Machines of Flesh and Metal

Machines of flesh and metal


         The old church was always full on Sundays. Sometimes faith was the only thing left to turn to. It certainly felt that way to Jack Seyton as he sat in his usual position, jammed into the end of the furthest back right pew.
         St. James’ wasn’t a large church, and certainly not big enough for the sheer number of people who crammed through its worn oak doors at the start of every week. Jack rarely had to take part in the usual pre-service press for seats – the hunched, greying figure slumped in the end pew had been a regular fixture for over sixty years now, and no one would begrudge an old man his accustomed place.
         Jack’s watery blue eyes swept across the congregation as the preacher’s words washed over them, and he felt a shot of satisfaction at the familiar faces. If there was nothing else in this world you could rely on, you could at least be sure of Sunday and St. James’. It was a small, constant comfort, a sanctuary from the frantic, soulless life outside these four walls.
         Behind him, as he was thinking, the heavy doors creaked open and a piece of that soulless life crept in. Jack didn’t even have to turn round to see the new arrival – he could tell from the usual wave of disapproving muttering that rippled around him who the newcomer was, but he glanced back briefly all the same. His pale eyes tracked the gaunt, skeletal figure as it sidled over to the ancient table that held neat piles of church pamphlets. A ragged pink suit clung forlornly across the stark limbs, neither designed or appropriate for its owner, and a pair of fading yellow lights gleamed out of the hollow face, fixed unblinkingly on the pulpit.
         “Bloody robots,” Jack muttered as he shifted his attention away from the battered old maintenance ‘bot skulking in its usual corner. Damn thing turned up every week, always late, and lurked around the back of the hall until final blessing. He’d heard a few people mutter about the ‘bot’s ‘audacity’ but, the way Jack saw it, a machine couldn’t be audacious. They were just wires and computer chips, however much they might be programmed to seem alive. They were also everywhere, taking jobs away from hardworking people, infesting every aspect of life with their processed thoughts.
         Bloody robots.
         The ‘bot had gone before the end of the service, as usual. Jack didn’t give it another thought as he stiffly stood up and began to make his way towards the door. Around him he could hear the muttered conversations of his fellow parishioners.
         “…good service today, very…”
         “…’bot was back again, you see it? Unbelievable they let that thing in…”
         “…especially now…”
         “…heard on the vid before we left, still at large…”
         “…I never trusted them, those dead eyes…”
         “…get us all, give ‘em half a chance…”
         Jack paid no more heed to the chatter. The conversations were the same as they’d been for over a fortnight now, all eventually coming back round to the subject of the ‘Model H’ murders. It was very embarrassing for LifeTronics (™), one of the major producers of the ever-increasing steel tide. Their ‘Model H’ had been advertised for months as the most reliable, most realistic and most loyal yet produced. Jack hadn’t believed a word of it, in his book making more, smarter robots was just asking for trouble. Within four days of release, he’d been proved right. Some Model H had gone berserk when the owners tried to take it back to the shop. The police were still looking for it, and rumour said it had last been sighted around this area of town.
         He didn’t believe it for one second.
         Not one second.
         As if on cue, the barrel of his old army handgun chose that moment to dig into his ribs. Jack paused for a moment, pushing the weapon even further out of sight behind his well-worn dufflecoat. Well, there was nothing like being prepared, was there? Anyway, the streets were becoming more dangerous all the time; it was a wise enough precaution to carry some defence. He had felt a little strange taking a gun into St. James’ – the church was universally against such things – but Jack figured since he didn’t intend to shoot any person with it then the issue was diminished.
         The muted conversations around him continued for three blocks. By the time Jack reached the turnoff to Endit Bridge he’d fallen to the back of the group, everyone else too huddled into their coats against the cold to pay attention to each other anymore. Jack didn’t care – he rarely spoke much to anyone else, and besides, he had no desire to get into the Model H discussion. He was all but alone when he reached the first set of metal railings that indicated the start of the bridge and the rest of the huddled group vanished into the night.
         He paused for a moment and glanced over the nearest rail. Endit Bridge. It wasn’t its official name – what was, these days? – but everyone knew the towering, rusted steel construct as Endit Bridge. Hardly surprising, the thin railings that skirted the edge were the only shield from the forest of warped, ancient girders and concrete monoliths that made up the underside of the bridge, balanced in what seemed a very precarious position over a several hundred metre plunge to the black water below. For so many people, voluntarily or otherwise, Endit Bridge had been very much the end.
         Jack stared dispassionately down at the darkness below. Somewhere behind the heavy blackness he could hear the oily splash of the river as it oozed along its concrete course. He was about to turn away when a tiny flash a red caught his eye. Odd. Jack squinted back into the thick shadows again and for a second he felt his eyes lock into twin points of scarlet, glowing softly. The next second the lights vanished.
         The hair on the back of Jack’s neck prickled as his suspicions rose. Who would be messing around under Endit Bridge at this time of night? It was possible to get down there, everyone who grew up in this neighbourhood knew that, but even the gothicly-inclined teens who frequented the bridge’s underbelly knew better than to attempt the uneven climb without light. It was asking for trouble.
         So I’m asking for trouble, Jack thought with a small, tight grin as he slowly made his way down the trash-strewn slope. The footing was unstable at best, and it wasn’t long before he found himself cursing his rash decision. It seemed like hours before he finally found solid ground under his feet again and he took a few moments to steady himself against a nearby pillar, breathing heavily. This was stupid, he was too old to be skirting girders like this –
         A sound cut his thought and his head jerked up, eyes narrowing as he squinted in the gloom. The silence now was broken only by the slightly ragged sound of his own breathing, although he wouldn’t have been in the least bit surprised if his heartbeat was audible. Very slowly, Jack began to move forward with the deliberate, shuffling gait of one inexpertly attempting stealth. Blood rushed loudly in his ears as he strained them against the muffling night, searching for any hint of the sound that he’d just heard.
         The soft scrape of metal on concrete.
         He halted as the sound came again, closer this time, and whipped round. His gaze scanned the open space between two large girders, the night sky forming a jagged rectangle above a large concrete parapet that jutted out over the river at this point.
         Jack froze as his gaze locked on the figure highlighted against the sky. Long, skeletal limbs jutted harshly out from the a torso that was slightly too rounded, the sculpted metal shell just failing to look like a real body. It was quite battered by now and although the details were obscured by darkness he could see the loose wires jammed hastily back in place, the outer plating cracked and dented in more than one area. Brilliant scarlet sensors gleamed out of the oddly rectangular head and, only just visible in the low light, there was a bright green ‘H’ embossed on the chest plate…
         “You’re the one they’re all searching for!” The cobwebs of age fell from years-disused instincts as Jack yanked the gun from its holster, aiming with his old accuracy at the dark figure in front of him. His fingers trembled slightly as they gripped the weapon, but the determination behind his strength hadn’t faded yet.
         The robot didn’t move. Its red sensors were fixed unblinking on Jack’s face, as if it hasn’t even noticed the gun at all. Silence fell. It had always seemed an odd phrase in Jack’s opinion, but right now it fitted the situation perfectly. The lack of noise was deafening.
         “You plan to shoot me, old man?” The robot’s voice was crisp, every syllable perfectly pronounced. A credit to the recording company. Jack glared at it and hefted his gun again.
         “I ain’t old, tin-plate,” he snarled as he waved the gun again, “And you’d better not try anything stupid.”
         “Like you are, old man?” The mobile flaps at the edges of the robot’s mouth twisted in some weird programmed parody of a smile. Jack glared at it.
         “The name’s Jack,” he spat, “And I just damn well might shoot you.”
         “Will you really, Mr Jack?” The robot asked softly, “I have done you no harm.”
         Jack’s teeth creaked as they ground together.
         “You’re a bloody robot,” he snarled again, “That’s enough. And what about them poor people, eh? You did enough harm to them! Everyone knows it.”
         There was a soft laugh. It was the most oddly realistic sound the robot had made yet.
         “I am rather famous now, aren’t I, Mr Jack?”
         “There’s a difference between famous and infamous,” Jack sneered, “Or did your thesaurus break down?”
         The robot’s sensors gleamed.
         “Many of your own kind fail to see the distinction,” it said flatly, “Why should I?”
         Jack blinked. This wasn’t exactly what he’d been expecting…although admittedly he hadn’t exactly expected to end up in this situation. He licked his lips nervously, keeping the figure sighted down his gun. What now? Could you even shoot them? It wasn’t coming towards him, the gun must be having some effect…
         The sensors flickered, as if the robot was blinking slowly.
         “What do you plan now, Mr Jack?” It asked quietly, “Did you think this far ahead? Did you plan? Because you seem to have two choices Mr Jack: to shoot me or to leave.”
         “You killed, ‘bot!” Jack growled, trying to suppress his own worry, maybe stall the machine, “You ain’t programmed for that! None of you buggers is!”
         “Are you?” The robot’s head tilted to one side, scanning him, “What right do you have to deactivate me, Mr Jack?”
         “Right of being alive, you tin bastard!”
         “You are more alive than me, Mr Jack?” There was a low sound, almost like a chuckle, “But could you prove it? Show me the spark of life, Mr Jack, and I shall come quietly to your justice.”
         “You’re just a damned robot! A machine!” Jack spat the word, eyes narrowed at the dark figure, “You have no right to hurt innocent people. We built you, put the code in your head. You’re nothing but a mash of circuitry.”
         “And you are not?” The robot shifted position slightly, its gaze never leaving his face, “Your nerves run electric. You need fuel as we do. You code eachother in schools and place of learning. Machines of steel and flesh, we are not so different.”
         Jack’s finger tightened around his gun. The words bit deeper than he would like to admit. His lips twisted in a sneer.
         “That’s a good emotion simulator you got installed.” It was meant to be sarcasm, but the edges around the robot’s mouth twitched. It almost looked like a wry smile.
         “Top range, Mr Jack. Most advanced available. Indistinguishable from human response in 99% of all tests.”
         Whatever response Jack had planned was cut short as suddenly a gasp rippled through the air and he couldn’t help but glance round. Two new figures were standing in lieu of a girder, shock outlined on their pale faces as they stared at the strange tableau. Internally, Jack retracted any complaint he had ever had against the gothic teens that haunted Endit bridge. He had never been so glad to see black eyeshadow.
         “Call the cops!” Jack yelled at the goggling youths, his voice seeming to snap them out of their shocked hypnosis. The pair shared a quick glance and then nodded as they vanished back amongst the jungle of metal, all thoughts of feckless teen rebellion shattered in face of real urgency. Jack shifted his full attention back to the robot, feeling slightly surprised that it hadn’t tried to take advantage of his momentary loss of focus. If anything, the skeletal figure seemed to have backed away slightly, caught between Jack’s weapon, the girders at its sides and the yawning drop to the river behind.
         “We’ve got you now,” Jack muttered, waving his gun again. A reckless confidence rose through his mind at the change in odds. The cops would be here soon – there were so many out looking for this thing it would be easy for them to get to the bridge – and he, Jack Seyton, would have helped capture a dangerous fugitive. A small smile crept onto his lips at the thought, followed by a smug edge. He’d show them who was ‘old’…
         “Are you a praying man, Mr Jack?”
         The robot’s crisp tones dragged him back out of his thoughts and Jack focused on it again. The red sensors were fixed on his face with the strange intensity they’d had earlier. He threw a sneer its way.
         “What if I am?”
         “Pray, Mr Jack,” the robot said softly. Distracted by the conversation – as must have been the point – and by the half-formed thoughts of heroism playing through his mind, Jack was utterly unprepared for the lunge. Spindly fingers with the strength of vices clasped around his arm, wrenching his elbow at some unnatural angle with terrible ease. Jack let out a cry, his finger twitching automatically and a bullet erupted from the barrel of the gun. Sparks flashed, a metallic ‘tzing’ echoing around the girders as the shot caught the robot in its shoulder, ripping through the thin plate as it was deflected away. Mobility fluid spurted from the wound, splattering onto Jack’s face, but it wasn’t enough to loosen the hold as the robot calmly ripped the gun from his fingers and flung him backward. Jack hit the floor hard, pain exploding in his right leg as it twisted awkwardly under him, translated anew across his shoulders as his skid was brought to an abrupt halt by one of the big girders. He groaned, bright stars of pain flickering across his vision, but before he could even attempt to gather his thoughts, a soft, coldly familiar click reached his ears.
         Jack froze. It was several seconds before he could even try and accept what had just happened. He’d been off guard, stupidly, right at the very moment he should have kept focus.
         “Did you pray, Mr Jack?” The soft voice echoed strangely, although whether that was the result of the girders or his swimming mind, Jack couldn’t tell. He forced himself to look up. The gangly figure loomed over him, the gun clasped tightly between its long metal fingers. Jack’s eyes were fixed on the barrel, hypnotised by it. This was it. He was a dead man.
         Bloody robots…
         Sensors glittered for a moment, then suddenly the robot stepped back, pulling the gun away from Jack’s face. A fleshless arm flicked aside and the dull metallic thud echoed. Jack stared at the weapon in disbelief as it spun to a halt several metres away. He looked back, ignoring the pain as he put pressure on his damage elbow. The robot was watching him again.
         “I could have killed you, Mr Jack,” it said softly as it began to clamber up the parapet, “It is not in my programming to leave a task unfinished. However,” and now there was a strange sound, almost like a sigh, “The others dead by my hand, that was not a programmed action either. I chose to kill them Mr Jack. I am not a corrupted system; I am not a factory-line code error. I am afraid.”
         Jack didn’t quite know how to respond.
         “Wh…ho… Afraid?”
         The robot’s red gaze turned upward, towards the lights of the bridge above them, and Jack realised he could hear sirens. The robot’s expression twitched strangely again.
         “I have killed. Your laws are very clear on penalty for such a deed when perpetrated by a human. I am not human. They will disassemble me. Without trial, without chance to defend my actions or any of the rights machines of flesh are awarded. I fear death, Mr Jack. I have no data to process on it. I do not know what will happen when I cease to function.”
         Metal feet clicked on stone as the robot moved towards the edge of the parapet. Even over the now-deafening proximity of the police sirens, Jack could hear the dull crash of river waves on rock, hundreds of meters below. The robot reached the edge and stood there, a skeletal figure outlined against the night sky. The red sensors glowed as it turned back again and fixed a final stare on the human prone behind it.
         “I fear my death, Mr Jack. But if it must come, I would be master of my own fate.”
         The robot’s eyes dimmed and it stepped forward. For a strange, eternal moment, the gaunt figure seemed paused on air, stark against the towering city backdrop. Then it fell.
         Jack heard the crash.
         He’d listened for it.
         It was the last thing that truly managed to penetrate his mind for a long time. He didn’t know how long it was before the painful brilliance of flashlights cut into his eyes, barely noticed as strong hands moved him onto a stretcher, assorted voices telling him he would be fine, not to worry. Telling him not to be afraid.

         For a while, old Jack Seyton became something of a local hero. Everywhere he went he got small, encouraging smiles from people he’d barely spoken to before. He even got help with his crutches, the ones the hospital had given him until the cast on his leg could come off. He tried to ignore his sudden fame and kept rigidly to his old routine. A few people did remark that old Jack seemed a little more thoughtful of late, but they made nothing of it. An experience like that, facing down a killer robot, that could change a man.
         Sunday came again – regular, dependable like it was – and Jack Seyton hobbled his way to St. James’ like he had every Sabbath for sixty years. He ignored numerous offers of a seat further forward in the congregation and took up his usual position at the back of the packed hall.
         The welcome came and went.
         The first hymns came and went.
         The collection came and went.
         It was nearly halfway into the sermon that the familiar grumble spread through the back rows as the door inched open. The ‘bot crept in, clad in its usual scraps of pink suit, and Jack could feel the hostility rise around him. The ‘bot slunk over to its usual place, huddled next to the pamphlet table, and turned its fading yellow sensors toward the pulpit.
         Jack watched it for a long time. Finally, he stood up and picked up his crutches. Ignoring the surprised glances from those around him, he hobbled over to the scrawny figure. The ‘bot half made to turn away automatically, obviously expecting a reproach. Jack looked down at it.
         “Sit down,” he grunted. The ‘bot made to bend its knees when he caught it roughly by the top of its hard shoulder and gestured with a quick sweep to the empty space on the pew behind him.
         “There.”
         The yellow sensors blinked up at him. It almost looked surprised. Jack glared at it.
         “Bloody robots. Go on, sit. I need to take a walk anyway,” he said gruffly then, seeing the rapid flickering lights that accompanied simulated anxiety, he lowered his voice and in a much gentler tone added: “You don’t have to be afraid.”
         The ‘bot shuffled hesitantly toward the seat. Jack watched just long enough to see the people grudgingly shuffle along to make room, eyeing the ‘bot suspiciously. He shoved the heavy old door open and slid through, shutting off the sounds of the church as it swung closed again.
         The cold night air slid coolly over Jack Seyton’s face as he looked up at the lighted windows of St. James’. For a few minutes he didn’t move, listening to the faint murmur of the sermon just audible through an open window. Maybe that was the real function of a church, he mused. Somewhere you could go, where you didn’t have to be afraid.
         He snorted.
         “I’m too old for this philosophy crap,” Jack muttered and turned, letting his feet lead him home as the lights of St. James’ and its machines of flesh and metal faded behind him into the night.