The Robots of Gotham Read online

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  The 2083 Sovereignty Matrix

  Map

  I

  Wake Up. Machines Are Not Your Friends.

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  Paul the Pirate’s Guide to Robot Nomenclature

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  When Your Rival Has a Ballistic Missile, and You Have No Feet, You’ve Reached an Evolutionary Dead End

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  A Brief History of My Favorite War

  XVII

  You Want to Know How Machines Conquered the Goddamned World? This Is How Machines Conquered the Goddamned World

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  XXII

  XXIII

  XXIV

  XXV

  XXVI

  XXVII

  XXVIII

  Heavy Is the Head That Wears That Big Metal Crown

  XXIX

  XXX

  XXXI

  XXXII

  XXXIII

  XXXIV

  XXXV

  The Secret History of Machine Sex

  XXXVI

  XXXVII

  XXXVIII

  XXXIX

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Connect with HMH

  Copyright © 2018 by Todd McAulty

  All rights reserved

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

  hmhco.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: McAulty, Todd, 1964– author.

  Title: The robots of Gotham / Todd McAulty.

  Description: Boston : John Joseph Adams/Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2018.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017058169 (print) | LCCN 2017046212 (ebook) | ISBN9781328711021 (ebook) | ISBN 9781328711014 (hardcover)

  Subjects: LCSH: Robots—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Science Fiction / Adventure. | FICTION / Science Fiction / General. | GSAFD: Science fiction. | Dystopias.

  Classification: LCC PS3613.C2725 (print) | LCC PS3613.C2725 R63 2018 (ebook) | DDC813/.6 – dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017058169

  Map by Lucidity Information Design, LLC

  Cover design by Mark R. Robinson

  Cover photographs © Michal Zduniak / Shutterstock (explosion), © ociacia / Shutterstock (arm), © MaxyM / Shutterstock (skyline).

  v1.0518

  For my father.

  Who taught me the skills I needed to be an engineer,

  and the perseverance I needed to be a writer.

  The 2083 Sovereignty Matrix

  The 2083 Sovereignty Matrix lists the top thirty-two most influential national entities and their sovereign rulers or authorities (human and machine), sorted by GDP. The list is made available through the Rational ­Devices Registry, a division of the Helsinki Trustees, a nonprofit corporation. Additional information is supplied by the IMF Public Trust and the CIA World Factbook. This list is updated regularly.

  Nation

  Government

  Sovereign

  Classification

  China

  Socialist Republic

  President Zhiming Gao

  Human (elected)

  United States—Free Zone

  Constitutional Republic

  President Kennedy Schecter

  Human (elected)

  United States—Union of Post-American States

  Corporate Syndicate

  CEO Muhammad Coles

  Human (appointed)

  United States—Occupied States

  Dominion (disputed)

  Machine Cabal

  Machine

  India

  Parliamentary Republic

  President Ocean Virtue

  Machine (elected)

  Japan

  Imperial Monarchy

  Emperor Hirita

  Machine (hereditary)

  Brazil

  Machine Dictatorship

  President Quantum Journey

  Machine

  Germany

  Parliamentary Republic

  Chancellor Five Candle

  Machine (elected)

  Australia

  Constitutional Monarchy

  Prime Minister Judy MacMaster

  Human (elected)

  Indonesia

  Monarchy

  High Sentience Deep Fire

  Machine (meritorious monarchy)

  Iran

  Islamic Republic

  Supreme Leader Ahmad Khayyam

  Human (elected)

  Mexico

  Constitutional Republic

  President Angel Cisneros

  Human (elected)

  Canada

  Parliamentary Republic

  Prime Minister Distant Prime

  Machine (elected)

  Korea

  Machine Oligarchy

  Princeps Librio

  Machine

  France

  Constitutional Republic

  Le Cavalier

  Machine (elected)

  United Kingdom

  Machine Parliament

  Prime Minister Corpus

  Machine

  Italy

  Machine Dictatorship

  First Citizen Joquall

  Machine

  Russia

  Machine Dictatorship

  President Blue Society

  Machine

  Saudi Arabia

  Monarchy

  King Hasan

  Human (hereditary rule)

  Venezuela

  Fascist Dictatorship

  Machine Cabal

  Machine

  Argentina

  Fascist Dictatorship

  Machine Cabal

  Machine

  Pakistan

  Constitutional Republic

  President Argenta

  Machine (elected)

  Thailand

  Military Junta

  Machine Cabal

  Machine

  Greece

  Puppet Regime

  Unknown

  Unknown (machine?)

  Belgium

  Machine Oligarchy

  Arenberg Machine Cabal

  Machine (elected)

  Poland

  Parliamentary Republic

  President Karolina Kozlowski

  Human (elected)

  Spain

  Constitutional Oligarchy

  Tribunal (nine members)

  Human & Machine

  Kingdom of Manhattan

  Machine Monarchy

  Queen Sophia

  Machine (hereditary)

  Antarctica

  Machine Oligarchy

  The Antarctic Coalition

  Machine

  Romania

  Military Junta

  Accastan

  Machine

  Dominican Republic

  Presidential Republic

  The Burning Prefecture

  Machine

  Nightport

  Aquatic Technocracy

  Modo

  Machine

  This entry is made available under a Creative Commons license.

  The Rational Devices Registry is a registered tra
demark of the Helsinki Trustees.

  Funded by private donations and your generous support.

  Eastern United States of America Showing Disputed Territories and Political Zones of Control, March 2083

  I

  Monday, March 8th, 2083

  Posted 5:16 pm by Barry Simcoe

  CanadaNET1 Encrypted, Sponsored by DARPGo Media.

  Your source for economical personal security.

  Sharing is set to PRIVATE

  Comments are CLOSED

  On my third day in Chicago, the Venezuelans evacuated my hotel.

  It’s like 7:00 a.m. and a soldier in an AGRT uniform comes around banging on every door on my floor. Bam-bam-bam-bam! Nothing gets your heart racing in the morning like a rifle butt hammering on your door.

  We’re all roused up and marched down the stairs to the street. There’s this woman on my floor, in bare feet and bedclothes, and when this kid from the AGRT bams on her door, what does she do? She grabs her coffeemaker. We’re hustling down thirty-two flights of stairs, and she’s carrying this coffeemaker with the cord dangling around her feet. I’m still half-asleep and all I can think is, Damn—should I have grabbed my waffle iron?

  Round about floor fifteen or sixteen she trips on the cord and smashes her elbow on the railing. So for the last fifteen flights of stairs I’m loaning her my arm and carrying this coffeemaker for her, with, I swear to God, half a pot of hot coffee still in it.

  We get to the street and we’re all milling around. I start to wonder if they evacuated only a few floors. Either that or this hotel is virtually empty, because there’s maybe a hundred of us down here, total. Hardly enough to fill fifty floors of a lakeside hotel in downtown Chicago.

  The staff is outside too, looking pretty put out. A slender young front desk clerk dressed in a thin pink chemise and not much else is hopping up and down a few feet to my right, trying desperately to stay warm.

  There’s maybe forty Venezuelan soldiers lined up in front of the hotel, and this guy in uniform yelling at us in Spanish. And there’s this robot.

  I’ve got no idea what’s going on and I’m freezing to death, standing on Wacker Drive in early March in sweatpants and a T-shirt. I’m shaking my head at the coffee lady because I don’t want to give her coffeepot back, since it’s the only source of heat in about a hundred yards. This Venezuelan sergeant or captain or whatever is shouting and gesturing and beginning to turn purple, and I’m starting to think he’s shouting at me, or maybe the coffeepot.

  And I absolutely cannot take my eyes off this robot. It’s magnificent. Three stories tall, maybe fourteen yards, Argentinean design. Kind of squat, like a giant gargoyle. Diesel powered, with steam and whatever venting out the back. It has some pretty slick telecom gear, a Nokia 3300 base station bolted on top and four whip antennas, all rigged for satellite. Some heavy ordnance as well: I can see an 80 mm Vulcan autocannon and at least two mounted antipersonnel weapons.

  It’s seen action, too. Plenty of scoring up front, and the Vulcan looks like it’s recently been refitted. Someone who knew what they were doing spent some time painting the whole chassis with a bird motif, blue and white, and this close the effect is very impressive.

  It’s facing west on Wacker, poised like a bird, with one leg stiff and one half-raised, its great metal toes dangling a few feet above the pavement. Nothing that big should be able to stand so gracefully, like a raptor hunting prey.

  Still, it seems like a lot of firepower just to impress a bunch of tourists. Martin, a data miner from London, spots me and shuffles a bit closer. He glances at the coffeepot. “Were we supposed to bring our appliances?” he whispers.

  “I think it was optional,” I say. “You know what the hell’s going on?”

  The shouting Venezuelan soldier moves closer, gesturing violently at the hotel behind us. Martin keeps his eyes fixed on the pavement until he passes. “Something about evacuating the hotel for our own safety,” he says quietly.

  I nod toward the captain. “Guy seems pretty pissed.”

  Martin listens to the shouting for a few more moments. Then a soldier dashes up, handing the captain a black tablet. I realize with a start that it’s not a soldier at all—it’s a slender robot, black-limbed and humanoid. I’ve seen a few robots with a small mobile chassis, but this is the first one I’ve seen in Chicago. The captain stops shouting long enough to look at the tablet.

  “The hotel staff was supposed to wake us up, apparently,” Martin translates for me. “The colonel had to send his soldiers to get us. He says next time, he’ll let everyone die in their beds.”

  That doesn’t sound good. “What’s going to kill us in our beds, exactly?”

  Martin shrugs, giving me a nervous glance. “Something bad.”

  I was about to reply, but the colonel had started moving again. Whatever he saw on that black tablet, he didn’t like it. He’s not shouting now, but his face is grim. He moves into the street, the slender robot at his side. He’s speaking to the soldiers nearby and looking west down Wacker. He points, and two of the soldiers take off running toward a concrete barrier.

  A skinny corporal whose uniform looks like it would blow off in a stiff breeze marches up to us and starts speaking. He’s staring just over our heads, but presumably addressing us. He’s much quieter than the colonel, and his words are so thickly accented it takes me a moment to realize he’s speaking English.

  He wants us to march south, down North Stetson Avenue. On the double, now now now. Martin and I get our feet moving, but too many others are still milling around, confused. I guess most of them can’t hear the soldier—or can’t understand him—and now that the colonel is gone, people have started breaking into groups. The buzz of conversation is getting louder.

  Martin stops at my side. “We need to get these people moving,” he says, concern in his voice.

  Something happens then. Someone down the street shouts, and all the soldiers duck, heads swiveling to the west. The skinny corporal in front of us stops speaking, his arm hanging powerlessly in the air, still pointing south down North Stetson. His head turns west with the rest. His mouth is open, but he’s making no sound.

  Something streaks through the air, small and bright like a spark struck from a sword blade. It hits the towering robot and explodes, a hammer-punch of light and sound. One of the elegant whip antennas goes spinning off its chassis, skidding away down the street until it smashes into a parked Mercedes.

  There’s screaming then. Screaming and the sound of automatic weapons, returning fire to the west.

  “Jesus Christ,” Martin shouts, ducking down at my side.

  All around us, people are frozen in place. The half-naked receptionist to my right is covering her mouth, her eyes wide. She reaches out to the guy next to her, tugging at his shirt. She starts to ask a question.

  I seize her arm roughly, grab the shirtfront of the guy she’s talking to. “Move, you idiots!” I shove them toward Stetson.

  They start to run. A few feet away, four of the hotel staff are cowering on the curb. I pull the first one to her feet. “Go! Get moving! Martin—help me!”

  Martin tears his eyes away from the street. He pushes himself to his feet, helps me shepherd people south, down Stetson Avenue.

  The Venezuelan corporal breaks his paralysis at last. He’s shouting and waving, pushing when necessary, herding the crowd south.

  People start to move. But nearly half of the crowd has surged back up the steps toward the hotel. There’s a panicked knot of guests trying to get through the glass doors.

  There’s another explosion behind me—loud and very close. I stumble, see the glass windows of the hotel vibrate violently. There’s a flash of heat on the back of my head. “Get away from the windows!” I shout. “Stay out of the hotel—move! Down the street!”

  Martin and I are working together. The corporal comes up behind us, trying to help. But it’s not enough. There are still nearly forty guests clustered at the hotel entrance. Most aren’t ev
en moving—they’re just hunkered down near the bushes to the side of the doors, or huddled together on the concrete steps. Already my throat is hoarse from shouting, but I keep at it. The next guy I grab shakes me off violently. “Don’t touch me,” he says defiantly.

  Martin’s not having any more luck. The people he’s pleading with are sticking together, glued to the steps. Somehow, the young corporal manages to be even less effectual. He’s standing in the center of the turnaround in front of the hotel, sweeping his arms in the air and waving toward Stetson Avenue like he’s directing traffic. He looks terrified. No one is even looking at him.

  We’re barely fifteen feet from a huge bank of windows. One well-placed shell, and five hundred pounds of glass shrapnel is going to punch through the air, right where we’re standing. I swear helplessly.

  I glance into the street, trying to get a quick read on the situation. The Venezuelans are taking cover behind concrete barricades, returning fire to the west. A small team has set up what looks like a machine gun nest, but instead of a machine gun they’re manning some kind of portable radio frequency antenna. They’re aiming it like a weapon, and I wish them luck.

  The robot is moving now, but it’s none too steady on its feet. Also, it’s on fire. A thin trail of black smoke snakes out behind it as it takes its first steps west. The Vulcan mounted on its side is silent, for which I’m grateful. The soldiers are letting it take the lead as they prepare to advance.

  I spot the colonel, standing in the center of the whirlwind. He seems to be in command of everything, except maybe the robot. He’s doing three things at once: yelling at a small platoon, probably to relinquish their useless position and move their asses west; listening to a report shouted to him from a tech running alongside; and barking into a black phone connected to another backpack.

  The colonel turns his head toward us for an instant, seeming to take in the fiasco in front of the hotel at a glance. He turns to his left, says something to a squad of soldiers trailing him, and then returns to the phone. The soldiers start running our way.