick Hunter comms used basic encryption—nothing too fancy or expensive, just enough to keep people from butting into their channels or getting too easy a drop on them. Happily, Cain Labs had built police assistants and Hunter bots before, so they had Hunter crypto on-hand. In a matter of moments, X had a scanner built. He sent it searching through the Hunter frequencies for any hint of trouble.
Backtracking, X went back to his lab with his new toy. Wait… he stopped outside Dr. Cain's office. He hesitated there, knowing what needed to be done, dreading it all the same. Steeling himself, he entered without knocking.
Dr. Cain was in the midst of straightening a tie. X suddenly remembered he was supposed to do an interview soon. How absurd, to do an interview at a time like this! But he couldn't blame them, because they didn't know what was coming. He was operating on a different plane from the rest of the world.
Dr. Cain looked at X and the gear in his hands. "Can it wait?" he said tiredly.
X glanced at where Dr. Cain had looked and flushed. He shook his head. "It's not what you think," he said. "Dr. Cain… do you trust me?"
The human blinked. "Of course," he replied.
"No, I really mean it." X stepped forward, looking unblinkingly at Dr. Cain's face. "This isn't a trivial thing. Do you trust me?"
Dr. Cain wavered. X knew there was more he could have said; maybe more he should have said, if honesty were the priority. But if he told Dr. Cain that it was Sigma he should fear, well… He knew what would happen. Knew the paternal bond there was too strong, even if it was wholly one-sided. Knew Dr. Cain's own pride and stubbornness would come into play.
No. X couldn't force Dr. Cain to choose between him and Sigma. The only way was to fool him into saving himself, even if the human ended up hating him for it. Rusted First Law.
"Yes," Dr. Cain said. "I trust you with my life."
X's shoulders sagged in relief. "Good. Then get every robot that can walk, amble, or crawl, and bring them online. There's going to be trouble, soon, trouble like we've never seen."
Dr. Cain nodded grimly. "The Big One, eh?"
It took X a second to realize what Dr. Cain meant. Then he remembered a conversation they'd had, late one night, after arguing about Mavericks for the better part of two hours. "This is all small fries," the human had said. "We ain't seen nothing yet. The Mavericks are acting small because they haven't gotten their act together. Once they get organized… then we'll face the Big One. And it'll be ugly."
He nodded. "Yes. It's the Big One. We have to secure the lab."
"I'll see to it," Dr. Cain said, stripping away his tie. "I hate those things anyway."
X was about to reply when he heard something in his ear.
"Your call is important. Please hold while we ignore it."
"Oh, rust you!" he shouted at the phone.
"X," said Dr. Cain, nonplussed by X's language. "Are you going to fight?"
X, still awash with anger at bureaucratic stupidity, was caught off-guard by the question. He hadn't thought about it in those terms. His instinct was to say no, but the gear in his hands, and the activities he'd been doing, said otherwise. Whether he realized it or not, his mind was made up. "I guess I am," he said.
Dr. Cain nodded. "You'll need your helmet, then."
X had all but forgotten. "Of course," he said.
"Get going. And good luck."
X was not superstitious. For a wild moment, he wished he was—he suspected that he would need every edge for what was to come, and having luck on his side could only help.
Then it was past. Luck was all well and good, but if he had the choice, he'd put his faith in titanium-X alloy and a Mark-17 buster any day.
He just wished he had more going for him than that.
"What's this about?" Battlefront Badger grumbled. "A short-fused staff meeting with no agenda? I don't get it."
"I was on patrol and got called back," C-Horse agreed. "Most unusual."
"And," Badger added, "we don't have everyone here. No Boomer, Sting, Storm, Zero, or Launch. Rust, Sigma himself is late."
"What, you got a problem with Commander Sigma?" Chill Penguin challenged.
Badger backed off. Even Badger didn't get into scraps with Chill. You don't fight a rabid dog. "Listen, I'm always early to these meetings myself. I don't mind waiting. But who calls an emergency meeting he doesn't mean to go to? It doesn't make sense."
Flame Mammoth and Chill shared a meaningful look. The same thought was in both their heads. Because the emergency hasn't happened yet.
As if on cue, right on schedule, a rumbling noise reached the room. "What was that?" said Badger, turning for the windows. The other Hunter squad leaders followed—nine loyalists in the middle, with Chill, Flame, Armor Armadillo and Spark Mandrill hanging back behind them in a loose arc. They weren't looking out the window, for they knew the cause without seeing it. They were watching the other squad leaders.
So they saw when Sigma entered. He strode purposefully through the room, his unlit beam saber already in hand, brushing chairs aside without slowing. On his face were two purple diamonds centered on his eyes; whether they were war-paint or some kind of tattoo wasn't clear. His face was one of grim determination.
C-Horse never saw him coming. And never had a chance.
The beam saber punched through C-Horse's power distribution center and killed him instantly. His corpse crackled and sparked fitfully as uncontrolled power flux overwhelmed what surge protection remained. The delicate circuitry of his 'nervous system' fried. His body lifted slightly off its feet with the blow, then collapsed with the finality of a crypt door slamming.
The eight un-recruited squad leaders whirled on the spot at the sound. Horror and disbelief filled their faces. "You had your chance," Sigma said, pulling his beam saber contemptuously from the body of what had been one of his subordinates. "You didn't listen. Now it's too late."
As one, his Maverick lieutenants opened fire with all manner of exotic weapons, barraging the loyalists with a kaleidoscope of energy. Boomer, who'd stealthed into position, and Sting, who'd been there all along, joined in the assault.
Their targets were no civilian worker-bots. They were battle-hardened combat models with veterans' savvy. At the first sign of attack they braced themselves, setting their feet, hunching down, raising arms and armor if they had it, shielding vulnerable spots, and generally making themselves as hard as possible to ride out the alpha strike. They had a slight numbers edge, and if they could survive this barrage, they'd be able to return fire with even more punch—
They hadn't a prayer. What followed was slaughter.
Because Sigma was already in amongst them. Their armor, proof enough against weaker attacks like Chameleon Sting and Electric Spark, yielded instantly before his saber. The placement of his blows was impeccable, each one scoring a crippling or killing wound. The Mavericks only had to keep the loyalists pinned while Sigma murdered them one-by-one.
Limbs fell to the floor. Heads rolled. Bodies folded. Sigma strode through them like Death itself.
Lexa, a humanoid model, shrieked as his left arm was detached. Panicked, he crashed through the glass of the window and tumbled down the two stories to the ground. He fell, clumsily, awkwardly, to street level, smashing into the concrete.
Flame Mammoth followed him. His leap was carefully aimed. For a moment he seemed to hang in the air, as if gravity was working up the strength for what was about to happen. In reality that was an illusion caused by Flame's size. When he fell, it was with terrifying energy. The impact sent out so much force that it set off nearby car alarms. Flame ended up in a crater of his own making. Lexa had ceased to exist. Sure, there were pieces here and there, but nothing that could be called a robot. The Law of Gross Tonnage had won another victory.
It wasn't enough. Flame's vision was tinged with red, in the haze of a bloodlust he'd never known he was capable of. More—he needed more!
He turned to the front facing of the Headquarters building. Random people in the lobby had stopped moving and talking to look out, stunned at what had just happened. No, not people. Humans.
Targets.
Kill.
Trumpeting belligerently, Flame smashed his way through the door. As the first cries of surprise and fright raised up, the reploid brought his flamethrower to bear. He bathed everyone he could see in flames, and bathed himself in their screaming.
The noise reached Sigma, who was facing the torn but defiant form of Battlefront Badger. Sigma's Maverick leaders were forming a perimeter around the two; they were content to let Sigma finish it at his own pace, and satisfied themselves with giving Badger contemptuous glares.
"He's killing them," Badger spat. "He's killing them, you damn… Mavericks!"
"You're very strong," Sigma said. "Very tough. I respect that. You can still join the winning side."
"I won't side with traitors!"
"You're the traitor, then," Sigma said coolly. "You won't help your own kind. In that case, you're not worthy to join us."
"You think I care what you say?" Badger snarled. He visibly gathered himself for one last suicidal lunge. "I don't give a shit!"
Forward he sprang, claws extended, fangs bared, diving for Sigma come what may.
Sigma's face contorted in fury. "Reploids don't shit!" With one ham-sized fist he smashed down on to the top of Badger's head, knocking the Hunter to the ground and stopping his charge cold. He stepped on to Badger's back, pinning him in place, and drove his saber into Badger's body. When Badger's claws continued to twitch, Sigma forced the saber down the length of Badger's back, laying open his "spine", until finally the body was still. He stepped back. Something about Badger must still have looked defiant, though, for Sigma kicked him in the face. Once, twice, thrice, until the "skull" came apart and circuit cards broke and scattered across the floor.
Finally satisfied, Sigma took a step back. The only sounds were the distant trumpeting of Flame Mammoth and, occasionally, a faint scream. A subtle hissing kicked in, which Sigma decided had to be the sprinkler system, not that it could compete with Flame's flames.
They had done it. They had gone Maverick. There was no going back now. The die was cast.
Sigma laughed, first in relief, then in exhilaration. "At last… at last!" he said, raising his fists triumphantly. He turned to his waiting followers. "Boomer, catch the loyalist Hunters coming home. Sting, take the rear entrance. Chill and Spark, take the sides. Armor… drive them down. Start from the top. No… one… escapes."
He waved his hand. "Disperse!"
In a moment he was alone, surrounded by the corpses of his fellows. The sound of weapons fire, both from within the headquarters building and without, reached him. It sounded sweet.
Sigma looked at the robot corpses around him. He remembered them—all of them. They'd been his squad leaders, after all. He'd counted on their strength and judgment. He'd trusted them with difficult jobs, and they'd trusted him in turn. This was how he'd repaid them—how he'd rewarded their trust.
C-Horse had just gotten almost half a squad's worth of new recruits. It wasn't unusual: Horse had a reputation as a stern but caring instructor who was able to coax top performances out of his followers. Many recruits passed through C-Horse's sixteenth squad on the way to other units. That wasn't the real reason Sigma had assigned them that way. He'd done it because he knew there'd be no time to recruit the newbuilts before his rebellion. By giving Horse the newbuilts to train, he'd taken Horse's focus away from the bigger picture, removing him as a threat to the revolt.
Vernon had been pursuing a Master's degree under a human pseudonym. Tank Tortoise was coming off a cross-department training event with the military. Tyrone had just finished a series of one-on-one meetings with Sigma to help him overcome losing half his squad to an ambush. Even Battlefront Badger had quirks—he ran a weekly pool on which squad would encounter the most Mavericks week-to-week.
Sigma had crushed them all beneath his heel. Had murdered them with his own hands.
He found he had no strong feelings on the matter.
He had been afraid he would. This had been a vital part of the plan all along. Maverick Hunters didn't advance to squad leader without both strength and expertise; sending average Hunters or, perish the thought, untrained rookie Mavericks against them would be to play to their strengths. No, to beat the squad leaders, they needed a trump card, and Sigma was exactly that.
Yet he'd been afraid, just a little—afraid that he would be too affected by having to kill those he'd worked with so closely. It looked like those fears were unfounded. He'd managed it without much of a problem. There was a sense of loss, a sense of waste; they really were strong, and he'd have preferred to have them on his side. But he hadn't been able to convert them, and they would have stood against him, so they had to die.
And that was that. He'd made his peace with the decision before he ever drew his beam saber. In a way, the killing was already done, already a memory, before his first blow hit home.
Was that how X would have felt?
He shook his head, shook the thoughts away before they could take root. He'd lingered here too long already. Time to move on.
He nodded to himself. "As for me… I have a message to send." He considered the sounds he was hearing, and amended, "A different message to send."
Next time: The Release
