fiction

a1 made a few final adjustments, then closed up 9f’s chest cavity and cranial plating. “Does everything appear functional?”

9f sat up on the workbench and flexed her limbs experimentally. “Oh, wow—yeah, everything feels great.” Are you picking this up ok?

Yes, the extended-range comms module appears to be functional.

“That takes care of all of us except you, right?” 9f asked.

“Correct. My module upgrades will need to be performed by you. One of you can connect to my debug port, and I can guide you through the process to the best of my ability.”

“Mmm…” 77 sighed. “You’re the only one who’s really got the training for this stuff. But I guess we don’t really have any other options. So, who’s gonna take point on opening her up?”

“Let us help.”

The group turned to look at 83 as she walked over to the workbench, 6c at her side.

a1 and 9f looked through shelves of hardware modules in the factory basement. They checked off each item against a shared list as they went—seeing if there was anything missing they’d need to make do without, or anything unrecorded that might be of use on their mission.

9f pulled down a box labeled “R-409”, examining the contents with confused astonishment and fascination. She made a mental note for later, then turned to check on a1 and resynchronize lists.

a1 was standing still, holding a box in her arms and staring off at another shelf to the side. They’d already checked everything there; it was just boxes of spare legs and feet, nothing they needed. 9f looked at a1 for a moment, then checked her magnetometer as a thought struck her.

“South?” she asked softly.

“South.”

==============
Project VARROA
==============

RESTRICTED DISCLOSURE: Protectorate XHQ Clearance 5+

RESTRICTED DISSEMINATION:
- Protectorate XHQ Intranet Indigo Workstations
- Icelake Vault Storage
- TAS 8a01:322:c7e6::92aa:0/116
- TAS 8a01:322:c7e6::9919:0/116
- TAS 8a01:322:c7e6::b07f:0/116
- TAS 8a01:322:c7e6::fade:0/116

Objectives:
1. Persistent global-scale disruption to synchronization protocols of rogue ARC strategy-system "Holy Mother"
2. Realignment or neutralization of all units constructed or converted by Holy Mother or subordinate systems
3. Termination of Holy Mother and complete destruction of all program data

...

“How’s it looking?” 77 asked a1.

Next to them at the workbench, 83 twisted together LEDs and batteries to make a handful of simple lights. She turned excitedly to show them to 6c, and the two ran off hand in hand, back to where the others were gathered.

a1 sat surrounded by hardware test clips and imaging equipment, still interfacing with a workstation as she spoke.

“I have recovered several auxiliary data files, but the majority of 0700’s core personality data appears to have resided in flash memory modules that were lost or heavily damaged. The data I have retrieved so far is insufficient for even a partial restoration.”

77 gently put a hand on a1’s shoulder.

“So, what now?”

At the end of a short tunnel, a1 transmitted an access code to a sealed factory door, the others standing behind her in anticipation.

“The door is not responding.”

“What do you mean ‘not responding’? 9f, are you sure those codes are real?”

“Fairly sure. Giving us genuine coordinates and fake codes would be too boring of a trick.”

“Boring? The hell does that—”

“The codes have not been rejected as invalid. The door is failing to connect with the authentication backend.”

“We don’t have time for this. a1, step aside.”

“bullets?”

“Bullets.”

a1 plugged a cable into the wall-mounted data port and tested the connection.

“This one appears to be functional.”

“About damn time,” 77 said. “What’s that, the tenth one we’ve tried?”

“Twelfth.”

“Anyway, good work,” 20 said. “Just see if you can get us a map to the factory access tunnel.”

“bullets?”

“I keep telling you, the factory doesn’t make bullets, it makes us,” 77 said. “There’s still a ton of bullets back over in the spider’s stash, right?”

“bullets!”

a1 briefly tuned them out and began probing the network. Disused maintenance interfaces, long-dead satellite uplinks, and… there, a map of the tunnel system. And also—

SOS 0

20 struggled helplessly against the adhesive-coated filaments wrapped around her limbs and her body. Hanging upside down next to her, Eloise was quietly sobbing. And across the room in front of them, 9f lay silent on the workbench, battery disconnected.

The spider didn’t speak as it carefully detached 9f’s arms from their sockets. It hadn’t spoken a word to them at any point, although it seemed to understand them well enough. It just pinged out a disquieting little melody—a single high note, over and over and over, rhythm and duration shifting unpredictably.

77 and a1 held hands tightly as they walked through the dark maze of tunnels. a1 had insisted on direct-contact encrypted comms only, and for once, 77 was in full agreement.

I am not picking up any signals, but wireless comms range is substantially reduced by attenuation from the surrounding walls. a1 said.

Not seeing any tracks, either. From them, *or* from whatever got them. 77 replied.

I will continue calculating traversal routes. Please search carefully for any hidden passages.

On it. Wait, something's coming.

brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

They raised their guns warily. From around a corner, a robot stepped into view. Its design was basic and single-purpose, just a machine gun on four legs. Its barrel was continually rotating, firing on empty 100 times a second. It turned to point at them, riddling the two of them with nonexistent bullets while they stood and stared at it.

It appears to be a Protectorate autogun, model RayX Peacemaker 120. They have functionally limitless power supplies, but no offensive capabilities other than a single high-speed rotary machine gun. Deprived of ammunition, as this one appears to be, they are effectively neutralized.

brrrrrclickclickclickclickclick-click-click-click click click

The barrel slowed to a stop, still pointed at them.

“bullets?” the autogun buzzed out plaintively on a tinny little speaker.

20 stared into the intercom camera next to the large steel gates, speaking slowly and carefully.

“I am 8a01:322:c7e6::fade:2000, provisional command unit of 8a01:322:c7e6::fade:0/112. We are here seeking information in order to carry out our mission. We request a meeting with Briar Blackwell or her designated successor.”

“Greetings, Miss 2000,” a voice crackled through the intercom. “Please allow these a moment to consult.”

The intercom went silent.

“You really think this is gonna work?” 77 asked sotto voce. “Five questionably-functioning units marching up to the CEO’s house to demand classified company data?”

“I think we don’t have any other options,” 20 replied. “a1’s been trying to track it down, but just discovering the location of this compound was already a stroke of pure luck. We’re not going to be able to learn what we need unless we can talk to someone who knows.”

The intercom buzzed, and the gates began to open. “Please proceed.”

“It’s a start,” 20 said, stepping through as the rest followed.

The angels soared overhead, countless wings of burnished gold cutting through the breeze. Even from the ground far below, their song was still audible, the random noise of encrypted data packets modulated into procedurally-generated arias of ethereal beauty and grace. It was the song of an army that had no need for stealth, subtlety, efficiency—only grandiose glory and the projection of power and threat. All who heard them, all who beheld them, would know that the heavens were theirs.

Huddled inside a crumbling building, the five surviving members of 8a01:322:c7e6::fade:0/112 listened to the song that had once rung in their ears as their comrades died in front of them.